“Yes, Mr. Norwich,” Amanda said, although she lingered a moment, craning her neck for a better look. A spot of color appeared on each of her cheeks, and Corinne surmised that Amanda had been as duly affected by the sight of her pastor en dishabille as she had been. She withdrew reluctantly.
Corinne knew this was her opportunity to seal her new position in his life. She stepped forward. “There is nothing to be alarmed over. William—Will—and I were remembering a step to a country jig we used to dance as children.” She forced a hearty laugh and even attempted a jig step. Dancing seemed a plausible enough excuse for her to be in his arms. “I’m a relative on the maternal side,” Corinne senselessly added. A duke’s daughter didn’t have to explain herself, but a “cousin” found in a half-naked parson’s kitchen had better do some talking.
“How very nice,” Mrs. Gowan murmured. She shifted her weight and her shoe crunched on one of the broken pottery pieces. She frowned down at it.
“Would you give us a moment?” Will said. “My cousin”—he spoke as if the label left a bad taste in his mouth—“arrived late last night and I overslept this morning. I am embarrassed to not be dressed for you, but that is as it is.”
Mrs. Gowan leaped at the chance to escape. “I forgot the cheese, the one you like? I meant to bring it but left it on my table. Let me run home and I’ll return shortly.”
“Thank you,” Will said.
However, the moment the door shut behind her, he whirled on Corinne. “On the maternal side?” he repeated with disbelief at her gall.
“Lady Bossley’s people. That was a bit of truth I added,” Corinne said, taking a side step away from him. He was not happy. Not happy at all. “Everyone knows Lord Bossley doesn’t have much family. All of Freddie’s relatives are from your mother’s side. I think it made it sound like the possibility exists.”
“And why are you here and not at Glenhoward?”
“Because you and I are close. Just as I said to Mrs. Gowan. We were childhood playmates. And I don’t like Freddie. She will believe that as well if she’s met him.”
“The woman is not a fool.”
“But she accepted the story,” Corinne pressed.
“Because she is in shock.”
“However she feels, I’m here. You’ve agreed to it. I’m your cousin.”
Mr. Norwich’s face lit with fury.
Before he jumped down her throat, she defended herself by saying, “What is done is done. I can’t think about the gossip. I started this venture on nothing but nerve. It’s all I have . . . but I’ve been reasonably successful.”
“And at what cost?” he ground out.
“Whatever it takes, sir,” she responded fearlessly, “including abusing and fraying your goodwill.”
His response was to march out of the kitchen. A beat later, he stomped up the stairs.
Corinne crossed to the door and began picking up shards of the pottery jug. “He needs time,” she murmured to herself. “He’ll come round.”
And she sincerely prayed he would.
Will couldn’t remember a time when he’d lost his temper so completely. Yes, he could. Yesterday afternoon when he’d talked to Lady Corinne.
She did that to him. Made him mad with rage.
He paced the perimeter of his small bedroom, going from one side to the other in four steps.
His anger had been a living, breathing thing that had taken over his mind and his common sense. Why had he picked her up? Why had he touched her? That’s when everything had gone wrong. If he’d stayed on his side of the kitchen, he could have . . . what? Had her do exactly what she’d done downstairs anyway?
Of course, the scene would have been more discreet when Mrs. Gowan entered. And there would be no stories of him chasing women around his kitchen.
He prided himself on his reputation. It was all he had that was truly his. That, and his own personal code of honor.
And what of Lady Corinne?
Only a ninny would believe Mrs. Gowan had swallowed that silly story about cousins. It was as lame as he’d warned her it would be—especially after Mrs. Gowan had caught Lady Corinne in his arms. “God, it looked terrible.”
He’d spoken aloud. That was one of the drawbacks—or benefits—of living alone, except he wasn’t alone any longer.
A fact borne home by the sound of a footstep on the stair tread.
She was coming upstairs.
Uninvited. Unwanted.
Was there no end to her presumption?
He turned his back to the doorway. If there had been a door, he would have slammed it, but the rooms up here didn’t have doors. At one time, the upstairs had all been one room, and the walls had been built shortly before Will had taken up residency. There was no call to put in doors for a bachelor.
His bed was still unmade, the mattress indented where he’d spent the night. He needed to dress. He had a busy schedule. He didn’t have time for nonsense—
“I’m sorry.”
Will stiffened. He knew she stood in his doorway. “I’ll remember you are sorry when I’m standing on the gallows with the hangman’s noose around my neck.”
“It won’t happen—at least not because of me,” she promised. “The people in this village don’t know me. My family and I had just arrived at Lord Bossley’s house. I travel with my own maid. No one should identify me.”
He didn’t know how to answer that piece of fantasy. Of course someone would know who she was—sooner or later.
At his continued silence, she said, “I’ll stay out of view. I promise. I know you don’t have a reason to trust me, but I beg you to give me the opportunity to meet your standards. You will not be disappointed.”
“I need to dress.” He turned then, giving her a pointed look that it was time for her to leave.
Her cheeks turned pink, as if she’d just realized how little he was wearing. “Of course, I beg your pardon.” She withdrew, but she didn’t go down the stairs. She moved into the bedroom across the hall from his.
The room his “cousin” would have used if he’d had a cousin.
In one angry stride, Will crossed to his wardrobe and threw open the doors so hard that they slammed the sides of the chest.
“Damn it all,” he muttered. He shouldn’t swear. It was his vice. He tried to keep it mild. Sometimes, it was difficult. He pushed a hand through his hair. It needed to be cut. He needed a shave. He needed, he needed, he needed . . . Dear Lord, she was beautiful.
The worst part of their tussle downstairs was that he’d enjoyed it. She’d felt good in his arms. And that scent of hers. . .
A perfumer should capture it in a bottle. The man would make a fortune.
Will tried to put her out of his mind as he unfolded a clean shirt and put himself in order. He focused on the task at hand, the sharpening of his razor, the scrape of metal against skin, the tying of his preaching bands around his neck.
In the mirror he appeared a man who knew his place in the world. A man who was correct and upright. A man who wasn’t lying to everyone he knew.
Lady Corinne had called him a hypocrite. She’d been right.
Mrs. Gowan had returned. He could hear her and Amanda busy in the kitchen, the sound rising through a vent in the floorboards that let the heat from the kitchen rise to warm the upper rooms. He was going to have to talk to Mrs. Gowan, to beg her to pretend about his cousin.
Properly dressed, Will went out into the hall. The bedrooms were so close that his doorway was only feet from hers.
Lady Corinne sat on her bed, her hands folded in her lap. She looked up at the sound of his step.
Their eyes met, held.
She pressed her lips together, her distress clear in her clear blue eyes. Sad eyes. She wasn’t one to hide her emotions. Her brow wrinkled in concern. “I know you don’t like me,” she admitted quiet
ly. “I’m sorry.”
Those last two words lingered in the air between them. They pierced his anger. Made him a fool.
Oh, he hurt . . . but not in the way she imagined. And this was the second time she’d accused him of disliking her.
“It’s not that I don’t like you, my lady,” he conceded and went downstairs, chased by his own folly.
Amanda lay in wait for him in the sitting room. She was a bit lovesick for him. It amused her parents, and yes, he was flattered. He’d long ago discovered women were fascinated by the clergy. He assumed it was because of their leadership role. He was too old for Amanda but wished to be gentle with her feelings, especially since he could understand yearning for the Unattainable.
“There is going to be a dance after Luddy and Jillian MacKay’s wedding next Saturday,” she said to him.
“That what I understand,” he answered. He pulled his prayer book down from the shelf. His sitting room doubled as his library and study. “I shall be seeing Miss Jillian this morning.”
“You’ll be going to the dance, won’t you?” Amanda wondered. She’d clasped her hands behind her back, a movement that brought her pert breasts to his attention. He’d noticed her use this same movement on many of the parish lads with devastating effect. He would not be conquered. He kept his gaze on his prayer book.
“I shall make an appearance,” he said, opening the book and riffling a few pages. “But I won’t be there long.” He closed the book and started for the kitchen.
But Amanda was feeling bold today. She stepped in his path. “Your cousin just said you could dance, and you should,” she told him. “You should come out in the village more often.”
She was close. Too close. He forced a smile and sidestepped away from her. “Thank you, Amanda, but people want their parson in the church and not dancing away on the green.”
“I believe you are wrong about that, Mr. Norwich. Some of us would like to see you dance.”
“So they can laugh,” he assured her. He started once again around her. She wouldn’t let him go.
She placed a hand on his arm. “I wouldn’t laugh,” she said, raising earnest eyes to his face.
Emotions were strong at her age and very real. He knew. “I know you wouldn’t, Amanda, but I’m too old for you.”
“You aren’t that old.”
“I’m ancient. You need a brawny lad.”
“I prefer brains,” she said.
“We men grow into good sense . . . sometimes,” he had to add with a smile. Then, with quiet seriousness, he added, “I am not for you, Amanda. You wouldn’t be happy with my life.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “You’re wrong,” she said. “Wrong.” Before he could respond, she turned and ran through the kitchen and out the door.
Her mother had overheard. She’d been in the corner by the door scrubbing the floor. She now sat back on her heels.
Will felt terrible at causing Amanda dismay. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset her.”
“When a lass is that age, looking cross-eyed will upset her.” Mrs. Gowan came to her feet. She pressed a hand against her back. She’d had six children, Amanda being the youngest, and she often told Will that each one of them had marked her body. “You were fine, Reverend. Very kind,” she said. “In fact, I appreciate your honesty to her. Mandy has been yearning for you since she was this high.” She held her hand up to a point close to the height of her waist.
“Now I do feel old.”
Mrs. Gowan laughed. She had the habit many short women did of looking up to talk to a person, so she always appeared to have her nose in the air. “You should be her parents,” she told him. “She’s a lovely lass, but she is a handful. Joshua thinks we should be arranging a marriage for her. She has her sights set on you, and that is not good.”
“It’s not that I don’t believe she is lovely,” he wanted to stress.
“Go on now, I know what you mean. I understand.” She walked over to the dry sink. Will followed.
“So,” she said, changing the subject, “is your cousin here for a long stay?”
He should say something noncommittal. Mrs. Gowan really didn’t care about the details of his life. Oh, she’d warmed up to him over the past few months, but Will remembered how it had been when he’d first arrived in Ferris. The parishioners had not been happy to see the foster son of Lord Bossley appointed to living at Ferris. They’d not trusted him. Mrs. Gowan had carried out her duties as housekeeper, but there had been no easy discussions, no confidences.
Will had been lonely in those days. A pastor’s role was never easy, especially for a single man, but his relationship to Lord Bossley made it all the more difficult.
Over time, especially recently, the distrust seemed to have lifted. His parishioners now came to him with their concerns, and he was glad for it.
And he wanted that goodwill. His was a true calling. In a life when he’d often felt confused, out of place, and alone, the Church and the good Lord’s mercy had sustained him.
He was also certain Mrs. Gowan’s feelings toward him played a strong part in what the villagers thought of him. She saw that he was fed well, fussed over the long hours he worked, and provided friendship.
Today, she’d brought him a loaf of bread from her daily baking. It rested on the windowsill. Before she left, she’d have a chicken roasted on the hearth’s spit or one of her tasty stews for his dinner.
He realized that if ever there was a person whom he could not lie to, it must be Mrs. Gowan. He couldn’t abuse her friendship in that manner.
“She’s not my cousin,” he heard himself confess. The words just came right out of their own volition. “Although what was happening when you first arrived is not what it might have seemed.”
Mrs. Gowan turned from the dry sink, her brows raised. She gave him a considering look and then said quietly, “I know she isn’t your cousin, and I have enough understanding of your character, sir, to not let my mind assume the worst.”
“Do you know who she is?”
“No.”
“It’s best that way, Mrs. Gowan. Please don’t ask questions, and let’s not discuss her being here. She may be living in the parish for a few months,” he continued, humbled by her confidence. “I don’t know how long, but I would appreciate it if I could count upon your discretion.”
“Aye, Reverend, you may. But I also want you to know, you can trust us in Ferris. We consider you one of our own. After all, we’ve known you were the Thorn these past five months and more, and nary a word has passed our lips.”
Chapter Eight
Mrs. Gowan’s words, offered in that practical, borderland tone, stunned Will.
A smile lit her eyes. “See? You didn’t even know we knew. If you wish to have a ‘cousin,’ then we trust you. Believe me when I say we have tight lips and you are one of us.”
One of them. Will had thought himself completely alone . . . but now, thinking on it, he realized he couldn’t have managed to escape notice or to accomplish half of what he’d done without help.
His housekeeper nodded, as if she understood what he was thinking. “When the soldiers come asking questions, we make it sound as if you are right here amongst us all the time. They don’t suspect you, but we want to be certain they don’t.”
“I’m humbled.”
She laughed. “No, tis us that are humbled. We’d given up. We’d been swallowed whole. Lost our pride. But you gave it back to us.”
“I wanted justice.”
“And you helped us to discover faith. There isn’t anything we wouldn’t do for you.”
“Does everyone know?” he wondered, alarmed.
“Not everyone. Just those whom we can trust. None of the gentry, of course,” she answered, picking up the water bucket she’d used to clean the floor. “But my husband, the elders, most in the village and a few
others, they know.”
Her husband knew as well?
Will leaned against the dry sink. “I saw him yesterday. We discussed repairing the bell. He’s never said a word.”
“And he won’t.” She opened the door, poured the water out on the step, and picked up a broom to sweep it clean. “We understand what that money is for. You’ve given it out evenly. Wisely. Honestly.”
“I took great care to keep it quiet.” He heard her praise, but if anyone leaked a word . . . “How did you reason it out?”
“You were a bit awkward at first. Not half as clever as you’d thought. And I’m in and out of this house, and there have been signs. Once I noticed the church coffers always had money to help those who were in danger of losing their livelihoods, then I started to suspect.”
Will thought of the chest he’d stolen, of the warning from Squire Rhys-Morton—or had the squire’s confession been part of a plot?
He’d go mad thinking about all the possibilities. He wasn’t one for intrigue, and there were many times, especially of late, when he wished he’d never started the Thorn.
“I know what you are thinking, sir,” she said. “You are into this deep, but I’ve been wanting to tell you not to busy your conscience over the death of one like Simon Porledge. What he did to Seth was beyond cruelty. I say you handed out justice, a justice no one would have had without your courage.”
And they thought he’d murdered Porledge as well.
The only one who naturally thought him innocent was annoying Lady Corinne. Will wanted to explain, but he dared not. “Mrs. Gowan, you must never breathe a word of our conversation to anyone. You must erase from your mind what you know. I beg you to do this for your own safety and that of your family.”
She shut the back door and propped the broom on the floor, her hand on the handle, posing as if she’d been a courageous adventurer. “Pshaw, Mr. Norwich. I’m descended from reiver’s stock. My family has lived on this land for as many generations and more than Bossley’s own ancestors. I’ll not hide in fear. There was a time I was afraid, but you gave me courage. We are proud that you are the pastor of Holy Name.”
The Seduction of Scandal (Scandals and Seductions 5) Page 10