by Barker, Ann
A short time afterwards, Michael had been called back in and told that he was to be the curate of Illingham village, serving under the vicar, Henry Lusty, who also happened to be the bishop’s chaplain. He had left the palace much relieved. He would perhaps have been a little more wary had he been privy to the conversation that had taken place between the bishop and Mr Lusty.
‘Well, Lusty, what are we to do with the fellow?’ the bishop had asked, when his chaplain had seated himself at his superior’s behest. ‘He cannot possibly go back to where he was. Pettigrew would not have him, I have been reliably informed.’
‘I am not surprised, my lord,’ Lusty had answered. ‘To offer violence to one’s vicar is very shocking.’
‘Undoubtedly,’ the bishop had agreed leaning forward, his elbows on his desk, his fingers steepled before him. ‘Were it not for Paul Buckleigh, I would almost certainly have him unfrocked, especially after that last incident. However, I have a good deal of respect for Mr Buckleigh, so I must accommodate this fellow in some way, even though I would much rather be rid of him. Do you have any ideas?’
‘I think so,’ Mr Lusty had replied, leaning back with a little smile on his lips. ‘I have a suggestion that I believe might at one stroke rid us of Mr Buckleigh, and bring Illingham into your full control.’
The bishop took a deep breath. ‘Then you would indeed be a prince among chaplains, my dear Lusty.’ It had for many years been a source of irritation to the bishops of Sheffield that the gift of the parish of Illingham had to be shared between the church and Lord Ashbourne. In the event of a dispute over the candidate, the earl of the day would have a second vote. Ever since a previous bishop had brought about such a state of affairs through reckless gambling, his successors had resented being obliged to take second place to the earls of Ashbourne. To be able to change this situation in the church’s favour would be a coup indeed.
‘Have you ever met Lord Ashbourne, my lord?’ Lusty asked.
‘No, I have not,’ replied the bishop, ‘although I have engaged in very unsatisfactory correspondence with him. I have met his son briefly. Stay, though,’ he added thoughtfully. ‘Was it not Ashbourne who…?’ He paused delicately.
‘Yes, you are right,’ Lusty answered, a little tight-lipped. ‘It was Lord Ashbourne who married Miss Warburton whilst she was still engaged to me. I have met him on several occasions, and I must tell you that I have a suspicion that the young man waiting outside may be intimately related to him.’
‘Indeed!’ exclaimed the bishop in arrested tones.
‘It is only a suspicion,’ Lusty repeated, raising one hand. ‘The likeness is not strong, but eyebrows like his are often a feature in members of the Ashbourne clan. In height and build he is very like the earl. Not only that, but when I ventured to look at him more closely, he raised his chin in an arrogant gesture that could not but put one in mind of Lord Ashbourne. I have an inkling that he may be one of his lordship’s – hem – love children.’
‘Indeed! What, then, do you suggest?’ asked the bishop.
‘Since I have been appointed to the parish of Illingham, I have found myself unable to carry out my duties here in the palace as well as I would like. I wonder whether he might act as my curate there?’
‘As your curate,’ murmured the bishop, beginning to smile. ‘My dear Lusty, how very Machiavellian. If Buckleigh is indeed related to the earl, then Ashbourne, or his son who resides in Illingham, will recognize this … ah … unofficial relative, and will be anxious to hide the scandal. I will only agree to remove him if Ashbourne signs his vote over to the church of England in perpetuity.’
‘On the other hand,’ Lusty put in, ‘even if I am wrong, young Buckleigh, who seems to have a tendency to blot his copybook, will no doubt entrance some other village maiden with his rather strange good looks and cause another scandal. He will have failed for a third time. Not even Paul Buckleigh will expect you to find him a fourth curacy, so you will have an excuse to be rid of him permanently.’
‘Don’t put it like that, Henry,’ answered the bishop. ‘You make it sound as if I was going to have him murdered.’ They both laughed. ‘I’m sure I could find some far distant, obscure diocese that would have him, or perhaps some missionary work? I hear that America needs priests. What if he succeeds, though, and proves to be the model parish priest?’
‘He will be eternally grateful to both of us for giving him another chance and will be falling over himself to oblige us. We cannot lose.’
‘Well then send him in, Lusty. Let’s break the good news.’
Quite unaware of the scheme that had been hatched against him, Michael had left the bishop’s palace with a spring in his step. From there he had travelled to tell his stepfather and sister what had happened. The Revd Paul Buckleigh was delighted. He had been invited to join a party of academics travelling to Greece to inspect some ancient sites. He intended to give up his parish and take up an academic career in Oxford on his return. Michael’s sister, Theodora, could have no place in such a future, and the older clergyman had been hoping to see her settled with her brother before leaving for the Continent. Thanks to Michael’s new appointment, this might now be possible. Much would depend on the accommodation that was made available for him.
Resolved to save as much money as possible in order to make a home for his sister, Michael had set out to walk to Illingham. On the first day he had had a stroke of luck when a carter had taken him up and enabled him to break the back of the journey. On the following day he had met up with an acquaintance of his stepfather who had given him a ride in his carriage. The day after that he had been obliged to walk. It had been fine to start with and he had made good progress. The weather had begun to deteriorate at about the time when he was thinking of taking shelter for the night, and he had entered The Pheasant with the first droplets of rain standing out upon his hat and the shoulders of his greatcoat.
He was feeling rather hungry but, constantly aware of the need to economize, he ordered a bowl of soup, which he decided to eat downstairs rather than alone in the room that had been prepared for him. The only company to be had was that of the landlord himself, for the evening was far too unpleasant for anyone to be out except on essential errands.
The inn was rather a small establishment, not really suitable for the entertainment of the quality, for there were not many bedrooms and no private parlour, guests who had no liking for the taproom being obliged to dine in the privacy of their chambers.
‘Nasty night, Reverend,’ the landlord remarked, setting down the glass of wine that the young clergyman had ordered.
‘It certainly is; but we have the best of it here,’ Buckleigh replied with a smile, glancing at the roaring fire.
‘Far to go?’
‘I am to take up a curacy in the parish of Illingham.’
‘You’ve another ten miles, then.’
Michael sighed. He did not object to walking and had indeed accomplished the journey from Oxford to his father’s parish on many occasions on foot. A ten-mile walk with a cloak bag on water-logged roads, possibly with the rain still falling, did not appeal to him very much, however. At least his trunk with his books and the rest of his belongings had been sent on ahead, so he did not need to worry about them. He was about to ask whether the landlord knew of anyone who might be going his way in the morning, when the door of the inn opened, the draught causing the fire to writhe convulsively and the candles to shudder in their brackets.
‘House!’ The voice was undoubtedly that of a gentleman.
Before the landlord could respond, however, a lady added imperiously, ‘I doubt whether there is anyone able to provide for our needs in this shabby hovel, Papa.’
‘There must be,’ the gentleman replied. ‘Mama cannot possibly travel on in this weather.’
The landlord hurried through wiping his hands on his apron. Michael heard him respond to his visitor’s request by asking how he might be of service. He pricked up his ears, for there had been somethi
ng about the voice of the young lady that had been strangely familiar.
‘My name is Granby,’ was the gentleman’s reply. ‘I was hoping to complete my journey this evening, but the weather has closed in, so I am seeking accommodation for myself and my wife and daughter.’
‘And a private parlour,’ the young lady added. ‘It is essential that we have a private parlour.’
Michael rose to his feet, a dreadful sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, for with this mention of a private parlour he had recalled where he had heard that voice before. It had not been so imperious in its tones, but it was undoubtedly that of Miss Evans; yet it seemed that she was now Miss Granby. What was going on here?
‘I have rooms that you can use,’ the landlord was saying, ‘but I fear that I’ve no private parlour. The taproom’s clean, and there’s nobbut a young clergyman in there tonight.’
‘Then surely he could go and sit elsewhere,’ said the young lady, in the same imperious tone. ‘Papa, you know that I cannot possibly sit in a common taproom, and nor can Mama.’ An inaudible murmuring indicated that the other lady was making her contribution.
‘I am afraid that there really is no alternative, my angel,’ her father replied placatingly. ‘Surely a clergyman must be quite unexceptionable company.’
‘If you’ll just come this way sir, ladies, I’ll find you something to eat and send missus to make sure the beds are aired.’
As the visitors entered the taproom, Michael saw that Mr Granby looked very much the gentleman in a well-cut coat and breeches surmounted by a greatcoat. He was of average height and probably in his late forties, with light-brown hair and a rather thin face with well-marked features. Leaning on his arm was a lady of a similar age, well dressed and looking rather pale and tired. Their daughter was without doubt the young lady who had introduced herself to Michael as Miss Evans, and whom he had kissed in the inn in Sheffield only a short time before. She was dressed rather more practically than when Michael had seen her last, for she was now wearing a blue carriage dress and a cloak of a darker shade, and a bonnet lined with blue silk. She looked enchantingly pretty and glowing with health.
Michael had had warning of her arrival. She had not been so fortunate and, at sight of him, she paused, instantly recognizing him. Her complexion lost a little colour, and she faltered in her step.
‘Evangeline, my angel,’ said Mr Granby, turning to her concernedly, ‘are you feeling giddy?’
‘It is quite all right, Papa,’ the young lady responded, glancing quickly up at Michael, then away again. ‘The sudden warmth of the room has affected me, I think.’
What was he doing in here, she asked herself, horrified at this turn of events? That little adventure that she had enjoyed in Sheffield had been a thing of the moment, snatched out of time, an encounter with no past and no future. Now here was the buccaneer whom she had met, but looking somewhat tidier on this occasion. What did it mean, and where was the young clergyman to whom the landlord had referred? It could not possibly be this young man in front of her, could it? Thank goodness that Elsie had gone straight upstairs with her parents’ personal servants and all their belongings. The girl was quite incapable of putting on any kind of an act.
‘Good evening,’ said Michael bowing politely. ‘How wise of you to take shelter from this shocking weather. My name is Buckleigh – Michael Buckleigh.’ He glanced quickly at Evangeline and saw her gaze narrowing.
‘Good evening, Mr Buckleigh,’ replied the other gentleman, bowing in turn. ‘I am Robert Granby, and with me are my wife and daughter. I trust you do not mind our intruding upon your solitude, but there is no private room.’
‘Really, Papa,’ exclaimed Miss Granby, her tone a little breathless. ‘Why should he? It is not his personal room after all.’ With half an eye on Michael, she wandered over towards the window, ostensibly to look out at the rain and in so doing dropped her gloves. Buckleigh immediately bent down to pick them up and took them to her. She glanced towards the fire, where her father was absorbed in settling her mother down in a comfortable chair, and took the opportunity to hiss, ‘What on earth are you doing here?’
‘I might ask you the same,’ he responded, also in a low tone.
‘Are you following me?’ she said suspiciously. ‘Why are you pretending to be a clergyman?’
He was unable to answer this question because Mr Granby’s attention was now turned in their direction, so instead he said more loudly, ‘Have you travelled far, Miss Granby?’
Miss Granby, with her back to the room, was not aware that her father was approaching them and said, ‘Don’t be absurd.’
‘Evangeline?’ questioned her father disapprovingly.
‘I beg pardon, Papa,’ she said obediently, but Buckleigh could see that her eyes were blazing.
‘It is not my pardon that you should be begging,’ said Mr Granby.
Michael intervened quickly. ‘No indeed, sir, it is not necessary. You heard Miss Granby’s words, but did not see her expression. She was teasing me for forgetting that you had already told the landlord in this very room that you had come from Sheffield.’
Granby’s expression lightened a little. ‘Indeed. Well, that is a different matter, although the teasing of a clergyman is perhaps not quite the thing.’ He frowned briefly, for he could not remember saying anything about Sheffield. In his book, however, the contradicting of a clergyman was just as unsuitable as the teasing of one, so he did not dispute the matter. Besides, they had indeed come from Sheffield, and there was no other way that Mr Buckleigh could have known this unless he, Granby, had said as much. The entrance of the landlord turned his mind to other matters.
‘Rooms are ready now, sir and ladies, if you care to go up,’ he said. ‘Dinner can be ready in an hour if that will suit.’
Granby turned to his wife who had been sitting with her eyes closed. ‘Our rooms are ready, my dear, if you would care to come upstairs and rest. Will you join us all for dinner, Mr Buckleigh?’
Michael had already resolved not to dine that evening and the presence of the bogus Miss Evans only confirmed his intention. ‘Thank you, sir, but I have just enjoyed a bowl of excellent soup,’ he replied courteously.
Granby smiled. ‘You have a substantial frame, sir, and I doubt if a bowl of soup would fill more than a small corner of it. Give us your company, I beg.’
‘Papa, Mr Leigh has just said that he does not want any dinner,’ Evangeline put in, with a sideways glance at the young man. ‘You must permit him to know his own mind.’
‘His name is Mr Buckleigh, Evangeline,’ Granby reminded her gently.
‘Did I mispronounce it?’ she asked, her tone all innocence. ‘I wonder what made me do that?’
Granby turned to the young clergyman. ‘Will you not change your mind, sir?’ he said.
Had it not been for Evangeline’s deliberate use of his assumed name, Michael would have stayed with his original intention, but, as she had spoken her last two speeches, there had been mischief in her eye and he was bound to retaliate. ‘Since you are so pressing, I shall be glad to join you,’ he said. Then, not wanting to be caught at fault, he followed father and daughter up the stairs in order to smarten himself up.
‘Elsie! Disaster!’ exclaimed Evangeline, as soon as she had closed the door behind her.
‘Why, what is it, miss?’ The little maid was just finishing setting out the clothes that her mistress was to change into for dinner. ‘Can’t we stay after all? Have we got to go back out in that downpour?’
‘Worse!’ Evangeline replied, allowing Elsie to make a start with unfastening her, then moving restlessly away before the job was done, obliging the girl to run after her.
‘Well?’ prompted Elsie, when her mistress said no more.
Evangeline thought for a moment. Elsie was not always the most discreet of mortals, but the need to unburden herself was great, and anyway the girl already knew half the story. ‘You remember that … that blond buccaneer which whom I had my little
adventure? The one in Sheffield?’
‘How could I forget, miss?’ Elsie replied, taking advantage of the fact that her mistress was now standing still to finish unfastening her and help her out of her gown. ‘There I was, waiting for you as you said and some saucy lad wanders over and wants to exchange the time of day.’
‘Never mind that,’ said Evangeline. ‘He’s downstairs.’
‘What? Not that lad?’ cried Elsie, looking delighted.
‘No! Not your gallant! Mine! And masquerading as a clergyman, would you believe!’
‘My life!’ Elsie exclaimed, allowing the gown to fall to the floor. ‘What wickedness!’
‘I’m not at all sure that he can’t be hanged for it,’ Evangeline agreed. ‘So why is he here?’
‘He must have followed you, miss.’
‘Why would he do such a thing?’ Evangeline protested. ‘I know I let him kiss me, but—’
‘You what, miss? Shame on you!’
‘Well, he is very handsome,’ Evangeline answered, blushing, for she had not intended to tell Elsie about the kiss. ‘Come to think of it, he can’t have followed me, because he was here first. It must be one of those dreadful coincidences.’
‘Lucky for you, miss, that he is pretending to be a clergyman,’ Elsie responded, busying herself about her tasks now that she had recovered from her earlier shock. ‘He can’t tell what the two of you got up to, because if he does, you will be able to expose him for a fraud.’
‘Of course,’ Evangeline responded slowly. ‘You’re a genius, Elsie. If only I could have a word with him without Papa’s being present, I could make sure that he knows that.’
‘Doubtless he’ll guess it,’ the maid replied. ‘These rogues are very quick thinking.’
