by Merry Farmer
The image wasn’t an unpleasant one, and in no time, her mind was busy imagining all of the kind, helpful things she could do instead of paying attention to the way Mary cleaned the carpet. She only vaguely registered the doorbell sounding and Mr. Noakes going to answer it. But within seconds of the door opening and the new arrival rushing in, chaos erupted.
“He needs to come quickly,” a girl’s voice pleaded in the front hall.
Clara snapped straight and turned to the doorway. It was large enough that she, Mary, and Martha all had a full view of the scene unfolding.
“She’s taken a bad turn,” the girl said to Mr. Noakes. “She was calling for Mr. Croydon something fierce. Nothing else will soothe her.”
“Yes, yes.” Mr. Noakes tried to remain calm, but his tendency toward being flustered was obvious. “If you will wait here, I will make sure that Mr. Croydon knows you are here.”
“Who is it?” Mr. Croydon’s voice came from the other end of the hall before Mr. Noakes could finish. As soon as he stepped into view through the doorway, his face paled and the panic that enveloped him was visible. “Nancy, what is it?”
“She’s bad off, sir,” the girl, Nancy, told him. “Real bad. The fever’s taken a turn for the worse. She can’t hardly lift her head. You must come at once.”
Mr. Croydon had already started moving as Nancy said her bit. “Send for the doctor,” he ordered, but to no one in particular. “I don’t care what he says, he will come this time. And if he doesn’t show his ugly face at Primrose Cottage within the hour, he’ll hear about it from me.”
“Y-yes, sir.” Mr. Noakes wrung his hands as Mr. Croydon dashed out of view.
He returned a moment later with a coat in his hands. “Mrs. Musgrave.”
Now Mrs. Musgrave appeared in the bit of hall visible through the doorway, like a heroine making her entrance on the stage. “Send someone to fetch the doctor. Tell him to go directly to Primrose Cottage.” He repeated his command as if he knew as well as anyone else who was most capable of getting things done in his house.
“Yes, sir.” Mrs. Musgrave nodded. She headed into the parlor as Mr. Croydon threw his coat on and rushed out the door.
Mary rose to her feet as soon as Mrs. Musgrave entered the room, so Clara did the same. Her uniform strained and pinched around her.
“I can go, ma’am,” Clara volunteered, eager to be useful.
Mrs. Musgrave pulled up short and blinked at her. “And do you know where the doctor lives? Do you know where Primrose Cottage is?”
“Well, uh, no, ma’am. But I could ask.”
“And waist precious time?” She shook her head. “Martha, you will go to Dr. Miller and inform him of the situation.”
To Clara’s surprise, Martha didn’t seem entirely pleased with the errand. She curtsied anyhow and said, “Yes, ma’am,” before hurrying out of the room.
“Go through the front door,” Mrs. Musgrave called after her. “It will save time.” She turned back to Clara and Mary. Mary wore an expression of disapproval that Clara couldn’t even begin to comprehend. “Mary, you will continue instructing Clara,” Mrs. Musgrave said before leaving once more.
With a sigh, Mary lowered herself and returned to scrubbing. She didn’t say anything to Clara, either to explain what she was doing or to comment on what had just happened.
“You’re doing a good job of that,” Clara attempted to start up a conversation.
“Mmm.”
It was the only answer Mary gave her. The young woman seemed as lost in her thoughts now as Clara had been earlier. Clara would have given anything to know what was going through the other maid’s mind. She would have given anything to know what had just happened with Mr. Croydon, the girl Nancy, and the need to send for a doctor. And who lived at Primrose Cottage? It seemed as though she wasn’t the only one keeping secrets in Winterberry Park.
CHAPTER 2
T here was no answer to the mystery of what had Mr. Croydon so agitated. At least not right away. Clara was forced to go about her duties with nothing but speculation to keep her company. Speculation and blunders. Within the next day, she’d broken a glass lamp, tripped over the hall carpet three times, and ripped her ill-fitting uniform in two more places. At least she’d been able to be useful when one of the footman needed a silver salver taken down off the top shelf of the silver cabinet. And she’d been able to hold one of Mr. Croydon’s carriage horses still as the stableman reshoed it.
By the time Sunday rolled around, Clara was bursting with eagerness to go to church and meet the legendary Rev. Fallon. She was certain that there was some way she’d be able to help the old vicar. And it was a relief to be able to dress in clothes that fit for a change. Even though the dress she’d considered her Sunday best for so long didn’t seem to meet English standards.
“What in the name of all the saints are you wearing?” Mary gaped at her as Clara stepped out into the cobblestone square between the house and the stable, where the servants were gathering to walk to church together.
Instantly uneasy, Clara glanced down at her dress. It was a bright shade of violet with gold across the bodice. The voluminous skirt was caught up in a bustle at the back. Clara was well aware that she was dressed more appropriately for a night at the saloon than church in an English country parish, but she loved the dress, and unlike her uniform, it wasn’t in danger of splitting at the seams.
“It’s all I have, really,” she explained to Mary, and to Martha, who’d walked up beside her sister and had her hand over her mouth, she was laughing so hard.
“Oy, you look like a snow-capped mountain,” Freddy, one of the footmen called from the other end of the square.
Clara’s heart sank, and she slouched, as if that would take inches off her height. “I…I could go change back into my uniform,” she mumbled.
“No, you will not.” Mrs. Musgrave walked up behind her, dressed in her own Sunday best—dusky blue instead of grey. She took one look at Clara, shook her head, and muttered, “Saints preserve us.” She then cleared her throat and went on with, “There isn’t time to change. Besides, I don’t think your uniforms will make it through another wearing. Thank heavens Bertha will have proper uniforms for you by this afternoon. Come along, all.”
She marched forward, trusting that everyone would follow her and Mr. Noakes—who waited, as meek as any under-servant—to take her arm and escort her. Clara took in a breath, closed her eyes for a moment to banish the awkwardness of the moment, thought of Rev. Fallon and the possibility that she could be useful, and marched on.
The walk to the church wasn’t a long one. Winterberry Park was only a mile out from the heart of town. It was a pretty walk, with the Wiltshire countryside displaying its early-autumn best. There was certainly more green—and more oranges, reds, yellows, and even pinks—than in Wyoming. But the rest of the household fell into groups as they walked, and none of them contained Clara. Not that the size of her dress would have allowed anyone to walk closer to her. She supposed that old habits were hard to shake and that the other servants had been walking in their same groups since they started their jobs, but it still made her feel left out.
Instead of focusing on her loneliness, she studied the landscape. She hadn’t seen much of the town since arriving almost a week ago, and she decided that she liked the cozy stone cottages, the neatly-kept gardens, and the trees that swayed in the breeze. She liked the church the moment she spotted it too. It had an old, majestic feeling to it, with arched windows and a steeple. The building itself was surrounded by a walled yard, and a small cemetery stretched out to one side. The stones Clara spotted were old and some had lichen growing on them, but they gave the impression that whoever was under them truly was resting in peace. Beyond the church stood a house where Rev. Fallon must have lived.
As she entered the church and took her seat near the back with the other female staff from Winterberry Park, Clara glanced around, looking for Rev. Fallon. She assumed he had a wife as well and scanned t
he front pews to see if she could guess which of the elderly women sitting there could be her. Clara’s height gave her the advantage of a clear view, even from the back of the church.
But after a few minutes of looking, she noticed that she was getting just as many stares from the congregation. Martha sniggered and Mary was biting her lip. The sisters were seated next to her, but they had left a large space between them. As soon as she noticed it, Clara hunched over, suddenly loathing the attention she knew she was getting.
She was saved as an unseen organ began the opening strains of a hymn she didn’t know. She stood with the rest of the congregation, reaching for a hymnal, and attempted to sing along. Her heart wasn’t in it, though. When the song was over, she sat in a poof of purple skirt, eyes lowered, wondering if it was a terrible idea for her to have left Haskell.
“Good morning, and welcome to Sunday services,” a warm, tenor voice spoke from the front.
Clara snapped her eyes up, eager to get her first glimpse of Rev. Fallon. But the man who stood behind the pulpit in minister’s robes couldn’t possibly be the vicar. He wasn’t old and gnarled at all. In fact, he was young. He couldn’t have been much older than she was. Well, perhaps a little older. He had a strong, handsome face and hair that was almost, but not quite, ginger. He gripped the edges of the pulpit with large, somewhat white-knuckled hands, and his eyes seemed a bit rounder than they should for someone who was completely at home in the pulpit. Maybe he wasn’t Rev. Fallon. Maybe he was a substitute for the usual preacher.
“Today’s reading will be from—” He moved to open the Bible in front of him, but in the process, he managed to knock it so that it slid right off the pulpit, thumping to the floor. He muttered something that had the older ladies in the front pew gasping as he bent over to pick it up.
“That’s our Rev. Fallon,” Martha giggled.
“He never disappoints,” Mary added.
Clara’s brows flew up as Rev. Fallon straightened, replaced the Bible, cleared his throat, and went on. “Today’s reading will be from the Beatitudes,” he went on, his face considerably redder than when he’d started.
Clara’s brows stayed high up on her forehead as she listened to Rev. Fallon read. All things considered, he had a fine voice. A smile began to spread across her face as he read about those who would be blessed for their good qualities. Not only was he nice to listen to and pleasing to look at, he had a way of delivering the words she already knew as though they were a fresh message—one she desperately needed to hear. She was feeling poor in spirit, after all.
“What do these words of Jesus tell us about how we should interact with our fellow men?” Rev. Fallon finished the reading and went on into his sermon. Clara sat straighter, straining forward as she listened with her whole heart. “They show us the importance of kindness,” Rev. Fallon went on. “They show us that it is right and good to give selflessly to those around us for the betterment of all mankind.
“But they also point out to us that there are those amongst our community who suffer, who are poor in spirit, who hunger and thirst for righteousness, who are persecuted. They tell us that not everyone’s life is one of happiness and harmony. It is simply a fact of life. But what the Beatitudes also tell us is that while life for some of our neighbors might not be as fortunate as ours, it can still be blessed if we are willing to reach out, show mercy, and be peacemakers.”
Swept away by the beauty of his words, Clara called out, “Amen!”
It was as if lightning had struck the church. Half the congregation gasped. Rev. Fallon himself flinched and gasped, “Good Lord!”
His eyes snapped straight to hers…and then a kind of lightning did hit the church. Or at least it hit Clara. Rev. Fallon’s eyes were blue, and as soon as they met hers, his face transformed. The tension that was pulling his expression tight melted. His shock turned into a different kind of surprise, and then into a smile. His smile sent a wave of flutters through Clara’s chest and stomach. Instantly, she was smiling back as though only the two of them were in the room. No one had ever looked at her with such…such interest.
One of the older women in the front cleared her throat. Rev. Fallon flinched again and stammered, “Oh, yes. Right.” He cleared his throat, shuffled through some papers on the pulpit, and went on. “The Beatitudes serve to illustrate for us the ways we can be of service to each other.”
Clara hung on Rev. Fallon’s every word for the rest of the sermon, but by the time they finished the closing prayers and hymns, she couldn’t remember a word of what he’d said. She could certainly remember how he’d said it, though. She could hardly draw her eyes away from the front of the church, even after he disappeared through a door at the back during the final hymn. Clara forgot to sing as she waited for him to reemerge. Surely a vicar would be back to greet the members of his congregation, wouldn’t he?
At last, when the hymn was over, Rev. Fallon, dressed in the plain black suit and white collar of the Anglican clergy, stepped back through the door. Clara caught her breath.
“Well, well,” Mary said at her side as they waited for the rest of the pews to empty. “Could it be that Rev. Fallon has met his match at last?”
“He hasn’t met anyone yet,” Martha pointed out to her.
“We most certainly need to change that,” Mary said.
It took Clara another few seconds and being nudged into the aisle, once it had cleared, to realize that the sisters were set on making the introduction. Rev. Fallon had moved to the back of the church, where he could shake the hands of his parishioners as they left. Mary and Martha flanked Clara as they drew near, giggling and snorting and pushing her along until Clara and Rev. Fallon stood face to face.
“Good morning,” Rev. Fallon greeted her, his smile brightening.
He was shorter than her by a few inches. However, something in the way he looked at her made Clara feel as though they were of equal standing. There was no lust or unkind amazement in his eyes, simply interest. And all things considered, that was a miracle.
Mary cleared her throat—alerting Clara to the fact that she had returned Rev. Fallon’s greeting with nothing but a stare—and said, “Rev. Fallon, I’d like you to meet our new maid at Winterberry Park.”
“This is Clara Partridge,” Martha picked up where her sister left off. “She’s from America.”
“How do you do?” Clara thrust out her hand, a little too forcefully.
Rev. Fallon blinked in surprise, but his smile widened. He took her hand. “I do quite well. And yourself?” His hand was large enough that it didn’t make her feel like a giant.
“I’m quite well. And you?”
“Well, very well.”
They stood there smiling at each other. Clara couldn’t think of a blasted thing to say. At least, not until Mary and Martha nearly toppled over in their attempts to hide their laughter. A flash of irritation hit her as she realized the two had only made the introduction so that they would have something to laugh about. Well, Clara simply wasn’t having that.
“That was a wonderful sermon,” she said, ignoring the sisters and giving all of her attention to Rev. Fallon.
“It was?” he asked, his smile turning bashful. “I’ve never considered myself very good at making sermons.”
“Oh, but you are,” Clara went on. “I’ve never heard a preacher say anything quite so beautiful about the realities of our lives and how we have to band together and help each other out.”
“I was simply sharing the truth as I see it,” he said, modesty making his blue eyes sparkle.
“But not everyone sees it,” Clara insisted. “In fact, I believe that too many people don’t want to see it. They fear for their own situation by seeing the misfortune of others.”
A new sort of appreciation lit Rev. Fallon’s eyes, as if Clara had actually impressed him. “How right you are, Miss Partridge.”
It was then that Clara realized they were still holding hands. She gasped and loosened her grip. It was another seco
nd before Rev. Fallon came to the same realization and let go of her. That didn’t stop the warmth of the contact from swirling its way through her.
“Tell me, Miss Partridge,” Rev. Fallon went on. “Have you done much Bible study?”
“I haven’t done any at all,” Clara replied, lowering her eyes. “I mean, I used to go to church back in Haskell. That’s Haskell, Wyoming, where I was from before coming here to work at Winterberry Park.”
“Ah yes.” Rev. Fallon nodded. “My family has been friends with the Croydon family for generations. My eldest brother served with Alexander Croydon and his chums in the Crimea.”
“Really?” The urge to know much, much more about Rev. Fallon and the Croydon family filled Clara.
“Yes, in fact—” He paused, his gaze focusing on something past Clara’s shoulder. “In fact, I need to speak with Alex right now.” He stepped to the side, raised a hand, and called out, “Alex.”
Clara turned to see Mr. Croydon marching out of the church. He looked pale, and his expression was wan and troubled. Rev. Fallon chased him out of the church and into the sunlit yard, and since Clara didn’t know what else to do—Mary and Martha had grown bored when their prank rendered no results and had moved on—she followed, curiosity and the desire to stay close to Rev. Fallon spurring her on.
“Alex, how are things today?” Rev. Fallon asked, catching up with Mr. Croydon at the bottom of the church’s stairs.
“Not good, Arthur,” Mr. Croydon replied, running a hand through his hair. “The infection has spread too far, or so Dr. Miller says. If Violetta had sent for him in time….” He turned away, shaking his head.
“You know Violetta,” Rev. Fallon said in a quiet voice. “She doesn’t like to make trouble.”
“She’s afraid to draw attention to herself is more like,” Mr. Croydon replied, a bitter edge to his voice. “The way people around here treat her, the things that have been said.” Misery lined his face as he glanced out over the members of the congregation who continued to loiter in conversation around the courtyard. “If she wasn’t so afraid of them, she would have done something sooner.”