The Journal of a Vicar's Wife

by Viveka Portman

  I therefore, a prisoner for the Lord, urge you to walk in a manner worthy of the calling to which you have been called, with all humility and gentleness, with patience, bearing with one another in love…

  I sat up and partook of my tea, musing on the words. Perhaps Frederick considers himself a prisoner for the Lord? Was he in some peculiar way explaining his religious fervour? I was uncertain – and what could it mean, ‘bearing with one another in love?’ Was this the first confession of love I had received from my husband? Or was there some other meaning that escaped me?

  I wish to ask him at some later time what he meant by this quotation, though I am unlikely to do so. For I know, if I were to question the words of the Holy Book, whatever discussion we may have been having would be reconstructed into a tiresome and regretful sermon about my ignorance.

  At length, Minny assisted me to dress. I slipped my Bible into my reticule and descended to break my fast. Naturally, I was devilishly hungry from my late night, and ate everything. Without the watchful eye of my husband, I feared not being a glutton. I then spent some time reading and sewing, as Cook finished the stew that I was to take to the unfortunate Richards family.

  It was after midday when the stew had cooled enough for me to carry it to the Richardses’ cottage. I walked, as it was not overly far, and my husband had taken the chaise carriage on his route.

  The weather was still somewhat chill, and I’d wrapped myself about in a dark blue woollen shawl, and tightened my bonnet about my chin to prevent its loss from an unexpected gust of wind.

  I walked past several neat cottages belonging to various families in the village, and inclined my head at several villagers as I made my way. The Richardses’ house was one in unmistakeable mourning. The curtains were closed, and the older child in the garden wore a black cap on her head in respect for her deceased sibling.

  ‘Hello,’ I called, feeling quite the imposter on the grieving household.

  ‘Oh, Mrs Reeves. But it is wonderful you’ve come,’ the little girl bobbed. I knew her name to be Mary. ‘Come inside, and sit in the parlour. Mama is abed but I know she’ll be glad to see you.’

  I smiled and entered the house.

  Inside was dark, with curtains drawn and few candles to light it. It smelled stale, and I should have thought an open window would have been beneficial but dared not suggest it.

  ‘It’s Mary, isn’t it?’ I asked the child.

  The girl’s brown eyes widened with delight at my knowledge. ‘Yes, Ma’am.’ She bobbed again, and I could not help but think she should make a very fine maid one day.

  ‘Be a dear and take this to your kitchen. My Cook has made you supper.’

  ‘Oh! You’re very kind, Mrs Reeves. Mama shall be ever so grateful.’

  There was a thin voice that carried down the stairs. ‘Mary, who are you speaking with?’

  ‘It’s Mrs Reeves, Mama, the vicar’s wife.’

  There was a pause. ‘Please, send her up.’

  Mary’s hands were full of the stew and she looked from me to the stairs to the direction of the kitchen.

  ‘I shall make my way to your Mama,’ I assured her. ‘You take that the kitchen.’

  Mary bobbed gracefully once more, and placing my hand on the balustrade I began to walk up the stairs. The wood was old and rotting, something Lord Stanton’s man of business would do well to take care of.

  As I reached the landing I stepped into a darkened room. I could smell birth blood, sweet and cloying in the air. It took my eyes some time to adjust to the dimness of the room, but by and by I made out the form of the unfortunate Mrs Richards, sitting abed.

  ‘Mrs Richards,’ I said, and moved forth, taking the chair that rested by the bedhead.

  The woman spoke and her voice was etched by grief. ‘Mrs Reeves, thank you for visiting.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear of your loss,’ I added, but the words seemed tight in my throat, for despite the darkness I could see quite clearly the form of the deceased babe, swaddled still in its cradle on the other side of the bed.

  My heart tightened, and a sense of shared grief cloaked me. For a moment I could not think of anything to say, then I remembered those sage words I’d read in my Bible studies the night before.

  ‘The Bible tells us, Mrs Richards, “blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted”.’ I spoke softly, my hand searching for hers. I held it then, and though hard and roughened from her labours it was weak, cold and small. I gripped it tightly, and we were silent a time.

  Then her sobbing began. Such pain I had never heard. She sobbed as though her heart was breaking. ‘He was just a wee thing,’ she cried.

  My hand gripped hers tighter, and I was glad of my pious husband’s sermons then, for I have no experience with such pain in my life. I have no personal repertoire from which can offer words of comfort other than those my husband had advised me to learn.

  ‘The Lord is close to the broken hearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit, Mrs Richards. You shall hold your son again in the Heavenly Kingdom. ‘And the God of all grace, who called you to his eternal glory in Christ, after you have suffered a little while, will himself restore you and make you strong, firm and steadfast.’ I quoted the words I’d so recently learned. ‘Take strength in the Bible, Mrs Richards.’

  The unfortunate woman gave another shuddering breath. Her hand tightened about mine, her eyelids fluttered with exhaustion and grief, and she sank back into her bed.

  ‘I do not know much of the circumstances and sorrows you bear, Mrs Richards,’ I added softly, my thumb gently stroking the flesh of her hand. ‘But know that in your suffering, you are not alone, and it is not just the Heavenly Lord of whom I speak. All God’s creatures suffer, in as many different ways as there are creatures that cover the earth. Be strong.’ I spoke of my own deep unhappiness, of course, but she was not to know.

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, her eyes meeting mine.

  It was then I heard a cough behind me, Mrs Richards was too encompassed in her grief, but I turned, and found myself meeting the gaze of my husband.

  His expression was one of admiration and deep compassion. My heart flipped in the confines of my chest, with both surprise and pleasure. It is a rare thing indeed that I am ever the beneficiary of such an expression.

  The affection I’d long since thought may be impossible to garner from Mr Reeves suddenly seemed a possibility. The peculiar passage in my Bible readings, and his expression, made me believe it. Despite the dismal circumstance in the Richardses’ home, for the first time in my marriage, I felt proud that this strong, righteous man – a man who knows how to ease the pain of grief and coax faith in those whose faith is threatened – should look at me with such kindness.

  Then it came, a terrible paroxysm of shame to smite my feelings of pride. I am a fraud, am I not? A charlatan. A woman who sins with the dairyman.

  I looked away and gazed down at Mrs Richards as I felt her hand loosen beneath my own. Her eyes were closing in that strange, slow fashion of those dosed with laudanum. I would remain with her, I decided, until slumber took her entirely.

  I may be a fraud, a wanton, and may never know the true depth of her suffering as a mother, but I could, and would offer her my company a moment longer. I would do this to show that despite my ignorance of her pain, at the very least I could offer her companionship.

  Mrs Richards sighed wearily.

  ‘You’re … very kind,’ she murmured, her pale, thin lips falling slack.

  I closed my eyes at that sentiment – for I wished it were true. I am no such thing.

  After a time, my gaze returned to my husband, who remained a sentinel at the door. He did not smile, but his eyes remained light. Again, I felt the peculiar connection between us in that instant, something I cannot rightfully explain. It was as if for just one brief moment I understood him, and he understood me. A connection was forged. My skin prickled with sudden awareness beneath his gaze. Flustered and confused, I looked
away again, finding my heart hammering like a girl’s at her first dance.

  I waited until I was certain Mrs Richards had fallen into deep sleep, before I eased my hand away and stood watching over the woman a moment. I hoped she had found some element of comfort in what I said. For there was naught else I could much offer.

  With a deep breath, I turned back to my husband and he offered me his arm. Together we walked down the rickety stairs.

  My hand rested lightly upon the fabric of his jacket, yet I could almost sense his warmth beneath it. We were awkward, he and I, and I wished desperately to say something witty, amusing, sage or enlightening, but found my tongue as tied as a newborn. My silence did not seem to disappoint my husband however, who glanced down and smiled beneficently at me.

  My heart thumped a little louder.

  At the bottom of the stairwell, we turned to discover Mr Richards sitting by the kitchen table, and my feeling of pleasure swiftly diminished.

  ‘Mr Richards, my condolences,’ I said softly and bobbed in deference to his clear grief. Sorrow was etched in the lines of Mr Richards’ expression. He had but daughters, and the loss of his infant son must have been a bitter blow.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Reeves,’ he said.

  I turned to face my husband. ‘Are you here to organise the funerary arrangements?’

  ‘Yes,’ he nodded.

  ‘Then I shall return to the vicarage and leave you to your business. Mrs Richards is sleeping and they have a warm stew in the kitchen courtesy of Cook.’

  Mr Reeves inclined his head. ‘Very good,’ he said softly, and in a gesture that surprised me, he leaned forth and deposited a chaste kiss upon my cheek.

  My heart contracted with the unexpected caress, and my breath caught in my throat.

  ‘Well,’ I gasped, ‘Good day. I shall see you upon your return.’

  Wordlessly, my husband turned his head, and I left the dark home of the Richardses.

  I confess, I walked home in something of a daydream. My husband’s uncharacteristically affectionate farewell made me quite ebullient despite the circumstances, and I could not stem the hope that perhaps this was the beginning of a new and affectionate development in our marriage.

  * * *

  Mr Reeves arrived home very late indeed. I supped alone, and had withdrawn to my rooms when I heard him return.

  I lay in my bed, my Bible in hand, for I had thought to pre-empt a sermon by learning more without his bidding and please him again, for I very much hoped for another affectionate kiss one day.

  The door opened, and he strode in.

  There was such fierceness about his countenance that I could scarce recognise him. His hair was dishevelled as if by wind, and his cheeks flushed.

  ‘Mr Reeves?’ I asked, sitting up all in a startle. The sheet fell from my body, leaving the neckline of my nightdress exposed. His eyes flickered.

  ‘Whatever is the matter?’ I asked.

  He walked towards me, and astonishing though it was, I could see through the fabric of his black breeches an erection swelling. He spoke not a word, but his hands fumbled with the buttons of his breeches a moment before allowing his staff to lurch forth.

  ‘Oh!’ I gasped, my womanhood instantly throbbing with the thrill of what I saw.

  ‘Forgive me, Mrs Reeves,’ he growled, his words guttural and thick. He strode obscenely forth, his manhood erect and swaying towards me, and wrenched the covers from my body entirely.

  His hands were icy as they gripped the cloth of my nightdress, pushing it high above my waist. His eyes darkened on the darkly dressed curls of my sex, and I do believe he growled.

  ‘Mr Reeves!’ I exclaimed delightedly.

  Pure, bestial hunger – such a thing I have scarce ever seen in him. His cold fingers bit into the soft flesh of my thighs, forcing my legs apart. I gasped and then he was atop, his manhood pushing itself into me. I was tight and dry, as I’d had no preparation or even any notion that we may have intercourse that night. There was a moment of sweet pain as he continued to push his blunt staff into my unready quim. I cried out, opening my legs wider to ease the friction. Then he began to mate with me, as relentlessly and methodically as ever. It drove me nearly insensible.

  With every thrust I felt sweet pleasure spark deep in my body. The dryness of my quim was swiftly overcome as my body welcomed his violent and surprising invasion. The sound of his flesh slapping into mine rang about the room, as with each hit, I seemed to move closer to my crisis. His rut reached fever pitch and I became nothing more than my sex. My thoughts, my sensations, my world became that small place between my legs, and I relished every lost moment.

  I cried out, and Mr Reeves frantically ground into me, grinding his flesh against my sensitive core. It was, I believe, the first time he’d ever rutted me to crisis. He collapsed against me for just the briefest of moments, and I adored it, as his manhood throbbed and pumped its last.

  For little more than a hare’s breath he remained passionately locked in my Venusian embrace. I could smell the scent of his arousal, his perspiration, the animal desperation that had driven him to his mad rut. My arms wrapped around him, I embraced him tightly, trying to capture and hold him, if just for one moment longer. I closed my eyes in some attempt to commit this passionate scene to memory.

  Then, as I had expected, he abruptly withdrew, and my arms fell back to the blankets.

  ‘Good night,’ he said, his voice gruff but so soft I scarce heard him. By the time I’d opened my eyes, he’d already departed, the door clicking shut behind him.

  For a long time I lay as he’d left me, his seed cooling between my legs. At length the hammering of my heart eased and I had time to reflect.

  As I sit and write by my candle I still cannot fathom what has evoked such a passion in my usually staid husband. Have I behaved differently this day? Or dressed in a particularly fetching manner? What exactly have I done for him to suddenly to acquire such a brutal passion? I cannot suggest a thing, but I hope, most ardently, it will happen once more.

  Wednesday, 5th May 1813

  It is unsurprising, but this morning, I expected some shift in his behaviour. My reading of that Bible passage, his expression at the Richardses home, and his passion last night, had led me to believe a shift in our marriage was occurring.

  Perhaps I am a fool, but I had hoped our relationship would be more cordial and with deeper affection. Alas, I found much to my disappointment that Mr Reeves has sunk further from me. His tone was curt, and there was not a glimmer of affection in his eyes.

  ‘My dear, what is the matter?’ I asked over tea and toast, though I knew he must be lamenting our intercourse last night.

  He eyed me with suspicion. ‘I have sinned,’ he said stiffly.

  My heart sank. ‘How have you sinned?’ I asked, remembering the fleeting but furious passion he’d delivered upon me.

  He sipped his tea, his eyes hard. ‘I have suffered pride and lust, and I shall endeavour to humble myself before the Good Lord for it.’

  I was speechless a moment and uncertain as to how I should address his dissatisfaction.

  ‘I do not see any vice in your behaviour, Mr Reeves. Indeed, no. You are a very fine husband and I … I … quite enjoyed …’

  ‘Do not continue,’ he said his voice soft and dangerous. ‘I shall have none of your sweet words to placate me.’

  I felt myself recoil. ‘Mr Reeves,’ I said. ‘You are just a man. There is nothing wrong in taking your ease on your wife. You must not be ashamed for sharing pleasure with me. Nor is it prideful to be pleased with your wife when she pleases you. For I … I … did please you, did I not? ’

  His cup clattered to its saucer, spilling the brown liquid. ‘Do you think everything is about you, Mrs Reeves?’ His voice was cold.

  I shrank back, my cheeks flushed. ‘I … merely hoped to allay your concerns, if indeed you had them, about our intercourse yesterday.’

  His eyes darkened and fury danced in them. ‘Have you ever
taken pause to consider that my dissatisfaction may not relate to last night, but to something else entirely?’

  A chill crept up my spine and I shivered despite the warmth emanating from the remaining embers of last night’s fire as they faded in the hearth.

  ‘I …’

  ‘Of course you had not,’ he snarled. ‘Read your Bible, Mrs Reeves. I will be back this evening.’

  Suffice to say, this evening he was neither cordial nor affectionate and he did not visit my rooms.

  He is a puzzlement to me, my husband. So pious, so righteous but also doggedly self-abasing. I have never met a man so dedicated to self-denial. I have spent many hours at my desk, in dark reflection on my own behaviour. My relations with Mr Goddard are testament, I feel, to the mystifying complication that is my marriage.

  Thursday, 6th May 1813

  I have scarce seen my husband since our last encounter over breakfast, and indeed this morning he had left before I had even time to join him.

  I have lamented his absence this day in a greater manner than previously. However, his absence makes it clear that there shall be no change in his sternness, and I am weary of it. Thus it is that I shall go about my usual business.

  Once a month it is my habit to go into the village to see Mr Bernard Quake. He is an accountant, who assists in the accounts of the parish and vicarage. Mr Quake is an older gentleman of perhaps four-and-forty.

  Truly, I have no proficiency or interest in accountancy at all, and was a year into my marriage when my husband discovered that I had no particular aptitude for it. So it is that he sends me to Mr Quake to go through the ledgers and accounts once a month, to ensure all is in order; my husband, naturally, being too busy to do it himself.

  Let it be said that I do not mind doing the accounts nor visiting Mr Quake, for it provides a distraction my existence would otherwise not have. I genuinely admire the man. He is thorough and attentive and rather charming when he puts his mind to it.