Chapter Sixteen
“I must say, vicar, that was a most… unusual sermon.”
Lady Fulford stopped in the doorway and fixed Andrew with a stare, oblivious to, or most likely not caring one jot for, the rest of the congregation waiting behind her to exit the church.
Sir John stood beside her, the expression on his fleshy face conveying indifference, save the gleam of spite in his eyes.
“There is much to say about the sins of men, Lady Fulford,” Andrew said.
“But considerably more about the temptation of women, vicar,” Sir John said. “I would advise you not to instill an excess of modernity in your sermons.”
“Modernity?”
“Quite so,” Lady Fulford said. “The world thrives under a state of order, and on everyone knowing their rightful place.”
“Including women?”
“ Especially women,” Sir John said, his vehemence releasing a droplet of spittle that settled on his chin.
“We are all weak in the eyes of the Almighty,” Andrew said. “The greatest attribute we can possess is the humility to recognize our own failings and the willingness to atone for them.”
“Granted, those of us with failings must recognize them—but it’s up to those of us without such failings to restore order.” Sir John stepped aside to let the rest of the congregation pass, ignoring most, but giving the occasional curt nod to those he deemed worthy, such as Mrs. Lewis, and Mr. and Mrs. Ham. “Look at them all,” he said, a sneer in his tone. “Where would they be without men of my station? Is it not godly to know one’s place in life?”
At that moment, Loveday Smith filed past with her husband. She drew in a sharp breath, glanced up at Sir John, and stiffened.
“Come along, woman,” her husband growled. “Don’t be makin’ a show of me.”
“Forgive me, Ralph,” she said quietly, and clung to his arm as he steered her along the path to the lychgate.
“Now there’s a man who knows his place,” Sir John said. “And he knows to keep his woman in line, lest she stray.”
Andrew’s stomach churned, and he caught his breath to temper the rise of nausea in his throat.
“Of course, some men are less able to withstand temptation,” Sir John continued, fixing his gaze on Andrew. “Perhaps your sermon was directed at them. But you must warn the weak minded against those who seek to tempt the unwary—sirens who draw men to their ruination by playing on their baser needs.”
At that moment, Etty crossed the threshold.
Their gazes met, and Andrew’s body tightened at the memory of last night, when, alone in his chamber, he’d succumbed to the same base needs that Sir John spoke of.
A faint blush colored her cheeks, and her eyes widened. The intensity of the blue only served to increase his shame. Did she know his thoughts, his desires? Surely she must after he’d conveyed them so plainly yesterday. Not with words, perhaps, but the violence of his body’s reaction was such that even the most innocent of creatures would be in no doubt of the sinful urges that had raged through his blood.
Ye gods —had Frannie not been standing beside the shore, he’d have been unable to stop himself. He would have thrown Etty to the ground and taken her among the waves to ease the torrent of lust in his soul. His manhood had surged in his breeches, yearning to be buried inside that delectable body bared to him through those flimsy petticoats. His mouth had watered at the sight of those perfectly rounded breasts with their dark pink nipples beckoning to him.
What had begun as an almost paralyzing fear when he’d seen her swimming, exposing herself to those treacherous currents—a fear so potent that his body ached with it—had morphed in an instant to the most powerful, uncontrollable lust. His senses had been beset by the most primal of needs—a need that his rational mind had been unable to conquer.
The need to mate.
He—an educated man, in a trusted position where he set the moral standard that elevated him above the ordinary—was nothing more than a beast. The ugly stains in his breeches were evidence enough of his savagery. But, not content with that, he’d stroked himself to pleasure while he lay alone in his cold bed last night, crying her name as he came to completion—only to wake to the cold light of dawn, beset by shame and self-loathing as he caught sight of the stains on his bedsheets.
But he could not bring himself to pray for forgiveness. Not because he feared that the prayer—as every other prayer he’d uttered—would go unanswered, but because a wicked little corner of his soul had relished the pure bliss of completion. That dark essence inside him believed that there was nothing to forgive.
And what was the merit in seeking forgiveness for a sin that he was bound to repeat, seeking satisfaction at his own hand as some small compensation that he could never seek pleasure at hers?
“Vicar!”
Lady Fulford’s voice returned him to the present, and he swallowed his shame at the realization that he’d been staring at Etty. “Yes, Lady Fulford?”
“I was saying that I require you to visit this afternoon, to discuss the village fete. I’m not satisfied that the new tenants at Newford Farm are making enough of an effort, and there’s barely a fortnight before the event. And Mrs. Dodds is making an awful business of the cake stall. She seems to have forgotten that the success of the village fete reflects upon us.”
“Can you not speak to them?” Andrew asked.
“You’re the vicar,” she replied. “It’s your duty to manage these things, and not be distracted by temptation.”
“I assure you, Lady Fulford, I’m not so distracted by temptation that I cannot undertake my duties properly,” Andrew said.
“Good. Then I shall see you at three o’clock.” The edict delivered, she turned her attention to her husband. “Well, Sir John?”
“Yes—yes, of course, my dear. Vicar.” He gave Andrew a curt nod, then escorted his wife away. The rest of the congregants parted to make room, leaving Etty standing in the doorway, Frannie beside her, holding Etty’s child in her arms.
“Mrs. Ward, might I have a word—in private?” Andrew asked, glancing toward Frannie.
“You have nothing to say to me that Frances cannot hear,” Etty replied, her voice tight.
“Nevertheless, I ask.”
She sighed. “Very well. Frances, sweetheart, perhaps you’d like to spend some time with Freda? I’m sure Gabriel would enjoy a little walk.”
“Yes, Mrs. Ward.”
“You can tell Freda about the vicar’s sermon,” Etty added. “Particularly the passage about the responsibility of men and how those in a position of power must not be permitted to abuse it.”
Andrew’s cheeks warmed. Could she make him feel any more ashamed?
After Frannie had disappeared around the side of the church, Etty fixed her clear blue gaze on him. “Well?”
“I-I wanted to apologize,” Andrew said.
“What for?”
“For yesterday.”
She tilted her head to one side. “Much happened yesterday, Mr. Staines. If I am to appreciate and accept your apology, I must at least understand the transgression you believe yourself to have committed.”
“I-I fear I may have acted inappropriately toward you.”
She folded her arms.
Heavens—this is going to be harder than anticipated.
“And…I wish to convey my apologies and promise that I will not do so again.”
“What part of your behavior yesterday did you deem inappropriate?” she asked.
For a brief moment, her gaze flicked toward his breeches before she resumed her attention on him, and he shifted his legs to ease the ache in his groin.
“A man cannot be blamed for…”
“For responding to the temptations of women?” she said. “Are those your words, vicar, or Sir John’s?”
“I-I was afraid,” he said. “I was angry with you, but that anger came from fear.”
Her expression softened and his heart ached as she placed a hand on his sleeve. “Afraid of what?”
“Afraid for you,” he said. “When I saw you in the sea, I couldn’t help myself. The thought of you, in danger, in those currents…”
“I was in no danger, vicar,” she said. “I’m a strong swimmer. But I thank you for your concern.” She smiled. “I confess, I’ve raised my voice at Gabriel many times when he’s placed himself in danger. Anger is a natural reaction when you fear for someone about whom you care.”
Why must she say such a thing? Did she not realize the pain it caused, knowing that she was attached to another?
“I-I will not plague you again,” he said. “I have no right. Not considering…” He was unable to articulate the words. Voicing it would only confirm the reality.
“Considering what?” she asked softly.
He shook his head.
“Andrew?”
The tenderness with which she whispered his name breached his defenses.
“Considering that you love another,” he said.
“I… What? ”
“I don’t blame you, Etty,” he said. “I’m not like Sir John. I’d never blame a woman for the position she’s placed in. The man must shoulder equal responsibility, if not more.”
He paused, but she said nothing, her gaze fixed on him.
“A-and I know we’re friends,” he added. “Just friends. I’m content for us to be friends. It’s unthinkable of me to assume…” He shook his head.
Bloody hell, I’m making a mess of this.
He lowered his gaze in shame, wincing at the profanity, even if only uttered in his mind.
“Andrew?”
His heart ached at her soft voice, filled with compassion, if not the love he’d hoped and prayed for.
“Andrew, there’s no shame in—”
“No!” he interrupted. “Please do not say it, for it can never be unsaid. I only feel shame for what my feelings have been. But I shall always admire you, no matter your circumstances. I shall always be your friend—your very good friend. A woman must survive in the world in which she’s placed. She can never wholly be mistress of her fate. And therefore I will not blame you, nor judge you.”
She withdrew her hand, and he glanced up to see her staring at him, her face pale.
“Judge me for what?” she asked. “For Gabriel?”
“For Gabriel’s father.”
She flinched. “Y-you know…”
He nodded. “He was seen. Your…”
“My what ?”
He leaned toward her and lowered his voice. “Your protector. Mrs. Fulford saw him—as did Mrs. Lewis.”
Her brow furrowed. “Since when do you trade in gossip, vicar?”
“I didn’t relish the account, believe me,” he said, “and you can trust me not to tell others.”
“Oh, can I?” she said. “That’s so benevolent of you.”
“I don’t blame you,” he said. “I never would.”
“Your benevolence has no limit.”
He flinched at the hard edge to her voice. “I’m not criticizing you, Etty,” he said, “and I will defend you against those who do.”
She stared at him.
“Do you have nothing to say?” he asked.
“Only this.”
He caught a blur of movement as she raised her arm, then pain exploded in his cheek as she delivered a slap across his face. His head snapped sideways with the force of her blow, and he staggered back, rubbing his skin.
“How dare you!” she cried. “What right have you to judge me?”
“I told you I’d never judge—”
“It matters not what you tell me, vicar,” she snarled. “In my life I’ve learned that I can never trust another soul based on what they tell me—I can only trust what they do .”
“I’m not judging you, Etty.”
“Then how would you define this ?” She gestured toward him. “Your sanctimonious lecture about the sins of men and how us weak women are to be pitied when we succumb to the need to tempt your sex. And so, you believe the first story you hear about me—from the village busybody—that I am some man’s mistress? Did she perhaps tell you that I’ve established a bawdy house in her precious village?”
“Do you deny that a man visited you?” he asked.
“I deny nothing.”
“And…that he stayed the night?”
Her eyes flashing with outrage, she looked every part the lady of dignity, venting her disappointment at the unworthy soul who’d caused offense.
“I deny nothing ,” she repeated. The anger had gone from her voice—replaced by cold, hard ice.
“Then who…” He trailed off as she arched an eyebrow in the manner of a disappointed schoolmistress. “I have no right to ask.”
“On that , if nothing else, vicar, we are in agreement,” she said. “Nobody has the right to poke their noses into my affairs—not Mrs. Fulford, nor Mrs. Lewis, nor anybody in this accursed village. And especially not you.”
“Etty, I—”
“You have said quite enough, sir,” she said. Then she turned toward the churchyard. “Frances, sweetheart! Are you ready?”
“Yes, ma’am,” a voice called, and shortly after, Frannie appeared, Gabriel at her side. Etty rushed forward and embraced them, and Andrew’s heart ached at the love in her eyes, a love she had for her child, for the girl she’d taken in—and, most likely, for the man with whom he could never compete. Then, without a backward glance, the three of them retreated down the path and through the lychgate. He watched them toil along the road until they disappeared out of sight.