“No, but you don’t—”
“What you did is not who you are, Melissa. I know now that you have little exposure to scripture.” That was kind of him. She’d actually confessed to him that she’d never even stepped foot in a church until New Bickford. “But surely even you have heard the story of Mary Magdalene?”
“The wh—prostitute who gave comfort to Jesus.”
“If my God—a gentle, loving, and forgiving God—does not judge such matters, who am I to do so?”
She could only stare in amazement. It was, even after she’d been married to him and seen him angry, difficult to believe this man was not a saint. He certainly did not deserve to be stuck with her as a wife. “I know you are of a non-judging and forgiving nature, but even you must realize that the truth of who I am will cause catastrophic damage to you, your family, and most likely the profession you love and are so very good at.”
He did not answer her immediately, giving the matter some thought. In fact, he thought for so long, she began to feel anxious. Had she introduced the subject in a way that had finally made him see how disastrous their union was? Was he regretting—
He gave her a wry, lopsided smile—the expression surprising her. “I was trying to come up with an answer that did not make me appear such a spoiled brat, but I cannot lie to you. You see, the decision to marry you—which you think so catastrophic—is really my family’s fault.”
“What?”
He laughed. “Yes, it’s true. They raised me with so much love, so much support for my every endeavor, so much admiration for my decision to enter the clergy even though not a one of them is overly devout—well, they made me the person I am. A man who cannot conscience that any decision or desire of his could possibly be a bad one.” He gave a sharp nod. “So, there. There is your answer of why I married you: because they spoiled and pampered me and I cannot bear not having my way. Well, also because you are irresistible and I love you.”
“You’re mad, Magnus. Utterly barking mad,” she said, laughing, but not entirely without a bit of hysteria.
He demonstrated his barking, along with a little howling, for good measure. Melissa laughed and played along with him, but she knew he was not telling her everything.
She tried one last time. “I’m happy you came after me, Magnus, and—yes—I’m happy to be your wife. But I hope you will be as satisfied and happy about our marriage when—”
He laid his index finger across her lips before leaning low to replace his finger with his mouth. “Hush, love of my life, we will deal with things in their own good time—and not before.”
“Very well,” Melissa said when she saw he wanted her assent. “I will not raise the subject ever again.”
“Good. Now, you’d just told me about your investment.”
“There isn’t much else. I began to expand the business, buying the nearby buildings, for example.” Melissa knew it was an odd thing to boast about—especially to her curate husband—but she couldn’t help adding, “In the almost twelve years I owned The White House it tripled in revenue.”
Magnus pushed himself up onto his elbow, his forehead furrowed. “Wait—if my addition is correct that would make you—”
“I will be thirty on my next birthday, on the last day of the year.” She frowned at him. “Why are you looking at me that way?”
His smile was somewhat sheepish. “I thought you were closer in age to me.”
Melissa cut him a narrow-eyed look; dear God, could the loathsome Sir Thomas have been correct about Magnus’s age?
She heaved a sigh. “I’m almost afraid to ask.”
He grinned. “I will be four and twenty on my next birthday, next Wednesday, as a matter of fact.”
She groaned and dropped her head back. “I am six years older than my husband.”
Magnus laughed and lowered his face to her breasts, his hot mouth closing over one nipple and sucking hard before he chuckled wickedly and said, “Oh come now, darling, it’s closer to seven.”
Mel could not let that stand. They wrestled and, of course, their playful wrestling turned into something more passionate.
After she made love to her beautiful husband, and as he slept beside her, his big body warm, his breathing deep and even, Melissa finally let herself consider the matter of Sir Thomas Barclay.
Sarah had not been at the cottage when she arrived. Mel had thought that odd, but it had also been a good thing as it gave her time to consider her options.
That night at Moor House, when she had gone to Magnus’s bed, it had been with the intention of enjoying their lives for as long as possible, until she had to leave.
The more she slid into this life, the less willing she was to give it up—no matter how unrealistic that was. Whatever fatalism that had ruled her when Magnus had forced her into marriage had fled. Now she saw that they were a good husband and wife team, and that she would, if given the chance, make an excellent vicar’s wife.
Every day she spent with him she loved him more. Every day she spent made her less willing to let go of this life. She’d begun to hope, at the back of her mind, there might be some way they could be together.
But that had been foolish. Oh so very, very foolish.
She would have to leave him. Sir Thomas’s threats had made that clearer than ever.
But that did not mean she had to let Sir Thomas have his way.
She had over a week to consider his threats. If a lifetime of struggle had taught her anything, it had taught her patience. It had also taught her that very few people planned out their actions to the rational conclusion, but Melissa was one of them.
Sir Thomas believed there were only two options open to her: public humiliation or doing what he wanted.
He was very wrong.
Chapter Eighteen
The weather the next day was wretched and Magnus decided he would take the gig out to the Felix place rather than walk. Besides, he could visit two other families that lived farther out that way and distribute the vile jellies from Mrs. Heeley. He’d already decided he would give all three jars of delicious potted beef that their housekeeper had made to the Felixes, who needed it more than the other two families.
Just as he was climbing into the gig Melissa had come running after him.
“This is for Una.” Her hair was whipping around her pale face, the auburn strands the only vibrant color on such a gray day.
Magnus took the brown paper-wrapped package. Una was the Felixes’ oldest daughter, a girl of fifteen who Melissa had taken a liking to on their first visit to the dreary Felix farm.
“It’s just a fleecy shawl and a day dress I no longer wear.” She’d hesitated. “Are you sure I can’t come wi—”
“It’s far too cold, darling.” He leaned down and gave her a kiss, not caring who might see. “Now get back into the house before you catch a chill.”
She’d watched from the dining room window, waving to him as he rode away. He would have loved to take her with him, but he was not about to take foolish risks with her health. He hadn’t forgotten that she’d originally come to New Bickford to convalesce, although she’d never been specific about what ailed her.
Magnus grimaced. How could he not know such a thing? Was he really such an incurious, uncaring louse? He should ask her questions like that rather ripping her clothing off and throwing her into bed the first thing he entered the house. Memories of that immediately brought a smile to his face and a thickening in his groin.
Or at least he should ask her those questions rather than the one he’d asked last night. Both his smile and groin deflated at that thought. He wished he’d not heard any of it, although he knew that was weak.
Because if she could live through being sold to a monster, then certainly he could live through hearing it.
He’d not said anything last night, but he would most certainly find out who this man was. He was not a fool; he knew that his wife’s past was a notorious one. That night at Brooks had proven it. But he refused to
dodge her past everywhere he went and he knew her past would eventually come to New Bickford. When that time came, he would learn what the parishioners would tolerate to keep him. Also what the Church would do. He loved his chosen profession and he loved worshipping God in the bosom of a congregation. But he would not be destroyed if he had to move Melissa to his estate, Briar House, in Lincolnshire. They could make a life there. He was the largest landowner in the area and people might learn who his wife had been, but none of them could afford to behave in an openly unchristian way toward him.
But that was borrowing trouble. The truth was that nobody in New Bickford—with the exception of Sarah, who wanted to keep the secret as well—knew anything.
∞∞∞
Over the next five days Melissa braved the weather and trudged over to Sarah’s cottage only to find it empty each day. On the sixth day, just when she’d begun to give up hope—and as the meeting with Sir Thomas loomed large—she arrived at Sarah’s cottage to find the wagon from the Sleeping Ferret in front of the house. Joe Biddle was there and he was stacking crates carefully into the bed of the wagon.
“Joe, what is going on here?”
He yelped with surprise and spun around so fast he almost fell.
“I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Hello, Mel.”
She turned to find Daisy standing in the doorway, wearing a huge apron and large cloth around her head, managing to look wicked, all the same—like the Devil’s own charwoman.
“Daisy, what are you doing here?” Melissa hadn’t realized how much she missed her and the two of them almost broke each other’s ribs embracing.
But it was Daisy who pulled away first. “Come inside, it’s a misery out here. No—don’t shut that. You can leave the door open, Joe will be hauling for a while, yet.”
As Daisy led them through the small house Melissa couldn’t help noticing there were boxes in various stages of fullness everywhere.
“Where’s Sarah?” Melissa asked when they reached the kitchen.
“Upstairs packing. Sit. I’ve put the kettle on.” Daisy hung up Melissa’s hat, scarf, and cloak and then bustled about making tea, in silence.
Mel was in no hurry to learn what was probably not going to be good news, so she waited patiently.
In a short time, they had cups of tea and even a few biscuits.
“So,” Daisy began. “I guess you can see Sarah is leaving.”
Mel snorted. “I’d gathered that.”
“Don’t take that high-and-mighty tone with me, you ain’t my employer no longer,” Daisy snapped, her slipping accent no doubt a sign of rebellion. After all, it was Melissa who forced everyone who worked for her to take elocution lessons. “I’m not sure what you expected—leaving us all in a lurch while you ran off with your Prince Charming.”
Melissa opened her mouth to answer but Daisy raised a hand. “No, just let me say my piece. And then you can talk circles around me and bend me to your will, just like you do to all of us.”
That hurt.
“That pig Barclay came here and forced himself on Sarah. It wasn’t just that, but he made noises about how he’d like to buy the land from her. For cheap.”
Melissa grimaced.
“Aye, he’s right secure in his position. How would it be if the villagers learned what Sarah really was? And what about Joe and me? His father’s inn would be finished. So, Sarah fetched me down here and we talked it all out. Way we figure it, there’s no future here for the three of us. Joe agrees.”
Melissa hadn’t heard Joe speak yet, so she found the thought of him “talking” anything out astonishing. But she kept that to herself.
“What will you do?”
“Sarah will sell the place and we’ll take the money and start up somewhere else, fresh.”
“Start up doing what?”
Daisy’s checks colored. “We figure—me and Joe—that we could run an inn like his Da’s. I’ve got a little saved up, and with what Sarah gets from Barclay—”
“Wait a moment, what? You mean she’d sell to him?”
Daisy startled at her tone and then frowned. “Don’t think we’ll cut off our noses to spite our faces like some might.”
Mel sighed. “Yes, you’re correct, I often do things on principle that I probably should not but—”
“Ha!”
“Don’t sell it to him—especially not at a bargain price.”
“It so happens we don’t have all the time in the world to linger and loiter and wait for another buyer to come along. If you haven’t noticed, the squire is the only one in these parts who looks to be acquiring land these days. Joe said his Da has been trying to sell the small place he has on the outskirts of New Bickford for over five years. We can’t wait five years, Mel. We can’t. I’ve already waited my whole life. I’m forty-one years old—a washed-up old whore—”
“Daisy—”
“Yes, a washed-up old whore. I knew when I went back to London with you that I didn’t have the stomach for it anymore. Each night was a struggle. After the first week I knew I’d end up hangin’ from a rafter if I kept at it.”
Melissa closed her eyes briefly, horrified that her good friend had been in such pain and she’d not noticed.
“No,” Daisy said, shaking her head when Melissa opened her eyes. “Don’t blame yourself for it. You were too miserable in your own little hell to notice mine. And I can tell by the way your nostrils are flaring that you’d like to dispute that.”
Melissa laughed.
“But it’s true and we both know it. And now it seems The White House is at sixes and sevens—and I heard rumors there is buyer and a sale soon to happen. I can’t get an answer out of Hugo or Laura and I’m afraid they’ll burn the house down one night in a rage, killing all of us along with them. Besides, I’m guessing Mister Stanwyck might draw the line at profiting from sin.” She didn’t wait for an answer. “But that’s neither here nor there. The three of us don’t want to work in a brothel. Not even if it ain’t on our backs. We have a good chance at something new. It’s not like people care if their innkeeper was once a whore.” She cut Melissa a curious look, “Not like it must be for you and the reverend.”
Melissa had no interest in discussing that with anyone, not even somebody she liked as much as Daisy. Instead, she put on her bargaining hat—so to speak—and topped up both teacups.
“There is a buyer for the London properties,” she said, smiling at the other woman’s look of surprise. “But that needn’t concern you. Because it just so happens I might know somebody who could afford to give you maybe even a little more than what this property is worth. Do you think you’d be interested?”
∞∞∞
Magnus had visited the Felix property twice in the past six days and each time he’d found Mr. Felix unavailable. He was determined to talk to the man—to get him to take action against Sir Thomas. He’d been surprised it had taken him so long to come up with the solution: the Felixes could have a farm on Magnus’s property in Lincolnshire. It required a move, of course, but they could live on a property where he knew they’d not need to worry about the lord molesting their daughters. Besides, the tenant houses on his property were all in excellent shape and the soil was fertile and well-tended.
Armed with this brilliant idea, he’d saved the Felixes until his last call of the day, reasoning he’d be able to catch the man as he wouldn’t be working the farm in the darkness.
The last people he’d visited had just had a new baby and wanted him to take a glass of their homemade wine to celebrate. By the time he made it to the Felix property it was well after dark.
He’d just turned off onto the narrow drive when he heard something shrill, like a girl screaming. He paused the gig and heard noises coming from behind one of the hayricks that bordered the road. He saw the squire’s horse before he saw the man himself.
Sir Thomas had his breeches down around his ankles, and had bent the girl over, holding his hand ove
r her mouth while she made choking crying sounds and tried to get away. He fumbled between their bodies with one hand, struggling to mount her.
Magnus’s head exploded.
Never in his life—not even at Eton—had he struck another person. He’d simply never felt the need to resort to violence. He’d believed he was close to it that day at The White House, when Hugo had touched Melissa.
But that day was nothing compared to this.
When he had time to think on it later, Magnus realized he must have lost touch with himself for a period of time. He had no recollection of what transpired between seeing the squire’s naked arse and sitting on bastard’s chest, pounding his face.
“’Ere then, Mr. Stanwyck. That’s enough, sir. You’ve got to stop. ‘Ees out like a snuffed candle.” John Felix was a big man—but not as big as Magnus. It took him and two of his young sons to pull Magnus off Barclay.
Una was in the arms of another girl, her next younger sister, he thought. The two of them holding each other and crying, their horrified eyes telling Magnus it was his mad violence, rather than the squire’s behavior, which was terrifying them now.
“I’m all right now,” he said when Felix and his sons kept hold of him. They were reluctant to release him. And when he looked down at the squire’s mashed, bloody face, he could understand why. But it must have looked worse than it was because Barclay sputtered, and blinked, wiping bloody hair from his eyes.
“Pull up your breeches and cover yourself,” Magnus snapped.
Even beaten to a pulp Barclay would not back down. He must have been in pain, but he mustered a nasty grin, not bothering to tuck himself in. He paused, coughed, and then spat. Magnus saw a tooth along with the mass of blood and mucus. Good. He hoped to bloody hell he’d knocked them all out.
Barclay’s next words broke in on his murderous thoughts. “What’s the matter, Lord Magnus, come here to get your revenge defending the honor of your wife? Ha! The honor of a whore. She told me last week that you knew and I didn’t believe her. Have to give you some credit for that. I guess she decided to ‘fess up herself.” He gave a gruesome chuckle. “That’s a damned shame, I was lookin’ forward to havin’ one of those orgies she was so famous for. But I ‘spose this means she won’t be joinin’ me and that little slut over at Tisdale’s place on Friday. Unless you was plannin’ on joinin’ us, too, of course.” He gave an ugly laugh and then winced, his hand going to his ribcage. But it wasn’t enough pain to stop his venom from flowing. “I have to admit I like having a bawdy house just down the way. Quite a nest of them around these parts, isn’t there? Almost like whore calls to whore, doesn’t it? What’s the old saying? A leopard can’t change its spots? Well, your bloody precious wife is still a whore, no matter that she’s now got a curate for a husband and a marquess for a father-in-law.”
Melissa and The Vicar (The Seducers Book 1) Page 25
