Elliot fell silent. His mind was reeling. Just moments ago he knew who he was and where he was going. Now he no longer felt sure of anything, except that he had no say in the matter of his future. Sir John had taken advantage of their friendship. He felt used and betrayed.
Anger found his voice. “All right, sir,” he said, “make your...proposal if you must, since you will in any case, but in all fairness do not make it grand, for if you do you tamper with eternity—not mine, sir, yours! You can, it seems, bribe me...I am admittedly no match for your political prowess and power, and you can evidently bribe the Church, because even the Church is fallible, since it's run by men...but you cannot bribe God. He is not for sale, and if you try, I promise you...you will live to regret it."
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Chapter Five
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As the magistrate knew, the offer of a fine church in the wilds of Cornwall dangled before the bishop was too juicy a plumb to go unplucked. The bargain was sealed in record speed, and Elliot Marshall, vicar of the soon-to-be-erected St. Michael's Church on the Cornish coast of England, was on his way to Cragmoor in Sir John Chapin's personal chaise, two days after Christmas.
It all happened so quickly that there was scarcely time for him to bid Vicar Carlisle goodbye. In spite of his colleague's well wishes, Elliot was dismayed over the aspect of his new situation, and no amount of persuasion to the contrary was going to convince him he hadn't let his friend and mentor down. He felt as though he had betrayed him, and he knew that he always would. It didn't matter that he'd had no say in the outcome; the results were the same. As he saw it, he'd been bought—reduced to nothing more than a pawn to be played by the magistrate in a desperate attempt to bribe God with too little too late.
Was this what God really wanted, or was it simply the shrewd manipulation of men that had uprooted him no less violently than the wind uproots a tree? He simply didn't know. There was one thing, though, of which he was absolutely certain: if he was to be put in proximity of Sir John's children, Colin in particular, he would fight to reconcile them with their father with his dying breath if necessary.
He was angry with Sir John for interfering, with the bishop for proving the old man right, and with himself for allowing it all to happen. He knew that if he hadn't seen the image in that watch case, he would have fought his abduction (for that is how he saw it), like a Trojan. He might not have won, but at least he would have had the satisfaction of having tried as balm to soothe his conscience. As it was, these were things he dared not dwell upon. What was done was done. He was vicar of a church that didn't even exist. As bizarre as that was, it was a fact, and he would simply have to make the best of it.
Elliot was alone with his thoughts in the chaise. Sir John wouldn't be joining him at Cragmoor until the end of the week. He'd remained behind in order to engage an architect who could interpret his concept of the design for the church and vicarage so that the work could commence right after the first of the year. It was just as well. Elliot needed time to defuse his anger, and to accustom himself to his new status as vicar, which was something he couldn't justify no matter how hard he tried—with or without a church. He also needed time to evaluate the situation concerning Mary. Sir John would be expecting a report when he arrived, and that would be his chief priority once he reached the estate.
Elliot's first sight of the grand mansion, rising three-and-a-half stories high from the heath, took his breath away. Though the old man had tried to prepare him, he never imagined its sprawling magnificence. It almost seemed out of place in that wild setting crowning the tousled head of a bluff that jutted out over the sea.
It was an enormous structure, exquisitely landscaped, with courtyards and gardens and a broad, circular drive. The glass-walled conservatory on the northeast corner of the house intruded upon an herb garden on the northern rise. Foxglove, burdock, comfrey, wild woodbine, chamomile, tansy, white bryony, and belladonna, to name but a few, lay dormant now. Their leaves, flowers, and berries had already been harvested, leaving their naked stalks to shudder in the cold Cornish wind against a backdrop of hawthorn, honeysuckle, and rhododendron hemming them in on three sides.
The carriage came to a halt in front of the double doors, and they burst open before its wheels had stopped rolling. A thin, well-groomed woman in her late forties sailed down the steps in a cloud of crisp black twill beneath a woolen shawl. Her gray-streaked brown hair was pulled back from a painfully straight center part, all but hidden beneath a starched white mobcap, and her apron billowed in the wind like a sail about her.
She moved with a flawless carriage, almost seeming to float rather than walk across the gravel drive, and when the vicar stepped from the chaise, he looked into the sharpest pair of cornflower-blue eyes he had ever seen. They were her best feature, alive with expression and easily read. Apprehension and relief intermingled in them then, in a curious meld that bespoke honesty. Hers was a plain face, which he decided had never been beautiful by esoteric standards, but the spirit behind those sharp features impressed him as being a thing of great beauty, indeed.
Taking her apron back from the wind, she offered a smart curtsy. “Vicar Marshall, ‘tis so good ta have you,” she said. “'Tis Amy Croft; I keep house for the master."
"I'm pleased to meet you, Mrs. Croft,” Elliot greeted her warmly. “Sir John has spoken of you so often that I feel we are already acquainted."
"Thank you, sir,” she said, sketching another curtsy. “Your room's all ready, and Cook has set out tea in the dinin’ hall.” She turned to the driver. “Peter, you can take the vicar's bags up ta his room. When you've done that, drive ‘round ta the stable and leave the horses for Harris ta tend. Afterward, Cook'll take care o’ you in the kitchen."
Peter had climbed down and unstrapped the vicar's luggage. “Which room would it be, then?” he asked her.
"The one next to mine,” said a voice from behind, and the vicar spun to face a tall, broad-shouldered young man striding toward them from the direction of the conservatory.
The wind had displaced the sandy hair waving across his brow, and his deep-set sea-green eyes sparkled warmly catching stray glints of crimson light from the low-sliding sun. The vicar took notice of the handsome cleft in the boy's chin, and the wry smile that had lifted the corners of his mouth in a manner that was very familiar. In spite of himself, he gasped and murmured, “Colin!” before realizing he'd spoken.
The boy's smile broadened and he extended his hand. His grip was strong and warm. “Welcome to Cragmoor, Vicar Marshall,” he said. “You were injured so I'm told. Have you mended, then?"
The vicar looked at the boy through misted eyes. The resemblance to Sir John was striking, but Colin was his own entity, commanding postures and expressions that were indisputably his own, like the habit he had of raking his fingers through his hair, of jamming his hands deep into his pockets, and of using a well-arched eyebrow as a means of punctuating his words. These mannerisms, Elliot would learn to read all too well with the passing of time. They were as much a part of Colin Chapin as his long-legged stride, or the exotic scent of Island spice that lingered about him.
"I've mended nicely, thanks to your father's care,” said Elliot, “though they tell me I'll need to be careful for a bit longer."
Peter had moved on toward the house with Elliot's bags, and Amy stared after him, a bewildered look on her face. “Saints preserve us,” she muttered under her breath, meanwhile turning narrowed eyes upon Colin. “Well? Don't just stand there like a stick o’ wood, you scamp,” she scolded. “See the vicar inta the dinin’ hall before the tea gets cold. Don't keep him out here in all this wind and damp with the sun sinkin'. Where have your manners gone? Go on, then."
Her words were stern as she shooed them through the open doors and into the Great Hall beyond, like a pair of stray chickens. But the vicar distinctly saw her brush a tear from the corner of her eye as she hurried off toward the servants’ wing beyo
nd the staircase that divided the house in two.
Colin led the way across the terrazzo floor past the portrait-lined walls toward the dining hall off the gallery to the north. Elliot followed, gaping in awe at the elegance all around him. As he walked through the sweeping dining hall arch, he pulled up short stunned by the vast expanse of the room. A long Tudor table with matching chairs marched down the center of the polished oak floor. The tea service had been set at the far end of it near the hearth that blazed on the west wall.
Exquisite French tapestries hung on the east side of the room. Embellished with gold and silver threads, their pastoral scenes shimmered above the longest sideboard Elliot had ever seen. Brandy and sherry were set there in fine crystal decanters, and silver bowls heaped with fruit and nuts were placed on both ends,
The frescoed ceiling, also serenely pastoral in design, was vaulted like the one in the gallery they'd just passed through. Three Austrian crystal chandeliers dangled from it poised over the endless table. Tudor armchairs with wine-colored velvet cushions marched along the deep blue gilded walls, and a carved settle squatted at the far end of the room where a little alcove housed a striking stained glass window.
Colin had reached the carver's chair and he motioned Elliot to follow him, offering the chair on his right. A pretty, young serving maid with dark hair and clear blue eyes took the vicar's cloak, set it aside, and served them. Once she'd poured the piping hot tea and removed the linen napkin that had hidden a scrumptious assortment of biscuits, still warm from the oven, she stepped back and folded her hands in front of her apron.
"Will there be anythin’ else, Master Colin?” she said, avoiding his eyes.
The vicar noticed that Colin's eyes took no such aversion. They passed over the girl familiarly, lingering on the firm, round breasts straining against her twill bodice.
"That will be all, I think, Sara,” said the boy. “Just take the vicar's cloak up to his chamber if you will . . . it's the one next to mine, and be sure the fire is going nicely up there."
The girl's eyes did flash toward him then, wearing a look of surprise.
"Well, go on,” Colin prodded, and she plucked up the vicar's cloak and disappeared through the arch.
Once she was out of sight, the boy's attention refocused upon Elliot. “Was it an awful trip?” he said around a swallow from his cup.
"Not all that bad actually,” Elliot replied, “a bit chilly, though. Your father will be coming on by the weekend. He's arranging for work to commence on the church."
Colin cocked his head and lifted his eyebrow. “You don't look like a vicar,” he said blatantly.
Elliot smiled. “And . . . what should a vicar look like, young man?” he wondered.
Colin shrugged. “Sour-faced—older. I dare say you're much too good looking, and a lot younger than I expected."
Warmed by the boy's honesty, Elliot laughed. “Let me assure you, I haven't come to disrupt your house here,” he said. “I want us to get on well; it's important to me. It's true, I will be acting in your father's stead, but I don't want that to put you off."
"Believe me, it shan't."
"Where is your sister, Colin? Isn't she joining us for tea?"
"You won't see Mary ‘til dinner,” he said, “and I wouldn't be in too much of a hurry for that if I were you."
"Your father is concerned about her, has he cause?"
Colin hesitated weighing his answer. “If you want my opinion, I think it's all bunk,” he said. “She loves to terrorize the servants—and me. She's playing a game."
"That may be, but it could be a dangerous game, Colin."
Again the boy shrugged. “I really don't know much about it,” he said. “I'm away at school most of the time."
"What are you, sixteen now?"
"I will be in March."
Elliot nodded. “There are just ten years between us you know. I think we're going to be good friends, you and I."
"I'd like that, Vicar Marshall,” Colin said, turned serious suddenly. “I don't have . . . friends. Acquaintances, yes, but not . . . friends."
"Elliot,” the vicar corrected. “If we are to be friends, you shall call me Elliot."
Taken aback, the boy stared. “Oh, I don't think Father's going to approve of that."
"I'll deal with your father, Colin. He's put me in charge, and if I choose to have you call me by my given name, so you shall."
Colin thought for a moment, and a different sort of smile creased his handsome lips. “I have a confession to make,” he said. “There should be honesty between friends and, if I am to be honest, I have to tell you that I wasn't all that happy about your coming at first. That's why I wasn't on the steps to greet you earlier. I was watching from the conservatory. I wanted to have a look at you before I made up my mind. That old adage, ‘never give an Englishman time to plan his strategy', applies in my case—always has."
"That's understandable, Colin. I represent change, and change is always difficult. I ought to know, I'm just coming to grips with one myself."
"There's one more thing,” said the boy, “a chamber had already been prepared for you at the far end of the south wing . . . not next to mine. That's why Amy looked so shocked when I directed Peter, and why Sara looked so bewildered just now. I've sent them all on a fair scramble shifting things about. That's why I didn't suggest that you go straight up and rest a bit after your journey, which is probably what you needed more than this blasted tea party here. So you see, I'm not devoid of all manners, as some would have you believe."
The vicar's smile broadened. “A fine outcome your ‘time to plan your strategy’ has yielded you, young man,” he said. “I must say, I'm flattered—and I thank you."
"It's only fair to tell you that the chamber in the south wing is larger...and more grand. I shan't be offended if you want to switch."
"I wouldn't think of it,” said Elliot. “I don't need a grand chamber, Colin. You've made me welcome and put me at ease. I would have gladly slept on that terrazzo floor out there for that. All this is as difficult for me as it is for you and your sister, you know. I only hope I can convince her that my presence here poses no threat."
Colin clouded. “Don't count upon it,” he said. “She's already been your judge and jury, I'm afraid. You may as well know you're in for a spell of nasty weather there. I'm sorry."
"Well, we'll see."
"You'll likely see plenty at dinner,” Colin ground out. “The staff should be finished with your chamber by now. I'm sure I'll catch hell for that, but it's worth it. Come—I'll take you up. You'll want some rest before you lock horns with Mary."
Colin got up from the table and scooped up a handful of the biscuits, which he crammed into his trousers pocket. “You hardly touched these,” he said, “and we don't want to ruffle Cook's feathers. I'd sooner come up against Amy than Cook on a tear. Bigod, she terrifies me. If there's one thing I've learned in that blasted school—probably the only thing I'll ever put to practical use—it's that you don't get on the wrong side of the one who prepares your food. Follow me."
* * * *
Elliot loved the room instantly. It was the first chamber on the east side of the north wing hallway. It had a narrow window that overlooked the drive and the eastern slope beyond, thick with gorse and black heather, parted by a sinuous footpath that disappeared into a valley below.
A closet bed heaped with comforters, all neatly turned down, stood on the north wall. A fresh fire crackled in the hearth spreading its glow toward the wardrobe, which smelled of cedar and sandalwood. His cloak had been hung neatly inside.
Oil lamps were lit on the writing desk, and on the gate-leg table beneath the window. They would always be lit at teatime, since the light faded early in Cornwall. A basin and pitcher of warm water had been set on the table as well, along with a fragrant bar of Amy's hand-milled herbal soap, and a neat pile of crisp linen towels.
His bags stood on the parquet floor beside a wing chair in the corner, but he didn't unpac
k them then, except for his journal, and the fine Bible bound in Morocco leather that the magistrate had given him for Christmas. These he arranged on the shelf inside the closet bed along with his quill pen and ink. Once they were in place, he sank down on the quilts just as he was and let sleep take him.
But his respite was all too brief. Though scarcely an hour had passed, it was dark outside when Colin knocked at the door to call him for dinner. Disoriented, he woke with a start and a twinge of pain in his shoulder. It took him a moment to remember where he was, and another to reluctantly leave the closet bed. A mournful wind rattled the windowpanes. The weather had turned ugly, and he drew the brown velvet draperies closed to keep the drafts at bay and washed away the last dregs of sleep from his face with a splash of the water grown cold in the pitcher.
Colin was sitting at the top of the landing waiting for him. Elliot was glad of that. He still felt like an intruder, and that wasn't likely to change until he'd gained some sort of acceptance from Mary. To his relief, she wasn't present in the dining hall when they reached it. Colin directed him to the chair he'd occupied earlier, and took his place at the head of the table.
"Shouldn't we wait for your sister?” Elliot said, as the boy motioned Sara to pour the wine.
"She's going to make a grand entrance, no doubt,” Colin told him. “God knows how long that will take, and we may as well be comfortable while we wait. I hope you like ham. Cook bastes it with honey, and some of Amy's herbs and concoctions. It's really quite delicious."
"I'm very fond of ham,” said Elliot, “but I hope you've left room in your pockets. I haven't much of an appetite tonight, and I don't want to witness one of Cooks ‘tears’ on my first night in residence if I can avoid it."
Colin laughed. “I gave you a bit of a scare over Cook, didn't I?” he said. “She's not all that terrible. She's a dear old soul really. It's just that she takes great pride in her culinary skills. We've had her since I can remember and, believe it or not, I don't know her real name. Nobody has ever called her anything but ‘Cook'. Amy says Father interviewed dozens of cooks before he hired her."
Rape of the Soul Page 6