Rape of the Soul

by Dawn Thompson

  The fog was lifting, and Malcolm's onyx eyes flashed in the jaundiced glare. “I don't like him you know—I wish you were my uncle instead,” said the cunning dark thing, with a sideways glance that the vicar was quick to catch.

  Elliot jerked the boy's blouse again, not caring that he'd taken some skin along with it. “Don't try to seduce me, my clever young wretch,” he snapped through lips that scarcely moved. “I am neither a fool nor your savior, I promise you."

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  Chapter Fifteen

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  Colin vanished and didn't return for nearly a year after that. The vicar kept a sharp eye on the great house in Colin's absence, but there were no more incidents. With his uncle away, the dark, brooding child grew sulky, and more often than not could be found playing games with Martha beside the chimney corner in the dank nursery upstairs. When the weather was too ugly to be off on his rambles and Martha wasn't to be found, he was content to stand with his pale face pressed close to one of the shivering windowpanes, staring down at the cliff and the heavy gray swells cresting far out to sea. A constant spectator from dawn to dusk, he would linger there until his breath hopelessly fogged the glass, his piercing black eyes feasting passionately upon the wild curtains of spittle and foam flying over the cliff's matted head.

  The vicar didn't seek the child's company. He extracted what news there was to tell from Amy Croft in the servants’ hall over tea and whatever delectable pastries Cook had on hand. He wouldn't question Martha; her opinions were jaded.

  Elliot thought often of Colin, wondering where he had gone and how he was faring. Colorful rumors of his escapades were legion. They were, however, sketchy, hearsay reports, placing him everywhere from Yorkshire and the Highlands to the Chapin spice plantations in the Caribbean. But Elliot welcomed even those unreliable accounts, anxious for reassurance that his friend was still among the living. For he was haunted by visions of Colin sprawled dead—impaled on a dagger, or shot by a pistol still smoking in some jealous husband's hand. He was convinced that Colin enjoyed his good fortune in staying alive only because he didn't seem to care whether he did or he didn't. His cavalier attitude, while tempting fate, seemed somehow to sustain him. He was equally convinced that Colin's vulnerability would come if he ever tried to beat back death, certain that he simply wouldn't know how to go about that sort of strategy. In any case, Elliot missed him dreadfully, and as time dragged on the anxiousness for his reappearance grew more urgent. His own life was taking another unexpected turn and he wanted Colin to share in it with him.

  The new developments had come the month after their visit to Ramsey House affecting the sale. Pleasantly surprised, Elliot received a letter from Emily Sayre, thanking him on behalf of the entire Sayre clan for suggesting the artist, Ira Stanley, who was then in residence at work on her portrait. The note was brief and gracious, written in a flawlessly neat hand, and the gesture touched him deeply as he hadn't expected it. It extracted a prompt reply, which in turn was answered several weeks later. A fond correspondence developed between them after that on a regular basis throughout the winter, and by spring the vicar had reached a decision that took him back to London again.

  He traveled alone this time, since Colin hadn't returned. Lonely and sad, he mulled over the thing that was turning around in his mind as the coachman left the bleak fogs of Cornwall behind and a sweeter breath of spring crept close to his nostrils coming nearer the city. But he wasn't truly alone in the carriage. He traveled with ghosts, and no matter how he tried, he couldn't exorcise them from the shadowy recesses of his thoughts, nor could he shed the crush of guilt that accompanied his decision, reached out in a sudden and pitifully dire need for companionship.

  Giles Sayre saw him alone in the drawing room. They sat comfortably sipping sherry, while discussing the artist's fine work for a painfully slow length of time so it seemed to the vicar. His nerves were so frayed by then that he didn't even realize, until after he'd spoken, that he'd told the man twice that he'd first become acquainted with the artist when he conducted the funeral services for his wife and daughter, who had died during the same outbreak of typhoid that had claimed the life of Prince Albert in eighteen sixty one.

  He was eager and reluctant all at once to expose the real reason for his visit, half hoping it wouldn't be met with favor for fear he was once more sidestepping fate's design. But he scarcely needed to come to the point. His purpose and his discomfort were easily read and well received. Giles soon put him at ease and limped off to fetch his daughter Emily.

  Waiting in the drawing room so filled with haunting memories of the nights he'd spent there—horns locked in theological debate with Sir John—Elliot heaved a mammoth sigh and adjusted the pressure of his collar, which had suddenly begun to cut into his, moist neck. It was wrong—all wrong. He wasn't certain of much, but he was certain of that. Emily deserved infinitely more than he had to give. Too much of himself lay entombed in the mahogany coffin sunken deep beneath the sod in St. Michael's churchyard.

  He tried to pray, but guilt choked the words on his lips to hoarse whispers, and once again he didn't know what to pray for, except that he do right by the woman he would tender so shallow a tribute toward in the offering of himself.

  Presently the drawing room door opened, hardly making a sound, and he rose to his feet as Emily closed it after her and approached him extending her hand. She wore yellow plisse with a sash of chocolate brown looped behind, and her wheat-colored hair was plaited in graceful coils at the base of her head beneath a Belgian lace cap. She smiled, looking toward him through violet eyes that shone behind their pale lashes and drew her hand away at last with the touch of his lips still lingering upon it.

  "I'm so pleased you've come, Vicar Marshall,” she said, “won't you sit?"

  Stifling a cough, she took her seat on the lounge, and the vicar returned to the leather wing chair he knew so well opposite her across the paisley carpet.

  Studying her then, he frowned. “Are you feeling poorly?” he probed.

  She shook her head. “No,” she said, “'tisn't serious. I've had a slight cough for some time now. I took a bad chill several months ago. I'm prone to chills and the cough often lingers long after I'm afraid."

  "Are you sure that's all it is? As I recall, that was the case when we first met."

  "Positive,” she said, smiling, “but enough about that. It's so good to see you. I've enjoyed your letters so. It sounds like such a wild, beautiful place, your Cornwall."

  "You've never been there, then?"

  "No."

  The vicar got to his feet and approached her, standing beside the long, wine-colored lounge. “Miss Emily,” he said, “I've come to speak with you over a matter that is most important to me. I should like to have it said quickly if you will allow me. May I sit beside you for a moment?"

  "Of course,” she said, making room for him on the sofa.

  The vicar sat looking deep into her eyes. “We haven't known each other all that long,” he began, “and I haven't been able to pay you the kind of attention that precedes this sort of thing for the distance between us, but through your letters I've come to feel as though I've known you long enough to presume upon so short an acquaintance with so bold an address as this is.” He took her hands in both of his and found the warm, gentle pressure reassuring. “Miss Emily,” he continued, “I should be most honored if you would consider the proposal of becoming my wife."

  Emily met his eyes steadily for several moments before her lips parted. “It is I who am indeed honored by your proposal, Vicar Marshall,” she murmured, “though it comes as somewhat of a surprise. Forgive me, but . . . I do not think that you are in love with me, sir."

  "I have just asked you to become my wife,” said Elliot. “I could never do such a thing as that lightly."

  "I have not meant to suggest that you could. Your letters have endeared you to me so completely that I would never think to question your integrit
y."

  "What then? I assure you my feelings for you are naught but the deepest affection my heart will allow. That is much, Miss Emily, and I should like to devote the rest of my life to making you happy . . . if you will permit me."

  "I believe you, of course,” she said, “but it is plain there is someone else dear to your heart . . . someone unattainable perhaps? I'm sorry, but it's there . . . in your eyes."

  The vicar averted his gaze. “You are very perceptive,” he murmured. “She is no longer living, nor were my affections returned when she was alive."

  "I'm sorry, forgive me. I hadn't meant to pry."

  "You have every right if we are to be honest in our relationship. I was deeply in love with Colin Chapin's sister, Mary. She died . . . very horribly nearly five years ago."

  "I have heard how she died,” said Emily sadly. “I'm so dreadfully sorry. It must have been unbearable for you."

  The vicar nodded. “But she's gone now,” he said, “and while I cannot pretend she will ever be forgotten, life must go on. I should like to give mine to you. There are many different kinds of love, Miss Emily, and for you to assume I do not love you, it is a grave misjudgment that you serve upon me because it is not in me to offer myself idly. Knowing that Mary's feelings were not inclined toward the same persuasion as my own, I couldn't even make the offer to her. I have made it to you. It comes from the heart, and I can do naught but pray that you will consider it."

  "I deeply regret having caused you pain with this conversation,” said Emily, “but you see, I am so very much in love with you that I had to be certain what you propose would be right for the both of us. I desire your happiness so much that if there were any hope for that . . . other love, I would not have declared my own. I do not pretend to be able to take her place in your heart, nor would I ever seek to, but I do promise I will give you mine for safekeeping, and I will be content with whatever lodging yours has left to give it."

  Elliot rose to his feet and drew her up beside him holding her delicate hands in his own. Facing her, he looked down into the soulful violet eyes that searched his own so deeply. “Will you marry me, Emily?” he said, with a tremor in his resonant voice.

  "Yes, Elliot,” she said, “I would be honored to become your wife."

  He gathered her close in his arms and covered her lips with his own. There was peace in the embrace. No vicious tongue lashed out to cut him, and no mocking smile creased the corners of her gentle mouth to jeer, but there was no passion either, and no arousal, only a surge of relief and gratitude attended by warmth and affectionate calm.

  Holding her close in his arms for a long quiet moment, Elliot thanked God. It was right after all—it was enough. Not thinking beyond that or anything else except keeping his heartrending promise, he clung to her soft, slender body pressed gently against him, and vowed to God from the bottom of the remains of his heart that he would not fail this woman.

  * * * *

  The wedding was set for October of that same year, and it was a scant three months before the day itself when Colin returned. Anxious to relay his news, Elliot went to Cragmoor that evening wanting to catch Colin without Malcolm underfoot. He found him in the conservatory, as he knew he would, nursing his brandy after dinner.

  Colin seemed older and more muscular for the eleven-month absence, but the smoldering teal eyes that met his wore the look of starvation, and no trace of a smile visited his sensuous lips. He stood tall in his riding boots, and the faun-colored jodhpurs tucked into them outlined long, sturdy legs. He wore a pleated chambray blouse, open at the throat, baring a mat of sand-colored hair on the broad chest beneath that heaved with a sigh at the vicar's approach. Annoyance knit the whole together and it was Elliot's voice that broke the heavy, awkward silence between them.

  "How have you been keeping, Colin?” he said coming nearer.

  "Well enough I expect,” Colin replied over the rim of his snifter.

  "Where have you been all these months?"

  Colin raked back his hair with a stiff hand, slapped his glass down on the mantle, and plunged both fists into his pockets. “Everywhere,” he murmured.

  "Are you home for awhile this time, then?"

  "I'm home for good. I shan't run away any longer. It does no good. I take the problem along with me. I'm through letting that little bastard drive me out of my own home."

  "I'm glad, Colin, I've missed you."

  "And how are you faring, my friend?” he said, taking him in. “You look well enough."

  "I'm well. I've something to tell you. I've come here to have a brandy with you and give you some news."

  Colin gave a start. “The devil you say? You're drinking brandy now? Have you gone ‘round the bend on me, Elliot?"

  "Hardly,” said the vicar. “I've even brought my own bottle along, but I'll let you do the honors, since you do it far better than I."

  He handed Colin the bottle he'd been holding behind his back savoring his friend's gaping mouth and raised brow.

  "I'm not even going to ask if this is some sort of practical joke,” said Colin, “the moment is worth it—whatever.” He took the bottle, studied the label, and nodded toward it in approval. “Good stuff, dammit! What's the occasion? Have they gone and made you bishop?” he wondered, filling two snifters at the sideboard.

  "Hardly,” said Elliot, “I've come to ask you a favor."

  "Ask it, then,” said Colin, handing the vicar his glass.

  "I would be very pleased . . . and honored, if you would stand up with me at my wedding,” said Elliot.

  Colin stood rooted to the slate floor. His scalp had constricted and his teal eyes shivered. Elliot could scarcely tell that he was breathing. After several moments digesting the words, Colin's lips quivered apart. A smile lit his face, and the vicar distinctly saw moisture glistening in his eyes as he set the glass down nearly upsetting it and strolled closer.

  "Your wedding? Elliot!” he breathed, embracing him.

  For a moment the boy had been restored. Every trace of the hard, forced veneer had been stripped away, and the vicar's own eyes misted taking in a smile he hadn't seen in five long years, that of Colin Chapin unmasked, in an unguarded moment too sacred to him to tarnish with words.

  "Well, Jesus!” Colin stammered, holding him at arms’ length. “Well how? When? Who? Tell me, Elliot!” he cried to the vicar's laughter. Letting him go, he grabbed his glass again. “Good Lord, I need this,” he said through a chuckle and a careless swallow from the snifter. “Here—sit here and tell me. Your wedding!"

  The vicar hadn't stopped laughing. “All right,” he said, sitting in the chair Colin shoved toward him. “Does this mean you will stand up with me, then?"

  "Of course, I will,” said Colin, sitting himself. “Never mind that! Who is she—where did you meet her—how? Jesus, will you tell me, man?"

  "Last spring I asked Emily Sayre to become my wife,” said Elliot.

  Colin stared. “The oldest girl—the quiet one?” he said as the smile died on his lips.

  The vicar nodded. “We began corresponding the month after you left. One thing led to another and here I stand—or sit as it were, the prospective bridegroom so it seems."

  "Oh, Jesus,” Colin murmured under his breath. Raking his hair again, he got to his feet taking the brandy with him and strolled toward the hearth. “When is the wedding to be?” he forced quietly, with his back turned.

  Elliot got out of his chair. “The tenth of October. Is something wrong, Colin?"

  "No, of course not. I'm happy for you certainly. You love her I suppose?"

  "You don't seem very happy,” said Elliot approaching him. “Not like you were a moment ago. Look at me, Colin. What is it—what's wrong? Don't you approve?"

  Colin turned slowly to face him and the vicar's heart sank. The boy come alive had died again and the cold, unreadable stare that he'd come to grieve over had returned more somber than ever. The haunted look in those desperate sea-green eyes seemed suddenly more acute, and Elli
ot took a chill watching him throw back his head and drain the glass, swallowing beneath a pulsating jaw.

  "Elliot,” he replied, “I would approve of any woman who would give you happiness. You don't know how I want that for you. Christ, I don't make a display of it, but your happiness means more to me than my own."

  "And yours is more important to me than mine. Why are we destroying each other, Colin?"

  "Because I must live my own life. Because I know you are right and I cannot—no, will not conduct my life by your rules. I'm not strong enough. There's less pain my way. If I can't be reached, I can't be hurt."

  "No, Colin, you'll never convince me that you're not hurting—you're killing yourself."

  "I am killed already, my friend. I died one night long, long ago when everyone I loved lay devastated before my eyes—including you, Elliot. There is no resurrection for me, and killing this body is after the fact."

  "You're wrong, Colin. You have so much to give, and you're aching to give it—if only you'd let yourself."

  Colin shook his head. “You do it for me,” he said, “be happy if you can."

  He shook his head and the vicar came nearer. “What is it, Colin?” he said. “There is something wrong. You were excited here before. You were like the boy I knew once come back again, and now . . ."

  Colin emptied his lungs and refilled his glass. “I just wish she were a sturdier sort,” he said. “She's so fragile, so delicate—and that cough. Cornwall's no place for that sort of frailty. Look around you. Even the strong here wither on the vine."

  "Is that all?” said the vicar relieved. “She's well enough. She's prone to chills and the cough lingers after. Why, you had a devil of a chill last year as I recall, and you coughed for two months afterward yourself."

  "That's different, I'm used to this climate, and you aren't marrying me."

  "I'm touched by your concern, really I am, but you mustn't worry over that. I'd never bring her here if I thought for a moment there'd be danger in it for her"