What had he done wrong now?
Chapter 10
“Mr. Barnes, take heed.” The vicar’s usual placid manner was overcome by impatience. “That book is two hundred years old.”
Jacob hurried to support the text he had upset, before it slid from the top of the vicar’s desk. He looked down at the book’s spine. Actes and Monuments. John Foxe’s Book of Martyrs. It must have been a later edition if it was only two hundred years old. Still. It was impressive their small seaside vicarage held such a book in its library.
“I am sorry, Mr. Spratt. My thoughts went wandering.” Jacob put Foxe’s book upon its stack again. “May I shelve these for you?”
“Yes, yes.” Mr. Spratt waved Jacob toward the bookshelves. Though the top of the old man’s head was devoid of hair, wisps of white still grew in a fringe over his ears. The elderly vicar would retire in three weeks’ time, and Jacob would be ordained and take the position. In the interim, Jacob had helped Mr. Spratt go through the vicarage and the church, learning about the records of the parish, among other things. As he quite liked Mr. Spratt, he had also volunteered to help the old gentleman go through his personal belongings.
They were currently going through the library to determine which of the books were part of Mr. Spratt’s private collection and which belonged at the vicarage. Mr. Spratt had been the vicar for more than twenty years, so it was no surprise several of his volumes had been lost among the shelves. Most of the afternoon had passed in silence, with few comments shared between the men, the only constant sound that of the patter of rain upon the library windows.
“I do not remember if this is mine,” Mr. Spratt muttered, peering through his spectacles at a particularly ancient looking book. “I studied poetry in school, but I thought I only kept the religious volumes.” He handed the book to Jacob. “What do you make of it?”
“Night Thoughts.” Jacob opened the volume to check for a printer’s stamp. “Seventeen forty-five. It is a trifle old, sir. When were you at university?”
“I finished my education in 1764.” The man chuckled and rubbed at his forehead. “I shall say it is not mine. I was arrogant enough in those days to only purchase new books.” He waved his hand at Jacob. “Go on and put it back in the shelves, then.”
Jacob did as he was bid. “I cannot imagine you as an arrogant man, Mr. Spratt.”
“It is incredible the change God can work in a man’s heart in fifty years.” Mr. Spratt groaned and lowered himself into the chair beside the old desk. He took off his spectacles and started to clean them. “God and a good woman. Ah, I miss her. It has been too long since my wife told me I am too high in the instep.”
As Jacob had very fond memories of the vicar’s late wife, that comment made him grin. “I cannot believe Mrs. Spratt was anything other than a saint of a woman. I remember her leading the children in hymns every Sunday.”
“She was the very best of women.” Mr. Spratt held his spectacles loosely in one hand, his eyes unfocused as he spoke. “An angel more than a saint. But you will recall, young man, that angels as often rebuked man as sang to their Maker. My Henrietta was the same. She could sing praises to heaven and then call its wrath down upon me when there was a need.” He rasped a laugh and then settled his spectacles upon his nose again.
Jacob reached for another book. A roll of thunder in the distance brought his attention to the window. The skies grew dark. Were it not for the candles the men had lit earlier, even Jacob would have a difficult time making out the text printed in the books. “Mrs. Spratt? I do not think I ever heard her raise her voice to anyone.”
“She did not raise her voice.” Mr. Spratt picked up another book. “By the time you knew her, she’d accomplished her hardest task.” He placed his free hand over his chest on the last word, clearly indicating what that work had been. “And she was a lady, true as could be. The youngest daughter of an earl, if you can believe it.”
“A lady by birth? I believe that most readily, sir.” Jacob remembered the woman’s gentle gray eyes, the way she always had a kind word for the children. She knew all of their names. Even his, though he was surrounded on all sides by younger and older siblings. She never failed to greet him by name and ask after his studies or his play.
Mr. Spratt leaned back in his chair. “Believe it all. Henrietta and I were friends as children, you see. No one knew me better than she did. After I was ordained, I went about searching for a wife. I had a fine house all set up. On her father’s land. It was a large parish, with one of those grand Elizabethan churches. My living was better than most.”
Jacob shelved another book and paused, his hand still upon the shelf.
“I thought myself quite the catch,” Mr. Spratt added, folding his hands over his middle. “And when I went parading myself about in drawing rooms, Lady Henrietta was nearly always there, watching me with those stormy eyes of hers. She let weeks go by before she spoke her mind. I will never forget it. ‘Percival Spratt,’ said she, ‘you are no better than a peacock.’ She told me I strutted about in my smock as though I expected the ladies of our county to fall at my feet and beg for the position of wife.”
Jacob could not help the laughter that burst out of him, but he quickly covered it with a cough. Picturing Mr. Spratt as a young man was difficult, and imagining the wrinkled vicar before him strutting even more so.
Mr. Spratt took no offense. His lips turned upward, in fact. “She was right. Though it stung to hear it. I had always admired her, you see. I knew her to be a good woman, a lady of intelligence. That she would say such a thing to me! I admired her more for it. In time, I came to realize we were a perfect match. Henrietta lifted my soul as much as she helped me keep my pride in check.” His expression softened along with his voice. “And she was my very dearest friend. I could speak with her for hours, about anything.”
Given Jacob’s present difficulty with obtaining a wife, seeing the evidence of another man’s joy proved both bitter and sweet. “It sounds as though you married the perfect woman, Mr. Spratt.”
“Very much so.” Mr. Spratt opened his eyes again and took up another book. “Have you given much thought to marriage, Mr. Barnes?”
“A great deal of thought, actually.” Jacob went to the mantel where a clock rested and checked the time. Five o’clock. “I thought I had settled on a young lady, but I am beginning to wonder if we would suit after all.”
A shuffling sound made him aware Mr. Spratt had stood, then the old man approached him. “It will happen from time to time. Being wrong.” Mr. Spratt leaned closer to inspect the clock. “Ah, so late? And the rain has not stopped. Will you take dinner with me tonight, Mr. Barnes?”
Jacob did not bother to hide his pleasure at receiving the invitation. “Of course, sir.” He knew well that the vicar spent many evenings alone, with no one but his butler to wait upon him. The old man’s loneliness likely accounted for his retirement more than his age. When Mr. Spratt left, he would go to a daughter with whom he anticipated spending many merry hours, in company with grandchildren and great-grandchildren.
“Excellent. Let us put off this work for a time.” Mr. Spratt patted Jacob on the arm and went to the door connecting the library to the parlor. Jacob followed. “Are you content with the vicarage? It is not as large as the house you were brought up in.”
“It is not, sir, but I did not expect such when I decided upon the profession.” Jacob came fully into the comfortable room, only half the size of his mother’s favored sitting room. “It is a beautiful house, just the same. I am honored to be its keeper for a time.”
“Very good.” Mr. Spratt sat in a well-worn red chair, the nearest to the fire. “We loved it, Henrietta and myself. All our children were grown and away when we came here, so the house suited us well. Still, it has four bedrooms. Enough to start a family, if you ever find the right young miss.”
Jacob settled on one end of the couch. “It will happen eventually. There are any number of suitable young ladies in the parish, afte
r all.”
“That sounded more like a lament than a hopeful statement.” Mr. Spratt fixed him with a stern frown. “A man of your position and age ought to be more enthusiastic about such a pursuit, unless the first woman you mentioned left you with a broken heart. But you do not strike me as one greatly disappointed in love.”
“No. I don’t suppose that fits.” A roll of thunder punctuated his words, the boom directly above them. Jacob started when a second crash overwhelmed the first. His eyes turned to the ceiling and his heart slammed against his breast at the exact moment a third crack sounded. “The storm is upon us, it would seem.”
“Indeed. Not unusual at this time of year.” Mr. Spratt turned to the table at his side, where a box rested. He opened it and took out a long-stemmed clay pipe, a box of tobacco, and began to stuff it. “So your lady did not break your heart? Well then. You must not yet be deeply in love with her.”
The sudden return to that topic, and Mr. Spratt’s pronouncement, startled Jacob nearly as much as the thunder had. Jacob stared at the vicar for several moments, until the man had his pipe lit, before he made his answer.
Wasn’t he in love? Yes, he had enjoyed the idea of marrying Hope, had imagined what it would be like for some time. And it had hurt when she announced her plans to leave, taking away his opportunity to court her properly.
He had been hurt, then angry that all his plans had been frustrated.
Yet nothing had permanently broken inside him. If he had loved Hope, wouldn’t the hurt have lasted longer? And perhaps his passing idea to ride after her, to tell her what he wished for them, would have led to action. Instead he let her go, somewhat spitefully, with the thought she would fail at her act eventually and be brought back in shame.
Had he even worried over her properly?
“Perhaps I was not deeply in love.” He admitted it aloud, to see how the words felt. Were they true?
The tension that had been growing in his heart and mind for the last several days eased enough for him to feel it, to let out a relieved breath. If he did not love Hope, then her going left him intact, heart and all.
“Good. Now go about finding someone you do love, with complete honesty and passion. Life is too short to spend it with someone you merely admire, whose faults you tolerate, and whose good points are a minor comfort.” Mr. Spratt pointed the stem of his pipe at Jacob. “I’ve heard people from my generation call it a shame that so many marry for love these days. I say it is a fine thing. Be practical, by all means, but be passionate when possible.” He put the pipe back in his mouth and puffed a few times. “Find a companion of the heart, Mr. Barnes, and you will find joy the rest of your days.”
Although Jacob had never thought the vicar a romantic, he could not deny the way the old man’s advice settled within him. The words circled about in his mind and distracted his thoughts for the rest of the evening.
A companion of the heart. Where might one find such a thing? And how soon ought he to start searching?
Chapter 11
On the fifth day of Grace’s deception, the morning post arrived with an invitation to dine at Sir Isaac’s home the following evening. “A small dinner party,” her father said after reading the card. “I cannot imagine how Sir Isaac gets on in that tumbledown manor of his. All alone now that his sister married.” He handed the invitation to Grace across the breakfast table. “We will go, most certainly.”
“Yes, Papa. Jacob and I were discussing how lonely it must be for Isaac.” She read the brief script, obviously in Isaac’s own hand. Many in their social circle had valued the handsome baronet as a guest at their tables, even though he was something of a flirt. Then Isaac went away to war.
“I suppose coming home after so many years he has a great deal of work to busy himself.” Papa flicked open his news sheets. “And untangling that mess with his heir after the declaration of his death did not help matters.”
“I imagine not.” Grace lowered the card to the table and thrust another bite of Hope’s favored breakfast into her mouth. She had no intention of giving Cook any reason to suspect her again.
Grace, along with everyone else she knew, had mourned Isaac dreadfully when the false report of his death arrived at the very end of the war. Thankfully, he appeared alive and mostly intact shortly after the news of his demise reached them.
“Have you written your brother and sisters?” Papa glanced over the edge of his paper, his spectacles in place. “Grace became an excellent correspondent with them, and they shall miss her letters. I will send a note of my own with yours.”
Ducking her head, Grace pressed her napkin to her lips and rose. “I have not written yet, Papa, but I shall see to it this afternoon. If you will excuse me, I have more baskets to deliver today.” Sudden nervousness compelled her to move; she did not know how well her father knew her handwriting. Would he at once recognize it differed from Hope’s?
“More baskets? Hm. Yes. Good morning to you, Hope.”
“Thank you, Papa.” She darted forward to give him a kiss upon the cheek before hurrying away. She retrieved gloves, bonnet, and shawl before applying to the kitchens, where Cook had two baskets waiting for her. Apparently, her attempt to bungle everything had not impressed anyone. She hid her amusement as she ordered the baskets to be loaded in the dogcart.
In order to keep up appearances, she had to travel to the vicarage before taking her baskets where they belonged. The Wrights were expecting a new babe any day. Mr. and Mrs. Harper, an elderly couple who mended the nets of fishermen for their income, especially loved Cook’s soft bread. But Hope knew nothing of those families and their needs.
Grace gritted her teeth. Everything about her ruse had turned complicated as soon as her father ended her imprisonment at home. Sulking in Hope’s bedroom, while dull, would have been much easier.
A groom followed behind Esther, mounted on one of the carriage horses. He kept a respectful distance, for which she was grateful. She had no wish to make polite conversation while ruminating upon her difficulties.
Baskets to deliver to friends while acting as no more than a distant neighbor, a letter to write in another’s style, and a dinner party to attend combined to give Grace a headache. Hope’s note with word of her departure could not come soon enough.
She came to the vicarage at last. It was a large cottage, built at least three decades past, and nestled back from the road in a grove of oaks. If one walked directly through the house and out the rear door, an easy ramble of a few minutes would bring that person to a hill overlooking the sea.
After the groom assisted her in climbing down from the cart, Grace took a moment to tuck a few curls back into her bonnet. Hope’s preferred way of dressing her hair, with frills and curls aplenty, was not at all practical for such an errand as this. Yet what was she to do? Insist Susan do her hair in Grace’s usual manner? Pretending to be someone else was tiresome.
The door to the vicarage opened nearly the same moment she raised her hand to knock. Startled, she took a step back when she realized the person on the other side was neither the vicar nor his servant.
“Jacob.” She blurted his name, then bit her bottom lip.
“Miss Everly.” His formal tone gave her pause, but he spoke before she might question him. “I saw you come down the lane. Mr. Spratt said you are to take baskets to a few of our neighbors?”
“Yes.” Grace tucked one hand behind her back, as she had when caught in mischief as a child. Jacob certainly stared at her as though she had done something which merited greater scrutiny than normal.
Though Jacob opened his mouth to make a response, Mr. Spratt’s voice was the next she heard.
“Ah, Miss Everly. I am glad you have a fine morning for your ride.” Jacob stepped aside, revealing the elderly vicar standing a pace behind him.
“It is a very fine day, Mr. Spratt.” Grace met the kindly smile of the vicar with one of her own. “I hope this weather finds you well, sir.”
“It does indeed. I came home
from my own morning walk but moments ago. Yet I fear I ventured too far in my enjoyment of the day. This old body does not get around as easily as it once did.” He lowered his head a trifle and released a tired sigh. “I am afraid I cannot accompany you as I did last time.”
That considerably lifted Grace’s spirits. Being observed by a man who had known her and Hope since infancy, and lying about who she was under the nose of the vicar, had made her previous visit almost impossible to bear.
“That is a shame, Mr. Spratt.” Did she sound sorrowful enough? Likely not. And surely there would be some great, eternal penalty for deceiving a man of God. Yet how could she do otherwise? Switching places with Hope, accepting her father’s sentence to sail far from home, had been out of the question.
“I think it best that Mr. Barnes go with you.” Mr. Spratt came forward and put his hand to Jacob’s arm. “It will be his place to make such visits in the near future, and he knows the business well enough.”
Jacob’s eyes bulged a moment, then went back to normal as he made his hasty agreement. “Indeed, Miss Everly, I would be delighted to accompany you. But are you certain you can do without me this morning, Mr. Spratt? I have only just arrived, after all, and we have not done any work.”
“The work of packing up an old man’s things is not nearly as important as seeing to the hungry and weary in our congregation, Mr. Barnes.” The vicar had perhaps been taller than Jacob’s height, a couple of decades ago, but stooped as he was now, he had to peer upward into the younger man’s eyes. “This lady needs your assistance more than I do, at least at present.”
Jacob’s green eyes met hers, the color darkening as he stared at her. “Of course, Mr. Spratt. If Miss Everly has no objections.”
What could she say to that? Although his reluctance to be near her made her tender feelings for him more bruised, Grace laced her words with cheer. “I would be most grateful for your company, Mr. Barnes.”
Discovering Grace: A Regency Romance (Inglewood Book 2) Page 10