Chapter Six
“A most interesting sermon, vicar,” Lady Fulford said as she exited the church, arm in arm with her husband.
“Thank you, Lady Fulford.”
Andrew bowed his head in acknowledgment, awaiting the admonishment. Lady Fulford always described something she found fault with as interesting . It was her way of acknowledging the efforts of those she considered lesser beings, while also explaining how they must do better next time.
“Though I fail to understand,” she continued, her nasal whine set at just the pitch to scrape against his nerves, “why you saw fit to ask so many questions.”
“A vicar does not exist to instruct his congregation on what to do, Lady Fulford,” he replied. “His role is to present his congregation with questions on pertinent issues.”
“Nonsense!” she scoffed. “What’s a vicar’s purpose if not instruction? You are responsible for the moral and spiritual welfare of your flock, Mr. Staines. A shepherd must instruct his flock to prevent them from straying.”
“My flock consists of men, women, and children, Lady Fulford—not sheep,” Andrew said. “The Almighty has gifted us with the free will to decide for ourselves what we must do. We should therefore be given the empowerment to make our own decisions. An act of goodness has little merit if it’s undertaken under coercion or instruction. But if it’s undertaken with free will, gladly and joyfully, then it has greater merit.”
“Free will is all well and good, vicar, but if all of us had free will, the world would descend into chaos,” she said. “Would it not, Sir John?”
Her husband nodded. “Quite so, my dear. Not all of us are the same. Consider the difference between men and women, for example. Men are stronger and more capable of directing the world. That is why a woman vows to obey her husband—so that she might act upon his instructions. And then”—he gestured toward the other people milling about the churchyard—“there’s the distinction of rank. The lower classes rarely know what’s best for them, and are in need of instruction in order to survive.”
“Instruction from men such as yourself?” Andrew couldn’t help asking.
Sir John narrowed his eyes, and Andrew suppressed a shudder at the flicker of spite in their expression—the pale blue the color of ice. Almost involuntarily he glanced toward Mr. Gadd, who stood less than ten feet away. The farmer watched them, apprehension in his eyes, his youngest daughter standing beside him. Then he touched his cap and bowed his head.
“Sir John,” he said.
The squire glanced at the farmer, then took his wife’s arm and strode out of the churchyard.
Andrew lifted his eyes to the sky for a moment, uttering a silent prayer for the uncharitable thoughts that always entered his mind when he spoke to the Fulfords.
And for the ungodly degree of anger that had gripped him during the sermon when he’d overheard Lady Fulford voicing her disapproval of the crying child.
God’s house is not for screaming brats.
The crying had come from the back of the church, where Andrew had spotted a golden head illuminated in the sunlight. His breath had caught, and for a moment, the sermon forgotten, he’d lost himself in a pair of soulful eyes the color of cornflowers gazing at him from across the nave.
It was the woman from the cliff top, cradling a child in her arms. She’d wrapped a shawl around herself to secure the child to her body, which in itself was nothing of note, except for the shawl. It was not the rough, homespun garments in muted greens and browns that most villagers used. It was a rich blue, the color of pale sapphires, that caught the sunlight and shimmered as she moved, emphasizing her eyes—the most beautiful pair of eyes he’d ever seen.
He’d wager his tithes that the shawl was silk. It wouldn’t look out of place in the finest establishments of London’s premier modistes. Not that he had any experience of modistes—or of women.
Unlike Robert. But then, Andrew’s brother, being the eldest, and therefore the heir, had amassed, in the years since leaving Oxford, considerably more experience of modistes—and life in general, particularly women —than Andrew could hope to achieve in a lifetime.
Robert would have known what to say to her, the beautiful creature sitting alone at the back of the church. He possessed that easy grace that could charm their nanny into giving him an extra sweet bun, his tutors into forgiving his lack of prowess at Latin and mathematics—and each woman he met into welcoming him into her bed.
Or, if Robert’s tales were to be believed, not just their beds, but all manner of locations—a secluded corner of a garden, over the desk in a library, up against the wall in a hallway…
And even on the beach, which, were it not for the sand he’d spotted on his brother’s breeches after returning from an afternoon stroll with his latest paramour, Andrew would not have believed possible.
To think—what must it be like to make love to a woman and revel in the glorious release, unencumbered by guilt or remorse? What must it be like to make love to a woman on a beach ?
Andrew shifted position as his breeches grew a little too tight at the image of a pair of vivid blue eyes widening in pleasure at his touch.
Oh, heavens! That was another item to add to his nightly prayer for forgiveness.
It’s no sin to make love to a woman, Drew. You only need hear her cries of pleasure to understand that.
Perhaps Robert was right about love not being a sin. But envy was . Sometimes Andrew struggled to conquer his envy of his older brother, no matter how much he loved him. What might it be like to have Robert’s lust for life and pleasure, unencumbered by conscience?
And what of the countless women he bedded? Granted, Robert ensured each woman was willing and well compensated for her trouble, but what of the consequences that Robert never bothered himself with?
Such as unwanted children.
Andrew glanced across the churchyard to where Mr. Gadd stood with his wife and children. The farmer stared at Sir John Fulford, his usually mild expression twisted into dislike. Then, after the squire and his wife passed through the lychgate, the farmer resumed his attention on his family and shepherded them toward Andrew.
“A fine sermon there, vicar,” he said. “My Peg was remarking on it just now, weren’t you, love?”
Mrs. Gadd wiped her eyes. “Aye, that’s right, vicar,” she added, nodding to her son. “You thought so, didn’t you, Jimmy?”
The lad nodded unsmilingly. What had happened to his usual cheery demeanor? Most days when he came to the vicarage with a delivery, he could be heard whistling a merry tune even before he approached the door.
“That’s very kind Mr. Gadd,” Andrew replied, “and Mrs. Gadd, of course.” He lowered his gaze to the young girl holding the farmer’s hand. “And how are we today, Frances?”
The girl colored and gave him a shy smile.
“Answer the vicar, Frannie, love,” Mrs. Gadd said.
“There’s no need to rush her, Mrs. Gadd,” Andrew said. “There’s plenty of time. After all, it’s a day of rest, is it not? No need to be making haste or saying more than we care to.”
The girl looked up at him, unblinking. “It’s my birthday today. I’m twelve.”
Andrew’s gut twisted with shame, and he drew in a sharp breath.
August the thirteenth.
Sweet Lord —how could he have forgotten the date?
He exchanged a glance with the farmer and his wife—Mr. Gadd’s expression bearing the veneer of stoicism, Mrs. Gadd’s eyes bright with unshed tears. Then he patted the girl’s head.
“Oh!” he said, overly brightly. “A-are you doing anything special?”
“Mrs. Ham’s bringing a fruitcake round later,” Mrs. Gadd said. “Isn’t she, Frannie, love? That’s right kind of her, seeing as she’s always so busy with those lads of hers—they’re such a handful, especially that Tom.”
“Aye, they’re that,” Mr. Gadd said. “But they’re good lads, really—just like our Jimmy. They’ll grow into fine young men. Children are a blessing, Peggy, love—I’m sure Mary Ham would sooner have them than not. I…”
His voice wavered, and he tightened his hold on his daughter’s hand.
“I understand,” Andrew said, quietly, before resuming his attention on the girl. “You’re lucky to have one of Mrs. Ham’s cakes, Frances,” he said. “They always win at the village festival, and no matter how often my cook asks, Mrs. Ham won’t reveal the recipe.”
“Would you like to come for tea and have some cake, vicar?” the girl asked.
Andrew shook his head. “I’d love to, but I think today’s a day for your family. You’ll not want me intruding on your day.”
“Do come,” Mr. Gadd said, “unless you’ve other parishioners to visit—we wouldn’t want to take you away from your duties now. There’s that new lass at Shore Cottage—Mrs. Ward, her name be, the one with the young ’un who, I daresay, is needing a spot of help. She seemed distressed during the service today, and she’s all on her own, at least from what I can see. And Shore Cottage is so out of the way, there’s no folk nearby to call on.”
“She might like it that way, William,” Mrs. Gadd said. “Not everyone wants to surround themselves with folk. I’ll admit it’s hard with a little one even if you’re not on your own. But she seems pleasant enough. A widow, or so I heard—her husband passed before their son was born. But he’s left her a stipend to live on.”
“Have you called on her, Mrs. Gadd?” Andrew asked.
She shook her head. “I only know what Mrs. Ham told me. Our Jimmy took over a hindquarter of pork yesterday. Paid in advance, it was, too. Said she had the voice of a lady, didn’t you, Jim? All airs and graces, you said. But for all that, she was very civil.”
The lad shrugged. “She thanked me, that’s all.”
Which, if she had a genteel background, made her stand head and shoulders above the likes of Lady Fulford, who Andrew had yet to hear utter a word of thanks to anyone. In fact, ladies rarely thanked anyone they considered beneath them.
Which made the mysterious woman all the more intriguing.
“We shouldn’t be keeping you, vicar,” Mr. Gadd said. “We’re taking Frannie to Skegness today—after we’ve visited our Freda, of course. We should be back at the farm around six if you’re wanting a spot of tea. It’d be a great comfort to us if you visited, wouldn’t it, Peg?”
His wife nodded. She opened her mouth to speak, then she closed it again, and a tear splashed onto her cheek. Their son drew her close, and she let out a soft sob.
“Perhaps I’ll visit later, then,” Andrew said, then he touched her arm. “She’s in a better place, Mrs. Gadd,” he said quietly.
“Aye,” she whispered. “B-but I’d rather she were…”
“I know,” he replied. “Some wounds can never completely heal, no matter the passage of time, whether a year has passed or twelve.”
He spotted Mrs. Lewis approaching, a determined look on her face, and sighed to himself. No doubt she had some demand to make, or some ill-thought-out idea that only served to create more work for him—work for which she would claim the entirety of the credit herself.
Oh dear—that’s another sinful thought to ask the Almighty to forgive in my prayers tonight.
“Mrs. Lewis,” he said, forcing a brightness into his voice. “Is there something I can help you with?”
Mr. Gadd took his wife’s arm. “Come on, Peg, love—Freda won’t wait for us forever.”
A funny turn of phrase, particularly given that Freda would be waiting for eternity, but nevertheless, Mrs. Gadd gave him a watery smile, and the family set off through the churchyard. Mrs. Lewis glanced in their direction and wrinkled her nose into the sneer always adopted by women of her class when they set eyes upon individuals who worked for a living.
“Now, vicar,” Mrs. Lewis said before he could draw breath, “I had one or two ideas about the flowers for the harvest festival I’d like to share with you. I know it’s some weeks off yet, but one cannot begin planning these things too early, particularly if we want the church to look its best. I won’t have it said hereabouts that Sandcombe is shabbily turned out compared to Havens Heath. My sister was boasting only last week that…”
He let her rattle on, nodding and smiling at the appropriate places so as not to cause offense, silently praying that a nod was not taken as a declaration of commitment to whatever scheme she had planned to outdo her sister and the ladies of Havens Heath via competitive floristry. At length she finished, and, seemingly satisfied—though most likely more with herself than anything he’d said—she strode out of the churchyard, leaving Andrew to return to the church building to join his curate.
After pausing at the door to glance toward the spot at the far end of the churchyard where the Gadd family had gathered, Andrew returned inside. His gaze wandered to the back pew where the mysterious woman had sat. The woman with a child, an expensive silk shawl, the voice of a lady, and a stipend from her late husband.
He closed his eyes, relishing the image of her face in his mind’s eye. She was exquisitely beautiful with her delicate features, soft blonde hair, and expressive blue eyes. If she were a lady, she’d be the toast of the ton , with men like his brother vying for the opportunity to court her.
Why in the name of the Almighty had she chosen to live on the outskirts of a country village, among strangers? And though, as vicar, he had every right to call on her, she may not welcome the intrusion.
And then there was the temptation—the merest thought of her set his pulse racing, as if he feared that her presence would tempt him into sin.
But oh, what pleasure might he find in such sin!
Next week. He’d summon the courage to speak to her next week, after the service. Perhaps by then he’d have conquered the unfathomable need that ignited deep within him when he first caught sight of her on the cliff top. But if not…
Oh, Robert—if only I could be more like you. You’d know exactly what to do.
Yes, sometimes Andrew envied his brother. And envy was the one sin that a second son—especially the second son of an earl—could never be free from.