Schooling the Viscount

by Maggie Robinson

  The decision of how to spend the next hours was halted by Rachel’s arrival with the tea tray. Vincent leaped up to help her settle the tray on a table and Henry couldn’t be too jealous. The truth was he was having an afternoon sinking spell. His headache was returning, no doubt brought on by the good vicar.

  Henry was thwarted, sexually and spiritually.

  Rachel had unearthed actual frosted biscuits from a hidden tin—Henry was sure they were forbidden from his nursery diet and Mrs. Grace would have five fits. Since he was doomed to kiss Rachel’s sweetness no more today, he took a fistful from the plate and crammed them into his mouth like a spoiled, defiant child.

  Henry did not participate in the genial chitchat between Walker and his supposed intended. If they were truly engaged, Henry was a rosy-arsed baboon. There was no frisson of flirtation between them, no secret smiles or accidental touches over the tea table. The conversation concerning tomorrow’s altar flowers sent him into a near-coma. Henry yawned pointedly.

  And then, Rachel left to wash the dishes up in the kitchen, and leave for good. Walker retreated to a corner of the bedroom, armed with a pocket Bible. Henry did the only thing he could think of to escape—he willed himself to sleep as he’d learned to do on the savannah and all the uncomfortable billets he’d experienced as a soldier.

  In comparison, Puddling-on-the-Wold wasn’t so very terrible.

  Chapter 27

  It was inevitable. Henry had to wake up from his nap sometime. Judging from the gray skies outside, it was still raining but not quite dark. His stomach rumbled, indicating that it was perhaps suppertime and his digestive system was improving. Could old Vincent cook? Henry didn’t think he could manage the stairs to the kitchen quite yet.

  He hadn’t lain abed like this in his life. Even when his foot was almost shot off, the Boers had no interest in coddling him. The pater expected him to be at the breakfast table no later than seven in the morning after a bruising early morning ride. So to lie about like a loafer had been an unusual way for Henry to spend his day.

  Of course, there had been an interlude today where he was relatively active. He wondered if the remembrance of it brought a blush to Rachel’s cheek. What was she doing now? Fixing dinner for her father? Mending by lamplight? He hoped she’d finished the bloody altar flowers.

  Henry didn’t intend to see them personally. He figured he could get out of going to church services tomorrow due to his illness. And besides, the vicar had moved in with him for the night. Surely that counted for something towards his immortal soul.

  Sainthood by osmosis.

  “Ah! You’re awake!” Old Vincent sounded disgustingly chipper. He had that voice used by adults to address children and the mentally deficient, all false cheer and bonhomie.

  “Just about. What did I miss?” Henry asked, tongue firmly in cheek.

  “I’ve just been reading. Listening to the rain.”

  “Don’t overexcite yourself.” Henry stretched and heard a cracking noise in his neck. He really should get out of bed and totter about the room. His daily walks had become almost something to look forward to, especially if seeing Rachel was at the end of the journey.

  “No chance of that. Puddling’s not the place to go if one wants excitement.” Walker gave a rueful smile.

  “Tell me something I’m not aware of. How do you stand it? You’re still young, and reasonably intelligent, as far as I can tell. Don’t say you find the inmates fascinating. I’m boring myself witless.”

  “One doesn’t enter the ministry for excitement,” Walker replied. “In most cases, the work I do here is very gratifying.”

  Henry stopped himself from snorting. “I suppose you get a cut of the loot. The Puddling Rehabilitation funds that are awarded to the townspeople every year.”

  Walker’s lips thinned. “A clergyman doesn’t expect to get rich.”

  “What, a man of your indubitable talents has no ambition to be a bishop?”

  “You are mocking me, Lord Challoner.”

  Henry supposed he was. Walker had power over him, and he didn’t like it. And there was the business of Rachel, who was engaged to both of them although not all of the parties seemed knowledgeable about this fact.

  “I imagine you’ll want to marry one day,” Henry said, working his way toward the truth.

  “I haven’t given it much thought, actually,” Walker said, surprising Henry not in the least.

  “Really? I thought marriage was a requirement if one wants to advance in the church.”

  “You are the one pushing for my advancement. A bishop!” Walker chuckled. “I’m sure my sights are not fixed on so grand a prize.”

  “Well, a wife would be helpful, wouldn’t she? Just in the general way of things. Better to marry than to burn and all that rot.”

  “I haven’t met—” Walker paused. “That isn’t quite true. The young lady who once caught my eye proved to be unattainable. We were…doomed, I suppose one might say. She was promised to another.”

  Henry raised a brow. “Really? I wouldn’t let anything stop me if I were in love.”

  “Wouldn’t you? No, I suppose a man like you wouldn’t. You’d just charge ahead, no matter the cost.”

  Henry decided not to be offended. “A man like him” seemed capable of almost anything. “Then you must not have loved her enough.”

  “That wasn’t it!” Walker said with some heat. “There were other circumstances as well.”

  “There are always circumstances,” Henry said, and wondered at the precise state of Walker’s.

  “Yes, well, it’s all very well for you to sit in judgment.”

  “I’d never judge,” Henry said truthfully. “That’s my father’s specialty. I’m more a live-and-let-live fellow. Was she beautiful?”

  Walker’s face took on a dreamy cast. “Exquisite. And the sweetest girl imaginable. Her mother treated her abominably, arranging a wretched marriage for her. I hope she’s managing.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “I cannot interfere. We agreed we couldn’t keep in contact. She’s a married woman now! It wouldn’t be fitting.”

  “Pah! So you let this poor girl marry some scoundrel? What kind of Christian charity is that?”

  Henry knew he’d gone too far when Walker tromped over to the bed and hovered above him, his face mottled in anger. “There is such a thing as honor to the greater cause. I’ve given my word—I have responsibilities—you don’t know the suffering—”

  “All right, all right. Calm down. I’m a sick man, remember? You’re supposed to be taking care of me, not smashing me to smithereens. So, you and Miss Everett don’t have an understanding?”

  “Who? Oh, Rachel. No. There’s been some village gossip, but I feel nothing for her but friendship. There will never be another woman for me.” Walker collapsed in a chair, looking melancholy.

  Better and better. Walker was obviously not in any way smitten with Rachel.

  The poor bastard.

  So, Walker didn’t have all the answers. Henry reflected on the man’s counsel so far, lecturing Henry on the sanctity of marriage and the perils of the pursuit of excess pleasure. Walker, apparently, would have neither.

  “You don’t know that. Someone else might come along.”

  Walker shook his head. “I have a constant heart, Lord Challoner. I view my celibacy as a blessing—now I can devote my total attention to God and the residents of Puddling.”

  “That sounds awfully grim.”

  “We all have our crosses to bear. Mine is inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. Are you hungry?”

  Henry was, which was a good sign. “I believe I’m over the worst of my indisposition. You don’t have to stay the night.”

  “It’s my duty. You are in our care.”

  “In that case, how about some soup? It shouldn’t be too much trouble to heat.”

  Walker rose. “Shall I bring it upstairs, or are you well
enough to dine below?”

  “I’ll come down.” Henry would have to get out of bed sometime. He watched as Walker made to leave the room. “Watch your head!”

  But Henry’s warning was too late. Poor old Vincent fell to the floor. Henry had had a mind to fetch a hatchet and cut the bloody crossbeam down after the first time he’d hit his own head. Of course, the roof might come down with it.

  “Damn it all to hell.” Henry stumbled out of bed, still a little dizzy. He bent over the vicar, who was out cold in the hallway. “Whoever had designed this house must have had dwarfs in mind. Can you hear me, Walker?”

  There was no response. A straight red line ran the length of Walker’s forehead, but there was no blood, thank goodness. He went back to the bed, grabbed a pillow and stuffed it under the vicar’s head. Now what? Should he try to go for help?

  Henry wanted Rachel back. He wished she’d never gone home. He could have been spending his evening in far more satisfactory fashion than sitting next to an unconscious minister.

  Henry gave Walker a few light taps on his ruddy cheeks. “Come on, man. Wake up.”

  Finally, Walker groaned.

  “There you are!” Henry said cheerfully. “I knew your head was as hard as mine. You Puddling people really need to do something about this cottage’s architecture. You wouldn’t want a Guest to decapitate himself, would you? That would ruin the foundation’s reputation in one fell swoop. Get it?” Henry laughed at his own inane joke.

  “A reputation is nothing to be trifled with,” Walker muttered. “‘A good name is rather to be chosen than great riches, and loving favor rather than silver and gold.’ Proverbs 22:1.”

  “It would be nice to have the money, too, don’t you think? Can you get up?”

  “Of course I can get up.” Walker swayed as he tried to sit, and Henry caught him.

  “Look at the pair of us. Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum. Stonecrop is strewn with landmines for fellows our size. I’ll help you down the stairs.”

  It was Henry who found the crock of soup in the ice box and heated it. Walker was delegated to cutting up and buttering bread since he was dizzier than Henry at present. The two of them sat at the kitchen table in the waning light enjoying the simple fare, which would have been much enhanced by a slug or three of claret.

  “I shall speak to the governors about the lintels and beams,” Walker said, wiping up a dribble of soup from his lips. “This place is dangerous. Of course, not all the guests are as tall as you are. The last lady who stayed here had no difficulty.”

  “What was her sin? Not jumping high enough when her husband told her?”

  “It was nothing so trivial.”

  “I don’t know, Walker. I’ll bet half the Guests here are no barmier than you or I. This is quite a racket you Puddlingites have, making ordinary high spirits seem evil.”

  Walker stirred his soup, then dropped the spoon with a clatter. “High spirits? Is that what you call defiling your father’s home with prostitutes?”

  “They weren’t—well, I guess maybe they were. I did a stupid thing.” It had seemed amusing to Henry at the time. He hadn’t expected his father to discover the girls, but considering all the noise they made, it was inevitable.

  “So you’ve seen the error of your ways.”

  Henry nodded. “Yes. I’m cured. My father wants me to marry and settle down when I get out of here? Done.”

  Walker’s face lit. “That is good news. I’ll report on your progress to the governors.”

  Henry had to ask. “Is there a chance I can leave before the official time is up?”

  “I doubt it. We’ve yet to settle on your Service.”

  “But—”

  “I’m sorry— it’s tradition. Methodology may have changed over the last few decades—we no longer dose the Guests with laudanum or tie them into straitjackets, for example—but the Service is inviolate. You need to do something for the greater good. And it’s early days for you. Heaven forfend, but you may backslide.”

  Henry had no intention of backsliding or frontsliding. He was willing to take on all the labors of Hercules if it meant Rachel would become Lady Challoner.

  Chapter 28

  Rachel sat through Vincent’s service along with the handful of Puddling’s other younger women, who had finally been allowed out. Henry’s two-week probationary period was up, and it was now assumed he wouldn’t attack any of the females simply because they were females.

  The girls who had come to get a glimpse of the new Guest were disappointed—Henry must still be ill, for he wasn’t front and center in the pew reserved for Guests. Mrs. Grace was nowhere to be seen either. The Sheepscombe Brook had not yet receded after yesterday’s torrential downpour, so she must still be trapped at her sister’s, mucking up the honeymoon. A light drizzle was still falling from the Sunday skies.

  Which meant Henry was quite alone in his cottage.

  Rachel slipped out the side door, avoiding Vincent greeting his parishioners. Although she was curious as to how they had gotten along yesterday, she’d rather hear it from Henry. He was bound to be far more entertaining.

  She hoped Vincent had not denied outright that she was his secret fiancée. She knew he wouldn’t lie for her, but perhaps the subject had not come up, or he had tiptoed around it.

  What must Henry think of her wantonness yesterday afternoon? If she truly belonged to another man, surely she would not have allowed such—such—whatever it had been.

  If she were smart, she’d not be heading for Stonecrop Cottage. But she felt a responsibility—the marquess had hired her to take care of his son, and the least she could do what see if she could get Henry anything before she went home to fix her father’s lunch. She knew Vincent was expected at another church service in a nearby village later, so Henry would be on his own.

  At least today she wasn’t so bedraggled. Her umbrella and hat performed their necessary duties, and her Sunday best dress was spotless except for a scrim of mud at the hem—it couldn’t be helped on a day like this. She hurried through the wet churchyard and its impressive table tombs and pyramidal trees before she was hailed by anyone, and practically vaulted down Honeywell Lane. Henry’s neighbors were still at church, so Rachel didn’t mind the telltale squeak of the gate. She picked up the flower pot, found the spare key, and let herself in.

  The house was as quiet as the churchyard. “Henry?” she called in the front hall, somewhat hesitant.

  “Right here.” She nearly jumped out of her skin as he came up behind her, dropping the key to the flagstones. “You didn’t see me in the garden? You walked right by the bench.”

  Rachel shook her head. She’d only had eyes for the front door. “What are you doing outside? It’s still raining! You’ll catch your death.”

  “That can’t be true. If wet weather made one sick, the entire British Isles would be depopulated. I was feeding the fish if you must know, and then just sat for a moment thinking.” His hair was damp and curling at his collar, and Rachel struggled not to run her fingers through it.

  “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “I was too surprised seeing you marching down the path. For a second I thought I was hallucinating. You were like a dream come true.”

  Rachel’s face warmed. “Stop that. Have you had breakfast? I came to fix you something.”

  “Old Vincent took care of me before he went to save souls. Or maybe I took care of him—I’m feeling much better. But thank you for the offer.”

  “I’ll just go then.”

  “You will not. Not after you’ve gone to the trouble of breaking into my house.”

  “I didn’t break in! I used the key.” She bent over to retrieve it, but Henry beat her to it and pocketed it.

  “Technicalities. But I’m glad you’ve dropped by. Did old Vincent make it through his sermon? He had a devil of a headache.”

  Truthfully, Rachel had not paid that much attention. Vincent was usually f
airly eloquent, and she had no reason to believe that he hadn’t been this morning. “I hope he’s not coming down with what you had.”

  “Oh, he was down all right. Why don’t you fix us some tea now that you’re here? I find I’m becoming addicted to the stuff. It’s much better than brandy.”

  “All right.” The fire was still going in the stove, and she put the kettle on. A stack of plates sat in a dishpan in the sink, evidence of at least two meals. Men. Did they not have hands to turn on a tap and wash them? She picked up a glass on the drainboard.

  And then almost let it slip from her fingers.

  The smell was self-evident. Spirits. Whisky, if she wasn’t mistaken.

  “Henry Agamemnon Challoner!”

  “I knew I shouldn’t have told you my full name. You sound just like my old nanny. What have I done now?” Henry grinned and sat down at the pine table.

  “Have you been drinking?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Not I.”

  “Liar! What was in this?”

  “Oh. That. You’d have to ask Vincent. He nipped home to get a flask of something last evening for while we talked through the storm. I must say, it doesn’t take much to get him tipsy and maudlin. He offered me a sip, but I declined. You should be proud of me instead of calling me names.”

  Rachel was rather shocked. “Did Vincent get drunk?” She’d never seen him have anything alcoholic but a rare glass of cider or the obligatory taste of communion wine.

  “I won’t peach on him. Brothers-in-arms and all that. We are fast friends now. He’s lost his lady-love and was drowning his sorrows, and I can’t seem to convince mine that my intentions are honorable. You shouldn’t go around calling other people liars, you know. You have prevaricated. Fibbed. Spoken untruths.”

  Rachel’s tongue felt very thick. Damn Vincent. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Oh, don’t you? You are no more engaged to that man than I am. Though Vincent is a man, isn’t he? That would not be at all the thing, though I have no objection to people finding love where they may. I consider myself worldly enough.”