“Is that why the pews at Holy Name have grown crowded?” he queried, a touch of irony in his voice. “When I first arrived, it was often myself and old Andrew at service.”
“You support us. We support you . . . and your sermons are growing on me.” She put the broom away by the side of the dry sink. “You still talk over my head. You are too intelligent for your own good, Mr. Norwich, but we like you. And if you say that young woman is your cousin, well, then, so she is. Anyone who dares think different had best keep her tongue in her head. You know I’m thinking about Maude Clemson. A busybody always thinking the worst. But I’ll see that she is kept in her place.”
“Thank you,” he said, meaning the words. The truth was until he’d created the Thorn, he’d felt ill at ease in his profession. It had been hard to stand aside and do nothing while a great wrong was being lowered on the people of this parish.
“You know,” Mrs. Gowan continued, wiping her hands on her apron, “our current Lord Bossley may be a mighty man in London, but there are few of us here who would offer a hand to help him if he was drowning in the Liddell, begging your pardon, Reverend,” she added as a way of penance. “It’s a shame now. You should have known his father, the old Lord Bossley. He was a grand man. Good to all of us, the way a lord should be.”
“Times are changing, Mrs. Gowan,” Will offered, feeling that out of loyalty alone he should say something in the defense of his foster father. “We can’t keep all the old customs.”
“Some things should change,” she agreed. “Here, I’ve brewed myself a cup of tea. Would you like one?”
She’d never made that offer before. A threshold had been crossed between them, one that he’d hoped to cross months before when he’d first arrived as their clergyman.
“Yes, I would.”
“Sit down then,” she ordered while she poured two cups and carried them over to the table. “I know you feel you must be respectful to Lord Bossley,” she said in motherly tones as she took the chair across from his. “I want you to know that when he came back from that island he’d been living on, we all wished to serve him well. He was our peer. It’s him that betrayed us.”
Will turned the handle of his teacup without taking a sip. “What was he like then?”
“When he first came? Different than what we expected. No one knew him well. After all, he’d been away to school from the day he came out of skirts. The old lord and his lady didn’t live together well.”
“What do you mean?”
“They didn’t like each other. He stayed on the estate and she spent all her time in London. Her son stayed with her, although from what I’ve heard, she never was a doting parent.”
“Bossley’s father didn’t protest?” He couldn’t imagine a man letting his child grow up without him.
She made a disparaging sound. “Some men are good with children. My Joshua is one of the best fathers. But the old lord seemed to care more for his hunting dogs than his wife and son. My mother used to say that most of us had forgotten the old lord even had an heir until the current lord showed up one day almost a year to the day after his father’s death. We’d started to believe he’d never return to Ferris. I mean, we’d received word he was on his way, but he took his time in coming.”
Her expression softened. “I remember you when you were no higher than a chair leg. I was one of the girls Lady Bossley interviewed to care for you and Lord Sherwin. I wasn’t hired. She thought me too young. Two years later I was married and had a child of my own.”
“Well, we’ve come full circle, haven’t we?” he observed dryly. “You are taking care of me now.”
She laughed and stood up from the table, finished with her tea. “I wouldn’t have been happy in London. But I understand why our Lord Bossley enjoys himself there. It is all he has known. That must be his mother’s mark on him. I wonder what happened to her?”
“The dowager Lady Bossley? She is still in London.” Will had only met her once or twice. She was a strange woman, who gave him an unsettled feeling. “From my understanding, she is extremely frail. Only Bossley calls on her.”
“It’s too bad. Perhaps if he’d had more of a father’s influence, he wouldn’t be so greedy, if you will pardon my speaking my mind.”
Will laughed. “Speak your mind whenever you wish, Mrs. Gowan. I appreciate it and,” he added pointedly, “I appreciate and value your discretion.”
“You’ve earned my loyalty, Mr. Norwich. If you are asking me to keep my lips sealed, that’s already done. Porledge deserved his death.” She picked up the basket she usually carried, a sign she was ready to leave for the day. “You see the bread here.” She placed her hand on the loaf on the sill. “I have a chicken and potatoes in that pot on the hook.” She nodded toward the fire, where a covered pot had been set off from the heat. “Mandy will be at the churn this afternoon. I’ll send her over later with some fresh butter . . . ?” Her voice broke off. Her manner changed as she stared at a point beyond his shoulder.
Will turned in the chair and then came to his feet at the sight of Lady Corinne in the doorway. She’d replaited her hair and held the pitcher from the washbasin.
She looked very young, very innocent, and very lovely—although the dress threatened to swallow her up. Of course, not even sackcloth could disguise her curves or take away from her natural grace.
Lady Corinne’s chin came up, as if she expected him to censure her for coming down the stairs. “I’m Corinne Rosemont,” she said to Mrs. Gowan. “Mr. Norwich’s cousin.” Abruptly, she held her hand out as if wishing for the other woman to shake it.
A surmising glint came to Mrs. Gowan’s eyes. Her glance slid from Corinne to Will. She was an earthy woman, and Will feared what conclusion she had jumped to. She stuck her hand out and took Lady Corinne’s. “It’s my pleasure to meet you, Miss Rosemont,” she said, bobbing a small curtsey anyway. “I’m Rachel Gowan. My husband’s the blacksmith, and I have been Reverend Norwich’s housekeeper this past year. I hope you enjoy your stay here in Ferris. If there is anything you need, ask. I’ll be happy to help.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Gowan. I appreciate your kindness,” Lady Corinne answered, her initial defiance giving way to genuine warmth. Mrs. Gowan melted.
It did Will no good to watch that Lady Corinne conquered everyone around him. Was he the only one who knew to keep his guard up?
“Well, now, I’ll be off,” the housekeeper said. “Don’t forget tomorrow is washing day.”
“I won’t,” Will said.
Corinne took a step after her. “Do you have needle and thread?”
“Aye.”
“Could you bring it on the morrow?”
Mrs. Gowan’s gaze dropped to Lady Corinne’s overlarge dress. “I’ll have my Mandy bring it when she runs the butter over later today. I have a seam ripper as well. You may need to take down the hem.”
“Yes, I do need to do that,” Lady Corinne said.
“I also have another dress I can send. And a bonnet. You’ll need a bonnet to go to church. It’s a shabby thing, but a clever girl can fancy it up.”
“I will appreciate both,” Lady Corinne murmured.
“Good day, Reverend. Miss Rosemont.” Mrs. Gowan was out the door.
There was a moment of silence after she’d left. They could hear her calling to see if Mandy had finished her chores, then ordering the girl to follow her home for the churning that needed to be done.
Will wished he could have left with her. Instead, he hid awkwardness behind silence.
Lady Corinne spoke first. “I heard what she said about the Thorn.” She waited a beat, as if expecting him to respond. When he didn’t, she asked, “Why did she say Simon Porledge deserved to die?”
There was something he could attach his temper to and use to put distance between them. He didn’t want to like her. He mustn’t. “Sometimes, my lady, you are t
oo curious. Stay out of what doesn’t concern you.”
With those curt words he left the rectory and kept walking. He needed to release anxiousness, and it took him a good five minutes before he realized he’d tramped into the woods surrounding Ferris.
This wasn’t the first time he’d blindingly walked out doubts, fears . . . shame.
Simon Porledge. The man haunted him.
Will considered himself a practical man, but he carried guilt for Porledge’s death. Guilt for what had happened to the people of Ferris.
And now, in the middle of everything, God had delivered her.
She was willful, arrogant, disturbingly beautiful, and honest. More honest than he was with himself. Ironic how an infatuation he’d suffered as a youth was carried with him still.
He played the offended party well . . . even as he was secretly glad she didn’t want to marry Freddie. He knew his foster brother’s true nature better than any. She’d been wise to run.
However, although she was an innocent in this cat’s game he played with Lord Bossley, she could very well be the cause of him losing his head.
“Keep your distance, Will,” he reminded himself. “Keep your distance.”
The sooner he shipped her away, the better.
The small rectory seemed to shrink even more with Will’s exit.
Funny how she had no difficulty thinking of him as Will—her cousin Will. She liked the name. It fit him. The title “Reverend” was old and stuffy. Will was a strong name and worthy of this complex man. A man who was also handsome, dashing, angry, alone . . .
He wasn’t like any man she’d ever met before. She’d be wise to keep her distance. Will had secrets. She sensed it. Not everything was what it seemed, but she couldn’t decide if that was just a fanciful notion of her own or a threat.
She filled her pitcher with water heating in a kettle beside the fire, then walked through the sitting room, acquainting herself with her new home. The whole rectory was the size of the reception room in her father’s London house.
The books on the shelves in the sitting room were religious tomes, many in Latin or Greek. No wonder he was so serious all the time. She’d have been cross-eyed if she’d had to spend her reading time translating. She could do it, but she’d never understood the purpose of reading Greek.
She climbed the stairs. Her night of wandering was catching up to her, and her shoulder ached from overuse.
Her room had a single bed covered with a patchwork counterpane, a washstand, a chair and table by the window. The window overlooked the shed that stabled Roman, who stood munching his grass. She’d discovered last night that the horse was down to his last four good teeth. It took him a great deal of chewing to finish a meal, but Corinne was learning to respect the beast as Will did. Roman was surprisingly strong and forward-moving for his age. He’d not shirked in carrying her through the dark.
On the other side of the shed, not far from the back kitchen door, a garden had been tilled for spring planting.
If she leaned against the windowpane, she could see the stone edifice of Will’s church. A graveyard filled most of the surrounding space around the church with carefully manicured walkways to keep visitors off the graves. A huge cherry tree, just now coming into bloom, glorified and sheltered this hallowed ground.
And beyond the church was Ferris.
Corinne wished she dared open the window and stick her head out for a better view. The risk that she could have been seen and recognized was too great, and even if she did do so, the church blocked most of what she could see.
But she had a hint of what it was like in the two buildings in her line of sight. Thatched roofs, well-tended gardens, children chasing a hoop down the dirt road. Peaceful. Pleasant. And yet there was a darkness here as well.
She pulled back. This sense of foreboding was not like her.
They said her great-grandmother had the “sight.” She’d often predicted events well before they’d happened.
Corinne had not thought she shared her ancestress’s gift, but she couldn’t shake this sense that she was where she was meant to be.
And that something was afoot. Something she couldn’t define but “felt.”
Curiosity made her bold enough to enter his room.
The wooden-post bed was larger than hers, but not by much. Considering his height, he must have had to sleep doubled up.
There was a woven rag rug on the floor, and the counterpane on his bed was a deep blue. The sunlight coming through the window struck the color and reflected it around the room. The sandalwood scent of his shaving soap lingered in the air.
In contrast to the two pegs in the wall of her room, he had a wardrobe. It was a rough-hewn thing, obviously locally made out of oak. His riding boots had been placed side by side in front of it. They’d been polished so that there would be no reminder of the Thorn’s escapade the other night.
Corinne opened the wardrobe door. She was not surprised to see two black jackets, two black vests, and one cleaned and pressed white shirt. A parson’s life didn’t allow for much color. She wondered where he kept his vestments. Probably over at the church.
She closed the door and noticed one place where Will was not neat and orderly. There was a stack of books on the floor beside the bed. Some were left open, as if he’d found an item of particular interest and had wanted to refer back to it later.
She couldn’t resist seeing what he read and was pleasantly surprised by the miscellaneous assortment. These were not the decorative books of a gentleman’s library, books placed on shelves for show.
No, these were well-loved books. Judging by their spines, they’d been read repeatedly. There was Daniel Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe, as well as Letters of a Turkish Spy and other tales of adventure and foreign places. She’d read two of the books on his stack—One Thousand and One Nights, although she’d read it in English under the title The Arabian Nights and not this French translation, and Castle Rackrent, one of female author Maria Edgeworth’s entertaining novels.
Corinne held these books in her hand as she glanced over at the boots, polished and waiting for their master’s next adventure.
Infatuation was a dangerous thing. It clouded judgment. In spite of his calling, Will Norwich was a dangerous man.
She’d be wise to remember it.
But he was also one who craved adventure.
This, Corinne could understand.
Will did not return home until late. At some point, he’d fetched Roman and ridden off, but Corinne had fallen asleep across her bed and so had missed the chance to speak a few words to him.
Mrs. Gowan’s personable daughter Amanda had come by with fresh butter, needle and thread, and the promised clothing. Corinne set to work on the green wool, attempting to give it, if not a more stylish line, then a better-fitting one.
She was definitely ready to eat by the time Will returned. She’d set the table in anticipation of his arrival. Amanda had reminded Corinne about cooking the chicken. Corinne had never cooked anything before except biscuits with the cook when she was a child, so she was pleased that her efforts of hanging the chicken pot over the fire had resulted in a hot, tasty dish.
Furthermore, her natural enthusiasm for life wanted conversation. She’d longed for it all day, and now that he’d returned, she was ready to talk.
He wasn’t.
Will went about chores. He pumped a fresh bucket of water, which he set on the floor beside the dry sink. Then he took the stewed chicken off the fire and set the pot on the table. He took his chair without waiting for Corinne to have her seat first.
She didn’t complain. She folded her hands and waited dutifully as he said a few ministerial words over the chicken. Her family was not particularly religious. They went to church for show, but she wasn’t going to tell him that. He seemed truly devoted.
He then ate his din
ner in silence, focusing on his food, which he ate with an economy of movement.
When at last she couldn’t take being ignored any longer, Corinne said, “Perhaps we should discuss our story about my being your cousin?”
He didn’t answer immediately. She kept a pleasant smile on her face, but her grip on her fork tightened at his rudeness. Just when she was ready to reach over and pop him on the head with the fork, he said, “It’s not necessary. You won’t be out and about. Mrs. Gowan will keep your presence to herself.” He buttered his bread and started eating it. He had not looked at her as he’d spoken.
Corinne pushed her chicken around her plate. “I think we should play a game this evening. It will while away the time.”
“I don’t like games,” he answered, shifting his attention from his bread to the last of his chicken.
“Not even cards? I’m very lucky.”
“I don’t play cards.”
“Do you have an instrument? Music is a good way to entertain both mind and soul—”
“No.”
Corinne took a deep breath. He was being deliberately difficult. She wondered what imaginary crime he was placing beside her name now. “We could converse? Play a game of ten questions? I ask you questions and then you ask me—”
“I shall read this evening.”
A solitary endeavor. She set down her fork and frowned at him, although he didn’t notice, since he refused to look at her. She decided to take the direct route. “Why are you being this way? What have I done to upset you?”
He lifted his head, looking at her with mild surprise—and she was struck anew by how handsome he was, even when she was vexed with him. “Let me see . . . you’ve forced yourself on me, compromised my position, jilted my foster brother—”
“Oh, please,” she interrupted. “We’ve already hashed this out. You are unhappy with me. I understand. It’s clear. You may stop acting out in such a bad fashion.”
Her reward was to have his gaze finally hone in on her. She was surprised to realize his eyes weren’t brown, as she’d supposed, but green. A woody, dark green.
The Seduction of Scandal (Scandals and Seductions 5) Page 11