Charming the Vicar

by Jenny Frame

  “So…Mr. Peters, do you have all the fireworks purchased for Witch’s?” Bridge said.

  “Yes, indeed. I got them at the wholesaler’s last week.” He smiled broadly. “Got bigger and better ones this year. Quade and her estate staff are going to set them up on the day.”

  “Yep,” Quade said and then gave her a wink. “It’s all under control, Vicar.”

  “I’m sure,” Bridge said with amusement. “Now, Mr. Finch, you’ve organized the outdoors drinks licence as usual?”

  “Yes, Vicar. My boy has got together tables and equipment so we can offer drinks along the parade route and river. Quade has given us a few barrels of Axedale Ale for the night too, which will go down very well.”

  “Sounds excellent. We’re all in good order then. I understand Lady Annie’s housekeeper, Beverly, has also made similar arrangements for the food. Item two, the village winter show. Any thoughts on the theme this year?”

  Bridge looked up and saw all the council members looking at each other nervously.

  “Is there a problem?”

  Mrs. Peters was the first to speak. “No, no problem. We just were talking between ourselves and wondered—”

  “Wondered what?” Bridge asked.

  “We thought since we have such a great celebrity and showman in the village, could we try and get her interested in helping us with the show, maybe directing?”

  Bridget laughed. “Good luck to whoever you send to ask that. Finnian Kane is too busy scowling and feeling sorry for herself to get involved with the village in any way.”

  Again, the council members looked shiftily among themselves and left Bridge bemused.

  “What?”

  Mrs. Peters gave her husband a nudge and he said, “Oh? Eh…yes. We thought you could go and ask her, Vicar.”

  “Are you kidding me? I’m the last person she would want to see, far less the right person to get her to agree to something.”

  Quade quickly stepped into the conversation. “The vicar’s right. Ms. Kane has come to Axedale looking for some peace and space, after a difficult time in her life. From what I’ve seen, she’s not in the frame of mind to help us.”

  Bridge saw her friends’ excitement dissipate. She could understand it would have been a real treat to have a famous magician involved with the village show. But the woman couldn’t even apologize to her.

  Mr. Winchester’s frustration didn’t allow him to keep quiet any longer. “Do we really have to involve a non-local in our winter show? Especially someone like Finnian Kane. She is not the right sort of person to be involved in a family show.”

  Bridge’s hackles were immediately raised. She leaned forward and said sternly, “Oh? What kind of person is that then, Mr. Winchester?”

  He leaned back and folded his arms, looking as pompous as ever, and smirked. “I think we both know the answer to that question, Vicar.”

  Instead of biting back as he wanted, Bridge put on her best smile and turned to Mr. Butterstone. “If I get the opportunity, and Ms. Kane is feeling more amenable, I will of course ask her. Who could be better to direct our little village show than our resident celebrity?”

  Bridge knew it would never happen. Finnian Kane didn’t even want to mix with the village, far less help them, but the look on Mr. Winchester’s face made her promise worth it.

  * * *

  Finn had been holed up in her cottage for a week. She didn’t see or talk to one soul in that time. She didn’t want to, as she was struggling to come to terms with everything that had happened with Bridget.

  Finn stood in front of her completed painting. She had never completed a piece so quickly and it had changed with her changing mood over the week.

  She had been trying to cope with so many feelings and emotions, and they were hard to process. So Finn painted and painted, pouring all her energy into her work. As Finn painted, her conversation with Bridge played over and over in her mind.

  At first, she felt nothing but simmering anger. No one had ever called her out like that. She was used to being on the front foot in every social situation or conversation, being ten steps ahead, and leading people psychologically to wherever she needed them to go. Bridget Claremont was different to anyone she’d met. She was a high femme who wouldn’t be led.

  Bridget had a different energy, an exciting energy. She was the kind of woman who, with just a look, could make you drop to your knees and crawl, just to be given the privilege of kissing her heels.

  As Finn’s anger dissipated, Finn realized that her intense response to Bridget was her reaction to meeting someone who represented faith, a faith that sent her world into chaos, and someone who confused her emotionally and mentally. Because despite everything that she was feeling, intense grief, sorrow, and sadness, these past few days she had replayed their last conversation, and the most vivid memory was how fast her heart had beaten as she chased after Bridge, and not her pain.

  When Finn recognized that, her dark abstract painting took on new life, and she began to paint something she hoped would please Bridget. Finn picked up the canvas from the easel and moved it to the workbench to wrap it up. Bridget had told her to come back when she could apologize properly, and she would.

  * * *

  After a quick shower, Finn dressed and strapped the painting to the back of her Harley, then drove in the direction of the vicarage hoping Bridget would be there, but she wasn’t. Her housekeeper told her Bridge was at the church.

  She just had to be, didn’t she? It seemed like every road was leading her back to the church, and for an atheist, that was a confusing place to be.

  Finn picked up the painting and walked towards the church door. She took a deep breath and went in. The church looked quite different with no congregation, and despite her reservations about its purpose, it was a beautiful building.

  She spotted Bridge in the front pew, looking as if she was in the quiet contemplation of prayer. Finn gulped hard. This was so difficult for her on so many levels, and yet she had felt compelled to come in here last week, and compelled to come back and seek out Bridget.

  She took a breath and walked down the aisle. When she got to Bridget’s row, she stood quietly, not wanting to disturb Bridget’s contemplation.

  A few seconds went by and Bridget said without opening her eyes, “Can I help you?”

  Why wouldn’t Bridget look at her? She had been so keen to welcoming her to the village, and now she wouldn’t even open her eyes.

  Because you hurt her.

  What she had rehearsed in her mind to say deserted her completely, so she simply said, “I’m here to apologize the way you asked me to.”

  Her sentence acted like magic words. Bridge’s eyes opened and she turned her head to give Finn her complete attention.

  “Sit down, Finn.”

  She had done it, gotten Bridge’s attention, and now it was time to eat some humble pie. Finn sat next to her on the bench and put the painting on the floor.

  Finn didn’t know any way to start except to dive head first. “I’m sorry I tricked you.”

  “How did you get that information on me?” Bridget asked.

  “I didn’t. It was simple cold reading. I had no idea I would bring up someone who would cause you so much pain. I thought maybe an elderly aunt or something, not someone like—”

  “My friend Ellen,” Bridget finished. “How could it be cold reading? The information was too perfect.”

  Finn swivelled around, so she was looking at Bridge. “It’s what psychics do, and so easy to learn. I set up the reading with a bit of showmanship, taking your watch, and from then I asked standard questions to get what I needed from you.”

  Bridge shook her head. “But the box of photographs was so specific.”

  “You would think, but it’s not. If you think about it, every house has a box of photographs somewhere.”

  A smile crept up on Bridge’s bright red lips. “I suppose you’re right.”

  “And even if you’d said no, I co
uld say, well the spirits say your childhood home had an old box of photographs, and I’m sure I’d get a hit.”

  Bridget laughed. “You’re right. I never thought of it that way. I thought cold reading would be deep psychology.”

  “No, it’s a lot simpler than you think, because usually the sitter wants to make the information from beyond the grave fit with them.”

  “But how did you get Ellen’s name?”

  “You told me it, Vicar. I only gave you a letter. The letter E that is the most prevalent in the English language. I’m quite certain one relative or another would have an E in their name. You did all the work.”

  Bridget turned slightly and inched closer to Finn. “You know, I had completely forgotten I had given you her name.”

  “That’s because ninety percent of a magic trick is how you remember it afterwards, or how you tell others about it. You always make it more astonishing in your own mind, because you don’t like to think you have been fooled that easily.”

  “Is that so, Magician?” She saw a flicker of something in Finn’s eyes when she said that. What it was she couldn’t quite tell.

  “Was Ellen someone really close to you?” Finn asked.

  Bridge looked down at her clasped hands on her lap and said simply, “Someone I loved, who was taken too soon.”

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw Finn’s hand begin to reach for hers, but she pulled it back quickly.

  “Anyway, I’m sorry for that, and for the way I tried to apologize the last time.”

  “It’s all right—I suppose I was a bit forceful in my welcome. I was a bit annoyed that you seemed to be different with Quade.”

  Finn sighed. “Vicar, I came here to get away from magic and to get away from what you represent.”

  “Then you come here and I constantly try to herd you up like a little lost sheep.”

  Finn raised an eyebrow at that comment. “I suppose.”

  “I know you’ve been through a terrible time, Finn, and if you ever want to talk or let the village and me under those walls you’ve erected to protect yourself, just let me know.”

  “I’m not ready, okay?” Finn said brusquely. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. Here.” She picked up a parcel wrapped in brown paper and handed it to Bridge. “I painted this for you.” Finn stood, looking as if her panic had returned.

  “Finn, wait—”

  “I’m not ready, Vicar. I need to be on my own. I’m sorry again.”

  Bridge stood quickly but Finn marched off before she had the chance to stop her. Bridge opened the wrapping to reveal the painting, and found an abstract black and grey background with a shining bright cross in the foreground. It was beautiful, and sad, but hopeful at the same time.

  “You are a troubled little sheep, Magician.”

  Bridge was certain Finn wanted to be helped, wanted to make a human connection, but she’d done the best she could today, then ran away. Bridge’s job as shepherd of the flock was to be here when Finn wanted to come back into the fold.

  * * *

  Finn held tightly to her sister’s hand. She had been in and out of consciousness all day, murmuring, and talking about random things that made no sense. The hospice nurses said she could have only hours left, and Finn felt like she could hardly breathe. She was trying to be so strong and calm on the outside, lest Carrie would pick up on her negative feelings.

  Suddenly Carrie’s eyes opened, and she looked terrified. “Finn? Finn?”

  “I’m here, Carrie, I’m always here, and I’m never going to let go of you.”

  “I’m scared, Finn.”

  Finn pulled her chair closer to the bed and stroked her sister’s brow trying to calm her. “Don’t be scared when I’m by your side, Carrie. You trust me, don’t you?”

  She nodded. “That’s why I’m scared. What if you’re right, Finn?”

  “Right about what?”

  “What if there is nothing? I’m frightened of dying and there’s nothing. I think you were right, I’m scared, I’m scared.”

  Carrie started to gasp and the machines started to beep wildly. “Nurse?” Finn shouted. “Carrie, Carrie, I was wrong. Don’t be scared, please—”

  The nurses rushed into the room and she knew Carrie was leaving her. Finn dropped to her knees and repeated over and over through her tears, “I was wrong, Carrie, I was wrong. Don’t listen to me.”

  Finn woke up gasping and ran to her bedroom window to get some air. She opened it with trembling hands and then leaned on the sill, breathing in cold, calming breaths. “Carrie, I’m so sorry.”

  She couldn’t keep going on like this. Some days she felt so much pain and guilt that she wanted to die herself, and some days her anger at the world made her someone she didn’t like.

  I’m an atheist who has lost her faith. Pathetic.

  Finn lifted her head and looked out. Her bedroom window gave her a good view over the whole village. In the distance was the imposing Axedale Hall, and over to the left of the village square was the church and its spire. The thought occurred to her that the only time she hadn’t felt such deep, terrible pain was with Bridge, and at the church with her. Maybe that was something that could take her mind off things.

  Chapter Seven

  The next day Bridge made her way to Mrs. Castle’s house for her afternoon walk. Mrs. Castle was Axedale’s former cook and Harry’s surrogate mother, and normally, Harry, Annie, and Bridge took it in turns to take Mrs. Castle out for a breath of fresh air. Otherwise, she would be completely housebound, so while Harry and Annie were away, Bridge took charge. It was no burden—Mrs. Castle was a lovely woman, and Bridge always enjoyed their talks.

  Bridge knocked twice then walked into the cottage. “Hello? Ready to hit the road?”

  “In here, Vicar.”

  Mrs. Castle was sitting in her armchair, already kitted out in jacket and headscarf.

  “Afternoon, Martha. Lucy got you ready for me?” Lucy was Mrs. Castle’s nurse. When Harry gave up her post at Cambridge and made Axedale her permanent home, she went about fixing all her mistakes and taking on the responsibilities that she had before shunned. One was providing Mrs. Castle with a private nurse to care for her.

  “Afternoon, Vicar. Yes, she’s not long gone. Honestly, she fusses around me like a little chicken.”

  Bridge chuckled. “You love her really. Okay, let’s get you into your wheelchair.”

  She put the wheelchair to the side of Martha’s armchair and helped her up onto her weak legs. “Put all your weight on me, remember.”

  Once she was safely settled in the chair, Martha said, “Can you not find more sensible shoes for walking, Vicar?”

  Bridge leaned over her and gave her a peck on the cheek. “There’s nothing you can’t do in heels.”

  Martha just laughed and shook her head. “Look at the lovely picture postcard I got from Harry.”

  Bridge walked over to the mantelpiece and lifted a picture of Harry, Annie, and Riley.

  “They look so happy, don’t they, Vicar? I could never have imagined my little Harry would fall in love and have a family. Annie is just the perfect woman for her.”

  “She is indeed.” Bridget put the card back and, as had happened a few times before, felt sadness that she wasn’t likely to ever have that in her life.

  “Annie is so kind to me. Did you know that she baked cakes, scones, and evening meals for my freezer before she went? Now all Lucy has to do is take one out and cook it for me later in the day. They are delicious.”

  Bridge started to push the wheelchair towards the door. “She is very kind, and such a good cook. I’m going to miss my weekly dinner at Axedale while they are away.”

  When Bridge got her out of the front door, she suddenly stopped dead.

  “Something wrong, Vicar?” Martha said.

  Bridge leaned over with a sly smile on her face. “Annie left you a stock of cakes? You wouldn’t happen to be harbouring one of her Death by Chocolate cakes, would you?”


  Martha chuckled. “I might be.”

  “You know there are people in this village who would wrestle you for that cake, Martha.”

  “I’ll be more than happy to give you some, Vicar. No need for any rough stuff.”

  Bridget rubbed her hands together with glee. “Just don’t tell Quade I got some.” Bridge winked at her.

  “You’re some woman, Vicar. So—where to today?”

  “I thought we could go down to the river and feed the ducks for a little while,” Bridge said.

  “Lovely. I have some stale bread in the kitchen for them.”

  Bridge ran back inside, picked up the bread, and then they headed out into the village.

  * * *

  As they walked down into the centre of the village, as usual they only got a few feet at a time as every villager stopped them to chat and gossip with Mrs. Castle. Bridge was delighted to see Martha so happy and full of chatter. It was such a contrast to before Harry became countess and fell in love. The whole village had come roaring back to a living, breathing entity.

  Coachloads of tourists arrived at the weekends and some even during the week to see Axedale Hall, its grounds, and the picture-perfect village. Mrs. Robinson’s tea shop was doing a roaring trade.

  Bridget stopped by a bench at the side of the river that flowed through the village, not far from the bridge. She made sure the brake was on the wheelchair and sat down next to Martha.

  As soon as Martha pulled the bread from the bag, the ducks and swans started to congregate. The birds that lived on the river had a great life. There was always a line of willing adults and children to feed them.

  Martha handed Bridge some bread and they both started to throw it for the birds.

  “Well, Vicar. Tell me about this celebrity we have in the village. A magician, so I’m told. Have you met her?”