Chapter Ten
I t was merely a coincidence that Andrew’s Sunday afternoon constitutional took him past Shore Cottage.
Or so he told himself as he approached the front door and knocked.
The cottage looked much as it did last week, paint still peeling off the door and window frames. But signs of occupancy gave it a welcoming air. The garden had been tended to, and Andrew caught sight of a rainbow of colors in the border running along the side of the building, the blooms no longer having to compete with the nettles that had previously overrun the garden. The windowpanes had been washed and he caught sight of his reflection in the glass, through which he could discern the interior of the building.
His heart fluttered as he spotted a shape moving about inside.
She might resent the intrusion. But it was not unusual for a vicar to visit his parishioners regularly, even those who’d not attended church that morning.
Especially those who’d not attended that morning.
Before the service began, Andrew had waited, like a good citizen, for the congregation to gather. But while the rest of the company waited for the principal family of Sandcombe to take their places at the front of the church, Andrew had been waiting for another congregant.
But he’d waited in vain. The pew at the back remained empty.
Little Frannie Gadd had attended, taking her place with her family, but before Andrew could think of a reason to speak to her, she’d bidden her parents farewell, hugged her brother, then skipped off toward Shore Cottage.
Yes—Andrew had every reason to visit Shore Cottage today. To visit Frannie Gadd, and to inquire after Mrs. Ward’s health.
Etty.
During their last encounter, she’d said her name was Etty. She had entrusted him with her name. Might that give him cause to hope…
The door opened and Frannie stood in the threshold.
“Oh! Vicar,” she said. “Are you come to visit Mrs. Ward?”
“Is she receiving visitors?” he asked.
“I’m sure she’ll receive you .”
Andrew tempered the flare of hope. “Perhaps you should ask her first. I wouldn’t wish to intrude if she’s occupied. Or indisposed,” he added. “She was absent from church this morning.”
Frannie blushed. “Please don’t think badly of her, vicar. Gabriel took ill in the night. He’s better now, but Mrs. Ward didn’t want to disturb him from his bed. I offered to take care of him for her, but she wanted me to go to church so I could see my family. She’s right kind, she is.”
“I’m no such thing, Frances,” a voice said.
Etty appeared behind Frannie, and Andrew’s heart fluttered.
How Robert would tease him over what could only be described as a boyish infatuation! But with Society beauties falling at his feet, Andrew’s brother wouldn’t cast a second glance at the widow hiding in exile in a tiny cottage with a child in tow and none but a farmer’s daughter for company.
She moved out of the shadows, and Andrew caught his breath at the color of her eyes, which seemed to reflect the sea—shades of blue, shimmering and dancing with jewels of light.
“Are you come to admonish me for absenting myself from church this morning, vicar, or is this merely a social call?”
Her voice carried an edge, as if she were preparing to defend herself against the condemnation of her soul.
“Neither,” he said, cursing himself inwardly as he felt his cheeks warming.
For a moment she stared at him unsmiling, then she nodded. “In which case, you may come in,” she said. “Would you like tea?”
“Oh yes, please,” he said, stepping forward, before cursing his eagerness. He could just imagine Robert’s teasing voice.
You’ve got it bad, brother.
Perhaps he did.
“Then, Mr. Staines,” she said, “this is a social call.”
“I hope you’d view my visits as anything but a social call ,” he replied. “Social calls are what one does when visiting the likes of Lady Fulford, where I’m expected to listen to what my hostess has to say and respond only when appropriate. And, in responding, I must say the right thing without saying anything at all.”
The corner of her mouth twitched into a smile. “The right thing?” she asked. “Or the good thing?”
“Oh, very much the right thing.”
Frannie’s gaze moved between Andrew and Etty, confusion in her eyes, and Etty placed a light hand on the girl’s shoulder.
“Frances, sweetheart, could you make some tea and bring it to the parlor?”
The girl bobbed a curtsey then disappeared into the rear of the house, and Andrew followed Mrs. Ward into the parlor.
The room had been transformed since his previous visit. Light filled the room, streaming in from the windows, framed by pale curtains. The layer of dust covering the floor had gone, as had the cobwebs that choked the ceiling.
She gestured to an armchair by the fireplace, then sat on a chair beside a small breakfast table as he took his seat.
“So,” she said, “if this is not a social call, I should expect you to disagree with everything I have to say—that is, assuming that you intend to listen?”
She tilted her head to one side, and he caught a flicker of mischief in her expression.
Sweet Lord Almighty —did she know the extent to which she tortured him? A woman of beauty, who had endured hardship, was danger enough to the heart of a na?ve man with little to no experience of the female sex. But one with wit and a sense of mischief as well…
He might as well prostrate himself before her feet and declare his adoration.
Or he would, if he possessed the courage.
“Forgive me, Mr. Staines…” she began.
“ Andrew , please.”
She blinked, and his heart soared as her cheeks flushed a delicate shade of rose.
“Andrew,” she said, lowering her voice. “Forgive me—I understand how a vicar might lack the understanding to comprehend why one of his flock absents herself from church.”
“You are under no obligation to attend,” he said. “Neither are you obliged to explain yourself. I’m here out of concern for your welfare.”
“I am well, as you see,” she replied. “But my son was feverish and I had no wish to leave him. Frances offered to tend to him, but she’s not seen her family for a week. I couldn’t deny her the chance to spend time with them. And I couldn’t rest easy being separated from Gabriel even for a moment. He’s my whole world, you see.”
“Yes,” Andrew said, nodding. “I do see—and you are to be commended for it.”
He leaned back in his chair, while in the background, merry singing came from the rear of the house.
His hostess smiled. “Frances is a dear child,” she said. “How can one soul exude such happiness even under adversity? Her life cannot have been easy, yet in all the time she’s been here, I’ve never once heard a cross word from her.”
“Perhaps that’s because she’s a child,” Andrew said.
“Not all children have such a disposition,” she replied. “Take myself, for instance. Only now do I see how spoiled and pampered I was, expecting everything and giving nothing. Frances Gadd is the model of what every child should be. The purest of souls.”
“You were raised in a different world, that’s all,” Andrew said. “I take it you come from Society? Your accent is London, yes? Did you perhaps have a London Season?”
Her smile disappeared, and she stiffened. “I…” She looked away, and her hands curled into fists, gathering her skirts, the knuckles whitening.
“Forgive me. Mrs. Ward. I have no right to pry,” he said. “After all, this is not a social call. I’m not one to indulge in gossip.” He leaned forward. “In fact, I’ll wager you’d have enjoyed my sermon this morning, though I say it myself.”
“Oh?” she said, her voice stiff.
“It was on the sins of gossipmongering—on how indulging in rumors about one’s fellow parishioners is to be frowned upon.” He turned as the door opened and Frannie entered the room with a tray of tea things.
“What did you think of my sermon, Frannie?” he asked.
“It was wonderful!” The girl nodded with enthusiasm. “I liked the bit you said about how grownups are worse than children, because they ought to know better, or something like that.”
“Yes,” Andrew said, nodding. “They ought to know better because they understand the speed with which rumors can be spread.”
Mrs. Ward turned to face him. “And,” she said, “they understand the hurt those rumors can cause.”
“Precisely,” Andrew said. “Perhaps you had no need to attend church this morning, Mrs. Ward, if you had nothing to learn.”
“There’s always something to learn, vicar.” She rose to her feet. “Frances, dear, let me help you with that. The teapot looks awfully heavy.”
“It’s no trouble, Mrs. Ward,” the girl said. “I filled it a little too much, that’s all.”
Etty gave Frances an affectionate smile, and Andrew uttered a silent prayer of thanks to the Almighty that He had delivered that sweet child to a home where she would be treated with kindness and not blamed for the sins of others—a sin she was party to, merely through being born.
“If you have concerns about your mortal soul, Mrs. Ward, I can always bring my sermons to you,” he said.
“I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble.”
“It’s no trouble, I assure you,” he replied. “I’d relish the prospect of engaging in a conversion about the principles of life with a member of my parish who has experienced something of life outside the village. Did you know that most of my flock haven’t ventured further than ten miles from the village in which they were born? How is one to gain a wider understanding of the world if one does not experience it?”
Her smile slipped. “I wouldn’t advocate a wider understanding of the world,” she said. “The world is not a kind place—particularly for a woman.”
“I understand that,” he replied. “I—”
She raised her hand. “Forgive me for contradicting you, Mr. Staines, but you understand no such thing. Your sex prevents you from understanding the plight of a woman because you will never have lived the experiences she must endure in a world ruled by men.”
Damn.
He allowed himself a silent curse—for which he’d pray for forgiveness tonight.
Just when she seemed to be warming to him, he had to open his mouth and reveal his ignorance of women.
“Perhaps you consider my life a privileged one because I had a London Season,” she said.
So, she had been a debutante. Might Robert have known her, danced with her at some ball or sat next to her at a dinner party?
Lucky bastard.
Oh dear—another curse requiring the Almighty’s forgiveness.
She let out a sigh, much like a disappointed parent, then met him with the full force of her gaze.
“I see the envy in your eyes… No, do not deny it,” she said as he opened his mouth to protest. “In terms of material comfort, I’ll admit my life has been easy compared to many of the women hereabouts. Wealth is noticeable. It exists on the surface, in silken gowns, bright jewels, and large townhouses—and the Society accents schooled by governesses through years of elocution lessons. To the casual observer, who fails to look beneath the surface, women in Society are masters of our fate. Yet, like all women, we are just as beholden to the men who own us.”
His heart ached at the undercurrent of pain in her voice. Perhaps the late Mr. Ward had been unkind.
She paused, as if contemplating something. Then she shook her head and looked away.
“I expect no sympathy,” she said. “I have not been so unfortunate as to have endured an unhappy marriage.”
Her voice sounded strained, as if she recited each word with care.
Andrew’s cheeks warmed with shame. How could he—a vicar, a man of moral standing—indulge in his desire for a woman recently widowed, with a young child, who still mourned her late husband?
“Perhaps, if you are looking for suggestions for material for your next sermon, Mr. Staines, you should consider the sins of men who believe their rank gives them the right to take advantage of na?ve young women. Men who care nothing for the consequences, such as ruined lives.”
“Or unwanted children.”
Andrew spoke the words before he could stop himself.
She froze, and the warmth in her eyes turned to frost. But before she could respond, an explosion of crockery shattered the air, followed by a shriek.
She leaped to her feet.
“Frances!”
“Oh, ma’am!” the girl cried. “Forgive me—I’m ever so sorry! Please , I didn’t mean it!”
Andrew turned to see Frannie cowering beside the table, shards of crockery at her feet, a dark brown stain spreading across the rug.
“Oh, Frances, what have you done ?” Etty rushed toward the girl, who cringed, and Andrew leaped to his feet, ready to defend Frannie against her mistress’s wrath.
But there was no need.
Etty rushed toward Frannie, arms outstretched.
“You’ve spilled tea over your gown!” she cried. “Have you scalded your legs? Your mother will think I’ve taken such poor care of you if you’ve hurt yourself.”
Frannie sniffed and shook her head. “It missed my legs, Mrs. Ward, ma’am. But your carpet, and the b-beautiful teapot! You told me it was your grandmother’s. Oh, ma’am, how will I ever make it up to you?”
“A teapot can be replaced,” Etty said, “but you can’t.”
“What will you d-do with me?”
Andrew’s heart ached at the fear in the girl’s voice.
“I have the very thing,” Etty replied. “You must help me choose a new teapot at the market. Can you do that for me?”
Frannie continued to sniff, but she nodded. “You’re not angry?”
“Of course not!” Etty said. “Why would I be? I’m only relieved that you didn’t scald yourself. It’s my fault—that teapot always was too heavy when full. I should have realized.”
“N-no, it wasn’t that,” Frannie said. It was…” She glanced at Andrew, her lip wobbling. Then she burst into tears.
“Hush now, sweetheart!” Etty said. “There’s nothing to cry over. Now, what say you to a glass of milk and a slice of cake? You can take it in the garden—or in your room, if you prefer.”
“B-but the mess. It needs clearing. I—”
“ I’ll see to it,” Etty said. “You’ve had a fright. My papa…” She hesitated, closing her eyes for a moment. “My father always said there was nothing better than a slice of cake for a young lady who’s distressed. Of course”—she cast a glance at Andrew and smiled—“he also advocated a glass of brandy, but I daresay your mother would object if I turned her daughter into a toper.” She took Frannie’s hand and patted it. “There!” she said. “All better. Now, let’s get you settled upstairs. Mr. Staines, would you excuse us?”
She exited the parlor, taking Frannie with her, and Andrew heard footsteps on the stairs as their voices receded.
Steam rose from the tea stain on the carpet. Andrew rose to his feet and made his way to the rear of the cottage in search of a rag.
He found one in the kitchen, draped over the washbasin, and took it and glanced about the room. The kitchen was tidier than he recalled from the last time he’d entered it. The wooden dresser had been polished clean and someone had placed a set of crockery on the shelves in neat rows. In the center of the lower shelf was a jar of flowers, wild blooms from a nearby meadow.
Andrew smiled, running his fingertips over the petals. Little Frannie always loved picking flowers, and he smiled at the prospect of her new mistress appreciating them.
And appreciating her —more than Frannie’s mother appreciated the girl.
Not that Mrs. Gadd was to be blamed. She still grieved for the daughter she’d lost. She cared for Frannie, of that Andrew had no doubt. But the girl would always remind the family of the tragedy they’d suffered.
And though she was almost the image of Freda, a part of Frannie would always remind them of another in the slant of her eyes and the shape of her mouth.
Some women, like Etty, most likely took comfort from the echo of their child’s father in their looks and mannerisms. But Mrs. Gadd…
No. Now was not the time to reflect on past tragedy. Frannie deserved better—and when Andrew looked into Etty’s eyes, the tender affection with which they looked upon the girl was enough to convince him that he’d given Frannie the best life she could hope for.
He returned to the parlor, then kneeled on the carpet and placed the cloth over the stain, letting it absorb the tea. At least the carpet bore a bright pattern, rendering the stain less visible. In fact, from a distance, it would hardly be noticeable.
The teapot, however, was another matter. The lid was intact, but the body lay in four pieces.
He picked up a piece—white porcelain depicting two figures in a garden, leaning toward each other over a bed of flowers as if in conversation, surrounded by a border, an intricate design in gold and red, forming swirls and tendrils in the shape of feathers, or the fronds of giant ferns, perhaps. A second, smaller, piece included the base—a thick oval shape, banded with gold, still warm to the touch. He turned it over and inspected the underside, tracing the maker’s mark with his fingertips.
K.P.M. —written in a cursive hand—and beneath, a pair of swords crossed.
He picked up the lid. The pattern—delicate images of flowers in myriad colors—was exquisite. He might be ignorant in regards to antiquities and fine porcelain, but he was not so lacking in understanding as to be unable to recognize quality when he held it in his hands.
“Whomever you may be, K.P.M., you’re a master craftsman.”
“It’s Meissen,” a voice said.
He glanced up to see Etty standing before him. “I’m sorry?” he asked.
“The teapot.” She gestured to the shard in his hand.
“He’s the maker?”
She shook her head. “Meissen is a town in Germany, where the pot was made. My mother has a collection of teapots from the Far East. But I always preferred this one.”
She plucked the larger piece from his hand and smiled at the image.
“I always used to wonder what the figures depicted were talking about,” she said. “Papa said that most likely they were asking each other how much longer they had to pose for the artist.”
“That seems a reasonable assumption to make.”
“Only if you consider the image literally,” she replied. “But I never thought of them as models posing for an artist to earn a coin or two. I saw them as characters in a story. Were they meeting in the garden in secret? Why did the one on the left look so sad?” She set the piece on the table and sighed. “Fanciful nonsense, my mother said. I soon grew out of it.”
“Not fanciful nonsense, but imagination,” Andrew said, placing the other pieces on the table beside the first. “Without imagination, the world would be a poorer place. And your teapot’s now broken. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“Frannie didn’t mean to drop it, I’m sure.”
“It matters not,” she said, a flicker of pain in her eyes. “Everything breaks eventually.”
Then she fixed her gaze on him. “What matters more is what caused Frances to drop the pot.”
“Her hand slipped, that’s all.”
“At the very moment you referred to unwanted children .”
He opened his mouth to reply, and she raised her hand.
“Pay me the courtesy of refraining from deception, or denial,” she said. “I have no wish to pry, and nor do I relish gossip. But Frances carries a secret, and given that she is a child living in my home—for all that the world expects her to undertake paid work—I feel some responsibility for her welfare.”
“Frannie’s hiding nothing from you, Etty.”
Her eyes widened at the familiar address. “Perhaps not, but a secret exists nonetheless. I have no wish to distress Frances, please believe me. I only wish to ensure that I do not place her in any danger. I take it the secret has something to do with her sister Freda, and possibly Loveday Smith, whoever she may be?”
Good heavens! How could any creature possess such insight? “Loveday Smith is a young woman from the village with two children.”
“And are her children unwanted also?” she asked, resuming her seat.
“Of course not!” he replied, and her eyes narrowed at the vehemence in his tone. “Loveday is the kindest, gentlest creature in the village—save young Frances, perhaps.”
“Then perhaps it’s Frances herself who’s unwanted.”
His cheeks warmed under her scrutiny. “Mrs. Gadd is a kind woman, and…she loves Frances.”
“Young James, then?”
“She loves her son also.”
She exhaled, then leaned back in her chair. “Interesting.” The color of her eyes intensified, deepened by a sharp intelligence.
Why did he feel as if he were a schoolboy in his housemaster’s study after having committed a transgression? Or perhaps a criminal facing a magistrate?
Imagine the world if women were permitted to execute the law. Heaven help the men who committed transgressions. But then, perhaps, a woman would be the best hope for a misfortunate soul seeking an advocate to defend them against an unjust world.
Souls such as Frannie Gadd.
“The plight of any misfortunate soul is interesting,” Andrew said. “At least, I find it so, otherwise I would not have entered my profession.”
“You misunderstand me,” she said, shaking her head in the manner of a disappointed governess. “I meant it was interesting that you referred to Frances as Frannie, and James as Mrs. Gadd’s son.” She leaned forward. “Why was that, I wonder?”
“I wasn’t aware—”
“Mr. Staines, if we are to be friends, you must pay me the courtesy of refraining from deception. Of course, if you have no wish to tell me the truth, then say so. But I cannot abide falsehood.”
“You’re the last person I wish to deceive.”
She raised her eyebrows, and he caught a spark in her eyes, a flicker of something—recognition, perhaps, as if her soul reached out to him.
Then she blinked and it was gone.
“If you intend to flatter me into changing the subject of our conversation, I’d prefer it if you simply told me you’d rather speak of…”
She broke off, then gestured to the window. “The weather is unusually clement for this time of year.”
He flinched at the disappointment in her tone. “I care a great deal about Frances,” he said, “and I have no wish to do anything to the detriment of her happiness.”
“We are of one mind in that, at least.”
“And many other things, I trust.”
She paused, and the ticking of the clock on the mantelshelf filled the silence. He glanced toward it—an ornate timepiece with a white face bearing deep blue Roman numerals, and gilt hands that glinted in the light. The body had been carved in an ornate fashion, decorated in gilt. It seemed out of place in a remote little cottage on the outskirts of a village. But in a London drawing room, it would have fit in.
Like the teapot poor Frannie had dropped.
“Let me tell you what I see,” she said quietly. “In Frances, I see a hardworking, gentle soul who yearns to be loved.” She raised her hands when he opened his mouth to protest. “Please, Andrew, hear what I have to say before interrupting.”
His breath caught at her use of his name, spoken with a sincerity capable of capturing his heart.
“I’m not disputing that Mrs. Gadd is a kind woman,” she continued. “As an outsider in this village, I can perhaps view it with a more rational perspective than those who have lived here for generations. I’m not so blind as to have missed the judgmental stares of the people I have passed in the street—folk who believe the village belongs to them and who harbor nothing but suspicion toward incomers. But Mr. and Mrs. Gadd have been nothing but civil toward me and Gabriel. But sometimes…” She made a random gesture with her hand. “I cannot place it—sometimes, I see Mrs. Gadd look upon Frances with something akin to regret. At first I wondered if it were because Frances was a late child—she’s several years younger than James.”
“Many women have children later in life,” Andrew said.
“Yes—women have no choice in the matter, do they?” she retorted. “A wife is considered a man’s property, to be used as he sees fit, and corrected if she fails to satisfy him.”
Sweet Lord —had her late husband beaten her?
“I’m not saying that Mr. Gadd seems anything but loving toward his wife,” she continued. “But he, too, looks at Frances differently to how he looks at James. At first I wondered if it were because most parents value a son above a daughter—fathers in particular always wish for a boy.”
“If you think Frannie is unloved, you’re mistaken,” Andrew said. “Surely Frannie’s not said—”
“I believe they love her,” she interrupted. “Frances has said nothing. It’s more what she hasn’t said.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Naturally. You’re a man .”
He flinched at the bitterness in her tone.
“I’ve learned, to my cost, that people rarely tell the absolute truth, and one must therefore decipher what they say by considering the space between the words—much as an artist considers the space between the objects she paints. The blank spaces are as much an integral part of the message as the words and objects. But most people, men especially, tend to ignore them.”
He couldn’t help smiling at her words. Eleanor, the woman who’d resided in this very cottage, had once said the same about the pictures she painted. Perhaps Etty was right—women were endowed with the ability to look into the gaps between. Perhaps that explained their insight.
He leaned forward and offered his hand, an expression of trust.
“What has Frannie not said?” he asked.
For a moment she stared at his hand, then, her eyes glistening with moisture, she took it.
“That she bears responsibility for her sister’s death. That she committed a sin merely by being born.”
Her voice wavered, then a tear splashed onto her cheek.
Unable to fight the instinct, the need to ease her pain, he lifted his free hand and brushed the tear aside. His breath caught at the feel of her smooth skin beneath his fingertips. He placed his palm on her cheek, and she closed her eyes, shuddering as she inhaled.
“Etty, I…”
Her eyes snapped open, and his gut twisted at the intensity of their gaze, the color of a deep ocean filled with sorrow. Was she speaking of Frannie, or perhaps—
Sweet Lord …
Had her son been unwanted? No—that couldn’t be. Her whole body radiated with the fierceness with which she loved Gabriel.
But perhaps the boy’s father…
“Forgive me,” she said. “I’ve no right to pry. But I wondered, perhaps, if Freda wasn’t Frances’s sister after all.”
Surely she didn’t possess the insight to…
“That, perhaps,” she continued, lowering her voice, “Freda was her mother.”
His gut twisted in apprehension.
“I see I am correct in my assumption,” she said. “I take it the young man refused to offer for Freda?” Her expression darkened. “It happens. More often than the world would care to admit—children born out of wedlock, hidden away lest they taint the purity of those nearby.”
Andrew shook his head.
“Does he live in the village?”
He shifted in his seat. Why must she continue with her questioning?
“Do I discomfort you, vicar?” The hard edge to her voice had returned. “Do you perhaps blame a young woman for falling in love and yielding to her lover’s demands on her body?”
His cheeks burned as if they were on fire, and she withdrew her hand.
“I see,” she said, nodding. “Like any man, you lay the blame at the feet of the woman. Do you blame the child also?”
“Freda was not to blame!” he cried, no longer able to suppress his anger. “Why must you continue to speak against the whole of my sex so? Not all men are cads who take an unwilling woman then blame her for their sins.”
She recoiled.
“Shall I tell you why Mrs. Gadd, kind and loving as she is, struggles with her faith, and looks upon little Frannie with regret?” he said. “It’s because each time she looks at her, she’s reminded of the man who seduced her daughter and in doing so brought about her death—the very man to whom she is expected to curtsey and show deference to.”
Her hand flew to her mouth and she let out a low cry. Then she stiffened and glanced at the door.
Had Frannie overheard?
But when he turned, the doorway was empty.
“Does Frances know that…”
“She’s Sir John Fulford’s bastard?” He cringed at the ugly word and shook his head. “Why add to her disgrace? A child out of wedlock is enough of a pariah. Few know the full circumstances of her birth. Outside her family, excepting the”—he hesitated, fighting the bile rising in his throat—“the father , none but myself and one other.”
“Loveday Smith?”
Heavens —was she a witch in possession of the ability to read the mind of another?
He nodded. “And now you .”
She turned her head toward the window, her face pale in the sunlight.
“Forgive me, I didn’t mean to distress you,” he said. “Freda was sent into service, as most young women are, but her master…”
She raised her hand. “There’s no need to explain. A man in an elevated position in Society will, in my experience, always take advantage of those he considers beneath him. It was my fault for asking.” She let out a sigh. “Poor Frances—to carry the burden of always reminding others of the man responsible for the death of her… sister .”
“Perhaps now you understand the depth of Mrs. Gadd’s gratitude when you agreed to take Frannie on. She had no wish for the child to suffer Freda’s fate.”
“Or Loveday Smith’s, I presume.” She resumed her attention on him. “Frances told me Loveday worked in the scullery at Sandcombe Place until she quickened with child. She’s going back there when her baby’s old enough. Her husband…” Her voice trailed off, and she stared at him. “Does her husband know that her child is another’s?”
Andrew nodded. “He offered for her knowing she carried another man’s child.”
“And he’s willing to have her work there?”
“They need the money.”
“But—she’s being placed in danger!” she cried. “Why is nobody doing anything to prevent it? Why aren’t you? ”
“By rights, she’s the property of her husband,” he said. “I do all I can to ensure her safety. Believe me, she’s safer at Sandcombe Place. The cook is an understanding woman, and has promised to keep Loveday below stairs.”
“Oh, of course ,” she said, a sneer in her tone. “It’s the woman’s responsibility to avoid the man who wants to seduce her—just as it’s her responsibility to deal with the consequences.”
“Loveday loves her children, no matter who the father is,” Andrew said.
“I wasn’t doubting that,” she retorted. “A mother’s love is something you’ll never understand. But nevertheless, Sir John’s life is unaffected by his actions—a moment’s gratification, then he can carry on as if nothing happened and forget about the woman he seduced. It’s Loveday who pays the price, no matter how much she may love her children.” She shook her head. “I thought London was debauched! I came here to the country to escape the depravity of the town, only to find it far worse here. How can you sit there and do nothing?”
“There’s only so much I can do,” he replied, swallowing his shame. “Each night I pray for the strength to help everyone in need. But I can’t.”
“I’m not asking you to help everyone . Just one person.”
“And I have,” he said. “I’ve ensured that Frannie Gadd is safe from harm, from…”
She drew in a sharp breath and wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Safe from being seduced by the man who sired her?” She shook her head. “What world do we live in that permits such vile acts? What is to be done?” She shuddered and she let out a soft sob.
He caught her hands and lifted them to his lips. “Hush, Etty,” he whispered. “I beg you not to distress yourself. We live in a good world—I have to believe that. And we cannot fight all evils. Some battles are too insurmountable to win. The best we can do is choose those with which we have a chance of success, to help where we can be assured of making a difference.”
“How can you say such things when you know such misery exists?”
“Because I must,” he said. “It’s what I have to do to prevent myself from giving up. A single man against the tide of the world is in danger of being dashed to pieces and drowned if he seeks to fight it. Do you not think I struggle every day when I see the injustice being heaped upon the people here at the hands of my patron? Do you not think that I struggle with my faith, my vocation, when I know that my bishop, despite his position in the church, would side with the very men who benefit from and perpetuate the injustices of the world?”
“You can fight them,” she said.
“I am but one soldier facing an army,” he replied. “In fighting openly I would be cut down at the first stroke—and what good would that do for the likes of Frannie Gadd and Loveday Smith? So I do what is within my power, to protect them as best I can.”
Her expression of disapproval, mingled with deep sorrow, tore at his heart. More than anything he wanted her approval, even if he could never hope to earn her admiration.
Or her love.
He reached for her hands and gave an inward sigh of relief when she didn’t snatch them away.
“Did someone hurt you?” he asked softly. “Is that why you care so deeply about Frannie?”
“Why must you assume that I must have been hurt in order to care about others?” she asked, the tightness in her voice increasing the pitch.
“I think you would care about others whether you’d been hurt or not, Etty. Kindness is a quality that few possess. It’s ingrained in their souls, an instinct to nurture and love. It cannot be taught, or earned through suffering. It merely exists.”
She closed her eyes, her chest rising and falling in a sigh, and his blood warmed with desire as she threaded her fingers into his.
“You’re wrong,” she whispered. “So wrong.”
“Is your opinion of me that low?” he asked, the pain in his heart warring with his desire.
She shook her head. “Oh, no, Andrew,” she said. “You’re the kindest man I have met. But you cannot be more wrong about me. I am not kind—far from it. I have been cruel, and I have thought nothing of giving pain to others, even those closest to me. And it is only through experience have I learned that the world is in great need of kindness.”
He lifted her hands to his lips and placed a light kiss on her knuckles. “You have a kind soul, Etty. Perhaps you were unable to recognize it until you suffered the unkindness of others.”
She blinked, and a tear splashed onto his hand. He dipped his head and placed a kiss on her skin, tasting the salt of her sorrow.
“Do not be kind to me, Andrew,” she said. “I-I couldn’t bear it.”
“Why?” he asked. “Because you believe you don’t deserve it? Or perhaps you’ve learned, to your cost, that the appearance of kindness can be the precursor to cruelty?”
She let out a low whimper, and his heart seared with pain at her cry—its very gentleness evidence of the intensity of the pain she suffered. Unable to suppress his need, he pulled her close and brushed his lips against hers.
For a moment, she stiffened. A nugget of shame swelled in his mind, but before he could release her, she parted her lips in invitation. He flicked his tongue along the seam of her mouth, and she grew still, as if she waited.
But for what?
Robert would have known what do to. Andrew’s brother—the master at seduction—would, at the touch of his hand, have rendered her open and ready, begging him to take her.
Surrendering to instinct, he slipped his tongue inside her mouth, relishing the warmth and the delectable taste.
Like honey.
The taste grew sweeter as he caressed her mouth with his tongue, and she let out a soft sigh and leaned toward him. Emboldened by her body’s encouragement, he flicked his tongue along the tip of hers. The warmth in his body increased as she responded to his kiss, curling her tongue around his, drawing him into a dance more seductive than anything he’d experienced in a ballroom.
Then she stilled, and a swell of panic rose within him.
She was a woman of experience—what did she expect of him?
Perhaps more of the same.
He deepened the kiss, relishing her soft warmth, and his manhood surged with need at the prospect of the sweet warmth elsewhere—that sweetness his older brother had said could make a man go mad with want until he claimed it for his own.
Her soft mewls of pleasure threatened to unleash the torrent of lust building in his mind, hammering against his defenses, that primal urge all men fought to conquer…or satisfy.
She arched her back—almost imperceptibly, but enough to move her breasts close to his hands—so close that he only need move a fraction…
Ought he dare? Robert had always told him that a woman spoke more clearly with her body than with her words.
Unable to resist, Andrew shifted his hand and suppressed a cry as his palm met the swell of her breasts. Such soft sweetness hidden beneath a thin layer of muslin! Her chest rose and fell as her breathing quickened, and she curled her tongue around his, caressing it from root to tip, sending a bolt of lust into his groin. Then he curved his palm to cup her breast and she moved closer, pressing her soft flesh against his palm, until he felt it—a hard nub pressing insistently against his hand, as if it begged for his attention.
Heavens! His brother had spoken the truth, that there was nothing so delectable as a peaked nipple awaiting a man’s attention. Awaiting his attention.
What might it be like to touch it with his fingers, without the barrier of a layer of muslin? What might it be like to taste it? All he need do was lower her neckline and dip his head…
Sweet holy Lord—what the devil am I doing ?
He broke the kiss and removed his hand. For a moment, the woman before him remained still, like an angel, her hair coming undone in untamed wisps surrounding her face like a halo. As for her expression…
Her eyes had darkened into deep pools of pure, raw need. And, for the first time in his life, Andrew understood what his brother had meant when he said that a man would know when a woman was ripe for the taking.
Then she blinked and the desire vanished, replaced by distress.
But in that moment—that sweet, glorious moment—she had wanted him.
And he wanted her. Lord save him, he wanted her.
“F-forgive me, Etty…” He hesitated. “I mean—Mrs. Ward. I don’t know what came over me. I didn’t mean to…”
Curse it! Why could he not complete a coherent sentence?
“I-I mean,” he said, gesturing to himself, “I’ve never…”
No—that wouldn’t do. He’d drawn her attention toward that part of him over which he had no control. An inferno of shame raging through his cheeks, he crossed his legs to hide the bulge in his breeches.
“Are you a rake, Mr. Staines?” she asked, her voice steady.
Why was it that she was able to maintain her composure where he’d turned into a blabbering simpleton?
“I’d never take a woman unwilling,” he said.
She tilted her head to one side. “That’s not what I asked. Besides, there are many forms of unwilling . Most men choose to ignore them and use their ignorance to justify their actions.”
“I’ll confess my ignorance on such matters,” Andrew replied.
Anger flickered in her expression. “To those who lack understanding, unwillingness takes one form,” she said. “Struggles, pleas to stop, and cries for help. But, unfortunately for my sex, there exist the predatory creatures among yours , who take advantage of a woman’s innocence of mind. Those who flatter and prey upon the need with which my sex is burdened in a world ruled by men.”
He nodded. “The need to find a husband.”
“You understand our plight, vicar. Perhaps you also understand that it places us at a disadvantage. It pits us against each other—we become rivals, often fighting each other to secure the attention of a man. It can also place us in a position of desperation if we are required to yield ourselves—much as a gamester with little capital will throw in everything he has to secure the prize, at risk of ruination to himself. It is this form of unwillingness in a woman that goes unnoticed—a desperate woman who dares not defend her virtue when placed under persuasion to yield.”
“You make me quite ashamed,” he said. “I’d never take such advantage of a woman. I wouldn’t even know…”
A smile curled her lips and a glint of amusement twinkled in her eyes. She was laughing at him, at his naiveté.
He looked away, but she caught his hand. “Mr. Staines— Andrew —be not ashamed of your innocence. I asked whether you were a rake because I deplore rakes. The fact that you are not such a man is in your favor. It is something to be proud of, though I fear most men consider their… inexperience as something to be remedied as soon as possible.”
“I have seen the impact a rake can have on a woman,” Andrew said. “A woman not unlike yourself.” He closed his eyes, recalling the image of Eleanor sitting in the very same chair Etty now occupied—a creature as innocent as he.
“Who was she?” she asked.
He shook his head. “It matters not. She’s happy now—married to the cad. I hope, one day, he’ll begin to deserve her. He certainly gave me cause to believe so, if such a man can be redeemed by the love of a good woman.”
“Only if he loves her in return.” She squeezed his hand. “Did you love her also?”
“I believed I did.” He sighed. “I loved her enough to let her go—and I love her enough to be content that she is happier with another than she ever could have been with me.”
She smiled. “That’s the purest form of love—that which you harbor for another, where you place her welfare above your own convenience.”
His heart leaped with recognition, and she nodded.
“Yes, Mr. Staines,” she said. “I recall your sermon that first day, alone, at the back of a tiny church in a remote little village. It was the first time I truly understood the meaning of love—to place the happiness of others first.”
“It’s what she did,” he said. “I remember sitting here in this very spot and telling her the same. You remind me a little of her.”
She stiffened and drew in a sharp breath. “Wh-what do you mean?”
“Your kindness,” he said. “She and I shared a friendship. There’s no harm in a man and a woman becoming friends, is there?”
For a moment she stared at him, the haunted expression returning to her eyes. Then she stood.
“I should see to that tea stain,” she said, gesturing to the carpet. “What must you think of me, letting my guests mop up after me?”
“The pattern is such that it won’t be noticeable,” he said. “If you soak it in water, the rest of the stain should come out. The trick is to soak it right away, rather than let it dry.”
“Are you giving me household tips, vicar?”
“It’s a poor man who’s incapable of taking care of himself,” he replied. “A bachelor—particularly a vicar who must live frugally—is almost as good a preserver of household items as any woman. Though I would ask you not to repeat that to my housekeeper. Mrs. Clegg is very particular about her duties, and though I aim to maintain a degree of self-sufficiency, like any unmarried man, it is my fate to rely on her to keep my life in order—until I have a wife, of course.”
“And do you intend to instruct your wife in household tasks when you are married?”
He shook his head. “No, Mrs. Ward. First and foremost, I intend to love her. With every fiber of my soul.”
Her eyes widened, then she nodded, slowly. “Yes,” she said quietly. “I believe you will.”
Her voice carried an undertone of sorrow. What had she known of love? It was plain that she loved her son and was growing to love Frannie Gadd, the child she’d taken to her heart.
But did anyone love her ?
She seemed to believe herself undeserving—but everyone deserved to be loved. Even those who had committed the worst sins of all. Creatures such as Sir John Fulford—the product of a world ruled by men, a man who took what he wanted no matter the consequences. And creatures such as Eleanor’s sister—the woman who’d tried to destroy an innocent to further her own ends.
But today was not a day to dwell on the undeserving—it was a day to give the deserving a purpose.
“Mrs. Ward,” he said, “what say you to accompanying me on my visits to the poor of the parish?”
“Me?”
“There are many in the village in need of a little help—widows with no means to support themselves, new parents, struggling with a sick child…” He hesitated. “A new mother unwilling to return to service, yet fearful of angering her husband. You are right that I cannot help them all, but I do what I can, and I encourage others to do so, though few listen to me.”
“And you believe I’ll listen?”
“I believe you capable of so much more, Etty.”
She colored and looked away. Why did she dislike compliments? A creature as beautiful as she—and a former debutante—must be used to praise on a daily basis. But perhaps she’d grown to recognize it for what it was—soulless flattery.
“If not for your sake, then would you consider accompanying me for mine?” he asked.
“ Your sake?”
“I’d rather have you accompany me than Lady Fulford.”
“So my most favorable quality is that I’m not Lady Fulford?”
“That is a quality all women share.”
A smile twinkled in her eyes. “For shame, vicar,” she said.
“Lady Fulford has been threatening to bestow her presence on my visits,” he said. “Not for the purpose of soiling her hands with work, of course.”
“Of course?”
“I’m afraid that she’s taken to suggesting that her daughters accompany me, Mrs. Ward. They are of marriageable age.”
Her mouth twitched into a smile. “Ah, I see—you wish me to protect you from predatory females?”
Put like that, it made his plight sound rather pathetic.
She let out a soft laugh. “I’m only teasing you, vicar.” Then she paused, and her laughter died.
“Mrs. Ward?” he asked. “Are you well?”
“I was merely wondering when I had last laughed before today.” She shook her head. “I cannot recall it. Not a genuine laugh, at least.”
“That settles it,” he said. “If only to hear your laugh, I insist you accompany me.”
“Very well,” she replied. “A vicar bent on tending to his flock is, I believe, even more persistent than a debutante’s mama. But you must wait until I am satisfied Gabriel is fully recovered from his fever. I wouldn’t want to leave him, and much as I trust Frances to take care of him, I’m unwilling to burden her more than necessary.”
“Then it’s settled,” he said. “Perhaps next week.”
He took her hand and lifted it to his mouth. She made no attempt to resist, and he brushed his lips against her skin.
Mrs. Ward carried a secret herself—a burden that had crushed her confidence and the value she’d placed on her self-worth. Or, perhaps, she had never been valued by those around her, like Eleanor before her.
But, unlike Eleanor, Etty had stirred a deep longing in his soul. He had loved Eleanor Howard—or, at least, believed that he loved her. But the woman sitting before him now, whom he’d known barely a fortnight, had touched his soul in a manner he’d never imagined possible, despite having read countless stories about miracles and revelations.
Etty Ward was not alone in having only recently realized the true meaning of love. The woman sitting before him, whose tiny hand he cradled in his, cherishing the privilege of being near her…
She had opened Andrew’s eyes to what it meant to fall in love with another—a feeling he’d never experienced.
Until today.