Rape of the Soul

by Dawn Thompson

  "For food perhaps,” Mary taunted, ignoring her brother's volatile glower as he stalked from the room.

  "One more word out of you, young lady, and you shall join him,” Sir John threatened. “Now then, hereafter you will come to the table properly covered. I do hope I have made myself clear?"

  "Quite clear, Father,” Mary said, stabbing a piece of fish cruelly, “but what good are fine party dresses if one isn't allowed to wear them?"

  "Absolutely no good at all,” the magistrate returned, “and since parties are so infrequent at Cragmoor, I shall have Amy confiscate them. Perhaps she knows of someone in the village who can put such frocks to better use."

  "You needn't do that on his account, Father,” Mary jeered, pointing at Elliot with her fork. “He isn't a man, he's only a priest. They're all insipid eunuchs, I think; they only marry for appearances. Believe me, I could come down to dinner stark naked and he wouldn't even notice."

  "That will be all, miss,” her father charged. “You were warned—leave the table."

  "As you please,” Mary warbled, getting out of her chair. “This fish is awful anyway. Cook's let the cream curdle again."

  The magistrate got up from the table and pointed with a rigid arm. “Now!” he bellowed, and without further comment she floated off haughtily.

  Sir John returned to his chair, but Elliot had leaned back in his, and one look into the vicar's amber eyes stopped the old man's fork midway to his mouth. “What?” he snapped.

  "You really don't know, do you, sir?” Elliot marveled.

  "What the devil are you talking about?” the old man growled. “Haven't I had enough grief for one day? Do I have to have more now from you—of all people?"

  "You caused that whole episode just now, you know. It could have all been avoided and we might have had a pleasant dinner. Do you actually hate that boy so much that you can't sit through an hour-long meal at the same table with him, what is it—two—three—four times a year?"

  The old man returned his fork to his plate. “I'm not totally insensitive to the needs of a fifteen-year-old boy, Elliot,” he said.

  "He'll be sixteen in two months, sir,” Elliot corrected.

  "Believe me, I know how old my son is. It is hardly a thing I'm likely to forget. I don't begrudge him a few wild oats. God knows I sewed some of my own at his age, but I was discrete. Colin is reckless. He's much too immature to take responsibility for what such as he's courting leads to. I've had a full account of that boy's peccadilloes in this house, and what he's about I will not tolerate. Indiscretion is one thing, but bedding the servants is a dirty business. I never succumbed to it and neither will he as long as there's breath in my body."

  "I agree,” said Elliot, “but you handled it badly. He did nothing here that any other red-blooded young whelp wouldn't have done in the same set of circumstances."

  "You were just faced with the same set of circumstances, Elliot, and you didn't behave like a Philistine. My God, was she right?"

  "No, sir, she was not,” the vicar said hotly. “Far from it, I promise you, but I'm a bit older than Colin, Sir John. All men mature differently. You just made that same point yourself. I knew what Miss Mary was up to—and why—and I chose to ignore her. I'll speak to Colin, of course, and if there's anything to this business with the servants, I'll put a stop to it. I really don't know what you expect of that boy, with no guidance for sixteen years. One kindness from you would do wonders you know. Why can't you give it? He loves you in spite of the way he's been cast off—that in itself is a miracle. If you could only find it in your heart—"

  "I'm sorry,” the magistrate grumbled, cutting him short. “If you want to take that on, God bless you—have at it. It's too late for me, I wouldn't know where to begin."

  Elliot folded his napkin and set it aside.

  The old man stared as he got out of his chair. “Where are you going?” he said. “You haven't had your mutton yet."

  "I'm going to do as you suggest,” said the vicar. “You see, I do know where to begin. I'm going to find Colin and take him his dinner."

  * * * *

  Neither Colin nor Mary appeared for breakfast in the morning, and Elliot was relieved. The magistrate would be leaving for London at noon, and he wanted more time to discuss the situation with him alone.

  They'd scarcely begun eating when the constable arrived, barking complaints that he'd wasted precious time trudging through the bog after Gypsies that weren't there. They had vanished without a trace, and though the old man was satisfied, Elliot couldn't resign himself to complacency in the matter. Having surmised that Mary had warned them away, he knew they would return just as they had in the past. It was only a matter of time.

  After the meal they went to the stable and carriage house, set back at the edge of the moors on the southwest incline like an arm flung toward the cliff, with a well and paddock behind. There Elliot met the stabler, Jonathan Harris, a burly, broad-shouldered man in his forties, with an honest, weathered face, auburn hair stained with gray at the temples, and twinkling blue eyes that mirrored a genuine smile. He liked him at once.

  The purpose of their visit was to have Elliot choose a suitable horse and carriage. The old man showed him a brougham, a chaise, and a trap. Elliot chose the trap. It was similar to the one he'd driven in London, and Harris suggested a mild-mannered sorrel mare. She had been broken for the trap, and the stabler assured him that her temperament wasn't the sort to see him toppled over on any more front lawns. Harris hitched her to the carriage, and Elliot put his new transportation to the test, driving Sir John to the site he'd chosen for the church.

  Elliot was taken with the place the minute he set eyes on it. It was a beautiful expanse of heath on the north side of the road that rose gently to a wooded mound. The stand of dwarf pine trees that bearded the ridge had almost escaped the wind. Their thick-skinned trunks were knotted and gnarled, and some of their limbs were twisted, but being in close proximity to one another had spared them the drastic crippling that the trees along the footpath had suffered.

  They both agreed that the church and vicarage should be built by the roadside, and that the graveyard should be set behind, hemmed by the trees on the north. The site would be accessible from both the roadway and the footpath, and it was close enough to Cragmoor to make frequent visits practical.

  According to Sir John's design, the graveyard was to be contained within an elaborate wrought iron fence. Elliot set the cornerstone markers for that himself and consecrated the ground, before a threatening storm turned them back toward the house.

  The magistrate's chaise was standing in the drive when they arrived, with Peter in the driver's seat. The horses stood prancing nervously as the thick, dark clouds tumbled closer from the sea. Waterfowl had begun to gather on the cliff. Flocks of them littered the stable roof in stark relief against the blackening sky, and the air was heavy with the taste of salt.

  Elliot followed Sir John to his carriage and helped him climb inside, but Colin's tall, lean figure sprinting across the lawn caught his eye and he called to Peter to wait.

  The boy ran up to the chaise and thrust a small oblong package through the window. “For you, sir,” he panted, out of breath.

  The old man took the package wrapped in brown paper, and turned it to and fro in his hand. “What's this, then?” he growled impatiently.

  "It's a Christmas gift,” said Colin. “I've been trying to give it to you since you came. Open it, sir—please."

  Elliot studied the boy's excitement and Sir John's uncomfortable grunts as he tore the wrapping away and produced an elegant dagger with a solid silver hilt. It was elaborately engraved. A fine piece, which the vicar knew had been costly.

  There was nothing in the old man's face as he examined the blade, and Colin spoke quickly, “You're a public figure, sir,” he said. “Magistrates make enemies, and it wouldn't do for you to be set upon unarmed. I thought perhaps you could use it for opening letters otherwise."

  The old m
an's cold eyes flashed up at his son, and Elliot's heart sank.

  "Enemies?” Sir John pronounced. “I have no enemies. Who's filled you full of this fine claptrap, eh? Is that what they've taught you at that blasted school that's costing me a bloody fortune?"

  "Sir, I only thought—"

  "Well you thought wrong. If I should have need of arms, I have a more than adequate collection of pistols, and as for opening letters I have a proper tool for that as well. Enemies, indeed. So this is how you squander the allowance I provide you with, is it? You've wasted it—thrown it away.” He thrust the dagger at Colin through the chaise window. “Take it back where you bought it and see if you can get the shopkeeper to refund what you've paid. If not, let it be a lesson to you in taking more care how you spend my money in future. That's what it is you know, your allowance, my money. Perhaps if you had to earn your own you might spend it more wisely. Have you heard me, young man?"

  Elliot had paled. He watched the boy's face color and saw the glimmer of tears moistening his lashes as he stared down at the blade in his hand, too mortified to make eye contact with either of them.

  "Yes, sir,” the boy murmured. And spinning on his heels, he thrust the dagger in his belt and ran off toward the stable.

  "Sir John,” Elliot breathed.

  "Not now, Elliot,” the magistrate barked, signaling Peter with a sharp tap of his walking stick on the chaise roof. “I've no time for your lecture. I want to get ahead of this storm. The workmen will be out here the first of next week. See that they do a proper job.” And before the vicar could reply, the chaise was rattling down the drive.

  Elliot stood with his back to the flaying wind that whipped his caped coat about him until the chaise was out of sight. It had scarcely slipped down over the rise in the road when Colin burst through the stable doors astride a honey-colored gelding with Harris on his heels.

  "Jesus! Hold there, you stubborn young churl,” the stabler shouted. “Where in hell do you think you're goin’ with a storm comin'?"

  But Colin was out of earshot, driving the horse at a gallop over the south heath through the black heather and gorse that carpeted the moors, just as the heavens opened and a curtain of thunderous rain sluiced down.

  The stabler was standing in the midst of the downpour. His sleeves were rolled back exposing grizzled forearms, and he slapped his knees through his leather apron in an angry gesture.

  "Christ, Almighty!” he shouted to deaf ears. “You're goin’ to break that animal's neck—aye, and your own in the bargain, you bloody lunatic."

  Elliot had reached him, and together they went into the stable for shelter.

  "Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” Harris said, “but that lad is goin’ to bring Gideon back here half dead, if he brings him back at all."

  "Where has he gone, Mr. Harris?” Elliot wondered, searching the rain with worried eyes through the open stable doors.

  "Just ‘Harris', if you please, sir,” said the stabler. “No need to stand on ceremony with me. He's always goin’ off over them south moors. It's cruel enough drivin’ an animal through all that scrub on a clear day when you can see where you're goin'. He'll cut that poor creature's legs to pieces, plowin’ through them brambles and thorns in all this rain, and I'll be up all of the night again tryin’ to mend him."

  "I'm sorry, Harris,” said the vicar, sinking down on the bottom rung of the loft ladder. “He's hurt and he's angry, and I can't say that I blame him."

  "Aye, well, that may be, but it's no excuse for takin’ it out on the poor horses."

  "He does this often, then—goes off like this?"

  The stabler nodded. “He gets a burr in his tail, and I'm the one who suffers for it. I'll be glad when he goes back to school. Then all I'll have is young miss to contend with, God help me. She done the same thing here a fortnight ago to that very horse, poor beast, and limped him back here half killed for me to resurrect. I suppose Amy's told you about that?"

  The vicar nodded.

  Harris frowned. “Are you all right, sir?” he said coming closer. “You look a little peaked all of a sudden."

  "I'm fine,” Elliot lied. “I'm just worried about young master."

  "Aye, well, that's at the root of it now, isn't it?” the stabler replied. “If that lad had somebody to worry over him to begin with, maybe we wouldn't be havin’ all this here now. I'm glad you've come—we all are, sir. Amy says you and young master took to each other right off. I'll say it plain out—you got your work cut out for you, but I want you to know I'll do whatever I can to help, if that's any comfort to you."

  "Thank you, Harris. I'll likely be taking you up on it."

  "I'm loyal to the master. He's done right by all of us out here. He's a good, fair man, but beggin’ your pardon, sir, he don't know a whit about raisin’ up young ones. Now, how would I know this, you might ask, since I have none of my own? Well, sir, I come from a fair size family, and I know enough to tell you that ignorin’ young ones ain't goin’ to make them go away."

  "I agree,” said the vicar. “And I'm impressed with your wisdom on the subject, considering that, as you say, you have no children of your own."

  "I almost did once. My good wife died givin’ birth to my son and took him with her. That was nearly twenty years ago, just after I come here."

  "I'm sorry . . ."

  "'Tis a bleedin’ shame, what the master's done to that boy,” the stabler went on, as though he hadn't heard.

  "I'm going to try to turn all that around, Harris—with or without the master."

  "Well, that's a truly fine thing, sir, and I wish you well, but I hope you're good at workin’ miracles, because if you're not, young master's likely goin’ to be dead before he's twenty. He'll never make old bones if I'm any judge. You can mark my words, at the rate he's goin', he's bound to get himself shot or hanged. He's headed straight for a bad end, that one is. I can't say it no plainer."

  "Not if I can help it,” the vicar gritted, getting to his feet stiffly. The rain had soaked through his mantle and jacket, and a dull ache had settled in around his collarbone from Mary's rough handling.

  Harris took a step nearer. “Are you sure you're all right, sir?” he said. “You look as weak as cat piss, beggin’ your pardon, sir."

  The vicar nodded. “I'm just tired, Harris. I haven't had much rest since I arrived."

  "Aye, that I'll believe,” the stabler chortled, “and you're not to overdo. The master gave strict orders about that. There's no use waitin’ for young master out here. He won't be comin’ back for hours. You'd best get on up to the house and get outa’ them wet clothes. We can't have you comin’ down on us. It ain't so cold out here on the coast as it is up to London, but the dampness will do youa in quicker than snow."

  The vicar hesitated, staring into the rain.

  "Don't worry about young master,” said Harris. “This ain't the first time he's gone off in a snit in dirty weather, and it won't be the last, I can promise you that. I'll be here when he limps the poor beast home, and I'll see to the both of them."

  The vicar smiled. “Thank you, Harris. It seems I've made another new friend here and I'm grateful for that."

  He extended his hand, and the stabler wiped his own on his apron before he shook it with a firm, warm grip. “You have, indeed,” he said. “'Tis a Godless place you've come to for sure, but God, He goes about His business in funny ways. I know what the master did to get you out here, but never doubt that there's need of you. You must be feelin’ like the Almighty snatched you up and set you down on the hind side of nowhere after your fine parish in London, but He's got His reasons, and once that church is built you'll see what I'm sayin’ is truth."

  But Elliot was having trouble seeing God's hand in any of his failures thus far in his new circumstance. His worried eyes kept returning to the open stable doors and the cold rain that had swallowed Colin. It was still falling hard on a slant out of the west driven by the howling wind, and the echo of breakers crashing against the cliff and th
e rocky shoreline below offered no comfort.

  "I hope you're right, Harris,” he murmured, “I truly hope you're right."

  * * * *

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  Chapter Eight

  * * * *

  Sir John was as good as his word. The work crew arrived right on schedule and construction on St. Michael's Church and vicarage was begun the first week in January, eighteen sixty-four.

  Mary's reign of terror ceased. Once she realized there was no hope of deposing the vicar, she settled into a docile state of lethargy and ignored him altogether. She rarely spoke at all unless she was spoken to and spent as little time as possible in the house. Instead she haunted the ring, and while the vicar wasn't comfortable with that, it was better than the alternative of having a shrew on his hands again.

  Encouraged by his sister's docile humor, Colin hounded the vicar, coaxing him to make his feelings known to the girl, but Elliot resisted. When the boy returned to Eton after Epiphany, Elliot was almost glad to see him go for lack of breath left in his body to argue the issue.

  One day bled into the next through January. The vicar made frequent trips to the church site to monitor the workmen's progress as Sir John had instructed. Things went well at first, but February was fraught with storms, black fogs, and cyclonic winds that slowed the pace until a labor dispute at the end of the month put a stop to it altogether. And the construction crew returned to London with the foundation frame for the church barely in place for the stonemasons, and nothing done on the vicarage at all.

  The storms continued well into March, curtailing Mary's visits to the ring, and by the end of the second week in the month, her disposition had become as nasty as the weather. After her morning sessions with the vicar in the chapel, she would steal away to the conservatory and curl up in her favorite high-back chair, upholstered in the shape of a heart, looking longingly through the mud-spattered glass walls toward the footpath the elements denied her. It was there that Elliot found her one mid-afternoon two weeks before Colin returned for spring recess.