Well! This was unthinkable. I could not have my husband present when I went to Mrs Richards to request aid in conception. How mortifying!
‘Oh, Mr Reeves. That is very kind, but no, you need not. I should only be a short while. Indeed by my return, Mrs Cartwright will have luncheon on the table and I can join you then.’
‘Nonsense. I’ll not hear of it. Come, Mrs Reeves.’ He proffered his arm, and I had no option but to accept it.
We walked in a stiff, unwelcome silence. The sun was warm today, and it beat down upon my back causing my skin to flush and glow.
At length we came to the Richards home, a home still in mourning – though not as deep as before. The curtains were open, loud chatter came from the open window.
My husband stepped forth and knocked crisply on the door, then withdrew behind me. Mrs Richards veritably flung the door open. ‘Mrs Reeves!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’ve been expecting you.’ She smiled warmly and I embraced her. She was dressed in dark lavender, in deference to her lost child, but looked much improved since our last meeting, and I was thankful for it. Her eyes then caught those of my husband. ‘Vicar! I had not expected you, but yes. What a pleasure.’
Mr Reeves bowed.
‘Come in, come in. Please.’
I followed Mrs Richards into the house; two of her daughters curtsied at our entrance and made for a hasty departure from the kitchen. I noticed immediately the improvements to the cottage; new stairs and floorboards.
At Mrs Richards’ ushering, I sank down in the kitchen on a rustic wooden chair, my husband beside me.
‘Well, I suppose you’re eager to get to business, Mrs Reeves,’ Mrs Richards began, without offering me time to give condolence. She looked from me to my husband, a small frown creasing her brow beneath her large lavender cap. ‘I’ve spoken with my sister, and she recommends herbal teas for you. Yes she does. Chaste tree berry, white peony and yarrow, she said, and I’ve got some here.’ She took three brown paper packages and handed them to me. I accepted with a flush and whispered ‘Thank you’.
Mrs Richards continued, in a very thorough and firm fashion. ‘Just take a spoonful of chaste tree berries, and steep them in boiling water a good five minutes. After that, drink. If you’ve got sugar or honey, that may make it taste better. She recommends you try chaste berry first, then the white peony, then the yarrow a month apart. She said if you don’t fall within four months, she’ll come and see you.’
I could feel my husband grow tense beside me; his eyes caught and held mine. They were curious and unfortunately hostile. His clean-shaven cheeks burnished red.
‘I beg your pardon?’ my husband interrupted with a cough. ‘What is all this?’ He took a brown package from my hands and examined it.
Mrs Richards looked startled by his clearly unusual question. ‘Why, Mr Reeves, these are herbs to aid conception,’ she said, heat gathering in her cheeks.
In that instant I felt as small and as silly as a chit.
My husband’s scowl deepened. ‘Aids to conception?’ His voice had taken on that dangerous note it often does before he commences a pious lecture.
‘Why, yes. Mrs Cartwright said that you and your wife are having trouble conceiving, and my sister, being a midwife, has been good enough to give Mrs Reeves these herbs to help.’
‘We do not need aids in conception. If we remain childless it is God’s heavenly will!’ he thundered. ‘To interfere in the work of the Lord is a sin!’
Mrs Richards paled, and I confess I too shrank back in my chair. The entire meeting could not have gotten any worse, or so I thought, but I was mistaken – for he turned his fury on me.
‘Mrs Richards, I do not blame you, for you do not know better. But Mrs Reeves, I despair of you! You are well versed in the Bible, I speak of these matters near incessantly. We shall have a child in God’s time; not yours, not mine, but the Lord’s. Potions, herbs and witchcraft offend God, and are against His rules. You as my wife should know better. Stand and we will depart immediately.’
Well, what could I do? Naught. I stood, my face burning in shame.
‘Good day, Mrs Richards,’ I said, and when I beheld her eyes, they were deep with horror and pity, both I presume directed upon me. ‘Forgive me.’
Without farewell, Mr Reeves then took my arm and steered me from the house – a gesture humiliating and rude in the extreme.
I was so angry.
I am not by nature prone to the tears so common in my sex, but on that terrible walk to the vicarage, I confess that tears burned in my eyes. These were tears I claim to be associated not with sadness but impotent, useless fury. Frederick had humiliated me in front of a woman I both admired and liked.
At that moment, I could not have hated the man more.
As we reached the vicarage, Mr Reeves strode inside, taking large angry steps.
‘The sitting room, Mrs Reeves,’ he said tightly, tearing off his hat and throwing it by the hatstand. I saw Mrs Cartwright’s face pale as she backed out the sitting room, pity swimming in her large dark eyes.
There was nothing I could do but do as he bade. To this end I sank down on a padded chair, the twin of my husband’s. I studied his face, handsome, angry, unforgiving.
Unforgiving? Perhaps not, for that would go against the word of God – something he would never do.
He stood before me, utterly imposing. Perhaps I should have been frightened. I wasn’t. I wasn’t in the least. This man simply made me furious. He had everything I wanted; yet refused to give me any of it.
‘Mrs Reeves, I cannot express how terribly disappointed I am in you.’
I looked at him. Did he expect repentance? Perhaps. Yet repentance was the last thing he was going to get from me, now or ever.
‘I see that,’ I replied, dismissively.
My husband’s expression clouded again. ‘You have made a fool of me,’ he growled, taking a step closer.
‘No more so than you have made a fool of me.’ I replied, passionately now.
He seemed taken aback by my attack. ‘Whatever do you mean?’
I looked at him, holding him in the greatest contempt. ‘I am a woman, fertile yet childless despite being married six years. Our village looks upon me with pity for they believe me to be barren. I am not barren, Mr Reeves! It is your lack of passion and attention that makes me look barren in the eyes of the village!’
My husband was horrified and had I not been in such a fury, perhaps his expression may have been cause for amusement. Surprise verily flushed over his face.
‘Mrs Reeves …’ he exclaimed, ‘I have as much passion as the next man, I assure you!’
Though it was unladylike, I scoffed. ‘Indeed? Women talk, you know, Mr Reeves, about subjects that may offend your … delicate ears. I heard Mrs Wellings complaining to Mrs Brigby at the haberdashery that her husband is near insatiable. Every night he comes to her and she, though I cannot fathom it, laments the fact!’
My husband’s face grew redder.
‘Then there is Mrs Bailey, who told me not long after our marriage that her husband likes to have her sometimes morning and night. Oh! I must not forget Mrs Flinders …’
‘Enough!’ my husband barked and stopped abruptly. His face was dark with shame, but – bless the Good Lord himself, he had an erection pulling at the fabric of his breeches.
My talk of intimacies had aroused him.
I moved straight to the point. ‘I see you are not so unaffected now you know that many men desire their wives, and frequently.’
My husband’s hand flew to his crotch and covered the evidence. His face roared with colour. ‘Do you wish me to lust after you? Sin for you?’ he croaked. ‘Do you wish me to paw over you day and night?’
Good grief! It sounded like a wonderful notion.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘of course I do!’
I could see my husband warring within himself. Conflicting thoughts crossed his face as plainly as night and day. ‘Do you wish it … now?’ he asked, his voice so
soft I could scarce believe the words.
‘Yes,’ I replied. Instantly my sex grew heavy, moisture collected, always anticipating.
‘Then you are a wicked woman.’ His words were shot as if from duelling pistol.
‘Mr Reeves, I …’ His look was so utterly dismissive that my eyes stung.
‘You are dismissed,’ he barked.
What did he mean, dismissed?
Where was I to go?
‘What do you mean?’ I had to clarify.
‘Take your luncheon in your room.’ His voice was like gravel. He turned, his hands still covering his crotch.
‘Mr Reeves, I don’t understand.’
‘You choose not to understand, Mrs Reeves. Please, remove yourself from my sight.’
I fled then – as it was all I could do – to my room, where I collapsed on my cold bed, my anger spent and watered down to tears.
Some may question why I wept. I wept for the husband I would never have. I wept for a babe that would never be his. I wept for the long and lonely life that stretched before me like a windswept moor.
Thursday. 10th June 1813
It has been a terrible few weeks. There has been no further discussion with my husband to speak of. I have tried to speak with him on numerous occasions, but he refuses to listen. He believes I have a preoccupation with intimacy and matters of a conjugal nature, which he claims to find repulsive. I have decided then, that if it is distance he requires, distance I shall give him. From now I shall only refer to my husband as ‘the Vicar’.
I confess, I spend most evenings abed. I see no reason to join that odious, pompous, pious prat downstairs for a marital meal. Indeed, no. I take all my meals in my rooms, and shall continue to do so until I am expressly invited by the man to join him.
By and large, this disassociation with my husband has opened the passage for deepening relationships with Mrs Richards, Mrs Cartwright and naturally, Mr Goddard.
Do not mistake my intention with Mr Goddard. I do not love him, though I find him very pleasing to the eye. Neither does he love me, or indeed share overmuch affection. We work on an entirely convenient friendship, where physical needs are met occasionally, and nothing more. Though, it must be said, due to my melancholy, my physical intercourses with him have been less than frequent of late.
Still, today there was a pleasant diversion. The household has been thrown into a flurry with the arrival of my husband’s cousin, Mr Jonathan Reeves. I have been looking forward to seeing him. I cannot say why I was so eager to see him, for I know our romance has long since passed, and he is not the sort to sully the trust and affection of his cousin. Still, a warm, smiling face is very welcome in this house, for here they are few and far between.
When Jonathan arrived, a little after luncheon, he was dusty from the road. His dark brown hair, so similar to that of the Vicar, was flattened by his hat, and sweat curled it at his temples. I smiled instantly, recalling all the affections of our youth. He has grown into a fine man, indeed. Broad and strong, with the easy smile I once adored.
‘Mrs Reeves,’ he grinned at me, and bowed.
‘Mr Jonathan Reeves,’ I inclined my head and bobbed. ‘What a pleasure to see you once more.’
‘I note the country life suits you; you look well,’ he said.
I felt a flush. I do not look well, indeed no, though it was very kind of him to say so.
I heard the heavy footsteps of the Vicar approach behind me.
‘Thank you,’ I said stiffly, and swept back into the corridor to allow the gentlemen to greet appropriately.
‘Jonathan,’ the Vicar greeted his cousin. ‘Come in. I fear I have just finished luncheon, but Mrs Cartwright will prepare a repast for you if you would care to refresh yourself.’
I kept my head demurely inclined, as he continued. ‘My wife has spent an inordinate time organising the guest room for you.’ The Vicar’s voice held no warmth.
‘Well, I thank you for opening your home to me, Mrs Reeves, Reverend.’ Pleasure was warm in Jonathan’s voice.
‘Frederick,’ the Vicar replied, ‘we are cousins, there is no requirement for formality in my home.’
‘Indeed, Vicar,’ I commented rather rudely.
My husband turned and locked me with a gaze I could not quite determine.
Jonathan coughed, ‘Quite.’
There was an interminable, awkward pause. ‘Vicar, do you care to escort your cousin to his room? Or shall I?’ I asked pointedly.
His eyes darkened. He dislikes it intensely when I call him Vicar, I know, for he requested that I cease it. Frankly, I take delight in calling him it, and am determined not to cease.
‘Certainly, you may, Mrs Reeves,’ he replied, inclining his head. ‘I shall ask Minny to heat some water so that he may prepare himself for luncheon.’
‘Very good. Mr Reeves, if you would be so kind to follow me,’ I ushered him up the stairs.
Jonathan followed me silently. I could feel my skin prickle as if he were observing the back of my neck as he did so.
‘Do you fare well in London, Mr Reeves?’ I asked, as I opened the door to his rooms.
‘Well indeed.’ he agreed and stepped forth. His rooms were decorated in blue and mauve, the bed freshly dressed and the sills dusted. Afternoon sunshine shone through lace of the curtains, casting pretty shadows upon the coverlet. ‘As you know, I am a junior solicitor and have only come to Stanton so as to assist His Lordship in matters of tenancy. My father usually deals with his Lordship’s matters, but alas, is not so well, you understand.’
‘I had not heard. I am sorry.’ I replied, and hesitated at the door.
Jonathan smiled, and it was soft and kind. A lump seemed to be swelling obtusely within my throat. For just a moment, he looked so like the Vicar, but not the Vicar as I know him; the Vicar as I once had imagined he may be. Gentle, kind, and loving. How I wish he would love me, as I once cared for this man.
‘This isn’t terribly awkward for you, is it Maria?’ Jonathan spoke suddenly, ‘Having me here in your home?’ he asked, his voice very soft and low now.
I was startled to hear my name. It seemed such a time since I had last heard it spoken in this house. ‘No, Mr Reeves, is it for you?’ I asked.
Jonathan paused, his head inclined as he observed me. ‘Peculiarly, no. It has been many years since we were so connected.’ The smile seemed to fade from his lips.
‘Yes.’ I agreed. ‘I am a happily married woman now,’ I said, but found myself unable to withhold the disappointment in my tone.
The expression in Jonathan’s face belied his doubt. ‘Why do you refer to my cousin as Vicar, rather than husband?’ he asked, his expression softening.
‘How observant of you to notice,’ I managed.
Jonathan raised an eyebrow. ‘I am a solicitor; observation is one of my keenest skills.’
I looked away a moment. Another sharp pain of longing surged through my breast. I missed simple warmth and kindness.
‘Still, you have not answered. Why do you call him Vicar?’
I could not admit such things to Jonathan, a former beau, so instead I forced a playful smile. ‘It amuses me,’ I replied.
‘It amuses you?’
‘Indeed,’ I replied, having had quite enough of the conversation. ‘I shall leave you now, Mr Reeves. Mrs Cartwright will prepare you a late luncheon, and Minny will bring you hot water to refresh yourself with. You must be tired from the journey.’
‘No, I’m quite enthused actually.’ He paused. ‘Before you go, Maria, please… I must know, have you met the new governess at Stanton House?’ he asked.
The question took me by surprise. ‘The new governess?’ I tried to recall the insipid, pale and bookish thing I’d seen at church on Sunday. ‘Why, yes. Though I’ve not had a formal introduction.’
‘Oh.’ Jonathan’s face fell. ‘She fares well then?’
‘I must assume so, for I’ve heard nothing to contrary. Why, Jonathan, all these questions?’
If it were possible, my heart sank a little lower. Jonathan was in love. I knew it then, as I’d known it when he’d once loved me. Yet now, he loved a plain, poor governess under the dubious care of our patron Lord William Stanton, no less.
My anger stirred anew. How many sins must I endure? Lust, and now jealousy? Surely I shall burn in the pits of Hell one day.
I shook my head. ‘I’m sure I know nothing about the goings on at Stanton, but, should I hear something. I’ll report to you directly.’
‘Thank you,’ he smiled again.
I turned to go, and as I did, I heard my husband’s footfall on the landing.
‘Mrs Reeves?’ he asked on my approach.
‘Yes, Vicar?’
He narrowed his eyes again, and perversely I wanted to laugh.
‘I have marked several passages for you to read this evening.’
My desire to laugh fell swiftly into the desire to weep. ‘Indeed?’ was all I could respond.
‘Quite. I am aware you’ve not been continuing your studies in matters of faith recently, and I hope to rectify it.’
‘Of course,’ I inclined my head, and made to move. I could sense Jonathan behind us, watching, curious. ‘Whatever readings you dictate Vicar, I shall endeavour to read, and indeed, welcome into my mind and heart.’
I could have laughed bitterly at the vacuous drivel my husband likes to hear from me. Though I could see he was irked at the title Vicar, my duplicitous and false words must have been amenable, for he released a tight smile.
‘Very good,’ he said, and withdrew.
I did not need to turn to see Jonathan’s expression, for I could sense it in the air.
Tonight, as I write this account, I see the Bible with its passages succinctly marked with crisp white slips of paper.
I shall not read them.
Thursday, 17th June 1813
The Journal of a Vicar's Wife Page 6
