Chapter Eight
I n the days since Andrew last ventured near Shore Cottage, the place had been tidied up, though it had yet to return to the beauty of its former life. But now, someone had evidently tried their best to at least make the place look habitable, if not welcoming.
The trailing rose surrounding the front door had been clipped. Not tidily—were he alive, Mr. Legge would have had a fit of apoplexy at the manner by which the stems had been hacked back. But roses were hardy plants and could weather all manner of harshness.
Unlike the occupant of the cottage, given what Andrew could hear.
As he drew near the front gate, high-pitched wails filled the air, together with pleas for mercy.
“Please desist, sweetheart—I cannot bear it!”
The screams only increased.
Sweet heaven —it was almost as bad as the shouting he’d heard from the Smiths’ little cottage earlier. Though in that case, the shouts had been uttered in Ralph Smith’s slurred voice, followed by his wife’s gentle pleas for mercy while their newborn child, who’d not yet learned the need to be quiet to placate its father’s temper, wailed in distress.
But Loveday Smith was a survivor, and though the birth had been difficult, she had assured Andrew that she’d soon be well enough to return to her position at the Fulfords’ house, which would both placate her husband’s temper and ensure she spent the majority of her time out of his way—at least, until she quickened with her next child.
Why was it that men of the world had been given leave to rule it, whereas women, who were considered the rightful property of their husbands, could only hope to survive it?
Even little Frannie Gadd would soon have to learn the rules of survival. At twelve years, she was old enough to be sent out into the world to earn a living. But it was the way of the world, both among the highborn and the low. Sons inherited estates, or worked the farms, or sought professions of their own, and daughters were sent into service—as wives or maids.
Perhaps he should consider that as material for his next sermon—rouse the women of Sandcombe to take charge of their lives and resist their husbands and parents. The bishop would just love that.
But the world could be changed with small steps. And if he could not change the world for everybody, then at least he could change it where it was within his power.
Andrew approached the door and another wail came from within, followed by sobbing.
What had driven the woman inside the cottage to come to Sandcombe? What had she survived?
He knocked on the door, and her sobbing stopped. The child’s wails continued, and Andrew knocked again.
“Mrs. Ward?” he called out. “It’s Mr. Staines.”
More wailing.
“The vicar,” he added.
“Oh!” a voice cried, and footsteps approached. Then the door opened and she stood before him.
His heart skittered at the sight of her—as it had done only that morning after the service, when he’d come upon her in the graveyard.
From a distance, she was beautiful. At close quarters, she was breathtaking.
Her delicate, perfectly proportioned features were reminiscent of the angels he’d seen in portraits—porcelain skin giving her an almost ethereal quality. Honey-blonde hair framed her face in soft waves, the curls coming loose about her shoulders only serving to soften her beauty. As for her eyes, he’d never seen a blue so vivid, the unshed tears enhancing their color, as if he stood before an exotic ocean into which he longed to dive.
But what clawed at his heart was the raw anguish in their expression—as if she’d surrendered her defenses until her soul was laid bare for him, exposing her desperation.
“Mrs. Ward…”
“How do you know my name?” she asked, her eyes widening. “Wh-why are you here?”
“It’s my duty to visit all my parishioners,” he said, “to tend to those in need…”
She drew in a sharp breath, and the expression in her eyes hardened. “I have no need of charity, vicar.”
“Mr. Staines, please,” Andrew said. “And I apologize if I gave offense.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“I’m sure you can, Mrs. Ward, but there’s no shame in accepting a little help.”
“I’m in no need of any—”
“ Service , then,” he said. “Not charity. A vicar exists to serve his congregation, and, as you have attended church since your arrival at Sandcombe, I consider you one of my flock.” He extended his hand. “May I offer my service, if nothing else?”
She glanced at his hand, then another wail rose from within the cottage. She slumped against the doorframe and closed her eyes. When she opened them, a tear splashed onto her cheek.
“Let me at least assist you with your child,” he said.
“I’m in need of no—”
“I beg to differ, Mrs. Ward,” he replied, smiling. “Let me help—for the sake of your ears, if nothing else.”
She frowned at his weak little joke.
“A child can be hard work,” he added. “Especially if you’re on your own.”
“How would you know?” she snapped, her body stiffening with hostility.
“Granted, my sex gives me no right to speak from experience,” he replied, “but many of my parishioners are women on their own, and I strive to understand their plight and help where I can.”
“And why should I entrust you to help me?”
“A vicar is a most tenacious of visitors,” he said. “He’ll not take refusal lightly, and will always insist on visiting his parishioners, even those who do not welcome his visits. In that respect, he’s akin to a village busybody.”
“The village busybody?”
“Yes,” he said. “We all know her—she considers the residents of the village to be her subordinates and will push herself into their homes, uninvited or not, to exhaust their defenses until she’s persuaded them to help her with the village fete, her latest charitable drive for the needy, or the collection for the church roof, for which she will take all the credit herself.”
“Is that not what a vicar does?”
“Certainly not,” he said. “Unlike the busybody, the vicar only wishes to serve, not be served.”
Her expression softened and the air of hostility diminished as she let out a sigh, most likely of resignation. Then she stepped back and gestured inside.
“Very well,” she said. “There’s little point in exhausting my defenses if you’re going to admit yourself anyway.”
He let out a laugh. “That’s the most honest invitation I’ve had since my ordination. I daresay most of my parishioners consider me a necessary evil rather than someone to be welcomed into their home.”
“Then why do you do it?” she asked. “Because it’s the right thing to do?”
“No,” he replied. “It’s because it’s the good thing to do.”
The corner of her mouth twitched.
“Ah!” he cried. “Do I see the beginnings of a smile?”
Another wail.
“What can I do to help?” he asked.
“I don’t need—”
“I didn’t ask whether you needed anything, Mrs. Ward,” he said. “I asked what I could do.”
She led him through the hallway and into a parlor overlooking the sea. The room looked as he remembered it when he’d visited Eleanor, except for the dust on the windows and the cobwebs clinging to the ceiling…
…and the crib in the center, where a toddler stood, clinging to the sides, mouth open, wailing.
As Andrew entered the room, the child paused, sea-blue eyes widening as they focused on him.
“Sweetheart, we have a visitor,” his mother said.
The child stared at Andrew, then resumed attention on its mother, opened its mouth, and let out another wail.
“Gabriel, no!” She rushed toward the cot and lifted the child into her arms.
“And who might this be?” Andrew said brightly.
“My son,” she said. “Gabriel Leonard.” She kissed the top of the child’s head and sighed. “Gabriel, because he’s my angel.”
“And Leonard? Is that Mr. Ward’s name?”
“No,” she said sharply, and the boy let out another cry as she tightened her hold on him. “It’s after my father.”
“I apologize. I meant no offense,” Andrew said.
She blinked and another tear splashed onto her cheek. “It matters not.”
“Are you—forgive me—a widow?”
She let out a sigh and turned toward the window, the sunlight illuminating her profile. “Mr. Ward is no more.”
“I am sorry for it.”
“Don’t be.” She leaned against the window frame, her gaze fixed on the view outside.
Yes. She was a survivor.
And she was exhausted. Though she clung to the child with the ferocity of a tigress protecting her young, her body trembled as if her legs could no longer hold her thin frame. Dark rings circled her eyes, in stark contrast to her pale skin.
“Here, let me,” he said, offering his arms. “I can take the child for a moment.”
She opened her eyes and frowned, her gaze unfocused, as if she’d forgotten who he was. Then, as he stepped forward, she gave a nod of resignation and handed the child over.
The boy’s cries increased at first, then, as Andrew held him in a firm grip, he settled, his wails lessening to soft sobs.
His mother frowned and shook her head.
“I can’t understand it,” she said. “He’s not settled since we returned from church—no matter what I’ve tried—yet as soon as you take him, he quietens. Do you perhaps come endowed with the power of the Almighty?”
“I think, perhaps, your son was crying because he could ,” Andrew said.
“He’s hungry,” she said, “and he always cries when he’s hungry. But he won’t…”
Her cheeks flushed and she averted her gaze.
“Won’t what?”
She approached the crib, picked up a shawl, and draped it over her shoulders, her blush deepening. “It matters not.”
Andrew’s own cheeks warmed as the realization hit him—he’d noticed a stain on her gown, just below the neckline.
“Won’t he nurse?” he asked gently.
She shook her head, then closed her eyes and lifted her hand to her mouth, a small sob escaping her lips. “I-I cannot speak of it.”
“Because propriety dictates it? I promise you, Mrs. Ward, a vicar is taken into his parishioners’ confidence as much as, if not more than, a doctor is by his patients.”
“And what does a vicar have to say to a mother who is failing her son?”
“I see no failure, Mrs. Ward.”
“Then what do you see, vicar?” she asked, her eyes bright with tears.
“I see a woman all alone in the world,” he said. “A woman who has overcome adversity with a determination to survive. A woman who understands the meaning of love, who wants to do the best for the child she cherishes above all.”
The tears spilled onto her cheeks. “Do not be kind to me, vicar.”
“Mr. Staines, please.”
“Do not be kind to me, Mr. Staines. I deserve no such consideration.”
“We are all deserving of consideration, Mrs. Ward.”
She shook her head. “Not I. I cannot even give my son what he needs.”
“From what I can see, your son is a perfectly healthy boy, and has everything he needs,” Andrew said. “If he no longer wishes to be”—he hesitated—“nursed, it’s because he’s growing up. I take it he has a healthy appetite?”
She nodded. “I tried him with the stew last night, and he seemed to enjoy it, though this morning…”
She wrinkled her nose, and Andrew grimaced. He could just imagine the consequences of a child taking solid food. The stench in Mrs. Biggs’s cottage after her first child digested his first solid meal had been enough to flatten a herd of cattle.
She averted her gaze. “There’s so much to do just to keep him clean and tidy that it leaves me little time for housekeeping.” She gestured about the parlor. “What must you think ! I’m ashamed to admit anyone.”
“I think you’re working as hard as you can with no help,” he said. “But we must all make time for ourselves, to reflect and to enjoy the moment After all, is not life there to be lived?”
“That’s an easy argument for you to make, vicar.”
“Mr. Staines, please. Or, if I may be so bold, you could call me Andrew.”
Her mouth twitched into a smile. “Mr. Staines.” She gestured to the boy in his arms. “He likes you, at least, but a child is permitted more freedom when it comes to intimacy. And I suspect he’s the principal reason for your visit.”
“You wound me, madam,” he replied. “I came to see you. Your son has everything he needs—a loving mother. Whom do you have, Mrs. Ward?”
“I have no one.”
“I beg to differ,” he said. “You have me. And if I may be so bold as to make a suggestion, I think I have the very person who might be able to help you.”
She arched her eyebrows, and he caught a glimpse of another woman in her expression and the way she held herself—a lady, reigning over the ballrooms of London.
A mystery surrounded her—who she was, and why she was in Sandcombe.
She was a lost soul, out of her world, and her allure was not merely due to her exquisite beauty, or the sorrowful expression that tore at his heart. It was in the fierceness with which she cared for her son, the purest expression of love, even though she believed herself to be inadequate. Never had he seen such strength of love in another living soul.
What might it be to be loved by such a woman?
He held out his hand. “I know I have no right to demand your trust, seeing as you hardly know me,” he said, “but I ask it nevertheless. Let me help you—and I will ask nothing in return. You have my word.”
She lowered her gaze to his hand, a flicker of astonishment in her eyes at his declaration. Yet she remained still.
“Are you so alone in the world that you believe it impossible to find another living soul whom you can trust?”
“Trust must be earned, Mr. Staines,” she said. “I know from experience the folly of trusting another. There is no service that can be offered without expectation of something in return.”
“Then I shall do everything in my power to earn your trust,” he said. “Take my hand as a gesture of faith, if nothing else. I give you leave to sever it from my body if I prove myself unworthy.”
The corner of her mouth twitched into a smile again. “I fear I’ll be unable to administer your punishment should you betray me, Mr. Staines. My kitchen knives are in sore need of sharpening.”
“Then the first task I promise to accomplish shall be to sharpen each and every knife in your kitchen.”
She met his gaze. Through the despair that seemed so much a part of her, he caught a flicker of mirth in her expression, and a ripple of warmth rushed through his blood, pooling at his center.
Then she stepped forward and took his hand. The air seemed to crackle as their fingers touched, and he caught his breath at the burst of need deep inside his body. His breeches seemed to tighten, and he shifted his feet to ease the thick ache in his groin.
Dear Lord! His body had never experienced such a powerful reaction, not since he’d first entered manhood and, as a callow youth, had pleasured himself to secret dreams of the women that Robert regaled him with tales of—painted peacocks capable of wringing every last drop of exquisite pleasure from a man. Then he had set such sinful urges aside when entering into his vocation. But, as his older brother had always said, a man had needs, and no matter how many prayers he might utter, those needs always simmered close to the surface, ready to burst forth when the right woman presented herself.
In Robert’s eyes, all manner of women had claimed that particular title. But Andrew had accepted the opposite of his brother’s rakehell lifestyle in the belief that only one woman existed upon whom he could bestow the title of the right woman .
And the deep tug at his soul told him that the right woman was standing before him here and now.
*
Sweet heaven —the expression in the vicar’s eyes was almost enough to restore her faith in others.
Almost, but not quite.
Resisting the visceral urge to pull herself into his arms—arms that looked strong enough to weather the burdens of the whole world, let alone hers—Etty released his hand, her soul shivering at the momentary sense of loss.
He might be a vicar, having delivered extraordinary sermons that spoke of a more liberal nature. He might have delivered a pretty speech with his strong, yet equally gentle voice, his warm brown eyes that threatened to claim her heart. Yet those same eyes had cast their judgmental gaze on her that very morning, and he’d assumed the worst when he saw her with the rose in the churchyard.
She was done being judged by others, and she was done trusting those who only sought to take advantage.
And, for all his pretty speeches, the vicar was a man. And men were not to be trusted.
Except perhaps Papa—but, even then, all Etty’s father had ever given her was his disappointment.
The vicar’s eyes narrowed, then he nodded, as if in resignation. Still cradling Gabriel in his arms, he stroked the boy’s hair gently, his body athletic and powerful, yet tender and caring at the same time.
Gabriel’s own father would refuse to acknowledge his existence, and no man in Society would want to take on a sullied creature such as herself, not to mention another man’s bastard. Even Papa had hesitated to show any affection for the boy, unable to hide the flicker of dislike in his eyes—dislike for the lecherous man who’d sired him, and disappointment in the daughter who’d ruined herself.
Yet the man standing before her—who, given his vocation, was the most likely to cast judgment on her—cradled her son in his arms as if the task came naturally, with the easy affection of one who did not judge, but who merely loved.
“He likes you, Mr. Staines,” she said.
He smiled over the top of Gabriel’s head. “He’s a delightful little boy, and a credit to his mother,” he replied. “But I’ll wager he can be something of a handful. I can see a resoluteness about him. But perhaps that is to be expected when his mother is resolved not to accept the help of others.”
“Are you here to remark on my character, vicar?” she asked.
“I’m here to offer help,” he replied. “And to apologize.”
“Apologize? What for?”
“For misjudging you this morning, after the service,” he said. “In the churchyard. I fear I disapproved of you without cause and made my disapproval known. And for that, I am sincerely sorry.”
Could he read her thoughts?
“You see,” he continued, “I care a great deal for the Gadd family. Their daughter Freda’s passing was a great loss.”
“And you think I’d be insensitive to the grief of others merely because I’m a stranger?”
“I have no wish to excuse my conduct,” he said, “merely to present you with a reason, though that reason be unjustified. And, of course, you will have known grief yourself.”
“I?”
“Your late husband.”
She nodded, then turned away from his gaze. “Would you like some tea?” she asked. “I’m sure it’s expected when the vicar calls. I-I think I have some in the kitchen, if you could mind Gabriel for a while.”
“Perhaps another time, when you are less busy,” he said. “And I meant what I said—I have the very person in mind who can help you.”
“Are you about to foist a village busybody on me?” she asked.
He let out a laugh. “No, a young girl in need of work. She’s old enough to be sent into service. Her family need the money, but they would be heartbroken if she were to leave Sandcombe. So, you see, you’d be doing them a favor, and gaining a helpmate and companion in return.”
Etty shook her head. “I relish the quiet too much, vicar, and wouldn’t want a stranger in my home. Please understand—I am not one to welcome prying eyes.”
“Yet you admitted me.”
“Only because you threatened to erode my defenses.”
He laughed again, and her heart tightened at the natural mirth in his voice—not a laugh given by a suitor desperate to ingratiate himself with the prettiest debutante in town, but the genuine laugh of an honest man.
“You are at liberty to refuse, of course,” he said, “but the person I have in mind is Frannie Gadd.”
“James’s sister?” Etty shook her head. “She’s just a child. How old is she—fourteen, at most?”
“She’s twelve,” he said, “and therefore old enough to go into service.”
Twelve? Was a girl really considered old enough at twelve to be sent away to toil day and night, at the beck and call of others?
Others such as myself.
How old had the servants at Papa’s townhouse been? The housekeeper was a widow in her forties, whose barked orders could always be heard throughout the house, particularly in the early morning, just before dinner, and each time visitors were due and there was work to be done. Etty’s own maid had been only a year or two younger than Etty herself. But what of the scullery maids and chambermaids, the servants who were kept downstairs lest the sight of them offended the family they served? Yet Etty had always indulged in the fruits of their labors, such as the fire that always blazed merrily in her bedchamber when she retired. Perhaps a child of twelve had been the one to scrape out the ashes, choking on the clouds of soot, before laying the coals and lighting them then scuttling away in fear of a beating were Etty to catch sight of her and be offended by her presence?
What a spoiled, selfish creature she had been! Perhaps she still was. But, at the very least, Etty could help another young girl to atone for the many other young girls whose toil she’d taken for granted in her former life.
For, if she’d learned one lesson from her ordeal, it was that Etty Ward was going to be a better person than Juliette Howard.
And the first step was to do something good. Not right, but good .
“Mrs. Ward?”
Etty blinked, and a tear splashed onto her cheek as the vicar’s concerned face swam into view.
“You must forgive me,” he said. “I did not mean to offend or pain you.”
“You make me quite ashamed, Mr. Staines,” she said. “I should be glad to employ the girl if she’s willing, and if her family trust me to care for her.”
“I think they would,” he said, smiling. “Their son spoke highly of you, of what you said to him this morning in the churchyard. He said you gave him great comfort.”
“I only said what anyone would say to a young man grieving for his sister,” Etty said.
“That’s where I beg to differ, Mrs. Ward. Not everyone would do such a thing. Only those who understand loss, and who are kind enough to wish to ease the pain of another.” He smiled, the warmth of his eyes intensifying. “And Jimmy Gadd would not gift his sister’s rose to just anyone. I should have recognized that, and I apologize for not doing so.”
Gabriel stirred in his arms and let out a yawn.
“Ah,” he said, “I see your son is a congregant in the making, for he struggles to stifle the urge to fall asleep at the sound of my voice. He only needs to learn how to sleep without his snores echoing around the church building. Unlike old Mr. Penny.” He winked at her. “I daresay Mrs. Penny’s blushes would be spared if my sermons were a little shorter so as to maintain her husband’s attention.”
“Well, I for one would not wish to have your sermons cut short,” Etty said. “Not when you are encouraging your congregation to question themselves and to think. Far better that than a vicar who merely orders his congregants to do his bidding. I particularly enjoyed your sermon today on the need to tolerate a noisy child in church.”
“Did you?”
She nodded. “Few sermons are so…considerate.”
“Then I consider my objective achieved,” he said, “for I believe I thought of you when I wrote it.”
He approached the crib and placed Gabriel inside. The boy struggled to his feet, gripping the sides, and watched the vicar with his wide, expressive blue eyes—which, thank the Almighty, reminded Etty of her father’s, rather than Dunton’s.
“Shall I send Frannie to you tomorrow?” he asked. “I’m sure you’ll like her, but if not, I’ll pledge to clean the cottage myself. Though I might perhaps stop at sharpening your knives.”
“You’re too kind.”
“It’s not kindness,” he said. “It’s a pleasure.”
His smile broadened, and his eyes gleamed with the earnestness of an innocent youth eager to please.
Then she saw it—the quality that set him apart from others.
His innocence.
In her life, Etty had only ever known one other truly innocent soul. Eleanor—the sister she had almost destroyed with her spite and jealousy. Eleanor—who had fled to this very cottage. Perhaps they had been friends, this kind, insightful man and Etty’s gentle sister.
If only Etty had been courted by a man such as him during her Season instead of making a fool of herself, trying to entrap a duke, then falling into ruination. The vicar might be a fully grown man who would have experienced life and an education, but he was, essentially, an innocent—more innocent than she. He had yet to shed the purity of youth and become the predatory male.
And yet there was a strength about him, a strength of character radiating from his eyes. He had no need of experience, for he had insight—the ability to understand a person merely by observation.
Andrew, he’d said his name was. A rather intimate introduction, given it was the first time they’d spoken. But the name suited him.
It meant manly .
Yes, he was that, all the more for his tenderness he showed toward her son. For who but the strongest of men would have the courage to display such gentleness in the presence of a stranger?
“I have intruded on your time for too long,” he said. “I’ll bid you good day, and send Frannie over tomorrow. But if I might make a bold request, may we part today as friends?”
He extended his hand once more, and, before Etty could resist, she reached out and took it. This time she was ready for the rush of longing as her skin touched his, but she still caught her breath as his long, lean fingers curled around hers. Gentle, tender, sensitive fingers, made to give comfort, rather than the coarse, fleshy fingers of another that had only ever made her skin itch with the need to cleanse herself.
“Good day, Mr. Staines,” she whispered.
“Perhaps, one day, you might call me Andrew.”
His cheeks flushed a delicate shade of pink, as if he understood the intimacy of the address, yet had dared to utter it anyway.
“Good day, Mrs. Ward.” He lifted her hand to his mouth and brushed his lips against her skin.
She suppressed a cry at the rush of need.
“Etty,” she whispered, before she could stop herself.
He arched his eyebrows. “Etty?”
A flare of desire ignited in his eyes, and she withdrew her hand.
Then the desire disappeared, replaced by the warmth. He bowed, then retreated to the door.
“I look forward to seeing you in church next Sunday, Mrs. Ward.”
He stepped outside, and Etty watched as he strode along the path toward the village, disappearing among the trees without a backward glance.
What must he think of her being so familiar, offering up her name on a first acquaintance, like a harlot enticing a man to purchase her wares?
How could she have been so foolish! Hadn’t Papa berated her on her lack of decorum that had thrown her onto the path of ruination?
A man such as Mr. Staines— Andrew —was not for her. A vicar had a position to maintain. He was revered by his parishioners as the moral ideal to which they must all aspire. And as such, a woman in Etty’s position was not for him. He deserved an honest girl—an innocent, untainted by ruination or sin. Etty had long ago thrown away any chance of a life with such a man.
And yet for the first time in her life, she had, when their hands briefly touched, felt a connection, as if their souls called out to each other across a chasm, as if she had been waiting all her life for the one man to make her truly happy. Not a man to furnish her with jewels, lavish carriages, or a title, but a man to love her merely for herself.
Eleanor had once spoken of a single defining moment, when a person stumbled across her true soul mate. And, in her vanity and spite, Etty had ridiculed her sister, thinking her words to be the nonsense uttered by a simpleton.
Until now.
But the defining moment had come too late.
By a cruel twist of fate, Etty—who had once had her pick of suitors—only now knew what it might be like to desire a man’s suit when all hope of finding a suitor had gone.