The Vicar Takes a Wife

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The Vicar Takes a Wife Page 11

by Victoria Kovacs


  “I told him my father was a preacher and he didn’t approve of nature’s splendor or heaven’s glory as clothing.

  “So you are an angel, he said. I told him not for long because I was about to be sold to a trapper if I didn’t get out of there fast. He said, Well, Miss Angel, I can’t dress you in skins, but I can dress you in silk and satin and promise you champagne every night and a warm feather bed.”

  She shrugged. “Well, Vicar, what could I do? Become some trapper’s drudge and die in a swamp from childbirth or from being beaten, or escape with a man of means who promised me what I never had? I thought of that mission barrel and all those pretty things and it took me two seconds to make my decision and hop on the back of his horse. He took me down to—” She caught herself. “You know the rest of the story. I fell on hard times and that’s how I ended up working for Judson.”

  They continued their stroll in silence. Hosea didn’t know what to say. What could he say, he, a minister, just like her father? “Miss Gomer, I cannot tell you how grieved I am to learn of your sufferings. I wish your father had been a kinder man.”

  Susanna nodded. “So do I.”

  “Did you ever see your parents again?” asked Hosea.

  “No,” Susanna replied. “There never was much chance of that, seeing as we frequented such different places. But I do miss Mother. I was angry with her for a long time, but now I just feel sorry for her.” She looked wistful. “You may not believe it, but I do pray.”

  “What do you pray?” Hosea asked.

  “I pray for Mother to be happy.”

  They fell silent. Hosea was lost in thought until they reached their suite. He felt awkward sharing quarters with

  Susanna, but now that she had opened up to him about her past, her sorrows, and her choices, he felt—what did he feel? He felt closer to her, which made him glad, and yet they were still mere acquaintances. He wanted to know her better. The question was, would she allow it? He had to start somewhere.

  “Miss Gomer, would you like to dine in the dining room this evening?” he asked impulsively.

  “Wearing what?” she laughed. “Neither of us has evening attire. We can’t go dressed like this.” She gestured to Hosea’s usual black suit and tie and her traveling suit. “The maître d’ will throw us out.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” he said. “I only thought we might talk more and—”

  “And?” she pressed.

  He ran the brim of his hat round and round through his hands. “Never mind. It’s silly.”

  “Tell me,” she said.

  He took a deep breath. “I also thought perhaps it might encourage you to know that I, as a minister, believe there is no shame in beauty, nor that it is the antithesis of holiness, and since we are traveling together—what I mean is—” He hated getting tongue-tied. He only wanted to show her he cared about her feelings and somehow make up for the hurt she had endured.

  She held up her hand. “I get it, Vicar.”

  “You do?” he brightened.

  “But,” she continued, “we’d be the laughingstock of the ship, walking into the dining room improperly dressed.”

  “You’re right.” He stared at his hat. Why did he not think of that? She must think him the most inconsiderate dolt. Even so, he had to try once more. Maybe she would consider dining with him in their parlor?

  “Miss Gomer,” he looked up just as she shut the bedroom door behind her. He looked about the empty room and sighed.

  As Susanna shut the door, it hit her: Hosea was trying to be considerate. How did she respond? She laughed; she scorned. That was nothing new, but this feeling of guilt was.

  “Don’t get sentimental,” she muttered. If she regretted how she treated him now, how would she feel when she left him? “Nothing but relief,” she informed the mirror as she removed her hat and checked her hair. She was glad she didn’t get any evening gowns made in St. Louis, waiting until they reached England to make sure she’d get them made in the latest styles from Paris. But what if he asked her to luncheon tomorrow? She had no clothing excuse to avoid it.

  Could it be any worse than dining with him on the train? she asked herself as she sank to the edge of the bed. Yes, it was worse, because more than ever she felt how much she owed him and she hated owing anyone. After all, by joining the poker game, he saved her the trouble of escaping from a less desirable winner. Who knew how long it might have taken for her to escape, or the injuries or ignominies she might have endured? As for paying back Hosea, his wound was healing nicely and he wouldn’t need her nursing skills much longer.

  It wasn’t just owing him that troubled her. Why did I tell him so much? she scolded herself. Exposing her past made her feel vulnerable. He knew most of the truth about who she was and why. How did he respond? He complimented her and wanted to make her feel better. Maybe she should dine with him, if only to ease her conscience. Whom would it hurt?

  It’ll hurt him, that’s who, she thought. The greater distance she kept from him, the less heartbreak he’d feel once she was gone.

  Because one thing was certain: she was heading for a new life in London and leaving Hosea behind.

  Hosea’s stomach was in a knot from the time Cornwall emerged from the fog until the ship docked at Portsmouth. It was almost upon him, the day he introduced his temporary wife to his parish, but his anxiety was prolonged a fortnight when Susanna insisted on getting new gowns and hats made there. She urged him to go ahead without her and she’d follow when her wardrobe was ready; but, asserting it would be ungentlemanly to leave her alone in a strange city in a foreign land, he refused to go. He thought it best not to mention his affection for her being the primary reason for his reluctance to leave. Their final parting would come soon enough.

  Susanna was vexed by his refusal, but he attributed it to her normal temperament. He was preoccupied with how he should explain himself in departing England a bachelor and returning a few months later a married man. He finally sent a telegram announcing his nuptials to the bishop and Mrs. Fitzgerald, his housekeeper, the day before he and Susanna were to leave Portsmouth. His message to the bishop read:

  Returned from sabbatical accomplished the Lord’s will—Honeywell

  To Mrs. Fitzgerald, he wrote:

  In Portsmouth in company of Mrs. Honeywell expect us tea time tomorrow—HH

  It was a terrible thing to write, but he was unaware of the uproar that a new female causes in a household where another female is used to being in charge. He also didn’t know Susanna had no intention of causing such an uproar. She planned to slip away from Hosea at the train station.

  But on the day of the intended slip Susanna changed her mind, not because she decided she was better off staying with Hosea, but because her trunks went missing. One minute they were being unloaded onto the train platform; the next, in the hustle and bustle of passengers getting on and off the trains, they were gone. Inquiries were made to see if they were accidentally loaded onto the wrong train, but there was no telling what happened to them until the railway tracked them down.

  “I’m sure they’ll find your trunks soon,” Hosea reassured her.

  “All my money and clothes are gone,” she wailed. With no means to make a stunning entrance into London society, she was stuck, stuck with a poor vicar in a humiliating charade.

  They boarded the train for Surrey and hired a coach from the train station to West Eastleigh with the last of Hosea’s winnings. The knot in his stomach grew tighter as they drove past familiar sights. “And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are called according to his purpose,” he murmured.

  “Don’t worry, Vicar. Your secret’s safe with me,” Susanna frowned. She had been sullen since her foiled escape attempt.

  Hosea was ashamed he’d spoken aloud. “Please, Miss Gomer, you don’t have to keep calling me Vicar.”

  “Am I supposed to call you dearest now?” she asked.

  “No. You should call me, um,
Mr. Honeywell.” He fidgeted. “That is, if this were a real marriage. If you’re uncomfortable being called Mrs. Honeywell, I’m happy to address you as Miss Gomer when we’re alone.”

  “That makes me feel a lot better.” She turned back to the window.

  He watched her with pity, thinking she was truly discomfited by the appellation. He had no real right to address her in such an intimate term as Mrs. Honeywell.

  Berating himself again for being inconsiderate, he looked out the window and his heart jumped to his throat. “We’re here.”

  The coach bounced over the rough road into the village, which consisted of one street with a few shops and houses on either side. The sight of it drew residents to their windows and doors to see if they might catch a glimpse of whoever had come there in a hired coach; thus, most of the village witnessed the accident.

  A two-wheeled chaise veered around the corner in front of them. The driver of Hosea’s and Susanna’s coach pulled up sharply on the reins, throwing Hosea out of his seat onto Susanna. “Are you hurt?” he asked.

  “Dash it all, watch where you’re going!” a man shouted.

  “You might have scratched my new gig.”

  Hosea jumped out of the coach. “Is anyone hurt?”

  “Vicar! What do you mean by ramming me off the road?” It was Sir Simon Godfrey, West Eastleigh’s much-absent baronet, and he was not rammed off the road, only forced onto a grassy verge. He was dressed in a top hat, double- breasted frock coat, and tall boots. “Where the deuce have you been?” he demanded. He was fond of making fun of the vicar because Hosea never grasped that he was being mocked.

  “How pleasant to see you again, sir,” Hosea bowed his head. “I’ve been on sabbatical in America.”

  “America?” Sir Simon said, surprised. “I didn’t think you had it in you to go abroad. What enticed you to sail to distant shores and why is your arm in a sling?”

  “I got married,” Hosea avoided both questions.

  “You? I don’t believe it.”

  “It’s true,” Hosea shuffled nervously.

  Sir Simon rested an elbow on his knee. “Did you leave your wife in America or are you hiding her?”

  “She’s with me,” said Hosea.

  “May I offer her my congratulations?”

  Hosea’s face fell. “You want to meet her?” He knew it was only a matter of time before anyone met her, but he had hoped to forestall the event for as long as possible.

  Sir Simon smirked. “By all means, I insist upon it.” He felt it would be a good joke to meet what was surely a homely lass—for who else could the simple vicar tempt into matrimony?—and make fun of her on the sly.

  Susanna’s hat was knocked askew by the sudden stop and she was setting it aright when Hosea stuck his head into the coach.

  “Would you mind stepping out for a moment?” he asked.

  “Is something the matter?” she asked.

  “Nothing’s the matter. It will only take a moment.” He helped her out of the coach. “Sir Simon, may I present Mrs. Susanna Honeywell?”

  Susanna froze. The last time she saw Simon Godfrey he was dead. Simon, charming English patron of the Bellevue Palace. Simon, whose charms grew less as his possessiveness and cruelty manifested behind closed doors. Simon, the reason she was on the run, alive and staring at her with the same shock she felt.

  Sir Simon experienced a far different sensation than he expected upon seeing West Eastleigh’s newest bride. This was not someone to laugh at. She was more beautiful than ever, her pink plaid traveling suit heightening the color of her cheeks, a white straw hat with pink roses topping her soft brown curls. No, this was someone to fear, hate, and desire.

  His smirk melted as he climbed down from his chaise. “Mrs. Honeywell,” he took off his hat and bowed, “a pleasure.” His flippant manners returned with his composure. “Congratulations, Vicar. I salute you. I don’t know how you did it. A confirmed bachelor and now you’re married to the most amazing woman I ever laid eyes on. Wherever did you find her?”

  “Texas,” Hosea replied.

  “Texas? That’s a damned odd place for a sabbatical. I am just arrived from London myself. I say, am I the first person in the village to meet the source of your wedded bliss?”

  “Yes,” Hosea nodded. “I informed my housekeeper of our marriage in a telegram but yesterday. Besides the bishop, she is the only person aware that I—we—got married.”

  Sir Simon laughed. “Don’t you believe it. This is West Eastleigh. I bet everyone knew of your marriage five minutes after your housekeeper did. What a scandal!”

  “Scandal?” said Hosea uneasily. “There’s no scandal.”

  “Are you sure?” said Sir Simon. “The vicar marries a beautiful foreigner and stands in the middle of the street showing her off. You’ve turned this village on its ear in one fell swoop.”

  Hosea looked around and saw the gaping faces of his parishioners. “I don’t mean to show off Miss—Mrs. Honeywell.”

  Sir Simon was enjoying Hosea’s discomfort. “I daresay I would if I had such a woman to call me her lord and master. Perhaps I should go to Texas to find a bride. Until then, I shall be sure to return from town every Sunday for dinner now that the company is infinitely better.” He stepped closer to Susanna. “The vicar is the special guest of my dear mama every Sunday and is forced to play whist or listen to my sister play the piano. Do you play cards or the piano, Mrs. Honeywell?”

  She shrank from him.

  “She plays both very well,” said Hosea.

  Sir Simon’s eyes glinted. “I should be most obliged if you played for me.”

  Susanna grabbed Hosea’s arm. “We must be on our way.” She dragged Hosea into the coach. “Drive on,” she thumped the carriage roof, signaling the driver.

  “Good day to you, Sir Simon,” Hosea called as they drove off.

  Sir Simon climbed into his chaise. “Yes, it is a good day. What game is she playing, and what the deuce is he doing in the company of a courtesan? Maybe I’ve misjudged the vicar and he’s a man like the rest of us. Can it be he is unaware of her true talent?”

  While he was thrilled by the thought of Susanna being in West Eastleigh, she was frantic at the knowledge of him being alive. “Are you upset?” Hosea noticed she was shaken.

  “No,” she lied.

  He assumed the source of her distress. “Sir Simon is wrong about us causing a scandal. Pay him no mind.”

  Scandal? she thought, pressing her fingertips against her eyelids. This was a disaster. How long would it be before Simon had her arrested? Yet he did not call for the police just now. He had in fact anticipated her attendance at supper in his home. That meant he was up to something. He was calculating and controlling and she was not safe in England. Maybe she could return to America and live on the Eastern seaboard or in Canada where no one knew her, far from charges of attempted murder and assault.

  The problem was she had no money to run and she wasn’t about to become a low-class prostitute again. It grew harder to climb out of the hole the deeper one sank. She’d seen how deep the hole could go, women who conducted business behind an overturned wagon on the side of the road, the lowest caste of prostitutes. No, she refused to lower herself again. She would grit her teeth and remain with the vicar until her trunks were found or an opportunity presented itself for her escape. If Simon let her.

  These thoughts raced through her mind in the two minutes it took to reach the vicarage. The small, two-story Tudor dwelling was made of ivy-covered red brick and half-timber gables.

  As they walked through the gate, Hosea felt certain that, like him, it was a disappointment to her. “It isn’t much, but it’s comfortable. It has a small garden in the back,” he added, as if that would help.

  “It’s fine,” said Susanna. The size and comfort of the vicarage were irrelevant. She was concerned about its proximity to the man she thought she had murdered who could ruin her.

  They were greeted in the entryway by Mrs. Fitzger
ald.

  “Mrs. Fitzgerald, how well you look. It’s good to see you again,” said Hosea, removing his hat.

  “It’s good to see you, Mr. Honeywell. I trust your sabbatical was,” she glanced at his sling and Susanna, “agreeable?”

  “It was rather adventurous, thank you,” Hosea replied nervously. “May I introduce, uh, Mrs. Susanna Honeywell?”

  Mrs. Fitzgerald nodded coldly. “How do you do? Please excuse the state of the vicarage. One day is hardly enough time to prepare it for permanent company. Mr. Reese, the interim vicar, only just left.”

  “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to cause trouble,” Hosea said.

  Mrs. Fitzgerald made a huffing sound. “It was a small wedding, I take it, as none of your family and acquaintances were in attendance, Mr. Honeywell?” It was an accusation.

  Hosea glanced at Susanna for support. “None of Mrs. Honeywell’s relations were able to attend, either. But we are married. Our marriage certificate is in Mrs. Honeywell’s trunks, but they went missing at the station.”

  “What a pity,” she said without conviction. “You would like to see the house now, Mrs. Honeywell?”

  “If it’s not too much trouble,” Susanna said distractedly.

  “’Tis no trouble at all,” Mrs. Fitzgerald said, interpreting her indifference for contempt, for what else would a fine lady think of a lowly vicarage? “Will you take tea first? You must be in need of refreshment after your journey.”

  “Excellent idea, Mrs. Fitzgerald,” said Hosea.

  “I shall bake extra cakes and scones for Monday,” she added.

  “Extra?” asked Hosea.

  Mrs. Fitzgerald looked surprised. “Mr. Honeywell, you must know half the village will come to call Monday and the other half on Tuesday to welcome Mrs. Honeywell. We must be prepared.”

  “Half the village?” Hosea and Susanna exclaimed in unison.

  “And, of course, you’ll be expected to return those calls within the week,” said Mrs. Fitzgerald.

  “But I just got here,” Susanna protested. She wasn’t distracted now.

 

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