Seducing Mr. Heywood

by Jo Manning

  “It is entirely up to us. With the help of God, we can change for the better; we can become the people God intended us to be. We are none of us without sin, but we have the means at hand to redeem ourselves. Each of you, look to his own spiritual state. We can all become better people; it is in all of us.”

  Having completed the homily, Charles glanced at the back of the church, at Lewis. With his forefinger and thumb, Lewis fashioned the circular gesture of approval that had become a ritual between them. The physician could be just as quick to give him a thumbs-down or a vigorous shake of his leonine head, but not this time.

  Charles smiled, relieved at his critical friend’s approval, and continued with the liturgy.

  Sophia was dazed. Charles was a magnificent, good-hearted man. That sermon had burrowed its way deep into her heart. Had he meant it for her alone, she wondered? Was he giving her hope, hope for her own redemption, hope that she could indeed change her life for the better? Was it a message primarily for her, Sophia Rowley? But, no, how selfish she was!

  That sermon was not for her alone. She looked into the faces of her fellow congregants, their eyes shining with the hope Charles had given them all, not simply her. This was not the usual church sermonizing, the harsh, undiluted fare of fire and brimstone rained down upon the poor heads of worshipers by zealous evangelical ministers, spreading despair. This was a message of hope and love.

  William pushed his prayerbook toward her, whispering, “Here, Mama, we are reciting the Creed now.”

  Sophia hugged him close. The boys were her redemption. They, and Charles…She had never believed in miracles until now, not after what she had endured in her life. But, lately, there had been so many miracles! Whence had they all come? She looked at her children, at her beloved Miss Bane, and then at Charles standing tall in the stone pulpit, leading his congregation. The high voices of her sons filled her ears and she hurriedly joined them, raising her voice with the others in the affirmation of their faith in God.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  At last love has come…

  —Sulpica, Roman poetess, 1st century BC

  The time had come.

  It was now or it was never. Lady Sophia had graciously accepted his invitation to Sunday luncheon at the vicarage with the boys, Reverend and Mrs. Walters, and Lewis Alcott. After dinner, Charles would walk with his guests down the short, winding path through the woods that led from St. Mortrud’s to the Hall. He would ask, on that walk, if he could have a private audience when they reached her home. Then he would propose to her.

  The time had come. There was no putting it off any longer.

  The time had come. It was now or it was never. Sophia’s thoughts were similar to those going through Charles’s mind. After luncheon at the vicarage, Sophia would ask him if they could walk back to the Hall along that path through the woods, the short, winding path that led from the church to her home. She would ask him, on that walk, to come into the Hall and stay awhile. Then, once they were alone in the library, morning room, drawing room, or even the rose garden, she would propose to him.

  The time had come. There was no putting it off any longer.

  Mrs. Chipcheese was beaming with delight at all the compliments for her cooking. With the help of two serving girls from the Hall, and after cooking for the better part of two days, she had presented an admirable menu. She knew that Mrs. Mathew would hear of the successful repast, and that the sweet melon soup, salmon pie, pigeons fricando, epigram of beef, celery with cream, stuffed artichokes, and asparagus in French rolls, topped off by not one but three grand desserts, lemon pudding pie, Duke of Buckingham’s pudding and a Florendine of oranges and apples, would sour her rival’s milk.

  Thanks to her several bibles of good English cookery, the compendia of Hannah Glasse, Charles Carter, and John Farley, she had presented a meal fit for the Baroness, if not the grand Secretary to the Archbishop of York! Mrs. C. had bankrupted the food budget of the vicarage, searching throughout the county to secure choice, fresh ingredients. It would be hardly more than simple bread and ale for the Reverend Mr. Heywood for the next several weeks, but, all in all, she thought, it was in a good cause: getting the better of her counterpart at the Hall and, yes, spreading her reputation as far east as the cathedral city.

  If she were a bird, Mrs. Chipcheese would be crowing.

  Everyone, even Lewis Alcott, decided to walk off his large and tasty meal by accompanying Lady Rowley, her boys, and her guests back to the Hall by way of the littleused path from St. Mortrud’s cemetery. The boys had paused to pick flowers from the vicarage garden—lily of the valley, yellow iris, and sweet-scented pink roses—and lay them at their father’s tombstone. Mrs. C. had provided a plain white crockery jug filled with water in which to set the blossoms.

  Charles, Lewis, and the Walterses stood apart from Lady Sophia and her children to give them privacy as they prayed over the baron’s last resting place. The sight of those three pale golden heads bowed in stillness filled the vicar’s heart with a bittersweet combination of joy and sadness.

  As the group later trod along the dusty, rocky path, the boys skipping ahead jubilantly and playing an impromptu game of hide-and-seek among the trees and bushes, Lewis engaged Clarissa and Jesse Walters in a lengthy conversation, leaving Charles and Sophia lagging behind.

  “Charles, when we arrive at the house, I want to—” Sophia began, at the precise moment that Charles was saying, “Sophia, I need to speak to you in private when—”

  They laughed at their simultaneous, garbled attempt at discourse. Charles put a hand to his starched linen cravat, pulling on it nervously. “After you, my lady, please.”

  “I—” Sophia took a quick breath, swallowed, then began again. “I would like to speak to you privately when we reach the Hall, Charles.” She looked directly into his eyes, cerulean blue drilling into stormy gray.

  “We must latch the doors firmly behind us, my lady, and pray that no emergencies—such as those that have arisen frequently this summer—occur,” he replied.

  Sophia looked ahead at the groupings of people. “Perhaps I should ask Miss Bane to let the boys recite for her, and you can encourage your friend Lewis to engage the Reverend Walters in arcane esoteric argument. What say you?” She smiled.

  “A good plan, my lady. Excellent!”

  They walked arm in arm back to the Hall, seemingly content, but their emotions roiling inside them. Charles’s brain was abuzz—much as if he had taken snuff, save for the sneezing—and a large colony of exuberant butterflies were sporting in Sophia’s stomach, to her great consternation.

  It was time.

  Charles took pains to latch the drawing room doors securely. He would brook no interruption now, whether juvenile, adult, or servile. Taking a deep breath, he turned to face Lady Sophia, who sat demurely on the divan facing the fireplace. Charles looked down at his polished boots, and checked the oriental rug beneath his feet. The rug was flat against the richly shining wooden floors, smooth and flat. He would not disgrace himself this time by tripping and falling.

  “May I pour you a glass of sherry, my lady?” he inquired, even as he made preparations to unburden his heart.

  Sophia nodded. “A tiny amount, Charles, would be welcome.” If she imbibed any more than that, she would drown the butterflies, leaving them no choice but to flutter from her mouth, impeding the speech still being formulated in her mind. A tiny bit of liquid would but wet their wildly flapping wings and perchance slow the little demons down.

  As Charles did her bidding and also poured a large sherry amount for himself—to settle the buzzing in his brain box—Sophia rose and went to the French doors leading out to the rose garden. She opened them, letting in the heady scent of full-blown blooms. Blanca Gloriosa was still blooming; it was a prodigious rose, indeed. A good sign, mayhap, for what was to come.

  The sweet, heavy fragrance hit Charles’s nostrils as he turned with the filled glasses, unsettling him slightly. His sense of smell had always
been acute. “My lady?” He set down the drinks and went to the garden doors, latching them securely. Reclaiming the refreshments, he offered one to Sophia.

  She took the delicately etched sherry glass from his hands. “Thank you, Charles, but please refrain from ‘my-ladying’ me. You are aware my name is Sophia, I believe?” She winked at him.

  Sophia was in a playful mood, Charles saw, and his was a serious speech. He had given one such already today; was he good for another? As he began to sort out his thoughts, Sophia took the reins from his hands.

  Dashing down the small amount of sherry, she began. The butterflies, dampened by the wine, were temporarily stilled. “Charles, it is time to discuss a most important matter with you.”

  “Yes, Sophia, it is certainly time.”

  She held up her hand. “No, you must listen, and not interrupt. I shall not be able to say this otherwise, my dear.” She laughed. “My courage is at the sticking point, and I must say my piece. So do bear with me.”

  Charles frowned. Whatever was she nattering on about? He nodded, hoping this trifle would soon be over and he could get on with his proposal. He took a gulp of his drink.

  “I know that I am older than you, and perhaps more experienced in the ways of the world. I have been married three times; you are a bachelor. I have two children, and you have none.” She took a quick breath. “And the life that I lived in London—” With a sharp, decisive gesture of her head, she indicated that her former life was past, never to be resumed.

  He nodded. She was confusing him. What did he care what others thought of her? Had the woman not understood his sermon? He took another quick gulp of sherry.

  “I thought…I thought that I would never marry again, that marriage and I did not suit.”

  Charles’s ears perked up. He finished his glass of sherry and went to pour himself another, filling it to the brim.

  “But now I find that I do want to wed once more, this time, with God’s help, for a much longer time than my three previous marriages, to someone of my own free choosing, for that, I feel, will make all the difference—”

  Lord Brent had eloped; he was wed! She could not be speaking of him. So who was the lady planning to marry now? Lewis? Who else was there in Rowley Village? By all that was holy, he would kill Alcott with his bare hands if he had dared to—Charles took two gulps of wine this time.

  Sophia frowned. “Charles, why are you gulping down that sherry? Are you so thirsty? ’Twill go to your head, if you are not careful.”

  Still standing, he placed the half-full glass on the marble mantelpiece. “Sophia, I cannot bear to listen to any more of this.”

  A look of confusion crossed her face. “Listen to any more of what? Charles, I am nowhere near finished.”

  “Yes, you are, Sophia. Now hear this.” He took hold of her hands and sat beside her on the divan. His face was slightly flushed from the wine, but he seemed to be in control.

  “Sophia, I love you! I love you to distraction, my dear, and I must know now if you will marry me. I cannot bear the thought of losing you to anyone else. I am half-crazy already.” He placed his hands over her lips as she attempted to speak.

  “I know that I am only a poor vicar, but my father has a home and land he has been saving for me when I married, and I can borrow money from him to buy more land to put to farming and raising sheep, and, yes, I know this is not the high standard of living that you have been used to, but—”

  “Charles, we don’t have to leave the Hall yet,” Sophia interrupted. “Not until John comes into his majority. We can stay here until then, and with my money we could purchase all the land we want. Dearest, I have more money than either of us could possibly need.”

  Charles cocked his head and regarded her quizzically. “Sophia, are you proposing to me, or I to you?”

  Sophia was about to give him her opinion when a raucous chorus of voices erupted from behind the locked drawing-room doors.

  “Who cares who proposes to whom!” came one shout suspiciously Lewis Alcott-like. “Say yes, my lady!” said a number of others, male and female, together. “We want Mr. Heywood to be our father!” shouted a loud, imperious voice that could only belong to John Rowley. “Mama, please, say yes!” William’s high pipes implored. “Mr. Heywood, this is Mrs. Walters,” came a voice that could only belong to a former governess, its tones firm and brooking no nonsense. “Say yes to her, please, and quickly! None of us can stand the suspense any longer!”

  There came a loud rapping at the doors and more exhortations to say yes, please, yes! Charles and Sophia looked at each other and smiled broadly. “YES!” they both screamed in unison.

  Sophia held on to Charles as he embraced her; they were both quaking in gales of infectious joy. “Whatever made us think we could do this alone, my dearest?” Sophia asked him. “Latched doors, unlatched doors, privacy, the lack thereof…These dear and gentle people are merciless!”

  Charles was kissing her all over, not paying one whit of attention to the rapping on the doors or the shouts of affirmation. His hands cupped her face, his lips brushing her eyes, her cheeks, her temples, her shell-like ears, her mouth.

  Sophia savored the sweet pressure of his dear, soft mouth on hers, licking and nibbling at his lower lip as he groaned in ecstasy. “Charles,” she whispered, “the doors are latched very tightly, are they not?”

  “Yes, I made certain of that,” he whispered huskily, nibbling her neck, feathering kisses on her breasts as he opened the impossibly small buttons that held the bodice of her dress together. He unpinned her hair and ran his fingers through the silken strands, nuzzling its softness, inhaling the almond blossom perfume that was his lady’s unique and special scent.

  “I suggest that we ignore all of them. They surely have much better things to do than intrude upon this too-rare private moment. They will eventually give up.” Charles was losing himself in their private moment, and Sophia saw no reason to stop him.

  “Shall we ask them to go away, Charles? I do not want to be rude.” Sophia was nipping at his ear now, and pulling apart his cravat.

  Charles looked up, his eyes locking onto hers. “Oh, all right, allow me.” He walked to the drawing room doors and rapped smartly. The Greek chorus quieted down immediately. “Now hear this, all of you,” he ordered them, “Lady Sophia and I have a great deal to…to discuss…yes…and we need some privacy.”

  A familiar snicker sounded on the other side of the doors. Lewis! He addressed his friend. “Lewis, I promise that you will dance at my wedding, but, for now, please take yourself home. Likewise, John, recite your Homer. William, perform some calculations for Mrs. Walters. I will see you all tomorrow.”

  That should be clear enough, Charles thought, even for this rowdy crew of well wishers. He added, “Oh…er…Bromley, you can tell the staff that no one needs to remain on duty for Lady Sophia tonight. We shall see to our own needs. Thank you!”

  “Hear, hear!” A clapping of hands—large ones, no doubt belonging to the surgeon—and a whistle erupted, along with a new chorus of congratulations. The Reverend Walters spoke up, “Mr. Heywood, I would be honored to perform the wedding ceremony. I will post the banns for you upon my return to York Minster.”

  Charles was dumbstruck at the generous offer. Jesse Walters was waving an olive branch, an apology of sorts, for his earlier remarks about Charles’s intended bride. The vicar accepted it. “Why, thank you, sir. We shall have need of your good services very soon, I think.”

  Sophia giggled in confirmation. “Very, very soon,” she whispered naughtily.

  Then a scuffle was heard at the keyhole, and a small voice whispered, “We love you, Mama, and we are so glad that you and Mr. Heywood love each other, also.”

  Sophia ran to the door, bent down and blew a kiss through the keyhole to her sons. “I love you, too, my darlings, I love you very much. We are going to be one big, happy family, I promise.”

  “Amen,” added the vicar, squatting at the side of his wife-to-be and w
ishing his boys good night through the crack in the doors.

  And then there was silence. Sophia and Charles, hunkered at the keyhole, turned to each other and smiled. “We are halfway to the floor again, my darling,” Sophia whispered in a lusty, husky voice.

  “So we are, my love, so we are,” said Charles, lowering his lady to that self-same expanse. He experienced a heady rush of déjà vu from the last time they were both flat upon the rich oriental carpet, the occasion of their fateful first encounter, and smiled at the memory. But now, methodically, purposefully, he concentrated on the vastly more important matter at hand, both hands, as he took care of the few buttons that were securing Lady Sophia’s bodice, but not for long.

  As Charles undid the last button, Sophia nipped at his earlobe like a mischievous little kitten and purred into his ear, her voice low and husky, “Methinks you would make a fine abigail, Charles, and I do have need of one.”

  “I would be honored, my dearest Sophia, to undress you at any time,” Charles responded, “but you will have to find someone else to dress you, I fear.” His long, warm fingers spread apart the cloth of her bodice and gently pushed down the top of her silk chemise.

  Sophia pretended to be shocked. “Why, vicar! You do surprise me with these brazen words!”

  “Ah, Sophia, never forget that though I am a man of God, I am, first and foremost, merely a man, like any other.”

  As his mouth moved slowly over her breasts, Sophia thought, No, Charles, you are not at all like any other man. She gasped as his tongue slowly licked a particularly sensitive part of her anatomy, and moaned softly. And I, of all women, she mused, as her heightened senses took over and she melted under his touch, should know.

  “I do love you so very much, Charles,” she sighed.

  Suddenly she sat bolt upright. “Mr. Heywood!” she blurted out, surprised, amazed, and thoroughly delighted.

  “Yes, my lady?” Charles’s voice, languid, honeyed, floated up from the region of her gently splayed lower limbs.