A bell was tolling. People were moving up the flat stone steps and into the dim recess beyond. Jeffrey took my arm and led me inside, removing his cloak and hanging it on a peg, helping me remove mine. Three fashionable young ladies came in behind us, chattering gaily, and the moment I saw them I felt a sinking sensation in my stomach. Their gowns were simple, exquisitely simple, one blue, one gray, one deep pink, all with long, tight sleeves, fine lace fichus covering throat and shoulders. Their hair was worn in high pompadours, no artful waves, no dangling ringlets.
They stared at me and tittered, nudging each other. Jeffrey took my elbow and led me down the aisle to the Mowrey pew. I could feel people staring and hear the whispers that followed in our wake. My dress was all wrong, an outlandish garment worthy only of mirth, and my hairstyle was outrageous. Jeffrey had known that the moment he saw me coming down the stairs, but he had been too gallant and polite to say anything. He helped me into the pew and sat down beside me, giving my hand a reassuring squeeze.
Candles glowed in the semidarkness, golden flames wavering, washing the pulpit with soft light. My cheeks burned, and I desperately longed for the cloak to cover myself. My misery was so intense that I was hardly aware of the service that ensued. The Reverend Mr. Williams delivered an eloquent serman on Christian love, but I heard scarcely a word. When it was over, when we stood up to leave, I felt numb. I knew I couldn’t face all those people, not dressed in this ludicrous homemade gown.
“Courage,” Jeffrey said.
“You—you knew the dress was wrong.”
“I think you’re beautiful, Honora.”
He closed his fingers about my elbow and led me up the aisle. A small crowd had gathered in the vestibule. The three young ladies were standing side by side, mockery in their eyes as Jeffrey took down our cloaks and placed them over his arm. Several people came over to greet him and welcome him back from his travels. He introduced me to each one, his manner extremely casual. It seemed all the gentry in the county had come to service this morning. One of the young ladies laughed shrilly and, nudged forward by her friends, minced over with much rustling of stiff pink taffeta.
“Hello, Jeffrey,” she simpered. “It’s so nice to have you back.”
“It’s good to be back, Lucinda. I’d like you to meet my son’s governess, Miss James. Honora, Miss Lucinda Carrington.”
“Charmed,” Miss Carrington said, giving me a cursory glance. “When are you coming to Greystone Manor, Jeffrey? We’re ever so eager to hear about your trip.”
“I’ve no idea, Lucinda. I’ve been very busy since I returned.”
“So I see,” she retorted.
She scurried back over to her friends and all three of them tittered. Jeffrey led me out of the church, his face expressionless. I longed to sink into the ground and vanish. I felt naked. I held my head high and somehow managed to hold back the tears of shame, and then I felt rough, sturdy hands clasping mine and looked into Reverend Williams’s warm, beautiful face. He stood at the foot of the steps, greeting people as they came out, and as he looked at me his kind brown eyes were full of warmth.
“Honora, my dear, I’m so pleased to see you again.”
“Reverend Williams. It—it was a lovely service.”
The curate smiled. “I fear you heard little of it, my child. You seemed to be in a trance.”
“I—I feel a bit peaked.”
“You need a hearty meal,” he informed me. “You and Jeffrey will take lunch with me. Miss Moffat, my housekeeper, is preparing a gargantuan meal, far too much for young Jack and me to eat by ourselves.”
“Young Jack?” Jeffrey inquired.
Reverend Williams shook his head and assumed an expression of mock despair. “My nephew. He’s destined for a career in the church, and his parents thought it would do him good to spend a few months with me and see the less glamorous side of the church. He’s my chief aide and assistant and, I fear, the bane of my existence.”
He spoke with great affection, and I could see that he was immensely fond of the lad.
“You two stroll on over to the vicarage,” he said. “I imagine young Jack is already there. I’ll join you shortly.”
“Reverend Williams,” I began, “I really don’t think we—”
“We’d be delighted to lunch with you,” Jeffrey said firmly.
The vicarage was just across the way, a cozy stone dwelling sheltered by oak trees, an elaborate flower garden in back. The housekeeper let us in. She was a tall, bony woman with a put upon expression and iron gray hair fastened in a tight bun. She wiped her hands on her apron and led us into the large, comfortable study with its shabby furniture and pleasant clutter of books, papers, and plants.
“The boy will be with you shortly,” she said brusquely. “I must go back to the kitchen. Company, always company, and he never says a word to me. I’ll water the gravy and slice the roast thin!”
Jeffrey chuckled as the Woman left the room. “Miss Moffat hasn’t changed a bit. She loves to play the martyr. If she didn’t have something to grumble about, she wouldn’t know what to do.”
“Why did you let me wear this dress?” I asked, a catch in my voice.
“It’s a lovely dress, Honora.”
“You knew I looked ridiculous.”
“On the contrary, you look quite lovely.”
“They—they were laughing at me.”
Jeffrey frowned and stepped over to me, placing his hands on my shoulders. His blue eyes were serious, and when he spoke his voice was quiet, full of conviction.
“You must never worry about what people think, Honora,” he told me. “You must never let others dictate to you, let their narrow ideas and opinions influence your conduct. Lucinda Carrington was extremely rude, yes, and she and her little friends laughed at you, but you’re worth ten of them.”
I looked into those eyes and seemed to drown in them. His fingers tightened on my shoulders, and his wide pink lips parted. I knew he was going to kiss me. My pulse seemed to stop. There was a fraction of a second of sheer panic, and then my whole being seemed to fill with aching anticipation so intense I feared I might swoon. Jeffrey tilted his head slightly to one side and leaned his head down, his mouth inches from my own.
A merry racket sounded in the hall outside. He released me abruptly and stepped back as Reverend Williams’s young nephew came into the room, smiling a breezy smile and looking for all the world like a preposterous young dandy. His brown pumps had silver buckles. His white stockings were thin cotton pretending to be silk. His knee breeches and frock coat were brown linen, his waistcoat tan and silver striped satin, and an emerald green neckcloth was tucked plushly beneath his throat.
“I’m Jack,” he said, “Jack Jordon. My uncle always has guests to dine after Sunday services and I was hoping it would be you. You’re Jeffrey Mowrey. I missed you when you came by before—I was helping the sexton dig a grave, bloody hard work, that! You don’t have to introduce me to Miss James. I know her already, just from hearing my uncle talk about her.”
He executed a gallant bow that looked utterly ludicrous accompanied as it was with that wide grin. The lad had bright red hair, mischievous brown eyes and a plethora of freckles. His mouth could only be called saucy.
“You look quite spruce,” Jeffrey remarked.
“I don’t often get to dress up,” the lad complained. “My uncle keeps me horribly busy, digging graves, ringing bells, polishing brass—he takes it all quite seriously! My parents sent me these clothes from London, the second best tailor in the city ran them up, and, truth to tell, this is the first time I’ve had an opportunity to wear them.”
He turned around to display the tails of his frock coat, inordinately proud of his finery.
“My uncle says I’m much too worldly,” he confided, “but that’s why I’m here you see. I’m destined for a career in the church, my parents won’t have it any other way, and they thought maybe some of my uncle’s goodness and humility would rub off on me if I spent time w
ith him.”
“You need a good thrashing,” Jeffrey teased.
“That’s what my uncle says. I’m really quite devout, though. I’m sixteen years old, and I suspect by the time I’m twenty I’ll be reverent as can be and go around with my eyes downcast, praying a lot.”
I couldn’t help but smile. There had been a moment of acute disappointment when the lad pranced in, interrupting that kiss-to-be, but now I was relieved he had come in when he had. Young Jack Jordon was an absurd, endearing creature, and his bright chatter was just the tonic I needed. The shame and humiliation I had felt earlier vanished.
“I imagine I’ll have a very fashionable parish,” Jack continued, “preferably in a smart district of London. All the spoiled wives in their fancy gowns will come to me with their problems and I’ll be a great comfort to them. Their rich husbands will fill the coffers with gold.”
“Which you’ll use to do good work,” Jeffrey added.
“Naturally!”
“Frivolous scamp,” Reverend Williams remarked, strolling into the room to join us. “I’m trying to get all that worldly nonsense out of his head. I fear it’s an uphill battle all the way.”
He had changed into a simple, roughly woven brown robe with a cord tied loosely around the waist, and he looked as though he should be feeding birds in some remote monastery. Reverend Williams had devoted his life to his fellow man, serving as best he could while his more ambitious colleagues rose in the tightly structured hierarchy of the church. Content to be a humble curate, he seemed to radiate an aura of goodness. A few thin wisps of light brown hair were brushed over his head, and his tan face was pleasantly lined. A smile was always playing on his small mouth, while his gentle brown eyes were true reflections of his soul.
“Miss Moffat is still banging about pots and pans in the kitchen,” he confided, “but lunch will be served shortly.”
“There’re cherry tarts,” Jack told us. “My favorites!”
“The rascal has her wrapped around his little finger,” Reverend Williams said wearily. “She scolds him and chases him out of the kitchen and pretends to be immune to his crafty charm, but he’s cast a spell over her nevertheless. I detest cherry tarts,” he added.
Young Jack perched on the arm of a chair, looking very pleased with himself. I had no doubt he would eventually achieve his goal. The smart ladies in their fancy clothes would dote on him, and he would regularly frequent their fashionable salons. Worldly clergymen were always in demand.
Lunch was indeed gargantuan, a lavish repast served grudgingly by the dour Miss Moffat. Although she scowled at him fiercely, I noticed that she gave extra large helpings to the saucy red-haired youth. Conversation was easy and relaxed. Reverend Williams discussed his work in the parish and asked me how Douglas and I were doing. I talked about the progress we had made, and Jeffrey said his son had become a new boy since my arrival. He told us about his journeys in Italy, describing the ruins, the museums, the many splendors of the countryside. Young Jack listened attentively. For all his sass, he was extremely respectful of his elders and clearly worshiped his uncle. I could sense that the lively youth brought much joy into the old man’s life.
After lunch Jeffrey expressed interest in seeing the new Latin texts Reverend Williams had recently added to his collection.
“I’ll show them to you!” Jack said eagerly. “I read Latin fluently. Already. Greek, too. When I get to Oxford I’m going to amaze them!”
“You’re going to Oxford?” Jeffrey inquired.
“You’ve got to go to Oxford to get anywhere in the church,” Jack retorted. “You’ve got to have connections, too.”
“Oh?”
“Dean Swift himself’s gonna sponsor me. He knows my parents well. Have you read any of his books?”
“One or two,” Jeffrey said.
“I think Gulliver’s Travels is smashing.”
“A Modest Proposal is more to my liking,” Jeffrey replied. “He proposes that certain infants should be eaten at birth. It would not only solve the hunger problem, but it would also help control the population. I wonder if he had you in mind when he wrote it?”
“I was an enchanting infant,” the youth protested. “Ask anyone.”
Jeffrey laughed, slinging his arm around Jack’s shoulders and leading him out of the room. Reverend Williams asked if I would like to see the gardens, and the two of us went outside. He fetched an old straw bonnet and a pair of shears from the potting shed and began to fill the bonnet with flowers as we strolled leisurely along the walks.
“You seem to be doing quite well, Honora,” he remarked.
“I—I’m very pleased with my position at Mowrey House.”
“I wanted to get you away from the school in Bath,” he told me. “That was no place for you, but it was the best I could arrange at the time. I had reservations about arranging this position for you, too.”
“Reservations?”
Reverend Williams added pale blue flowers to the purple and white blossoms already in the bonnet. “Lord Robert Mowrey is a hard man, a vengeful man, people say, and he can be quite ruthless.”
“I—I’ve heard that.”
“You’re terribly young and still quite impressionable. I feared you might do something to—” He hesitated, carefully searching for the right words. “To incur his wrath,” he concluded.
“Oh?”
“He’s extremely attached to his brother, Honora.”
“I know that.”
Reverend Williams snipped several delicate yellow flowers and added them to the collection. He straightened up and sighed, looking at me with gentle brown eyes that seemed to search my soul.
“You’ve grown into a very attractive young woman, Honora.”
“Thank you, Reverend Williams.”
“Your parents would have been very proud of you. I’m proud of you myself. I—” He hesitated again, frowning. “I hope you won’t do anything foolish, my child.”
I lowered my eyes, waiting for him to continue. He took a piece of string from his pocket and began to bind the flowers together at the stems, making a lovely multicolored bouquet.
“Jeffrey is fond of you,” he said. “It’s—quite innocent at this stage, you’re both fine young people. For your own sake, child, see that it stays that way.”
He handed me the bouquet, indicating that the subject was closed, and we went back inside. Jeffrey and I made our departure a few minutes later, Jack and Reverend Williams accompanying us to the carriage.
“Give my regards to Mrs. Rawson,” the curate said. “There’s a merry sinner I still hope to reform.”
“You’ve a rough job on your hands there,” Jeffrey replied. “Our Mrs. Rawson doesn’t take to reform.”
“She’s an excellent woman, good-hearted, full of charity. Weak, alas. I haven’t given up on her.”
We bade them good-bye and started back to Mowrey House. The sun was shining with a pale, silvery radiance, and floating clouds caused light shadows to move over the land. Jeffrey Mowrey was in a pensive mood, not inclined to talk, and I didn’t care to talk either. I kept thinking about that ecstatic moment of anticipation when his mouth sought mine, and I knew that I was weak, too, as weak as Mrs. Rawson ever hoped to be.
I gathered the folds of the brown silk cloak closer about me, gazing at the road ahead without seeing it. I thought of Reverend Williams’s words. The gentle old curate had sensed my feelings, too, just as Mrs. Rawson had, and he had tried his best to warn me. I was afraid. For the first time I realized that the man beside me presented a much greater threat than his brother, and the reasons lay inside my own heart.
7
I didn’t see Jeffrey Mowrey for the next two days. Perhaps he had had second thoughts about showing me the ruins. Perhaps he, too, understood the danger and planned to avoid it. It would be far, far better were he to call on Lucinda Carrington or one of her friends and forget all about his son’s governess. It would be better for both of us, I knew, yet those two days
were torment. Knowing that he was under the same roof yet not seeing him caused anguish I had never dreamed possible.
I kept telling myself that it was for the best, but I had already lost reason where Jeffrey was concerned.
Wednesday was gloomy, the sky a light gray filled with darker gray clouds that floated restlessly across its surface, the sunlight a thin, silvery white. Douglas was in a particularly foul mood, refusing to concentrate on our lessons, and it was with considerable relief that I finally saw to his lunch and put him to bed for his afternoon nap. It was one-thirty. I was alone in the nursery, gazing out at the gloomy sky, feeling desolate indeed. Hearing footsteps in the hall, I turned.
Jeffrey Mowrey stepped into the nursery, carrying a heavy basket covered with a white linen cloth, a loaf of French bread sticking out one side, a bottle of wine visible, too.
“You haven’t had lunch,” he observed.
“I—I wasn’t hungry.”
“I haven’t eaten yet either. I had Cook fix a basket for us, stole another bottle of my brother’s wine.”
“You—”
“I promised to show you the ruins, remember? I thought we might as well take a picnic lunch along. The brat’s asleep, right? Mrs. Rawson promised to keep an eye on him when he wakes up. I told her we’d probably be gone most of the afternoon.”
“But—”
“Don’t you want to see the ruins, Honora?”
“Of course I do, but—this doesn’t seem a particularly auspicious afternoon for it. It’s certain to rain.”
“Afraid of a little wet weather?”
“I don’t relish the idea of getting soaked.”
Jeffrey grinned. He was wearing old black boots, faded blue breeches, a ribbed white cambric shirt that had seen much better days, and he looked absolutely beautiful with that unruly blond hair and that grin curling so amiably on his mouth. I was wearing the sprigged blue muslin again, and I fervently wished I had something fresh and lovely to change into.
Once More, Miranda Page 8