by Jo Manning
In the distance, the endless tumbling songs of skylarks infiltrated the summer skies, and every so often one of the brown creatures would swoop by, so close that the tuft of its crest could be seen clearly. Other birds also made their presence known, and a steady continuo of birdsong accompanied them on their walk.
Lewis stooped and plucked a blade of grass, flushing a startled meadow pipit. He chewed on the stalk, his mood contemplative. “You missed the great elopement, Charles, with your mysterious journey to Kent and York.”
Charles nodded. “Lady Sophia remarked that no one saw it coming, but she, of course, was probably the unlikely cupid, throwing Lord Brent and her abigail together during the outbreak of contagion.”
Lewis nodded. His eyes narrowed, and he pointed to a number of pale gray birds clustered on a hummock of turf in the near distance. “Wheatears,” he identified them. “They are here very late, no? It is now midsummer.” A birdwatcher like his friend, Charles nodded in agreement. Wheatears were among the earliest harbingers of spring, making their nests in crevices on the ground or in abandoned rabbit burrows.
“They are culinary delicacies in France, are they not, Lewis?” Charles remarked, idly chucking stones as he walked.
Lewis snorted, correcting him. “Those are ortolans, Charles, not wheatears.”
“Close enough,” Charles remarked, not especially interested in the avian discussion. He had other things on his mind.
The birds clicked in alarm as the two friends drew closer, flying away in a flutter of white tails and rumps. Charles picked up a handful of rocks and aimed them at a jutting boulder, aim precise and on the mark.
Lewis regarded him. “You are in a peculiar state of mind this morning, if you do not mind my saying so.”
“Only this morning?” Charles quipped.
“No, you are right.” Lewis chuckled. “You have been in a peculiar state of mind for many weeks now, since, I believe, the arrival of the Widow Rowley to this rustic paradise we call home.”
“Pray, do not jest, Lewis, though I know it is against your nature to be serious.”
The doctor sighed and sat down on a hummock, his face grim, as if resigned to what was to come. “You are going to ask for my advice again, are you not?”
Charles stiffened. “If it inconveniences you so much—”
“Cut line, Charles. I am accustomed to being the confessor’s confessor. What are friends for, after all?” His eyes winked behind his spectacles.
“I am going to ask Lady Sophia to marry me, Lewis,” he proclaimed.
“Why do you make it sound as though you are planning your own funeral?” Lewis wondered.
“Does it sound that way?” Charles shook his head. “No, not a funeral. It’s simply that I am unsure of myself in this situation.”
“How much kissing has been going on since you returned from your journey?” Lewis guessed.
A slight flush crept from the edge of Charles’s neatly tied white cravat. “Some,” he acknowledged.
Lewis snickered. He began to speak, stopped, and cleared his throat loudly, uttering his next words with difficulty. “Charles, Charles, you amaze me!”
Charles made a movement to rise. “If you are going to laugh at me, Lewis—” he began.
The other man’s big hand stayed him. “Sit, sit. Allow me to indulge myself, Vicar.” Lewis sighed, turning his face to the blue, cloudless sky and addressing the meadow pipits, the wheatears, and the hovering skylarks. “He kisses the most beautiful woman in all of England. She allows him these liberties, mind you, and, in point of fact, would not at all mind if he took even more liberties with her delicious person—”
“Lewis!” Charles’s voice was tinged with warning.
The surgeon put up his hand. “All right, all right. Do not get yourself into such a lather.” Lewis turned to him. “You know I mean nothing by this banter. But, Charles, I still do not understand the nature of this problem you see concerning Lady Rowley. Allow nature to take its course, man!”
“If nature took its course, I would be less than a sterling example of a man of the cloth, and unfit to serve the church.” Charles’s tone was grim.
Lewis regarded his friend gravely. “If you will not bed her outside the holy bonds of matrimony, have done with it and propose to the lady. She finds you attractive enough to kiss you on every available occasion or so you say. Perhaps she would not find it too awful to have you at hand whenever she needs…ahem…your services!”
“And if she rejects my proposal? What then? How humiliating that would be!” Charles threw a rock with great force at the boulder; it split exactly in half.
“I think you are more worried that she might accept, Mr. Heywood.” Lewis’s eyes gleamed. “My Lord, but that is it, is it not? You are concerned that she might accept you?”
Charles rose, brushing the dust and grass from his trousers. “I grow weary of confiding in you, I vow. You are no help at all! First, my father tells me not to even think of marrying Lady Sophia, then you tell me I fear she might accept me—”
“Your father?” Lewis was interested. “You have discussed the matter with him?”
Charles grimaced. “He guessed. I told him I had no interest in his neighbor’s daughter, Charlotte Anne Mainwaring, and he was disgusted with me—”
“Well, Charles, I do not mind admitting that, in truth, I do not envy your marriage to a lady of such volatile temperament. But what was his reasoning?”
Charles shrugged. “He implied that she was much too—” He blushed fully now. “He said that she is too experienced for someone like me. She is worldly. I am not.”
Lewis adjusted his spectacles, pushing them up the bridge of his nose. “He is probably right, but, ah, what joy there would be in gaining the benefit of that lady’s intimate knowledge, Charles. No, do not hit me!” He feinted as Charles turned toward him with an evil glare, then clapped the vicar’s shoulder.
“In seriousness, I believe that you and the widow have a good deal to offer each other. Methinks she craves a stable presence in her life, and the boys—who adore you, my friend—certainly need a father. She could do much worse. For God’s sake, man, you should be relieved that Lord Brent eloped with her maid!”
Charles ran a hand through his hair. “I did believe him to be my rival, Lewis. I truly believed that. It made me crazed.”
“Your greatest rival, Charles, one not so easily overcome,” Lewis commented shrewdly, “may be yourself.”
The Reverend and Clarissa Walters arrived at midday early in the week, accompanied by Charles Heywood. The clergymen stood aside as the women greeted each other, at first tentatively, and then with such force and emotion that Charles was moved almost to tears. He turned to the Reverend Walters and indicated that they should, perhaps, leave the two women alone.
The archbishop’s secretary nodded, following Charles out the front door. Bromley, who had been standing nearby, gave Charles a speaking look as they passed.
“See that tea is served, Bromley, then make yourself scarce. Inform the others that the ladies are to be left in privacy. They have a good deal to discuss,” Charles whispered.
The butler nodded, stepping back and closing the door behind them.
“Do you like horses, Mr. Walters?” Charles inquired, walking toward the Rowley stables.
“I do, sir.” Jesse Walters nodded his head. “And, please, call me Jesse.”
There were tears in Clarissa’s eyes as she stroked Sophia’s cheek. “You have grown even more beautiful, my dearest,” she whispered.
“I would have recognized you anywhere, Miss Bane,” Sophia replied, her voice quavering with like emotion. “I cannot believe you were so nearby all of this time.”
Bromley had silently brought a tea tray into the drawing room and then closed the doors behind him. Sophia brought Mrs. Walters to the long green-and-white-striped divan in front of the fireplace and they sat drinking in each other’s faces, their fingers entwined.
It was time
for the question that must be answered first, after fifteen long, puzzling years.
“Why did you leave me?” Sophia asked, her lips quivering.
Clarissa placed her fingers over the younger woman’s lips, to stop their trembling. “Oh, my dear, my dear, I never wanted to leave you. Your father—”
A hard look flattened Sophia’s blue eyes. “What did that blackguard do?”
The former governess had decided she would never tell her beloved girl the true story of the events that had led to her departure from the Dunhaven estate. She had debated the matter with her own conscience, at length, and had concluded that she would only tell Sophia part of the truth. The whole truth of the awful matter would serve no purpose now. It had happened a long time ago, and at times, Clarissa thought it must have happened to someone else. She had removed herself from the injury and distress with a great effort of will; if she had not done so, she knew she would have gone mad.
“Dearest Sophia, my child,” she began, stroking her arm, “your father would not allow me to accompany you to London. He dismissed me. I was so distraught that I argued with him.” Her voice was firm as she recounted her expurgated version of that last encounter with the Earl of Dunhaven. “I argued with him too forcibly, it seems, and he…Well, he struck me, my dear.”
Sophia cried out in dismay at the outrage. Her eyes brimmed with tears.
“No, my dear, do not weep. It was a very long time ago and I am fine, now, but—” Clarissa moistened her dry lips and continued. “In his great anger at my defiance of him, your father shoved me. I hit my head against the mantelpiece. It caused a kind of forgetfulness, a jar to my memory. When I saw a surgeon, much later, he called it amnesia.”
Clarissa endeavored to explain. “By the time I had regained my senses, I had wandered far off. I came to not knowing who I was nor where I had been. It was a nightmare, my dear, but gradually, I regained my memory.” Now she blinked back tears.
“It was too late, though, to help you. Your father had married you off, three times by then, or so your nice Mr. Heywood told me. You must understand that I did not know to whom you were wed, or whence you’d gone. I did not have the connections among the ton to find out. Nor did I know of such things as Bow Street investigators. I was not a sophisticated Londoner.”
“Amnesia…” Sophia rolled the strange word on her tongue. “How long did this strange ailment, this amnesia, last?”
“Over two years,” Clarissa Walters lied. In discussions with doctors, she’d discovered that the loss of one’s memory—amnesia—was a rare occurrence. She had fashioned her version of the circumstances leading to her removal from Dunhaven around this unusual medical state. As there was no one expert in the condition, she felt she could fabricate at will. She hoped Sophia would believe her, although she deplored the necessity of having to lie to her dear girl. But the truth, Clarissa thought, would be so much more hurtful.
“Oh, Miss Bane!” Sophia wrapped her arms around her former governess, holding her tight. “I thought you dead, just like my mother!” She shook uncontrollably, then recovered, looking Clarissa in the eye. “I thought my father had killed you, too!”
The Reverend Jesse Walters seemed very interested in him, Charles thought, as they rode the horses borrowed from the Hall’s stables. Why would an eminent churchman take such an interest in a lowly rural vicar, he wondered idly.
“Do you plan to spend the rest of your career here, sir, in Rowley village?” Walters asked Charles.
“This is a pleasant corner of the world,” the vicar responded. “Unless circumstances mandate a change, yes, I would like to remain here. I am guardian to the late Baron Rowley’s two sons, and I take that responsibility seriously. They are fine lads and need a male figure to—”
Walters interrupted him. “But surely Lady Rowley will remarry. She seems to have a penchant for the wedded state.” He laughed.
Bristling at the unkind statement and the priest’s laugh at his own little jest, Charles attempted to calm himself. He was growing too thin-skinned, perhaps, concerning remarks about Sophia.
“You, sir, are a young single man,” Walters continued, unaware that Charles had taken umbrage over his last remark. “Surely you are considering taking a wife? The proper kind of wife is an asset to a young man seeking advancement in the Church; she helps him to step up the ladder, as it were. My own wife, Clarissa, was a priest’s daughter and fully understood her role in my career. She was eminently suited to the task of helping me achieve my goal.”
The older man’s comments were beginning to annoy Charles. The wonderful Miss Bane, the woman who had educated Sophia Eliot so well, now seemed relegated to an ancillary position, merely the useful helpmate of an ambitious churchman. There was, surely, more to Mrs. Walters than that! She seemed a gifted, intelligent woman, fit to be a man’s true mate, not merely a glorified servant.
“I do have a lady in mind, sir,” Charles responded, his lips stiff.
“Ah, I thought so! Mr. Heywood, I will be retiring in the next five years. I have as yet found no one I would consider worthy to fill my post as secretary to the archbishop. What say you to transferring to York Minster, as my assistant? In time, with the right woman behind you, you might ascend to my position. Would you consider it?”
“Sir, I m-m-mean, Jesse—” It was not easy to address the older man by his Christian name, as he had asked. “You know nothing about me.”
“Ah, there you are wrong, Charles! I have made inquiries. You come from a distinguished family, Baron Rowley thought very highly of you, and the other priests in this region have noted your devotion to your congregation. Your record at Cambridge was above those of the majority of young men who take orders. You are personable and popular. In addition, you have a fine mind. I have spoken with you long enough to ascertain that fact.”
The archbishop’s secretary beamed. “We must simply be sure that you marry an appropriate helpmeet before too long, and you will be on your way. St. Mortrud’s is a delightful small parish, and fine for undistinguished men like the previous vicar, who was not good for much else, but you are a candidate for a much larger position in the church.”
Walters reached over and clapped Charles on the back, not noting the resulting wince. “I would be very glad to see you achieve these goals.”
“Thank you, sir, but I…I don’t know if—” Charles protested.
“Nonsense, nonsense! You are too modest.” The clergyman’s knowing smile seemed to imply that modesty was a fine virtue, in its place. “Now you did say that you have a young lady in mind?”
“Yes, sir, I do.” Not exactly a young lady, Charles thought, knowing that Sophia was possibly two or three years his senior.
The priest’s smile grew broader. “Well, lad, do not keep me in suspense! Who is the lucky young woman?” “I…I…I have not yet asked for her hand, sir,” Charles stammered.
“As if she would refuse a fine young man with such a career ahead of him, sir! Come now, who is she?”
“Lady Rowley, sir. She is the woman to whom I plan to propose,” Charles averred, sitting straight in his saddle.
The other man’s face fell. He began to speak, then cleared his throat. “Surely you are jesting, my son? That lady would not suit, not at all! She is the last woman an ambitious young churchman should consider!”
Charles looked the archbishop’s secretary in the eye. How could Miss Clarissa Bane have ever married such an uncharitable man? He had noted, too, the disparity in their ages; Jesse Walters was at least twenty years older than his wife. His heart ached for that good woman.
“I do not jest, sir, especially not when a lady is involved.”
“You need to think this through, Charles. It would be a shame to throw away a promising career for mere…Well, I think you know what I mean, sir.”
Charles’s lips thinned. The man was insulting! “No, sir, I cannot imagine what you mean.”
“You are not a man of the world, my son. Lady Rowley is not what
one looks for to fit the role of a clergyman’s wife! Your career would be irrevocably damaged.” Walters shook his head.
“I tried to persuade Clarissa not to come here, but she insisted. I informed her that perhaps it was not a good idea to renew her acquaintance with such a notorious woman as Lady Rowley, that it might reflect badly upon me—”
Charles felt the tips of his ears redden. Out of respect for the man’s office, he would not say what he thought, but the temptation was strong. “Sir, Lady Rowley loves your wife as a daughter loves her mother. She—”
Walters waved away the remark with an impatient gesture. “The woman is no better than a courtesan! Her reputation is exceedingly infamous.”
“Let he who is without sin cast the first stone,” Charles responded, turning his borrowed horse toward Rowley Hall. Christ in his infinite mercy had defended a woman taken in adultery, shielding her from the angry crowd that would have stoned her to death. One of the most faithful of His little flock was Mary Magdalene. Sophia was hardly the Magdalene, but Charles felt that he would be damned forever if he continued to listen to the vile words issuing from this prominent churchman’s mouth.
Sophia Rowley was well on her way to becoming the woman God meant her to be—he was sure of it—a decent, loving woman and mother, a good neighbor and friend. And he, Charles Heywood, humble man of the cloth, loved her. He would not sell his soul or his heart for worldly success. The prospect of advancement in the church, with the backing of a man like the Reverend Walters, did not tempt him. And it was well past time that he proposed to Sophia, whatever the consequences.
She was all that mattered to him now.
Chapter Twenty-One
…love, bittersweet, irrepressible,
Loosens my limbs and I tremble…
—Sappho of Lesbos, circa 7th-6th century BC, poem fragment
As an adult, Sophia had never had a confidante, a true and sympathetic female friend in whom she could place her trust. Now, pouring out her heart once more to her former governess, she was overjoyed. She had told Mrs. Walters all about her darling sons, rapscallion John, the improbable new Baron Rowley, and mathematical prodigy William, so small and yet so bright. Now the conversation had turned to another dear to her, the vicar of St. Mortrud’s.