The Vicar Takes a Wife

by Victoria Kovacs

  Susanna looked over her head. “I suppose.”

  “Why did you not tell me you were injured?” said Dr. Smith. “I’ll stop by this afternoon to examine you.”

  “Don’t trouble yourself,” Hosea said hurriedly. “Mrs. Honeywell is looking after me.”

  “I’m sure she’s doing a fine job, but I insist,” said the doctor.

  He and Mrs. Smith moved on and were replaced by Mr. and Mrs. Biddle. “Vicar, what do you mean by going abroad?”

  Mr. Biddle demanded. “It’s about time you were back where you belong. A vicar’s obligations are to his parish and no more. INo doubt Lady Godfrey is displeased by your prolonged absence. As her patronage of the church is of the utmost importance, I’m sure you will remember your place is here.” He rocked back on his heels, satisfied with his reprimand, knowing the vicar never disagreed with him.

  “I don’t think Lady Godfrey was troubled by my taking a sabbatical, and as she was ever desirous of my getting married, I’m sure she will be happy with its outcome,” said Hosea.

  Mr. Biddle stopped rocking. “Surely the bishop does not approve of you leaving for so long.”

  “It was he who granted me the sabbatical,” Hosea countered.

  Discombobulated by the vicar’s refusal to agree with him, Mr. Biddle tried to think of a higher authority than Lady Godfrey and the bishop in whose name to threaten, but unexpectedly, Hosea dismissed him.

  “I see the Sneeds. Good day to you, Mr. Biddle. Mrs. Sneed, Miss Sneed, Miss Violet, allow me to introduce Mrs. Honeywell.”

  Mrs. Sneed ignored her. “Mr. Honeywell, it’s been too long since you’ve graced our parlor. The parish hasn’t been the same since you left.”

  “Neither have I, Mrs. Sneed,” said Hosea. “We shall be honored to call on you. Shall we say later this week?”

  “We look forward to your visit,” Mrs. Sneed emphasized.

  Emma turned the full brightness of her teeth upon him. “I’ve learned a new song on the piano. Won’t you enjoy singing a duet with me?”

  “Emma, you know Mr. Honeywell doesn’t like to sing in public unless it’s at church,” said Violet. “He told us so at the Biddle’s Christmas party.”

  Susanna stifled a laugh with a cough. Hosea thought of his performances as the Duke of Piccadilly and reddened. “Mrs. Honeywell is an accomplished pianist. I’m sure you two have much to discuss about music.”

  Emma looked horrified at the prospect but was saved from responding by her sister. “What a lovely gown, Mrs. Honeywell. Did you make it yourself?” Violet asked.

  “Blamed if I did,” Susanna sniffed. “I have all my clothes made for me.”

  This news, along with her Yankee profanity, put Violet in awe of Susanna, for Violet had to sew her own clothing and was not allowed to swear in English or American.

  The news had the opposite effect on her mother and sister, both of whom were so shocked that they could barely keep their composures. “Good day to you, Vicar,” Mrs. Sneed said shortly and quickly walked away. Violet bobbed a curtsey and hurried after her.

  Susanna was snickering at their retreating forms when her blood ran cold. “Sir Simon, I don’t recall ever having the pleasure of seeing you in church,” she heard Hosea say.

  “Mrs. Honeywell, you look enchanting.” Sir Simon doffed his hat and caught her hand to kiss it. Even with gloves on, his touch made her shudder. “How could I stay at home knowing there is an angel in our midst?”

  “How kind of you to say so,” said Hosea. “Have you heard from Lady Godfrey and your sister? When do you anticipate their return?”

  “Not until June. They’ve left the planning of the Midsummer Ball to me so they might travel more, but what do I know of planning a ball? It is sure to come to ruin with me at the helm. I say a ball is a woman’s domain. There’s nothing like a woman’s touch to make a ball a success. Would Mrs. Honeywell be so kind as to lend her assistance? I am sure she could advise me on what to do.”

  “I’ve never planned a ball,” she glared at him.

  Sir Simon laughed. “Don’t be shy. Do persuade your wife to come to my aid, Vicar. I’m sure she has many hidden talents that could be put to use. A bit of female ingenuity is just what we need. You are coming to dinner this evening, aren’t you? We must keep up the tradition.”

  “We have other plans,” said Susanna hurriedly.

  “We do?” Hosea said. “I don’t recall being invited elsewhere.”

  Sir Simon’s lip curled. “Eight o’clock sharp. Until then?” He made a graceful bow and strolled away.

  “I won’t go,” Susanna hissed.

  “I always have dinner on Sundays at Eastleigh Hall. We can’t slight the invitation.”

  “I certainly can,” she growled.

  “We cannot—good morning, Mr. Cowdry,” Hosea said, suspending the argument.

  Yet Susanna balked, so Hosea sent word to Eastleigh Hall pleading an indisposition, which was true since Susanna was indisposed to go, so he did not feel he had lied.

  Sir Simon tossed the note into the fire. He knew the real reason Susanna wouldn’t come. He spent the evening with a bottle of brandy, speculating on how and why his favorite plaything ensnared the vicar.

  “I will get you back, Ruby,” he traced a fingertip across the scar on his chest. “You owe me.”

  The next afternoon Hosea and Susanna sat in the parlor in anticipation of throngs of callers eager to do their duty. Hosea looked out the window for the dozenth time.

  “Mrs. Fitzgerald expects a lot of people. Mrs. Smith will come.” He was not looking forward to her visit, however. Dr. Smith examined Hosea that morning but remained ignorant of the true circumstances resulting in the wound. “Very neat stitches,” he had admired Susanna’s handiwork. “Horsetail for suture and whiskey for disinfectant: how clever. And you were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time?” Hosea felt guilty for the deception and seeing the doctor’s wife would only remind him of it.

  “Let’s hope Simon doesn’t come,” Susanna muttered, biting a nail. She could think of nothing but how to get away from there. She was still thinking of a way when the clock chimed six o’clock and there was a knock at the door.

  “There is Mrs. Smith,” Hosea said.

  “Left it a little late, didn’t she?” said Susanna, draining her third cup of tea.

  Mrs. Fitzgerald entered the parlor and handed Susanna a note. “This just arrived from Mrs. Smith.”

  Susanna opened it. “She says she has a headache and can’t come.”

  “I see,” said Hosea. “Don’t worry. I’m sure she’ll call tomorrow along with the others. Mondays are busy days. Isn’t it so, Mrs. Fitzgerald?”

  “If you say so, Mr. Honeywell,” said Mrs. Fitzgerald.

  Hosea nodded. “We can expect most everyone to call tomorrow.”

  But instead of a torrent of visitors, Tuesday brought a torrential downpour. “The rain is keeping everyone at home. They’ll come tomorrow,” he declared.

  Wednesday, he blamed the mud. “The roads will be inconvenient. We should give them a day to dry out. It was silly to expect anyone today.”

  “Headache, rain, mud. Maybe today it’s the sun?” Susanna said on Thursday. She was frustrated, not by the absence of callers, but by her failure to think of a plan to improve her fortune. She needed to get out of the house and clear her mind. “I’ve got some shopping to do,” she jumped to her feet.

  “What if someone calls?” Hosea asked.

  “Drink tea.”

  “Shall I come with you?”

  “No. Someone needs to be here when everyone calls.”

  Susanna met no one as she trudged down the lane. “I can’t believe I’m trapped here,” she grumbled. “It was a brilliant idea. Sail to England, work in London. What could go wrong? Everything, obviously. My money and clothes are stolen. I’ve got nothing. How do I get out of this?” She kicked a rock in the road. “I’d rather have stayed at the Spoke.”

  After twenty minutes
her pace slackened. Her anger dispelled, she ceased fretting as she took a deep breath and looked about her. Everything was green and cool and awake and alive. Over low stone walls rose hills dotted with sheep. Quaint cottages blossomed with colorful rose bushes and tangles of flowery vines. It felt so peaceful and tame compared to the places she’d lived before. This was no bustling city full of opportunity, but it was full of life.

  Maybe Honeywell isn’t that annoying. At least he’s not mean, she admitted to herself. There were much worse places to bide her time—if Simon wasn’t an ever-present threat.

  A fork in the road interrupted her musing. One way dove through a shady tunnel of trees and was thick with mud, forcing her to choose the sunnier way which, she didn’t know until it was too late, circled back to the village. She hadn’t meant to go there, having no wish to encounter anyone determined to avoid her, but it couldn’t be helped.

  She wasn’t halfway down the street when Sir Simon’s chaise drove into view. Cursing, she dove into the nearest shop. The doorbell tinkled and the shopkeeper, his wife, the Miss Sneeds, and another woman stopped what they were doing to stare. Susanna calmly approached the counter as if she had intended to shop there all along.

  “Good afternoon, madam. May I help you?” asked the shopkeeper.

  Susanna scanned the shelves behind him for an excuse. “I’d like twelve yards of the red silk.”

  He looked surprised. “Yes, madam. Would you care to look over our selection of trim?”

  “What do you have?”

  He motioned to his wife, who reached for the decadent fabric. “Are you looking for fringe, ribbon, or flowers?”

  “All,” she said. The shopkeeper took several racks of trim off the shelf and placed them on the counter. Susanna feigned interest in them as she heard whispering.

  “Is she allowed to wear red?” asked Violet.

  “Very inappropriate for a vicar’s wife,” said Emma.

  “Whatever will the vicar say?” said the third woman.

  “Did you see how she flaunted that horrid dress on Sunday?” Emma decried. “How sad Mr. Honeywell must be. Now we cannot call on him because she’ll be there.”

  “Our poor vicar will be poorer still, keeping her clothed. Surely he doesn’t approve,” said the woman.

  Susanna turned to them. “I assure you my husband approves of everything I wear. It brings him great pleasure. Can you say the same of your husband? And anyone who knows anything about fashion knows that red is entirely appropriate for a ball gown, unless you’re wearing last season’s styles.” She turned back to the shopkeeper. “I’ll take seven yards of fringe, four yards of lace, and two yards of black velvet ribbon. Send it to the vicarage.”

  “How do you intend to pay?” he asked.

  “Send the bill to the vicarage.”

  “The vicar doesn’t make purchases on credit,” he protested.

  Susanna drew herself up to her full height and skewered him with a glare. “He does now.” She turned and flounced toward the door, stopping next to Violet and Emma and the other woman. “Have we met?” Susanna pretended not to remember them.

  “Emma Sneed,” Emma said smugly.

  “I’m Violet,” said her sister.

  Susanna tilted her head and smiled patronizingly. “I remember now: the spinster sisters. What a shame to be your age and still living at home. What’s wrong with the young men around here? Don’t they know a pretty face when they see one?”

  Violet giggled at what she took for a compliment. “I think so, too, though there aren’t many young men around here to begin with.”

  Emma flared at what she took as an insult. “Are you having a gown made for the ball? Do they have balls in America?”

  “Yes,” Susanna replied. “We even have eating utensils and bathtubs and Godey’s Lady’s Book. We’re surprisingly civilized.”

  “Do you know dances for an English ball?” Emma challenged.

  Susanna winked. “I know quite a bit.”

  Emma was determined to set down this usurper of her happiness. “The vicar never dances. I’m sure you’ll keep him company, along with the other old ladies.”

  The tinkling doorbell spared Susanna the trouble of replying. “There you are!” exclaimed Sir Simon. “I called at the vicarage but Honeywell said you had stepped out. What are you buying that could not wait for a call from an old friend?”

  “Fabric for my ball gown,” she replied with as much composure as she could muster.

  Sir Simon brightened. “That is exactly what I wish to discuss with you, since you will be hostess in the absence of my mama.” He grabbed Susanna’s hand. “I shall be proud to lead you out for the first dance. Which fabric did you pick?”

  “The red silk,” she said, barely above a whisper.

  “Perfect. I wouldn’t have you in any other color.” Susanna tried to pull her hand away but he held it fast. “Allow me to give you a ride back to the vicarage.”

  “I prefer to walk,” she said.

  “You wouldn’t deny me the pleasure of driving you home,” he said.

  Not caring how it looked, she roughly twisted her hand out of his. “I said no.” She rushed out the door.

  “Did you ever see such rude manners?” whispered Emma.

  In a corner, Mrs. Fitzgerald emerged from behind a display.

  Fleeing the shop but unwilling to return to the vicarage, Susanna sought refuge in the church. She was certain Simon wouldn’t think to look for her there because of who she was.

  She sat at the organ picking out Oh! Susanna with one finger. It sounded discordant in the emptiness.

  “You’re not really married to Mr. Honeywell, are you?”

  Susanna jumped. Mrs. Fitzgerald stood by the front pew. “You startled me,” Susanna said. She was prepared to lie, but she was drained from the fright of seeing Simon, plus Mrs. Fitzgerald’s expression told her there was no point in trying to deceive her. “We are really married.”

  “You never sleep in the same bed.”

  Susanna’s lips pinched. “The vicar is too moral to share a bed with me.”

  Mrs. Fitzgerald moved to sit next to her on the organ bench. “Odd, considering married couples are known to share beds.”

  When Susanna made no reply, she continued. “I have been Mr. Honeywell’s housekeeper for five years and I’ve never known him to do anything drastic or without careful consideration. When he took a sabbatical three months ago, I was glad. He needed a holiday. But when he gave only one day’s notice that he was returning home a married man, I knew something wasn’t right. There are many women in the parish he could have married, women who regard being Mrs. Honeywell a high aspiration. Instead, he comes back with a beauty on his arm such as he would never dare speak to, let alone pursue. He’s too timid. Coupled with the distance between you two and how he has yet to write to his family about the wedding, I must conclude you cannot be married.”

  She laid a hand on Susanna’s arm. “Miss, I want to help. Please consider me your friend. I have the highest regard for Mr. Honeywell and would see no harm come to him, nor would I see any harm come to you. Won’t you tell me the truth?”

  “It’s not that simple,” Susanna said. “If the truth were known, we’d both get hurt.”

  “Do you not trust me?” asked Mrs. Fitzgerald.

  Susanna decided she did. She needed not so much a confessor as someone to come up with a plan to get her out of this mess, which is why half an hour later they stood before Hosea in his study.

  “Mr. Honeywell, how could you?” said Mrs. Fitzgerald.

  Hosea set aside his sermon. “What have I done?”

  Mrs. Fitzgerald huffed. “Miss Gomer told me the truth.”

  Hosea’s face drained of color. “Mrs. Fitzgerald, you must understand she couldn’t live here if we weren’t married. You mustn’t think ill of her.”

  “Mr. Honeywell, did you think I wouldn’t help you in your hour of need?”

  Hosea’s mouth opened and clos
ed like a dying fish on land.

  “Might I add, if our Lord told you to marry a prostitute, it’s a good thing you did,” said Mrs. Fitzgerald.

  “You know about the dream?” Hosea looked pleadingly at Susanna. “What else did you tell her?”

  Susanna smiled. “I’m not in the habit of lying. I believe in always telling the truth.”

  Hosea gulped. “Even about the bathhouse?”

  “What bathhouse?” said Mrs. Fitzgerald.

  “The one he visited after I took him to spend the night in a stable,” said Susanna

  “You spent the night in a stable?” said Mrs. Fitzgerald.

  “Not together,” Hosea said hurriedly.

  “It was before he moved into the saloon,” Susanna explained. “I tried to persuade him to get a room at the hotel, but he made a deal with the other girls.”

  “Deal?” said Mrs. Fitzgerald.

  “I thought you said you told her everything?” said Hosea.

  “Excuse me for forgetting a few unnecessary details,” Susanna scowled. “Mrs. Fitzgerald, my reason for being here is not because the vicar had a conversation with God.”

  “It wasn’t much of a conversation,” Hosea said.

  “Our agreement was I would tend his wound until he healed up,” Susanna said. “Now Dr. Smith says there’s nothing more I can do to speed his recovery, but I need money to leave here, and I can’t do that pretending to be his wife. If you’ll show me what to cook or clean or wash so I can earn something, the sooner your lives will return to normal and we can forget this ever happened.”

  “You wish to leave soon?” Hosea said, his heart dropping into his stomach.

  Mrs. Fitzgerald shook her head. “There isn’t enough work. The best I can offer is to make inquiries for a position as a governess or lady’s maid.”

  “No,” said Susanna. “I’m not interested in that sort of work. I need to get back to the States.”

  “Where will you go?” asked Hosea. He dared not ask What will you do?

  “Then you’ll have to help Mr. Honeywell,” said Mrs. Fitzgerald. “There’s no other choice. Mr. Honeywell doesn’t earn much, but he also doesn’t spend much except on books, which he may do without to be able to pay you enough to leave in several months.”