The Seduction of Scandal (Scandals and Seductions 5)

by Cathy Maxwell

  “We can’t,” he whispered. “We are of two worlds, and they are very different.”

  She didn’t fight him then. She nodded. “You will return for supper?” she asked. “Don’t worry. I won’t toss myself at you.”

  “Corinne—”

  Warding him off with an upraised hand, she said, “Let’s leave it be, Will. For right now, let’s attempt to be kind to each other.”

  He nodded, accepting her suggestion, realizing it was far more mature than denying what existed between them. “I’ll be home for dinner.”

  “Good,” she replied. “And we will play a game of some sort this evening. You don’t need to be traipsing around all the time. You are in want of a good night’s rest.”

  How true that was. But as he watched her leave the church, he doubted that he’d ever have one as long as she was under his roof.

  For the next two days, Will and Corinne provided each other good company. Will didn’t linger around the rectory, but he didn’t run from her either. He pretended that all was fine—or, at least, as it should have been. They spoke of the weather, of hobbies, or of books they’d read.

  She did not make any more declarations and he reminded himself he was being honorable, and completely miserable.

  Shortly after four on Wednesday, the Broxters’ son, Jamie, a lad of twelve or so, came running to fetch Will. His mother had gone into labor and had birthed her baby, but the pains had not stopped. Mrs. Grady, the midwife, had said the family needed to send for their confessor.

  The Broxter home was on the outskirts of Ferris and easily reached by foot.

  When Will arrived at the Broxters’ cottage, a good number of village women had already gathered around the door. They stood in the front garden, their brows knitted in worry as they huddled together and spoke in whispers. He nodded as they solemnly parted ranks to let him pass.

  Inside the three-room cottage, Emily Broxter still labored even though her baby had been born. Her breathing was heavy, anguished. The smell of sweat and blood mingled with the homey scents of cooked food and clean laundry. Her newborn squalled for sustenance.

  Mrs. Broxter had always come to Sunday service and was the sort of woman every parish needed. Everyone liked her. She was always willing to lend a hand or offer a smile. She had made no secret that she’d been praying for another baby. Jamie was her and her husband’s only child, and she had desperately wanted another.

  Shortly after Will had first arrived at Ferris, she’d asked him why her prayers for another baby hadn’t been answered. He’d been so green, so naive, that he’d been embarrassed by their earthy discussion. He’d counseled her to accept her barrenness as God’s will.

  The woman had not done that. Rumor had it around the village she’d traveled to Carlisle to a crone who boasted she had a secret to end barrenness. Will had thought it a superstitious waste of time and good money, but four months later, Emily had been with child.

  Will had feared quite rightly that it would have been a challenge to the Church, and it had been in some quarters. There had been whispers and questions, especially as Emily had blossomed during her time. Her cheeks had turned rosier, her hair shinier, her spirits sunnier. She’d still come to church, but she had teased Will that if God didn’t provide an answer, there was always another way a determined border woman could contrive one. She’d hoped for another son.

  Will had not appreciated her jibes. But he had never wished her harm.

  The birthing bed had been set up in the main room, close to a roaring fire.

  “She’s cold,” Mrs. Grady, the midwife, told him, knowing he understood what that meant.

  Emily’s husband sat on a stool in a corner, his gaze watching his wife, his hands resting on his knees, as if he felt useless and drained of all energy. “I’m here, Mark,” Will said, not certain the man had registered his presence.

  Mark Broxter didn’t react, not even to give a nod. Jamie, having accomplished his mission to fetch the reverend, took guard by his father’s side, placing a small arm around his sire’s massive shoulders. Mark’s mother, old Mrs. Broxter, stood off to one side, trying to stave off the newborn’s hungry cries by letting the babe suck her knuckle.

  “Is there a nurse for the baby?” Will asked.

  “Aye,” Mrs. Grady answered. “Muriel McKinnion has milk. Her babe is about to come off the teat.”

  “Have you sent for her?”

  Mrs. Grady shot a look in Broxter’s direction. “He won’t let her come. Says his Emily wants to nurse the baby herself.” She moved closer to Will. “There’s another one in there, probably unformed. Her body can’t rid itself of it.”

  Jamie spoke. “You saved Maggie’s cat, Mr. Norwich. Do something now. Can you?”

  The weight of fear fell on Will’s shoulders. Everyone watched him. Waited.

  He gave his attention to Emily on the bed. Her eyes were closed. Her red hair and brow dripped with sweat, yet her hands were like ice.

  Someone offered him a stool and he sat. “Emily?” he asked, his voice a whisper. She gave his fingers a weak squeeze but did not open her eyes.

  He looked over to Mrs. Grady. He wanted to know if there was a chance Emily would recover. She understood his silent question and bowed her head.

  In the corner, Emily’s husband still hadn’t moved.

  Will turned to ritual. He was going to disappoint Jamie. In times like this, he wondered about his calling. He knew this woman was going to die. This giving, vibrant woman. Emily had a wonderful laugh, the sort that encouraged others to join in her delight of life.

  The cottage was silent now.

  He began with the scriptures and those verses offering comfort and the balm of mercy . . . and all the time he was wondering, Why? Why, when she’d just had her child, the one thing she’d begged God for, why was her life being taken from her? What sort of perverse wisdom was this?

  Emily responded. Every once in a while she squeezed his fingers to let him know she listened. But her strength grew weaker.

  He was going to fail Jamie. This was beyond his understanding, his power.

  Will couldn’t leave her. He couldn’t come in, say words, and then be off to parish duties. She deserved his support by her bedside. He lost track of time. He spoke of God’s redeeming love, of the promise of angels and a life everlasting. He spoke with belief, conviction, even as his voice grew hoarse and as his words repeated themselves. This is what Emily needed from him now. She needed his faith. His tutors had taught him that this was so. He must believe, even in the face of his own doubts—

  Her eyes opened.

  She looked around, lucid.

  There was a murmur behind Will, a reminder that they were not alone in this room.

  Mark Broxter tumbled forward to stand on bended knees by his wife’s side. “Emily?” He reached for her hand, clasping it in his large, callused one.

  She smiled at him. Her skin was translucent in the firelight. “My husband,” she whispered. She looked beyond him to where her son Jamie had come forward. “You are such a good lad.”

  The boy’s face was pinched tight with emotion. “Are you going to be all right, Ma?”

  Emily turned toward Will. He didn’t sense that she saw him. “Where’s my baby? I want to see my child.”

  Old Mrs. Broxter came to the side of the bed near Will and held the now exhausted newborn for Emily to see.

  “A boy?” Emily asked. “Did they tell me he was a boy?”

  “He is,” her husband confirmed. The tension had left the lines of his face. He was eager, loving, devoted.

  “He was worth it,” Emily whispered, her gaze never wavering from the sleeping child, her eyes full of maternal love. “So worth all of it . . .”

  And in that moment, she slipped away.

  It happened so quietly, so quickly, that Will was not prepared. One seco
nd she had been with them, and in the next she was gone.

  “Emily?” her husband asked. “Em?”

  There was no response. There wouldn’t be.

  “Mark—,” Will started.

  “She’s gone?” Mark interrupted in disbelief. “She’s not coming back?”

  “Sometimes they have a last moment,” Will tried to explain. “It’s as if they give us a gift of their presence, a time to say good-bye—”

  “My wife is dead?” Mark reached for his Emily, took her by the shoulders and gave her a shake.

  The women in the room came out of their initial shock. His mother doubled over as if in pain. The cries of the others sent the message quicker than words that a tragedy had happened.

  “She’s not here,” Will said. “She left.”

  “I want her back,” Mark demanded. He let go of her body and she dropped to the bed, all life, all vitality vanished away.

  Mark sat back on his heels. His son stood sobbing silently beside him, but the father was in such shock that he could do nothing to comfort the child.

  Will came around to their side of the bed. Mrs. Grady had buried her face in her hands. She now took his place and closed Emily’s eyes before giving in to her own grief.

  “Why?” Mark demanded of Will. “Why did God take her?”

  “I-It’s not our place to reason why,” Will said, falling back on the platitudes that had barely sustained him over the last hour. “We can’t understand the mind of God.”

  “It wasn’t God that took her,” Mark said, coming to his feet. He turned toward his mother, pointing his finger at the baby she held, the baby who had been startled awake and screamed for his mother. “He took her,” Mark declared. “He murdered my wife.”

  “Mark, he is a baby,” Will started. “He’s your son—”

  “He’s no son of mine. No son of mine,” Mark repeated at a shout, aiming his words at that innocent child.

  Jamie broke down uncontrollably. He reached for his father, wanting him to take him up in his arms as if he’d been a babe.

  But Mark could not do that. His soul was on fire. “Remove that child from my house,” he demanded. “Take it from here or I shall grab him and bash his brains on the floor in front of my dead wife.”

  Will was horrified at the man’s grief. Mark’s mother was shaking, denying her son could say such a thing.

  It was Mrs. Grady who grabbed the now screaming infant from old Mrs. Broxter’s arms. Mrs. Grady who took Will’s elbow and pushed him toward the door.

  Fresh air slapped Will in the face. He blinked, as if not realizing how late the hour was. The moon was high in the sky.

  “I need to go back in there,” he said, turning. “I must talk to him—”

  Mrs. Grady’s hand blocked his passage. “You’ll do no such thing, Reverend.” She held the squalling newborn with one arm. “That man is in grief. He doesn’t need you. He needs time to face what’s happened to him.”

  “But I might offer him comfort,” Will said, realizing even as he spoke the words that there was nothing he could say that would alleviate the horror of what had just happened. “And his baby. He can’t turn his back on his own child.”

  “He can right now.” Mrs. Grady moved him along to the road, away from the women gathered to offer help and support. “I’ve seen this before. Aye, I agree with you that his wee life has done nothing wrong, and Mark Broxter will come to that same mind. But right now, his grief is all he can feel.”

  “What will happen to the baby?” Will asked and found himself reaching to hold the child.

  Mrs. Grady let him have the child. “It’s so puny,” Will observed. He’d not been around newborns, never held one. The bones were so fine; his body lacked muscle. He chewed on his fists, whimpering in his hunger, his strength spent.

  “He’ll grow,” Mrs. Grady said, “and be a strong one. That’s what happens to them that is cast off.”

  Cast off. The description struck Will in a way he’d not anticipated. He’d been cast off. “But I thought you said his father would come for him when he is of clearer mind?”

  The heavy sigh she gave didn’t bode well for that premise. “Men are funny,” she admitted, taking the baby back and cradling him in her arms. “A mother can’t walk away from her child, but a man can. Some men can,” she corrected herself. “Not all. It is as if they go half mad in grief. Don’t plague yourself over it, Mr. Norwich. You’ve done your job and I know you’ll be seeing Mark Broxter again. Once the hurt isn’t so intense, then the reason will set in. In the meantime, I need to see this wee one to Mrs. McKinnion. She’s a godsend, she is. I had a babe three months ago that died because her mother didn’t have her milk and there was no nurse close at hand.”

  “I don’t remember a baby dying.”

  Her face took on a sympathetic look in the moonlight, part pity, part practical. “We didn’t bring her to you. We returned her to the earth from whence she’d come. ’Twas the mother’s wishes.” She took a step closer to him. “I can see you are rattled a bit by all this, but trust me, it’s all a part of God’s plan. The good and the bad, we must take it all.” She started walking up the road.

  Will watched her until she was out of sight. People were leaving the Broxter cottage. Will offered a prayer that God would grant this family peace, but he found no sense of peace in the offering. Words were inadequate, and what was a prayer? Words of hope, wants, wishes . . . selfish words. Ineffective ones.

  He began walking back to the rectory. As he moved, images hovered on the edge of his mind. Faces he could barely see. Voices he couldn’t understand. The parents of his dreams.

  The midwife had been right. Broxter’s actions had shaken Will to his core.

  The headache started. His head felt gripped in a vise. Those images grew fuzzy, distant. Will stumbled back and then pushed himself to move forward. He had to reach the rectory. He couldn’t be found here on the street, stumbling blindly around.

  Will reached the rectory kitchen door. He slammed into it, turning the handle at the same time, and fell to the kitchen floor.

  For a long moment, he lay there. He was dizzy, his head pounded. He waited, praying for this to pass—

  “You are home,” he heard Corinne say before giving a soft cry. “Will, what has happened?”

  She knelt beside him. Her face, her worried expression came into view.

  He frowned up at her. This was not how he wanted her to see him. He rolled over, attempted to push himself to his feet.

  Her hands slid under his arms and she helped him up into a kitchen chair.

  “I feel like a fool,” he muttered, his throat dry, sore. The pounding in his head wouldn’t stop.

  She pushed a mug of cider into his hands. The drink helped. It cleared his mind. She was kneeling on the floor at his feet, both of her hands holding his free one. Her brow wrinkled with concern . . . concern for him.

  “What was it?” she asked. “Did you fall?”

  He was grateful for the drink. Grateful for the company. The headache started to recede. She’d banished it. “I’m fine. Sad case this evening.”

  “Do you wish to talk about it?”

  Will had learned to keep his own counsel. There had never been anyone to discuss his experiences with. He’d been alone. Singular and alone—until now.

  She waited patiently.

  He should have told her it was nothing, a momentary lapse, silly, really—

  “A friend died tonight.” And then the rest of the story came pouring forth: Emily’s desire for child, how the baby had killed her, how now her family was bereft with grief.

  How the father had rejected his newborn son. . . .

  She listened. The wick in the lamp she had carried in burned low, but she didn’t move.

  “How you saw me come in the door,” Will said, “was just my bei
ng—” How was he being? How could he describe it? He’d never said anything to anyone about the images, the headaches.

  He sat a moment, silent, uncomprehending.

  “I understand your being upset,” she said. “That poor child, blamed for his mother’s death.” She shifted her weight. The brick floor had to have been uncomfortable, but she’d not moved. “Do you ever think about your own past?”

  The question caught him off guard. “What do you mean?”

  “What do you know about the time before Lord Bossley took you in?”

  “I remember nothing,” he said.

  “Perhaps you remember more than you know? That could create pain in your head, couldn’t it? The struggle to remember?” She rose and pulled the other chair at the table closer to his.

  He fought the urge to move away. Her suggestions nettled him.

  “Will, Lord Bossley found you wandering in the streets at . . . . what did he claim? No more than the age of three?”

  “That is what he says.”

  “Well, there was a time before him,” she replied. “And who knows what your life was like, what horrors you had seen?”

  He didn’t want to discuss this. He realized he even feared it. “What matter does it make? The present is all that counts.” He hated appearing weak in front of her. It was unmanly of him.

  She sat back. “You confuse me. You serve at the will of Lord Bossley in this parish. He pays your living . . . and yet you rob from him. It’s your way of righting the wrong he does, no? You are too loyal to go to a magistrate or take your case to your bishop.”

  “I’ve talked to Bossley. He knows how I feel.”

  “But you wouldn’t testify against him?”

  “He saved my life,” Will pointed out.

  “You have a problem,” she said. “You see a wrong but can’t ignore it like other men would. You feel powerless to go to the magistrate, so you create this highwayman to right the wrong.”

  “I had to do something.”

  “And that attitude, sir, is completely at odds with your upbringing. I could not imagine Freddie making such an insistence. Will, have you ever thought that what you feel, some of the man you are—your compassion, your sense of honor and responsibility—could have come from perhaps your parents? No, don’t protest,” she ordered when he opened his mouth to deny her suggestion. “You witness a father abandoning his own child and it unsettles you. It unsettles me to hear of it! But, Will, don’t you think your reaction this evening might be connected with the part of you that you don’t know? Just think on it. You need not agree, but be open to the possibility.”