by Anne Perry
Celia caught her breath. “What is it you think I have done?” she demanded.
“Don’t play innocent with me, miss. I read it.”
“Read…what? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Had he taken leave of his senses? “You make a big noise about how you never drink alcohol, but I think you must be drunk now. You are making no sense and you look crazy.” It was no exaggeration. He was swaying slightly on his feet, and his whole body shook. If she were not so very angry, she would have been frightened of him, even here, inside the church.
“It’s too late to pretend innocence,” he said contemptuously. “You wrote that poisonous letter to me…and to who else? Poor Arthur? And he can never tell anyone. Oh, clever, so clever. Well, I can tell people, and I will if you drive me to it, I swear. I don’t want to tell Clementine, but I will, so help me God. If you mention it to her, I will tell her who wrote it.”
Celia was stunned. Her mind raced, trying to think what he could be talking about. What letter? She wrote very few, and they were only to distant family members, cousins she barely knew. They contained Christmas and birthday wishes, or condolences, hopes for improved health.
“Don’t pretend innocence,” he said furiously. “Hypocrisy becomes no one. And you give yourself away.” He was shaking with anger now.
She looked at his body, bent, hunched over, protecting his most vulnerable parts, as if she were going to attack him physically. Was he so afraid of her that he did it instinctively? She was no threat to him of any kind.
Poor Clementine, she thought to herself. Or did she say it aloud?
“I will tell her,” he repeated. “Don’t think I won’t.”
“Tell her what?” she said again.
“The wickedness you put in your poisonous letter, what else?” he snorted.
“I haven’t written any letters that say anything at all about you to anyone. Why should I? Nobody I know has ever heard of you, let alone cares.”
“Don’t play the fool with me,” he snapped. “You wrote it, and I will show it to Arthur. He will know you for what you are. Your threats are wasted. But I will not have Clementine hurt by your poisonous words. I forbid you to see her except at church, and in public, or I will tell everyone what a wicked, lying woman you are. Do you think they’ll believe you about anything at all, once they know how you lied in court, before God himself? Think on that!”
“I haven’t done anything.” Her voice was thick with tears of anger, of rage at the injustice, and yes, of fear. The words came unbidden to her tongue. “You say your wife ran away and sank to the gutter, then took her own life. God knows, you probably drove her to it.” The second she spoke she regretted it, but it was too late.
He took a step toward her with both hands held out in front of him, as if he would take hold of her. Then he froze. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? If I grasped you? You’re trying to provoke me to strike you.”
“I don’t know,” she said between her teeth. Her back was against the edge of the bench. She could go no further. “I’ve never before known a man who would lash out at a woman. I suppose people are frightened or embarrassed and think no one would believe it, but—”
“And they won’t believe you,” he interrupted, letting his hands fall. A half smile came to his face. “I should make sure that you look ridiculous, hysterical. I should say you were terrified that I would tell other people of your lies in court. You are a liar when you are faced with something you are afraid of.”
Should she deny it? He would know she was lying this time. What should she do? “Then I had better tell the vicar myself,” she said desperately. “Then there will be nothing left for you to do except gossip about a parishioner’s confession. And no one would ever trust you again. That will be such unpleasantness for Clementine: her self-righteous husband a vicious gossip about other people’s affairs.” And she walked past him, so close she actually brushed his arm, only avoiding touching it more fully by leaning a little away. “She might even decline the honor of marrying you.”
If he answered, she did not hear it. But then she was almost dizzy with relief at being out of his presence and with the mounting realization of what she had done. She had committed herself to telling the vicar about the Exeter trial. Perhaps he already knew enough from their various conversations, but she thought not.
She walked down the path between the moss-encrusted gravestones, past the somber yew trees towering darkly above the bare ground, then through the lych-gate and on to the road. In summer, the arch over it was covered with honeysuckle. Now it was just the twisted vines tangled together, as if all life had drained from them and returned back into the earth.
She went straight across the road to the vicarage and knocked on the front door more loudly than she had intended. She was afraid, and she probably looked it. Mrs. Cross, the vicar’s housekeeper, would be there at this time of day, probably making his lunch and preparing a dinner to be heated later.
Celia breathed in deeply and steadied herself.
The door opened and it was Arthur Roberson himself who stood in the hallway. He looked startled to see her. “Celia! Come in. You seem distressed. Is something wrong?” He pulled the door wider and moved back to let her pass him.
He led her into the familiar wood-paneled hall. It was only as the warmth enveloped her that she realized how cold she had become. Her mind raced as she tried to decide what she was going to say to him, how much she should tell him.
“Thank you,” she finally said, as she followed him into his study where the fire was burning with a fierce glow. “I have to speak to you. I’m sorry to come with no appointment, but this has just occurred and…” She realized she had no idea exactly what she intended to tell him, only that she meant to prevent Marlowe from telling the whole village his lurid view of the Exeter trial. Could she prevent that, if she encouraged Clementine to go through with her wedding, and never to confide anything concerning Marlowe, never to criticize him, to support him in everything? Would that be enough?
“Celia,” the vicar said gently, “what has happened? How can I help if I don’t know?”
His mild face was filled with concern.
She sat down in the big armchair where so many other people had sat before, full of fear and hope…and guilt.
At last, she knew the place to begin. “Do you know anything more about the Exeter trial than what Seth Marlowe learned from the gutter press?” she asked.
“Yes,” he replied. “I read The Times’s account when it happened.”
This was painful. She cared what he thought of her more than she had expected. They shared a long history together, two lonely people trying to come to terms with their lots and live up to their own beliefs of duty—not blind obedience, but real kindness. She had grown closer to Una as her strength had failed. She had watched her final losing struggle and had done what she could to help ease her pain. Perhaps she should force herself to remember that Seth Marlowe had lost a sister, as well as his own wife in dreadful circumstances.
She began again. “I did tell a lie from the witness stand.” She took a long, shaky breath. “My lie was exposed. The innocent man did not suffer. I know what I did was wrong. The court knew the truth, so I received no punishment.” She stopped, uncertain what he would say. She had to silence Marlowe, for Hooper’s sake as well as her own.
He answered with a frown of slow comprehension. “If you have felt guilty for that, you shouldn’t. You did what was right in your judgment and, it seems to me, in that of the judge. You have nothing to fear or to apologize for. What is it that really troubles you?”
He had given her the perfect opening to tell him what Marlowe had threatened to do if she did not leave Clementine strictly alone.
“Celia,” he said quietly, “why is it that you came to tell me now? I cannot give you good counsel if I know only half the s
tory, and perhaps the less important half.”
There was nothing to say but the truth. “Seth Marlowe came to see me while I was arranging the flowers for the church. He said that if I continue my close friendship with Clementine, and in any way whatever speak against his wishes, he will tell everyone that I lied in the name of God and was guilty of perjury. And then no one would ever trust me again. You would be terribly disappointed in me. You might even ask me to leave the congregation…”
“I’m sorry. Poor Seth.” Roberson’s face creased with pity. “He has been so disappointed by the women he has loved that his views are warped. He can hardly believe that a lovely woman like Clementine could choose to marry him and be everything he wishes. I’m afraid you will have to give him time to realize his happiness, and trust in the goodness of God again. It is a lot to ask of you. I will speak to him and warn him against such a terrible piece of gossip.”
Celia bit her lip to stop herself from speaking too soon. He had not understood at all. How would she explain it to him? “Clementine has no family,” she began again. “Mr. Marlowe does not want me to be a friend to her.” She heard her own voice become more urgent. “He doesn’t understand that she needs women friends, alongside a husband. Particularly now. She is going to embark on a new life. It is a big change for her. There are things she is a little nervous about, things that are new to her. I could…”
“He loves her very deeply,” the vicar said quietly. “I know your husband only a little, but he seems a good man. Was he not gentle with you?”
Celia found herself blushing. The vicar had misunderstood her again. That was not what she was referring to. “Oh, you misunderstand! I mean simple things,” she said quickly, “like cooking, laundry, learning to fit in with someone else’s habits and ways of doing things.”
“They will both need to change a little,” he said patiently. “Perhaps it is better if we do not interfere. With the best will in the world, one might only make things worse. One is tempted to take sides, and it is really better if we do not. You would naturally understand Clementine almost completely, and Seth not at all. You cannot fault him for seeing it that way and being a little afraid.” He shook his head slowly. “It is a very unexpected and newfound happiness for him, late in his life and when he thought there was no hope left. It is natural that he should fear losing it.” His lips tightened as emotion overcame him. “He has suffered immensely, you know. His first wife was a walking tragedy, and she did terrible damage to their only child. Perhaps it was not entirely her fault, but that did not lessen the grief for him.”
Celia did not answer. She realized how much she liked Arthur Roberson, and how completely he did not understand what she was saying. He saw a different Seth Marlowe from the one she had seen. Was she wrong? Was she the one being judgmental, by failing to understand another person’s pain…and misreading it?
“I know it is hard to forgive someone who has hurt a person we love, harder even than if they had hurt us,” he went on earnestly. “But you must give him the chance to make Clementine happy, and I truly believe that she will fill that awful wound in him with tenderness. Is that not what you want for them both? There could be such blessings for him.” He smiled and his eyes softened. “She is a beautiful woman, in her own way. She has a brightness about her, a light within. You will see a change in him. You will have to forgive the darkness and the pain in him, before it has been healed. We can most of us do it afterward.”
She knew what he said was true, in principle, but he had not seen Marlowe’s face or the hand raised to strike her. Forgiveness was not supposed to be easy. She did not like Marlowe in the least bit, but was that not the point of it? Don’t judge, especially when you don’t know? Forgive anyway?
She reverted back to the issue that had brought her here. “And the fact that I lied in court when I was under oath?”
“Was it easy to do?” he asked.
“No, I have never been more afraid.” Memory washed over her, as if the pain were raw and sharp. “I could not have lived with any alternative.” That was the truth. It had been the right thing to do at the time, and she felt it with an even deeper conviction now.
He smiled with great sweetness, even though she was still sure that he did not yet understand. He thought Marlowe a good man, and Clementine’s love would gently unravel the hard knots in his soul. And was that true? Was it Celia who was unable to see the truth? Or far worse, unwilling to? What did he know of Marlowe that she did not—that was not her right to know? Or, for that matter, her wish. Did it matter, as long as he did not hurt Clementine?
Celia stood up, as did the vicar.
“I followed the Exeter case, at least some of it,” he said gravely, a shadow now across his face as memory of that tragedy returned. “Don’t let it twist your judgment, my dear. Hope, always keep hope.”
He walked toward the front door with her, and just before he put his hand out to touch the handle, he spoke again. “I shall have a word with Seth about gentleness. Clementine will need her women friends, especially if she should become with child. He must not think he can be everything to her. No one can do that. But it is natural enough, when you are in love, to imagine that you can. Clementine cares for you very much. I believe she lost her mother some time ago, and it is only natural. He can hold her far closer to him with a light hand than with a heavy one.”
Celia smiled back at him, forcing herself. She would have been so much happier if Clementine were marrying Arthur Roberson, but it would be unforgivable to say that. Clementine had never viewed him in that way, even if perhaps he had wished she did so.
“Thank you, Vicar,” was all she answered.
Celia left the vicarage and started walking down the slight incline toward the cottage in which Clementine rented two rooms. It was barely sufficient for her needs and left her little privacy, but she could afford it, as she cleaned the rest of the house for Miss Drew, the elderly woman who owned it. Clementine did a good deal of the cooking. That was a skill at which she excelled, possibly learned from her mother. But it was a very dependent situation, and one that she would be free of within a matter of months.
Or would she? If you were single, with only yourself and such skills as you possessed to depend on, life was difficult, but you could walk away from a situation if it became intolerable, even if all you could hope for was another domestic place similar to it, but with kinder conditions. Married, you were obliged to stay, whatever the circumstances. They might be happy, as Celia’s were. In fact, so happy at times she lay awake at night, almost afraid to go to sleep in case it all proved to be a dream and she would wake up alone, with only a memory.
She would lie listening to Hooper’s even breathing in sleep, feeling the warmth of him beside her, thinking of his waking smile, his hand reaching out to touch her.
But what if Clementine married Marlowe? The way he had appeared to Celia, barely an hour ago: angry, vindictive, vengeful—how would he be with his young bride? The vicar had heard only Marlowe’s side of the story. What would his wife’s view have been? No one had heard Rose Marlowe’s side, or that of the wayward daughter whose life was now on the street. Flavia had been her name. Marlowe spoke of her in hushed tones, as if she was dead, although he had no idea where she was. Literally dead or not, her soul was dead to him.
What did Clementine think of that? Surely her heart must ache for the girl, for Flavia Marlowe.
Now Celia was on her way to see Clementine, but to say what?
She dropped her pace from the swift walk it had been, produced by outrage, to a stroll. She walked down the road that ran between the neat cottages and the larger houses, many of them built of brick and slate-roofed. Her anger was tempered by indecision, now that she weighed the choices. She had to see Clementine, if only to explain why she could no longer take the part of counselor and friend that she had promised. It felt like something of a betray
al. She had promised, and promises should never be broken. But this was different. She pictured Seth Marlowe’s face in her mind and had no doubt whatever that he would carry out his threat if Celia disobeyed him.
What should she do? Tell Clementine as much of the truth as would make her understand, but no more? Not about the ugliness in his face, the hatred…or was it fear? Was the vicar right, and Marlowe’s first wife had hurt him so deeply that the wound was far from healed over? That, in fact, it was still bleeding?
Clementine was a natural healer. She had cared for many of the sick in the village, discreetly, but their gratitude had not been silent. And she had nursed sick animals, sometimes with Celia’s help. It was a great happiness they both treasured, watching over an injured cat or dog, feeding it regularly, seeing that it did not struggle to stand before its bones were healed, or pull out stitches before the skin mended over the torn flesh beneath. She smiled as she remembered a strange white cat that had fallen out of a tree and broken so many bones they had thought it could not live. One old man had offered to kill it quickly, to save it from distress, but Clementine had fought him as if she were defending a child. Celia helped her nurse the cat, keeping it on a blanket before the stove in her kitchen. It had been wintertime and bitterly cold, colder even than it was now. The cat healed, so there was nothing to show of the incident but a slight limp and a disinclination to climb trees anymore.
With their friendship and all the travails they had faced together, why should she not help Clementine with her wedding dress, with the arrangements, the guest list, with anything she wished? Because Marlowe did not wish it? Was that going to be the pattern from now on? Marlowe wished it. Marlowe did not wish it. Could he not see that he was suffocating Clementine?