Magnus could only stare as the full impact of Barclay’s poisonous words sank in. Melissa knew this man. Had he . . . oh God . . . had he been a customer?
As thrashed as he was, the squire had a nose for misery—no doubt from spreading it around enough. He laughed, dropping his head back to the ground and holding his sides. “She didn’t tell you the whole of it—did she? How the hell did you find out, that’s what I want to know? By God, that’s rich though—it wasn’t your wife who told you about the little tryst we had planned. Maybe she was hopin’ to meet me this Friday. You ain’t giving her what she needs, I guess.”
Magnus turned away, unwilling to listen to another word, and encountered the stupefied faces of not only Mr. Felix and his sons—twelve and fourteen—but also his wife, who must have heard the commotion and come running. They were not staring at the man on the ground in horror, but at Magnus.
And that’s when he realized his life, as he’d known it, was as good as over and had been since the day he’d married. Melissa had known that all along, but he’d been too much of a bloody fool to even understand the half of it.
But the worst part of all? The woman he’d lost everything for had—at the very least—lied to him, and at worst, had been planning to meet another man to keep her secret.
Chapter Nineteen
Melissa opened the little door in the stove for the fiftieth time in the past hour.
Magnus was supposed to have returned at an hour ago. It was dark outside but the wind had died down around sunset. Still, there was too much cloud cover for it to be safe to—
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of wheels on the crushed gravel drive that led past the curate house up to the barn. There, she was worrying for nothing.
She adjusted the table linen although it was perfect and polished the tine of a fork, although it didn’t need it. She was so excited; not only had she thwarted Sir Thomas today, but she’d also successfully cooked her first Yorkshire puddings. Of course, those had gone out to the hens as they weren’t fit for eating cold.
She was waiting until Magnus arrived to start the new puddings in the hot pan. She planned to pour him a glass of brandy—which Daisy had brought from London as a wedding gift—and talk while he watched her prepare their meal.
The brandy wasn’t much of a gift when the bottle had been pilfered from The White House. Still, she supposed it was the thought that counted. Besides, she’d seen Magnus enjoy fine brandy when they’d been in Devon, but he kept nothing that special here.
When she’d asked him why, he’d jested it was because he was a humble curate. Melissa thought it was because he didn’t want to appear wealthier than the vicar by consuming luxury goods.
Mel looked at the clock that sat over the blazing fireplace. Why, she’d heard the wheels of the wagon at least fifteen minutes ago. He should have put away the horses and gig by now.
She twitched back the kitchen curtain, which allowed her to see the vicarage. There was Magnus’s familiar form, standing on the front step of the vicarage. The door opened and he went inside.
She sat back, staring at the messy heap of dishes she’d used to make this simple meal. Mrs. Dennis, the charwoman, said she’d get better with time, although they both knew the curate would not let his wife become a kitchen drudge. Cooking this meal tonight had somehow reminded her of that first time, in Mrs. Tisdale’s kitchen, when they’d begun to know each other.
The minute hand had moved a full thirty minutes and still Magnus had not returned. By now she knew something had gone wrong. It was after nine; he’d never come home this late before. And when he’d been late, he’d always sent word.
By ten o’clock she had taken the roast out and put it on the bakery rack just outside the back door, in the cold area where they stored apples, potatoes, and other hardy food items. Everything else, the side dishes, the batter for the puddings, and the pie she’d made—her first—she left out on the counter. It would go to the pig and chickens tomorrow.
She extinguished all but one candle in the front hall, so he could find his way when he decided to come home. She banked the fire, undressed, and bundled up in bed with a book Lady Darlington had sent in what Magnus called her “care packages.”
She must have fallen asleep because she woke up to find the candle guttering in the socket. The clock on Magnus’s nightstand said it was almost one.
When she went to the kitchen and looked out the window she saw the vicarage was completely dark. Wherever Magnus was, he wasn’t there.
She climbed back into bed, staring at the left side, Magnus’s side. The fire in the bedroom was still burning, the hot glow from the coals keeping the small room warm and cozy. Even so, Melissa suddenly felt very, very cold.
∞∞∞
Magnus knew he was lucky not to be confined in the root cellar the village kept for the few criminals they encountered. His face and hands weren’t the only thing that got cold on his ride from the Felix farm back to the vicarage. As his anger against Sir Thomas and John Felix cooled, he realized that he’d broken not only man’s law, but God’s as well.
The curate house was ablaze with lights when he rolled down the drive. He thought he saw a figure moving behind the lace curtains of the room Melissa called the sitting room, even though it barely qualified for the name of parlor.
Thinking about her in there, waiting for him—no doubt eager to take him in her arms as she had every night since coming to his bed that first time in Yorkshire—caused a queer blend of anger, frustration, disappointment, and sorrow in his chest. No, he could not go to her. Not yet. He would raise his voice and he would behave like a savage—which he now knew he was capable of. Besides, he didn’t have time to fight or do anything else with her. He had to warn the vicar and he had to confess to things that would, likely, get him not only removed from the curacy, but also from the Church.
He put the gig away, currying old Nancy better than she’d been brushed in years, dragging his feet to go and begin what was surely going to be one of the worst nights of his life.
The vicar answered the door with his welcoming, vague, dear smile. A smile Magnus was about to obliterate.
“Come in, come in. Just back from the Felix and Johnson houses?
Magnus dropped his hat on the table beside the door and removed his greatcoat, hanging it on a peg, before answering.
“Yes, I saw both them and the Morgans, as well.”
“Goodness, you have been busy.” He smiled up at Magnus, a slight notch forming between his gray eyes, his expression faltering. “You’ve not come for idle chit-chat, I think.”
“No, sir.”
“Well, let us go to my study. You go make yourself comfortable and I’ll ask Mrs. Loftis to make us up a tea tray.”
Magnus smiled with a gratitude that was not feigned.
The vicar’s study was a room Magnus loved. Book-lined and warm, it was a room that embraced a person. Or at least it always had him. It was the kind of room he’d one day hoped to have, himself.
He sat at the chair farthest from the vicar’s desk. He thought the other man would appreciate the distance once he began speaking. The door opened and Mr. Heeley entered, rubbing his hands together, which he did unconsciously whenever he finished even the smallest piece of business.
“She’ll have a tray for us shortly. I’m pleased to say she just baked a large batch of macaroons, so we’ll have something delightful to take with our tea instead of—” He stopped abruptly, suddenly aware of his near disloyalty.
Magnus smiled. He would miss the vicar, but even this heavy fog of regret was not enough to make him regret Mrs. Heeley’s cooking.
“I’ve come to talk to you about some things that aren’t very pleasant. First, I know Sir Thomas has forced himself on at least one of his tenant’s daughters.” Magnus hadn’t known exactly what reaction to expect from his disclosure, but it certainly wasn’t the one he received.
Heeley’s features screwed up into a tight knot, as if fa
ced with something deeply distasteful. “Yes, yes. I’m afraid he has always made a habit of such, er, well, unpleasant behavior.”
Magnus’s mouth opened but his brain wasn’t providing any words.
The vicar appeared not to notice. “Is it one of Felix’s daughters, again?” Twin slashes of red colored his pale cheeks.
Magnus cocked his head, unable to believe what he was hearing. “You knew about this?”
The vicar’s hands fluttered somewhat helplessly, two brown-spotted leaves blown by winds over which he had no control. “Well, I knew about the other girl. Er, the one who had the twins. The girl came to me some months before and told one side of the story.”
Magnus could scarcely believe he was hearing him correctly. The vicar had finally recognized Magnus did not look like a particularly receptive audience.
“I can see what you are thinking, Magnus. You think I should have taken up the cudgels on her behalf, marched over to Squire Barclay’s house and accused him—our local magistrate, largest landowner, and the most generous benefactor to Saint Botolph’s—of molesting and impregnating a tenant farmer’s daughter?”
Magnus gave a helpless snort of disbelief. “Well, yes, Mr. Heeley, that is exactly what I think you should have done.”
Fortunately, the door opened and a maid entered with the tea tray or Magnus might have once again found himself sitting on a man’s chest after having pounded him. His fury frightened—no, terrified—him. What was wrong with him? When had he become so volatile?
Even as he wondered the question the answer came with it, like the two halves of a seashell: he was angry because he couldn’t punish who he really wanted to punish, the men who’d used his wife—starting with the one who’d defiled her to begin with. When he thought of this mystery man, which he’d done far too often in the brief time since she’d spoken of him, it was Barclay’s face he pictured. Oh, he knew it wasn’t Barclay, but only for lack of opportunity rather than lack of intent.
The vicar faffed about with the teacups. “Two sugars, isn’t that right?”
Magnus has as much intention of drinking the vicar’s tea as eating the chair he was sitting in, and he’d lost patience with the whole façade.
“If I were to tell you I came upon Barclay in the very act of raping Felix’s daughter, would that be enough to spur you to act?”
The vicar stared at him, his mouth a gaping black hole. “You must gain control over your emotions, Mr. Stanwyck. It is most unbecoming for a man of the cloth to behave this way.”
Magnus almost fell out of his chair. “It is unbecoming to get upset about a girl getting raped by the very man who is supposed to protect her—the man who owns the house she lives in, the land her father farms, everything they have belongs to the squire. So, by that reasoning, I suppose his daughters do as well.”
The vicar shot to his feet. He’d obviously forgotten his advice from less than a minute earlier because he was shaking with anger. “Do you think I am insensible to the squire’s depravity? Do you? Do you think I am so ignorant that I don’t know he possesses not a shred of moral fiber?”
“Then why the hell don’t you do something about it?”
The room rang with his words and vicar’s face turned a dangerous shade of red. “I will not be spoken to this way by my own curate!
“I serve at the pleasure of the Earl de Longue, whose right it is to appoint both our livings. I am not your curate, I belong to the people of this parish—and I owe them a duty to protect them.”
The door to the study opened and Mrs. Heeley stood in the doorway. That’s when Magnus realized they must have been yelling.
“Charles, what is going on? Why are you raising your voices at one another?”
The vicar obviously had to struggle to compose himself. “It is nothing, my dear. We merely became rather excited expressing our opinions.”
She smiled uncertainly, her eyes drifting from the vicar to Magnus. “Very well, then. I shall leave you to it.” The door shut behind her.
“Does Mrs. Heeley know about Sir Thomas’s unpleasant proclivities?”
The vicar’s deep-set eyes looked ready to pop out of his head. “Are you mad? That is hardly the type of thing I would ever tell my wife. She is a gentlewoman and to inflict this type of thing on her would be savage and cruel.”
Magnus stared, arrested. He’d said the same thing to Melissa and he remembered her response clearly, it was exactly the type of thing every woman should think about.
It struck him like the proverbial bolt of lightning what an incredibly naïve fool he’d been. Melissa had been trying to tell him this all along and he’d refused to see it. No, it was worse, he hadn’t refused to see it, he’d failed to recognize what she was talking about at all.
“Who else knows about this?”
Heeley’s jaw worked side to side.
When he did not answer, Magnus’s heart felt as though some giant fist was squeezing it.
“Others in the Church know.” It was not a question and the vicar did not nod or answer.
Magnus shook his head, his jaw sagging in disbelief. “It is well-known, isn’t it—what he does. But the money he gives has bought more than new windows for St. Botolph’s.”
Heeley’s expression softened and leaned toward him. “You are a young man, Magnus, and full of righteous indignation, willing to take on the world and right the wrongs you find. You’re—”
“Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do? Right wrongs, Vicar?”
The vicar made a noise of frustration. “You are willfully choosing to misunderstand me. I am trying to help you—to save you from potential embarrassment if you think to go over my head on this matter and—”
“Even if the entire Felix family, and I, write out sworn, signed statements you will do nothing about this matter?”
The vicar opened his mouth. It hung open for half a minute before he closed it again.
Magnus nodded. “Just as I thought.”
“Mr. Stanwyck, you are judging me unfairly.”
“This is not a cricket pitch, Mr. Heeley, we are not children to toss around words like fair and unfair. You have said more than once that we are the shepherds of our flock. Should we turn our backs and let the wolf take his fill?”
“You believe I don’t wish to stop him?” The vicar’s entire body quivered. “Barclay is an obscenely wealthy man with half the aristocracy and gentry beholden to him for loans—some of those people are extremely powerful individuals who determine our futures, Magnus. They all despise him, but they will not go against him. And Barclay will crush me, Mr. Stanwyck. Just like an insect. And what will I do, a man of eight-and-sixty, when he tosses me out of the only home I’ve ever known? What will my wife do? You come from a wealthy powerful family and can weather the displeasure of the Church and I know you possess an estate of your own to go to if you no longer have a church living. I do not have such a luxury.”
It was Magnus’s turn to stare with his mouth open, and the silence hung heavily between them before Magnus spun on his heel and headed toward the door.
The vicar’s voice stopped him. “Mr. Stanwyck.”
He turned.
The vicar’s expression had gone from outraged to terrified to supplicating. “We will be most successful with this issue if we go about it slowly, and subtly. Churning the waters never yields anything good. Nothing can be gained from confronting the squire directly.”
Magnus laughed and the vicar flinched at the humorless sound. “I’m afraid the time for subtlety has passed, Vicar. I beat Squire Barclay bloody tonight, in front of half a dozen witnesses. But don’t worry, I’ll not be remaining at St. Botolph’s. Most likely I will be asked to resign to avoid what you call churning the waters. And in my letter of resignation rest assured I will mention the vicar of St. Botolph’s has known of the squire’s unpleasant activities for years. I’m going to hand it to the bloody Archbishop himself. And if he is involved in this, well, he should know his position is not una
ssailable.”
Magnus left the door open behind him, no matter how much he wanted to slam it.
Outside he looked at his watch. He’d only been inside the vicar’s study a quarter of an hour—it felt like years had passed. He’d believed his world had shifted dramatically earlier, with Barclay. But this—he glanced at the curate cottage. The windows all blazed with light, all of them; she was still awake. He could not go there, not now. He would yell at her worse than he’d yelled at Heeley and he did not want to repeat the mistake he’d made at The White House, when he’d threatened her.
He shoved his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders against the cold mist that had begun to fall and was perfect for cooling his hot temper. The moon was near full although occasionally shrouded by the low-lying clouds. Still, he could see well enough.
Magnus needed to calm down, because he was rapidly learning everyone around him was perfectly satisfied to play their part in this charade. The vicar acted like nothing untoward was happening, John Felix made his family act like nothing happened, and the squire acted whatever bloody way he wanted.
And Magnus? Well, he’d acted like a fool. Or, worse, he’d not been acting and he really was a fool. After all, what should he expect from a wife he’d had to threaten to marry him?
Melissa and The Vicar (The Seducers Book 1) Page 26
