“And have you met many?”
Mel didn’t think he’d care to hear just how many. “A few.”
“My mother is a southerner and was adamant about stamping out any of the local dialect—not that we all can’t speak it, anyway.”
“How did your father feel about that?”
“He adores my mother and left the raising of the children in her hands.”
“It sounds like you had an idyllic childhood.”
He must have heard something in her voice, because she felt his eyes on her. “Yes, I was happy. Very happy and I know that makes me lucky. I’m fortunate in both my family and my good health.” He paused. “The Felix family,” he lifted the books, “the people I’m giving these books to, well, they’re an example of a not-so-lucky family.”
“Oh?”
“Their eldest daughter died last year—after delivering twin sons.” He hesitated. “I’m afraid the boys were born out of wedlock.”
Mel took a moment to absorb that.
“Mr. Felix is a tenant farmer who has ten—well, nine, now—children of his own to feed. Mrs. Felix sells eggs and milk and takes in laundry, but they barely have enough to feed and clothe everyone, not to mention afford luxuries like books.”
They walked for a while in silence. “You still visit them even though their daughter had children without being married?” It took her a moment to realize that he’d stopped walking. She turned and looked up at him and his expression stunned her. “What is it?” she asked.
“Do you really believe it is the place of a vicar or curate to heap misery on people like the Felixes by judging them—by withholding aid?”
Mel was taken aback by his vehemence. She opened her mouth, but before she could answer his cheeks flooded with color.
“I do beg your apology, Miss Griffin. That was ill done of me to snap at you. I’m afraid I’m only so vehement because there is some truth in what you say. I’m ashamed to admit there are people in our community who shun the Felixes.”
Mel could guess who some of those people were, but she left the subject alone. She was more relieved than she would have believed to discover he was not angry with her.
“It was a foolish question, Mister Stanwyck, you were right to be annoyed.”
“There are no foolish questions.”
“I imagine I could contrive a few.”
That surprised a laugh out of him.
This time, she took his proffered arm and they resumed their walk.
After a few moments of companionable silence he said, “I must confess that I often become angry at how little I’m able to help some members of the congregation.”
Mel was too surprised by his confession to answer.
“It eats at me that I cannot do anything to help the Felixes, even though I know their daughter was gravely wronged.”
“Do you mean she was—”
“Yes, I believe she was forced—” His words were hurried, as if he didn’t want her to have to say the dreadful word.
“She told you this?”
He shook his head, his jaw so tight she could see the clenched muscles beneath his skin. “No, but she told her mother before she died.”
Mel wished she could say she was surprised, but she’d seen it too often. Most of the women—and men—who came to work for her had started selling themselves after similar incidents. Although she had to admit that she hadn’t expected rape to be common in a community as quaint and seemingly happy as New Bickford.
“I’m afraid I have shocked you with my plain-speaking. I apologize. It is hardly a suitable subject for a young woman.”
“I would have thought young women—or any women—were exactly who the subject was for.” Mel could tell by his stiffening posture that her statement was the last thing a young, innocent female would have made. Well, it was too late to change her words now. She plowed on. “Do you know who is responsible?”
She felt his hesitation—the struggle inside him between what was proper to divulge and whether he had already said too much. It did not escape her attention that this man who everyone else brought their troubles to was considering unburdening himself to her. The thought warmed and frightened her at the same time.
“I do know.” He paused for a long moment. “But I have no evidence and to accuse this particular man—even with evidence—well, it would be difficult to get justice for the Felixes. In fact, it would likely make their situation even worse.”
“Worse than a dead daughter?” Even as the words left her mouth, she wanted to pull them back. He did not deserve her anger.
He stiffened at her words and the anger in them, but he did not back down. “Yes—worse for her children and the nine children of Mr. and Mrs. Felix who are still alive.”
He was right—she knew he was, even though it tore her up inside to admit it. Her anger drained from her as quickly as it had flared. Why would she—of all people—believe that justice waited for the poor and powerless? The only way to protect oneself in this world was to have money—a lot of money.
∞∞∞
At her insistence, Magnus left her at her front gate.
“Thank you, Mr. Stanwyck. Please, you needn’t walk me all the way to my door.” She was no longer angry and her lips curved into the lazily amused smile he’d begun to look forward to. But this time the smile did not reach her eyes. Magnus couldn’t help wishing she didn’t feel like she had to pretend for his sake.
He could see she wanted to get away, so he bowed over her hand and watched until she reached the front door, which she entered without looking back.
Magnus walked away feeling like a coward, a thief, and a brute.
A coward because he’d been relieved when she’d let the subject of the Felixes drop.
A thief because her aunt had carelessly tossed out her Christian name and he’d snatched it up like a greedy squirrel with a nut, tucking it away: Melissa. She was Melissa.
And a brute because he’d brought up a subject no gently raised young lady should have to think about.
Most women—young and old—would have blanched or flinched away, but she had met the issue head on. Magnus groaned. Rather than finding her reaction insensitive or brash, he’d found it indicative of intelligence and unflinching resolve to say what was right.
He knew what was happening: he was falling in love with her. It was possible he’d already fallen. However, never having been in love before he couldn’t be sure. But if love meant wanting to be with one person more than anybody else or thinking about them when you weren’t with them or wanting to know everything about them . . . Well, if that was love, he’d definitely fallen into it.
Of course, there was also his physical reaction to her. That feeling Magnus was painfully certain of—not that he was ashamed. He believed God had designed man and created all the emotions he felt—even lust. It was man’s place to decide when, and if, a particular emotion was appropriate.
Magnus agreed the act of physical love was for procreation, but he also believed it should be enjoyed by both husband and wife. What he’d been thinking and feeling the brief time since meeting Melissa—Miss Griffin—was not appropriate.
Last night, when he’d not been able to sleep, he’d dressed himself and gone to the church. He loved the intense quiet and peace of the building at night almost as much as he loved seeing it full and alive on Sunday.
Sometimes, just sitting in a pew and being was enough to clear his mind of the petty distractions of life. Yes, Mrs. Heeley was a dreadful cook who insisted on preparing part of every dinner she invited Magnus to. Yes, the vicar tended to leave the unpleasant tasks that accrued for Magnus to handle. Yes, Magnus sometimes became irritated with the backbiting and gossiping that happen among the parishioners whenever more than two people assembled.
But all those small things could build up and get in the way if a person was not vigilant; if a person did not remind themselves what truly mattered.
Last night Magnus had reminded
himself what mattered. He’d become a cleric because of a desire to serve God by serving his people. It didn’t matter where he was or which of God’s people he found himself among, he could always serve God.
But the depth of emotion that was beginning to build inside him for Miss Griffin was becoming a distraction from his chosen purpose and he did not want to view either her, or his feelings for her, as a distraction. So, he’d gone to the church to ask God for guidance.
Magnus knew both members of the clergy and a few laypeople who claimed God answered them—and he believed them. During his first year in seminary he began to think that perhaps he was deficient—unworthy—because God had never spoken to him. His anxiety at the lack of divine communication had grown until it was a crisis of confidence: was he God’s chosen instrument or merely a pretender?
Luckily, an older and wiser man—a retired vicar who’d been a bit godlike himself when it came to age and wisdom—noticed Magnus’s growing agitation and misery and intervened before he did something that would be difficult to undo.
The man had, quite simply, explained that God’s answers—his voice—came in an infinite variety of forms. Like the flash of enlightenment so often spoken of in novels, Magnus understood that he’d fallen into that trap of the young and taken what he’d heard literally.
The realization had been lightning-like, but it had taken years for Magnus to recognize that the sense of peace God sometimes granted in response to a prayer was his answer. Last night his answer had been a decision that he must declare himself to Miss Griffin. He would have no peace until he made his heart known to her. If she rejected him, he would go on. But if he didn’t speak—to spare his pride—he’d be doing himself a disservice and would also be less of a man. Pride, he knew, had no place in love.
Magnus accepted the very real possibility that her regard for him had not progressed as rapidly as his for her. Oh, he knew she liked him, enjoyed his company, and found him physically attractive—this last because she had said as much. But those things were a far cry from love. Was it wise to approach her so soon?
In the general scheme of things, he would never have thought of being so hasty. But she was leaving in a few weeks. While she hadn’t stated an exact date, she wouldn’t be here beyond another month.
What he had to work with was a month. After that she’d return to London and his place was here.
He shifted the books he was bringing to the Felixes from one hand to the other, staring at the gilt spines, the sight of which reminded him of what he was going to do. Would Miss Griffin want to be the wife of a curate?
He thought of the way she’d taken responsibility for Mrs. Tisdale without even being asked—that certainly demonstrated an interest in caregiving.
But then Magnus considered her impassioned, and rather unconventional, response from earlier; was she the type of woman who would be accepted by the rather parochial society that made up most of rural Britain? She was a young woman, but she was no chit fresh from the schoolroom. The fact that she was so personable and attractive and yet unmarried at her age must mean she wished to be unwed. Perhaps she had expectations that many men could not fulfill?
He left the road and climbed the stile that led to the Felix farm, his mind sifting through the few instances he’d seen her with others. It was true she got along with Mrs. Tisdale better than anyone other than her servant, Sarah, but Mrs. Tisdale was an outsider. How would a woman of such strong character deal with the likes of Mrs. Pilkington?
Magnus grimaced at the thought, which was perhaps unfair. After all, who would deal well with Mrs. Pilkington? Even Mrs. Heeley, the most unflappable of people, found the woman taxing. But Mrs Heeley’s response was to ignore her and smile. He could not see Melissa doing such a thing. Wouldn’t he be wiser turning his attentions to a woman who was more biddable, retiring, and suited to his life’s work?
Magnus tried to think of the young ladies who’d made their interest in him abundantly clear since he’d come to the parish three years earlier. But the only face he could summon was Miss Griffin’s, Melissa’s. Yes, a curate owed his parishioners some consideration when it came to taking a wife. But what about his wants? Didn’t he deserve a say in his life’s companion?
The thatched roof of the Felix cottage came into view and Magnus was relieved to turn his thoughts to more immediate and mundane matters.
Chapter Seven
Dearest Joss,
I am going to choose to believe the silence on your end is due to the fact business is so brisk and not because some catastrophe has over-taken you.
No doubt you have been on tenterhooks waiting for The Further Adventures of Melissa in the Country. All jesting aside, I’ve been having a rather adventurous time.
I’m sure you remember the old lady I mentioned in my last letter—a certain Mrs. Eunice Tisdale? And I know I mentioned that Sarah accepted double compensation to act as nurse/housekeeper. You will scarcely believe what I am going to say next: Sarah has decided she will stay in New Bickford when I return with the others to London.
Yes, it is the same Sarah we both know—she who has been scolded times beyond counting for sneaking out to the stables, sneaking out of the house, for—well, I shall speak plainly—for sneaking in general.
It would seem Eunice is a sort of pied piper of whores because Sarah is not the only one taken in by her rough charm.
But the most amazing part? Eunice has decided that she likes me. Even though I come between her and her beloved Reverend Stanwyck, she cannot deny she has come to enjoy my company.
She is old, but she is sharp and it didn’t take her long to take my measure.
“Like birds, whores of a feather flock together,” was her testy response to me when I told her she was in danger of becoming my friend. “Just don’t expect to do any flocking with our local curate,” she cautioned me just yesterday, not unkindly.
I know you would be crowing if you were not such a kind person, Joss. Yes, it’s true: I’ve become heart-struck by the local curate. Before you jump to any conclusions you should know that I do not speak in jest when I say that every female in the area, marriage minded or not, is at least half-way in love with him. How could they not be?
Mr. Stanwyck is not only angelically handsome, he is quick-witted, humorous, kind, and universally accepting of his fellow man and woman, no matter how trying many of them (Mrs. Pilkington!) might be.
I’ve been gradually insinuating myself with Mrs. Heeley, the vicar’s wife (I can hear your gasp from here) as she likely has the most information to impart regarding Mr. Stanwyck. I’m confident I will have his entire story from the lady—just as soon as I can determine how to start her talking!
But if all these tales of his kindness have you thinking him lacking in fiber, you would be wrong.
Although he deals with those around him with unfailing courtesy and good humor, he is possessed of an iron spine and a dangerous, albeit very slow burning, temper. Yes, I have caught a glimpse of it.
Have I piqued your interest? Or are you gnawing on your arm in envy that I have encountered such a specimen of masculinity? Oh, and how very masculine he is. No, it is not all tea cakes and fêtes and sermons for Mr. Stanwyck.
I will give you an example which should serve to illuminate just what I mean—I beg you will not allow it to drive you over the edge into jealous obsession. You are still first in my heart, dearest Joss, even though you are no longer in my bed . . .
But I digress with my taunting.
Two days ago I was exploring the lane in the direction opposite of town (you see what a fine countrywoman I have become?) stomping through the underbrush and risking life and limb in the name of adventure and good health when I came upon a most fascinating sight.
At least a half-dozen people had assembled around a fence and were staring at something near one of the few trees that had been allowed to remain in the pasture.
One of the people, a woman, was particularly agitated, wringing her hands (yes, peo
ple actually do that, it seems) and crying. When I inquired if there was anything I could do (see what a Good Samaritan I have become?), she explained. It seemed her son, a young boy of four years of age, had wandered into their very own pasture. Before I could ask her why this was upsetting, I saw an enormous beast lazing near the opposite fence, currently engaged in eating, but switching a small, whip-like tail in a manner that reminded me of a stalking cat.
Yes, you’ve probably guessed, being the rural gent that you are—the boy had wandered into the pasture reserved for the tenant farmer’s prize bull.
And guess who had wandered in after him?
The farmer, whose son it was? No.
Certainly not the mother, because two of the other men were restraining her.
It was, of course, Reverend Stanwyck.
He was in the process of slinking toward the tree, staying along the fence-line as long as practicable. But the time was rapidly approaching when he’d need to cut across the field to get to young Robbie, who had, unbelievably, fallen asleep not far from the tree.
The bull, whose name is—are you ready for this?—Odysseus, was chewing a mouthful of grass, his posture deceptively relaxed. Except for that tail.
I won’t keep you in suspense any longer. By the time the reverend reached the young boy, Odysseus was more interested in what Mr. Stanwyck was doing than what he was eating. He’d begun to make the restless movements that indicated—according to the growing clutch of bystanders—an interest that would quickly become unhealthy for Mr. Stanwyck.
I can jest about his now, Joss, but at the time I was frozen with terror.
Mr. Stanwyck slipped off the little boy’s shirt—a patchwork thing made of pieces of brightly colored fabric. I didn’t know why he was doing it at first and wanted to yell at him that the bull was beginning to wander closer.
But it turns out Mr. Stanwyck is not only brave (in addition to all those qualities I listed above and will not irritate you by restating) but intrepid. Before he picked up the boy, he did something with the shirt and then held it in one hand while he propped the waking child on his hip, using his other arm.
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