Chapter Twenty-One
It is therefore toward men where we must cast the eye of judgment before condemning the sins of a woman.
Andrew dipped his quill into the inkpot, then dabbed the nib against the side before continuing.
Power without accountability is the root of all evil. All of us are guilty. Even myself. Even
He paused, his hand shaking. Dare he speak of the one who considered himself above sin?
Sir John Fulford… a voice said in his mind—as if his conscience compelled him to speak.
Then he set the quill aside. He had not the courage.
Only one soul in the village possessed the courage to speak of the sins being committed locally—sins permitted by the law and the church and given free rein to exist due to the parishioners’ worship of the upper classes. But Andrew hadn’t even the courage to speak to her after their last encounter.
At first his anger had prevented him from returning to Shore Cottage. Then, as he’d recalled the hateful words he’d said against Juliette Howard—not once thinking the very woman he’d voiced his loathing for had been standing before him all the time—shame replaced the anger. In accusing her of betraying his trust, he had committed an act of greater treachery.
She had opened her heart to him, given him the chance to prove his quality.
And he had failed at every level.
“Sir John!” a voice cried.
Andrew turned as footsteps approached. The study door flew open and the familiar, loathsome figure strode into the study brandishing a silver-topped cane, followed by the red-faced housekeeper.
“Oh, Mr. Staines, sir, forgive me, I couldn’t stop—”
“Cease your prattle, woman!” Sir John cried, exuding a mist of spittle. “It’s not you I’m here to see. It’s him.” He pointed the cane at Andrew as if brandishing a sword.
Andrew rose from his seat. “Thank you, Mrs. Clegg. Some tea, perhaps?”
“I don’t want tea,” Sir John sneered.
“Nevertheless, it’s what I offer my guests—even those that come uninvited.”
Sir John’s face turned a deeper shade of red, and he let out a volley of coughs. Andrew’s stomach churned. Why couldn’t the man at least cover his mouth?
For a moment, an image violated Andrew’s mind—Sir John’s ungainly body overpowering a young maid while he sought his gratification, his smile broadening as his victim struggled in a futile attempt to escape.
Then a ball of nausea rose in his throat and he caught his breath and looked away.
“Take a seat,” he said, gesturing to a chair.
“I’m not here to discuss pleasantries,” Sir John said, his voice a hoarse wheeze. “I’m—”
He broke off in another round of coughing. Andrew approached him, but Sir John raised his cane and blocked his path.
“Do not touch me! I should have known you were wrong for this parish. From the moment you started to incite insurrection with those sermons of yours.”
“Insurrection?” Andrew let out a laugh. “Sir John, you cannot seriously—”
“Do not tell me what I can and cannot do!” Sir John spat. “Gossip has reached my ears. Vile, sordid gossip, the like of which I should never have to hear.”
“Then don’t listen to gossip, Sir John.”
Andrew’s guest let out an explosive noise of rage, and his face darkened until it was almost purple.
“Nor should my wife have to hear such evil words.”
“So, Lady Fulford has been spreading gossip.”
“How dare you!” Sir John said. “I…” He bent forward, his body racked with spasms as he coughed, his chest rattling.
“You should see a doctor,” Andrew said. “Shall I call for—”
“No!” Sir John said. “I’m in no need of a doctor! What I need is for evil to be cleaned from this place—starting with the principal agent of the devil. That”—he wrinkled his nose—“that slut has caused nothing but trouble since she came here—claiming to be a respectable widow when the meanest of souls could see that she’s merely some whore with a filthy bastard clinging to her skirts.”
Andrew’s chest tightened at the hatred in his patron’s voice, hatred directed at the sweetest, most innocent little boy—the little boy he had taken into his heart.
The boy who, only a few days ago, he’d resolved to call his own.
“If you mean Mrs. Ward—” Andrew began.
“ Mrs. Ward , indeed!” Sir John yelled. “And you were fool enough to fall for it. But this time you’ve gone too far, letting her spread her poison, while you stand by and do nothing.”
“Sir John, I’m afraid I have no idea of what you are speaking.”
“Ralph Smith came banging on my door—at the front entrance, I’ll have you know!” Sir John replied. “Bloody peasants. He came looking for that little slut he married. It seems she’s run off—no doubt with some man—after your whore poisoned her mind with tales about me.” He stepped toward Andrew, thrusting his face forward. “Me! To think—such a creature deigns to speak about me, when I rule this village.”
“Mrs. Ward is no whore,” Andrew said. “She’s—”
“Oh, spare me! I know a fallen woman when I see one. And I know the look of a man too weak to resist the temptation. Was it worth it?”
“Worth what?”
“She spread her legs for you—yes?”
Andrew opened his mouth to deny it, then closed it again.
A smile of triumph crossed Sir John’s lips.
“I knew it. A weak man will commit any sin if there’s the prospect of a bloody good fuck at the end of it.”
Andrew winced at the man’s profanity. “Did you come with the express purpose of insulting me, Sir John?”
“I came to ask you to do the honorable thing and leave,” came the reply. “I’ve already written to the bishop with my recommendation that you be defrocked. But, if you have a shred of honor, you would relinquish your living voluntarily. If not, you’ll regret it.”
“Oh, will I?” Andrew said, meeting Sir John’s gaze. The man’s expression faltered, as if he believed it impossible that another living soul would stand up to him.
“You do not want me for an enemy, Mr. Staines .”
“Then I shall bear the misfortune as best I can,” Andrew replied.
Sir John’s eyes widened, and his body shook with another coughing spasm. “I could have you thrown out of here in an instant!”
“I believe that power lies only with the bishop,” Andrew said, “and until I hear it from his lips, I shall consider myself the incumbent of this parish. And now, given that you have not come for a social call, I must ask you to leave.”
Sir John shook his head. “Would you risk your vocation—your living—for a whore?”
“Etty is not a whore!”
“ Etty , eh? Such a telling lack of propriety. Is that the name you cry when you rut her?”
“Why, you…” Andrew balled his hands into fists and took a step forward.
“Do it!” Sir John snarled. “Go ahead. Show the world the savage you really are—the base beast willing to gratify his lust at the expense of his duty. It will only strengthen the case against you.”
“And what about you ?” Andrew said, shaking with the effort to restrain his fury. “Do you think I don’t know why you hate Mrs. Ward so much? It’s not because you believe her to be evil. It’s because she’s the one living soul in this cursed village who had the courage to reveal the extent of your sins and speak that which the rest of us know to be true!”
Sir John’s eyes widened and he stepped back.
“Now, get out,” Andrew said. “And know this—if I receive an edict from the bishop, I shall tell him the full truth of the matter.”
“He’ll not believe you,” Sir John said. “We were at Eton together.”
“I shall tell him nonetheless. Can you guarantee that he’ll not at least wonder if there’s a shred of truth in what I say? The truth always reveals itself eventually.”
A flicker of doubt shimmered in Sir John’s eyes.
“Do you know what I also believe?” Andrew continued. “I believe that a man will always receive retribution for his sins at the end, whether in life or beyond it. You may relish the retribution that you believe I am owed, but I would counsel you to look at your own ledger before commenting on that of others.”
Sir John curled his hand around the top of his cane.
“Mrs. Clegg!” Andrew called out.
The door opened—a little too quickly—to reveal the housekeeper.
“My guest is leaving,” Andrew said. “Please be so kind as to show him out.”
“Very good, sir,” the housekeeper replied, but Sir John pushed her aside.
“I can see myself out.” He hobbled toward the front door and pushed it open. In the road was a barouche in which Lady Fulford sat. She turned toward them, a scowl on her face, and as Andrew raised his hand in greeting, she tilted her nose in the air and looked away.
Beyond the barouche, a figure was running toward the vicarage, and Andrew recognized Jimmy Gadd. He approached the doorway, and Sir John raised his cane and struck the boy in the chest.
“Out of my way, peasant!” he snarled.
“Jimmy, what’s wrong?” Andrew asked.
The boy cringed, clutching his chest, his face twisted in pain. “It’s Frannie!” he cried. “She’s run away!”
Sir John curled his lip in a sneer and raised his cane again. An expression of determination filled Jimmy’s eyes as he turned to his tormentor.
“You know Frannie, Sir John,” Jimmy said. “She’s my sister Freda’s daughter.”
“What does that have to do with me?” Sir John asked.
“She’s your …” Jimmy began, but Andrew caught the boy’s hand and, his eyes on Sir John’s cane, shielded the lad with his body.
“It matters not, Sir John,” Andrew said, “though you would do well to remember my warning about your ledger.”
“You’ll regret crossing me, vicar ,” Sir John said.
Andrew smiled. “I very much doubt it.”
Sir John let out a snort, then stumbled toward the barouche, yelling at a footman who leaped down and helped him in, where Lady Fulford fussed over him, casting a look of hatred in Andrew’s direction. Sir John barked an order then fell back into his seat with yet another coughing spasm, and the barouche drove off.
“Let’s get you inside, Jimmy,” Andrew said. “I must take a look at where that man struck you. Are you in any pain?”
“No—but we must find Frannie.”
“Do you know where she’s gone?”
“No.” Jimmy sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “We’ve been looking for her all morning, then I saw Mrs. Penfold on the lane, and she said she saw Frannie climb into the most enormous carriage not half an hour earlier.”
Andrew’s gut twisted with fear. “Willingly?” he asked.
“Aye. Mrs. Penfold said that she called out, and Frannie waved back before climbing in.”
“Was there anyone else in the carriage?”
“A woman, Mrs. Penfold thought, but it was dark inside, and she couldn’t see who. It was a very fine carriage, she said.”
A woman.
It cannot be a coincidence…
“Sir John told me that Loveday’s husband was looking for her.”
“Do you suppose they’ve run off together?” Jimmy asked. “Oh, Frannie! Why did she run?”
Why indeed? Perhaps Etty had the answer—Etty, who was able to understand the guilt poor little Frannie suffered merely by being born, and the shame Loveday had endured through being violated.
“Was it the mail coach?”
Jimmy shook his head. “Mail coach doesn’t come by on a Friday, and it only stops at the Sailor, not the end of the lane. I-I hoped you might know, seein’ as you’re so fond of Frannie.”
“And…Mrs. Ward?”
“I was goin’ to try Mrs. Ward next. She might know where Frannie’s gone.”
“Then let us go together.”
Jimmy nodded, and they set off for Shore Cottage.
As the isolated little building came into view, Andrew’s skin tightened with apprehension. It seemed to exude an air of abandonment. He shook his head, cursing his folly. But he quickened his pace nevertheless.
As he approached the cottage, he glanced at the chimney for the telltale wisp of smoke, but there was none. He grasped the door handle and turned it. It yielded with ease and swung inward.
The hallway was empty. The little seascape that adorned the wall opposite the parlor door had gone, leaving a nail where it had hung. He approached the parlor, his footsteps echoing, and his heart fluttered as he opened the door.
The furniture had been covered in sheets. The bookshelves were full, save for the bottom shelf where she’d once placed the teapot that Frannie had broken—the teapot he’d helped her to mend. The thin layer of dust was broken by a round mark, where the teapot had once been.
Andrew exited the parlor and brushed past Jimmy, making his way upstairs to Gabriel’s chamber.
The room was empty. Even the cot was no longer there.
His heart rate increasing, he approached the door to the other chamber—her chamber—and turned the handle.
It, too, was abandoned—empty save for a bed and a chair covered in dustsheets.
“Vicar!” Jimmy called from downstairs. Andrew flew down to see the lad standing by the front door, a note in his hand. “I found this on the floor. It’s for you.” He held it out, and Andrew took it, his breath catching as he read the inscription on the front in familiar handwriting.
Mr. Staines.
So formal an address! But what could he expect after the way he’d spoken to her at their last meeting?
His fingers trembling, Andrew tore open the envelope and read the note.
Dear Mr. Staines.
I have returned home, to where I have the greatest chance at finding happiness.
You will not see me again.
Yours etc.
Miss Juliette Howard.
Her words, delivered in such a cold, impersonal manner, did more to strike at his heart than any angry recrimination or accusation. It was as if she no longer cared for him.
Or perhaps she never had.
Juliette Howard had returned to Society—and much good it would do her.
As for Etty— his Etty…
She no longer existed.