The Vicar Takes a Wife

by Victoria Kovacs

  Hosea rubbed his temple. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  Mrs. Fitzgerald huffed again. “Yes, you hadn’t.”

  Susanna, whose day had gone from bad to worse and back again, snapped. After her thwarted London debut and the resurrection of the dead, the last thing she wanted to deal with was an old biddy or an entire village. “Mr. Honeywell has had too much on his mind to bother about cakes and scones,” she blazed in her most aristocratic mien.

  Hosea’s jaw dropped; Mrs. Fitzgerald’s jaw clenched. “As you say,” she said.

  Susanna entwined her arm around Hosea’s. “Why don’t you show me the house while Mrs. Fitzgerald serves tea in the garden?” Without waiting for a reply—not that he could, so stunned was he—she steered him up the stairs, glancing back when they reached the top to make sure Mrs. Fitzgerald was gone.

  “I’m not drinking tea with the village,” she turned on him.

  “It’s customary to call on the new person in the neighborhood and to return those calls. Think of it as an opportunity to make new acquaintances,” said Hosea.

  “I’m here to nurse your wound,” Susanna said flatly.

  “You shall,” Hosea reassured her.

  “Not make friends.”

  “But—”

  “You said nothing on the train about drinking tea with the neighbors,” she accused.

  “Which train?” Hosea asked.

  “The train leaving Black Creek.”

  Hosea looked pained. “I hardly recall that particular conversation.”

  Susanna’s hands balled into fists. “You rotten liar.”

  Hosea held a hand up in appeasement. “Truly, I hardly remember what I said.” In fact, he blushed to think of what he couldn’t remember. Did he profess his love? He proposed, but what words did he use? The only person who knew was Susanna, and he was too embarrassed to ask her. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your care for me—I mean, my wound—but acting as my wife, there’s much work you might help me with.”

  “Like what? Work on my back?” Susanna challenged.

  “Miss Gomer, you must lower your voice,” Hosea pleaded. “I don’t wish to argue. You’re free to leave, yet if you stay, it will look as if we’re really married if you assist me with my duties. They can be overwhelming.”

  Susanna crossed her arms. “Drinking tea is overwhelming?”

  “No, that’s the easy part. It is conversing that troubles me. I fear I’m not adept at socializing.”

  “You got along splendidly at the Spoke. I’d call that socially adept,” Susanna said.

  “Heaven help me,” he panicked, opening the bedroom door at the top of the stairs and ushering her inside. “No one must ever know of my living arrangements in Texas. I could lose my position in the church,” he whispered.

  “Then we’d be equally yoked,” Susanna smirked.

  Hosea was desperate. He didn’t understand her reluctance. “You’d do me the greatest favor by accompanying me on my rounds.”

  “As long as your rounds exclude Sir Simon. I don’t like him.”

  Hosea shook his head. “Sir Simon rarely visits his home. He won’t be here for long.”

  Emotionally spent and unable to argue any longer, Susanna threw up her hands. “Fine. You win.”

  He breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you. From the bottom of my heart.”

  She saw that look in his eyes again and turned away. Her predicament would be easier if he wasn’t in love with her And Simon wasn’t alive. Fleeing New Orleans was nothing compared to this.

  “Whose room is this?” she asked, wanting to focus on something, anything other than her predicament. In it was a full-size bed with a plain, cream bedspread, a wardrobe, and a washstand in the corner. On the floor was an old rag rug. The only decoration on the white walls were patches of sunlight shining through two windows. It had an empty feeling, like a guest room rarely used.

  Hosea cleared his throat. “It’s mine. Well, ours. I mean, not that we should, uh, share the same room.”

  A knock on the door made them jump. Hosea opened it. “I hope the room is to your liking,” said Mrs. Fitzgerald. “I’ll have your things installed once they arrive.”

  “My things?” said Susanna.

  “Didn’t you bring your own linens and dishes? Were they stolen as well?” asked Mrs. Fitzgerald.

  “I brought nothing,” Susanna said.

  “You have nothing of your own?” said Mrs. Fitzgerald, puzzled.

  “There was a fire in Mrs. Honeywell’s home,” said Hosea. “She lost everything before we married.”

  Mrs. Fitzgerald looked unconvinced. “Tea is ready in the garden.”

  “We’ll be right down,” said Hosea.

  As Mrs. Fitzgerald’s footsteps faded, Susanna clapped a hand over her mouth. “Now she thinks I married you because I lost everything,” she tittered. “It’ll be all over the village that I’m a fortune hunter. Isn’t that swell?”

  “I have no fortune,” Hosea said. “Not that I think of myself as a catch, but without a fortune, the parish will assume we married for disinterested purposes. Miss Gomer, are you quite well? You’re trembling.”

  “Disinterested?” she hooted. “Is that what you call a marriage of convenience?”

  How was he to answer that? “No,” he said, eyes fixed on the floor.

  Susanna grew hysterical as she sat on the bed. She had awakened that morning excited and nervous about being in London by that afternoon and changing her fortune for the better. How differently the day had turned out. If the housekeeper’s reaction toward her was any indication of how the village would react, her stay in West Eastleigh was not going to be pleasant, not to mention there was someone in the neighborhood who knew her past, and she had tried to kill him.

  No, the immediate future did not look promising, but there was nothing she could do to change it. She wished for several shots of whiskey to calm her nerves but doubted Hosea kept a bottle in the house.

  “Miss Gomer, you look unwell,” said Hosea. “A cup of tea will revive you. Allow me to help you down the stairs.”

  “Might as well start practicing for all the work I’ve got to do,” she said shakily.

  While Susanna was gulping tea in the garden and worrying about Sir Simon, he was sipping ale at the pub and gossiping about her.

  “The vicar’s taken an American wife? I don’t believe it,” Mr. Biddle stormed when Sir Simon conveyed the information.

  Sir Simon nodded over his pint. “I met her when I was driving into town. Their coach almost overturned my gig.”

  Mr. Biddle could hardly collect his thoughts. “Why, it’s unthinkable. It’s un-Christian, marrying a foreigner. Is she Anglican? The vicar should know better. I shall write the bishop. He’ll have something to say. Nothing good will come of it, to be sure. I presume her manners are uncouth. Most Americans' are, you know. No doubt she’s a fright.”

  “I cannot allow that,” said Sir Simon. “Mrs. Honeywell is a handsome woman despite her nationality.”

  Mr. Cowdry drained his pint. “She looked fair healthy to me when I seen them driving through the village.”

  “Very healthy,” Sir Simon agreed. “I also got the impression she is very talented. No, I’m sorry to disappoint you, Biddle, but our vicar has excellent taste in women. He could not have chosen a finer specimen of womanhood.”

  Down the street, Mrs. Sneed took Hosea’s marriage as a personal affront. “Are my daughters not suitable enough that he must bring some Yankee here? I’ll not ask her to tea. She will never disgrace my parlor.”

  “Did you see her dress?” scoffed Emma. “Silly American style. I absolutely despise her. She spun her web and caught Mr. Honeywell and I shall never forgive her.”

  “Her hat and hair are pretty,” said Violet, then sighed. “Poor Mr. Honeywell. How he’ll regret me.”

  “He’ll regret me,” said Emma.

  “Why would he regret you when he favored me?” asked

  Vio
let.

  “You know very well he favored me because I’m prettier and you’re just jealous,” said Emma.

  “You’re jealous because I speak French better than you,” cried Violet

  “I play piano better than you!”

  “Mais tu parles le français comme une vache espagnole!”

  Mrs. Sneed sulked. “We shall be forced to call on her. What was Mr. Honeywell thinking?”

  Chapter 8: Walls of Jericho

  THE residents of West Eastleigh had one day and two nights of intense speculation about the vicar’s new wife before their low opinions could be confirmed on Sunday morning. Susanna’s reputation was further impugned when one of her trunks (containing mostly petticoats and underclothes, but no money) appeared in the village after being discovered not far from the train station, discarded by robbers. “A vicar’s wife has no need of a large wardrobe,” was a common refrain.

  Hosea meanwhile reacquainted himself with his study and its straining shelves of books. Also straining were his nerves at the thought of facing his congregation masquerading as a married man. Yet soon Susanna would leave and he’d have to find a real wife, one to whom he’d be bound in the holiest state of matrimony.

  “I can’t bear to think of it,” he said aloud to the empty room. He wrote his sermon but it was quickly done, for he had stored up many new sermons in his mind during his sabbatical, leaving him plenty of time trying not to think about the future.

  He picked up his journal. “It doesn’t seem like I’ve been gone three months and yet so much has happened.” He turned to the last page with writing and read:

  How shall I know which is the right one? Can I learn to love her as a husband ought to love his wife?

  He heard footsteps coming down the stairs and shut the journal. He could tell it was not Mrs. Fitzgerald as the heels clicked along the passageway. He got up and opened the study door. “Miss Gomer?” he said.

  She whirled. “What?” she asked guiltily.

  What indeed? “I want to, uh, offer you my, uh, study,” he stammered. “I have many books if you’re inclined to read. You won’t disturb me. Just knock. Anytime.”

  “Thanks,” she said, wringing her hands. “I’m going outside for some fresh air.”

  “Right,” he said. “I shall get back to my . . . study,” he finished lamely.

  She went outside. He went to the window to watch her pace back and forth in the garden. “Yes, I can,” he answered his journal question. “But what if she isn’t the right one?”

  Susanna was unaware she was being watched. She was distracted by the fear of a constable knocking on the door and dragging her off to prison. She jumped every time she heard a wagon or carriage pass by, dreading lest it stop at the vicarage. She avoided Hosea and Mrs. Fitzgerald by staying in her room most of the time, emerging for meals or when she could no longer stand its blank walls.

  Desperately she wished there was someone she could talk to about her problems, but there was no one. Just like when she fled New Orleans, there was no one she could trust with her secret. Or was there? Being a priest, wasn’t Hosea bound by church law not to reveal anyone’s confession, or was that only Catholic priests? For once she wished she had paid attention to her father’s rants against high churches. On second thought, did she want to become more vulnerable to Hosea by revealing her fears?

  Supper was a quiet affair. Susanna stared at her plate more than she ate from it. Hosea noticed this and blamed himself for her lack of appetite.

  “How are you settling in?” he ventured to ask. “Is there anything you need?”

  “I’m fine,” she lied, poking at her food.

  Her sadness distressed him. “Please consider this your home. I wish for you to be comfortable here. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask me or Mrs. Fitzgerald.”

  “Thank you,” she said, still staring at her plate.

  His brow furrowed in thought. What could he say to cheer her up? “England isn’t like Texas, is it?” he said.

  “No,” she said. “It’s chilly here.”

  “Do you need a shawl? I’m sure Mrs. Fitzgerald has a spare one. If not, she can show you the shops in the village on Monday. Or I can.”

  “I’m fine. Excuse me,” she said, getting up from the table and retreating to her room. No, she did not want to become more vulnerable to Hosea. His kindness would only weaken her. She had to be strong. She had to survive. She couldn’t afford not to.

  On the Sabbath Hosea and Susanna stepped out of their rooms across the hall from each other. Both had dark circles under their eyes, having hardly slept because of their nerves, dreading that morning’s reckoning. Susanna vied with the sun in a bright yellow gown with layers and layers of pleats, the only gown in the recovered trunk. She spread her arms. “What do you think? Do I look like a proper vicar’s wife?”

  “I can’t say,” said Hosea. He’d never seen one wear that color.

  Susanna frowned. “Thanks.” She rustled down the stairs.

  “Miss Gomer, wait,” Hosea hurried after her. “The women of the parish usually refrain from wearing excessive colors on Sundays. It’s not that you look improper; it’s just you look very colorful.”

  “Is that as a compliment or a complaint?” she asked over her shoulder.

  “Neither. I meant—”

  “Save it, Vicar.”

  The dining room table was already set for breakfast. Susanna sat down without filling her plate. “Tea?” Hosea asked, grabbing the pot.

  “No, I’m not hungry,” she stood suddenly.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “To church. Where else is there to go on Sunday morning?” She brushed past Mrs. Fitzgerald.

  “Was breakfast not to Mrs. Honeywell’s liking?” Mrs. Fitzgerald asked.

  “She has no appetite. She’s nervous about meeting the congregation,” Hosea said. Mrs. Fitzgerald’s lips pursed. “I should attend to her. Excuse me.”

  Mrs. Fitzgerald wasn’t the only villager who was displeased with Susanna. Mrs. Sneed wore her best Sunday frock in order to upstage her. “I can hardly bear to think of that Yankee woman sitting in our church.”

  Emma was in a foul mood because she had nothing to wear as showy as Susanna’a plaid gown. “I wonder what she’ll wear? Something gaudy, to be sure. You had to remake your hat like hers,” she turned on her sister.

  “I did no such thing,” said Violet, who had.

  “You did and it’s vulgar.”

  Mr. Biddle complained to his wife as their carriage rolled toward the church. “I’ll be pleased to hear what the bishop has to say. It’s highly suspicious, fraternizing with foreigners. That’s what comes of preaching about going the second mile. If you take the scriptures literally, you end up all the way across the Atlantic.”

  By the time the service started, everyone was in a heightened state of judgment. Susanna sat on the front row by herself and hadn’t said a word to Hosea since he discovered her there before anyone else arrived. He deemed it best not to speak to her lest the tension between them grow worse.

  As the organ played, Hosea walked down the aisle singing with fear and trembling. He half expected the Lord to open the heavens and announce their fraud to everyone. It was a thousand times worse than being called the Duke of Piccadilly, for at least in that he was able to set the record straight (though most refused to believe he was not that esteemed and non-existent personage. Black Creek lacked a luminary and they would take what they could get).

  “Almighty and most merciful Father; We have erred,” his voice cracked as he recited the general confession, “and strayed from thy ways like lost sheep. We have followed too much the devices and desires of our own hearts. We have offended against thy holy laws. We have left undone those things which we ought to have done; And we have done those things which we ought not to have done; And there is no health in us.”

  His stomach churned. “But thou, O Lord, have mercy upon us, miserable offenders. Spare thou them,
O God, which confess their faults. Restore thou them that are penitent; According to thy promises declared unto mankind in Christ Jesus our Lord. And grant, O most merciful Father, for his sake; That we may hereafter live a godly, righteous, and sober life, To the glory of thy holy Name.”

  “Amen,” everyone said.

  Wound as tightly as a spring in his pocket watch, he read the Collect and the First Lesson, glancing only once at Susanna. Her face was blank, free of the fear that set his heart pounding. By the time he reached the Gospel, he braced for the fire of God to fall and consume him, but it did not. Likewise the sermon and closing prayer were unapocalyptic.

  It was over. He made it through the service without divine retribution. It was time to make the announcements and introduce Susanna.

  “It is good to be home. I have missed you all very much. To return to the peace and quiet of this village means more than I can say. I have not returned alone, as you may have heard, and I hope you will grant Mrs. Susanna Honeywell a warm welcome into our spiritual family.”

  Their tight-lipped stares declared his hope unfounded. Susanna could sense their antagonism without turning around. After the closing hymn and dismissal, she marched down the aisle, disdaining to look at anyone. No matter what role she played, she was Susanna Gomer who did not care for the good opinion of hypocrites. Once she secured the funds to leave, she’d not remember their insignificant village.

  “Miss Gomer, where are you going?” Hosea whispered as she passed him at the door.

  “The vicarage, where else?” she said.

  “I must introduce you to everyone,” he said.

  “I can hardly wait,” she said, grudgingly taking her place next to him.

  Hosea was greeted by one fawning parishioner after another, answering their inquiries about his arm with vague mumblings about “a disagreement, a fire, Mrs. Honeywell required assistance.”

  Susanna was given the cold shoulder. In return she looked past people as if they were not worth her notice. She stifled a fake yawn as Dr. and Mrs. Smith spoke with Hosea.

  “Mrs. Honeywell, may I trespass on your domestic felicity and call tomorrow afternoon?” Mrs. Smith asked. She was the first person to speak to her.