Chapter 10
Alfred
Dear Henry,
I hardly know what to write—and I am sure you can see the shaking of my hand.
You are the only friend I could trust with this secret.
I have been seduced. By who, you can well guess.
I remain, in technical fact, a member of our special club. But it feels merely a technicality.
I fear I have lost myself completely. And yet the pleasure. The pleasure makes me heedless of risk.
I am at her mercy.
Tell me what I should do—or condemn me, if you choose.
Alfred
I should be furious with her.
She called me so that I would miss preaching to my congregation without being able to give a warning.
All so that I could service her instead—and I didn’t even remove my clothes in her presence.
Then she roughly dismissed me, barely uttering a goodbye or giving an explanation for why she was choosing that moment to leave.
But I struggle to be angry with her.
It isn’t in my nature, it turns out, to be angry at a woman who has given me such pleasure.
And such release.
She is the only person—outside of my other fellow sufferers in the Virgin Gentlemen’s Club—who has ever cared about my deprivation. And the only one who has ever expressed without reservation that I should have license to pleasure.
Furthermore, given my state in the days leading up to Sunday, I now feel much better. As if my spend was a kind of exorcism. Even when I awake hard in the days afterwards, I am able to bear her orders with much greater ease. Because I know that she will call me to her again.
We may confidently assert that no man is entitled to the character of being chaste who by any unnatural means causes expulsion of semen.
The words still come to my mind.
And they still shame me.
I have done far worse than self-abuse.
At night, I pray to God for forgiveness and receive no response.
On one hand, I am sickened by what I have let myself become.
I am nothing more than a whore, a plaything, for a woman who cares nought for God.
And worst of all, I enjoy it.
Indeed, on the other hand, I revel in it.
My mind returns again and again to our interlude in the dining room, to the feeling of her core on my lips and tongue. I imagine wringing other climaxes from her and grow hard at the thought.
And deep down, I am glad that she controls my desire and my actions. It is a kind of relief. I no longer have to fight off my own temptations because it is useless. Soon enough, she will use me as she sees fit. And I will leave satiated.
I think of her constantly. All the time.
I imagine idly, any moment my mind is unoccupied by parish business, what she will ask of me next.
I have little knowledge of the bedchamber beyond my green book, so I have scant material to furnish such thoughts.
But truthfully, I don’t need more than the sight of Annabelle de Lacey on that chair.
Still, I find my green book and open it.
I find the pages where the protagonist is ridden by a woman in a country tavern. And I imagine Annabelle de Lacey doing the same to me.
I imagine her riding me on that very chair where I tasted her.
I imagine taking her on it again and again.
I imagine what her quim would feel like on my cock—and find myself having to stifle a moan.
I imagine that she is my bride, my wife, and that I take her as her husband.
Absurd, futile, painful—and yet so sweet.
Luckily, regarding my absence last Sunday, no calamity occurred. My curate, Mr. Peabody, assumed I was ill without warning—which is exactly what I told him—and wasn’t able to appear. So he preached the sermon instead.
In short, no harm came of it.
If you don’t count the damage to my soul, at least.
Which less and less it appears that I do.
Now I am in the village to pay a visit to a sick parishioner, a little old woman, Mrs. Katey, who lives behind the greengrocer.
I sit in her tiny drawing room now, the fire low despite the chill in the air.
She obviously cannot afford more warmth.
I pity Mrs. Katey and wish I could do more for her—but I struggle to keep my mind on her problems.
“It is the rheumatism, you see, Mr. Saintsbury. That is why it is difficult for me to come to church. But I could never miss it. No matter the pain.”
“Ah, yes, Mrs. Katey, and the parish thanks you. We need good parishioners.”
My mind slides away from her and towards Trescott Abbey even as I say the words. I feel guilty that I am so bored by the earnest old woman. She is exactly the type of person that I became a clergyman to help. I try to recenter my thoughts on her and her needs.
“Is there any mention of rheumatism in the Bible, Mr. Saintsbury?”
Was there? I scan over my memory.
“In metaphor, yes, I believe,” I say, calling up what I know with great effort. “And the scriptures reassure us that—”
My words are cut off by a loud cry from the street. It sounds like multiple voices raised in the square.
“Heavens, what is that, Mr. Saintsbury?”
I rise and stride to the window.
“I cannot see, Mrs. Katey. But you must excuse me. I feel honor bound to investigate if there is any trouble.”
“Of course, Mr. Saintsbury,” she says, her alarm evident.
I stride from the place and make my way to the square.
When I turn the corner I see a crowd gathered around a carriage—Annabelle de Lacey’s landau, I realize with a start.
Trepidation lurches through me.
I advance on the crowd and see a large man, a local laborer, Jack Liddell, at the center of the cacophony.
Liddell looks none too sober—which is a problem that my short time in the town has made me familiar with. The man came to church one Sunday already in his cups and was escorted out by a crowd of gentlemen before I could take the pulpit.
This time, however, the crowd—largely composed of other laborers and villagers, some of whom I know and others who I only faintly recognize—does not look antagonistic to him.
“We cannot let this whore rule over us,” he bellows at the others. “We all know she is wicked! And yet she runs our village!”
“Silence, you blockhead,” screams the coach driver, Simmons. “Out of the way! Or we will have the constable upon you!”
With a seize of panic, I realize what is happening. Annabelle de Lacey is in her carriage, the crowd is not letting her pass, and they are jeering.
“Really, Liddell,” puffs Mr. Thompson. “You are a beast to speak of a lady so.”
I let out a small sigh of relief at the sight of the older gentleman, tall and well-dressed as usual.
He held my post before me and has since retired and spends half his time in Bath and half his time here.
Mr. Thompson has always been amiable to me, even though I know that he has a son in the church and would have preferred for him to take my post upon his retirement.
I hear it said that old Mr. de Lacey found the young Thompson too flash and that is why he was passed over.
Knowing the disposition of fathers in the Church, I do not imagine that Mr. Thompson took such a snub lightly—but he has always been scrupulously polite to me.
“She is no lady. You know better than anyone what she is, Thompson!”
For a moment, I hesitate. Why should I leap to the defense of Annabelle de Lacey? Yes, she is a lady and no lady should be subjected to such abuse, no matter how notorious. But she is also currently blackmailing me, threatening me with penury and notoriety.
And yet even though this description fits what is happening between us literally, it does not seem to carry the full reality of our relation to one another.
And I cannot think of her shuddering on my tongue without a foolish, possessive spark kindling in my chest.
Without considering it further, I advance towards the crowd and push my way through.
I look through the carriage doors and see Annabelle de Lacey sitting there on the squabs. She appears almost bored, which I cannot fathom. The crowd appears ready to riot.
“Ah, my vicar,” Miss de Lacey says dryly. “I am saved.”
I grimace at her jibe. I may be a novice in the bedchamber, I may be a wretch she uses to her own ends, but I am no coward. I leap up on the box.
“Stand back,” I shout to the crowd. “Let Miss de Lacey through. Liddell, you best heed Mr. Thompson’s warning. I suspect you do not want to go before the justice of the peace again. You could be transported for a second offense.”
“Who would blame me? She’s infamous! Everyone in England knows her!”
“Sir,” I say. “You do not know what you say. You are drunk. I am giving you one last chance.”
“One last chance!” The man bellows. “We’ll show you.”
The crowd cheers at that mockery.
“Overset this carriage!” Liddell screams. “And send this whore back to London—or to the devil!”
The crowd advances, multiple hands grasp the carriage, and the conveyance rocks.
I catch Miss de Lacey’s eye. For one quick moment, I see a flash of fear.
That does it.
I have had enough.
Over my shoulder hangs my game bag. I promised the Ludlows I would stop by on my way back from town and help them clear their property of a few rabbits that have been getting into their vegetable patch. And now I am very glad that I made such a plan.
I pull out my fowler and fire it into the sky.
The crowd screams and instantly shrinks back.
“What in seven bloody hells!” Liddell cries.
“My word, Saintsbury!” exclaims Mr. Thompson. “Do not kill anyone, man.”
“You should all be ashamed of yourselves,” I say, managing to keep my voice steady. “This is not the Christian behavior I would expect of my parishioners.”
Already the crowd has begun to thin. A few of the men known to me personally look chastened as they quickly walk away. But just as many eye me with outrage.
“A mad vicar,” one woman, Sally Albright, hisses to another whose name I can’t recall.
Liddell and a few of the rougher men still stand before the carriage.
“We aren’t scared of you, vicar. A fine gentleman like yourself doesn’t shoot fellows in cold blood,” Liddell slurs.
A hot flash of anger washes over me.
I point the fowler at Liddell.
“Do you want to make that wager, Mr. Liddell? If so, you better make sure you’re certain.”
“Really, Saintsbury! Take care!” Mr. Thompson exclaims.
Liddell looks up defiantly. But then he steps back.
And spits on the ground.
“No true man of God would defend such filth.”
He turns and walks away. The other men wait for a minute and then follow suit.
I lower the gun, but keep my eyes trained on their backs until they disappear.
I look back into the carriage.
Miss de Lacey sits as cool as ever. However, despite her calm appearance there is something ineffable, something I would not notice if I hadn’t been so intimate with her the other morning, that suggests deep down she does feel some alarm.
“My Red Cross Knight,” she drawls. “I’ve never seen such heroics.”
My cheeks burn. I hate her mockery—why must she be so cutting? I defended her. Even when I shouldn’t have. My parishioners won’t like it. And she has hardly treated me in a way that demands I take her part.
“Take some advice, my boy,” Mr. Thompson says, the scorn in his voice unmistakable. “It is generally ill-advised to threaten members of one’s own parish. Especially if you mean to keep the living!”
“You do not decide, Mr. Thompson,” Miss de Lacey says, the acid of her tone as caustic as I have ever heard it, “whether Mr. Saintsbury keeps his post. I do. And seeing as he was defending me in this little farce, you can hardly accuse him of being reckless with his professional fate.”
“Yes, ma’am, of course,” Mr. Thompson says, bowing, “I only meant that Liddell and his ilk will not take kindly to being threatened—”
“Then they should not threaten others,” Miss de Lacey replies.
“I will give the good citizens of Trescott one attempted riot without any consequences. After the second, they will not be so lucky. The Abbey need not employ half the town or give the funds it does now for its welfare. Make that known, won’t you, Thompson? ”
“Miss de Lacey,” the man begins to object.
“We must leave. Mr. Saintsbury, please get into my carriage.”
I start in shock.
“I will walk back to the vicarage.”
“And risk letting Liddell and his friends find you and enact their revenge? I think not.”
A warm thrill goes through me. She is trying to protect me. Or is she just taking the opportunity to torment me further? Of course, I don’t exactly dislike her style of torment.
“I have my fowler. I will be safe.”
“It need not come to that. And all the more reason I should have you with me—for my own benefit,” she snaps. “Get in.”
Of course, she wants the gun. As a gentleman, I cannot refuse.
Or is it more?
I am not sure.
Her face tells me nothing. The intuition that told me she was at least a little frightened of the crowd fails me here.
I stare into her soft blue eyes. She looks so sweet and proper right now in her day dress and mantle, especially if you didn’t listen to what came out of her mouth. It seems absurd that men were just agitating to expel her from town.
I shake my head.
It doesn’t matter what she looks like.
I can’t resist her.
She holds my entire life in her hands.
In so many ways.
Worse, I want to get into the carriage.
“Very well.”
I climb in and seat myself across from her.
She taps the carriage roof and nods to Mr. Thompson.
And then we are alone.