Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Mr. Welles, proprietor of the Dolphin Hotel, a foremost authority on Southampton, had provided a list of the eight Anglican parishes within the town, and their first visit was St. Michael’s.
In the genteel sitting room of greens and creams, Althea and Kitty had been received with respect, though perhaps not what Kitty would call open arms. Kitty pondered the reason over tea until the vicar said, “Your husband has seen much in this world.”
Julian’s reputation had preceded him. Or trailed after him. Whatever the semantics.
“I remember him as a young man,” the vicar continued, “and if it is not too harsh for your delicate nature…”
“No, sir, I have known Mr. St. Clair since we were children. We have kept few secrets.”
“He frequented taverns where wagering and, ah, other vice could be found. I saved him twice from losing his apprenticeship.”
“You are good, sir,” Althea said. “And Mr. St. Clair hath repented on the error of his ways. Each night Madame and he end their day with quiet contemplation on the Lord’s teachings.
His favorite verse, ‘in whom we have redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of sins, according to the riches of his grace.’”
The vicar regarded his tea. “Ephesians 1:7. I know it well and am soothed to hear St. Clair has sought God’s forgiveness.”
Kitty mentally crossed herself. At the rate Althea was proceeding, her friend would have to spend a week seeking God’s forgiveness. And Julian, she was suddenly worried for his soul.
Seeing their half hour had come to an end, Kitty rose and bid them good day.
At Holyrood Church, Kitty stood outside the imposing structure of grey and white stone.
The steeple was tall and inelegant, the archways off the portico heavy.
The windows showed only remnants of painted glass.
Her mind drifted back to their wedding over the anvil and the smithy inquiring on Julian’s home parish.
“Holyrood, Southampton,” he had said. She remembered Julian’s voice, the baritone, almost a bass but agile like his body.
She remembered how he had sounded far away in his thoughts while she had been enveloped in hope.
For the first time in many, many long hours, months, years, she was happy to be alive.
They found the vicarage along a path shaded by nearby homes where the vicar’s sister, Miss Carleton, perhaps thirty, with curling brown hair and lively green eyes, curtsied in greeting and led them to a worn settee.
“I saw you both studying the church frontage and ordered tea, hoping you would visit. Though I should not admit my presumptuous nature,” Miss Carleton said.
“Is Mr. St. Clair well? He is, of course, I have seen the both of you walk past.” She blushed.
“And in the morning, Mr. St. Clair takes his Grecian exercise.”
Althea cast Kitty a sidelong glance.
Before Kitty could answer, Miss Carleton continued. “He accompanied my brother and me to an assembly in the Long Rooms in June of ’61.” She rolled her pink lips. Like remembering a kiss. “Oh, I shall never forget.”
Wild and wayward Julian and a vicar’s sister.
Had he kissed her? Had he picked innocent Miss Carleton’s lock, as well?
Had he thought to propose to her? Kitty’s musings turned darker, to when they had been married and her groom had been deep in his thoughts.
When Julian had stated his home parish at their wedding, had he thought of Miss Carleton?
She felt the haze of melancholy and concentrated on Miss Carleton’s hands as she poured the tea.
“…the ladies in their beautiful gowns,” the vicar’s sister went on.
“And the dancing. Mr. St. Clair stood up with me twice. Though my steps are not graceful. No, they are not. But it felt like a dream, and by all accounts, he acquitted himself as a most chivalrous gentleman by completely ignoring the two times I tread upon his feet.”
“My husband is quite the gentleman,” Kitty allowed.
Miss Carleton’s brows pinched as she looked at Kitty’s gown. “You are in mourning.”
“Crecy, my dear,” a man’s rich voice called, “are you talking our guests ears off?”
Vicar Carleton was a youngish man, short in stature with an affable expression and sandy hair. The latter was ruffled from his queue as he had recently raked his fingers through the top of it.
Introductions dispensed with, he settled in a straight-backed chair. “I suspect my sister has regaled you with her famous two dances with the infamous Mr. St. Clair?”
“He is not infamous, brother,” his sister said.
Kitty thought, oh yes he is.
The conversation turned to current events in the town and widened to England and the colonies. Althea touched upon a charity Madame was eager to start, and when Kitty fixed her with a silencing look, Althea shifted to her own upbringing near Manchester as a parson’s daughter.
“You must play the organ,” the vicar said to Althea.
“I can say, sir, I know the hymns as well as the good book.”
“Miss Dixley, I have just come from the home of our organist, Mrs. Dudley, who has taken ill with her rheumatism. Might you grace us with your play tomorrow?”
Miss Carleton admitted she had two left hands as Althea shook her head.
“Don’t be modest, Althea.” Kitty patted her knee. “Of course you must play.”
All settled, Althea gulped her tea.
Miss Carleton asked in the lull, “And Mr. St. Clair is here to stay?”
“Yes, he is,” Kitty replied.
“Madame, you will excuse my sister’s enthusiasm. Mr. St. Clair was the most eligible bachelor from here to London before his departure. You are remaining as well, yes?”
Pinking, Miss Carleton fumbled with her cross pendant.
“I am, thank you.” Kitty was tired and embarrassed that a vicar’s sister had stirred her into a sulk.
“My husband has reopened our shipyard. And though we offer four pence more per day, it has been difficult to recruit men. They do not trust he will remain, you see. Though the circumstances of his departure were entirely my fault.”
“I see,” the vicar said with a boyish frown.
“We do expect our men and their families to attend service every Sunday. And to fill the twelve vacant cottages on our property.” Cottages within Holyrood’s parish and therefore families whose tithes belonged to Vicar Carleton’s church.
Finally, after an hour-long visit which threatened to turn longer, Kitty thanked them for their hospitality and promised to see them before service in order for Althea to practice the organ.
As they walked the block to the Dolphin, Kitty looped her arm in Althea’s. “I believe Miss Carleton just a little in love with my husband.”
Althea’s expression was long. “And I suspect, Madame, your husband brought it on through a fault of his own.”
“Yes, it is certain he did. I wonder what else we will discover on the six parish visits remaining.”
“Madame, I do not know the hymns well enough to play them for the congregation.”
Kitty halted in the middle of the Dolphin’s central arch leading to the court.
Why was she surprised and yet, not? Julian had voiced his doubts about Althea, a serving wench with a prayer book.
And when Althea had knocked on her door the night she had taken the laudanum, Kitty had noted her educated speech as out of place.
“Your father is not a parson,” Kitty said.
“No.”
“I will not ask.”
Althea’s grey eyes watered behind her spectacles in the sunlight. “Please do not.”
Who was she? Was her name even Althea Dixley? Did it even matter?
Althea was her friend. And she was tired from her tongue to her feet. “It seems you will also have to take to your bed tomorrow like Mrs. Dudley, and I will have to play.”
Kitty knew the hymns, having attended the Anglican service regardless of her family’s Catholic faith. All English were required. Titles and lands were stripped from professed Catholics and the two things her father, a baronet, had loved more than his faith was his hunting and hounds.
She hoped the vicar had sheet music because she had never played a one.
Julian entered the Dolphin prepared to apologize. Dragging Kitty into the loft’s vestibule had been beyond the bounds. As was his wife appearing with a mallet to secure the second deadwood with nails.
Mr. Welles approached him at the stairs with an expression that had Julian worrying someone had died. “My sincere condolences, sir.” The proprietor handed him a letter.
Had someone, in fact, died? He turned right to a lurking maid, and he swore he saw pity in her eyes. “Is my wife well?”
“Indeed, sir,” Mr. Welles answered. “She is.”
Relieved at having excluded half the people he cared about from a sudden tragedy, he started up the stairs.
He cared a lot for Kitty, didn’t he? Of course, he did.
But Kitty wasn’t half. More like a quarter.
His mother, his brother, Georgiana, and Kitty.
If he added a few friends, his nieces, Kitty was a mere twelfth.
He regarded the letter and recognizing his father’s script, tore it open.
Julian,
Your brother is ill. We would appreciate your presence in St. James.
~Tindall
His father’s favorite bait. Oliver had been dying since before Julian could remember.
Crumpling the letter, he reached his apartments in haste to apologize and halted at the scene that greeted him.
And the smell. The main room was covered with crates and boxes.
His first concern was that Kitty had packed his belongings in retaliation for his harsh treatment.