He gave her an affronted look that was only partly feigned. “Why does that description sound like it could be just as easily applied to a butterfly or a kitten, Miss Griffin? Are you trying to say I appear shallow?”
Her expression was suddenly serious. “I am trying to say that you have a rare character, Mr. Stanwyck, in that you bring joy with you and leave happiness in your wake.”
Magnus was so stunned the plate slipped. They both fumbled to catch it, and it was Miss Griffin who caught it just before it struck the floor. She handed it to him without speaking.
“Thank you for saving the plate—and probably both our lives in the process,” he quipped, his mind stuck on the way she’d looked when she described him.
“Does Mrs. Tisdale have no family?”
Magnus was torn between relief and disappointment that she changed the subject away from themselves to something safer.
“None that she will admit to.”
“This is a nice house and her furniture is of good quality. I think she must not be poor.”
“No,” Magnus agreed. “She does seem to have enough money to be comfortable.”
Miss Griffin took away the towel and Magnus saw there were no dishes left. He took the dishwater and emptied it outside. When he returned, she was removing her apron.
It wasn’t until she put on her spencer and reached for her hat that he spoke.
“Thank you.”
She turned to him, tying the primrose-colored ribbon beneath her right ear. “Who will take care of her now?” she asked, ignoring his thanks.
“I don’t know. I will have to go and ask Mrs. Heeley’s charwoman if she can come back and tend to her while I find somebody. She’s the only woman Mrs. Tisdale hasn’t made cry.” He cut her a quick smile. “Well, and you, of course.”
Her fascinating mouth—a mouth he realized was usually set in fairly stern lines—curved into a smile that was like a punch in the stomach. Lord. He needed to get his emotions in hand.
“I’ll come back later and bring one of my maids with me. Sarah can stay overnight in the guestroom.”
Magnus stared, arrested. “Why. . . that’s very generous of you, Miss Griffin.”
“The way you’re looking at me is not exactly flattering, Mr. Stanwyck.”
“Good Lord!” he expostulated, “How is that?”
Her smile turned into a grin. “I didn’t think a curate was supposed to take the lord’s name in vain.” She laughed at whatever she saw on his face. “What I meant is that you looked at me as if you didn’t expect I’d be capable of such kindness.”
His face heated immediately; was that true? Was that what his surprise had meant? But no, he slowly shook his head, he hadn’t thought that. Why had he been so surprised?
“I hope that is not true,” he said when he saw that she was waiting. “If I looked startled it was only because I was pleased that you would be so generous to a stranger.” He looked away from her gaze, which seemed to read his thoughts. Magnus knew that was impossible, but there was something knowing in her gaze more often than not. If pressed to describe her, he would say her eyes were world-weary, as if life held no more secrets, even though she must be near Magnus’ own age.
And then there was her person.
Hers was a vivid beauty he found difficult to look at head on. That, coupled with her fire, made her a formidable woman. Yes, that’s why it surprised him she’d take to Mrs. Tisdale—not that she was unkind, but that the sickroom was not a setting he expected her to have any patience with.
She reached out and laid a hand on his forearm. Even gloved and through the fabric of his coat and shirt he could feel her heat. Or at least he thought he could.
She gave him a firm squeeze. “I’m teasing you, Mr. Stanwyck.”
She was doing more than that to him, but her coolly amused expression told him that touching him did nothing to her—at least not what it was doing to him.
He struggled to school his expression into something less fatuous. “Thank you, Miss Griffin, you can’t know how much this will help—just until I can find somebody. I’m sure Mrs. Tisdale will be grateful when I tell her.”
Miss Griffin picked up her reticule and gave an unladylike snort, the sound breaking the odd tension that had built up in the room.
“I daresay she’ll be furious.” She cut Magnus a glance from beneath lashes made for such sultry looks. “You know she wants you all to herself, don’t you, Mr. Stanwyck?” Her lips quivered ever so slightly, her lids heavy over green eyes that suddenly looked darker. “She adores you—just like each and every female in your flock from nine to ninety.”
If possible, his face became even hotter.
She turned away and was halfway toward the front door by the time Magnus worked up the nerve to ask, “And what about you, Miss Griffin? Do you count yourself part of my flock as well?”
Her low, seductive laughter echoed in the empty house long after she’d gone.
Chapter Five
Dearest Joss:
Thank you so much for your gossipy letter. Yes, that is sarcasm, just in case I might have been too subtle.
First to business: Please tell Laura I am displeased by her overture to purchase the adjoining property from Mr. Taylor and request that she turn him away should he respond to her offer. I will address the issue when I return.
I think you know what I have to say about Hugo and his recent antics. He has always required firm handling. I imagine he responds differently to male authority, but you certainly have my leave to use any means necessary—short of actually strangling him—to make him obey your direction. I would ask that you not discharge him, as much as you might wish to. He is an asset to the business and I have something of a weakness for him (don’t ask).
I was saddened to hear about the death of your father. However, I understand that your sister has worked herself to exhaustion and agree with the beneficial effects of country air. It is a shame I am a whore and bringing her to stay with me would destroy her reputation.
I agree that you should go with her and spend as much time as you need. Laura and Hugo can manage for at least that long and I know it would do Belle untold good to have you with her.
I wish I could have you with me, my dearest friend. Instead I must make do with Daisy, who complains endlessly about the lack of entertainment and early mornings and leads Jenny, Sarah, Ben, Thomas, and even Mrs. Bunch to misbehave. If I thought I could live without her cooking I would send Mrs. Bunch back to London along with the rest of my fractious household and hire new servants from the local populace.
Ah, the local populace. Now there is a subject for contemplation. What they think of our odd household I could not say. I’ve seen confusion on more than one face when confronted with Daisy or Sarah or Jenny for more than a cursory interaction. I know there is a general, unarticulated suspicion about us all, so I have decided it is upon me to do what I can to convince the good villagers that we are actually what we claim to be: honest, moral, God-fearing women.
I had a most amusing experience after church this past Sunday. I can hear you laughing from here, my dear Joss. Yes, I entered a church and the hand of God did not reach down and smite me.
After the service, I sent Daisy home to bed and took your advice and went for a long walk to nowhere in particular. I was hoping to see the water and follow yet another of your directives—to dip my toes in it—when I encountered one of the domestic dramas that must play out in thousands of households everyday unobserved. But this time, my darling boy, I not only observed, I also intervened!
The disturbance in question was a ninety-one-year-old lady who’d just driven her domestic to the point of homicide.
Yours truly came to the rescue and provided succor in the form of coddled eggs and toast. The local curate—yes, there is one here, along with a vicar—seems to have made a pet project of the old dear and arrived on the scene just in time to see me delivering sustenance.
All jesting aside, the curate se
ems to have sprung fully formed from the imagination of some writer who excels in extolling the benefits of virtuous, selfless living. Not only is he kind, caring, and clever, he has also been graced with enough physical beauty to have the local female population in a veritable frenzy.
I, too, must have been blinded by his charms because I was somehow talked around to helping with his obstreperous charge until he could engage yet another nurse-cum-housekeeper for her.
Melissa smiled down at the page as she sanded and then turned it. She could see Joss’s face as he read this letter. Although he was as big as a house, as tough as an old boot, and had a battered visage that would have looked at home on a London dockworker, he had the beautiful, poetry-loving soul of a romantic. It was a characteristic that had led to his current state of lovelorn misery. No doubt he was reading all kinds of romantic situations in between the lines of her letter.
Mel dipped her quill and continued:
If you are concerned that I might imperil my pristine reputation in the village of New Bickford by cavorting unattended with the delicious Mr. Stanwyck (our curate), please comfort yourself with the knowledge I have paid young Sarah double her wages to stay with the Old Dear until a new sacrificial offering can be located.
Now, here is the amusing part. (You are probably thinking this already sounds amusing, aren’t you? Naughty boy.)
Mrs. Tisdale was once a fallen woman. Or would she still be a fallen woman? Once fallen, always fallen? There is a philosophical question for you to ponder, dearest Joss. If a whore is no longer whoring, is she still a whore?
No, she did not confess the shocking truth to me, I found it myself while snooping through her possessions.
Now you are justly shocked.
I know it was bad of me, but I felt I deserved some compensation (other than the gratitude of the inestimable Mr. Stanwyck) for sacrificing myself on the pyre of Mrs. Tisdale’s . . . well, I appear to have lost track of where I was going with that. Suffice it to say that I felt like snooping and did so. Yes, I took advantage of an old lady while she was asleep. Yet another black mark on my soul.
She was a member of the muslin crowd during the reign of the last monarch. You read that correctly: the SECOND George. Perusing her diaries and letters was like a trip through a historical novel—you would have loved it, dear Joss. It seems Mrs. Tisdale was once close with the Gunning sisters, especially the unfortunate Maria, who is thought to have killed herself with lethal face powder, or some such.
Mrs. Tisdale—let us call her Eunice for brevity—met the sisters at the very beginning of their careers, so to speak. She was originally Eunice Sheridan, the daughter of the very same theater manager who provided the Gunnings with costumes—they were too poor to possess dresses that were fine enough—to make their presentation to the Earl of Harrington.
Beyond fascinating, isn’t it?
According to Eunice’s diary, Maria wore the costume of Lady Macbeth and her sister, Elizabeth, that of Juliet. Make what you will of that information, I have nothing clever to offer.
Incidentally, I feel as though I should be charging you for this letter—at least the price you pay one of your many subscription libraries.
But I will give you this first installation at no cost.
Alas, it seems I have come to the end of the page, my dearest, lovely Joss, and I think I have given you enough entertainment for one day. You must be shocked I have not had time to pen a detailed description of the rural beauties that have soothed my jaded urban sensibilities. I’m afraid you will have to wait for both that joy as well as the Further Adventures of Eunice in London until next time.
Yours in domestic bliss,
Mel
She sealed her letter with one of the rose wafers the prior resident of Halliburton Manor had left in her writing desk and put it in her reticule. If she walked quickly enough, she could ensure the letter went out on tonight’s mail coach.
After delivering the letter she would stop in and visit Mrs. Tisdale and see how Sarah was faring with her cantankerous charge.
∞∞∞
Magnus was loitering—there was no other word for it—in Mrs. Tisdale’s kitchen.
He should have been on his way to Sir Thomas’s, where he had an appointment to discuss tutoring the squire’s eldest son before he went off to school in a few months.
Instead, he’d come to see Mrs. Tisdale and learned she was eating while her temporary servant—Miss Griffin’s maid, Sarah—cleaned the kitchen and baked bread. Everything was under control. Magnus should leave and do the hundred other tasks on his constantly growing list.
“Can I make you something to eat, Mr. Stanwyck?”
Magnus looked down into warm brown eyes and smiled. “Thank you, but no, Sarah. I’ve eaten.”
Her smile turned into a grin: a very knowing, wicked grin that made his neck and face hot.
Just like the maid at Halliburton house—Jenny—Sarah made Magnus feel oddly aware of himself—his body, the fact that he was a man. With a man’s needs.
He gritted his teeth against the foolish thoughts that seemed to be assailing him more often lately.
“I’m going to pop up and see Mrs. Tisdale,” he said, unnerved by her effect on him.
“Oh, aye, she’ll like that, Reverend. Still fancies the lads, she does, even at ‘er age.”
Magnus’s jaw dropped, but Sarah just chuckled and went back to her cleaning.
“Where is she?” The old lady demanded the moment Magnus stepped into her room.
“By she I assume you mean Miss Griffin?” He took the chair from the wall and set it closer to the bed.
She snorted. “Is that what you call her?”
“That is her name, Mrs. Tisdale.”
She made a skeptical sniffing sound which Magnus chose to ignore. He was tempted to ask her exactly who she thought Miss Griffin really was but didn’t want to encourage her sniping.
“Doctor Bryant said your leg is healing nicely and that you’ll be up and around in no time.”
“The doctor is a fool. I’ll die in this bed.”
Magnus heaved an irritated sigh. “Why would you say such a thing?”
“Because I’m old—ninety-two on my next birthday—and people who are almost ninety-two can be sure of only one thing: they will die sooner rather than later.”
Frustration—and something else—burned in his chest. Before he could decide what it was she laughed at him. “You’ll never make vicar if you refuse to accept death, Magnus.”
“I can accept death, ma’am, just not when a person wills it. Other than your leg you are as healthy as a horse.” She harrumphed at the comparison and Magnus smiled. “Pardon the expression.”
“I most definitely shall not.”
“I’ll strike a bargain with you—I won’t liken you to equine beasts and you don’t talk of dying in bed?”
She glared at him but jerked out a nod.
He leaned down to open his satchel. “I’ve brought you a new book.”
“What is it?” She squinted suspiciously. “Some improving tract sent by the vicar?”
Magnus grinned. “No, though that is exactly what you deserve. It is something my mother sent in her last care package.” He held it up, even though he knew she wouldn’t be able to read it. “Sense and Sensibility, by A Lady.”
“Sounds like drivel.”
He laughed. “You haven’t even heard any of it yet.” He handed it to her, but she didn’t take it.
“Will you read to me? Or are you too busy for an old lady.”
He was busy, but he could hardly say so. “I shall read a bit to you.”
And so he read for a quarter of an hour, until she drifted off to sleep.
After putting the volume on her nightstand, he went below and hauled in some coal for the uncomfortably appreciative Sarah.
And now he was standing in Mrs. Tisdale’s small foyer, clutching his hat, and loitering. Waiting for her.
“You idiot.” He mashed h
is hat down on his head, jerked open the door, and strode down the path like a man who wasn’t hoping to encounter Miss Griffin before he had to turn off to head toward Sir Thomas’s house.
Magnus didn’t encounter her or anyone else before he took the lane that led to the squire’s manor. It was a good half-hour walk and by the time Magnus arrived the air was dense with moisture and the sky rapidly turning a gunmetal gray. He predicted he would be caught in in a deluge of biblical proportions on his way home.
The squire’s elderly butler, Quarles, opened the door. “Ah, Mister Stanwyck, Sir Thomas is expecting you.”
“And how have you been, Quarles?” Magnus asked, slipping out of his coat and handing over his hat before following the older man up the worn stone steps.
“Very well, thank you for asking. Mrs. Quarles and I greatly enjoyed your last sermon, by the way—the one about removing the beam from one’s eye first.”
“Thank you.” Magnus had to admit he was rather proud of that sermon, himself. He’d written it hoping to subtly prod Mrs. Pilkington and Miss Philpot into examining the source of their mutual animus. As far as he could see, it had yielded no success in that area, but several parishioners had commented positively on it.
Quarles led Magnus to the second floor and opened the door to the bookroom, which Magnus had been in before and greatly admired.
Sir Thomas was sitting at his massive Tudor desk reading what looked to be a newspaper. Magnus was, quite frankly—and perhaps ungenerously—surprised to find out the man read anything at all. He knew his thoughts were not befitting to a member of the clergy, and it grieved him to admit it, but he could not bring himself to like Sir Thomas. Part of that was due to persistent rumors that the squire made free with not only his servants, but with at least one of his tenant farmer’s daughters. If it had been mere rumor then Magnus would have been more vigilant in scouring his mind of such accusations. But, unfortunately, there were several physical manifestations of his suspicions. The most recent was a set of twin boys. Their mother, Etta Felix, had been only fifteen and had died in the process of birthing her children. Before she died, she’d told her mother who the father was. Magnus only knew this because Mrs. Felix had collapsed in his arms a month later, approaching him, rather than the vicar, for guidance.
Melissa and The Vicar (The Seducers Book 1) Page 6