She followed the path, taking the first left she came to. Almost immediately she found herself in a surprisingly dense stand of trees. Mel hesitated, wondering if she’d wandered onto somebody’s private footpath.
Well, if they wanted her off it, they could tell her so.
The wooded area ended abruptly and she came out of the trees into a little clearing. Not far ahead the path ran beside a cottage. Mel paused and looked around. There were no out buildings, no garden to speak of, nothing, just a little house that looked to have sprung from the ground itself. Yet it appeared well-tended, so somebody must live in it.
Mel was about to resume her journey when the front door flew open and a whirlwind in skirts came flying out.
“You—you evil old witch!” the whirlwind yelled into the house, which looked dark beyond the doorway.
Faint laughter drifted from inside the house. The girl slammed the door—which sprang back open and hit the wall instead of closing—and spun around, shrieking when she saw Melissa.
Mel raised her hands in a gesture meant to be calming, but the woman flinched away.
“Are you here for her?” she demanded. But then she turned and spat on the ground, not waiting for an answer. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave without stepping foot into her web.” And with that she stormed past close enough that her skirts brushed against Mel’s.
The little clearing was once again quiet, the only sound that of the door as it softly tapped against the wall.
What had all that been about?
Mel squinted through the doorway into the house; she could see nothing.
Tap, tap, tap.
Mel yelped and spun around. What in the—
Tap, tap, tap.
The noise came from overhead and she looked up to find an old woman peering down from a closed window. She pointed at Mel and made a beckoning motion: come in.
Mel stared and the woman beckoned again.
She dropped her eyes to the doorway the deranged woman had just stormed out of, a picture forming in her mind. The woman upstairs was obviously bedridden and the girl who’d stormed off had been her caretaker. She chewed her lip, wondering what kind of woman could make another woman that angry.
Tap, tap, tap.
Well, it seemed like she was about to find out.
She sighed, picked up her skirts, and climbed the steps.
Chapter Four
Magnus told himself he was glad Miss Griffin and her aunt left before the service was over. He’d already spent too much time thinking about her. Not to mention making a fool of himself staring at her.
He was helping Mr. Heeley collect the prayer books when Dori Booker stomped into the church.
She saw Magnus and jabbed her forefinger at him. “There you are!”
Magnus knew what she was going to say before she said it.
He opened his mouth to plead with her to reconsider, but she shook her head. “Don’t waste your breath, Mister Stanwyck. You can keep your money! I wouldn’t spend another second in that—that—harpy’s nest taking her orders, putting up with her—” whatever had been fueling her rage suddenly ran out and she burst into tears, launching herself into his arms.
Magnus gently patted her back. “There, there, Dori.” He met the vicar’s stunned gaze over her shoulder as he tried to stem the flow. “I’m sorry she was unki—”
“Unkind?” she wailed only inches from his ear. “She’s a b-b-beast!” She began sobbing all over again.
By the time Magnus calmed her, assured her he did not hate her for quitting, sent her on her way with a few coins for the time she’d spent caring for Mrs. Tisdale, and then explained the situation to the vicar, he was about ready to burst into tears himself.
“Sit with me a moment, Magnus.” Mr. Heeley sat down in the last pew.
The same place as Miss Griffin, part of Magnus’s mind pointed out. He gritted his teeth against the fatuous mental observation.
“Magnus.”
He looked up at the vicar. “Yes, sir?”
“You know I am excessively pleased by the way you’ve tended to our parishioners.”
Magnus sensed a ‘but’ coming.
“But sometimes being one of the Lord’s shepherds means knowing when a sheep might need a more, er,” he paused and scratched his chin. “Or perhaps I should say a different, er, pasture. Or perhaps a different shepherd?” Mr. Heeley scratched his head.
Magnus bit back a smile at the mangled metaphor, one of the reasons he enjoyed working with Mr. Heeley so much. Indeed, not a day passed that the vicar didn’t come out with something worth writing down.
“That is to say,” the vicar continued, looking pained at his own inarticulateness. “I believe it may be time to turn Mrs. Tisdale over to another shepherd entirely—one not in this particular flock, if you know what I mean.”
“I do know what you mean, Mr. Heeley, but unfortunately I know of no other,” he grimaced, “er, shepherds. It seems she is alone in the world, without family or friends.” Without anyone but Magnus.
The vicar made a thoughtful humming sound but otherwise remained quiet.
Magnus stood. “I must go and make sure nothing is amiss, sir. I’ll give her a stern talking-to and make her understand that this kind of behavior can’t go on.”
“Erm, yes, Mr. Stanwyck. Quite right. Take things in hand.” He gave Magnus a vague wave and wandered in the direction of the vicarage, clearly putting the matter of sheep and shepherds out of his mind.
Magnus removed his surplice, fetched his coat and hat, and headed out at a half-trot, his mind running even faster. He had no idea why he liked the old girl. She was beastly to everyone and had earned her isolation. She was even beastly to Magnus when the urge struck her. He needed to find her a caretaker as iron-willed, stubborn, and impervious as she was. Where in the hell would he find such a being?
∞∞∞
The spoon hit the edge of the bowl, bounced out, and scattered sticky porridge all over the tray. “I despise porridge.”
Mel laughed at the venom in the old woman’s tone. Good God, if she wasted that much hatred on a bowl of harmless oats what must she be like as an enemy? Because there was no doubt in Mel’s mind the old woman on the bed must have racked up plenty of enemies in her long life.
In a way, Mel felt like she was looking at herself in fifty years’ time. Or sixty.
“How dare you laugh at me, girl?”
“Did laughing become a crime and nobody told me about it?”
The old woman’s lips puckered up like they’d been drawn tight by a string.
“If you don’t like porridge, what do you like?” Mel asked.
But she just narrowed her eyes and tightened her lips even more, which Mel hadn’t thought possible.
Mel shrugged. “Suit yourself. It’s nothing to me if you don’t get what you like to eat.” She turned to leave.
“You can’t just leave me here.”
“Have a lovely afternoon,” Mel tossed over her shoulder.
“Wait!”
Mel paused at the top of stairs. “Yes?”
Nothing but silence. She was just about to resume her journey when, “Come back,” floated out the open doorway.
Mel knew she’d have to wait until hell froze over before the old woman appended a “please” to her command so she turned and marched back into the room.
“Yes?”
The old lady looked like she was chewing nails.
“Out with it or I’m leaving.”
Her ancient face seemed to crumple. “You’re so. . . cruel.”
Mel crossed her arms.
“All right, all right,” the woman said, her expression shifting so quickly from pitiful to hateful Mel knew she’d been acting. Perhaps she should have hired this old woman to be her aunt?
“I like an egg, soft coddled in a little cream. And maybe a piece of toast.” She shot the bowl of porridge a filthy look. “Not this pabulum. That gel only made this because she�
��s a lazy slut.”
“Oye!”
The old woman’s head whipped up so fast Mel heard the bones of her neck crack. She pushed down any remorse she might have felt about startling her and made eye contact with the abrasive old bird.
“You talk about any woman like that again in my presence and I’ll leave. And this time I won’t come back. Do you understand me?”
The old lady’s jaw dropped, but she nodded.
“Good. Now sit tight and I’ll go and see what there is in your larder.”
∞∞∞
Mel located an apron behind the kitchen door and removed her spencer. Next, she found the coal scuttle—half-full—and fed more fuel into the tiny cook-stove.
She’d just located an egg and small bottle of milk when a familiar voice startled her.
“Mrs. Tisdale!” There was the sound of a door slamming then booted feet loud on the bare wood floors. “I am extremely vexed with you, Mrs. Tisdale.” Feet pounded up the stairs. “You have been naughty again and driven poor Dori Booker to tears. I’m not sure—” His voice continued to murmur but Mel could no longer hear the actual words.
She smiled to herself and opened a brown paper package that contained a fresh loaf of bread: Mrs. Tisdale was fortunate her angry caretaker hadn’t taken the bread with her.
She set about preparing the meal while listening to the hum of voices emanating from upstairs. Perhaps five minutes after he arrived everything went quiet and then booted feet thundered down the stairs and the door to the kitchen flew open.
Mel didn’t bother to turn around.
“Miss Griffin?”
“I hope you’re not looking to be fed because I’ve only got one egg.” Mel slid the pan filled with water and the small ramekin into the oven and turned to face him. “What is the time?”
Mr. Stanwyck’s beautiful brow furrowed. “The time?”
“Yes, what time is it?”
He pulled out his watch. “Ten past one. Why?”
“Thank you.”
He stared.
“I daresay you are wondering what I’m doing here,” she offered when he said nothing.
“No. I can see you are making an egg.” He peered at the cookstove and his eyebrows raised with obvious interest. “A coddled egg?”
Mel smiled at his hopeful tone. “Yes.”
“I’m fond of a coddled egg.” She laughed at his wheedling tone and he grinned. “Don’t worry, I heard you: just one egg.” He motioned to the small table with two chairs. “Please, Miss Griffin, won’t you sit for a moment?”
Melissa sat.
“I understand you encountered poor Miss Booker on her way out?”
“Was that the caretaker?”
“The ex-caretaker now.”
“Perhaps she can be convinced to come back.”
He gave a rough bark of laughter and ran his hand through his hair, the tanned skin of his fingers a sharp contrast to his white-blond locks; he resembled a frustrated angel.
“No, I’m afraid that won’t be possible—Miss Booker was quite adamant.”
Mel gave him a moment to collect himself. She knew better than most what it was like to have employees leave on the spur of the moment.
He looked up from his troubles. “I’m sorry you’ve been dragooned into this.”
“It’s not your fault. Besides, I don’t mind a bit of cookery.”
He cocked his head. “What were you doing that you saw Miss Booker leaving?”
“I was looking for a way to the water.”
“This way?”
Mel smiled at his astonishment. “I take it this isn’t the right way?”
“Not unless you’re a bird.”
“I can hear the waves from here.”
“That’s because they are crashing against the rocks a hundred feet below.”
Mel stood, picked up the thick cloth, and opened the small hatch of the oven. She turned to look at him and caught him gazing at her bottom. So, he was not immune to her body, after all. She cleared her throat and enjoyed the spots of color that appeared over his far-too-lovely cheekbones.
“Erm, yes?” His expression was as innocent as a newborn babe.
“The time?”
He fumbled for his watch. “It’s been only a few minutes.”
Mel gave the heavy pan a shake and nodded to herself when the egg and milk mixture shimmered.
He leaned over her shoulder to get a closer to look. “I like them a bit harder myself.”
Mel turned away to hide her smirk. “As do I, Mr. Stanwkye. But Mrs. Tisdale gave specific orders—soft coddled.”
She put the small ceramic pot on a plate and added two pieces of toast to the toasting rack.
He leaned against the edge of the table and crossed his arms. “You move with an efficiency that says you’ve done this before.”
“I’ve done my share of cooking.” She realized, too late, that a member of the gentry—or at least somebody who could afford to rent a house like Halliburton Manor—would probably have servants for such things. She turned to meet his questioning look, which said he was thinking exactly that. “After one of our cooks walked out my mother believed it was imperative that I learn how to cook.” That was true, in part—although it hadn’t been a cook at mother’s house, but at Melissa’s business. And the person who’d decided she didn’t want to be at the mercy of anyone else had been Mel herself.
She took a knife to the small knob of butter she’d found in cool water in the larder and gave both pieces of toast a liberal smear.
When she reached for the tray, he was there before her.
“Please, allow me, Miss Griffin.”
Melissa turned and began placing the dirty utensils in the basin.
“Won’t you come up with me?”
“Do you think she’ll want me up there?” Mel asked, wiping her hands on the apron.
He grinned. “I know she won’t—she’s the most jealous old cat I’ve ever met. But I’ve told her she needs to learn to control herself or I shall have to find a new shepherd.”
Mel frowned. “Shepherd?”
But he just said, “Come with me. Perhaps you can help her behave more nicely.”
Mel snorted but reached behind her waist to untie the apron strings. She hung it over the door and turned to find him, once again, studying her intently with his warm blue eyes.
“Why do I feel like she won’t thank me for helping her with that particular lesson?” Mel asked.
***
Magnus followed Miss Griffin down the stairs with the empty tray. The meeting between the two strong-willed women had been something of an anti-climax. Mrs. Tisdale had fallen asleep almost immediately after consuming the contents of her tray. Apparently terrorizing and driving away her domestic had taken a lot out of her.
In the kitchen, Miss Griffin began cleaning up the dirty crockery with the same brisk efficiency she seemed to do everything.
“What can I help you with?” he asked.
She’d given him the look he was starting to expect: a look that crackled with heat and electricity, like the air before a storm. There was always more in her eyes—teasing, challenging—than she gave away. “You could get me some water so I can heat it on the stove.”
Magnus did that.
“What else?” he asked after he put the large pot on the cook-stove.
“Sit and entertain me while I tidy up.”
He was ridiculously pleased that she wanted his company.
He brought one of the wooden chairs closer and sat. “What kind of entertainment do you desire?”
She smiled down at him. “Is this your first posting as a curate?”
“Yes.”
“Did you choose New Bickford or are curates, er, deployed to their positions?”
He laughed. “It is not so rigid as that, but you must have connections to learn about many of the positions.”
“And what connections do you possess that got you this plum position?”
/> He shrugged, uncomfortable with bringing up his family. If nobody had told her yet, he would rather not. “One can make many friends and connections at seminary, of course. People talk and word gets around when something opens up.”
“How long will you stay?”
“As long as the vicar will have me.”
“You don’t have a burning desire for a congregation of your own?”
Magnus leaned back in his chair, stretched out his legs, and crossed his arms, smiling up at her. “Nobody ever asks me these questions.”
She paused in the act of cleaning a very dusty salt cellar, a slight flush covering her cheeks. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry—”
“No, no—you’re not prying. I only meant that people don’t seem to think about those things. My family treats my calling like a hobby or a distempered freak I will eventually grow out of. And the parishioners at New Bickford assume I will be here forever—people do not like change, you know—and eventually marry into the community and settle down.” Magnus shrugged. “But what about you, Miss Griffin? I hope you won’t think I’m being bold, but you already look healthier after only a brief time here.”
“Thank you, I feel better.”
“Do you miss London?”
An odd expression flickered across her face. “Not very much. At least not yet. I am still discovering the country.”
The water was warm enough by then and Magnus stood and poured it into her basin.
He picked up a clean cloth that she’d taken from a small cupboard. “Shall I dry?”
That made her laugh, which made her ten times more beautiful, something Magnus wouldn’t have believed possible.
“You are a paragon among men, Mr. Stanwyck.”
“No,” he said, drying the teacup she handed him. “Merely a bachelor. We men do know how to boil water, make tea, toast cheese—”
“Ah, toasted cheese! You are a chef, then.”
“People have praised my toasted cheese in the past.” He grinned and took a plate she was holding out. “Does it count if they were all starving young men?”
“Oh, Mr. Stanwyck. Are you about to embark on a sad tale of your childhood? Because you are far too sunny and pleasant and happy to make me believe you’ve ever been around starving people of any sort.”
Melissa and The Vicar (The Seducers Book 1) Page 5