A Heart's Rebellion

by Ruth Axtell

  Mr. Marfleet smiled. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure, unless it be to hear more of your life as a village pastor.”

  She sat down, flustered to think her father might have brought up her disgrace in his wish to thank Mr. Marfleet. What was he thinking of her? “How is your sister?” she asked.

  “She is well, considering our loss. She told me only recently that she had written to you.”

  Jessamine looked down at her cup. “Yes. I—I hadn’t realized till then that you had left London.”

  “Yes. I received a summons from my father that my brother was gravely ill.”

  “I see,” she said quietly. “I . . . hope he didn’t suffer.”

  “He suffered some, but he was at peace at the end.”

  She studied him as he spoke, wishing to know more.

  Her father, as if sensing Mr. Marfleet’s reluctance to repeat what he’d already told them, spoke for him. “The Lord gave Mr. Marfleet the ineffable privilege of ministering to his brother in his final days, and of being assured of his eternal salvation.”

  Jessamine stared at Mr. Marfleet as her father spoke. He had told her father all these things at their first meeting?

  As if reading her thoughts, he said, “Your father is a very easy man to unburden oneself to. You were right when you said he is a true shepherd to his flock and would thus not want to leave his post here for a larger parish.”

  Her gaze went from one man to the other, her amazement growing. “I see,” was all she could think to say.

  “Perhaps when you finish your tea, you would like to show Mr. Marfleet the garden,” her mother put in, a hopeful look on her face.

  “I promised him a tour of our modest greenhouse,” her father added, “but perhaps that can wait another day.”

  As she was nodding to her mother’s suggestion, and draining her cup, her father’s words penetrated. Another day? How long would Mr. Marfleet be staying? What had brought him? She peeked at him over the rim of her cup, all her questions hinging upon this last one.

  Despite finishing her cup, her throat felt parched.

  Realizing her parents were waiting for her to initiate the walk in the garden, she set her cup down and addressed him. “Would you like to . . . to take a turn about the garden?” Feeling acutely embarrassed at the ploy so many hopeful parents used to allow a suitor to be alone with their daughter, she cringed at how her question must sound. Her cheeks flushed as she thought of the last time she had taken a turn about the garden with a gentleman. The day Rees had come to tell her not to pin her hopes on him.

  She pushed aside the memory. As Mr. Marfleet met her gaze, she wished she could tell him she didn’t mean it like that. She was only inviting him because he came from so far away, and he was her acquaintance.

  He stood at once and nodded. “I should like that very much.”

  If she didn’t know better, she would say he exhibited relief and eagerness. Perhaps he was only bored with her parents’ company and had been waiting for this moment to see her, dispatch whatever message he had come to give her, and be gone.

  She rose and smoothed down her gown, wishing once again that she had had a moment to wash her face and brush her hair before having to face him. “Very well. Won’t you come with me then?”

  Mr. Marfleet followed her down the corridor and into the breakfast room at the back of the house, which had a door leading into the garden. He held the door open for her, and she murmured her thanks, conscious of his arm so close to hers as she passed through.

  Glad that the garden showed to such advantage in late June, she proceeded to lead him down a graveled path, not bothering to identify anything since she knew he could easily name all the flowers, which were common ones to be found in any English garden: foxglove, Canterbury bells, pinks, peonies, larkspur, iris, forget-me-nots, and roses, roses everywhere. Lattices with climbing ones, small bushes with miniature ones, bushes with large, cabbage-like heads too heavy to support on their stems, their fragrance filling the walled space like vapor in an enclosed room.

  “It’s beautiful. Do you have a gardener or is it just you and your father?”

  “Just my father and I. He does employ a couple of men to cultivate the glebe, but he reserves our own private gardens within these brick walls for ourselves. Gardening and his botanical experimenting are his passions—aside from ministry, of course.”

  “He is a very wise man in ministerial matters, thus I’m sure he is also in botanical things.”

  She looked sidelong at him, but his gaze was fixed on a bed of lavender that was beginning to blossom. “I’m glad that he was able to offer you some comfort in your recent loss.”

  He swallowed.

  She longed to reach out and touch him, but she curled her fingers into her palms. “I’m so sorry. I only met your brother but a few times, but I can scarcely believe he is gone.”

  He turned to her then, his slate-blue eyes looking intently into hers. “Yes, I am having the same difficulty no matter how much I believe that someday we shall be together again in eternity. But by rights it should have been I to depart prematurely. I was the one who hurried off to India and was struck down with more than one kind of pestilence.” His tone turned bitter as he looked away again. “I should have died, not he.”

  She couldn’t help reaching out then and touching his forearm. “Don’t say that! Neither of you should have been struck down. We don’t know why the Lord takes some before their time. We can only trust in His infinite wisdom, and in eternity.”

  His throat worked as if finding it hard to speak. She tightened her hold on him, wishing she could say or do more.

  His gaze fixed on her hand, and she realized what she was doing. Quickly she let go of his arm.

  His gaze lifted to hers, and for a moment they only gazed at each other. Her heartbeat threatened to drown out the sounds of buzzing bees around the lavender.

  “Do you believe that?”

  She swallowed, sensing he was asking her, not because of any lack of belief on his part, but to ascertain hers. “Yes, I do.”

  He seemed to relax and resumed walking. “My brother had not been living an exemplary life for many years, ever since he came of age. He was a typical young man of the ton, living for his own pleasure.”

  She didn’t know what to say. The little she’d observed of Sir Harold showed her a carefree gentleman of society.

  Mr. Marfleet shook his head. “But he was no longer a young blade. He was a married man of one-and-thirty, whom my father was grooming to take over the reins of his estates. I had spoken to Harold on more than one occasion about his gambling, drinking, and generally dissipated life. Excuse me for mentioning these things, especially to a young lady. I do not wish to speak ill of the dead—”

  “Of course you don’t. Please tell me. I shan’t repeat any of what you are telling me.” She bowed her head. “Believe me, I have nothing to reproach anyone for. I know too well the consequences of sin.”

  To her surprise he touched her chin with his forefinger and nudged it upward. Too stunned to speak, she could only stare at him. “Whatever you did was done out of innocence. My brother had long lived the life of a reprobate, unmindful of my parents, of his wife, or of his good name.”

  He let her chin go, and she felt bereft. “I only mention these things to explain God’s grace to him in the end. He—Harold, that is—truly repented and received Jesus as his Lord and Savior right before the end. He departed in peace. I didn’t want to . . . to . . .” Mr. Marfleet had difficulty continuing for a few minutes and turned away from her.

  She remained still, giving him time to compose himself.

  He drew a breath. “At first, I didn’t want to accept his end, when it became clear Harold was not getting better. I railed at God, pleaded with Him, spent hours on my knees at Harold’s bedside.”

  He bowed his head. “Then it occurred to me—or perhaps the Lord revealed it to me—that I was praying more for my own sake than Harold’s.”
r />   She drew in a breath. “What do you mean?”

  His blue eyes met hers again. “Isn’t it clear? I didn’t wish to step into Harold’s shoes. I never have. It is the last thing I wished, to be heir to Kendicott Park.”

  Her hand came to her mouth to stifle a gasp. Of course—someday he would be the baronet and inherit the family seat.

  His lips twisted up. “Didn’t you realize?”

  She shook her head. “No—it was stupid of me. I was just so shocked over your brother’s death—and how you must feel . . . I hadn’t thought about that.” Her gaze rose to his once more. “Oh, I’m so sorry—you have only ever wanted to be a minister of the gospel. How awful for you!”

  He looked at her as if he had never seen her before. A second later he shook his head as if waking up. “You know, you are the first to express such a sentiment.”

  “I didn’t mean—” She stopped, confused, not sure what she wanted to say.

  “No one has said anything directly. My family is still too full of grief. And no one expected Harold not to continue the line. He has always been so healthy, escaping most childhood diseases that afflicted me. Still less has anyone expected me to fill Harold’s shoes. I have never had the distinction of knowing how to carry on in society.”

  He smiled without mirth. “But the unthinkable has happened. Harold is gone without leaving an heir, and underlying everyone’s grief is the sense of relief that my father has another son to inherit. It never occurs to anyone that I never wished—nor wish it now—this title and all it implies for my life.”

  He let out a breath. “That sounds very selfish of me, I know. I shouldn’t be thinking such things, not now. My father is hale and hearty and will live many decades still, I expect.”

  Jessamine chose her words carefully, groping for something that would comfort him. “Yet you will never be a simple vicar again. Even if you are able to continue as a clergyman, it will surely be in some exalted position befitting a baronet’s son.” She swallowed on the last words, still unable to conceive of such titles for Mr. Marfleet. “And not as my father, a simple country vicar.”

  He nodded slowly at each word, his gaze not wavering from hers.

  As if by mutual accord, they continued walking. At the end of the brick path, she motioned to a wooden bench under the beech tree, and they sat down.

  “How is your sister taking your brother’s departure?”

  “As I am. Shocked, gradually reconciling herself to his absence. She didn’t see too much of him—like me—in recent years, since the two of us had little in common with Harold and his way of life. Yet, he always loomed in our lives. He was the next head of the family.”

  “I’m glad she found time to write me . . . to tell me of your brother’s illness. I did pray for him.”

  He rubbed his chin, looking away. “I’m sorry I didn’t write you myself—”

  “Oh no, that’s not what I meant. I didn’t expect you to write me.” She stopped, embarrassed by the memory of their last meeting.

  His gaze rose to meet hers. “I should have. I received a note of thanks from your father shortly after I left London.” Before she could decipher his reception of her father’s letter, he continued. “I could use the excuse that I was too preoccupied by my brother’s condition, but it wouldn’t be the truth.” He watched her steadily as he spoke, his voice soft.

  She maintained his steady gaze with effort. “I had no reason to expect to hear from you ever again—” Her voice caught on a sob at the last word, and she clamped down her jaw to control her emotions.

  He covered her clasped hands with his hand, dwarfing hers. His hand felt warm, causing a yearning to feel it upon her cheek. She remembered his lips touching hers that afternoon in Kew.

  “You had every reason to hear from me. I was very concerned for you after that . . . that evening. Well, I shan’t refer to it except to say that Captain Forrester and I called upon you the next afternoon only to hear from Mrs. Phillips that you had decided to return here. You can imagine our shock. I had no idea your state of mind the next day. Then as soon as I returned home, I received a summons from my own father to come to Kendicott Park without delay.”

  He took a deep breath. “Yet, I continued to wonder why you had left London in such haste. I know you perhaps didn’t wish to see”—he cleared his throat, his cheeks reddening, then rushed the next words—“Mr. St. Leger again, but you had no reason to fear scandal. No one but Captain Forrester and I knew anything, and you can be sure we would never breathe a word.”

  As he spoke, Jessamine’s eyes filled with tears, and she didn’t dare move her hands to swipe at them. Try as she would to stem them, as Mr. Marfleet continued in his gentle tone, the tears welled up, until they spilled from her eyes onto his hand.

  Before she could move to seek a handkerchief, his eyes met hers with concern. “I didn’t mean to distress you. Forgive me.” He pulled his own handkerchief out of his waistcoat pocket and patted her cheeks, first one, then the other as if she had been a child.

  She sniffed and tried to sit back. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be crying. I—I’ve put that . . . evening behind me.”

  “It’s because I’m being very clumsy at explaining why I didn’t write you.” He smiled crookedly. “I wished to, and yet didn’t dare.”

  Her eyes widened. “Didn’t dare?”

  “I wasn’t sure what to say. I didn’t know your state of mind, and . . .” He shrugged as if not finding the right words. “I was angry and . . . and disappointed in you at first, but that’s long since past. You are not to reproach yourself for anything. That blackguard took advantage of you.”

  She wiped her nose with her own handkerchief and looked away from him. “You had—have every right to reproach me. I was foolish and naïve—and willful—and deserved what happened to me, and can only thank God that He sent you and Captain Forrester to rescue me that night so that I suffered nothing more than a headache.”

  “Shush. Do not reproach yourself, Miss Barry. You behaved no differently than any young lady of the ton. He is the blackguard. But I don’t wish to speak of him. He has left London, and you have no need to worry about him ever again. I only beg your pardon for not corresponding with you sooner to see how you fared.”

  With a sigh he drew back from her. “And then so much time had passed—and so much has happened, that I decided the only thing for it was to see you in person.”

  She shook her head, still amazed that he had made this trip just to visit her. “You had no need to make such a journey.”

  He raised a light red eyebrow. She had once thought that shade so unattractive and now found herself admiring it. His skin was pale. Her gaze lowered. His lips were well shaped, not too narrow, neither too fleshy. His chin had a faint cleft.

  “I had every need.” His lips tilted slightly on one side. “I wanted to meet your father, for one thing.”

  She was able to return his smile. “He seems to like you.”

  His smile broadened. “I am relieved to hear you say so.”

  “My father likes everyone—but he would be particularly interested in someone who shares his love of botany.”

  “He promised to show me his collections tomorrow, including his Gelsemium sempervirens.”

  Her eyes flew to his. “Yellow jasmine?”

  “The very one.” Amusement crinkled the corners of his eyes. “I asked particularly about it.”

  “It is just an ordinary vine. It is probably not even in bloom.”

  “That’s all right. I have enough bloom before me.”

  As if conscious suddenly of having said something flirtatious, his face filled with color and he looked away, clearing his throat.

  She would have pitied him if she wasn’t so relieved that he didn’t witness her own flushed cheeks.

  “Shall we return to the house?” she asked.

  “If you wish.” His tone returned to the polite, sober one he’d used in the parlor. He stood and held his arm out to her.


  She complied, trying to hide her disappointment that their walk was at an end.

  When they arrived at the house, he paused before the door. When he didn’t open it right away, she looked up to find him regarding her. “Is something the matter?” she asked.

  “I hope there is not. I merely wished to ask you if I might call upon you?”

  “Call upon me?” she echoed faintly. “But . . .” She placed a hand to her throat, feeling her quickening pulse. “I—you live away.”

  “I was thinking of staying in the neighborhood a while.”

  “Oh.”

  “Unless it would be distasteful to you. I don’t wish to remind you . . . of things you’d rather forget.”

  She shook her head. “No, of course not.”

  “Then perhaps tomorrow. Your father promised to show me his greenhouse.”

  “Oh, yes, of course.” That must be his reason, his desire to see her father’s collection. She hoped he wouldn’t be disappointed. “It is nothing like Kew.”

  “That’s all right. I look forward to seeing it.”

  Without another word, he opened the door and held it for her.

  They found her parents still in the parlor.

  Her father rose and rubbed his hands together. “They aren’t much, but I hope you derived some pleasure from the gardens.”

  “They were most enjoyable,” Mr. Marfleet said at once. “Very nicely laid out and full of variety. Thank you for the opportunity to see them, in such agreeable company.”

  Her father bowed his head, his twinkling eyes meeting Jessamine’s.

  “Well, I shall make my way to the village now. I believe I saw an inn there as we drove through.”

  “Yes, there is a nice inn there, but please, I hope you will stay with us while you are in Alston Green.”

  Jessamine’s gaze flew to her father. He was inviting Mr. Marfleet to stay in their humble parsonage? She turned to see how Mr. Marfleet would react.

  “I wouldn’t wish to put you and your wife to any trouble. There is my coachman and a groom, though they, of course, can stay at the inn.”