Ah, the church windows again. Mel really must see them.
“Mister Stanwyck has a booth where he does the loveliest portraits,” one of Mrs. Pilkington’s daughters piped up—the oldest, Melissa thought.
All eyes were on the man in question, who was eating his biscuit, the elegant angles of his face darkening slightly. So, this was something that embarrassed him.
Melissa couldn’t resist teasing him. “Ah, you are an artist, Mr. Stanwyck.”
He took a sip of tea and set down his cup and saucer before shaking his head, his lips curved in a half-smile. “No, artist is far too strong. I am a. . . dabbler.”
The women broke into a chorus of “no’s” and “you’re too humble’s.”
But Mr. Stanwyck was determined to change the subject. “Tell me, Miss Griffin, do you have a special talent that might earn money for the windows?”
Daisy choked and spewed tea into her lap. Mr. Stanwyck was immediately on his feet, hovering over her with an expression of concern on his beautiful face. “I say, are you quite alright, Mrs. Trent?”
Mel leaned close to Daisy and smacked her on the back. Hard.
“I’m fine,” Daisy wheezed, lurching to her feet. “Please, excuse me.” She clamped both hands over her mouth and fled the room. Mel imagined her collapsing with laughter in the kitchen and entertaining the others with the curate’s innocent question.
“Would you like to go after her and—” Mr. Stanwyck began, his brow furrowed with concern. “Help her?” he finished lamely.
Mel gave him a grim smile. “I daresay she’ll be fine. Tell me,” she said, adopting a softer tone, “what do some of the other booths sell?”
“Mrs. Heeley sells some of the jams and jellies she makes during the year.” A pregnant silence followed this declaration.
“One year Farmer Sinclair brought ice and we had raspberry ices—in the middle of summer!” This was Emily Pilkington, the youngest of the three girls and by far the least like her mother.
“My sister and I sell wool stockings.” This from one of the women whose name Mel didn’t know.
Mrs. Pilkington made a derisive sound. “My daughters and I will be selling various needlework projects, such as antimacassars.” Her expression was virtuous—as if God preferred chair covers to wool stockings.
“Lady Barclay donates cut flowers from her hot-houses,” Miss Philpot added, not to be outdone by Mrs. Pilkington, a woman she clearly viewed as her nemesis.
Mel wondered where Lady Barclay was today and why she hadn’t converged on her with all the others.
“Sir Thomas and Lady Barclay have not yet returned from London,” Mrs. Heeley said, as if Mel had spoken out loud.
“They go every year for the Season.” Mrs. Pilkington bristled with pride, basking in the reflected glow of her august neighbors.
“Last year Agnes and I sold potted herbs.” This from Miss Gloria Philpot, whose pronouncement earned her a repressive look from Mrs. Pilkington. A tense silence settled over the room.
Mr. Stanwyck cleared his throat. “Ah, distribution from each unto every man according to his—or her—need, as it were,” the curate interjected when the two formidable women engaged in a staring match.
Miss Philpot and Mrs. Pilkington turned to Mr. Stanwyck but Mel couldn’t help noticing that neither woman looked entirely convinced by his aphorism.
“Is that from the Bible?” Mel asked, amused by his attempts to restore peace.
Once again, she caught a glimpse of unholy humor in his heavenly blue eyes. “Yes—from Acts.”
Mrs. Heeley gave the young curate a possessive, motherly smile. “The vicar always says he’s never had a curate with such extensive knowledge of scripture as Mr. Stanwyck.”
The other women clucked with approval—even the two combatants settled their feathers—while the man in question squirmed.
“How very commendable, Mr. Stanwyck.” Mel had to bite her lip to keep from laughing when he gave her a narrow-eyed look.
The rest of the visit passed quickly, with each of the women vying to out-extoll the curate’s virtues.
Daisy resurfaced just as the visitors were taking their leave, dexterously thwarting Mrs. Pilkington’s efforts to time her departure with the curate’s.
As a result, Mel and Mr. Stanwyck were the last two in the entry hall while Daisy strong-armed the Pilkington brood into the back garden under the laughable pretext of needing advice about local flora. The closest Daisy ever came to nature was the silk flowers in her monstrous hats.
Mr. Stanwyck held his hat in his hands as he looked down at her, smiling. “You were wicked to have challenged my biblical knowledge while I attempted to smooth the waters earlier, Miss Griffin.”
“Oh? I don’t know what you mean, sir.” Mel knew she could do innocence as well as a vestal virgin—whatever those might be. Perhaps it was in the Old Testament and Mr. Stanwyck might spend some time instructing her . . .
“You don’t fool me for an instant.”
Mel chuckled. “I’m sorry, that was wicked of me. But you have to admit you deserved it. All that petting and stroking can’t be good for you—you’ll end up with an insufferably big head. Look what so much praise has done to Hector?”
“Did you just compare me to a rooster, Miss Griffin?”
“I would never do such a thing. But if I had, I would’ve thought you’d treasure such a comparison given Hector’s titan status in the community.”
“Touché.” He gave her a smile that did something odd to her chest. Melissa was trying to figure out exactly what it was when he asked, “By the by, you did an excellent job of dodging the question of what you might do at our fête.”
“Are you calling me dodgy, Mr. Stanwyck?” she asked, her tone a perfect echo of his.
“I would never say such a thing,” he mocked, not to be outdone.
Mel laughed.
He clapped his hat on his head and bowed. “I’m afraid I must be getting on, Miss Griffin. Please give my regards to your aunt and tell her I’m sorry I could not wait to say goodbye.” He paused at the bottom of the steps and smiled. “You’ve got less than three weeks to come up with something for the fête.”
Mel admired his tall, broad-shouldered physique as he strode down the walk, suddenly wishing he would stop, come back, and . . . what?
Just as he reached the end of the walk she called out. “What happens if I don’t come up with anything? Will I end up in the public stocks?”
Rich laughter filled the emptiness between them. “Nothing quite like the prospect of a public shaming to motivate a person!” he called over his shoulder.
And then he disappeared around the hedge.
∞∞∞
Although Magnus couldn’t have said why, he was more than a little surprised when Sunday arrived and Miss Griffin and her aunt appeared in church. She’d not said she was not coming, but neither had she appeared enthusiastic when the vicar had mentioned it.
They arrived a few moments late and took seats in the very back pew, the one closest to the door, as if they were already planning for their escape.
It was not his week to deliver the sermon, a fact for which he found himself inexplicably grateful. He’d never felt shy about speaking in church before. In fact, he enjoyed both contemplating and drafting his sermons. So why was he grateful he wasn’t delivering one today? Was it because he could imagine the mocking expression she’d wear while listening to any sermon of his?
And just why did he imagine she would look that way? She’d given no indication of . . . well, of impiety. So why would he think such a thing?
The truth was that she’d done nothing to engender such suspicions. No, it was more the way she looked. Magnus felt ashamed just thinking such a horrid thought—as if the way his body responded to her beauty was somehow evidence of her wicked nature, rather than his own lustful imaginings.
He gave a slight shake of his head; his thoughts when it came to Miss Griffin were very Old Testament in natur
e and he should devote serious consideration as to why he viewed her in such a light.
It also bothered Magnus more than he liked to admit that the thought of potential mockery from her—or from anyone, for that matter—would discountenance him when it came to his faith or his calling. Yes, he would get to the heart of the matter when he next meditated.
But for now, he tried to concentrate on worthier matters—like Mrs. Tisdale. He liked the cantankerous old woman and knew that being bedbound with a broken leg would likely drive her—and Dori, the poor girl he’d engaged to look after her—to distraction. Even though he knew Mrs. Tisdale would be in a mood, he was still looking forward to visiting her after church today.
Mr. Heeley gave a sermon on turning the other cheek, a barely veiled reference to Mr. Dawkins and his neighbors, the Misses Philpot, who’d resumed the same battle they fought every year: Mr. Dawkins’s garden versus the sisters’ ever-increasing flock, led by their beloved Hector.
Magnus’s gaze wandered along with his attention, settling in the same place no matter how many times he wrenched it away. Miss Griffin had been here barely a week and already he believed she appeared healthier. She was still fragile-looking and lovely, but no longer as pale.
She looked up and caught him staring.
His chest froze even though the rest of him burned. He wanted to look away; indeed, it was the polite thing to do. But he couldn’t. She held him captive, her green eyes as shrouded in secrets as a medieval forest. In that instant, Magnus felt sure that she saw the images his fertile imagination created when he was alone in his tiny curate’s cottage at night. In his bed.
The corners of her mesmerizing lips turned up so slightly he wasn’t sure he hadn’t imagined it. And then she looked away.
It was as if a large fist released him and he snorted air through his nose, just like a drowning man gasping for air
∞∞∞
Getting Daisy out of bed, in a respectable dress, and on the footpath toward the church had taken every bit of energy Melissa possessed.
“I though you came out all the way to the back of beyond to rest and sleep and get better,” the older woman groused, her carefully cultivated accent dropping away in her anger. “If I’d known you’d planned on gettin’ up before the cock’s crow and gettin’ all churchy on me I never would have come.”
They’d been passing the Philpot cottage at the time and Daisy had lowered her voice to a hiss, neither of them interested in catching Hector’s attention.
“I’m paying you to behave like a respectable guardian,” Mel reminded her after they’d scurried past unscathed. “Why else did you think I wanted you here? For a quick frig and a ride on that dirty mouth of yours?”
Daisy muttered something under her breath.
Mel stopped and grabbed her arm, pulling her to a halt. “What did you say?”
Daisy yanked herself away. “I said maybe that is exactly what you need. When’s the last time you’ve had anyone between your legs, man or woman? If you ask me, what you really need is a proper fuck to sort you out and get you out o’ this black mood you been in for months.”
“Well, I didn’t ask you.”
Daisy crossed her arms. “No, you didn’t. You don’t ask nobody nothin’—you’re too much smarter than the rest of us, aren’t you? But let me tell you somethin’, Madam Melissa Bloody Griffin, you ain’t fooling me. You’re miserable and heartsick and no amount o’ church or dressin’ prissy or movin’ to the country will help you get away from yerself.”
Melissa worked her jaw from side to side, willing herself to calm down. She refused to do this—to argue with an employee. Because that’s what Daisy was: her employee. They’d been friends and equals once, long ago, but that changed the day Melissa purchased the brothel. Now, Melissa employed eighty-one people; that was eighty-one livelihoods she held in her hands—eighty-one futures that relied on her making the right decisions.
And all the while she was making sure people got fed, paid, and housed, there were other people—men, mostly—who’d like nothing better than to take away what was hers. And there were other men—moral men—who just wanted to shut her business down. And then there were those in authority who wanted a piece of the pie to keep their mouths shut. And then there were her own qualms that woke her in the middle of the night—yes, in her empty bed—about making her money off the backs of others.
The old arguments she’d always used—that at least she gave whores a safer, healthier, and more prosperous place to do the job they did—well, those arguments were as frayed around the edges as a ragged blanket that no longer offered comfort.
But, at the end of the day, all of that was just so much philosophical dithering that she couldn’t afford. A woman like her had two options: either being alone at the top or being used and abused at the bottom. Melissa knew she would take the first of those options every single time.
She looked up at Daisy, who stood a good five inches taller than her. “If you don’t want to play the part I’m paying you to play then say so and you can go back to London and I’ll send for some other aunt. And don’t think I haven’t noticed you twistin’ Jenny and Sarah’s tails and makin’ them behave badly, too.” Jenny and Sarah were two of the younger whores Mel had brought along to act as domestics in this farce. They were good girls, but this was the first time they’d been out of London and they were both eagerly, and easily, led into mischief. “I know it’s been you encouragin’ them to sneak out at night, Daisy.”
Just like Daisy, Mel let her own St. Giles accent slip into her words when she became excited or annoyed; all those years of careful practice gone in a heartbeat.
Mel shook her head in disgust; Christ, give her anything but a whiney whore first thing in the morning.
“You do what you want, Daisy. I’m going to church.” Mel set off without looking back. Only when she heard a scuffing sound behind her did she know Daisy had followed.
They trudged for a while in silence, Mel slowing a bit, until they were walking side by side again.
Daisy was the first to speak, just as they’d both known she would be. It wasn’t because Mel employed her; no, Daisy spoke first because Mel’s ability to carry a grudge was legendary. It wasn’t something she was proud of, but she had to admit that she’d die of thirst rather than open her mouth to ask for a glass of water if she was angry enough.
“I’m sorry for getting the other girls riled up.”
Mel grunted.
“And I’m sorry about the way I’ve been riding you. I’ll do better about being . . . aunt-ish.”
“Good.”
After that Daisy filled the walk with chatter, knowing better than to expect too much in response. Another thing Mel wasn’t proud of was how long it took her to shift her mood back once she’d gotten angry. But by the time they arrived at the small church—late, by the look of it—she’d calmed down enough to ask Daisy how she looked.
Daisy tweaked a hair into place, adjusted her hat a fraction, and smiled. “You look bloomin’.”
Mel smiled up at her. “So do you.”
And then Melissa entered a church for the first time in her life.
***
Ten minutes felt like ten hours. The bench was hard and unforgiving, Reverend Heeley’s voice droned on and on, his sermon was achingly boring, and the other parishioners far too interested in Melissa for her comfort. In fact, the only good thing about the entire ordeal was Mister Stanwyck sitting right up front like a prized ornament on a mantelpiece. Her brain hadn’t exaggerated his handsome, angelic looks; he deserved to be sitting up front and visible.
Mel entertained herself by wondering what he was thinking. His handsome features were fixed in an expression of thoughtful attentiveness, as if every word that fell from the vicar’s lips—and there were a lot of them—was of the utmost importance.
But his eyes betrayed him. They found Mel again and again and again.
At first, she pretended she didn’t feel the weight of h
is stare. But just once, she let their eyes meet and lock. Daisy had finally needed to nudge her in the ribs.
“Oye,” she hissed. “You’ve stop breathing.”
She had. But so had he—she’d seen it on his face. She’d also heard him suck in air from all the way in the back of the church.
He avoided meeting her gaze again and the rest of the service was a misery.
When it seemed like things might be over Daisy whispered, “Are we staying to do the pretty? Or do you want to leave now?”
Mel wanted to see him—to talk to him—but she knew what it would be like once the doors opened: a cloud of females as thick as summer flies would descend on him.
So, they’d left early, drawing several scandalized looks from those in the immediate vicinity. Well, that was too bad.
“I’m going home and crawling back into bed,” Daisy said with a huge yawn as they let themselves out the back lychgate.
Mel was too edgy to rest, and if she went home, she’d just fret about what was going on in London, what Hugo and Laura were up to, and a hundred other things that she’d promised herself she’d leave behind.
She reminded herself that she’d made the effort to come all this way to get healthy; she might as well give it a fair try.
What had Joss said to her when he’d seen her off that last day? “Go for long walks, Mel. Even if you don’t think you want to, you’ll be glad you did.”
So Mel said, “I’m going for a walk.”
Daisy stared. “Walking back home is a walk.”
Mel ignored her and turned toward town. If she recalled correctly, there had been other paths; maybe one of them led down to the water. New Bickford wasn’t directly on the water but she knew it wasn’t too far off. She’d been here almost a week and still not dipped her toes in the ocean—another thing Joss had suggested. Mel should have asked somebody the best way to get to the water—some of the surrounding cliffs were far too steep to use—but one had to get to water if one just kept walking, didn’t one?
Melissa and The Vicar (The Seducers Book 1) Page 4