"Rina, go and fetch some hot broth for Reverend Marshall. It seems he's decided to rejoin the living after all."
The voice belonged to a tall, good looking man in his sixties, with a full compliment of light, graying hair, and strong features. His chin was clefted handsomely, and though his sharp, teal-colored eyes bore a stern look about them, they weren't unfriendly.
The housekeeper gave a crisp curtsy and obediently disappeared through the open doorway, but the young priest scarcely noticed. He was studying his host, wondering how the magistrate knew his name, since they weren't acquainted.
Sir John seemed to read his thoughts, and he almost smiled as he strolled closer. “Your credentials were in your pocket,” he explained. “I took the liberty."
The young priest's eyes flashed. “Vicar Carlisle!” he cried. “He's expecting me and I'm overdue. I must get back to Holy Martyrs."
"Easy, young man,” Sir John warned, “you aren't going anywhere until those bones mend. You have a severed clavicle; you've broken it in three places. ‘Tis a wonder it wasn't your neck. My personal physician will be tending you here until you're fit to travel. And don't fret about your superior. My man took a note ‘round to Holy Martyrs vicarage an hour ago. Vicar Carlisle will be calling upon you tomorrow."
The young priest breathed a ragged sigh. “H-have I done much damage to your lawn, sir?” he wondered.
Sir John popped a deep, guttural laugh. “There you lie, all trussed up like a Christmas goose, with broken bones and concussion, mind, and you're worried over the state and condition of my front lawn? I like you, young Marshall, but I'm going to call you by your given name, I think. I need not introduce myself, since Rina has done a proper job of that for me. ‘Elliot’ . . .” he reflected, testing the sound of it, “yes, it suits you far better than ‘reverend'. That title brings to mind a sour-faced, older sort of man, with a complexion the color of gray paste and a personality to match—common signs amongst the clergy these days, I dare say. Take care you don't contract the disease and spoil that handsome image of yours. Is there much pain?"
The young priest gave a cryptic laugh. “A fair amount,” he said.
"Hmmm . . .” Sir John mused. “I shouldn't wonder. Dr, Smythe has left laudanum, but you'd best wait a bit for that—the concussion, you know. It wouldn't be wise to put you under too soon. Rina will be bringing the broth directly. You should have that first."
"I'm terribly sorry to have upset your household,” said Elliot. “The Church will make restitution for the property damage, of course. How did my horse fare? The poor animal went down hard when the carriage overturned."
"Not as well as you, I'm afraid,” Sir John regretted. “Both his hind legs were broken; I had to destroy him."
"Ahhh, God . . .” Elliot groaned.
Sir John pulled a straight-back chair alongside the bed and sat down. “Your carriage can be salvaged, though,” he said. “I sent it ‘round to the wheelwright. The axle is bent, and two of the wheels are out of round, but he says he can mend it. Where the devil were you going at such a speed in that storm?"
"I was returning to Holy Martyrs from the poor quarter,” said Elliot. “I go there on Tuesdays with clothes and food...whatever our kind parishioners can spare for the less fortunate. My speed was the horse's doing, not mine. Foul weather always made him unstable. It was all I could do to hold him. Lightning snapped off a tree limb and it fell in our path. Old Goliath reared, and here I am. My parents died in just such an accident when I was a boy. I was certain I was about to join them."
"Evidently God isn't quite ready for you yet,” said the magistrate, “or is it that you aren't ready for God?"
The pain was excruciating then, and the young priest was in no condition to enter into a philosophical discussion, but there was a hint of sarcasm in the old man's tone that he couldn't let pass, unchallenged.
"You don't exactly approve of the clergy, do you, sir?” he said.
"I neither approve, nor disapprove,” Sir John said flatly. “The dealings I've had thus far in this life with the clergy have, for the most part, been . . . unpleasant. Consequently, I try to avoid them to the best of my ability."
"But you are a magistrate, sir,” said the priest. “Who better than you should know that you cannot judge the many by the actions of the few?"
"You would draw me into a theological debate—half conscious from that bed? You've chosen the right vocation, bigod."
"Forgive me, your worship,” Elliot murmured. “I've no right to probe you; I'm sorry."
"You've every right,” said Sir John. “I goaded you. It's your privilege to respond. And I think we can dispense with formalities. I haven't got you in the dock, you know. ‘Sir John’ will suffice. I hear enough of ‘your worship’ at court."
"As you wish, sir, but still . . . I do apologize. I tend to be too outspoken at times. I've been reprimanded for it on more than one occasion, I'm afraid."
"Well, better that than passive indifference,” said the magistrate. “Yes, I like you, Elliot Marshall. We're going to get on quite well, I think, you and I . . . quite well, indeed."
"You aren't a church going man then, I take it?"
"No, I am not, and don't presume for a moment that you're going to change that, my tenacious young friend."
"But you do believe in God?"
"I did once."
Elliot stared. His pain was all but forgotten then, as he watched a shadow of sadness darken the magistrate's absent expression. The moment passed, and though the young priest hadn't spoken, Sir John answered the question in his eyes.
"I was raised in the Anglican Church,” he said, “and I formed my own opinions of the establishment early on. Those opinions did not affect my belief in God at the time. They did, however, affect my views on the Church."
"What caused you to doubt?"
"That came about after I chose a wife,” said the magistrate. “I married late. I was already established in my vocation. Claire came from a family of prominent aristocrats—the Roubelards, from the south of France; Roman Catholics, of course. They never forgave her. Neither the Anglican, nor the Roman Catholic clergy were supportive of the union. Claire could not embrace the Anglican Church, and I could not subscribe to Roman Catholicism after a forty-five year alignment with the Church of England. In the end, we were married by a colleague of mine . . . outside the Church; her family disowned her."
"But that was a long time ago, sir. Both Churches have changed—"
"It wasn't all that long ago,” Sir John interrupted him. “Doesn't matter now in any case. Claire died sixteen years ago in childbirth."
"You do have children then,” said Elliot, answering his own mental question.
Sir John nodded. “My daughter, Mary, is nineteen,” he said. “My son, Colin, will be sixteen next march. ‘Twas bearing him that killed her."
The magistrate's voice had become caustic with the last, and the young priest shuddered in spite of himself. “Are they living here with you in London?” he wondered.
Sir John shook his head. “My daughter lives at Cragmoor, my country estate in Cornwall,” he said. “Colin is at Eton. I could have had him at any of the high-end private establishments; he's certainly clever enough, but since he has the makings of a proper wastrel, I decided that a good bootstrap school might be more to his benefit."
He reached into his waistcoat pocket and removed his watch and chain. Flipping the watch case open, he held out a hand painted likeness for Elliot to view. “My daughter,” he said, watching the young priest's face as he examined the portrait of a slender, shapely girl, with long, dark hair falling in loose curls over her shoulders. Large, articulate eyes stared back at him almost defiantly, though the bee-stung lips pretended to smile. The gentle cleft in her chin was less pronounced than her father's, but the resemblance was unmistakable.
"She favors you,” said Elliot, reluctant to part with the image as the magistrate reclaimed it and tucked it away again.
"Sh
e has her mother's French coloring,” Sir John replied, “fair skin and dark hair. Claire was a beautiful woman."
"But she has your features,” Elliot pointed out. “She's very lovely, sir. Have you a likeness of your son?"
"I need no reminders of my son,” the old man growled. “But for him . . ."
Elliot's eyes narrowed as he studied the magistrate then. Could he actually blame his son for his wife's death? It certainly seemed that way. But that was unthinkable. The young priest was tempted to probe the possibility, but he wasn't up to it then. The pain was coming in waves again. His skin had grown clammy, and he felt the blood drain away from his face as he tried to sort out the old man's far away stare.
But the moment passed, and Sir John squared his posture and slapped his knees. “Nicely done, young man,” he said, his wry attitude returning. “You've just gotten out of me in less than twenty minutes what no one else has managed to do in twenty years—and that from the threshold of death's door, if you please.” He chuckled huskily. “Heaven help the man who tries to hide from you, ‘Reverend Marshall',” he said. “Perhaps you ought to rethink your vocation after all. You might want to go ‘round to the Yard and exchange your clerical collar for an inspector's shield.” All at once his smile dissolved. “My God, you look ghastly,” he observed. “I've been trying to keep you awake as the doctor advised, but I think I've overdone it. That will be enough chitchat for tonight. We'll have plenty of time for that sort of thing once you've rested. I'm going to go down and see what's keeping Rina with that broth. ‘Tis time we get you fed and dosed, and on the way to mending."
* * * *
Elliot didn't see Sir John again that night. Rina spoon-fed him the broth, dosed him with laudanum, and left him to rest. Exhausted, the young priest scarcely needed the drug to induce sleep, but it was a fitful sleep, disturbed by unsettling dreams—strange, nagging images of the girl in the watch case—of her brother, who appeared to him faceless, since he had nothing to draw from to conjure an image—and of Sir John, posturing his estrangement from them both.
The haunting image of the magistrate's daughter wouldn't fade as he drifted in and out of the dream state. That she was confined in the country bothered him. She was past the age to have a Season, and be presented at parties in town, though it was certainly still possible. Her father would have contacts that could see to it. On the one hand, he wondered why he had neglected to present her, while on the other, he was almost glad that he hadn't. But those were feelings too new for him to cope with then, and he finally let them drown in the mists of sleep.
In the morning Rina brought him a breakfast of coddled eggs and warm caraway biscuits fresh from the oven. A steaming pot of tea accompanied the meal, and with the help of a few extra pillows plumped up behind him, he managed to eat it on his own with the help of his good right hand.
The doctor looked in on him as promised. Encouraged that his appetite hadn't suffered in the ordeal, he instructed Rina to continue serving him light meals, being watchful for any signs of nausea or vomiting in view of the concussion. The laudanum was to be used sparingly as needed for the pain, which he warned would be far more severe with movement. He further instructed her to increase the dose at bedtime, so that the young priest would be able to sleep without discomfort through the night. With that settled, and a stern warning delivered that moving about would certainly undo all the good work he had done, he made his departure with a promise to come again daily until he was satisfied with the patient's progress.
Sir John had left the house early. He was presiding at a trial, which would occupy his time for the better part of the days to come until sentence was pronounced in the matter, and Elliot was left alone in the spacious room on the second floor of the rambling house to sort out his thoughts and feelings in regard to his new situation.
It was warm for the last week in September. The sun streamed in through the window laying down patterns on the polished oak floor. The fire had gone out in the hearth, but it wasn't needed, and there was no sound except for the ticking of a tall grandfather clock in the corner, which chimed mournfully on the hour and half-hour, and the soft twittering of birds playing about the window ledge. But their music was not to last. They were gone by midday, chased by a sudden fog that had crept inland from the Thames, stealing the light and the warmth along with it, and Rina lit the bedside lamp and started a fresh fire in the hearth when she brought up the noon meal.
With nothing to distract him, the young priest's thoughts kept straying back to the enigmatic mystery he'd happened upon. He liked the magistrate, who seemed a kind and honorable man, but given that, he couldn't understand the attitude he displayed toward his children, his son in particular.
He decided that Sir John had evidently loved his wife passionately enough to do battle with both the Anglican and Roman Catholic clergy, not to mention the woman's family, in order to have her for his bride. His son's birth had taken her from him too soon, and while that loss should have drawn father and son closer together, it had driven them apart instead.
He further decided that if Colin had the makings of a wastrel as his father suggested, he hadn't begun to tread that path without a helping hand, considering the obvious neglect and lack of guidance the boy had been forced to deal with, and that saddened him. He, too, had been left to fend for himself at a young age. Memories of his own early life nurtured empathy for Colin. He wondered if he would meet him, since Eton was so close by. Somehow, he doubted it, judging from the old man's position, and he made up his mind to effect a meeting on his own if need be once he'd recovered, and a silent vow to befriend the boy however he had to accomplish it.
Mary's situation, as he saw it, was just as critical. Sir John evidently doted on his daughter, and yet he had cast her aside also. Since he couldn't have one without the other, both had suffered. Did the man not know what these children must be feeling? How could he, a magistrate, not see the injustice of his actions or foresee the consequences? These were the thoughts the young priest was wrestling with when Vicar Andrew Carlisle arrived that afternoon.
Rina set a silver tray with a fragrant pot of tea, and warm cream scones dripping butter and jam on the gateleg table in Elliot's bed chamber. Once she'd served them, she stole away quite daintily for a woman of her size, closing the door behind her.
Andrew Carlisle was a muscular man in his mid-fifties, with steel-gray hair, and eyes of a similar color behind rimless spectacles. They observed the priest with not a little concern, and when he spoke his soft voice was unsteady.
"Elliot . . . you look dreadful,” he said, sinking down on the chair beside the bed. “Are they giving you something for the pain?"
The young priest tried to nod as he took a sip from his cup. “It's bearable if I lie still,” he told him.
"I went ‘round to see Dr. Smythe earlier,” said the vicar. “He told me that you're lucky to be alive, and that you can't be moved to hospital or Holy Martyrs without risk. He says that you're best off right here where you are, and I'm inclined to agree. I also spoke briefly with Sir John downstairs. He'd just come in as I arrived. He's a very respected figure hereabout, you know. You'll want for nothing in his care. I only hope he doesn't spoil you."
Elliot smiled. “I must admit, I'm quite unused to all this pampering, and it is all rather nice, but you needn't worry over that, Andrew. Will Sir John be joining us for tea?"
"No,” the vicar replied. “He's going over his notes for tomorrow's session. He wants all that out of the way in order to be free to spend some time with you after dinner."
"I'm sorry for causing all this distress,” Elliot agonized. “I've left you shorthanded, and I've totally disrupted Sir John's household, though he's been very gracious about that. And then there's the damage I've done to his lawn out there. I told him that the Church will reimburse him for any repairs."
"I offered him a draft just now, but he refused. He told me he's been meaning to have his gardener plant some shrubbery in that spot anyway,
and that you've spared the man the labor of breaking ground."
"At this time of year?"
The vicar smiled. “He insisted that I spend the draft in the poor quarter, since you won't be able to make your visits there for awhile. He's a very rich man, Elliot. He hardly needs to fret over a patch of gouged sod."
Considering the magistrate's views on the Church, the young priest marveled at the generosity of the donation. “That was very kind of him,” he breathed almost passionately.
But he would not betray his benefactor's confidence in that regard. The gesture did, however, give him one more puzzle to solve. He'd stumbled upon a paradox in the person of Sir John Chapin, and he wasn't going to rest until he'd put all of the pieces into place.
"You've made quite an impression on the man,” said the vicar. “He's quite content to keep you ‘til you're fit."
"How long is that going to be,” the young priest wondered, “did the doctor say?"
"Six weeks . . . two months . . . that's going to depend upon you."
"Two months?” Elliot blurted, making a sudden movement that stabbed him with nauseating pain.
"You must lie still!” the vicar reprimanded him. “Now see what you've done."
"I can't stay here for two months,” Elliot protested. “Why, we're almost into October. What about Advent . . . Christmas?"
"You'll be back at Holy Martyrs by Christmas if you behave yourself. I've arranged with the bishop for you to be relieved of your duties until you're fully recovered. If he has no problem with that, why should you? I'll bring you Holy Communion on Sundays, and you can use the time preparing a memorable Christmas Eve sermon. You have no choice in any case."
"I'll put on three stone if I stay here until Christmas."
The vicar laughed. “You're too thin anyway. Let it be, Elliot. Leave it to God. He knows what's best."
Elliot wondered about that, but his colleague was right, he had no choice in the matter and, like it or not, he was going to have to make the best of it.
"Can you manage, Andrew?” he probed.
Rape of the Soul Page 4