“You told me yourself he’s already doing most of the work. Surely he deserves greater remuneration, and, as you know, he’ll soon be marrying Miss Thursby. He needs the additional income.”
The other man nodded slowly. “Ahreet, then, if that’s what ye want of me, then I’ll do it, but ye must know it means I canna put away as much for my family for after I’m gone.”
“Ah, but that’s the beauty of it, Mr. Nicholson,” Walter said, smiling. “In exchange for his rise in pay now, you must have Mr. Forster agree to pay you and your wife a small pension, perhaps two pounds per month, for the rest of your lives once he takes over the business from you.”
Mr. Nicholson’s pale blue eyes rounded with comprehension…and appreciation. “That’s bloody…er, right brilliant! I should have thought of it myself.” He leapt to his feet, plainly invigorated. All but bounding across the floor that separated their chairs, Nicholson took Walter’s hand and pumped it vigorously. “Thank ye, Mr. Langston. I think, perhaps, ye’ve made me believe in a kind God again, for He surely was kind to send ye to us.”
After the carpenter had left, Walter fetched his own tea, Mrs. Graham having gone to the greengrocer to purchase fresh vegetables—which she would no doubt overcook to the point of tastelessness—for the evening meal. As he poured himself a cup, he pondered the good Lord’s increasingly peculiar sense of humor—or of timing, depending upon one’s point of view.
Two months ago, Walter would have abandoned his post as Grange-Over-Sands’ vicar for almost any attractive alternative. Had he met Artemisia Finch back then, he would not have given a fig for his reputation or his living. Only a few short weeks ago, he would have been able to toss it all for her. But now, he was no longer free to walk away from St. Mary’s or his parishioners.
He’d come to care for them and more, he had made promises. If he left St. Mary’s, Mr. Nicholson would not have the peace of mind Walter had been able to give him. There was most certainly no guarantee that the next vicar, presented with an Alice Thursby and a Thomas Forster, would do anything other than warn her parents of the impending elopement so they could thwart it. Finally and, he admitted to himself, most selfishly, if he left St. Mary’s, he would be giving up the one thing he’d never aspired to but now realized he’d been missing all along—a purpose. Here, for once in his life, he was not simply the cut-up, the trickster, or the roué. Here, he was genuinely useful. And, much to his surprise, he did not want to give that up.
But he did not want to give up Artemisia, either. Giving her up, however, was the only rational possibility. They could not keep their affair a secret indefinitely. Sooner or later, they would be found out. Moreover, he did need a wife. Not today, perhaps, or even next year, but eventually. As things stood, however, the only woman he could even consider marrying was the one his parishioners absolutely would not accept.
Or would they?
Walter had managed to engineer a marriage between a carpenter’s apprentice and the daughter of gentleman. If he could achieve the improbable, why not aim for the impossible?
13
Artemisia was in the garden with her father, attempting to choose the best roses to show in the fair, when Hodgson appeared, pink-cheeked and slightly out of breath from exertion.
“Miss Finch, a gentleman is here to see you,” he said between breaths.
She frowned. It was Monday. They would be meeting at the cottage tomorrow. What could possibly be so urgent that Walter would come here to see her today?
Her heart lurched as an unwelcome thought popped into her head. Perhaps he had come to tell her he’d decided to end it. She wouldn’t blame if he had. What did she have to offer him, after all, aside from a few stolen moments of pleasure? Moments gained only at the risk of losing his position if they were caught.
And the chances that they would be caught were not negligible. Someone in town might question his regular absences from ten o’clock in the morning until tea time every Tuesday and decide to investigate. Ferreting out the truth would take very little effort on the part of anyone who cared to exercise his curiosity. Perhaps more likely was the possibility that someone from town might be on the road near the cottage at the time Walter turned into the driveway. Most of the inhabitants of Grange-Over-Sands knew to whom the cottage belonged, and all of them were mathematically inclined enough to put two and two together to make four. Or one and one to make two.
Beyond the threat of discovery, however, lay an even more significant obstacle. Walter required a wife. The congregation expected him to marry…and soon. Moreover, they expected him to select a bride with an impeccable background and spotless reputation. That put Artemisia right out of the running. Not that she had any aspirations to the position, of course. Even if Walter were not the vicar of St. Mary’s Church and even if she were not Grange-Over-Sands’ version of Jezebel, she could not hope for marriage. Not when she knew with certainty that she was as barren as the brackish waters that collected in the marshes around the bay.
From the moment she’d embarked upon this affair, she’d known its end was a foregone conclusion. She wouldn’t be a party to any man’s infidelity, so once Walter chose a wife—and that was bound to happen—she would have to break things off. She’d ended her association with Stratton on the day he’d told he was to be married despite his attempts to convince her that the union was one of convenience and it was her he loved, not his betrothed. His love or lack thereof for his future wife was not her concern. His feelings for her—and, for that matter, hers for him—were not a consideration, either. All that mattered was that if she continued their liaison, she would be assisting him in breaching his vows, and she could not be party to that.
She leaned close to one of the bright red blossoms adorning the nearest rose bush and breathed in its sweet scent as a tonic for the bitterness that filled her chest. All good things must come to an end. She had just not expected this particular end to come so quickly.
Her father, sensing her distress, asked, “Would you like me to join you?”
“No, Papa.” She gave him a reassuring smile. “I can manage.” Rising from the edge of the planter against which she’d been leaning, she added, “I should be back directly. Keep looking while I’m gone.”
All the way into the house and to the parlor, she braced herself for the inevitable. She would be gracious and genteel. She would evince no emotional response save polite appreciation for the brief pleasure of his company. Most of all, she would not cry.
And why should she even consider the possibility that she might be moved to tears? She had not cried when Stratton had told her he was engaged, and she had come to love him—after a fashion, at any rate—in their nearly four years together. By contrast, she had known Walter for a mere four weeks—and in those four weeks, they had done little other than engage in alternating bouts of lovemaking and small talk. There was really no reason at all for sentimentality. She could hardly claim to be more than mildly fond of him; to experience any emotion as grandiose as love in so short a time was patently absurd.
But logic, it seemed, had no power to soothe the raw, swollen sensation in her throat or the sting behind her eyes. The tears were there, whether they made sense or not. She only hoped she could staunch them long enough to say her good-byes without making a ninny of herself.
Stiffening her spine, she rounded the corner to enter the parlor and— “Robert?”
The irony of the moment could not have been more profound. If there was any man she never wanted to encounter in her parlor—or anywhere else, for that matter—it was Robert Beaumont. Especially not after she had expressly warned him he was not welcome in her home. And yet, she was relieved. So relieved she wanted to laugh out loud and dance around the room like a child presented with a new toy.
Beaumont, who stood in front of the fireplace stirring the embers with the poker, turned to face her. “At last. I thought perhaps your footman had disobeyed my instructions.”
“Your instructions?” she repea
ted, still too pleased by this turn of events to reproach him for his audacity in calling upon her.
“He wanted to give you my calling card. I told him not to.”
Because he had known she would have Hodgson dismiss him if she had realized he was her gentleman caller.
“Although,” he went on, setting the poker beside the fireplace and taking several steps in her direction, “the fact that you were willing to come here when you did not know who was calling makes me suspect you were not entirely honest with me the other day.”
Artemisia set her hands on her hips. “And what, precisely, do you mean by that?”
“You said you had no need of anyone to keep you, but I think a woman who comes to meet a man in her parlor without being told his name is expecting someone. Now, I must confess that I am quite curious as to who that might be.”
Damn him, he had her on that score. But she would most certainly not admit it. “I am simply not in the habit of dismissing people of any gender from my home without determining their identities.”
He smiled, but the emotion that should accompany the expression did not reach his eyes. Not the way Walter’s always did. At fifteen, Artemisia had noticed only Robert’s smile and the devastatingly handsome features it had occupied. Now she wondered if his smiles had ever reached his eyes. If any emotion he ever attempted to display was genuine.
“And I am sure your legions of callers appreciate your consideration,” he said, his tone sly.
She took a calming breath to avoid an unsuitably caustic response. “My legions of callers should not include you at all, since I told you the other day you are not welcome here at Finch House. You may find your own way out, or I can have Hodgson assist you in your departure. Which would you prefer?”
“I have to leave town tomorrow for a few weeks, so I’m not leaving here without saying my piece. I want you, Artemisia, and I intend to have you. You’d be a fool to turn down what I can offer you. Whatever your current lover is paying you, I’ll quadruple it. There can’t be anyone in town whose paying you a fraction of what I can afford.”
Before she could suppress it, a giggle leaked from her throat. She couldn’t help wondering what he would think if he knew the truth—that she was lying with Grange-Over-Sands’ vicar for nothing but pleasure. Apparently, the possibility that something other than money drove her choices hadn’t occurred to Robert Beaumont.
“You could pay me one hundred times more than any lover I’ve ever had, and I still wouldn’t be interested in your offer. And if you think that all it would take to induce me to overlook the past is money, you are a greater fool than I will ever be. Now, if that is all you have to say to me, I will have Hodgson see you out.” She turned on her heels. Over her shoulder, she added, “And please, don’t come back. Next time, I won’t be so considerate.”
His voice followed her down the hall. “Mark my words. When I get back, I’ll find out who he is. And then, I’ll destroy him.”
That was when she knew this visit was the harbinger she’d initially believed. It was just that Walter was not going to be the one to end it. For his sake, she would have to do it.
It had been three weeks since Robert Beaumont’s visit to Finch House, and Artemisia had not been able to bring herself to break it off with Walter. She promised herself that each Tuesday would be their last, yet each Tuesday, she had agreed to meet him again next week. But today, she could not allow herself to weaken. Not only because Robert could return at any time from Manchester and make good upon his threat, but because today, “the thought” had crossed her mind.
I love you.
Whether or not the stray thought represented the true depth of her feelings, she could not ignore the impending disaster it foreshadowed. Despite all her precautions, despite her deliberate efforts to keep her emotions from becoming involved, she had allowed it to happen. And now that she had, she could no longer trust herself not to want more than she could have.
They lay together in bed, her head resting in the curve of his shoulder, his finger drawing lazy patterns over her arm, his breath ruffling her hair. The sun was still high, traversing its unhurried way across the summer sky, but it would soon be teatime. Before long, they would make love again. Then he would dress and return to the vicarage. For the last time.
Emotion crowded her throat.
“I am marrying Alice Thursby and Thomas Forster this Saturday morning,” he said at length, unaware of her inner turmoil.
She lifted her head to look down at him. “Isn’t Forster the carpenter’s apprentice?”
Smiling, Walter nodded.
“And he is marrying Alice Thursby?”
Walter nodded again.
“How on earth did that come about? She must be with child. Even then, I cannot believe the Thursbys would permit it.”
“As it happens, Miss Thursday is not with child. I simply persuaded her parents that she—and they—would be better off if they gave the union their blessing than if the two of them ran off to Gretna Green. Which they were more than prepared to do.”
Artemisia shook her head. “I cannot credit it.” The Thursbys were quite high in the instep for mere landed gentry.
“Are you questioning my honesty? I shall never recover from the sting of your skepticism.” He pressed his free hand over his heart in mock reproach.
“You had something to do with it? But…why?”
Now Walter did look offended. “Because both of them are my parishioners, and I care about their happiness. Is that so difficult to believe?”
“Well, no, but…” She shook her head again. “Our last vicar wasn’t terribly interested in earthly affairs.” He certainly hadn’t lifted a finger to assist her father in convincing the Earl of Sandhurst that his son should do the right thing and marry Artemisia.
“While earthly affairs are the only ones I’m interested in,” Walter said, rolling her abruptly onto her back and settling himself between her legs. He looked down at her, his eyes dark with renewed passion and…something else. “The town assembly is next Thursday night. I want you to attend.”
She stared up at him. “Are you mad? They’ll never let me through the front door.”
“They will if I make it clear I invited you.”
Her eyes were in danger of popping out of her head. “You cannot be in earnest. Unless you are determined to destroy your reputation and lose your position.”
“Oh ye of little faith.”
“It is not a matter of faith,” she said with a sigh of exasperation. “It is a matter of common sense.”
“And the trouble with common sense is that is so terribly uncommon.”
“Now you are making light.”
“Not at all. Listen to me, Artemisia. You live here. More than that, you were born here. That means you are every bit as entitled to attend this assembly as anyone else. That is common sense. The longer you hide yourself away, the more reason you give people to believe you’ve something to be ashamed of, that they are right about you. But if you behave like everyone else, eventually they will come to accept that you are like everyone else. That is also common sense.”
He spoke with such calm conviction, she could almost believe he was right. That all it would take to repair the past would be to behave as if it had never happened. But she knew better. Even if she could be forgiven the sin of surrendering her virginity without the benefit of marriage, even if she could convince people that her mistake had been confined to sleeping with Robert Beaumont and not with all the young men who’d stepped forward to claim they’d had intimate knowledge of her, she had taken the unconscionable step of becoming a whore. A high-class, expensive whore, but a whore nonetheless. In doing so, she had proven their judgment accurate. And there was not a prayer powerful enough to sway the good people of Grange-Over-Sands to overlook that transgression.
“That is wishful thinking.” She reached up and traced his jaw with one finger, shivering at the light scrape of his afternoon stubble against her skin. He
r pulse quickened as she felt his cock harden against her inner thigh. The speed and ferocity of her desire for this man never ceased to surprise her. But then, he never ceased to surprise her, and perhaps that was part of his appeal. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but it won’t work. I’m perfectly content with my life as it is.”
Walter captured her finger and pressed it to his lips. “You may be content, but I am not. I am not content to allow you to go behaving as though you are a taint upon society or a destroyer of other people’s reputations. You aren’t. Nothing terrible came of our being seen together the other afternoon. Nothing terrible will come of your attending the assembly at my invitation. And although I can’t promise that everyone will be friendly or that your dance card will be full, I can promise you that no one will treat you with disrespect or discourtesy.”
“And how can you promise me that? How can you be so certain?”
“Because, my love, I know these people. I know their hopes and dreams and secret foibles. I know that none of them are less fallible than you. And they know that I know.”
“So, you will extort them into accepting me into their midst?”
He laced his fingers through hers and pushed her arm down to the mattress above her head. “That implies I would use my knowledge against them if they didn’t do what I ask, and I’m quite sure they know I wouldn’t do that. I am simply asking them to extend to you what I have extended to them—understanding and forgiveness.”
She shook her head in disbelief. “You really are mad, you know.”
Pinning her other arm above her head, he shifted his hips until his cock, thick and hard, rested at her entry. “Perhaps. And if I am, you would certainly do well not to gainsay me.”
Like a rose bud opening to the sun, she tilted her hips in invitation.
Walter kissed the tip of her nose. “Not until you say you’ll come.”
“You know I always do,” she said, deliberately mistaking his meaning.
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