‘How nice that we speak of helping people.’ She paused, looking at Calcourt and Mary with the faint air of a governess addressing unruly charges. ‘John and I wish to do much the same on our honeymoon.’
‘A fine sentiment.’ Calcourt smiled; Mary looked away, not wishing to be charmed. ‘Although I couldn’t imagine you two ever deciding to be frivolous.’
‘Some couples go to Dorset, or Italy, or—or who knows where. We intend to go to Truro, to see John’s sister, but first we have good works to perform. Our time on Earth is limited, and shouldn’t be wasted.’ Rebecca looked happily at her husband, who smiled with pride. ‘We shall first visit Sattersall Orphanage. Half a day’s journey, yes, but the children have urgent need of woollens—and thanks to the work of the Vice Prevention ladies, they have enough scarves and gloves to last a dozen winters. It will be a privilege to deliver them to the children, and their guardians have offered to show us the chapel. It is meant to be an absolute jewel.’
‘How lovely.’ Mary nodded politely, trying not to look at Calcourt, wondering why on earth this was relevant. ‘I have heard of the chapel at Sattersall.’
‘Have you visited?’
‘No. I haven’t.’
‘Wonderful. I thought so.’ Rebecca nodded triumphantly. ‘Then you shall visit it with us.’
Rebecca blinked. ‘Excuse me?’
‘You shall come with us tomorrow morning.’ Rebecca smiled, looking like the cat that got not only the cream but a ball of wool to tangle. ‘You shall stay with us at Sattersall. I won’t take no for an answer.’
‘But—but it is impossible, my dear.’ Mary tried not to stutter, suddenly very aware of Calcourt’s eyes on her. Even without looking at him, she knew she was looking at her. ‘I have so very much to do here.’
‘Not with Vice Prevention, and not with the other three societies you share. I took the liberty of making sure there was little for you to do in the city.’ Rebecca glowed; Mary frowned. ‘Can you not enjoy a little time in Sattersall’s fresh air? I so wish to see you there.’
Mary turned to Peterson, hoping to find an ally. Alas, he seemed as pleased with the plan as Rebecca. ‘Are you this supportive of your wife’s sociability, Mr. Peterson?’
‘Oh yes. Most definitely. If anything, I’d consider your refusal a most grievous offence.’ Peterson turned to Calcourt, an odd glint in his eye. ‘Weren’t you making a study of different chapels, Reverend? Am I remembering correctly?’
‘Yes. Some time ago.’ To Calcourt’s credit, he sounded as flustered as Mary knew she had. She couldn’t resist a sly glance out of the corner of her eye at the vicar, sitting awkwardly at the delicate table. The man had never successfully mastered the art of sitting comfortably in a drawing room—he was far too outsized.
‘Then you should come with us as well.’
Calcourt paused, evidently choosing his words carefully. ‘I’m not sure if I—’
‘One night, and a fine chapel. And you were so very helpful, when I was at my very lowest.’ Peterson paused. ‘Can you really refuse me, knowing how much I’m in your debt?’
Something was amiss. Mary had never seen Rebecca quite so eager to be in her company, and she had never seen Peterson display any sort of emotion apart from simple joy at being with his bride. She sat stiffly in her chair, trying to put the pieces together, cup held halfway to her mouth…
… and then it hit her.
That strange, urgent conversation she had shared with Rebecca a little while ago. When Rebecca had seemed so very out of sorts, and Mary had decided to share enough of herself to help the young woman to keep to the correct path. When she had made passing mention of the man who had ruined her—but she had never said his name, still less her own!
How had her friend managed to put the pieces together? Mary took a slow, careful sip of her tea, trying to work out how to best refuse as Calcourt’s voice disturbed the silence.
‘I can’t refuse. It’s a wonderful offer.’ He put his teacup on his saucer with a clatter that rang through the room. ‘You can count on my presence, and assistance.’
How on earth could he agree? The nerve of the man—the absolute nerve of him! Mary took another sip of tea, more quickly this time, her fingers trembling as she set the cup down once more.
It was entirely possible that he hadn’t agreed because of her. His rapport with Peterson was beyond her sphere of knowledge—he really could be rendering a service to a cherished friend. Or, he was merely using Sattersall as an attempt to speak to her again.
Or both. Both, on reflection, was the most frightening of choices. Not least because it sent a warm, shivering thrill through her extremities, settling at her core.
‘You wouldn’t refuse me, would you dear?’ Rebecca looked pleadingly at Mary, cup trembling in hand. ‘I have been waiting for so long to find a charitable cause that requires your aid.’
‘How does it require my aid? I am hardly the only woman in London who can deliver woollens to children.’
‘Your reputation is far more exalted than my own. Your name is spoken from one end of England to the other.’ Rebecca paused, her face expectant. ‘They would accept the gift with far more grace, I know, if you were there.’
As excuses went, it sounded frankly unrealistic. Mary looked at the faces that surrounded her, feeling like a rabbit in a snare.
She would get to the bottom of this, somehow. She didn’t know how, but she would. Still, if she kept staring at them all in silence, they would begin to fear for her sanity.
‘Well, dear. When you put it like that, I don’t know how I can refuse.’ She picked up her teacup, hoping her grip wouldn’t crack the china. ‘It seems all but impossible.’
‘Does that mean you’ll come!’ Rebecca put down her teacup, clapping her hands with an irrepressible smile. ‘Oh, Mary! I’m so happy.’
‘I’m glad you’re happy, dear.’ Mary took a slow, hot sip of tea, hoping the burning in her throat would take away a little of the bile rising in her chest. ‘Truly. I am.’
Despite Rebecca’s clear joy, the end of the tea couldn’t come soon enough for Mary. Tying her bonnet-ribbons with grateful swiftness, refusing her friend’s offer of a walk through the fields with the bare minimum of politeness, she began tramping along the track that led to her carriage with near-unseemly speed. When Calcourt caught up to her, his pace in league with hers, the irritation was too great to ignore.
‘Do you have some hand in this?’ She looked at Calcourt, too tense to feign indifference. ‘Is this something to do with you?’
‘I assure you, it isn’t.’ Calcourt’s expression seemed perfectly open in its surprise—but then, he had lied to her before. ‘I played no part in this unusual arrangement.’
‘I don’t believe you. I can’t.’
‘Then you’re wasting your time.’ The edge of anger in Calcourt’s tone made her start. ‘As I said—I know nothing of Sattersall, or orphans that need woollens.’
‘But it seems so transparently manufactured!’ Mary paused, a darker suspicion blooming in her. ‘I—oh, Lord, it’s them. Rebecca and John.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They’ve done something. They know something. They’re—they’re playing…’
‘... Playing Cupid?’
Mary hadn’t wanted to say the word. Hearing it on Calcourt’s lips sent an unwelcome, pleasurable shiver through her. ‘I don’t know what they’re doing, but—but they’re doing something.’
‘Then we refuse. If you’re so sure that it’s all a fantasy to bring us together.’
‘But what if it isn’t? What if the children really do need woollens?’
‘Well.’ Calcourt paused. ‘I suppose that’s the dilemma we face.’
Mary stopped. Making sure she was out of sight of the cottage, she turned to Calcourt with a scowl.
‘You’re enjoying this. That’s how I know you have a hand in this ridiculous arrangement.’
‘Or, Miss Atterson, you are so
consumed with anger that you have begun believing the honeymoon of your dear friend has somehow become a plot to pair you with a man you’ve come to hate.’ Calcourt raised an eyebrow. ‘I have nothing to do with this. I’m as surprised by the whole mess as you are. You’re not required to believe me, given my past actions, but I would be remiss if I didn’t strongly argue my case.’
‘You are—you are silly.’
‘Constantly.’
‘I still think it’s some sort of plot.’
‘Then go back into that cottage and tell your friend the orphans won’t have their woollens.’
Mary paused. She sighed, not looking at Calcourt, as she imagined a legion of orphans with cold hands and feet.
It felt like a trap. But a trap to what end? What could possibly occur, even if she agreed? A trip to Sattersall, an appreciative viewing of a chapel…
… more time spent with Calcourt. With James. Something that she shouldn’t want—not at all.
‘If I refuse, the possible consequences are miserable indeed.’ She began to walk again, Calcourt hurrying to keep up with her. ‘I wouldn’t be able to live comfortably with myself, knowing that I had refused a charitable duty over a—a—’
‘An affair of the heart.’
‘A miserable memory.’ Mary took a deep breath, trying to ground herself in the gentle floral scent that hung over the cottage and its environs. ‘Nothing more.’
Calcourt was silent. Mary found herself wishing he would respond as they walked together down the earthen track to the carriage, dew and daisies trampled under their shoes.
If they were husband and wife, they would walk like this. After church, or on their way to a family dinner. Mary shook away the fantasy, dismissing it as the worst sort of self-indulgence.
It hurt, shaking it away. And Calcourt’s expresssion as he got into his own carriage, more vulnerable than she had ever seen him, hurt all the more.
Sleep was impossible. She tossed and turned in bed, too hot and too cold by degrees, turning over the day’s conversations in her mind’s eye. Despite having done many other things that weren’t taking tea with Rebecca Peterson—visiting a slum, preparing poultices and campaigning against a particularly brutal rookery in Covent Garden, to mention a few—she couldn’t get the tea out of her mind.
It was some sort of plot. A conspiracy. But Calcourt’s expression had been so very sincere… oh, what was she meant to do?
Avoid him, of course. There would be ways to avoid him, even if their mutual presence in the chapel itself was all but unavoidable. She could feign a headache through meals, insist on writing letters alone during the afternoon, and have tea with Rebecca alone in the early evening. That, and travelling with Rebecca in the gig to and from Sattersall, meant time spent with Calcourt could rest at a comfortable minimum.
Yes. All would be well, even if circumstances had been orchestrated to result in otherwise. All she had to do was keep vigilant, remain frostily remote when Calcourt was concerned, and have a severe talk with Rebecca as soon as she and her friend were alone.
If she relaxed even a tiny amount, temptation would be perilously close. Just as it was close now—a heat, a close, seductive heat, filling her body at the mere memory of his face.
His voice. The low, earnest voice that had made her do all manner of things, sinful, craven things.
The voice she so desperately wanted to hear, in the silence of her bedroom. The voice that could give her the release she craved, just as it had so very long ago.
St. Peter’s church was dark and damp in the gathering gloom of a London evening. Despite the many drawbacks of St. Peters, from its leaking roof to the slightly worrisome portrait of St. Lucy with her eyes gouged out, Calcourt preferred it to any other church in England.
Even St. Stephen’s, charming on the outskirts of the city, was a reluctant second favourite. It was perfect for marriages—maybe that was why, at heart, he disliked it. Reverend Biston had done him a great favour, allowing him to perform the marriage ceremony for John Peterson and his wife in a church that wasn’t his own, but he had still felt slightly out of place within its walls.
St. Peter’s was for solitary people. People like him, who were alone through choice, circumstance or sheer stupidity. Calcourt breathed in the musty air with a sigh, turning to his curate as they double-checked baptism registers.
‘Have the Smiths been informed of the day for the christening?’
‘Yes.’ The curate, Willoughby, was barely more than a youth. Calcourt had chosen him from the group of prospective curates with a faint air of compassion, like a farmer taking pity on the runt of the litter. Willoughby’s ears were too big for his head, and his hands hadn’t quite learned how to do anything with grace—better to give him a vocation now, than watch him fall into some sort of calamitous accident. ‘They have.’
‘Excellent. That’s everything from the last week, then.’ Calcourt paused, shuffling his papers. Oh, and—and something has occurred, Willoughby. I’ll be away from London for a day. You’ll be left in charge.’
‘What?’ Willoughby’s face drained of colour. ‘What has occurred?’
Nothing to panic about. A favour to a friend.’ Calcourt winced as the baptismal ledger went thudding to the floor.
‘I’m sorry, Reverend Calcourt!’
‘No harm done, but pick it up. And don’t reach for it so wildly next time.’
‘Yes sir. I apologise, but…’ Willoughby looked at Calcourt, clearly confused. ‘Am I to understand that I will be conducting services tomorrow?’
‘You have always been permitted to conduct services.’
‘Yes, but—but you never let me do it.’ Willoughby blinked. ‘Is this some sort of punishment?’
‘Why would performing services be a punishment?’
‘I don’t know.’ Willoughby shifted awkwardly, his vestments slightly too big for him. ‘You… you simply seem quite stern.’
Another surprising echo of a past he wanted to forget. He had always been told that he looked angry when he was panicking. Calcourt, attempting a smile, only managed an uneasy grimace.
‘No punishment. Simply an unexpected commission that I must perform.’
‘I thought I was responsible for the unexpected commissions. You normally perform the typical ones.’
‘Why are you so thoroughly interested in the reason for my brief absence?’
‘I’m not.’ Willoughby scuffed his toe on the flagstones of the church. ‘I’m… I’m frightened.’
Calcourt put down his papers with a sigh. He beckoned Willoughby to his side, trying to look understanding instead of simply exhausted. The young man was right to be nervous; Calcourt hadn’t allowed him to hold the reins, even though the youth was more than capable.
‘Look.’ He stared into the young man’s pallid face, attempting to be magisterial. ‘You can perform a service with your eyes closed and your hands tied behind your back. I know you can, because you’ve watched me perform a thousand marriages and christenings.’
‘I might forget the words, and accidentally marry someone to a witness. Or drop a baby.’
‘Those things might happen. They do seem desperately unlikely, though—best not to waste time on them.’
‘I know.’ Willoughby looked at him mournfully. ‘You’re far too wise to waste time thinking about things that’ll never happen. I’m nowhere near as sage.’
Calcourt repressed a bitter smile. If Willoughby ever found out exactly how much time he spent dreaming about Mary Atterson, the lad would probably have him defrocked. ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.’
‘But it’s true. You’re much better at being a vicar than I could ever hope to be.’ Willoughby sniffed, his ears reddening. ‘You just—just seem a bit more holy than everyone else.’
This was a conversation that Calcourt hadn’t been expecting. Frequently consumed with his own distinct lack of holiness, it felt strange beyond belief to hear the exact opposite. ‘That’s untrue.’
‘I know. Willoughby sighed. ‘And it’s probably something I’m not allowed to say.’
‘I wouldn’t worry about that. The Lord knows ignorance when he hears it.’ Calcourt smiled until the young man smiled too. ‘I’m human. Very human indeed.’
‘I doubt that, sir.’ Willoughby gave a melancholy sigh, turning back to his papers. ‘You never seem to do anything wrong at all.’
He couldn’t possibly tell the curate any more than he already had. Calcourt patted his shoulder, turning back to his own documents in silence.
He had led a largely blameless life ever since entering the Church. In terms of good works versus evil ones, the good he had done as vicar far outweighed the bad. All the major sins he had committed had been in the first flush of adulthood, and the vast majority of them had been forgiven by both family and friends with the indulgence normally afforded to youths with more energy than good sense.
He had never told anyone about his inconstancy with Mary. It wouldn’t have made sense to confess it to his friends; promising a girl marriage only to take up with a different maiden the following day was decidedly commonplace, if conducted in great secrecy to avoid accusations of breach of promise.
Looking back at the many mistakes he made in more tender years, Calcourt knew without a doubt that treating Mary badly was the very greatest of his errors. The worst thing he had ever done, both as a lover and a human being.
Her face, when he had told her with casual arrogance that a man of his age couldn’t be expected to pledge himself to just one woman, still haunted him on particularly troubled nights. Nights like those, when he tossed and turned in bed unable to sleep, almost destroyed every memory of good works he had performed.
‘Sir?’ Willoughby looked up. ‘Would you like some tea?’
‘No. No thank you.’ Calcourt tried to smile, but it faded. ‘We must work, and sleep. Nothing more.’
The morning felt unreasonably bright, her head aching from the night’s emotional excesses. Mary dressed herself with an air of sour defeat, refusing the attentions of her maid as politely as she could, trying to arrange her gown and shawl in a way that combined both extreme elegance and unarguable modesty.
Dukes of the Demi-Monde Page 30
