(To kiss her again.)
To kiss her again.
He pressed his lips closer to hers and pulled her close against his body.
A noise came out of her, like a gasp for air after she’d been under water. She kissed him differently this time, less carefully, like she needed him for sustenance.
Oh, how good that felt. How good to be needed in such a way.
And then she stopped, like she’d been pulled back by someone’s hand. Her eyes were fierce. “Tell me if I imagine it,” she said. “You must tell me if I imagine it.”
Her voice was anguished, and all he could do was answer truthfully. “I want you,” he whispered. “You.”
Her lips were back on his then, and her face was wet, either with rain or tears, and he pulled her onto his lap and let her know, with every muscle that he had, that he wanted this embrace. He wanted it.
His body felt like it would overflow from recognition. This, this. Yes, this.
He collapsed upon the organ bench and she clambered up onto his lap, her body pressing into his, his into hers. It was so much, so new, that he scarcely knew where she ended and he began, only that neither of them could seem to get enough of the other’s breath or heat, that he felt like he was plunging, tumbling deep into the earth. And then she was rocking, moving her hips in a way that made the hollow between her thighs press back and forth against his cock, and they were clothed but he somehow felt her heat, that it matched his own, that every pang that rocked through him answered in her—
“Who’s there?” a masculine voice bellowed from the church below them.
They froze. Footsteps boomed across the floor.
Henry met Alice’s eye, about to speak, but she shook her head.
Slowly, she slid off his body, arranged her dress, and leaned over the railing of the balcony.
“You know who it is, Vicar,” she called, her voice ringing out and echoing through the church. “It’s Alice Hull.”
Chapter 26
He was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs, his expression sour.
She curtsied low, ironically. “Vicar Helmsley. How very unexpected to see you here at your own church.”
“Miss Hull,” he sneered, looking at her muddy gown, her dripping hair, her swollen lips. “I heard the organ playing. Not you, I hope. I thought I made it clear that you are not to play in this church.”
“You did, sir. At my own father’s funeral.”
She would not apologize for playing now. It had reminded her of something sacred she had lost. Something this man, this vicar, had stolen from her.
She might never have known what that loss had cost her if it were not for Henry.
It was the deepest, realest, purest part of her, this music. More her birthright than a pipe organ fit with her father’s ivories. She didn’t need her father’s instrument to remember him; he lived every time she played.
At the sound of Henry’s footsteps coming down the stairs, the vicar gave her a knowing look. “Ah, Miss Hull has company. I should have suspected. Who is he this time?”
His face changed as Henry reached the landing, derision melting into outright shock. “I know you,” he said in a strangled voice. “You’re—”
“Lord Lieutenant Henry Evesham,” Alice supplied.
“—Charles Evesham’s boy,” the vicar finished
“Indeed, sir,” Henry said. He put his hand on Alice’s shoulder, as if his touch could protect her from the scorn in the vicar’s voice. “Reverend Helmsley is a friend of my father,” he explained.
“Who would no doubt be appalled at your being here with a girl of Miss Hull’s character. And who evidently insists on disrespecting our rules.”
“Miss Hull came here to pray, and played at my request. We meant no disrespect. And I would ask you not to speak of her that way.”
“Anyone who knows how Miss Hull comported herself as a girl would find the description more charitable than she deserves. Unsurprising, I must say, to find her in the company of a man who spends his time with whores.”
“What exactly are you implying, sir?” Henry asked sharply.
“He’s implying he once caught me with his son’s hand between my legs in the vestry,” Alice said serenely. “How is dear Richard? I remember him most fondly.”
She winked as the vicar sputtered.
“Leave here,” he finally got out.
“Gladly. But if you have any decency, sir, you’ll pay my mother a visit and invite her to return to worship here. She is a woman of great faith, no thanks to you. Good day.”
She took Henry’s hand and sailed out of the church without sparing the vicar another look.
“Pleasant fellow,” Henry muttered.
“I hope he doesn’t cause trouble with your father.”
“Yes,” Henry drawled. “Not now, when things are going so well between us.”
She burst out laughing. It felt wonderful to laugh, after the awfulness of every aspect of this rotten day. “Oh, Henry. We are cursed, I think.”
Henry snorted, which made her laugh harder still. Her mirth became contagious, and soon they were both helplessly chortling in the churchyard.
Henry offered her his arm. “Let’s leave before the good vicar comes to accuse of us of further heresies.”
She took it, and together they trudged back down the hill. It was harder climbing down than going up. They had to shuffle to keep from tumbling face first down the steep incline, and every step left them splattered with droplets of wet muck.
“Bother!” Henry said, stumbling over a patch of mud. He went veering wildly, his heel skating over the slippery slope. She reached out and caught him by his sleeve to steady him, but succeeded only in sending him toppling, downhill on his arse.
“No!” she cried, leaping to catch him.
But of course, she did not catch him. She slipped onto her own backside and went sliding in his trail.
They landed in a muddy heap outside her mother’s henhouse.
A curious rooster flapped over to her, and pecked her hair exploratorily.
“Scabby, putrid bollocks,” Alice cursed, wiping mud and feathers off her face with her sleeve.
Henry groaned. “Are you all right?” he asked, without bothering to rise from the puddle he was splayed in. She looked at him, and down at herself, and over at the chickens, and collapsed into laughter again.
“Oh, Henry Evesham,” she sighed. “What a pair we make.”
“I think,” he said, wiping ineffectively at his hair, “that I have chicken shit in my—”
“Don’t say it,” she giggled. “I shall cry.”
He shook his head, grinning despite everything. “I must say, Alice, I will remember this week all my life.”
She smiled at him fondly. “What will I do without you?”
“Oh, you are not rid of me yet,” he said decisively. He stood up and offered her a filthy hand to help her to her feet. “You are going to come with me, and I am going to get you very far away from here.”
She raised her brow at him, such affection blossoming in her bosom that she felt warm despite the raindrops falling in her eyes. “Is that wise, Reverend? To undertake another of our fateful trips?”
“I have abandoned myself to the providence of the Lord. And I’m not leaving you here.”
She sensed that Henry had reached the limits of his own patience with the world. She rather liked this devil-may-care side of him.
“There’s a coaching inn at Ennesbough where the mail coach stops,” she said. “If you take me there, I’ll can return to London on my own in the morning.”
Her sister Eliza walked out of the house holding a milking pail, saw them, and came running.
“Ally, you’re filthy! Where have you been?”
“Church,” she said merrily.
Confusion and concern flashed in her little sister’s eyes, chastening Alice’s good humor.
“I lit a candle for Papa,” she explained, trying to ease the wor
ry from her sister’s face.
But her sister winced. “Vicar Helmsley is in town this week. I hope you didn’t—”
“I did. He’s as awful as I remember.”
Eliza just sighed. “Come in and wash up. Mr. Evesham too. I’ve been heating water on the stove.”
Alice shook her head. “I don’t wish to see Mama.”
“She’s not here,” her sister said in a tone of perfect misery. “She went to the public house with William. Said you’d driven her to drink.”
Alice turned to Henry. “Shall we wash up before we go on?”
“Go on?” Eliza cried. “You’re not leaving. You just arrived.”
She looked at her sister sadly. “If I stay, Mama will hector me until I lose my temper. I will return some other time, under happier circumstances.”
Her sister’s lip trembled. “Ally, I’m sorry I lied to you. I felt awful about it but Mama was convinced you’d be so thrilled by the surprise it wouldn’t matter. I should have known better.”
Alice put her arm around her sister’s shoulders. “I’m sorry too, Liza, Come, let’s get water for Mr. Evesham.”
Liza sent Sally out to carry a warm pot of water and a cloth to the barn so Henry could clean up as best he could. She warmed more water for Alice over the fire, and gave her a gown to wear in place of Alice’s filthy one. Alice let her sister brush out and pin up her hair.
“Thank you for looking after me,” she said, kissing Liza’s cheek. “You were always the best of us. I’m sure you’ve had your work cut out for you, looking after Mama and Sally.”
Liza squeezed her tight. “I’ve missed you. I was so worried when you didn’t come. Was there really snow?”
“Yes. Oh, Liza, I promise, I was on my way the very hour I got your letter. I will always come if you need me. Always. No matter what.”
Liza stepped back, her face rigid with concern. “Ally, are you certain you won’t marry William? I know you’re angry at Mama for the trick, but I’m worried for you.”
She kissed her sister’s cheek. “Please don’t worry. I will write to you when I return to London. We’ll always take care of each other. I promise.”
Her sister did not look reassured.
She knew what Eliza was thinking: that life for an unwed girl alone was perilous. That bad things happened to girls like that. Their mother had raised them to believe that marriage was the only means to guard their futures, never imagining that there might be another path for them.
If someone was to imagine such a thing, it would have to be Alice.
Chapter 27
As soon as they were on the road Alice closed her eyes and began humming a sad song.
He didn’t know this one. He didn’t try to harmonize. Her head drooped as they drove on, until it rested on his shoulder. Soon enough, she was asleep.
He tried very hard not to feel bereft that he would likely never experience the comforting weight of her touching him again.
He felt more like a shipwreck than a man—like shards of splintered wood casting about a roiling sea.
He tried to formulate a prayer to steady himself, but nothing came, and it was terrifying, for he could not recall the last time he had lacked words to offer God.
Once, during a revival in Yorkshire, he’d helped a farmer tie a rope between his cottage and the barn before a snowstorm. When the blizzard came, the farmer explained, he would follow the rope to feed his animals, even if he could not see a foot in front of him.
Henry had often used the story as a metaphor. Whenever you are plagued with uncertainty, he had preached so many times, you can find your way back to God through prayer. Prayer was the rope.
But on this awful day, he felt like he had dropped the rope in the middle of the storm, and lost it. He was casting about blindly, fumbling in a haze for something he knew must be close at hand, but that he couldn’t grasp.
All he had were questions. Most pressingly, what had made him kiss Alice in the church? And what was she to him? And if the answer was nothing—must be nothing—why had he abandoned his principles, his faith, his decency, pawing her in a consecrated place with no thought other than the way she made him feel?
And why, when he was guilty of this, when he had failed himself so deeply, was it not shame that lingered queasy and churning in his gut, but this voracious, restless, hunger, chanting more, more, more?
(He was not being disingenuous. He truly didn’t know. It terrified him, because he really, truly, didn’t know.)
He steered the horses into the inn’s stable yard. The sudden loss of motion roused Alice. “Oh, pardon me,” she said, moving away from him.
Don’t ever ask pardon for that, he wanted to object. His shoulder felt lonely without her head on it. He had to restrain himself from pulling her back into the crook of his arm, and pleading. Just a little longer.
Instead, he shifted, so as not to crowd her. “I didn’t want to wake you. You looked so peaceful asleep.”
She yawned. “It’s been an exhausting day.”
“An exhausting week.”
Alice nodded, glancing up at the sky, which was low and dark and wet. “You won’t drive on in this, will you? I don’t want you getting stranded again.”
(He had not planned to stay, but now that she had raised the possibility, it was decided.)
He shook his head. “No. I’ll stay at the inn and return to my father’s in the morning.”
(One more night with her. One more.)
She smiled at him. “Good. I hate eating alone.”
Inside, there was a crowd of people milling at the innkeeper’s desk. The innkeeper looked harried, handing out keys to a large travel party who, Henry gathered, were on their way to a horse race.
“My sister and I would like two rooms for the night, please,” he said, when it was finally his turn.
“No vacancies,” the man said, too exhausted to even seem apologetic.
At Henry’s stricken face he reconsidered. “Well, there’s a small room off the attic. It’s for servants but has a bed big enough for one, if t’other of you don’t mind the floor.”
Henry stared at him in disbelief. Why was it that whenever he set out with Alice, everything went wrong?
Looking at Henry’s face, Alice burst into laughter.
The innkeeper squinted at her. “Is something wrong, miss?”
She put a hand over her mouth, and shook her head, her eyes sparkling with mirth.
“My apologies, sir,” Henry said to the offended man. “It’s only we’ve encountered a great deal of inconvenience on this journey, and my sister is amused by our poor fortune. We’ll make do with whatever room you have. Thank you.”
He took the key that was offered and shepherded Alice toward the stairs.
“I’m sorry,” she said, still chuckling. “It’s just … Oh, Henry. Your face. What a misfortunate pair we are.”
He imagined his face looked even more chagrined when he opened the door to their room to find it was no larger than a pantry.
If he was to sleep on the floor, he was not sure where. Perhaps half under the cot, half in the drawers of the cupboard.
“You stay here and take the room for yourself,” he said immediately. “I’ll go on and find other lodgings.”
“Nonsense,” she said. “You may not find anywhere for miles, and it’s already dark. You can have the bed and I’ll take the floor.”
“Of course not. I can’t have you sleeping on the floor.”
She looked at him up and down. “Well you will never fit,” she laughed.
He felt his cheeks flame. In this tiny room, he could physically feel the imposition of his ungainly stature. He felt enormous, hulking.
Alice winced. “Oh, no—I only meant that with your height there’s scarcely any room for you. Not that I don’t like your size.”
He felt even worse at her cognizance of his discomfort.
“Henry,” she said with a frank stare that made him uncomfortable in an entire
ly different way. “Can you really have any doubt that I find you attractive? I think you’re perhaps the most appealing man I’ve ever had the misfortune of being stranded with. It’s narrow in this room. That’s all I meant.”
Her concern for his feelings touched him. As did her avowal that she liked the way he looked.
But that did nothing to solve the predicament about the bed.
He heard Alice’s stomach make a noise of hunger.
“Let’s have supper,” he said, relieved at the reprieve. “I’ll leave you to freshen up. Meet me in the dining room.”
He went downstairs and paced, unsure of how this had happened once again. It was like God was pushing them together. But why, when their proximity only ever seemed to lead to sin? Could he survive another night in such close quarters? Would he embarrass himself again, with the memory of her kiss so fresh on his body?
“There you are,” Alice called.
She smiled at him, and he felt like he was breaking open. An involuntary grin gashed across his face, as quick as a heartbeat. He saw her notice and look at him more closely.
He lifted up a hand in greeting and pretended like he did not have to brace his knees to keep them from buckling at the sight her.
Evidently he was not effective, for her brow knit in concern as soon as she came near enough to see his face.
“Are you all right, Henry? You look ill.”
Did she really not know the effect she had on him? Could she not see that he felt like he’d been cut open? That he needed her to sew his heart back up? That even if she did it wouldn’t work, because he was different now, in a way he could not understand, but only feel?
“Just hungry. Shall we sit down to eat?”
They found a quiet table near the fireplace, and a waitress brought them bread and took down their orders for supper.
As soon as she was gone, Alice frowned at him. “You seem perturbed.”
He sighed. “You are kind to worry after me given the trouble with your family. I hope you aren’t too terribly upset.”
The Lord I Left Page 18