The vicar grinned, acknowledging the truth in that. “Mrs. Morrell asked me to give you her regards, and to say she looks forward to making your acquaintance very soon.”
“That’s kind of her. I feel as if I already know your wife, because of the correspondence we’ve shared in the months since my cousin died. You’ll stay for lunch, won’t you?” he asked, gesturing for the minister to take a seat on the sofa. One of the maids came in just then, with two glasses of wine on a tray.
“I’m afraid that’s impossible today. Another time, I hope.”
“Most certainly,” Sebastian responded, with unexpected conviction. They said a few more conventional, socially correct things to each other, and then, almost imperceptibly, they both relaxed. They began to talk naturally and animatedly about the character of the village, its inhabitants, its potential for prosperity and advancement. Reverend Morrell showed himself to have an optimistic but unsentimental grasp on the economic realities of the neighborhood, and, thankfully, no unrealistic expectation of the new lord to perform miracles. Sebastian told him he was thinking of making a few investments in local enterprises, and the vicar made some intelligent-sounding recommendations, including a copper mine owned by Mayor Vanstone.
Eventually the conversation took a more personal turn, with the vicar confiding that he had grown up in Wyckerley with Geoffrey Verlaine for his best friend—Sebastian’s cousin and the previous viscount. Reverend Morrell’s marriage to the widowed viscountess had taken place barely a year after Geoffrey’s death, Sebastian recalled. There was a story behind that intriguing fact, he was quite sure, but he wasn’t going to hear it today, regardless of how swimmingly he and the vicar were getting along. In the same discreet spirit, he didn’t burden the reverend with the news that Lynton Hall was only a stopping place for him, and when his father died and Steyne Court became his, he planned either to sell Lynton, lease it, or let William Holyoake run it for him in absentia.
Apart from all that, he was relieved to find that he liked Christian Morrell as a man. The circumstances of village politics and social custom would require them to deal closely together, at least for a time, so it was good to know that the vicar was sensible, not too pious, and evidently neither a saint nor a hypocrite.
The hour lengthened. “Stay for lunch,” Sebastian urged again, more forcefully this time.
Reverend Morrell stood up. “I really can’t, and I won’t keep you any longer from yours.”
They walked outside together. The stable lad brought the vicar’s horse, a fine-looking chestnut gelding. The two men talked about horses for a while, and the minister surprised Sebastian again by being not only keen but uncommonly knowledgeable on the subject. He promised to come back and see the new foal when he had time, and gladly agreed to join Sebastian in a ride over the moors one morning soon.
With his hand on his horse’s withers, Reverend Morrell mentioned casually, “I met Mrs. Wade this morning, my lord, on my way to the Hall.”
“Oh, did you?” Sebastian knew he was imagining that his innocent tone of voice sounded disingenuous. It wasn’t like him to indulge in a guilty conscience; something about the golden-haired minister just brought it out of him.
“I have a churchwarden who makes it his business to keep me apprised of more local gossip than I care to hear—and so I knew who she was before she told me. Knew her history, and how it came about that you employed her.”
“Did you?” This time there was no innocence, only coolness in his voice. “Did you have some question about that, Reverend?”
Instead of answering, he said, “Miss Lydia Wade paid a call on me yesterday.”
“And who might Lydia Wade be?” Sebastian asked, although he knew. Holyoake had told him.
“She’s the daughter of Randolph Wade. She and Mrs. Wade were friends before the marriage—but perhaps you already know this.”
He murmured noncommittally.
“It was news to me, frankly. I wasn’t living in Wyckerley ten years ago, when my father was the vicar. As a matter of fact, he married Randolph and Rachel Wade—as Mrs. Wade was just reminding me.”
“Indeed. And what was it Miss Wade came to see you about?”
The reverend’s intelligent brow furrowed. “She was upset. She said she was in attendance at the magistrate’s hearing when Mrs. Wade’s case was heard.”
Sebastian narrowed his eyes. “She wouldn’t be a yellow-haired woman, would she?” he said slowly. “Rather pretty, a nervous manner, knits a lot?”
The reverend looked impressed. “That’s Lydia to the life. She knits grave blankets, actually. Incessantly. Great black squares, one after another, more than the parish could ever—ah, well.” He stopped, looking abashed, as if he’d almost said something uncharitable. “As I said, she was upset when she came to see me. May I speak bluntly?”
“Of course.”
“She was more than upset, she was outraged, because—using her words—the woman who cold-bloodedly murdered her father and then lied under oath about his moral character is now abroad in the neighborhood, living the good life as a trusted member of our new viscount’s household. Her words,” he said again, apologetically.
Sebastian folded his arms combatively. “And what’s this to do with me?”
“Lydia keeps very much to herself, but she’s known to be somewhat high-strung. Unstable, frankly. She lives with her aunt, a Mrs. Armstrong, who is—forgive the cliché—a pillar of the community. But Mrs. Armstrong has been ill lately and not able to keep as close an eye on her niece as she would like.” He ran his hand over the soft leather of his horse’s saddle, frowning. When he looked up, his clear-eyed gaze defused Sebastian’s vague, unsettled antagonism. “I’m afraid there may be trouble, my lord. And I wanted to pass on to you something that’s . . . unpleasant, but which you have a right to know. A duty to know.”
“What is it?”
“There’s talk in the village that you haven’t hired Mrs. Wade for a housekeeper, but for a mistress.” He said it quietly and didn’t look away; there was no accusation in his voice, only concern.
That made a sarcastic retort harder to muster. But Sebastian managed. “Forgive me, Reverend, if I make no reply to that except to say that village gossip has never been the guiding principle by which I live my life. In a word, I’m unimpressed.” But anger was kindling inside him slowly, insidiously—from what source he couldn’t imagine, since village gossip in this instance was dead on target. “No, ‘unimpressed’ doesn’t quite cover it,” he corrected with a sneer. “I’m contemptuous.”
Reverend Morrell didn’t turn a hair. “Then think of her.”
“Think of whom?”
“Mrs.—”
“Mrs. Wade? Whom do you suppose I was thinking of when I hired her? Did your rumor-mongering churchwarden mention what they’d have done to her if I hadn’t given her a post in my household?”
“He said—”
“They’d have sent her to gaol—for nothing, for being unemployed. Is that what Christian charity gets one in St. Giles’ parish, Vicar?”
“I hope not, my lord.”
“I hope not, too. Tell me, Vicar, can you save Mrs. Wade from the workhouse? What post have you got in mind for her?”
“I’ve thought about it. To tell you the truth, I haven’t come up with anything.”
Something eased inside; Sebastian felt an odd weakness, like a man girding himself for the light of his life, only to learn that his opponent wasn’t coming to the battlefield. “Then the point of this conversation escapes me,” he said with finality.
Reverend Morrell’s lucid blue gaze never faltered. “Understand, what I’ve said wasn’t intended to offend you. I believe you’re an honorable man. I also believe Mrs. Wade has paid for her crime and deserves to be treated with decency and compassion.” He paused, looking as if he had more to say, but after a moment he only held out his hand. They shook and told each other good-bye.
Mounted on his horse, though, the vicar had pa
rting words. “If you would like to continue this conversation, or”—he smiled with rather charming self-deprecation—“in the unlikely event that you would ever care to hear my counsel on the subject, I hope you won’t hesitate to call on me.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Sebastian said neutrally. Earlier, he’d written the vicar off as too unworldly a soul to understand the designs he had on Rachel Wade. Now he wasn’t so sure.
VII
“AH, MRS. WADE, there you are. I’d like you to go to the village with me.”
It was amusing to watch her lose her composure. She’d had her nose in an account book, making notations in it, while one of the maids, on her hands and knees just inside the cavernous linen cupboard, called out to her things like, “Sixteen muslin pillow slips, not embroidered. Twenty-one embroidered, all of ’em white.”
“My lord,” his housekeeper greeted him, flustered, “do you mean—now?”
“I thought now, yes, inasmuch as I’m meeting the mayor in half an hour or so. That is, if you can tear yourself away from this fascinating inventory-in-progress.”
She colored, but whether from his sarcasm or the avid scrutiny of the maid, still kneeling in the closet—Violet, he thought her name was—Sebastian couldn’t be sure.
“Yes, of course, my lord, I’ll—this can wait. We’ll finish later, Violet. You can . . . go and help Cora in the kitchen.”
Violet scrambled to her feet. “Help Cora,” she echoed in an aggrieved tone, and for a second Sebastian thought she was going to refuse the order. She was a parlormaid, he recalled; she must consider helping in the kitchen beneath her. She shifted her black-eyed glance in his direction, then back to Mrs. Wade. “Yes, ma’am,” she muttered, half curtsied to him, and flounced off toward the servants’ stairs.
“I hope you don’t tolerate insolence among your charges, Mrs. Wade,” he said seriously—as if it mattered to him.
“I’m still learning, my lord. And—I think I’m improving. Violet can be difficult sometimes, but the fault is mine as much as hers. Giving orders is not something I’m . . . particularly used to.”
It was a long answer for her; she must be in a talkative mood. Side by side, they walked down the center staircase. In the foyer, she excused herself—“for two seconds, my lord”—while she went to get her hat, and she was almost as good as her word. That pleased him, if the hat did not. It was a poke bonnet of flat black straw, in the giddy height of fashion about fifteen years ago; its protruding sides, like giant blinders, almost hid her interesting profile. But she looked so enchanted with the bright morning when they stepped out into the courtyard, Sebastian lost interest in saying anything unkind to her about her hat.
“Shall we walk or ride?”
That brought her up. “Whichever you prefer, my lord,” she replied dutifully.
“Of course. But in this case I’m asking you.”
She looked worried; she feared a trap. “Are you in a hurry?”
“No, are you?”
“No, my lord.” Was she smiling? He couldn’t be sure because of the damned hat.
He waited.
“Shall we . . . walk, then?”
“Yes, it you like,” he said agreeably, and they set off at a leisurely pace, rather like two friends out for a stroll. He thought of taking her arm, but decided against it. He wanted her company today, nothing more. This was a leisurely seduction; he was enjoying the preamble too much to rush the climax.
Knowing there would be no conversation unless he initiated it, he asked presently, “What did you particularly miss in prison, Mrs. Wade?”
After a surprised moment, she answered, “There wasn’t one thing, my lord.”
“Three things, then. And they needn’t be the main things, if that paralyzes you. Just the three you think of first.”
“Flowers,” she said immediately, glancing at the steep sides of the hard-packed road, where milkwort sprawled in exuberant blue and white tangles. “And . . . light. Long views of the world in natural light.”
He frowned. “You were not allowed to go outside at all?”
“On the contrary, we had daily exercise in the prison yard.”
“What was daily exercise like?”
She glanced at him, assessing his interest. “We walked, my lord.”
“Walked? Where?”
“Nowhere. In circles. Two circles, one inside the other. For an hour every day, immediately following chapel. That comes out,” she added dryly, “to a distance of approximately two miles.”
He mulled that. “You walked in silence?”
“Of course.”
“Could you cheat? Whisper something to a neighbor as you passed?”
“Some did, yes. The art of ventriloquism flourishes in a prison yard, as you can imagine. But it’s not easy; the guards are watchful, and one must always stay fifteen feet behind the prisoner next in the circle.”
He tried to picture it. It seemed barbarous. “Was there no enjoyment in it, then, not even the pleasure of moving about?”
“We were a plodding procession, my lord. The pace was set by the slowest—old women or young children. The word ‘exercise’ doesn’t really describe our little parade.” He was still flinching mentally from the thought of children in a convict prison when she went on. “But, yes, there were compensations. The chance to see the sky, or the reflection of clouds in a rain puddle. The feel of wind, the smell of it. Sometimes there were birds to look at, rooks mostly, but occasionally a thrush or a lark. Once . . .” She broke off, making a sheepish face. He’d never heard her say so much at one go before.
“Once?” he urged, fascinated.
“Once . . . a dog bounded out of nowhere and tried to play with us. It was a yellow dog, very large and shaggy, very—excited. I never knew where he came from. I petted him.” The bold, wistful way she said this last made him imagine her hoarding the thought of the yellow dog for months, even years, using the memories of soft fur and wet tongue to comfort herself in the long hours of her imprisonment. “But then,” she finished softly, “the guards captured him and took him away.”
A melancholy silence fell between them. “So,” he said to break it. “Flowers and long views of the world in sunlight. One more, Mrs. Wade.”
“It’s . . . difficult. There are many things I could say.”
“Say them, then.”
She breathed a sigh. “Food with flavor. Warm water to wash in. Colors. One night of sound, peaceful sleep. But—all that—” She made a gesture with her hand, saying they weren’t important. “The main thing . . .”
“What?”
She darted another glance at him. “People. Human contact, human warmth. Simple conversation. The lack of it made me sick. Not physically, but in my . . .”
“Soul,” he murmured.
She made no answer. Evidently her soul was not a subject she was prepared to discuss with him.
“You were not permitted to speak at all?” he asked grimly. “To anyone?”
“We could speak to the warders, but only in answer to their questions. Never to each other.”
“But surely—”
“Ways were got round it, yes, of course. But the punishment if one were caught made the risk . . . costly.”
A chill of revulsion tamped down his unwholesome curiosity in the details of prison discipline. But not for long. “What kind of punishment—”
“My lord, do you come from Sussex? I believe someone told me that,” she broke in, sounding almost shrill. He looked at her in surprise; she’d never dared to ask him a personal question before. Her features were set and stiff. It was clear that further inquiries about how order was kept at Dartmoor Prison would be futile.
“Yes, it’s true,” he answered equably. “I was born in Rye.”
“Do you—is it—a large family?”
The simplest social discourse was still an obstacle course for her, around which she lumbered awkwardly, like a woman in shackles and leg irons. Then, too, he was a viscount
and she was a domestic servant; no matter how politely or impersonally she phrased her diversionary questions, they were bound to sound forward, even impudent. He could sympathize with her dilemma, but he wasn’t much keener to talk about his family than she was to talk about prison.
“No, not large,” he said briefly. “Just my parents and a sister.”
“Are your parents living?” she tried next.
“I suppose so. The last I heard.”
She looked at him in surprise. “You aren’t close?” she hazarded.
“Close? No, I wouldn’t say we were close. My father is the Earl of Moreton,” he thought to add. “He’s dying; the doctors have given him half a year at the most.”
“I’m very sorry. How terrible for you. You must . . .” She trailed off, seeing his expression, which he imagined was more amused than grief-stricken. “It must,” she amended nervously, “be very hard on your family.”
“No, not really. We don’t care for one another much in my family.”
She thought that over, gazing off through a patch of woods that flanked the road on her side. “I suppose you’ll return to Rye, then, after your father’s gone?”
“Yes, for a little while. Long enough to hear the will read, at any rate.”
“And then you mean to return to Lynton for good?”
He laughed at that. “Lord, no. Why would I? I’ll be rich, Mrs. Wade, and I’ll be an earl. ‘Why then, the world’s mine oyster, which I with sword will open.’ Or, more aptly in my case, with purse.” She said nothing. “You’re silent,” he noted. “I think I hear disapproval in your silence.”
“Not at all. Certainly not.”
“Certainly not. You wouldn’t presume.”
“No, I would not.”
“Ah. My mistake, then. But tell me, Mrs. Wade, if you were in my place, which would you choose: a life of absolute luxury and comfort, spent anywhere you liked, Paris, Rome, Constantinople, anywhere in the world, with time and the means to explore every earthly pleasure that man in his wicked ingenuity ever devised—that’s on the one hand. Or a residence in what we might in charity term a backwater, populated by the salt of the earth, brave, honest souls who nevertheless lack a certain je ne sais quoi—sophistication, shall we say. A wholesome life, no question of that, lived close to God’s good clean earth, but—forgive me—perhaps a trifle too close. Well?” he prompted. “Come, which would you choose? You might think of it as a choice between a fast Arab stallion and a big, sturdy Clydesdale.”
Patricia Gaffney - [Wyckerley 02] Page 8
