Seducing Mr. Heywood

by Jo Manning

  Unfortunately, he could see that Lady Sophia had been upset by the discovery of the loving inscription ordered by her late husband for the first Lady Rowley. Women! Created from Adam’s rib, wondrous creations indeed, but also man’s eternal torment. Charles cleared his throat.

  “Lady Sophia,” he began, “I do not believe you have been inside St. Mortrud’s?”

  Sophia’s dark golden brows knit together. “No, sir, I do not believe that I have.” She was no churchgoer. As a child, she attended the small church not far from the Dunhaven estate, but as an adult, she associated churches with weddings, her weddings. Unpleasant memories. Churches had fallen out of favor with her; she avoided them.

  “Well, then, may I escort you inside? You will find this small church most interesting, I think. It is very old and probably was erected on the foundations of an even older Norse place of worship.” Charles led the lady under an arch and through the rounded wooden Norman doorway. It was dark and cool inside the church. Motes of dust, caught in the still air, floated in the muted yellow light streaming through the leaded glass windows.

  Peaceful, Sophia thought with surprise, wondrously peaceful. A very small church, indeed, smaller inside than it appeared from the outside. The stone walls were thick and solid. Sophia took off her gloves and placed the palm of her right hand on the near wall. Cool to the touch, but not clammy. The baptismal font was behind her, a curiously carved basin. It was partially filled with water.

  “This appears extremely old,” she commented, running her hand around the worn stone rim. She looked up at Charles for more information, strangely interested.

  Charles nodded. “From the days of St. Mortrud, according to tradition.”

  “Who was this St. Mortrud? I confess, I have never heard of such a saint. Indeed, I have no idea if this personage was male or female.”

  “Male. St. Mortrud was an early convert to Christianity. He is thought to have been of Norse ancestry, and possibly the son of a Viking chieftain. He was martyred, killed by a band of marauders pillaging the area. His bones are said to be buried under this baptismal font.”

  Lady Sophia quickly pulled her hand off and stepped back from the simple stone font. A shiver ran up her spine. Martyred saint’s bones! Relics! This smacked of popery, of the worst practices of Rome.

  The vicar noted her quick movements and attempted to reassure her. “My lady, there is no proof that bones are buried there. It is tradition, after all, not fact.”

  “Why do you not excavate under the font, then”—she gestured—“to clear the matter up once and for all?”

  Charles smiled, showing excellent white teeth. “These are matters of faith, my lady, and faith is not to be tampered with lightly. It does no harm to believe the mortal remains of a saint are buried here.”

  “It smacks of popery, Mr. Heywood. I am surprised you condone such superstition. Are you a latter-day Vicar of Bray, sir?”

  Charles shook his head, not at all insulted by the lady’s reference to the infamous vicar who changed his religious beliefs to suit the times. “The baron, hardly a papist, would never dream of such an act. And in this, I believe he was right.” He hesitated. “On other matters, however, I disagreed with him.” There, he had created an opening.

  Lady Sophia’s eyes widened. “What matters were those, Mr. Heywood?”

  Charles’s voice was firm. “I believe we should establish a suitable memorial for Baron Rowley, my lady, a memorial befitting his status and comparable to the memorials in this place of worship for other members of the Rowley family.” He indicated with a sweep of his arm the various sarcophagi and wall monuments that crowded the humble interior of St. Mortrud’s.

  Sophia’s eyes followed his gesture. She walked to the closest object, an intricately carved wall monument. “This is—” She peered at the stone carving.

  “A memorial to the first baron, Roger, who fell in battle during the invasion of Normandy by King Henry I. His body was buried in France, but his heart was carried home. That, my lady, is called a heart monument. Roger Rowley’s heart is contained therein.”

  Lady Sophia flinched, drawing back in alarm. Bones! Hearts! Was this a charnel house or a church? She shuddered delicately.

  Charles ignored her reaction of disgust, pointing out the details of the small monument. “Note the intricacy of this carving, my lady, the multiple frames about the carved portrait of Roger Rowley, and the symbolism in each corner, the heraldic elements, the lions, the eagles…”

  “I’m sure,” Sophia muttered. She was vastly uninterested in heraldry!

  “And here,” Charles continued, pointing to the timber tomb of another baron, a sarcophagus with a recumbent figure clad in armor, his hands together on his chest, pointed upward in an attitude of prayer. “This is a common pose from the early fifteenth century, but entirely carved of wood. It is most unusual.” His enthusiasm was clearly not shared by his audience of one, from the bored expression on the lady’s face.

  Somewhat desperately, Charles walked to a small stained glass window in the chancel, stepping into the area of modest pews set aside for the clergy and choir. “This was commissioned by Henry Rowley, about 1500. Note the imagery, with a portrait of Henry kneeling in prayer and this depiction of Death in the adjacent roundel, aiming an arrow at his breast.”

  Lady Sophia gulped at the distressing pieces of colored glass, badly mottled by age. Death, a skeleton, wore a malevolent expression on its skull face, clearly pleased at the shot he was taking. Already, she’d had more than enough of these disturbing mementi mori and was overcome by a desire for fresh air. The atmosphere had become cloying and unpleasant. “Yes, yes, Mr. Heywood, I am sure this is all very historic, very meaningful, but—”

  “My lady, I beg your pardon! I was simply attempting to show you the Rowley legacy inside this modest church. I had hoped that Baron Rowley would consider a suitable memorial to his life. For this,” he indicated all the other memorials, “this is a testament to the good lives and brave deeds of his family. This is something for the boys to be proud of; this is their heritage.”

  Sophia was becoming exasperated. “George was an exceeding modest man, sir, as you well know. I could not imagine him giving much thought—especially as he lay ailing—to a memorial in this church. His primary concerns, I am sure, lay elsewhere.”

  “Indeed, they did,” Charles agreed. “His primary concerns were for his sons, my lady, for their welfare and for yours. I pressed him on this issue, but to no avail; he was unwilling to deal with it. But I petition you, my lady, to agree with me on this. George Rowley deserves a material testament to his life and goodness in St. Mortrud’s. It is fitting.” He added, “And the people here would expect it.”

  “Are we to pander to the people of Rowley Village, then?” Lady Sophia’s tone was scathing. What she felt about the people of Rowley Village was patently apparent.

  “Not pandering, my lady, not at all, but an acknowledgment of how important the baron was to their lives, as well as to his immediate family. John and William need a visual memorial, something tangible, in a continuous line from Roger Rowley to their own time.” He pointed to the heart monument and to the imposing timber casket. “It is their heritage.”

  Sophia was unmoved. “I don’t know, Mr. Heywood, if George did not think it necessary…”

  “He evidently thought it necessary to inscribe that poem to Lady Lucy some years after her death. He wanted her remembered, my lady. Why any less remembrance for him?”

  “You are persistent, sir, I must say.” Lady Sophia regarded the vicar with a mixture of amusement and admiration. He was a passionate man, there was no doubt about it, and single-minded, as well.

  “I beg you to think upon this, my lady. A simple wall monument; marble, perhaps, nothing ornate, for that would not suit the man he was. Please, do consider this.” There, he had stated his case for the memorial. Now it was her decision. If she chose to ignore him, a monument to George would not join the solid testaments
ringing the walls of St. Mortrud’s, memorializing his valiant ancestors, that long line of Rowleys and the family history. It would be a shame.

  “My lady, though your husband never fought in battle for his kings, nor ventured far from his manor, he was no less valiant than these others. He was a kind and generous landlord, a good friend, an excellent husband and father. Surely, attention should be paid to such a man?” Charles pressed his suit with the baron’s widow as he had pressed it with the late baron.

  “Sir, you thought a great deal of my husband. Your concern is impressive,” Sophia commented, moved by his speech.

  “I have rarely known his like,” Charles replied quietly. “Attention should be paid, my lady. It is simply his due. And…and it would mean so much to the boys.”

  His trump card, the boys. Charles hated to use it, but…

  Lady Sophia shut her eyes. There it was, that unfamiliar prickling at the back of her eyeballs again. No, not tears! She never, ever cried. It would not happen now. The vicar’s comments were loving and true; George deserved to be remembered. The boys would expect her to show that she cared. And she did care. She did! She felt great sorrow, now, more sorrow every day, for that man’s death. He had been kind and generous to her. He had removed the greatest threat to her life, her father.

  Because of George Rowley, she’d had no more to fear from Thomas Eliot, the despicable Earl of Dunhaven, scourge of her young life. She owed George a great deal. The least she could do was acquiesce to the vicar’s request.

  Sophia raised her eyes. “You are right, sir. Please proceed with your plans for the memorial. I hope”—she fixed him with a look that could not be gainsayed—“I hope you will keep me informed as to the design of this monument? Perhaps we can collaborate on its construction? I may have some ideas to add.”

  Charles raised a prayer of thanks heavenwards. Thank you, God! Perhaps, in that ethereal sphere, the baron was displeased with him, but this was the right step to take. Charles was sure of it. The memorial that George had refused to consider would be erected after all.

  The Earl of Dunhaven was weary. The channel crossing had been turbulent as usual, and the coach from Dover ill-sprung. His bones ached; he was not getting any younger. That fact galled him. How many years remained to him? He was determined to make the most of them and access to his late son-in-law’s wealth would guarantee an extremely comfortable old age.

  That witling Brent had suggested they stay at Limmer’s Hotel, favored by the sporting crowd. A bad choice! Crowded and dirty, it did not meet the earl’s high standards. Only the excellent gin punch raised it to halfway tolerable. They would have to look for other lodgings. Brent’s father, a stiff-rumped marquess, had declared that his prodigal son and his friend were not welcome at his Mayfair townhouse. Bad luck; they must consult the newspapers or obtain a reference from someone at Limmer’s. They would run out of blunt too fast staying at hotels.

  Or, they could hie themselves to Yorkshire. Why not avail themselves of Sophia’s hospitality? The use of a bed, nourishment for his belly…was that so much to ask? Surely the chit owed him that much—he was her father!

  And he was eager to introduce her to his new companion. Brent was easy to manipulate; Dunhaven had no doubt the fellow could be coerced into considering marriage to Sophia. The way Brent was piling up gambling debts, he needed a rich wife, and a husband controlled his wife’s fortune. When Sophia’s wealth passed directly into Brent’s hands, it would be the shortest of trips into the earl’s own pockets.

  Lewis Alcott leaned back at the vicar’s bountiful Sunday afternoon table, stretching his burly arms wide. The vicar’s capable housekeeper, Mrs. Chipcheese, saw to it that Charles and his guests ate heartily. The remains of a roast capon shared the table’s honors with a half-empty plate of grilled trout, mashed potatoes, a salad of young greens with juicy tomatoes, and a rhubarb pie. Lewis scooped some clotted cream from a blue and white striped pottery bowl to garnish a hearty slice of that pie. Fresh-poured coffee was at his elbow.

  It had been a long week, punctuated with lancing Farmer White’s boils and seeing the Willett children through a frightening bout of the croup. It had ended with a frantic call from Mrs. Watkins, the midwife, when the Abbott baby, a breech birth, had showed signs of distress shortly after delivery. Thank God all his patients had improved. Lewis had faith in his medical skills, but he also believed in divine intercession.

  “Sometimes I envy the quiet, the calm, of your calling, Charles, after such a week as I have had,” he remarked. “But then, when I think of your volatile relationship with the beauteous widow at Rowley Hall, I welcome all the putrid fevers and abscessed wounds that come my way.” He flicked a crumb of bread in his friend’s direction.

  “No playing with your food, Lewis! I am surprised your good mother did not teach you better.” Charles refused to be baited. He was determined to ignore the doctor’s customary teasing. The sermon had been well received that morning. It was one he’d delivered before, but the congregation seemed to enjoy it as much as they had previously. Charles eschewed hellfire-and-damnation lectures, preferring to dwell on goodness and charity and the positive aspects of life. His parishioners left feeling happier than when they arrived, and that always brought them back the next Sunday.

  “Ah, that brings up another issue.” Lewis would not be quelled; his exuberant nature was too much a part of his personality.

  “And that issue is—?” Charles asked.

  “Motherhood. Maternal feelings and the instincts thereof. Are you collaborating with Lady Sophia to revive those long-dormant emotions?” Lewis’s lips quirked with amusement.

  Charles shook his head. “You misjudge that lady, Lewis. You misjudge her badly.”

  “Oh?” Lewis leaned forward, elbows on the table, all ears.

  “She and I have been collaborating to plan the boys’ activities this summer. She has been eager to participate and is looking forward to seeing them again.”

  “No doubt,” Lewis commented wryly. “And how does she propose to explain the reason she has been absent from their lives most of this past decade?”

  Charles grew sober. “I don’t know, Lewis. Frankly—” He sighed. “I would not want to be in her shoes concerning that particular issue. I believe she harbors a great deal of guilt over her abandonment of them. The baron, however, always told John and William that she loved them with all her heart.”

  Lewis shook his head. “Those little fellows probably never entered her mind, much less her heart, poor boys. Your favorite poet, Mr. Wordsworth, will not write poems extolling Lady Sophia Rowley’s maternal nature.” He raised his thick, sandy brown eyebrows and wiggled them at Charles, changing the somber subject of a mother’s neglect of her children, to a teasing topic closer to his mischievous heart. “So, you would not want to be in that lady’s shoes…but is there anything else you would want to b—”

  Charles stayed him with a look that belied his otherwise benign countenance. “Don’t, Lewis! Avoid finishing that sentence if you desire to remain my friend! I warn you, man.”

  Lewis leaned back again, feigning surprise. “Well, well, well.” He chuckled. “I fear that something deep is going on. Rallying to defend the lady’s good name, refusing to indulge in a little harmless funning…Have you lost your heart to that wicked widow, my dear friend?”

  Charles rose from the table and walked to the window that looked out over the graveyard. It was green and quiet. Nothing stirred. “Not wicked, Lewis. That woman, I think, has been more sinned against than sinning. The baron—” Charles paused. He could not discuss the confidences George Rowley had shared with him regarding Sophia.

  George had employed a Bow Street Runner to investigate the Eliot family, particularly the earl, Sophia’s father. Sophia had been the victim of her profligate sire for years, and her first husband had been worse than the refuse running through the middle of a London street. His name was Rushton, and he had been wealthy and titled, but scum through and through. B
arely sixteen, she’d been sold into marriage by the Earl of Dunhaven, who’d met his future son-in-law at a particularly unsavory Covent Garden brothel, a house that specialized in providing the most depraved pleasures for jaded gentlemen.

  The lady had suffered a great deal. If it was difficult for her to be a loving mother, the reasons were not so arcane. George hoped that Charles could help Sophia become the person she might have been were she not handed over to a brutal husband at such a tender age. George had understood his wife and had felt her pain. He’d asked Charles to be patient with her, to understand her anger and her selfishness, to aid her in regaining her true path before it was too late. George thought that Sophia’s was a soul worth saving, and he hoped that after he passed on, his friend the vicar would try to save his wife’s soul. He had urged Charles to do his best.

  But this was not information Charles Heywood would, or could, share with his best friend, Lewis Alcott. Indeed, he could never share what he knew about her with the lady herself.

  Chapter Six

  Not in entire forgetfulness

  And not in utter nakedness,

  But trailing clouds of glory do we come

  From God, who is our home:

  Heaven lies about us in our infancy!

  —William Wordsworth,

  “Ode: Intimations of Immortality

  from Recollections of Early Childhood,” 1804

  John, the new young Baron Rowley, stepped out of the handsomely appointed carriage emblazoned with the family seal and hesitated. Behind him, his younger brother, the Honorable William Rowley, bumped into his shoulder. “Ouch!” William piped up. “Do get on, John!” Horatio, the strapping young footman who’d accompanied them on the journey from Eton, stepped back hurriedly to keep from tripping over John like a third domino.