St. Simon's Sin: A Risqué Regency Romance (The Six Pearls of Baron Ridlington Book 2)

by Sahara Kelly

  “Brandy.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The next days dragged on for Simon, who knew he was functioning much less efficiently than normal. The weather turned hot and sultry, which was an added burden, but on the positive side of things, people tended to avoid conflicts and drama. It was just too warm to make the effort.

  Even the cows and sheep seemed lackadaisical, spending most of their time in the shade, snoozing or munching grass.

  There were days when Simon had nothing to do, and those were the worst. A small congregation meant fewer ceremonies; no bridal celebrations, nor funerals and the Evensong service had been reduced to one night—if anyone attended. He tried hosting a meeting to discuss the Bible, hoping that such a discussion might attract more villagers. His mistake was holding it in the Inn.

  The name of the Lord was invoked more than a few times in the consequent brawl that erupted after a heated discussion about whether helping a neighbor’s wife milk her cows constituted coveting said neighbor’s ass.

  Simon barely escaped getting a black eye during that unfortunate mêlée.

  He found himself more frequently in the churchyard, where there was shade if he grew too warm, and birdsong in the ancient trees around the edge. It was not a place of sadness or grief to him; it was more a place of contemplation and peace.

  And he was drawn every time to the fresh grave of Old Sal, now sporting a gleaming marble headstone hewn by one of her family.

  The inscription “Here lies what’s left of Sal Brewster. She ruled us all for most of her ninety-two years. Put the kettle on, Sal. We’ll be with ye soon enough” made him smile, and he got into the habit of putting a small pair of shears into his pocket so that he could trim the dead heads of the rose bush that Sal’s daughters had planted next to the stone.

  Before he knew it, he was popping out every day after breakfast with trowel and rake, to “tidy up a bit” as he put it, finding some measure of peace amongst the memorials to those who had gone before.

  The grass was always soft, and there were many flowers needing pruning. These had been encouraged by former Vicars, and Simon himself, who liked the concept of honoring those who had passed on by planting something vibrantly alive in their memory. He wondered if there would be anyone to plant anything when he died.

  A small robin flew down and perched on a nearby stone cross. It tipped its head to one side and surveyed him with a little chirp, waiting for a tasty tidbit to appear amongst the freshly turned soil.

  “Bit hot for worms, old chap,” said Simon. “And I’ll probably only get weeds around my grave. Maybe a dandelion or two for a bit of color…” He sighed.

  “Rather a morose thought for a Vicar, I would say…”

  The strange voice shook Simon to his core and he leapt at least a foot sideways, barely keeping his balance. The shears fell from his hands and stuck upright right in the middle of Eleanor Howell’s grave.

  “Who…what…” Thoughts jumbled, Simon stuttered as he stared at the newcomer.

  The man smiled. “Forgive me. Do I have the honor of addressing Reverend Simon Ridlington?”

  Recovering from his shock, Simon straightened his waistcoat and cravat, wishing he hadn’t removed his jacket and hung it from a nearby stone angel. “That’s correct, sir. You have the advantage of me, I’m afraid.”

  The man bent down and retrieved the shears, handing them to Simon. “I’m Augustus Miller-James.”

  The sun glinted on a large jewel worn by his visitor, and Simon caught a quick impression of a heavy gold ring. An amethyst darted purple fire from its engraved housing.

  An ecclesiastical ring?

  Simon damn near dropped the shears all over again. “Wait…sir…you’re Bishop Miller-James? The Bishop Miller-James?”

  “Indeed I am.” He grinned. “If I’m not, I certainly get an awful lot of the man’s letters.”

  Simon gulped. “Forgive me, my Lord.” He put the shears down on top of the small pile of weeds he’d accumulated that morning. “I had no idea you were here…or even anywhere near here.”

  “No reason you should, Vicar. If you’d like to invite me into the Rectory, and possibly ply me with a cold glass of water, I could perhaps explain things a little better.” He shaded his eyes and looked around. “Pleasing to the eye and the senses though this area is—and well done on that, by the way—I’m finding this heat to be somewhat trying.”

  “Of course. Where are my manners? Please, my Lord. I’d be honored if you would join me.” Flustered at the prospect of hosting one of the highest ranking Bishops not only in the Diocese, but in most of the South of England, Simon scrambled to grab his coat and then lead the man through the gravestones to the Vicarage.

  Thankful that it was clean and relatively tidy, given that his home had gone back to being a bachelor establishment, Simon soon had the Bishop seated with a large mug of water beside him.

  “I could make tea, if you’d care for some?”

  The Bishop raised an eyebrow slightly. “Well, lad, that would be very kind. However, if you’ve an ale in your pantry, that might be even better.”

  Simon grinned. Apparently the Bishop was a man of the cloth, and a man after his own heart. “I believe I have something you’d enjoy, sir.”

  He darted into the cool stone cupboard and reached for another mug, which he filled from the little keg sitting in the coolest corner. Returning to the kitchen, he placed the mug in front of the other man. “Now, Bishop. Tell me that’s not the finest ale you’ve ever tasted.”

  With an interested look, a long sniff, and a curious manner, the older man raised the mug to his lips, tasted, glanced at Simon and took a hearty swallow.

  For a few moments, silence reigned.

  “Well bless my soul.” The Bishop licked his lips and stared at Simon. “What is this divine nectar? If I wasn’t sitting here and watching you bring it out of the pantry, I could swear it was delivered from our Lord by his personal Angels.” He took another healthy gulp. “By all the saints, man. This is…beyond delicious.”

  Simon found himself grinning from ear to ear. He had so many questions he didn’t know where to begin, but for these few moments, he was just a man introducing another man to the finest ale in the known universe. Or at least the Ridlington portion of it.

  “I ask you now, please, Vicar. Put me out of my misery. What is the name of this ale and where can I order a lifetime supply?”

  Simon chuckled. “Well, sir, it is Chillendale ale. From a smaller brewery east of here toward the coast. Run by the family for generations, I’m told, and each brew is a little different, reflecting the personality of the current brew master. Who is always a member of the Chillendale family, I believe. But as for ordering it…well, I would have to refer you to my brother Edmund, the present Baron Ridlington. He’s the one who gifted me with my own small supply.”

  “I must certainly make the acquaintance of your brother, in that case. If for nothing else than to learn more about obtaining my own Chillendale supply.” The Bishop grinned back.

  Simon took a breath. “Well, sir. Will you tell me what brings you to St. Simon’s?”

  “St. Simon’s.”

  “Yes sir. This is St. Simon’s.”

  “No, what I meant was that I’m here because of St. Simon’s.”

  “Oh.” Simon’s heart dropped into his boots. The Bishop was here to shut him down. He’d been expecting it, once Tabby had gone, knowing she’d filed her report with the Diocese. “I see.”

  “You don’t, but you will,” answered the Bishop obscurely. “I would like to visit the church itself, once I’m finished with this divine brew. That will be possible?”

  “Of course, sir.” Simon nodded. “I’d be proud to show you the interior.” He lifted his chin. “Would it be safe to assume you have read the report recently completed by Lady Ellsmere? If so, then I need not caution you about the shortcomings we are experiencing.”

  “Ah yes. Lady Ellsmere. Lovely gel. The Ellsmeres
are distantly related to the Miller-James family, you know. Not quite sure where, but I have a feeling I might be one of their step-something or others. An Ellsmere uncle is on the Ecumenical council.”

  “Really.” Simon’s gut churned. He was definitely about to get what the locals would call “the boot”.

  “We were all devastated at young Michael’s death during the war. And then we lost track of his wife completely. Silly chit went haring off to Europe. Can you believe it?”

  “Yes, we did hear mention of her travels.” He wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw a piercing look shot at him from under the Bishop’s bushy eyebrows.

  “Did you now.”

  “Lady Ellsmere made quite a thorough accounting of St. Simon’s affairs, I understand. I did not see the final report, but I was as open with her as I could be.” Simon diplomatically steered the conversation away from Tabby’s European sojourn. “She had unlimited access to all our church records for as far back as she wished, and she attended more than a few services here.”

  “It was most acceptable, Vicar. She did the job she was asked to do, and she did it well. The Diocese was satisfied.” He rose. “Let’s go and have a look inside, shall we? Time to say hallo to the Lord today. I’m sure He’ll be happy to see us.”

  Simon stood. “I’m sure He will.” Maybe He’ll create a miracle and distract the Bishop from the broken pews.

  *~~*~~*

  Pushing the door of the church wide he invited Bishop Miller-James to enter.

  “You don’t keep it locked?”

  He shook his head. “No, Sir. There is nothing of value worth stealing inside, and everything of value to share with those who might need it.”

  The Bishop shot him another of those lightning quick glances. But he said nothing, just nodded and walked inside.

  Trying to see what his guest was seeing, Simon looked around him. This place was as familiar as the back of his hand. He knew which pews squeaked, which stone slabs had cracks in them, and where one or two of the walls were starting to shed a bit of their plaster.

  The stained glass window behind the altar was aged, but the sun intensified the colors every morning, so a bit of fading was acceptable. Miraculously none of the windows had broken during Simon’s tenure as Vicar, although he could remember one being smashed when he was a little boy. It had been replaced by someone from London—a skilled craftsman, he now understood.

  The nave was wide enough for three at most; the altar modest, and the crucifix atop the altar cloth had been carved by a loving hand more than a few generations before. The carpet on the steps of the dais showed definite signs of wear, the red having been worn away in more than a few spots.

  But the small urns of flowers were fresh, thanks to one or two good natured souls with prolific gardens. And he’d made sure to do his routine sweep-through after every service, occasionally with a cleaning cloth to wipe the backs of the pews. It didn’t take too long and if he was honest with himself, Simon enjoyed having those moments alone in what he had come to consider his church.

  He took pride in it, no matter how shabby.

  Even if only one parishioner turned up of a Sunday, that one person deserved the best Simon could offer. Mrs. Morris might not always be able to play the organ and sometimes the congregation sang all by themselves. It didn’t matter. The spirit of the church remained, and he felt that everyone who entered was entitled to take a little of it for themselves.

  Whether they did or not was up to them.

  The Bishop bowed his head in prayer for a moment and then walked slowly along the nave, looking everywhere, seeing everything.

  Or so it seemed to Simon, whose heart filled with dread. Would this be the time he learned of the church’s fate? Would the Bishop reach the altar then turn and utter the words Simon did not want to hear? Like Henry the Second, would he throw out his arms and beg someone to rid him of this meddlesome…er…church?

  Simon stopped for a moment, administered a quiet mental slap to himself and took a breath. He was becoming frantic at a time when nothing had happened. He gave himself permission to become frantic if something should happen, but not right now.

  “I think I’m losing my mind.”

  “I beg your pardon?” The Bishop turned slightly.

  “Oh, no, sorry. I was thinking aloud.”

  “Not a bad place for it,” smiled the old man. “You have a good church here, Vicar.”

  Simon gulped down something the size of a mountain that had stuck in his throat. “I do?” he squeaked. Clearing his throat, he tried again. “I’m so glad you think so.”

  “It is old, of course. Centuries of faith have covered the walls and risen to the ceilings. Just as centuries of worshippers have worn the stones of the floor and the wood of the pews.” The Bishop moved to one side and touched the altar. “The cloths are old, the plaster is cracking and I doubt that instrument gives you much support for the hymns. And you have—perhaps—half a dozen hymnals?”

  “Mold,” said Simon sadly. “It creeps in over the winter if it gets damp and cold.”

  “No budget for firewood?”

  Simon shook his head. “We have been blessed with a few parishioners who bring what they can.”

  The Bishop sighed. “Well, lad.”

  “Sir.”

  “Sit down.” He walked to the front pew, fortunately not the broken one, and took a seat, waving his hand to indicate Simon should join him.

  “A fine pulpit there.” The Bishop nodded at the jutting stones a few feet above them. “Not high enough to make everyone crick their necks during your sermon, but not close enough that the little boy at the back picking his nose would distract you.”

  Simon choked out a laugh. “I never quite thought about it that way, but yes, you’re right.”

  “You know, of course, that the fate of this church is in question.”

  Here it comes. “I do.”

  “Financially your parish is in trouble. And I’m not saying anything that you don’t already know.”

  “Yes.” It was all Simon could do—be honest with this man. “We are struggling every week, every day even.”

  “The report, gentle and encouraging though it was, did indeed endorse that statement. St. Simon’s is darn close to breathing it’s last.”

  “I know.” Bless Tabby. Obviously she’d done her best. For a few moments he forgot to be hurt that she’d left and simply appreciated her kindness.

  “But,” said the Bishop, “there is always hope.”

  “What?” Simon blinked, wondering if he’d heard correctly. “I mean, there is?”

  “Yes. There is indeed.” He leaned back, ignoring an ominous creak from the pew. “There is spirit here, Vicar. A good solid spirit of everything a church should stand for. Kindness, generosity, peace…I can feel it. And if I can feel it, with my years of visiting churches throughout the land, then I know your congregation feels it as well. The churchyard is full of solemn sorrow, and yet a riot of joyous colors celebrating the lives of those who have gone home to our Lord.” He looked at Simon again. “St. Simon’s deserves a chance. And I’m inclined to give it one.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “What happened then?” asked Letitia. “Did you fall down and kiss his feet?”

  Simon snorted. “No.” Then he thought for a moment. “But it was a close thing.”

  “So what does this mean, then, Simon?” Rosaline poured tea for the three of them as Simon shared his news.

  “That will be revealed shortly.” He swiped a jam tart out from under Letitia’s fingers and ignored her protests, popping it into his mouth and munching smugly.

  “Pig,” mumbled his sister.

  “Children, please.” Rosaline gave her best practice-motherly glare at the two of them.

  “You’re getting quite good at that,” grinned Letitia.

  “Anyway,” Simon finished his mouthful. “The Bishop tells me that in cases such as these, an allowance is granted to the church from what
he referred to as a Discretionary Fund. Usually for a period of six months or so. During that time, I have to work out a way to increase the congregation.”

  “Oh. Hmm.” Letitia’s face turned sober. “That might be a challenge. Do you have any ideas yet?”

  “A couple.” He stared out of the window. “They’re not quite ready for discussion, but one of them is to form a choir.”

  “Now that sounds like a lovely idea,” endorsed Rosaline.

  “And we do have some very nice voices in the village,” added Letitia. “I’ve heard them singing now and again at the Inn.”

  Simon blinked. “You spend a lot of time at the Inn?”

  She waved his comment aside. “You know, there is a very popular annual competition for local choirs.”

  Rosaline looked interested. “Really?”

  “I never heard of it,” added Simon.

  “That’s probably because Father either insulted or ignored everyone, so we never knew, and also I’m not sure if there’s been a choir at St. Simon’s in the last hundred years or so.”

  “True.”

  “I’m sure if we all put our heads together we can come up with more ideas for you, Simon. And you know we’ll all help as best we can.” Rosaline smiled at him.

  “Thank you, my dear.” Simon raised his teacup in salute. “I have never doubted the family’s support. And that’s quite something to hear coming out of the mouth of a Ridlington, given our past.”

  “No arguments there.” Letitia echoed his toast.

  Rosaline carefully replaced her teacup on its saucer. “Simon, I must ask. Have you heard from Tabby?”

  His world snapped back into less pleasant areas and he schooled his features carefully, so as not to reveal too much of his inner turmoil. “No. Nothing since she left.”

  “Well clearly she filed the report on St. Simon’s. And from the sound of things it was as positive as she could make it,” commented Letitia.