“My name is Hosea Honeywell.”
“Charmed, I’m sure. What brings you to Black Creek?”
He cleared his throat. “A sabbatical. I’m a vicar. I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“Susanna Gomer. I have a biblical job, too.”
Hosea was surprised. “I’m pleased to hear it. What job would that be? Midwife? Prophetess? Merchant?”
She tossed her head. “You can say that. I’m a purveyor of goods and services.”
“A seamstress?” Hosea guessed.
“It’s one of the oldest professions in the world.”
“Gardener?” He held open the shop door.
“I do deal with dirt.”
Copyright © 2014 by Victoria Kovacs
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Scripture taken from the King James Version (copyright public domain) and the Complete Jewish Bible by David H. Stern. Copyright © 1998. All rights reserved. Used by permission of Messianic Jewish Publishers, 6120 Day Long Lane, Clarksville, MD 21029. www.messianicjewish.net.
Extracts taken from The Book of Common Prayer (Cambridge University Press, 1866) and
The Book of Common Prayer (Harper & Brothers, 1845), copyright public domain.
Oh! Susanna lyrics by Stephen Collins Foster (1848), Love Divine, All Loves Excelling lyrics by Charles Wesley (1747), God Moves in a Mysterious Way lyrics by William Cowper (1774), and Down by the Riverside (traditional), copyright public domain.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Printed in the U.S.A.
First Printing, August 2014
ISBN 978-0-9905855-5-8 (paperback)
ISBN 978-0-9905855-4-1 (EPUB)
Cover design: Patrick Knowles
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1: Burning Bush
Chapter 2: Bound for Tarshish
Chapter 3: Road to Damascus
Chapter 4: The Ark Enters Jerusalem
Chapter 5: Tombs of the Gadarenes
Chapter 6: Red Sea
Chapter 7: Land of Milk & Honey
Chapter 8: Walls of Jericho
Chapter 9: Into the Wilderness
Chapter 10: Destruction of the Temple
Chapter 11: Rivers of Babylon
Epilogue
Prologue
NEW ORLEANS, 1876.
Her client was dead.
Susanna was still aiming the pistol when Georgia, who conducted business in the room next door, burst in. “You killed him,” she gasped at the growing red splotch on his white linen shirt. She saw Susanna’s bloody lip and swelling eye. “Did he hurt you bad?”
“Bad enough,” Susanna replied. She ran to the bedside table and emptied the man’s wallet.
“What are you doing?” Georgia asked.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” Susanna snapped. “I won’t get far without money.”
“What do you mean? Where are you going?”
“As far from here as possible.”
“Don’t take it all,” Georgia grabbed her arm. “They’ll think you killed him for it.”
“I’ll need it all,” Susanna shrugged her off. “A few dollars won’t make a difference if I’m wanted for murder.”
Georgia covered her mouth. “Sweet Jesus, Susanna, you didn’t mean to kill him. Miss Mary will slip Judge Parker a bribe. She always does to smooth things over. If you run, they’ll think you killed him on purpose.”
Susanna flung open the doors of the wardrobe and grabbed a tapestry satchel from inside. She began stuffing gowns into it. “Georgia, either quit your yapping and help me or get out of here. I don’t have time to listen to sermons.”
Drawn by the gunshot, some of the other women who worked on the floor gathered around the doorway in various states of dishabille to gawk at the dead man. Georgia emptied a drawer of undergarments into the satchel while Susanna hastily donned a black, ruffled silk made for funerals.
“Where are you going?” Georgia repeated.
“West,” Susanna replied vaguely, tying a bonnet under her chin. She hugged Georgia. “I’ll be fine. I’ll go somewhere safe where no one knows me.” It was a lie to reassure her friend. She knew there was nowhere safe to run.
There was no time to say goodbye to her other co- workers. She hurried down the back stairs and out the door into the dark alleyway, slinking away into the night and into obscurity. It was a stark contrast to the way she first entered the Bellevue Palace nine years ago, through the front door as a wide-eyed, inexperienced girl with a lust for the finer things in life.
Now, in the quarter of an hour since she took a man’s life to protect her own, she was leaving behind her reign as the most beautiful, most expensive courtesan on Basin Street. But more than she feared being caught, she feared being poor and pretty and nobody. Again.
Chapter 1: Burning Bush
THE village of West Eastleigh in Surrey, England, had only two features with which to recommend itself in the year 1877: the holy church of St. Mary’s and a sinfully handsome vicar.
The church was especially sacred because it was built on the site where a miracle occurred during the Middle Ages. To save their village from being ransacked and burned to the ground by a band of marauding Danes, the village elders sent word to the Danish leader promising him the bride of his choice if only they would leave them alone. They had been raided thrice in as many years by the Danish scourge and were getting tired of rebuilding. It was an ill-conceived plan, as Danes tended to help themselves to whatever they wanted without making deals, but they had nothing else to offer.
It so happened that the fearsome warlord was in an advanced state of inebriation when he received the message and congratulated himself on his good fortune. He agreed on two conditions: she must be the most beautiful woman in the village and a virgin.
This posed a problem, as the most beautiful woman was a strumpet. The fate of the village appeared sealed until a traveling monk prayed for her virginity to be restored. The village was saved and the strumpet didn’t mind marrying a foreigner since he was wealthy and business had been slow. The inn where she had worked was torn down and a church erected in honor of the miracle. A stained-glass window depicting famous Biblical prostitutes was added later to lend credibility to the tale and encourage tourism.
Not that such an unusual exhibition of fallen women got much attention due to the angelic features of St. Mary’s vicar. This vicar was innocently unaware of the temptation his countenance and figure posed to the virtuous ladies of his parish. They hung on his words with rapt attention and dreamed of becoming his wife, yet such an event was unlikely, as he was rather shy at best and painfully awkward at worst when speaking to a member of the womanly persuasion under the age of seventy.
The stained-glass window had been there from time out of mind; the vicar arrived five years ago, newly ordained and ripe for matrimony, or so everyone thought. But Hosea Honeywell was not of a mind to marry. He felt happiest avoiding ladies whose bottom drawers were full of dreams and frilly things that would have mortified him to see. He preferred writing sermons on doing good deeds and performing them industriously. His housekeeper, Mrs. Fitzgerald, thought him the sweetest man in Christendom, albeit not a very sensible one. He was never on time for tea (delayed by the inevitable good deed) and read far too late into the night than was good for his eyes or his health.
He was already late for tea on Saturday when he saw Mr. Cowdry, the oldest member of the parish, ch
opping wood.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Cowdry. How are you today?”
“Afternoon, Vicar,” Mr. Cowdry stopped his work and slowly straightened. “I’ve been better. Me back’s fair killin’ me, but I’ll not complain.”
“How may I assist you?” Hosea asked.
Mr. Cowdry held out the ax. “Ever handled one of these?”
Hosea was not one to go back on his word, even in the face of a challenge. “I have not, but I shall do my best.”
“Right, then, take off your coat. Don’t want to rip the seams,” said Mr. Cowdry.
Hosea shrugged off his coat and laid it over the fence rail, then hefted the ax with suspicion. It felt light enough, but a few strokes showed his accuracy left much to be desired. Soon the ax weighed heavily on his arms and caused blisters on his hands.
“By gum, you’re getting the hang of it,” Mr. Cowdry said when it took Hosea only three swings to split a log. Hosea helped Mr. Cowdry stack the wood, but his arms felt so weak he could pick up no more than two or three logs at a time. “I’ll help you, Vicar,” Mr. Cowdry said, piling more into his trembling arms.
He was picking splinters out of his hand when he passed by the Sneed residence and was asked to tea. Before he could make his excuses, he was dragged into the parlor and made to sit on the settee, flanked by Emma and Violet Sneed. Their mother, Mrs. Sneed, positioned herself in an armchair in front of him. They were just the sort of ladies who made him very nervous.
“It is so good of you to stop by, Mr. Honeywell. We were just listening to Emma play a sonata on the piano,” said Mrs. Sneed.
Emma was the golden-haired beauty of the family and by far the prettiest of those girls in the village who were eager to take that much-anticipated walk down the aisle. “Would you like to hear it? It would sound much finer on the church organ, I’m sure. I could play it for you there, if you like.” She was always looking for a way to show off when Hosea was around.
“Mr. Honeywell, why ever do you keep looking at your hand?” asked Violet.
Hosea quickly sat on it. “I helped Mr. Cowdry chop wood and acquired a few splinters.”
“Chop wood!” Mrs. Sneed exclaimed. “How very strong you are, Mr. Honeywell, strong and capable. You will make a fine husband for a very lucky young lady one day.” She smiled at her daughters.
“I know just the thing for splinters,” Violet jumped up. “I shall fetch my needle.” Violet, who boasted a shock of curly red hair and every freckle her Celtic ancestry could endow, competed with her older sister’s looks by being useful.
“Needle? No, you mustn’t. It’s nothing, really,” Hosea protested.
“I agree with you, Mr. Honeywell. A needle won’t do,” said Emma. She inched closer and lowered her voice. “The secret to removing splinters is to wrap a piece of raw bacon around it overnight and the splinter comes right out. I shall ask our cook for a slice.”
“You mustn’t trouble yourselves. It’s a few insignificant splinters. Please do sit down. I shan’t enjoy this delicious tea if you don’t.” Hosea’s words went unheeded and he was poked and prodded by Violet’s needle before Emma interfered with a piece of bacon. She bandaged it to Hosea’s hand more slowly than necessary and was determined to relieve him of all splinters, a task she prophesied would take the rest of the afternoon, therefore he must stay for supper, but Hosea made his escape by pleading he had yet to finish tomorrow’s sermon.
Thus was Hosea’s life as vicar of West Eastleigh. He saw that the widows and infirmed were cared for, the physically and spiritually hungry were fed, and the niceties of social engagements were endured. It was a simple life with only the occasional female disturbance. He was content.
Hosea finished the sermon quickly but stayed up well past midnight studying one of the Minor Prophets and overslept the next morning. He arrived at the church on time, though out of breath to conduct the service, singing the opening hymn with gusto (one of the few things he did with gusto) as he proceeded up the aisle.
Looking out across the church as the last chords of the organ faded away, he hoped to see the congregation was as uplifted by the song’s sentiments as he, but Mr. Biddle was shaking his head, Mr. Cowdry was snoring, and the Sneed sisters were smiling as if trying to outdo one another with the biggest display of teeth. He caught a glimpse of Miss Nicolette Godfrey, daughter of Dowager Lady Arabella Godfrey (who never missed a Sunday service) and sister to Sir Simon Godfrey (who never attended a Sunday service), batting her eyes at him. Hosea blushed and began the service.
“Well done, Mr. Honeywell. I do like you better than the last vicar,” Mr. Biddle said afterward. “But don’t you think your sermon was a little unsettling?”
“Unsettling? How so, Mr. Biddle?”
Mr. Biddle chuckled. “My goodness, we’re just a quiet country parish. All that business about esteeming others better than oneself and giving to those who ask and walking the extra mile is not very applicable to our sort of people, don’t you agree? Some people are naturally better than others. Take Lady Godfrey, for example: her God-given status makes her better than anyone who needs charity,” he said the word as if it were a disease. “People who need charity are lazy. They reap poverty from the laziness they’ve sown. Why should you encourage laziness?”
Hosea squirmed. “Thank you, Mr. Biddle, I shall endeavor to give less unsettling sermons in the future. Good day to you, sir.” However wrong he felt Mr. Biddle was, he didn’t dare argue with him. He knew from experience that disagreeing with Mr. Biddle, however politely, would cause the portly alderman to make his life very unpleasant.
“Mr. Honeywell,” Emma cooed, offering Hosea her hand as she exited the church a step ahead of her sister.
“Miss Sneed, Miss Violet, h-how do you do?” Hosea stammered.
“Oh Mr. Honeywell, what a coincidence you read that particular Scripture passage this morning,” Emma gushed. “I read it not two days ago. Is it not a coincidence we both read it in the same week?”
“Well,” Hosea tried unsuccessfully to extricate his hand from hers, “in truth, I don’t believe in coincidences.”
“Do you like my new bonnet?” Violet interrupted. She could always be counted on to interrupt. “I feel one should always wear one’s finest bonnet to church.”
“Mine is new, too. Which do you prefer?” Emma demanded.
As a vicar, Hosea was called upon to perform many duties for which he threw himself upon the mercy seat of the Almighty for strength and wisdom. Judging bonnets was not one of these duties until now. “They are both very fine bonnets.”
Emma simpered and Violet giggled. Any compliment from Mr. Honeywell was a sign of impending courtship to the Sneed sisters.
“At least, I think they are fine bonnets,” Hosea added. “I’m not a very good arbiter of ladies’ accoutrements. I suppose they are very fine, though perhaps not practical given the weather. A gentle rain will surely cause your bows to droop.” Hosea hadn’t the faintest idea how to talk to women.
Their smiles faded and, much to Hosea’s relief, they curtsied and made way for Lady Godfrey and her daughter. “Lady Godfrey, I hope you enjoyed the sermon?” Hosea asked.
“I didn’t fall asleep this time, did I?” replied the middle-aged woman with dark gray hair, the same color as her dark gray suit. “By the way, Mr. Honeywell, flirtation with empty- headed chits does you no good. You must find a proper wife. You are coming to dinner, aren’t you?” Without waiting for a reply because there was no refusing her, she marched away.
Miss Godfrey lingered. “We look forward to spending the evening with you, Mr. Honeywell,” she breathed before hurrying after her mother.
“Mornin’, Vicar,” said Mr. Cowdry.
“Good morning, Mr. Cowdry,” said Hosea, relieved to see Mr. Cowdry was not another woman. “Did you have a pleasant nap?”
“Aye, I always do when I come to church. One day I promise to stay awake long enough to hear one of your sermons. Everyone says you work yourself up into a pa
ssion when you preach.”
Hosea ducked his head. “I wouldn’t say passion, though I do feel strongly about the subject matter.”
“In that case,” Mr. Cowdry touched his cap, “I’ll go on napping. When you get a passion, I’ll stay awake.”
Sunday dinner at Eastleigh Hall was a weekly tradition started the very first Sunday Hosea preached. Lady Godfrey was the reason he obtained a living so quickly after ordination (they were distantly related), thus he felt obligated to dine with her whenever she commanded, which only ever happened to be on a Sunday.
“Why do you not go to London to find a wife? You cannot minister to this parish all by yourself. How often must I tell you this?” Lady Godfrey scolded him over soup. Conversation around the table usually centered on all that Hosea was not doing to Lady Godfrey’s satisfaction. “My son is in London—spending all my money, I daresay—and he writes to say there are many fine young ladies who I am sure will do you credit.”
Hosea stirred his soup, his appetite ruined by the thought of matrimony. “Please forgive me for being a bachelor. I know how offensive it is to Your Ladyship, but it must be the Lord’s will I’ve not yet found a Mrs. Honeywell.”
“Are you looking?” she asked.
Hosea reddened. “No.”
“Mama, you are too hard on Mr. Honeywell,” Nicolette jumped to his defense. “You’re making him nervous again.” She looked at him from under her lashes. Hosea felt something rub against his shoe.
“Seek and ye shall find. That is my belief and the Lord agrees with me. What do they teach ministers at university? Get your nose out of all those books in your study and have a look about you.” Lady Godfrey leaned toward Hosea conspiratorially. “Though I enjoy a penny dreadful now and then myself, especially the ones from America about the Western frontier. Do you suppose they’re really as wild as all that, those cowboys and Indians and outlaws? But you must not tell anyone or I shall never live it down.”
“On my most sacred honor, I shall never tell,” Hosea gulped. Whatever was under the table was rubbing his ankle.
The Vicar Takes a Wife Page 1