Chapter Three
As soon as she wakened the following morning, Kate went to her pretty little desk and sat down.
Drawing paper toward her, she reached for the pen.
She would write to Winster now, just to be on the safe side.
Determined as she was, she nevertheless sat unmoving for so long that her poised pen dripped ink onto the paper beneath.
Ridiculous childhood loyalty would not let her do this.
Without being told in so many words, she and everyone else understood that being ordained into the church had not been Rupert’s idea but his father’s.
It was a well-worn and honorable career path for younger sons of the nobility and gentry.
But this sideways step into pastoral care as a lowly curate was Rupert’s choice, whatever his reasons, and if he wanted his father to know about developments at Chadbon Court, he would tell him. She could not, in honor, interfere.
Besides, nothing had happened except that Rupert had undoubtedly been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Her bedchamber door opened and Grissy, her maid, entered bearing a cup of strong, aromatic coffee.
“Miss Kate,” she scolded, “only you can manage to get ink stains on your nightgown!”
“Oh. Sorry.” Hastily, Kate returned the pen to its stand. “Never mind. No one will see. Thank you,” she added with some relish, taking the cup and saucer from her handmaiden.
Ada Grissolm had served Kate’s older sisters before they had married.
Kate herself had not expected to have a lady’s maid when she left her father’s house—after all, she was marrying a man of modest means—but Gilbert had insisted upon the dignity and, somewhat to Kate’s surprise, her father had agreed.
She rather thought Gilbert had hoped for one of those very superior London dressers, but Kate had dug her heels in and insisted that if a maid there had to be, it should be Grissy.
The parallels with Rupert’s church career—if it has to be the church, I shall be a country curate—struck her now.
It seemed they were both malleable up to a point, and then immovably stubborn.
Though how the overworked, underpaid life of a curate had attracted the debauched Lord Rupert Grande was unclear.
Kate sipped her coffee, watching Grissy set out clean clothes for the coming morning. “How are things belowstairs?”
“Subdued,” Grissy replied. Only a few years older than Kate, she was a good-natured country woman with rosy cheeks who had learned her craft from Lady Hynde’s stately dresser.
As a result, her natural curiosity was suppressed by propriety, but she remained observant and good humored.
“There’s a rumor that maid, Dinah, who collapsed last night, is actually dead. ”
“Oh?” Kate took another sip. “What do they say about the poor girl? Was she ill?”
“A bit peaky at times, according to some. Others say it was just another way to avoid her share of the work. They say she was more interested in flirting.”
“With whom?”
“The footman, the coachman, the squire’s son, Her Ladyship’s guests…”
“But not Lord Chadbon?”
“He don’t bother the maids, though his son used to when he lived here.”
Mr. Gerald Chadbon, His Lordship’s heir, lived largely on his new wife’s estate in Devon and rarely visited. According to his mother.
“Did you see Dinah leave the kitchen last night?” Kate asked.
“No, they were keeping her busy.”
Kate finished her coffee and stood up to go to the washstand. A jug of warm water already stood by the bowl.
“What do they say about the new curate?” she asked casually.
“The footmen aren’t keen, but the maids think him a vast improvement on the old vicar. Why?”
“Because between ourselves, he’s one of the Winster boys, and you haven’t to let on if you see him.”
Grissy’s eyes widened. Her mouth shut with a snap, but she set about pouring the water into the washing bowl and soaking the cloth beside it.
“Don’t get up to anything, Miss Kate,” she said austerely.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Good. ’Cause the master wouldn’t understand.”
*
“How is Mr. Bancroft this morning?” Rupert asked civilly of the vicar’s wife over breakfast.
“Much the same. He was wakened by some dreadful clattering on the stairs after midnight.”
It had been just on midnight, and Rupert had crept up as quietly as a mouse. “Sorry,” he said meekly. “I was later than I intended.”
“I trust you behaved with becoming modesty at Chadbon Court, as the vicar bade you.”
“So do I,” Rupert murmured.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing. Will Mr. Bancroft be up to receiving me this morning? Just to see if he has particular commissions—”
“Really, Mr. Grande, if you have not familiarized yourself with your duties by—”
“Besides my duties,” Rupert said gently.
In the three weeks since he had arrived in the parish of Chadleigh, he had managed to allay many of the vicar’s suspicions that Rupert sought to replace him. Mrs. Bancroft, however, appeared to be immune to his charm and actions alike.
He finished his tea and rose his feet. “I believe I will just stick my head around the vicar’s door, and he may dismiss me at his convenience.” He inclined his head. “Mrs. Bancroft.”
He found the vicar, propped up on several pillows, still pale and weak looking, although a spark lit up his eyes when he saw Rupert in the doorway.
“Ah, come in, my boy, come in. Sit if you can find a space.”
Since the visitors’ chair was piled with books, Rupert sat at the edge of the huge bed. “You’re looking brighter this morning.”
“Looking forward to coming downstairs for tea. Still as weak as a kitten, but I won’t get better by lying in bed.”
“Rest is good too,” Rupert reminded him.
Bancroft waved that aside. “How did you get on at Chadbon’s last night? Not too daunting, I hope? He keeps dull company for a young man’s tastes.”
“It was a most interesting evening. Unfortunately, there was a bit of a domestic crisis, as one of the housemaids collapsed. Do you know Dinah Fenn?”
“Pert, pretty little thing. She’ll lead all the young men in the village in a fine dance, but there’s no spite in the girl, by all accounts.”
Trust Bancroft to know everyone, from the highest to the lowliest. Rupert admired that. It was also useful, because although Dinah had confided her trouble to him, he doubted she’d told him everything.
“Does she have a young man in particular?” he asked.
“I think she’s too busy playing them off against each other.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Mrs. Thornfield at the court will keep her in line,” Bancroft said comfortably.
Too late for that. Rupert wished he had not agreed to Chadbon’s demand for secrecy. They’re going to cover it up, Rupe…
“Does she have any friends locally?” Rupert asked. “I thought I might go and see them if I could…”
“I don’t think so, apart from the court servants. No family here either. She isn’t from these parts—the Chadbons brought her down from London. She is not seriously ill, is she?”
“It’s bad,” Rupert said. “His Lordship doesn’t want it talked about, so I’ll say no more for now. Except the situation is…delicate.”
Bancroft looked serious. “Can you cope?”
“Oh, yes,” Rupert said, rising to his feet. “I believe I’ll just step round to Dr. Paxton’s house. I look forward to your company at tea.”
He called in at the church first, since he made himself available there at various times. Not that many troubled souls came to him there. Few in the parish took him seriously as a clergyman yet—he was too young, he didn’t look the part, and they were used to Mr. Bancroft—but he persevered.
He pottered about the empty church, which dated back to the twelfth century in parts and boasted a particularly fine window of stained glass depicting St. Swithin. He sorted out a pile of damaged prayer books and tried not to think about Dinah’s dead eyes. Or anyone else’s.
He heard the door clattering open but didn’t turn immediately. A feminine giggle sounded, followed by whispering and more giggling.
Rupert turned to face the two young women who were swaggering up the aisle arm in arm, eyes wide in their rosy faces.
Pretty country girls whom he didn’t know by name.
He doubted they had been to any of his services, but word had clearly got around about the new curate and they had come for a gawp. They weren’t the first.
“Ladies,” he said amiably, “may I be of assistance?”
The darker-haired girl giggled again. The blonde dipped a curtsy that dragged her friend down with her, causing them both to stagger.
Their eyes gleamed with fun and interest, and there had most definitely been a time when Rupert would have happily obliged them with a little flirting. At the very least.
“We just come to make your acquaintance, sir. We live over by Ridgeton and don’t get to church most Sundays. I’m Penny Troy, and this here’s Fanny Smith.”
“How do you do?” Rupert said gravely. “My name is Grande, the curate currently standing in for Mr. Bancroft. I hope you can manage church this Sunday, but you are welcome now and any time.”
They beamed at him, and he took the damaged prayer books into the vestry for later repair. When he reemerged, the girls were still there, huddled together on a middle pew gossiping.
He sat at the front, bent his head, and concentrated on prayer.
For all the dead and the suffering in the world, and for Dinah and those who would miss her.
And, oddly, for Kate Hynde, now Lady Ambrose.
He hadn’t set out to pray for her, and he wasn’t quite sure why she needed it, but it seemed the right thing to do.
He finished, as usual with thanks and a plea for his own strength.
When he rose, the girls were still gawking at him. He began to feel like a debutante on display at her first ball. And he was as sure as he could be they were not here for spiritual guidance. Though perhaps they needed it, now was not the time.
He inclined his head and left by the vestry door to collect his hat.
*