Chapter 13
“You pray for the black sheep,” Cyrus Whidman said. “You worry about the lambs who are too virtuous.”
Vicar Whidman was the quintessential spry old gent, with thinning white hair worn back in a queue. He was hook-nosed, shortish, thin, and moved with a bobbing gait that nonetheless saw him traversing the bridle path at a good clip.
“Was my mother too virtuous?” Richard asked, ambling along beside the former vicar.
Whidman pushed aside a precocious branch of blooming honeysuckle.
“One supposes not. Marie was a cheerful, kindhearted girl, as I recall, and that was in contrast to her papa and younger sister. Old Tuffington was dour in his soul, but then, his acres were tired, he had no sons, and he was widowed.”
“Grandpapa was pockets to let?”
“We all were. War with the French had all but bankrupted the realm, the American colonies then embarked on their spree of mischief, and the military’s bottomless appetite for wool was not yet delighting every sheep farmer in the realm.”
“The military developed a bottomless appetite for everything, leaving us with an apparently bottomless debt now.”
“Quite so, quite so. In any case, Tuffington had married late. His wife predeceased him, he was getting on, and his situation wasn’t improving. He took a notion to see his daughters married off, and when that man set a goal, nothing was allowed to stand in his way.”
Richard had to make himself focus on Whidman’s words, when he’d rather be dazedly contemplating the wonder of the day’s earlier picnic with Amabel. They had lingered at the fishing cottage for more than two hours, talking, cuddling, and gradually emptying the hamper.
He’d been torn between a desire to return to the upstairs bedroom with her and the knowledge that he’d made a good beginning and should be content with that success. Then too, Amabel hadn’t initiated further intimacies.
What fool had convinced her that nobody needed to rush?
After seeing her back to the manor house, Richard had tried closeting himself in the library with the hoard of legal documents wrested from the solicitors, only to eventually give up.
The steward’s reports were no match for the memory of Amabel drowsy and replete in his arms. A wander along the bridle paths had resulted in this chance encounter with the elderly Whidman, who’d proven friendly and forthcoming—so far.
“Mama was not yet of age when Tuffington decided she should marry. Did that bother you?”
“My good fellow, a Yorkshire lass marrying at fifteen isn’t unheard of, and seventeen is well within acceptable practices. I presided over your mother’s nuptials without a single qualm. Perhaps in light of subsequent developments, a qualm or two might have been in order.”
Late afternoon was beginning to hint of early evening, with sunbeams filtering through leafy boughs overhead. In another hour, the birds would start singing, and Richard would be pouring wine for the ladies at table.
“Do you have regrets about performing that ceremony?” Richard asked.
“Of course I do. I’d been vicar at that point for about five years, and I prided myself on the godliness of my flock.
Tuffington was something of a curmudgeon-in-training, but he came to services and brought his girls with him week in and week out.
He paid his tithes to the penny, which mattered a great deal to me at the time.
I did not yet know that a vicar’s most important job is not brilliant sermons, or fancy rituals, or even distributing what paltry alms the church wrings from its parishioners. ”
“What, then, was your most important duty?”
“Let’s sit. When you get to be my age, you learn the location of every obliging fallen log, boulder, stone wall, and bench—most especially the benches—in the shire. There’s a lovely bench by the pond down that trail.”
Richard followed the old fellow through the undergrowth, and they emerged upon a medium-sized pond in the middle of a meadow of tall grass. A pair of geese glided across the center of the pond, occasionally dipping their heads beneath the surface.
“The bench,” Whidman said, picking up his pace as he made his way along the bank. “Been here longer than I have. I used to come here after Mrs. Whidman went to her reward. Peaceful place.”
“You were telling me about your most important duty,” Richard said, waiting for Whidman to choose his spot before taking a seat. The vicar preferred the end of the bench. Richard took the middle.
The geese, apparently unhappy to have company, exited the water, waddled up the bank, and disappeared into the tall grass of the meadow.
“Ah, right. My most important duty as vicar was to listen to my flock. To watch over them, to pay attention. To give another person one’s attention is a serious and demanding business.”
Also difficult when one was distracted by delightful, recent memories. “I agree. Are you saying Marie Tuffington should have had more of your attention?”
“Marie? Oh gracious, I suppose so. I was referring to Abernathy Blackstock.
One is so grateful to have a parishioner who will serve on the committees and toss a few coins into the poor box.
A parishioner who makes the churchyard a congenial place.
He was the model congregant, neighbor, friend, and farmer.
“And yet,” Whidman went on, “he was lonely. I realized too late that Abernathy had been too lonely to exercise sound judgment when he decided to take a wife.”
Not what Richard wanted to hear, and yet, Whidman’s words were of a piece with what others had said. “Why would a woman abandon such a paragon after a mere two years of marriage?”
“I suppose because Blackstock was not strictly her choice. He was willing to take Marie on despite very modest settlements, and Tuffington approved the match.”
“What did Marie think of Blackstock’s suit?” Assuming Whidman had even asked her.
“Marie spoke her vows, my lord. That tells you she was willing.”
No, it did not. “And Orla married shortly thereafter?”
“She did, and she, too, was willing. I have had occasion to remind her of that. Joseph Fielding was a good man, though not as lucky with his finances as some. He worked hard, he paid his tithes, he did what he could to provide for his family, and he was honorable in every regard. Orla did not share Marie’s blithe nature, alas. ”
Neither had Orla abandoned her spouse. “I never knew my mother to have a blithe nature. By the time I was underfoot, she was decidedly un-blithe.”
Whidman picked up a stone and cast it into the middle of the pond. “The wages of sin, my lord. The wages of sin.”
Balderdash. The wages of service in Mayfair. “You have no idea why Blackstock’s wife would have left him?”
“My lord, please believe me, Abernathy Blackstock was a friend to all. It nigh broke his heart when Marie abandoned him. He was downcast for months and, if you ask me, never quite the same. I do believe he loved her.”
“He was somewhat older than she. Might the age difference have accounted for the failure of the union?”
“What’s a few years when two people are determined to share a life?
Your mother took a notion to flee, and she was too proud to ask Abernathy to take her back.
Pride goeth and so forth. Enough of that ancient history.
We must not speak ill of the dead, and I should warn you that Orla Fielding, in particular, does not like to mention her late sister at all. She is very clear on that point.”
Painfully so. “She is ashamed of Marie?”
“Marie behaved shamefully, and that redounds to Marie’s discredit.
I think it is more the case that Orla blames Marie for the fact that Orla was left with Joseph Fielding for a suitor.
A perfectly decent man, better than many, but try reasoning with a young lady who is discontent with her lot in life. ”
Wealtha was discontent. The vicar had a point.
Whidman rose creakily. “I urge you not to dwell too much on the past, my lord.”
“That past affected my lot in life.” Richard stood as well and resisted the urge to toss Whidman into the pond. “I loved my mother. She was neither selfish nor heedless, and yet, those who recall her attribute her decisions to those very tendencies. She was also nobody’s fool.”
Whidman took out a pocket watch and pretended to consult it, though Richard was fairly certain, based on the old boy’s squinting and peering, that he could not read the time.
“Too soon old, too late smart, eh, my lord? I must be getting on, and I hope we see you at divine services on Sunday. Give thanks for your good fortune, if nothing else. Don’t be like your auntie. A godly woman, true enough, but…”
Whidman learned nearer. “My missus told me at the time that Orla’s settlements were even more modest than Marie’s. Orla well recalls the slight. Women carry grudges better than men can hope to. Take my word on that.”
He patted Richard’s arm awkwardly, then scuttled off, disappearing into the hedgerow like some woodland creature more accustomed to foraging by night than in sunshine.
Richard made three circuits of the pond before he was calm enough to turn his steps for home.
St. Didier entered the family parlor, unsure who was more in need of scolding, though given the precipitous nature of recent events, somebody surely was.
The room was unpretentious, the furniture slightly worn, the floral pattern on the carpet a bit faded.
In such modest surrounds, Miss Fielding stood out like a rose among daisies.
She was positively fetching in a frock of soft brown velvet trimmed with gold piping about the bodice and dashes of cream lace at the wrists and throat.
The cut was out of date by several years, though it showed off her figure to excellent advantage.
Not the attire of a young innocent, but rather, of a lady sure of her appeal.