A Sensible Lady: A Traditional Regency Romance

by Judith Lown

  “Sally, you are not to desert me again should I encounter Lord Dracott. Is that clear?”

  “Well, if you insist, Miss Brampton. But you do need help, you know. Now if that new vicar shows up at the church, it won’t hurt a thing if I just find that I have to go fetch some water at the well. You’ll be in a church, for pity’s sake, and he’s a vicar. Not really tall enough for you, but he’s a handsome man, he is. And I hear tell he’s rich. Even richer than his lordship, if stories are true.”

  “Not another word, Sally, or I shall be tempted to turn you off without a reference.”

  “I’ll mind my manners, Miss Brampton,” Sally smiled.

  Katherine repressed an answering smile. She knew that Sally knew her threats were idle.

  Katherine walked up the center aisle of the nave, savoring the fragrance of beeswax and incense permeating the walls and pews of the old church. She had intended to proceed directly to the altar with her flowers. But as she came to the transept, she turned right, drawn to the small chapel at the end of the south transept, where the bodies of Angela and Cecil, wife and newborn son of Henry Dracott, lay.

  Two marble pavers in the chapel floor marked their final resting places. One paver was carved in flowers and the Bible verse:

  Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin:

  And yet I say unto you, That even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.

  Lord Dracott’s late wife had been a lady of stunning beauty. Katherine closed her eyes, remembering that bright spring morning, when as a gawky, romantic sixteen-year-old she had first glimpsed the new Mrs. Henry Dracott driving through Drayford Village with her besotted husband by her side. The lady had been aptly named. China-blue eyes, lily-white complexion, pink rosebud lips, all crowned by hair the color of moonbeams: a more angelic mortal had never drawn breath.

  The second paver was carved with a lamb and the verse:

  Suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me: for of such is the kingdom of heaven.

  Katherine blinked away a tear as she read the quotation. Perhaps the most comforting thought about baby Cecil’s death was that he had not suffered all that much. He had lived only minutes. But the suffering caused by his death just after his birth, and the death of his beautiful mother a few hours later, still showed plainly on his father’s face.

  Henry Dracott had left the funeral of his wife and infant son to buy a commission in the army. Everyone knew he was trying to forget his personal loss in the massive impersonal loss of the battlefield. Katherine knew he had failed. The cold, bleak look she had seen on his face told her clearly that his love for the beautiful Angela had not faded and his mourning for her and his infant son had not ended.

  Chapter Four

  Augustus Aeneas Wharton—the Reverend Mr. Augustus Aeneas Wharton—gazed out his study window without seeing the clouds sailing across the marine-blue sky or the branches of trees blowing in a northerly direction. Nor did he see a flock of birds flying into the wind in a V formation.

  What had possessed him to accept the living of St. John Chrysostom’s? Whatever had convinced him that he could be a parish priest? Especially the priest of this particular parish.

  When he fled London and turned up on the doorstep of his old tutor, Charterson, in Oxford, Gus was suffering as he had never before suffered. An objective observer, seeing his bloodshot eyes, sallow skin, and trembling hands would have supposed over-indulgence in spirits. But Gus was as well known for his ability to drink any quantity of brandy with no visible consequences as for his legendary luck with ladies. Charterson had diagnosed a fever. Although the apothecary thought he knew better, he humored the old don, and prescribed appropriately nasty-tasting medicine.

  But in a sense, the old tutor had been right. Gus had been sick. Sick of life. Sick of his life.

  At first, the pretense of physical illness had been maintained between Gus and Charterson. Gus had duly accepted the prescribed medicine, not really caring if, since there was nothing wrong with his body, it might actually do him harm. But then the real cure had been in the hours and hours of talking to his old tutor. Gus realized later that all those hours of talking had been an extended confession.

  Gus had had a great deal to confess.

  And when the confession was complete, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to take holy orders. Unfortunately, what had seemed natural to Gus had seemed anything but natural to the lords of England who had the livings of parishes to bestow. For more than two years, no one was willing to trust a reformed libertine. But then one lord had seen things differently. Gus kept the letter under the inkpad on his desk and took it out to read daily.

  July 20, 1813

  Dear Augustus,

  Our beloved Mr. Tramell has gone to his eternal rest. So I find myself in need of a new vicar for St. John Chrysostom’s. I understand that you have taken holy orders, and I think it would be a splendid thing for you to join us here in this lovely patch of Sussex.

  Believe me to be,

  Your faithful servant,

  Dracott

  Lord Cecil’s benign forgetfulness of Gus Wharton’s past life had given the fledgling vicar hope that he could actually put that past behind him and earn the respect of his parishioners. But the first funeral at which Gus officiated was for the kindly baron. The new baron was another matter.

  Lord Henry Dracott. Of course, Gus had known Lord Cecil could not live forever. And he knew that Harry was the heir. But Harry had been off in Spain fighting the French in what seemed to be a war without end.

  Lord Cecil had thought it would be wonderful that when Harry returned home, he would discover his old school chum, the boon companion of his youth, established as vicar of St. Chrysostom’s.

  “I think I shall not even write him about this, Augustus. We shall have it as a surprise when he returns,” the late baron had said in the manner of one planning a particular treat for a child.

  Gus turned from the window, sat at his desk, and scrubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. He should ride out to the Hall and beard the lion in his den. Might as well get the first meeting over with. What was the worst old Harry could do? Double over laughing? No, as a matter of fact, Harry could look Gus in the eye and say he knew without question that Gus was unfit to pastor the flock of St. Chrysostom’s. And Gus could have no rebuttal. Indeed, after marrying Lady Angela, Harry had retired from the life that Gus had continued with even greater energy and abandon.

  “Wharton!”

  Although his thoughts had been about Harry Dracott, when the man appeared in the doorway, Gus hesitated a moment before recognizing him. War and loss had etched themselves deeply on his old friend’s face.

  “Don’t waste time and breath trying to hide it. My appearance is shocking the whole valley. I swear if I had come and spent a day or two at the Fox and Grapes without identifying myself, no one would have recognized me.”

  “Not even Willing Kate?” Gus asked before thinking.

  “Who, may I ask, is Willing Kate?”

  Harry Dracott’s voice was frozen steel.

  “Surely you have not forgotten Kate the barmaid at the Fox and Grapes.”

  Gus was puzzled by his friend’s reaction.

  Kate Garner, now Kate Yancey, had been the barmaid at the Fox and Grapes back when Harry, Gus, and Charlie Hamilton had fancied themselves irresistible to females. Only Kate herself could verify the truth of the exploits they had bragged about to each other. But, thus far, their secrets were safe with her. After the three friends had moved on to greater folly in London, Kate had married the Fox and Grapes’ publican and settled down to respectability.

  “Wouldn’t blame you if you thought I’d suffered a head injury. How could I ever forget the summer you, Charlie, and I competed for her favors?” Harry Dracott laughed ruefully.

  “Might as well toast the old days,” Gus replied, relieved to have gotten over the initial shock—hi
s of seeing Harry so altered, and Harry’s of seeing him in a vicarage in a vicar’s somber black.

  Gus savored the fire and flavor of the excellent brandy he had discovered in the vicarage cellar. Tramell had been abstemious, reserving spirits for holidays and medicinal purposes. Gus was amazed at the quality and quantity of brandy that the former vicar had left untouched. Gus had purposely refrained from inquiring about its origins. This close to the coast, it was better not to know which parishioners might be associated with the smuggling brethren.

  Harry Dracott stretched his long legs, lounging in the chair opposite Gus’s desk, sipping his drink and absently scratching the ears of the old setter who had followed him into the study.

  “Can’t imagine what possessed you to take up the clerical life, Wharton. Can’t imagine what possessed my father to offer you this living.”

  Gus took another swallow of brandy and set his glass down, wondering just how thorough a confession his old friend required of him.

  “I realize I am the last man one would consider a suitable candidate for the priesthood,” he began.

  Harry harrumphed.

  “You always were one for understatement, Wharton. But I wasn’t fishing for a confession, so you can breathe easy on that count. All I ask is that you avoid scandal here in the parish. Confine your sinning to London, if you don’t mind, or better yet, the continent, when this interminable war ends. At least I can be grateful I won’t have to listen to sermons delivered in a high, shaky voice.”

  Harry stopped for a moment, apparently an unpleasant thought occurring to him.

  “They haven’t coached you in sermonizing in a high, trembling voice, have they? That’s not part of a priest’s training, is it?”

  Gus laughed.

  “I assure you, Dracott, you need not worry about my assuming a high, trembling voice. Not that you will know, particularly. I cannot recall your ever being one for regular church attendance.”

  “I reckon if you can reform enough to become a priest, I can reform enough to go to church.”

  Gus took another sip of brandy to hide his dismay. It was bad enough to minister to a flock that knew of his youthful transgressions. It was quite another thing to be preaching to one of his partners in mischief.

  “Please do not feel you must,” Gus began.

  “What sort of priest are you? Discouraging proper behavior!” Harry boomed in self-righteous tones. “I have resolved to set a good example,” he added by way of explanation.

  Gus began to calculate just what the odds were that Harry could keep his resolution before reminding himself he was no longer a betting man. Good thing he hadn’t offered Harry a wager.

  “Setting a good example is one thing,” Gus replied. “Shocking the entire parish out of its senses is quite another.”

  “If the parish survived the shock of receiving you as its vicar, my presence at divine service should scarcely cause a stir.”

  Harry Dracott drained his glass and stood to take leave.

  “Great brandy, Wharton. Wonder if Tramell knew he was doing business with the brethren. Or have you made arrangements with them in the brief time you’ve been here? Hope you haven’t. I’ll not tolerate lining French pockets—even for good brandy.”

  Gus hastened to assure Harry that the vicarage cellar had been full upon his arrival.

  “See you in church. Now that will be a first. Both of us in a church at the same time,” Harry Dracott chuckled as he departed, the old setter at his heels.

  But if Harry Dracott—Lord Henry Dracott—did appear in church on Sunday morning, it would not be the first time we have been in a church together, Gus thought. We have been once before. On the occasion of Harry’s marriage to Lady Angela. But nothing would make Gus remind Harry of that.

  Gus poured another brandy and paced. He glanced at the pages on his desk. Perhaps he could polish his sermon. On second thought, better leave well enough alone. Maybe Squire Hamilton would be holding forth at the Fox and Grapes. He had challenged Gus to a round of cribbage. If Gus left the vicarage by the back door and cut through the graveyard, he might avoid running into any parishioners.

  When he saw the figure by the Brampton family plot, Gus did not know whether to curse or rejoice. Even in his previous life, Katherine Brampton would have presented a dilemma. Usually, virtuous ladies hadn’t. Gus had simply avoided them—even the beauties. But statuesque, flame-haired females had always been his weakness. Not that Gus had restricted himself to titian-haired ladies of ample endowment and above-average height. But had he been forced to declare a preference…

  Although covered in an unfashionable black gown and serviceable green shawl, crowned by a shabby black bonnet, Miss Brampton’s stunning attributes could not be hidden from Gus Wharton’s discerning eye.

  He was considering the wisdom of returning to the vicarage when Miss Brampton looked up from her reverie and favored him with a brave smile, blinking back tears.

  “Mr. Wharton.”

  Her voice was slightly husky with repressed emotion. Gus gazed into peridot eyes sparkling with unshed tears. Katherine Brampton’s pale peach complexion was slightly flushed from the brisk wind blowing in from the channel. Wisps of red-gold curls stood out like flames against the black bonnet.

  “Miss Brampton.”

  Trying to remember what a priest rather than a seducer should say to a lady, Gus struggled to think of something appropriate. But, thankfully, Katherine Brampton was too preoccupied in her grief to notice his discomfort.

  She motioned to the large Brampton marker, with its last entry:

  Richard Alfred Brampton

  May 2, 1783

  June 23, 1813

  “It is so difficult, Mr. Wharton, to remember that Richard will never return, that I will never see him, never hear his voice again. We could not even bring his body back from Spain for proper burial.”

  She swallowed and blinked rapidly.

  Gus had to forcibly remind himself that priests did not take weeping beauties into their arms and kiss away their tears.

  “Aunt Prunella believes that we shall see Richard again, Mr. Wharton. What do you think?”

  Gus had been thinking that Katherine Brampton would feel much better sipping brandy before a fire in his study. He searched frantically for a priestly response to her question.

  “Of course, Miss Brampton, we are told repeatedly in Holy Scripture that at the last day …”

  Gus paused, trying to frame the most benign and comforting interpretation he could honestly give to what was supposed to happen in the hereafter.

  “I understand that we all must give an account of our deeds done here on earth, Mr. Wharton. But, I was wondering if perhaps some of the deeds…” Katherine glanced at the Brampton marker, biting her full lower lip, frowning in concern, “some deeds might seem more … wrong, perhaps even … sinful …than they really are … and one does not really … mean any harm … one just has an abundance of … high spirits?” She finished in a rush and gave Gus a hopeful smile that would have melted steel.

  Virtuous, Katherine Brampton might be, but she was not so naïve as to be ignorant of her brother’s reputation. Richard Brampton had been called wild for good reason.

  Gus hastened to reassure her, not bothering to examine too closely what his true beliefs in the matter were.

  “I am certain that you need have no fear for your brother’s soul, Miss Brampton,” he stated in the heartiest tone he could muster. “Why, he was baptized into the Faith in this very church.”

  Miss Brampton blinked away tears and smiled radiantly, threatening Gus’s composure once more.

  “What a comforting thought, Mr. Wharton. I am, indeed, grateful for your wise counsel.”

  Gus gave her a slight bow as she took her leave, a tremulous smile on her lips.

  He turned back to the vicarage, drained of any energy, even for the challenge of a cribbage match. It was too bad Katherine Brampton had not asked him if he believed in purgatory. He could
have answered honestly.

  Yes, Miss Brampton, there is a purgatory. I know that for a fact. It is where former libertines go when they become priests, and beautiful parishioners treat them as eunuchs.

  Chapter Five

  “I realize that I should have visited you sooner, but with all of the demands of Oak End…” Sir Clive waved a well-manicured hand in the general direction of Katherine’s birthplace.

  The sound of the carriage conveying Aunt Prunella and Hephzibah to Mrs. Sythe-Burton’s had scarcely faded when Sir Clive Brampton’s spanking-new curricle pulled into the Dower House driveway. Katherine resigned herself to the inevitable face-to-face meeting with the new baronet, her former fiancé.

  Sir Clive selected the chair in which Lord Dracott had sat just a few mornings previously. The contrast between the two men could not have been starker. Lord Dracott had enveloped the large chair. Sir Clive was framed by it, as for a portrait. He was attired in the first stare of London fashion. Stiff shirt points, exquisitely starched linen, elaborately arranged neck cloth, faultlessly tailored coat, spotless pantaloons, and Hessians polished to looking glass shine bespoke a valet of relentless perfectionism.

  Sir Clive’s carefully arranged Brutus disguised a forehead that Katherine believed was slightly higher than it had been when last she had occasion to be alone with him, not even two years ago. She stiffened her spine and reminded herself that she was a lady of twenty-three years, not an uncertain girl who had failed to “take” in a disastrous London season, nor the scandalized young lady who had discovered her fiancé with a housemaid in a pantry mere days before her wedding.

  “Clearly the estate requires considerable attention, but at least you have a reliable bailiff in Randal.”

  Katherine silently blessed the family retainer who had taught her the rudiments of running an estate when her father had succumbed to a chill on the lungs this past January.