Chapter 9 #3
There was something about the vicarage, about this man, that made one feel at home, safe.
Gideon did not know what it was, having never lived in a place that felt anything like that.
His own rooms above his office felt safe because he could control everything about them.
He owned them; he paid every bill the moment it came due, he had bought every stick of furniture, such as it was.
That comforted him, the knowledge that no one could take it from him, but it was not a home.
“You are troubled, Mr Bramwell.”
Gideon looked up from his glass, meeting the old man’s eyes. “Yes.”
“Well, in my experience, troubles always seem rather easier to manage if one shares them. It lightens the load, you see, and you may rest assured of my discretion. No word of our discussion shall ever pass my lips, you may be assured, upon my honour as a man of God.”
It was tempting, Gideon thought, the idea of unburdening himself to someone who would listen, and perhaps not judge him too harshly.
“My mother is mad,” he said, making the words as brutal as possible.
“She killed my father when I was a boy and then tried to kill me and my brother. I went to visit her yesterday at the asylum. It’s a good place.
She’s treated more kindly than she would be anywhere else and the payments are crippling me, but still… ” Gideon’s throat grew tight.
He glanced at the reverend, finding nothing but compassion in the man’s eyes.
“Guilt is a terrible thing,” Honeywell said softly.
“As is fear. I’m afraid we all fear what we perceive as madness.
Many of those who are labelled thus strike me as being merely different, seeing the world in a way that the rest of us do not understand.
But it sounds as if your mother is a deeply troubled woman.
I shall pray for her, and for you and your brother, but her condition is not your fault.
Her misery is not yours to bear. Show her kindness and compassion, for you are a dutiful son, but do not take her burden upon your own shoulders, it will not help her, but it will weigh you down. ”
“How?” Gideon demanded. “How do I do that?”
“Perhaps you might begin by telling me about it.”
Gideon stared at the man for a moment, wondering if he just wanted to relish a scandalous tale of a beautiful, murderous young woman.
But he knew at once that was unfair. Honeywell waited patiently, with no judgement, no desire to preach at him, and so, to Gideon’s own surprise, he told him everything.
He told him about the terrible night his father was murdered with a bread knife stolen from the kitchens, about how afraid he had been, about how Damian had tried to protect him but had been too small to stop a madwoman in the throes of a passionate rage.
If not for the servants… things might have been very different.
“You both endured a terrible experience,” Honeywell said sadly, once Gideon had finished his pathetic tale. “Are you close, you and your brother?”
Gideon laughed. “No. We barely speak. We are too different. He’s… He’s chaotic, spendthrift and devil may care and—”
“And that reminds you of your mother.”
Gideon sucked in a breath. He nodded. “I think… I think we are both afraid that we will end up like her. I see her in Damian. I pray to God he doesn’t see her in me.”
Honeywell regarded him thoughtfully. “I see nothing in you but a young man working himself too hard, judging himself too severely.”
“Forgive me, but you are not a doctor,” Gideon said dryly.
“No, but I’ve seen as much as any medical man.
It is my job to bring comfort and the word of God to all, no matter their affliction.
The best remedy I would prescribe for what ails you, my boy, were I able to do such a thing, would be to find a good woman.
Love cures most ills, Mr Bramwell, and the love and support of a helpmeet and the joy of a family, well, there’s no medicine like it. ”
Gideon shook his head. “If you think I would risk passing this… this vile malady onto another living soul.” He got to his feet, setting the glass down. “You surprise me.”
The reverend gazed up at him thoughtfully. “Ah,” he said. “Now I see.”
Gideon shifted uncomfortably, afraid the man did see. He saw far too much. “Thank you for the drink.”
“You are most welcome. I hope you will come back again. I’d be happy to talk with you some more, anytime, no matter the hour. Promise me you’ll visit again if you feel the need.”
There was such earnest concern in the man’s voice that Gideon could do little else but agree. “Very well.”
“That’s the ticket. God bless and keep you, Mr Bramwell.”
Gideon nodded brusquely and bid the Reverend Honeywell a good night.
As he walked outside and made his way back to the village, he realised that despite his abrupt leave-taking; he felt rather lighter.
Nothing had changed. His mother was still locked in her own private hell, he was still burdened by guilt and financial obligation, and his future was still one he would face alone, but somehow, the old man had lifted a little of the gloom that had shut out any glimmer of light.
Gideon lifted his face, enjoying the last rays of the sun as they sank beneath the horizon. Perhaps he should not take so much on himself, and maybe even Hetty had been right. Now and then, he ought to stop and take a moment for himself. He would, he promised himself. From now on, he would.