Chapter Five
W hat could be more uplifting for a weary soul than a song? And though Etty had always preferred the Italian airs heard in London’s drawing rooms to a hymn, the enthusiasm of the congregation as they sang the chorus in unison couldn’t fail to lift her spirits.
Even if their enthusiasm could not always be matched by their ability. The family standing across the aisle, well turned out in their Sunday best—clothes that were ill fitting and eliciting discomfort in their expressions—were tolerably talented. The man had a rich, deep voice, his wife a clear alto. Their children sang more softly while they clutched their hymn books, and Etty recognized their son as the polite young man who’d delivered the joint of pork yesterday. A family of pig farmers would never be welcomed into Society, but had they been gentlefolk, their singing talents would have made them the toast of London’s drawing rooms.
Etty glanced about the church. The building was smaller than the churches she’d been used to in London, but its size rendered it less imposing. Light filtered through the windows, dotting the interior with jewels of color, and she let her gaze wander, following the beam of light that stretched along the church.
At the very front sat a family of five—a gray-haired couple and three daughters who looked to be of a similar age to Etty. With their stiff backs and elegantly tailored attire, they must be the principal inhabitants of Sandcombe. The local squire, Mr. Stockton had said so. They had arrived late for the service that morning, while the rest of the congregation remained standing. After casting a cursory glance at Etty, at which point the matriarch wrinkled her nose in a sneer, they’d glided along the aisle, issuing the occasional nod to the congregation, in the manner of royalty acknowledging the subjects they despised.
They now stood, clutching their hymn books, stiffened bodies exuding arrogance and self-importance.
Two years ago, Etty had been exactly like them.
Except perhaps in respect of their singing talents. The man’s voice was tolerable, but the woman reminded her of a gang of laborers sawing wood in unison. The daughters were no better. A flock of angry seagulls fighting for fish scraps would earn greater applause, and cause less pain to the ears. But, doubtless, no creature in the village—perhaps not even the squire himself—would dare give an honest opinion regarding the quality of their voices.
Etty smiled to herself. Perhaps there was one benefit to her ruination—that she’d never again be invited to the sort of dinner party where she was required to endure the caterwauling of some conceited debutante or her mama, and applaud their “singing.”
Stop it! a voice inside her mind admonished her. How many times had Papa warned her of the sins of spite?
And of jealousy. For was she not jealous of the family standing at the front? They had respectability, and were most likely admired for their position in the world—even if their world was this little, obscure corner. Sandcombe might only be a day’s ride from London, but it might as well have been across the ocean that her new home overlooked. And it was ruled by the family standing at the front of the church—the family who had wrinkled their noses in disdain when they set eyes on her, as if she were nothing.
And I am nothing now.
The hymn concluded, the last echoes of the voices disappearing into the ceiling. At a word from the vicar, the congregation sat. Etty placed her hymn book on the pew, then adjusted the shawl that held her son close. He stirred in her arms, then stared at her with his deep-set blue eyes.
“Mama.”
“Hush, sweetheart,” she whispered, as a woman in the pew in front turned to glare at her, before resuming her attention on the vicar climbing into the pulpit. The murmur of whispers faded, punctuated by the occasional cough. A brief moment of silence descended, as if the congregation held their breath in anticipation. Then the sermon began.
Gabriel let out a gurgle, and his forehead creased into a frown. Etty recognized the precursor to a bout of crying. No doubt he was hungry, given the voracity of his appetite—yesterday he’d eaten enough of the stew for a boy twice his size.
He let out a low cry, and the woman glanced over her shoulder once more and issued a sharp sigh.
Why was it that children always grew distressed when they needed to remain silent? The woman—and, most likely, the family at the front of the church—believed that children should be hidden away, lest their spontaneous, improper, and uncouth noises tainted the sanctity of a church building.
With luck, the sermon would be short. Unlike Reverend Gache’s sermons— he clearly believed that the number of souls he saved during a service was in direct proportion to the length of his speeches. With even greater luck, today’s sermon would be a little less righteous than Reverend Gache’s pontifications. He had been willing to baptize Gabriel—doubtless due to Papa’s generous donation to the church—but accompanying the service had been a lecture on the sins of women, from Eve, the original sinner, to the women who tempted righteous men to stray. Of course, being a man himself, the reverend had said nothing of the men who ruined women for nothing more than their own gratification.
Gabriel let out another cry, and Etty flinched at a ripple of tuts from the surrounding congregants. She held up her forefinger to her son’s face. His mouth creased into a smile as he grasped her finger, curling his fingers around it.
“We are all sinners in the eyes of the Almighty,” the vicar said, his voice echoing through the building.
Sinner.
Yet another pious man resolved to judge those he deemed unworthy.
Would she be forever condemned as a sinner?
“And it is said that we must repent of our sins.”
Some sins, perhaps. Etty cringed at the cruelty with which she’d treated others, including her own sister. But as she cradled the product of her greatest sin in her arms, her heart rebelled against the vicar’s words.
“After all,” he continued, his voice rich and warm, “is that not why each and every one of you is here today? To seek absolution from your sins?”
Etty’s cheeks warmed. Were his comments directed at her, the sinner in the back row?
“What is absolution?” he asked. “Can it be earned merely through an hour’s worship on a Sunday? Do we emerge from the service cleansed of our sins in the knowledge that we might sin again? Or should we set aside time to reflect upon our sins—the consequences of our actions, not just on ourselves, but on those around us?”
A cough erupted from somewhere near the front, followed by a volley of shushing.
“If a man beats his son on Friday,” the sermon continued, “then repents on Sunday, does the Almighty give him leave to beat his son again? Or a woman, who passes by a less fortunate soul without offering help—is she a worthier soul by virtue of attending the service today? When a sinner prays, what is he asking of the Almighty? Does he expect, through the act of prayer itself, to be absolved and given the freedom to sin again? Or should he be asking for something more, the strength to atone for his sins, to understand the suffering of those he—or she—has sinned against? Who is the worthier, the congregant who prays for forgiveness, or the heathen who takes action to mitigate the consequences of their sins?”
Etty glanced up at the figure in the pulpit. Heavens! Was the vicar casting judgment on his congregation—on the overly righteous creatures who believed themselves worthier individuals merely through attending church? What extraordinary words for a man who was, no doubt, living under the patronage of the very people he sought to criticize.
As Etty studied the vicar’s features, her heart gave a little jolt.
It was the man from the cliff path.
From his elevated position in the pulpit, a beam of sunlight illuminating his features, she could see him more clearly. His blond hair shimmered in the light like a halo as he turned his head to gaze across the congregation. His chocolate-brown eyes bore an intelligent, searching expression—as if he could see into a person’s soul at a mere glance, their sins laid bare.
“And what of the sinner who the more righteous among us believe to be beyond retribution?” he continued. “Should they be condemned forever, or should we ask for the strength to understand them? There are those of us driven to sin through necessity, or the persuasion of others. Those whom the more fortunate might condemn as having weak souls, but…”
He paused as his gaze settled on Etty. His eyes seemed to darken as they focused on her, searching her soul for its weaknesses.
And he would find many. For whom, among the congregation, could possibly have sinned more than she?
For a heartbeat the two of them stared at each other, the rest of the congregation seeming to fade into the background, blurred and indistinct, as if they were the only two creatures in the church.
He dipped his head a fraction, as if to acknowledge her presence, and her cheeks warmed at his scrutiny.
Why did he not continue?
The silence seemed to stretch, and she held her breath, tensing her body in anticipation for…
For what? Condemnation? Would he single her out as the ultimate sinner—yet another man to condemn a woman for a moment of weakness, declaring that, no matter how fervently she prayed for forgiveness, her tenancy in hell was already secured?
The child in her arms began to cry as she tightened her embrace with the instinct to protect him from the condemnation of the world.
Bastard. By-blow…
Words she’d heard before—hushed whispers from the doctor who’d delivered her son, leaving her bleeding and in pain so that he might return to his worthier patients as quickly as possible. Reverend Gache’s protests of allowing sinners into his church, which were abruptly silenced by the clink of Papa’s sovereigns.
Tears pooled in her eyes as she clung to her son. He let out a wail that echoed around the church, and a volley of tuts and hisses filled the air. The family at the front turned their heads in unison, the bright, wide-brimmed hat of the squire’s wife almost knocking off her daughter’s bonnet.
“Well, really !”
Etty cringed. How she longed to yell back at the woman—to ask her whether she believed there to be no sin greater than a child crying! But she had come to Sandcombe to hide away from judging eyes. To be left alone.
“Hush, my love,” she whispered, rocking her child to and fro. But his cries persisted. Perhaps, if the vicar continued his sermon, the congregation would ignore her and resume their attention on him.
She looked up. He was still staring at her, but the soft, searching expression in his eyes had gone. Instead, they had darkened with anger. His hands, which he’d been gesturing with while he spoke, now clasped the edge of the pulpit, the knuckles whitening.
Perhaps that was what his sermon was really about—that there were some sins which could never be forgiven.
Etty stood, cradling her son in her arms. The vicar’s eyes widened and he leaned forward, as if to see her better.
She slipped out of the pew then retreated toward the door. The vicar opened his mouth as if to speak, and she grasped the door handle and turned it, wincing as it creaked open. She exited the building, the door swinging back with a bang. Then, clutching her son, she ran through the churchyard, only slowing once she was out of sight of the church.