“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t pity me!” she cried. “Disagree with me, call me a fool, hate me, but never pity me!”
He rose and sat next to her on the settee. Slipping his arm around her shoulders, he drew her trembling body back against his chest. “Mariel Wythe, I can’t imagine pitying you. Nor can I think of a time when I could hate you. What I want is to learn more of you, sweetheart, and to taste the honeyed warmth of your lips.”
“Ian!”
He paused as he was bending to kiss her when he realized a younger voice had called him. His mouth became as round as his eyes when he met Rosie’s smile. He moved to greet the child who had called him by his first name, but she glanced past him.
“Mariel!” With a sob, she rushed forward to throw her arms around the dark-haired woman’s neck.
“It’s all right, baby,” soothed Mariel as she stroked the trembling child. Even as she repeated the phrase over and over, she shrugged her shoulders in response to Ian’s unspoken question. Why Rosie suddenly called him something other than “Reverend Beckwith-Carter,” she could not guess. Her eyes widened as Rosie whirled out of her arms and looked at Ian in indecision.
With a laugh, he motioned for her to come to him. As her exuberant form bounced toward him, he laughed. “What are you doing up so late?”
“So late?” demanded Rosie. “It’s morning.”
The adults looked toward the western facing windows, but no lessening of the dark had forewarned the sun rising on the other side of the house. When the child asked if he was staying for breakfast, Ian smiled.
“Of course. How could I resist such a wonderful invitation to have a meal with two of the loveliest ladies in Foxbridge?” He sat her on his good knee and asked quietly, “Are you sure you want me to stay?”
She nodded. “I’m sorry, Ian. I prayed you would go away and leave us alone. Last night, I was afraid you had gone and taken Mariel with you. Miss Phipps told me my wishes would not come true, because only loving prayers are answered. She told me I was foolish to think Mariel would love me less just because you are her friend. She told me you could be my friend, too.”
“I would like that.” He smiled and tweaked her nose. “I would like to have a special friend named Rosie.”
Mariel said quietly, “Rosie, go to the kitchen and tell Mrs. Puhle we would like breakfast as soon as possible. Ian needs to get his sleep if he is going to preach later this morning.”
With a yelp of enthusiasm, Rosie raced away to seek out the cook, who spoiled her more than anyone else in the house. In her wake, Mariel put her hand on Ian’s arm. He drew her into his embrace.
“I never suspected …” She shook her head in disbelief. Just when she had thought Rosie would never accept Ian, she welcomed him to the Cloister.
“What is the old saying? ‘An ill wind blows no good’?” He smiled. “Surely there must be one about the sea washing unexpected treasures onto the shore after a storm.”
“I’m sure there is something like that.” She smiled as he reclined her head back against the hardness of his arm.
He pressed his mouth over hers. His hand sliding along the silk of her robe discovered her softness, which was hidden beneath her daytime clothes. As he sought deep within her mouth for her delight, she tightened her grip around his shoulders. The treasure Mariel had found on the beach today she did not intend to lose again. In the twilight of the dawn, she could not guess how she would have to fight to keep what she had discovered.
Chapter Eight
Ian rubbed his nose as he heard Mrs. Reed greet someone in the foyer. The tickle did not ease. Fighting it, he smiled as he saw the man at the study door. “Come in, Mr. Turner,” he urged. He turned his head when he could control the oncoming sneeze no longer. “Excuse me. I think I caught a cold after taking a chill on the beach below Foxbridge Cloister. Come in. What can I do for you today?”
The senior member of the church board did not respond to the warm welcome. His granite-like square face refused to crumble as he gruffly stated, “May I sit, Reverend Beckwith-Carter?”
“Of course. Shall I send for tea?”
“No, I shan’t be long. What I have to say should be said quickly.”
The smile fled from Ian’s face as he gauged his guest’s nervous demeanor. Mr. Turner was concerned about something. What could be worrying him, Ian did not attempt to guess. It was clear he would learn the truth soon enough. He placed his pen on the desk and put the stopper in the bottle of ink. He wondered if he would have a chance to catch up on his correspondence. A letter from his mother demanded his attention. He had not written to her in more than a fortnight. Each time he began this task, someone interrupted him.
Rising, he went to the settee. He sat and motioned for the other man to do the same. Mr. Turner hesitated for so long, Ian began to wonder if he would move at all. Finally, he perched himself on the very edge of a chair.
“Now, Mr. Turner, as you cannot stay long and want to get this over with quickly, I suggest you begin. What is the crisis bothering the church board?”
“It’s Lady Mariel,” the older man answered reluctantly.
“Mariel?” His eyes widened with surprise. This was the last thing he had suspected would be troubling them. “The church board has a problem with her?”
Mr. Turner frowned. “Not with her, Reverend. With you and her.” When Ian did not reply, the man continued uneasily, “The church elders would not like to report to your superiors misconduct between you and Lady Mariel.”
“Misconduct?” Unless they could convict him for the crimes he had committed in his heart, there was nothing he had done wrong. Many had joked with him over the past week about his initiation into being a true resident of Foxbridge. He learned it was part of nearly every childhood to be caught by high water in the tidewater caves. It could not be that which had upset the church board. Coldly, he stated, “I suggest you clarify your words, Mr. Turner.”
The man cowered before the emerald anger burning in the minister’s eyes. He had not wanted to confront Reverend Beckwith-Carter alone, but had allowed the others to convince him to do this. He did not know what to say. Inspiration struck. “Reverend Beckwith-Carter, I think you should attend the next meeting of the board.”
“When?” His terse reply showed he was not willing to accept this treatment docilely.
“Tonight at the church.”
“I will be there, Mr. Turner. I suggest you be able to validate these claims of impropriety.” He stood to tower over the seated man. “I would hate to report to my superiors of such allegations being created by the senior members of my parish. It would cast a most dreary pall over the Foxbridge church.”
Mr. Turner had been rolling the brim of his hat in his hands. Angrily, he pressed it onto his head. “Rest assured, Reverend, that we feel these claims are not without basis. Tonight.”
“Good day.”
“Good day.” He stamped out of the room, startling Mrs. Reed, who was coming from the kitchen with the unwanted tea tray.
She leapt back, the tea splashing from the teapot onto the plates and onto her crisp apron. When he did not pause to apologize, she scowled in disgust. Putting the tray on the table next to the settee, she used a napkin to dab uselessly at the dark spots on her white apron. She started to speak, then saw the rage on the minister’s face.
“Reverend?”
Ian almost spat an answer at her. Controlling his wrath, which should not have been directed at Mrs. Reed, he tried to smile and failed. “Excuse me, but I do not want tea.”
“What did that old fool want?”
A grin tilted one corner of his lips. “Old fool is right. What he wants is to cause trouble.”
She nodded sagely. “I knew it was just a matter of time. If you were calling on any other woman but Lady Mariel, there would be no trouble. It is simply that the church board does not wish to see its minister involved with one of the Wythes.”
“Why?” It shocked him that Mrs.
Reed spoke immediately of the source of the problem. He had been surprised by the subject Mr. Turner wished to discuss. Seldom had he misjudged anything as much as he had the community’s stance in regard to Mariel. He said exactly that to the housekeeper before adding, “The family, if Mariel is representative, is civic minded. They have been involved with the church here since its beginnings and have contributed more than money to its survival.”
“It’s just that—” Her head swiveled. “My cookies!” She raced toward the door as if she had been blown by a sharp northeastern wind. “Later, Reverend. They are burning.”
“By all means, go!” He laughed until she closed the door behind her. Then his smile faded.
He should have guessed there would be trouble. Enough hints had been dropped when he talked to the more bigoted members of the church board. Like the ones sitting on the school board, they felt Lady Mariel Wythe had stepped out of a woman’s role by becoming involved in politics. Seeing their minister talking to her, they carried the courtship to what they saw as its inevitable end. A parson married to the outspoken, seldom conventional Lady Mariel Wythe was not acceptable to them. They intended to prevent it.
The clanging of the school bell broke into his thoughts. Walking to the window, he drew aside the curtains to see the children exploding onto the green. By the steps waited the electric automobile. Several of the children paused to talk enthusiastically to the young woman sitting in the driver’s seat, but only one climbed aboard. He watched as the passengers waved to the others before the vehicle began its swift journey back to Foxbridge Cloister.
If he bowed to pressure, these quick glimpses would be the only interaction the church board would allow him to have with Mariel. He dropped the curtain back into place and went to his desk. Sweeping aside the papers, he withdrew a clean sheet from the cubbyhole. He dipped his pen in the ink and began writing furiously. Only when he had said all he must did he lower the pen to the desktop. He folded the note and placed it in an envelope. Inserting it in his pocket, he went out of the study.
He needed fresh air to relieve the stench of bigotry, which pervaded the manse. Telling Mrs. Reed he would be very late for supper, he went to the stable. He hitched the horse to the buggy. As soon as he was aboard, he gave a command seconded by a slap of the reins. He hoped the cleansing winds of the ocean would wash away the sickness within him.
Twilight had descended onto the village by the time Ian returned to park the buggy in front of the church. His time by the shore had strengthened his resolve to do what he had known from the beginning must be done. He would not hesitate, although it might destroy his career in the church. If he accepted their dictates, he would destroy his soul.
He did not feel the welcome he normally experienced when he entered the church. The sanctuary slept in the spring darkness. From beneath the meeting room door, at the right of the entry, light beckoned. Nothing could be gained by delay. Feeling the acceptance of an innocent man about to be executed, he opened the door.
The jumbled blare of conversation ceased instantaneously. “Good evening,” he said with false warmth. “As you requested, ladies and gentlemen, I am here to attend this meeting.”
Mr. Turner glanced at the other members of the board, but none of them met his eyes except for Mrs. Parnell. The orphanage director lost her smile as she saw the odd expression on his face. With a glance she noted the fury he could not hide. Her fingers gripped tightly on her pen as she wondered what had preceded this meeting.
“Come in, Reverend,” urged Mr. Turner with sudden hospitality. “Please have a seat.”
He shook his head. “As you told me earlier, I am not staying long. What must be said should be said quickly.”
“Now, Reverend,” began Mrs. Rivers, “there is no need to take such a defensive attitude.” Her multiple chins quivered in a copy of upper class outrage. Although the silver-haired woman tried to pretend she was nearly at the same social level as the Wythes, no one acknowledged her claim. This had augmented her hatred for the whole family at Foxbridge Cloister.
“No?” he asked sharply. Stepping to the table, he hung his cane over his left wrist. He leaned on the table top and glared at each member until he came to Mrs. Parnell. Her questioning expression dimmed his rage for a moment. He had forgotten Mariel’s friend sat on this board.
“Of course not,” the officious Mrs. Rivers stated. “We simply want to be assured that you do not do something foolish, like becoming involved with a woman who is inappropriate for a clergyman’s wife.”
His auburn eyebrows made a pair of identical arches over the green fury beneath them. “I did not realize that I must have the approval of this board before I choose a bride. Your continued interest in my well-being astonishes me. I did not realize that a picnic on the strand constituted a betrothal. I am sure Lady Mariel would be as shocked as I am to learn that.”
“Now, Reverend—” began Mr. Turner. He was interrupted when Ian turned to him.
“What do you want?” he demanded with an anger that would lie quiescent no longer. “To have Lady Mariel excommunicated? Would that satisfy you?”
“That is a fine idea,” growled Mrs. Rivers. “She is just another of those crazy Wythes. She should be sent—”
“Enough!” Mrs. Parnell stood. “I have heard enough of this witch-hunt. I agreed to ask Reverend Beckwith-Carter to come here tonight to speak of community concerns. Never did I suspect you planned to put our good parson and Lady Mariel on trial.”
Mrs. Rivers leapt to her feet. In a vituperative tone, she stated, “We have the moral standards of our children to consider. What do we tell them when they have seen Reverend Beckwith-Carter riding with her in that horseless carriage? It’s immoral, I tell you! They should be censured. Or worse! They—”
The sound of the door opening halted the tirade. Shocked silence held the room captive as Lady Mariel Wythe entered. Her lips tightened slightly when she saw the strain on Ian’s face, but her voice was steady as she spoke.
“Mrs. Reed told me you were here, Ian.” She refused to play the hypocrite and call him Reverend Beckwith-Carter before the church board. Mrs. Reed had told her far more than where Ian would be this evening. Trying to control the rage boiling within her, she kept her tone conversational. “As I needed to get this message to you immediately, I trust you will forgive this brash interruption.”
“Of course, Mariel.” Ian dared anyone to dispute his right to call this woman by her given name. He sensed that she was determined to stand with him on this issue.
“It may not sound important, but I did not want it to become garbled in repetition.” She smiled with faked sweetness at the people seated at the table. “You know how easy it is for things to become misunderstood when they are repeated again and again … and again.” She gave Mrs. Rivers her most charming smile before she turned back to Ian.
He struggled to keep from grinning. He knew that Mariel despised the gossipy Mrs. Rivers, but she would not lower herself to calling names. “I appreciate your concern. What was it you wanted to tell me?”
She wrung her gloves as she gave Mr. Turner a glowing expression of pure innocence. “I am sorry. I know you must have many things of great importance to discuss. What I wanted to tell you was that I cannot drive you to Reverend Tanner’s tomorrow, because Rosie has a program for the closing day of school. If you wish, we will take you on Friday afternoon … not the morning, because I have to be at the orphanage then.”
She gave Mrs. Parnell an honest, half-smile, the best she could dredge up in the heat of her outrage. If her friend had known of this beforehand, she would have warned Mariel.
“Thank you, Mariel.” His piercing eyes cut into each nonplussed face. “Friday afternoon will be fine.”
“You will join us for dinner as well?”
He smiled as he regarded the furnace of fury dressed in a dark skirt and ecru blouse. The sedate coverings could not conceal from anyone that Mariel was set to explode. “Of course. I promised Rosie
I would build her a boat to sail on the garden pond.”
“Fine.” She turned to go, pausing at the door when he called her name. “Yes?”
Ian looked at the members of the church board. “I think I have completed my business here this evening. Or do you have something else for me, Mr. Turner?”
The man glanced guiltily away from his stern regard. “No, no, Reverend, nothing else. Thank you for coming this evening.” He swallowed convulsively, then said in a small voice, “Thank you for coming, Reverend.”
“It has been my pleasure. I am glad we will have a clearer definition of our duties and responsibilities in the future.” He added as he offered Mariel his arm, “I trust we will not have to deal with this matter again.”
Mrs. Parnell piped in with a smothered chuckle, “I am sure you are correct. Good evening, Reverend, Lady Mariel.”
No one else spoke as Ian led Mariel from the room. The buzz of conversation cut through the door when he closed it behind him. He said nothing while they walked out into the warm evening. When he heard the sound of her soft laugh, he drew Mariel closer to him.
“The hypocrites!” she snapped.
“Hypocrites?”
“Oh, Ian, you should listen to the gossip more closely. Some of it is true. Like Mr. Turner keeping a mistress on the other side of the shire. Or Mrs. Rivers and her consistent habit of having a bottle of brandy in every drawer of her house.” She smiled maliciously. “Yet they dared to slap you on the wrist.”
“For riding with you and enjoying your delightful company.”
She paused as they were walking across the green toward the manse. “Ian, I am sorry. I did not want to make things difficult for you. Now that Rosie has accepted you so wholeheartedly, I thought things would be better.”
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