Chapter Thirty-Two
Andrew Fielding urged Jenny into a trot as he came into the village, hoping to catch the bride and Cynthia coming out of the church.
He cursed as he came abreast of the lych gate and saw it all closed up, with that strangely deserted air that churches take on after services are over.
He reined his horse into a walk. Poor Jenny, her head was hanging down wearily.
He had pushed her further than he should have that morning, and for nothing.
Oh well, he would go home, quickly change his clothes and go to Harriet’s.
He couldn’t wait to see Cynthia’s dear face.
“Mr. Andrew, sir!” exclaimed Ruby, as he came into the kitchen.
“I’m right glad t’ see yer, that I am. It’s been too quiet, and that’s a fact.
’Course, it were the wedding today. You should’ve seen Miss Cynthia!
Looked a treat, she did! A real lady. Better’n that Mrs. Witherill, for all her gold gown! ”
“I’m sorry to have missed it,” said Mr. Fielding, “But I’m going to change out of my riding gear quickly and go over there. Any chance of some hot water?”
Fifteen minutes later he was in the gig bowling towards Harriet’s villa. Will had taken Jenny into the old stable, saying he’d rub her down and give her a good feed. “The poor beast looks knackered,” he said.
But when he pushed his way into the crowded salon, Andrew couldn’t see Cynthia anywhere.
He fought his way to Harriet, who was not circulating to greet her guests, but simply standing in front of her portrait, her hand on her new husband’s arm, waiting for the tide to come to her.
When she saw Andrew, she cried out, “Mr. Fielding! You came! I knew you would! I knew you would not want to miss my moment of greatest happiness. Please allow me to present my husband, Mr. Oswald Throgmorton. Oswald, dearest, this is Andrew Fielding, the artist responsible for the portrait you so admire.”
“Of course, I remember you from the unveiling,” said Mr. Throgmorton, extending his hand to Andrew. “And I wish to thank you personally. Without your work, I should not have met my dear wife.” He looked proudly at Harriet, shimmering in all her gold.
Inbred good manners forced Andrew to bow and mutter something like thanks and congratulations, but his whole mind was focused on the whereabouts of Cynthia. She wasn’t at the church, she wasn’t at home and she wasn’t here. Where could she be?
“I’m looking for Miss Rowley,” he said. “Do you know where she is?”
Harriet’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh dear!” she cried.
“We completely forgot about her! She went to the church with me, of course, but afterwards…” her voice tailed off.
Then she rallied. “But she must have been taken up by Mr. Vernon! He’s been riding her everywhere these last weeks.
I think he’s sweet on her, to tell you the truth, and they do say one wedding begets another.
If they haven’t arrived yet, it must be because they’re…
well, you know, enjoying each other’s company.
” She giggled and pressed her husband’s arm, “I know we would be!”
“Mr. Vernon?” said Andrew, incredulously, “do you mean the sexton?”
“Yes. Why not? He’s a well set-up man, and a widower. He’s a little beneath her socially, of course, but when a woman gets to our, I mean her age, she doesn’t like to contemplate a future alone.”
“But she won’t be alone…,” Andrew was going to say , she’ll be with me, but realized he had no right at all to say such a thing. All he had ever offered was to be her lodger.
“Yes, of course,” he said. Then he looked around and quickly added, “Allow me to offer you my most sincere congratulations. But I see the Vicar and need to have a word with him.”
He sketched a bow and fought his way through the crowd to the Reverend, who was standing off to one side, apparently lost in thought, with what looked like a half-eaten pasty in his hand.
“Excuse me, Vicar,” he said, “but can you tell me where Ben Vernon lives? There’s something I, er…”
The Vicar came slowly back to earth, his bemused gaze clearly showing he had no idea who the person speaking to him was.
“I’m Andrew Fielding, sir. Miss Rowley’s lodger.”
“Ah yes, of course! And how is dear Miss Rowley?”
Andrew, increasingly impatient, forbore to mention that the Vicar had only this morning performed a wedding ceremony in which dear Miss Rowley had played a part, and had had ample opportunity to observe her state of health.
Instead, he simply said, “I had promised to do something for her, but I think she may be at Mr. Vernon’s.
Your sextant?” he added, in case the vicar should also be unsure of that person’s identity.
“Can you furnish me with his direction?”
“Ben Vernon’s direction? Ah, yes, well now, let me see…”
Luckily, his wife chose that moment to return to his side, asking him if he had actually eaten any of that pasty, or merely waved it around.
“He does, you know,” she confided to Mr. Fielding. “His mind wanders and he forgets to eat.”
“I don’t want to interrupt his meal,” replied Andrew, “I was just enquiring about where Mr. Vernon lives. I, er, I want to speak to him.”
“Not too far from the church,” said the vicar’s wife promptly.
“If you go back about a quarter of a mile from the lych gate along the Winchester Road it will be a turning on the right. It’s a nice cottage, though I must say the garden is in a shocking state.
I don’t know what his late wife would say if she saw it.
I hope the interior is better, but I’m bound to say, I doubt it. ”
“Now, now, my dear,” muttered the vicar. “He’s a widower, poor man. He’s no wife to keep house for him.”