by Jo Manning
Charles was speechless. The lady was in a rare humor. It behooved him to take advantage of it. He wished, however, that she would not gaze directly at him in that manner. Her unusual eyes, a painter’s prized cerulean, dazzled him, making him weak-kneed. He squirmed inwardly. He must not fantasize on the lady’s unique beauty, including the delightful callipygian charms she’d indicated with that careless wave of her hand towards her lower extremities. That way lay madness.
“Come, sir! No dawdling!” Sophia ordered. “The cemetery, it is! We have a good deal to discuss, you and I…and George, of course.” She chuckled softly.
Charles could only nod meekly in mute acquiescence, wondering at this new side to the baron’s widow. What was next? He prayed for strength and for respite from lascivious thoughts, so unbecoming and unseemly in a vicar.
Chapter Four
The life of les Milords Anglais…As soon as they rise, which is very late, they breakfast together, to the utter loss of two good morning hours. Then they go by coachfuls to the Palais, the Invalides, and Notre-Dame; from thence to the English coffeehouse, where they make up their tavern party for dinner. From dinner, where they drink quick, they adjourn in clusters to the play, where they crowd the stage, drest up in very fine clothes…From the play to the tavern again, where they get very drunk, and where they either quarrel among themselves, or sally forth, commit some riot in the streets, and are taken up by the watch…They return home, more petulant, but not more informed, than when they left it; and show, as they think, their improvement, by affectedly both speaking and dressing in broken French.
—Lord Chesterfield, Letters to His Son, 1774
Thomas Eliot, Earl of Dunhaven, lounged in his favorite chair at Laurence’s popular Paris coffeehouse. Robert Winton, Lord Brent, his countryman and latest companion in vice, sprawled opposite him on a leather divan, much the worse for wear after a night spent carousing the seamier streets of the French capitol city. The significant hazards of being English in France during this turbulent time only added spice to their stay; skirting the very real danger was almost an aphrodisiac.
Lord Brent, who seemed to fear nothing, had stopped in Paris on the way back from his Grand Tour of Greece and Italy, spending his father’s money freely along the way. Too freely; his vowels were scattered throughout town, and he was dangerously close to falling into River Tick. The jaded nobleman was an ideal companion for the profligate, careless Dunhaven.
“Enfin, quelque chose pour faire aujourd’hui? What’s on for today? The usual debauched round of amusements? Or have you devised something that will rescue me from this blasted ennui?” Brent drawled in execrable French. Dissipation had already shaped strong inroads on his young face.
“Actually, now that you mention it, there is something in the air, something that smells of money.” The Earl of Dunhaven removed a badly creased letter from his pocket, passing it under his handsome nose and sniffing volubly. His face broke into a wide grin. “Voila! It seems that my son-in-law, George Rowley, that contented cuckold, that wittol, has met his demise. My lovely daughter Sophia is now three times a widow.”
Brent came to attention, his sleepy, languid gaze replaced by a narrow-eyed, estimating look. “Sophia Rowley is your daughter, Tom?”
Dunhaven nodded. “The same. I have not seen my offspring in a number of years, however.” He grimaced, thinking of the long-ago agreement he’d made with Rowley, an agreement not at all to his liking, but one he’d had no choice but to accept. “My son-in-law and I did not get on.” He winced at the memory of that acrimonious interview, which had ended with the baron’s financing his long stay on the continent.
“Told you to clear out, did he?” Brent inquired, cutting to the heart of the matter.
Dunhaven’s cold blue eyes fixed on his young companion. His lips thinned. “In a word…yes,” he agreed.
“So, then,” Brent stretched his broad, muscular frame, “the lady is left a widow again. A rich widow, one hopes?”
“Rowley was a very wealthy man. The family was a tight lot; never spent a shilling. Did not believe in enjoying life. Yes, Sophia should be a very rich widow. There are also two boys.” Dunhaven tapped the letter from his informant.
“Heirs? That could be a complication.”
“Children are a vulnerable lot. Very few survive the illnesses and rigors of childhood. Quel dommage, mon ami, eh? Their misfortune. Those who do survive…Well, sometimes accidents occur, do they not?” Dunhaven’s laugh was a harsh, ugly sound.
“You’re funning me…aren’t you?” Even Brent was taken aback by the sharp menace, the veiled threat, in his friend’s voice, and the disturbing, malevolent narrowing of his unusual blue eyes.
Dunhaven looked directly into the nobleman’s face; the tone of his voice was cold and hard. “That bastard Rowley cheated me out of my due. His sniveling brats ain’t going to stand in my way, not by half. I think ’tis time I cut short my lovely sojourn in this fair city.” His eyes narrowed. “And you? Do you fancy returning to England? My daughter Sophia is worth the trip, if what I have heard of her amorous adventures these last ten years is even partly true.”
“I have heard talk of Sophia Rowley,” Brent ventured. “She was all but married to Sir Isaac Rebow, waiting impatiently for her husband to expire, ’twas said among the ton.”
Dunhaven snorted. “Well, Rowley has expired, ’tis true, but ma chere Sophia’s paramour has not come up to snuff. He has married his ward. Sophia is at this moment rusticating in Yorkshire.” He guffawed loudly. “She must be dead bored!”
Lord Brent played absently with the dented coffee spoon on the scarred wooden table, tapping it softly. “Is the lady amenable to marrying again?” he asked.
“Her money will draw suitors like flies, as her beauty did when she was a young girl. If she has retained even a modicum of her good looks, the combination should be most appealing.”
“Not enough for Sir Isaac, it seems,” Brent commented.
“Rebow’s ward was wealthy, too, so ’tis said. And, man, why buy a dog if there’s a pup available?” Dunhaven slapped his thigh, his eyes twinkling in merriment. “Sophia’s thirty years of age and twice a mother; her rival was a young virgin. Where’s the choice?”
The younger man was shocked at his companion’s crude remarks. He was speaking coarsely of his own flesh and blood, his daughter! Brent shrugged. “One could look at it that way,” he drawled, uneasy.
“Only way to look at it! So”—Dunhaven’s voice took on an oily, cajoling tone—“enfin, what say you? Will you accompany me to England?”
Brent paused. Things were much of a sameness lately in Paris. He’d been abroad for two years. Time to visit his family, see the pater, arrange for more financing of his pleasures and perhaps meet the beautiful widow. He had glimpsed her once, at a crush in Mayfair before embarking on his Grand Tour, and had been impressed by her looks. She was a goddess, tall, arrogant, blond and, ’twas said, free with her favors.
And, now, with Baron Rowley’s demise, she was a very wealthy goddess. He was not interested in becoming leg-shackled; he was, after all, only past his twenty-fifth birthday, but a little dalliance might be just the thing for his ennui. Yes, Sophia Rowley might cure his lackluster spirits. His pulse quickened at the prospect, even as he acknowledged some misgivings concerning his companion. Burgeoning lust easily won the battle.
“Oui, mon compere! I shall have my valet pack my portmanteaux toute-suite, within the hour! Ah, England and its many and varied beauties; I look forward to it.
“Allons!”
What had occurred in his relationship with Lady Sophia? Charles thought as he walked with her toward the cemetery. He was nonplussed. Only days before, after the disaster at Rowley Hall, he was persona non grata. He was certain that the lady never wanted to see him again. Now here he was, walking sedately arm in arm with her to the vicarage, for all the world like people on good, even intimate, terms. It was like night and day, this change in her attitude. He wa
s terrified that it would, at any moment, revert to its former unpleasant state. He must seize the moment to talk about the will, the boys, and That Other Matter.
He cleared his throat. “Er…ahem…Lady Rowley…you must know that I had nothing to do with your husband’s will,” he began tentatively.
“Oh, of course you did not, Mr. Heywood. I have thought upon the matter a good deal and have come to the conclusion that ’twas as much a surprise to you as to me.” She turned her eyes on him, sincerity and friendship in her gaze, her free hand patting his forearm, sending sparks all the way to his shoulder. “I fear I have been overwrought these last several weeks, and I beg pardon if I seemed rude.” Her wide, sweet smile could have melted icebergs.
Charles gulped. The lady’s mouth was delicious, the lower lip fuller and naturally pouting, the upper curved like cupid’s bow. Those gorgeous lips and the close proximity of the lady were nerve-racking, and nervousness tended to cause him to stammer. “N-n-no need to apologize, my lady! ’Tis I…that is, for s-s-s-sure, I never meant to replace your influence with your sons. Whatever you desire for them, I will never object in any way. They are your children, after all.”
Sophia’s smile was serene, more beautiful than a Raphael Madonna. “Thank you, Mr. Heywood. I was sure we would arrive at a mutually satisfactory agreement.” She beamed at him.
Anything, he would agree to anything. He was putty in her hands, malleable and willing. So long as she continued to regard him with that angelic gaze, so long as those ripe red lips smiled at him. She was perfection in face and form, an angel. No, she was Venus, Aphrodite, Diana—a goddess, by whatever name. Had he died without realizing it and ascended to heaven?
Sophia smiled. It was reassuring to know that she had not lost her effect on men, despite the horrible events of the past few months. She’d noted with pleasure the results of her touch on the vicar. She had been concerned that her once-considerable charms had waned, but dear Mr. Heywood was hers for the taking. It was a heady feeling! Did she, however, want to take him? It was a route she had traveled before, but this was a different game.
Charles Heywood was a handsome man—perhaps a bit younger than she was—and might provide some good bed sport, a pastime Sophia greatly enjoyed. It had been a while since she’d shared a bed with a man. Her first appraisal of any male always gauged his suitability as a lover in a cold, unemotional assessment, and she was rarely wrong. Now she winced inwardly. Sir Isaac had also passed muster at first glance. She had believed that he was the lover of her dreams, after so many forgettable others. Her husbands.…She winced visibly now at the memory. Her husbands had been duty, no more; one had been unspeakable, a brute. Only George had been kind.
She must not think thoughts that depressed her. She should concentrate on the matter at hand. Seducing Mr. Heywood. It might prove to be amusing.
Anything that relieved the great boredom of Yorkshire would be welcome. She cast the vicar a sideways glance. Though she had so far not numbered the clergy among her conquests, there was always a first time. The passion she’d heard in his rich voice as he’d declaimed those poems held promise for other kinds of passion.
Pleased that the issue of who was in control of her children had been settled to her satisfaction, she was now free to pursue other satisfactions. He was a fine-looking man. Charles Heywood, vicar of St. Mortrud’s, had no idea what a lucky man he was about to become.
A sweet chestnut tree cast its shade over George Rowley’s gravesite. The young tree was a novelty so far north. Its distinctive long leaves and feathery yellow teasels blew gently in the soft breeze. Tight new green grass, velvety in texture, grew upon the slight mound that indicated a newly dug grave. A monumental tombstone stretched wide to mark the resting place of the baron and his first baroness.
Sophia knelt to read the inscription. It was the first time she had ever opened the lychgate and ventured into the small cemetery, the first time she had seen this tombstone; she had not been present at her late husband’s funeral service. She looked up at the vicar. “This stone is for both George and his first wife,” she stated, surprised.
Charles nodded. He had not known the first Lady Rowley, who had died thirteen years earlier. She was still revered in the countryside and amongst the staff at Rowley Hall. She was said to have been an undemanding, quietly pretty woman, unknown to the members of the haute monde. Charles knew she had been George’s great love, although sadly barren: Lucy Tipton Rowley, 1750-1798.
George had never spoken much of the first Lady Rowley to her, Sophia mused. Indeed, her portrait was not displayed at the Hall. Where was it, she wondered? Surely, there was one.
“There is an inscription after her name—” Sophia peered at the tiny carving and read the lines aloud: “A violet by a mossy stone/Half hidden from the eye!/Fair as a star, when only one/Is shining in the sky/She lived unknown, and few could know/When Lucy ceased to be/But she is in her grave, and, oh/The difference to me!”
“Wordsworth,” the vicar commented, his voice grave.
“Yes,” Sophia agreed, “for here is the poet’s name, and the date of the poem’s composition, 1800. George and I were wed in that year.…When was this inscribed, then, if the lady died in 1798?”
“It must have been after 1800,” Charles replied. He squatted to see better, his fingers moving over the deeply incised stone. “Not worn. No more than a few years old. Certainly, then, after your marriage to him, my lady.”
“He loved her,” she said in a quiet voice, a voice slightly tinged with envy. Even as he married her, he’d loved his first wife.
Charles nodded. “So I have been told. He adored her. I heard that she was his childhood sweetheart. Grew up on an adjoining estate and never left home. The villagers here still speak fondly of her.”
Sophia’s face muscles felt stiff. Tears stung the back of her eyes, as she pondered such spousal devotion. Something she’d never experienced, not ever. She rose briskly, brushing at the skirts of her walking dress, now stained green by fresh grass, willing back tears. She never cried!
“Well! So George also fancied the poems of Mr. Wordsworth.”
“We often read them aloud together in the evenings. He was much comforted by them at the end,” Charles added. Rowley had said he enjoyed listening to the vicar’s voice, and Charles had been moved by the old fellow’s quavering baritone, once-rich, but steadily growing weaker over those last months. He missed him. Should he have spoken so? He wondered, too late, about George’s feelings for his late wife. Lady Sophia had seemed taken aback by his remarks and by the deep sentiment of love expressed on the tombstone.
Sophia’s eyes flew to Charles’s face. “He did not suffer, did he?” There was a sudden urgency in her voice, almost a panic.
Charles’s first reaction was to reach out to console her, but he stayed his hand. Though she seemed distraught, it would be inappropriate. “No, my lady, he did not suffer; he passed away peacefully. He had been ailing for a very long time, but he was not in great pain. At least, it never appeared so to any of us. He never asked for laudanum.”
“I should have been here, Mr. Heywood, say it! I know that is what everyone thinks. I know it is why everyone hates me!” Sophia’s voice rose in bitter self-condemnation. Her arms were stiff at her sides, fists tightly clenched.
Now Charles did reach out, taking her rigid, gloved hands in his larger ones, opening them up, spreading her fingers. “Nay, my lady, nay! Do not think such things! George…the baron…He never had a harsh word about you. He valued you highly as the mother of his sons. He loved those boys more than any father ever loved his children, I do believe that.”
“He did not love me, Mr. Heywood. I suspect you know that.” Sophia was aware that her display of emotion was unseemly, especially in front of a man she had decided to seduce, but she could not stop herself. She was making a cake of herself, acting the fool, and yet she could not stop.
“Lady Sophia,” Charles attempted to console her, “the baron admire
d you greatly. He often praised you.…”
But his words, meant to reassure her, sounded lame, even to him.
Sophia Rushton Ferguson Rowley, nee Eliot, pursed her lips, speaking slowly. “No one has ever loved me, Mr. Heywood. I fear I am not at all lovable.” She laughed, wincing at the hollow sound, hating this maudlin display of self-pity. Hating herself.
The young vicar flinched as if he had been struck, stunned by her self-loathing. “Do not say that, Lady Rowley. It is untrue!”
“La! I am but feeling sorry for myself, Mr. Heywood. Do, pray, excuse me.” She hastily withdrew her hands from his and fixed him with a coquettish stare. “Please forget this silly conversation, I beg you. Cemeteries must bring out the worst in me!”
Charles frowned. The lady had let her formidable defenses down, if only for a few moments. The sight of that beautiful verse inscribed on the family tombstone, full of emotion and love, verses from a favorite poet for the baron’s much-loved first wife, had upset Sophia, his unloved second wife. Well, he was going to upset her even more, now, he feared, for he had to discuss That Other Matter that Baron Rowley had, up to his last day on earth, refused to discuss with him. He cleared his throat.
Chapter Five
And this is law, I will maintain
Unto my dying day, sir
That whatsoer king shall reign
I will be Vicar of Bray, sir!
—“The Vicar of Bray”
Anonymous Poem,
circa 1734
The moment had come. The Other Matter Charles wanted to discuss was about to be put on the table. The vicar of St. Mortrud’s recollected the painful discussion he’d had with his patron, Baron Rowley. Was he deliberately disobeying, disregarding, a dying man’s wishes? Yes, he was, he conceded that point, but the baron was wrong, Charles Heywood was sure of that. George Rowley was an exceedingly humble man, for all that he was rich, locally powerful and possessed an old and respected title. As vicar, Charles was overruling his last wish. He had been unable to persuade the baron, but perhaps, he could convince the widow.