Chapter Seventeen
C ould the fate of Loveday Smith get any worse? Not only had her mother died in the night, but Loveday herself had sustained another injury—this time a graze to her side. Yet she continued to blame her clumsiness rather than the real perpetrator.
It was so unfair. The world was so unfair !
Etty’s only consolation was that the poor creature’s brute of a husband was away from home until the end of the harvest—no doubt wielding his thick arms and gruff words at Newford Farm.
With luck he’ll have an unfortunate encounter with a scythe.
Then she checked herself. There was little virtue in lowering herself to Ralph Smith’s level. Hateful as the man may be, it was not up to Etty to ensure he reaped the rewards of his sins. All she could do was protect his wife from further harm as far as she was able.
But were a handful of bandages and a jar of salve sufficient to keep Loveday safe—not to mention those poor children of hers?
Darkness had descended, though it couldn’t have been far past noon, and Etty shivered as the wind penetrated her shawl and clawed at her bonnet, picking up dust from the road, which swirled around before dissipating in the air. The trees seemed to lean at an unnatural angle, their leaves turning to reveal silvery undersides, giving the landscape an eerie glow despite the fading light.
Etty adjusted the basket on her arm and continued along the path, nodding in acknowledgment to Mr. Ham as she passed the Merry Sailor. The innkeeper touched his cap.
“Afternoon, Mrs. Ward. Been to see Mrs. Smith again, have ye?”
“Yes, Mr. Ham,” Etty replied. “Frances has been baking fruitcakes for the fete, and she made one extra. But don’t tell Loveday we made it specifically for her or she’ll insist I take it back.”
“You’re a good lass,” he said, “always visiting Mrs. Smith—and on a day such as this, when there’s a storm coming.”
“A storm?”
“Aye.” He gestured to the trees. “See that? My ma always said that’s the trees givin’ their warning—like a rabbit’s scut.”
“A what ?”
He let out a chuckle. “Ye’re a Town lass, all right! It’s the rabbit’s tail, which he flashes to his kin when there’s danger afoot, to tell them to take shelter. The trees do the same, my ma says, with their leaves, flashing their pale undersides to warn us folk of an oncoming storm. Some folk pass them off as old wives’ tales meant to frighten incomers, but most of them hold true. Loveday all right, is she?”
“She’s a little frail today, Mr. Ham.”
He nodded. “Aye, poor lass, what with her ma passin’ and all, she’s got no one to take those girls off her hands. She’s always ailing for something, and daughters are always such a handful.”
“And I suppose sons aren’t?” Etty said, swallowing her irritation.
“Fair dos, Mrs. Ward,” he said good-naturedly. “Our Tom was a right tearaway when he was young Florence’s age. But my Mary is a strong ’un and knows how to handle twenty boys. She can handle me , all right.” He grinned. “Not that I mind—she’s a fine, strong lass, is my Mary. Always has been. As for Loveday Smith, she was never a sickly child, but some women fade when they become mothers—takes it out of them, it does. Now, as for my Mary, she was as hale and hearty as ever she could be after our Tommy arrived. Mind you, that’s not to say Tommy wasn’t a handful. Mary had a lot to say about him when he was a little ’un. ‘Jim,’ she used to say, ‘Jim, I swear that boy’s going to be more trouble than all the lads in the village combined.’ But he’s a good lad, really. We thought he might do for Loveday before she married Ralph, but she’d already gone into service at the big house, and Mrs. Fulford’s housekeeper was very strict about gentleman callers. In fact—”
“Forgive me, Mr. Ham, but I’m rather cold,” Etty said. “I really should get back. I don’t want to leave Frances on her own.”
Heavens! Whoever said women were the purveyors of gossip while the men stayed silent had clearly not met Mr. Ham.
“Oh, beggin’ yer pardon, Mrs. Ward,” he said, chuckling. “I do prattle on so—my Mary is always pulling me up for it. ‘Jim,’ she says, ‘Jim, you’ve a tongue on you as long as—’”
He broke off at the sound of thunder in the distance.
“There’s the storm,” he said. “Best get yerself home before it takes hold. If you’re fit to wait a bit, I can hook Bessie up to the cart and take you over meself.”
“You’re very kind, Mr. Ham, but I’ll be all right,” Etty said, glancing at the sky.
“Hurry yerself, then, lass,” he said. “Storms are known hereabouts for coming in quickly. You’ll not want to be caught in it.” He removed his cap and bowed his head, then returned inside the inn.
The sign over the door creaked as it swayed to and fro in the wind. Then another rumble echoed in the air, and Etty drew her shawl about her shoulders and set off, quickening her pace as droplets of rain spattered on her face.
By the time she passed the church, the rain was falling more steadily, soaking through her shawl and dripping off the brim of her bonnet. She shivered as she caught sight of the red rooftop of the vicarage—but it wasn’t due to the cold.
How could Andrew have said such wicked things to her? How could he believe her to be a harlot, a woman who sold her body such that she might live under a man’s protection, a kept whore living in obscurity, servicing a man old enough to be her…
She shuddered. Even the thought of it could not be borne.
But could he blamed for having made such an assumption? After all, she had been deceiving him, and the rest of the village, from the day she arrived. They believed her a respectable widow, when in fact she was a ruined woman with the natural child of the man she’d attempted to seduce into matrimony.
Which made her no different to a harlot—worse, because she hid behind a veil of respectability.
Not to mention her act of spite against her sister. Whereas a woman’s desperation for security in a man’s world might justify her ruination, nothing could justify Etty’s deliberate attempt to ruin Eleanor.
What might her life have been like had she taken a different path?
I only feel shame for what my feelings have been.
What had Andrew meant? Had he loved her, only to retreat in shame at the notion of her ruination?
The rain began to fall more steadily now, blurring the air and turning the road into a quagmire. A dark shape shifted by the side of the road, and Etty’s stomach clenched with fear. The shape seemed to increase in size, and she stumbled back. Her foot slipped on a stone and she turned her ankle, almost losing her balance. She tipped her head to the sky, letting the rain assault her face.
“Oh, what have I done?” she cried. “Must I be punished forever?”
The shape moved toward her, seeming to float in the air, and she leaped back with a scream. Her feet slipped and she tumbled backward, bracing herself for the impact.
But it never came.
A solid body collided with hers and pulled her hard against a broad male chest.
“Steady there!” a voice cried. “I have you.”
She looked up into a pair of chocolate-brown eyes, their warmth in sharp contrast to the storm—a pair of eyes in a face she had grown to love, even though its owner had branded her a whore.
Her gut twisted with shame, and she struggled in his arms, but he held her firm.
“Leave me be!” she cried.
Another rumble of thunder filled the air, and she winced at the sharp crack overhead, as if the sky were tearing in two.
“I can’t leave you out in the storm!” he said over the thunder. “Come inside.”
“No—I must get home.”
“You’ll catch a chill if you remain outside much longer,” he said. “You’re soaked already, and the storm’s right overhead.”
“Andrew,” she sobbed, “I—”
“No,” he said, “I’ll not see your life in danger a second time. I care not what you say, I’ll brook no argument. Etty, trust me to take care of you.”
His kindness had more power to breach her defenses than his sanctimoniousness, and she yielded, clinging to his greatcoat. He swept her into his arms as if she weighed no more than Gabriel and carried her toward the vicarage, yelling for his housekeeper.
With gentle hands and soft words, he tended to her, wrapping her in a blanket and placing her by the fire, issuing orders to his housekeeper, then absenting himself from the room while the older woman helped Etty remove her wet clothes and helped her into one of her gowns before settling her into a chair. Finally, he returned with a tray bearing a steaming bowl of soup, a plate of sandwiches, cheese and cold meats, and a pot of tea.
“Oh, vicar, you should have left me to do that!” the housekeeper scolded him.
“Mrs. Clegg, a bachelor is quite capable of taking care of himself,” Andrew said, placing the tray on a table.
She let out a huff. “Not in my experience. But seeing as you’ll not listen to reason, I’ll leave you to it.” She straightened the blanket around Etty’s knees. “Is there anything else before I leave, sir?”
“Yes,” Andrew replied. “Send Samuel to Shore Cottage to tell Frannie Gadd that her mistress is safe.”
“There’s no need,” Etty said.
“There’s every need,” he replied, taking her hand.
The housekeeper arched her eyebrows, then nodded. “I’ll see to it,” she said before exiting the parlor.
Andrew released Etty’s hand, then picked up the soup bowl.
“Andrew…”
“Indulge me,” he said, ignoring her protest. “You’re cold, yes?”
She nodded.
“Then this is the best medicine to ward off a chill. My cook would be most put out if I returned with an untouched soup bowl.”
“Then why don’t you drink it yourself?”
He frowned, and she swallowed her guilt at her sharp tone.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I seem incapable of saying the right thing. When I strive not to hurt those dearest to me, I only succeed in causing more pain.”
He dipped the spoon into the soup and lifted it, a plea in his eyes. A simple act of appeasement.
“Sorry,” he whispered.
She reached toward his hand, and his eyes narrowed, as if he expected her to slap it away. Instead, she took his hand, guided the spoon into her mouth, and swallowed.
The flavor of beef, rich and warm, burst on her tongue.
“Do you like it?”
Her heart melted at the eagerness in his voice—reminiscent of a child who’d brought a gift to an adult whom he was desperate to please.
She nodded. “It’s delicious. Please pass my thanks to your cook.”
His mouth curved into a grin and his eyes sparkled with pleasure. “I’m so glad you like it!” he said. “I warmed it up myself.”
She suppressed a laugh at the notion of a man taking pride in something so simple as warming up a broth—a broth that, given the depth of flavor, his cook would have been simmering overnight, before straining it to remove the impurities.
Then she checked herself and smiled. Two years ago she wouldn’t have even deigned to enter a kitchen, let alone learn the art of making a good broth. She had no right to laugh at his ignorance.
After she finished the soup, he took the bowl from her hands, then poured the tea, handed her a cup, and sat in a chair opposite.
She glanced toward the window, where the sky was already beginning to lighten.
“The storm seems to have passed,” she said.
He nodded. “Storms come and go quickly here.”
“So Mr. Ham said when I passed him earlier.”
“When was that?”
“Just before the storm came.”
“And he left you to walk home?” He let out a huff. “Foolish man!”
“Your concern is gratifying, but unfounded,” Etty said. “Mr. Ham offered to drive me home in the cart, but I refused.”
“I speak not out of concern, but out of…” He hesitated.
“Friendship?”
He colored and averted his gaze. “Can you ever forgive me for what I said?” he whispered. “I didn’t intend to insult you. It was only that I was surprised to learn…”
He shook his head. “It matters not. It’s my sin to deal with. I cannot excuse it—all I can do is tell you why.”
She set her cup aside.
“Envy is the worst of the seven sins,” he said. “For it causes a man to lose his reason. The other sins can be attributed to the natural urges of a beast. Any man can rise above those urges, and if he fails, the only one to suffer is himself. But envy…” He shook his head. “Envy is the root of all the evils of this world. Envy is the one sin that drives us to harm another, to take that from another which we feel we have greater claim to—whether that be happiness, a physical possession, or even a life.”
His voice faltered, as if he were in pain.
“What can give you cause to be envious, Andrew?” she asked.
“Sweet heaven, Etty—don’t you know?” He shook his head. “When I heard about your… protector , I was consumed with envy to learn that another had claimed your affection and not I. I thought only of myself. I was angry at first, then I realized that perhaps you had little choice, that you were the plaything of another. Then I was angry on your behalf, that you have been forced to live in deceit and obscurity as if you’re a dirty secret, while he no doubt enjoys a gentleman’s life elsewhere, being lauded for his respectability.”
She opened her mouth to respond, but the words failed her. Was this what had tormented him the day he encountered her on the beach?
He pressed a finger against her lips. “Please, Etty—permit me to finish, for my courage will fail if I stop now. I have never known what it is like to have a rival, for I have never loved or wanted a woman. But I will say this. I know my brother—and men like my brother—who believe their worth in the world is measured by the number of women in their power. When Robert regaled me with tales of his mistresses and his exploits, I’m ashamed to say that I laughed with him. But no more. And do you know why? Because, in you, I see the consequences of a man’s folly. I see a good woman imprisoned by circumstance, forever beholden to the man who owns her. I do not blame you—the father of your son must always hold a place in your—”
“Andrew, stop.”
“No, I must—”
“Stop, please!” she cried. “Do not speak of Gabriel’s father!”
“But the man—”
“The man about whom Mrs. Fulford is spreading gossip is my father, not Gabriel’s.”
He jerked backward, his mouth agape.
“I have no protector,” she said. “I chose to come here of my own free will, to live a quiet life with my son. My income comes from a stipend my father’s solicitor settled on me after the birth of my son. My father came to visit on his return from a business trip overseas—to meet his grandson.”
“Oh sweet heaven!” he cried, his voice filled with relief. “What must you think of me? Can you ever forgive me?” He reached forward and caught her hands, lifting them to his lips. “Sweet, sweet woman—how I have misjudged you, when you are perfection itself.”
“I am not perfection,” she said. “You have every right to think ill of me. I deceived you—I’ve deceived everyone. Perhaps if I’d been honest with you from the start, you might not have formed the conclusions you had, which were valid under the circumstances.”
“How can you speak so, my love?”
My love…
Almost as soon as he’d uttered the words, he gasped and stiffened. His cheeks reddening, he lowered his gaze and tried to withdraw his hands, but she held them firm.
“You… love me?”
His color deepened, and he grew still.
“Andrew?”
He lifted his gaze, and her soul seemed to sigh at the clear expression in his eyes—neither lust, nor need, but a deep regard, as if he valued her happiness above all else, including his own life.
The purest form of love.
She curled her fingers around his hands, caressing the skin with her fingertips, and he trembled.
“Then you deserve to hear the truth,” she said.
“I have no need to—”
“Gabriel’s father is alive.”
He stiffened. “Then—you’re still married?”
She shook her head. Realization filled his expression, but, rather than the judgment and condemnation that came with such understanding, she saw only compassion.
“Sweet heaven!” he cried. “Did he seduce you? You cannot be held accountable for that.”
She shook her head. “It was me,” she said. “I-I gave myself to him.”
“You what ?”
He stiffened, and she released his hands.
“I wanted a title,” she said, “and the recognition and security that came with it, such that I could never be considered inferior again. I wanted it so badly that I was prepared to offer the only real thing of value I had. My…”
He drew in a sharp breath, his color deepening.
“My maidenhead,” she whispered.
He winced and leaned back.
“As to Gabriel’s father, he took what I”—she swallowed her shame—“what I offered. Then he abandoned me.”
“Is he aware of the”—his brow furrowed—“ the child’s existence?”
A cold hand brushed the nape of her neck.
The child.
Not your son , or Gabriel , but the child . An impersonal thing—an unwanted creature to be tucked away, rather than a beloved son for whom she would do anything.
“I told him I was carrying his child,” she said, “in the hope that it would force his hand. But my plan failed.”
“What did you do?”
“I left London in disgrace,” she said, “to have my child in secret. Of course, there were those who tried to persuade me to give him away—hand him over to some childless couple who would give him a proper family life where he could live without the stain of being some man’s bastard…” Her voice caught in her throat as she uttered that vile word—the word her mother had used to punish her with, that Dunton had thrown in her face as he threw her out of his townhouse.
“You considered it?” he asked.
“Not for a moment,” she said, rising. The blanket slipped off her knees, and he stooped to retrieve it. “I think I should be going now.”
“But it’s still raining.”
“The storm has passed,” she said, “and I don’t mind the rain. I’ve weathered far worse in my life than a few raindrops.”
“At least let me accompany you home.”
She shook her head. “I have survived this far by looking after myself. And I wish to return to my son.” She leveled her gaze on him, and he flinched, discomfort in his eyes. “He needs me,” she said, “as I need him. And I won’t let a little rain come between us. In fact, I won’t let anything—or anyone —keep me from my son.”
“Then I shall confine you here no longer,” he said, folding the blanket and draping it over the back of the chair.
He rang the bell, and shortly after a maid appeared, bobbing a curtsey.
“Ah, Jane, please find a shawl for Mrs. Ward—and have her clothes sent over to Shore Cottage once they’re laundered.”
“Yes, vicar.” The maid bobbed another curtsey and disappeared, returning shortly after with a thick woolen shawl. Etty took it, then Andrew escorted her to the door.
As she stepped outside, he caught her hand. “Etty.”
She turned to face him. “Yes?”
“I promise I won’t breathe a word of what you’ve just told me to anyone.”
“Thank you.”
He hesitated then dipped his head, his gaze falling to her mouth. She parted her lips, waiting for him to claim them, then he withdrew.
She searched his eyes, seeking the love that had filled them earlier. But all she could see was sorrow and disappointment.
She had taken the risk of entrusting him with her secret—and even then only part of it—yet he’d crumpled under the burden. Just as Papa had said he would.
But she would not succumb to the burden. No, she’d spoken the truth when she said she’d let nobody come between her and her son.
Not even the man she loved.