Charming the Vicar

by Jenny Frame

  There was silence for a few seconds before Bridge said, “It is beautiful up here, isn’t it. I like to think of this as God’s back garden.”

  Finn laughed cynically. “Or simply a beautiful landscape created by billions of years of natural evolution.”

  Bridge mentally rubbed her hands together. Oh, don’t even go down this road, Finn. I’ll have you for breakfast.

  But maybe if played correctly she could get Finn to open up and have a conversation, and the human contact she was clearly crying out for.

  “There you go making assumptions again. You think I don’t believe in evolution?”

  Finn started to put away her paints and wipe her brushes. “No, I wouldn’t think a vicar would.”

  “I’m not only a vicar, I’m a scholar as well. I was well educated not only in Bible texts, but in Greek, Latin, Egyptian, and esoteric doctrines. I know there are truths and myths in all ancient documents.”

  Finn put down her brushes and turned to face her. Bridge could see a spark in her eyes that hadn’t been there before. Had she hit on something to make her lost sheep engage with the world?

  “Do you believe God made the world in seven days?” Finn said quickly.

  “No,” Bridge fired back.

  Finn scooted closer to her on the bench. “Do you believe in Adam and Eve?”

  “Or Adam and Steve?” Bridge corrected her.

  “Exactly. Adam, Eve, Steve, whoever?”

  This was becoming jolly good fun, Bridge thought. “No, I don’t. I believe that back in the mists of time we made those allegories and myths to try to make sense of concepts we didn’t understand, but I do believe God made everything happen, and the message is always the same. God is love, and love is all that matters.”

  “Oh, please. Do you know how many men and women of God I’ve heard say that while they line their pockets with money? Faith healers, so-called miracle workers that turned out to be two-bit magicians and cold readers, and not very good ones at that.”

  She hadn’t seen much of Finn’s work, but Bridge knew that Finn was a controversial figure within the Christian and spiritualist communities, making it her life’s mission to debunk the darker sides of those religions.

  “That’s not the faith or the God I represent, Finn. I don’t promise miracles, or healing. I talk to people about being the best they can be. Loving your neighbour, helping those worse off than yourself, being kind, and loving one another. That is the God I’ve given my life to.”

  “The God of love who takes away the only love you’ve ever known? No, thanks.”

  As Finn threw her painting things into her bag, Bridge thought how different she was to the confident, charismatic performer she had seen on YouTube clips she had looked up last night. Now she was angry, bitter, and perhaps on a path of self-destruction, if the bottle of vodka peeking out of her bag was anything to go by.

  Bridget said the first words of comfort that came to her mind, “The righteous perish, and no one takes it to heart. Merciful men are taken away, and no one considers that the righteous is taken away to be spared from the evil.”

  Quick as a flash, Finn finished the quote for her. “He enters into peace. They rest in their beds, each one who walks in his uprightness. Isaiah 57:1–2. Don’t quote scripture at me and hope I’ll find comfort in it. There is no comfort,” Finn said coldly and calmly.

  Bridge was taken aback by Finn’s biblical knowledge. “You’re not what you seem to be, Finn.”

  “That’s because I’m not. I’m an illusion. Everyone presents an illusion of themselves to others—very few people see us as we really are. Look at you, for example.”

  Bridget was surprised the conversation had rounded on her. “What about me?”

  “You are an illusion of your own making. You’re not the vicar people expect.”

  “You’ve only known me for five minutes. You know nothing about me. I am everything I seem, a vicar who…likes fashion. Maybe a bit different, but nothing wrong with that.”

  Finn put her canvas in her bag and folded up her easel. “That’s where you’re wrong. You see, I am excellent at reading people. I’ve trained myself over my life to look beyond the illusion and read a person’s psyche. That’s why I’m so good at what I do, at cold reading.”

  She swung her bag onto her shoulder and lifted her easel. “I think you are hiding behind that dog collar, and all the other mumbo jumbo you preach. You’re hiding a part of yourself, a part that will never quite let you go.”

  “How dare you—” Before Bridget could continue her rant, Finn walked off, leaving Bridget fuming.

  * * *

  After dinner Bridge walked up to Axedale to check on the house and the horses. She walked into the stable and the horses whinnied and neighed when they saw her holding the bag of goodies her housekeeper had sent for them.

  “At least someone’s pleased to see me,” Bridge said.

  She took out her bag of carrots and gave one to each horse before stopping at Willow’s stall. Willow was Riley’s beloved horse and she had left strict instructions to bring her an evening snack. She took out an apple and rubbed Willow’s nose as she fed her the fruity treat.

  Bridge smiled as the horse gobbled up the apple and whinnied for more. She reached into the bag and got her a carrot, which Willow gratefully received.

  “If only all the members of my parish were as easy to help.”

  She just couldn’t shake the conversation she’d had with Finn earlier. Even though the woman was obviously going through a lot of grief, her attitude irked her. Bridge had always had a natural need to help people, but now that she was a vicar, the need was also a duty. It wasn’t nice to have her attempts to make a connection thrown in her face.

  She also felt a sense of guilt that she felt angry at Finn’s petulance and distrust. “Bloody arrogant—”

  “Penny for them?” a voice behind her said.

  Bridge nearly jumped out of her heels. She turned around and saw Quade standing there. “Dear God, Quade. You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

  Quade came closer and patted Willow. “Evening, Vicar. Sorry about that. Who’s driven you to swear on this lovely evening?”

  “Oh, just a lost sheep I’m having trouble trying to welcome to the flock.”

  Quade leaned on the stall door. “You mean our new resident celebrity?”

  Bridge nodded, and Quade replied, “Maybe she thinks you’re a wolf, Vicar.”

  “What? Why would she think that? There’s nothing scary about me.”

  Quade raised an eyebrow and said, “Oh, I could list a few things.”

  Bridge gave her a soft hit to the arm. “Behave, Quade. I’m not scary. I’m just a vicar with fabulous heels.”

  Quade laughed. “No, seriously. You just said it yourself. You’re a vicar. Isn’t she known for being an evangelical atheist?”

  “Yes. So?”

  “Well, sometimes the thing you hate the most is what scares you the most. You, Vicar, represent the Church. Maybe that’s what it is?”

  Bridge thought about her last conversation with Finn. She’d implied that Bridge was hiding behind her dog collar. Maybe Finn did resent what the dog collar represented.

  She grabbed Quade and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “That’s brilliant! You’re not just a handsome face.”

  Quade rolled her eyes. “Yeah, so handsome the women are beating down my door. Listen, maybe I should try first, maybe take a keg of Axedale Ale? Surely no one can refuse that.”

  Bridge rubbed her hands together with satisfaction. She loved finding a new positive angle to try to relate people to each other and to God. She had helped Harry, with the huge help of Annie, so there must be hope for Finnian Kane.

  She shouldn’t care since Finn was so rude to her, but the pain she had seen in Finn’s eyes the two times they had met was not something she could easily ignore. Bridge’s calling was to help others, and in her parish, the buck stopped with her.

  “Yes, you go first
. She might relate to you better. Then I’ll come up with something and try again.”

  Chapter Four

  Finn was trying to work on the landscape she had started the day before. She hadn’t had time to paint in a long time, but it was a natural talent.

  After long months on tour, she used to paint to de-stress in her home studio for hours at a time, knowing that her sister Carrie, with whom she shared her home, was taking care of all the domestic issues. Making sure there was enough food in the fridge, making sure she ate, bringing her endless cups of tea, and keeping all but the most urgent phone calls away from her. They were a team, they looked after each other, but now Finn was alone.

  Finn picked up her bottle of water for a drink and looked at her picture despairingly. Rustiness was to be expected after so long away from her art, but this was more than that. Somehow working on her canvas felt impossible, like climbing a mountain. Every single little stroke of the brush was a huge effort. There was something missing from inside her, and she didn’t know how to fix it.

  She looked over at her sister’s plants, sitting on the summer house windowsill, and the guilt began to gnaw at her guts.

  Finn threw down the water bottle and pulled off her paint-splattered checked shirt, scattering the playing cards she always kept in her pocket all over the floor, and leaving her in a sleeveless T-shirt.

  She felt constrained, suffocated, and just wanted the pain to be over. Finn reached for the small bottle of vodka she’d propped on the workbench and glugged down a few mouthfuls of the burning liquid.

  Looking at the canvas in front of her just made her more aware of how hopeless she was. Finn’s anger spilled over. She slammed down her bottle on the bench, smashed her knee through the canvas, threw it against the wall, and pushed over the easel. Her paints and brushes were pushed off the workbench, and then her frenzy and anger dissipated, leaving her with intense and overwhelming sadness.

  Tears welled over and she slid down the summer house wall, to sit amongst the frenzy and mess of her emotional breakdown. “I can’t do this, Carrie, not without you.”

  The sight of her playing cards strewn all over the floor made her feel even more out of control. Her deck of cards never left her person—they were both her security blanket and part of her identity. She’d had them since she was a child. They were a part of her rebellion, an integral part of her personality.

  Finn frantically began to collect them back into a pile, and then sat back against the wall, shuffling them while they brought her calm.

  She gazed over at her broken landscape and let out a breath. It seemed she just couldn’t paint pictures like that any more. Her creativity had deserted her. All she had inside were these dark, raw emotions.

  On impulse she got up, picked out a fresh canvas, and started to paint broad red and black strokes.

  * * *

  After working out her frustrations in paint, Finn was cleaning her brushes and equipment in the garden, and she heard someone at the back garden gate.

  “Knock, knock?”

  She looked up and saw a woman holding a cask of some sort. “Can I help?”

  “The name’s Sam McQuade. I thought to bring you a cask of Axedale Ale to welcome you to the village. I make it myself.”

  You didn’t need gaydar to guess that Sam McQuade was gay—she certainly out-butched Finn. She got up and walked over to the gate. “Thanks. I appreciate it, Ms. McQuade.”

  “Call me Quade, mate. Everyone does.” Quade handed the small cask over the gate to her.

  It was strange, but she didn’t feel on the defensive with Quade, like she did with the do-gooding vicar. Perhaps because she was a kindred spirit. “Would you like to come in?”

  “I won’t, but thanks. I’m expected up at Axedale Hall. I’m assistant estate manager there.”

  “That must keep you busy. I noticed the tourists going in the gates in droves when I passed yesterday.”

  “Yeah, it’s been redeveloped by the present countess. Keeps us all busy. Anyway, I thought since I was passing, I’d bring you the ale as a welcoming present.”

  “I’m sure I’ll enjoy it.”

  “I hope you settle in quickly. It is a lovely little village, even if I say so myself. The locals are all friendly. Come to the pub and we can have a pint together sometime. There’s a pub quiz every Saturday, which is always a good laugh.”

  “Sounds great,” Finn lied. She couldn’t think of anything worse than mixing with a pub full of people at the moment.

  “I usually team up with the vicar. I think you’ve met her?”

  Finn thought about the easy way she was talking to Quade, and felt a little guilty at the rude way she had spoken to the vicar.

  “Yes, I’ve met her.”

  Quade smiled. “Bridge really is a character, and we are so lucky to have her. She works tirelessly to help everyone in the village. Always puts others before herself. And it’s nice to have a vicar who is gay.”

  “Yes, it must be.”

  Quade held out her hand and Finn shook it. “I better get going. I hope I’ll see you in the pub so we can have a chat.”

  * * *

  Bridge took Quade’s advice, and the next day after dealing with church business, got changed into something less intimidating. She replaced her dog collar with a fine V-necked cashmere jumper. She stood in her bedroom and looked at her image in her full-length mirror. Her uniform of heels and leather jacket was only slightly changed by the cashmere jumper, but she was so rarely in civilian clothes these days, she did look strange to her eyes. She felt vulnerable, like a knight without his shield, and was reminded of the time before she entered the Church.

  Something Finn had said to her floated across her mind. I think you’re hiding behind that dog collar.

  Was she? Bridge’s gaze went across the room to the large built-in wardrobes. In there lay some memories she didn’t want to think about.

  She shook the thoughts away quickly, and hurried downstairs to the vicarage kitchen. Mrs. Long, her housekeeper, had a basket of food on the table for her.

  “Is this everything, Mrs. Long?”

  Mrs. Long smiled proudly. She dried her hands on the kitchen towel and made her way over to the basket, and picked a few items.

  “Indeed, Vicar. There’s some bread fresh from my oven, Mrs. Ashworth’s jam and marmalade, some tomatoes from Mr. Pratt’s greenhouse, Miss Nuttal’s scones, and finally Mr. Butterworth’s damson gin. Perfect to welcome Ms. Kane to the village. I only wish we had some of Lady Annie’s Death by Chocolate cake.”

  “Don’t we all,” Bridge said. “I’m going to have withdrawal symptoms by the time they return from Italy.”

  It secretly tickled Bridge, and she knew Harry felt the same, that the villagers had taken to call her wife Lady Annie out of respect. Legally Harry was unable to share her title with her wife, although everyone hoped that outdated law would relax in the future, but despite this Annie was Axedale’s lady of the manor in the true spirit of the word, and deserved their respect.

  She had done so much for the village, least of which melting the heart of their countess, and that had changed everything in the village for the better.

  Bridge lifted the basket and said, “I don’t know how long I’ll be. Ms. Kane may not even let me through the front door, but if anyone needs me, just call my mobile, and if I’m not back for evening prayers, then our resident magician has probably made me disappear into the ether.”

  Mrs. Long chuckled. “Will do, Vicar.”

  She set off to Mason’s cottage, hoping to herd the lost sheep of the parish into the welcoming flock. Bridge chuckled, remembering Quade describing her as a wolf. Surely, she wasn’t that frightening a woman?

  Bridge walked up to the cottage gate and noticed the front door open, and some wood, broken shelving, and broken and smashed painted canvases—abandoned halfway through by the looks of it—lying up against the fence.

  When she had met Finn on her evening walk, she’d noticed
she was painting a beautiful landscape, but these abandoned artworks were abstract, and dark angry colours only.

  “Oh, dear. One is feeling rather angry, my little lost sheep.”

  Bridge knocked on the open front door, and no one responded. “Hello? Is anyone at home? It’s Bridget.”

  There was no reply so she moved further into the living room. Immediately something caught her eye on the hatstand in the corner. It was the top hat she had seen Finn wearing in the YouTube clips she had watched. She placed her basket of goods on the floor and picked it off the stand, fascinated by all the unusual adornments it had.

  The broad band around the hat held a feather, two playing cards, two little silver cogs, and a brass clock face with no hands. Above the band was a brass keyhole, complete with key.

  “How very steampunk.”

  “Funny, I don’t remember inviting you in, Vicar,” a voice behind her said.

  Bridget jumped and clasped her hand to her chest, and turned around quickly. It was Finn.

  “Dear God! You gave me such a fright.”

  Finn folded her arms and gave her an accusing look. “Well, you must forgive me for giving you a fright after you walked into my house uninvited.”

  It appeared that Finn was hostile and defensive with her already. Yet Quade said she had been normal and polite. What am I doing wrong?

  It annoyed Bridge that she got that reaction. She was used to warmth and friendliness from people she met. Usually her position bought her some immediate goodwill, but it seemed to be just the opposite with Finnian Kane.

  “I’m sorry. I did knock, but I got no answer.” Bridge settled the top hat back on its resting place.

  “And so you just walked in?”

  Bridge couldn’t help but take in Finn’s ruffled appearance. She was wearing a white sleeveless T-shirt and jeans, both spattered with paint, with a painting rag hanging out of her pocket. Her feet were bare.