Rape of the Soul

by Dawn Thompson

  "My God,” the vicar breathed looking him in the eyes. “Why, George Howard, I believe you're jealous. You're actually jealous of my friendship with Colin. Oh, George!"

  "I could have told you that years ago, Elliot,” said Colin, who had been listening to the exchange. “I could have told you that the first time this man treated me after you came here."

  They both turned toward him with a lurch.

  "Tell me, Howard,” Colin went on, narrowing bleary eyes in his direction, “do you treat all your patients with such a heavy hand, or is that something special you've reserved for me?"

  The doctor sputtered. “Look here, Chapin, I've just saved your worthless life, and don't you forget it."

  Colin laughed. The sound turned the vicar's blood cold. “Now how could I forget it, Howard—considering?” he spat.

  Still incredulous over his discovery, the vicar stared taking it all in.

  "How's the boy?” said Colin to the doctor.

  "The boy will mend,” growled Howard, “at least his wrist will.” He pointed to the door. “Outside, Elliot. I've got to change his dressing."

  Elliot found his voice. “I'm staying right here, George."

  "Get out of here, Elliot,” spat Colin. “I don't want you to see this."

  The vicar shook his head, his main concern being that the doctor be persuaded toward gentle handling should the need arise, which seemed a certainty to him then.

  "Howard, make him go,” Colin demanded. “For the love of Christ, get him out of here!"

  Taking the vicar's arm despite his protests, Howard propelled him out into the hall, closed the door after him, and slid the bolt.

  "Ahhhh, Christ,” moaned Colin. “Howard, when I get up out of this bed, so help me God, I'll grind you into the bog for this. I told you not to tell him. Don't you dare blame me if he comes down. If it happens here now it's on your head, not mine."

  "Hold still,” snapped the doctor, unfastening the restraints.

  Deftly, he unwrapped the bandages, and Colin groaned as he stripped them away none too gently. “Christ Almighty,” he moaned, “bloody butcher!"

  The doctor ignored him. “It's clean,” he said with a sigh of relief and a crisp nod. “Lie still and do as you're told, and you'll mend."

  He crossed the room, took fresh bandages from the dressing chest, and brought them back to the bedside where he swabbed the cauterized stump with antiseptic while Colin bit into his lip drawing blood rather than give him the satisfaction of crying out. Afterward, Howard bandaged it again and fastened the restraints securely in place. “You've got a stable hand,” he growled, moving back from Colin at last, “young Davey Lockwood from the livery. He won't be staying out here, his father won't allow it, and I don't blame him, but he will come ‘round daily once he's through with his other chores to tend your horses for decent earnings."

  "Thank you,” spat Colin. “I'll pay him top wages, you needn't worry."

  "There's something more,” Howard went on, washing his hands in the basin, “Megan Sharpe."

  "What about her?"

  "You packed her off, so I understand, a little over a week ago, is that right?"

  Colin nodded. “So?"

  "She took lodgings at the White Stag Inn the morning she left here,” said the doctor. “Old Asa was going to take her on as a serving wench, but the following afternoon she went off and never came back. That was the day I came out here to put your arm back together after you'd ripped it open. They found her this morning out on the moor about a mile south of the inn. She'd been pretty badly mauled; ‘twas rape."

  "Ahhhh, Christ,” moaned Colin.

  "Thought you'd want to know."

  "Do they know who did it?"

  The doctor shook his head. “Trail's cold by now. Whoever it was, was a madman. She hemorrhaged to death. I haven't seen the likes of that since . . . Mary."

  Colin's scalp crawled with gooseflesh and he swallowed dry, his heart pounding in his ears.

  Howard went to the dressing chest and took up the laudanum. “All right, Chapin, back under,” he barked, filling the spoon.

  "No . . . not yet,” snapped Colin. “I'll have it when I'm damn good and ready."

  "Suffer then, you surly ingrate,” snarled the doctor, pouring the opiate back into the bottle. He slapped it down, spoon and all, and grabbed his satchel. “I'll be ‘round again tomorrow, Chapin,” he growled. “See if you can stay put, because if you disturb that arm and undo all that I've done here, you're really going to know the feel of a ‘heavy hand', my proper young scoundrel. Good afternoon."

  Quitting the chamber, he found the vicar waiting. “Come along, Elliot, I'll see you home,” he said, taking his arm.

  Elliot shook free. “I'm not going home, George,” he said. “I'm going to stay right here until he's on his feet, and I don't want to hear any arguments. I can't leave him—not like this."

  The doctor stared. “You're courting another seizure, you know that?"

  The vicar shook his head. “No, George, I'd worry more at the vicarage. I'll keep to my old chamber,” he said, gesturing to the door next to Colin's, “and it'll be easier on you. You'll be able to look in on both of us at the same time."

  "Just like old times, eh? Christ!"

  "George, when you told me years ago that I was going to lose Emily, Colin came to me, moved into the vicarage, and stayed there with me for some time after she went. I won't abandon him here now."

  The doctor steered him into his chamber and closed the door behind them. He set his satchel down with a sigh, and sank into one of the wing chairs beside the cold, cheerless hearth, motioning Elliot toward the other. “Sit!” he snorted, clearly rankled.

  The vicar obeyed, though he dosed him with a frown, for he was in no humor for the anticipated lecture and there seemed no way to avoid it.

  "What about Ted, Elliot? What do I tell the boy?"

  "The truth."

  "Ahhhhaaa!” popped Howard, “that his father is more concerned over the well-being of his ‘Uncle Colin', whoremaster, blackguard, and all ‘round parish scandal, than he is for that of his own son? Christ, Elliot, you never cease to amaze me."

  "You really are jealous,” said the vicar. “Oh, George, have you no idea how much our friendship means to me, yours and mine?"

  "You've a peculiar way of showing it. But then, I don't know why I should feel slighted when you put the likes of that in there before your own flesh and blood!"

  "George, I treasure your friendship and Colin's above all others in this life, but can't you see that Colin needs me more than you do? He's all of what you said he is largely because of me. Can I do less than try and put it to rights?"

  "I don't agree with that. Chapin was well on his way to becoming a profligate before you ever came on the scene, Elliot. His mother's French blood, no doubt. Blood proves a man you know; it never lies. No respectable Englishman would ever think to conduct himself with such...emotional excess, to put it delicately, and you damn well know it."

  "I'm not suggesting that I'm solely responsible, George, but—"

  "Never mind that,” Howard interrupted. “I haven't time to waste my breath on the blighter. Don't dodge the issue. What about Ted?"

  Elliot bristled in annoyance. “What about Ted?"

  "He's your son, Elliot, and if you recall, you're damn lucky you've got him as I remember!"

  The vicar thrust his set jaw. “Now just how in hell do you suppose I can forget?” he snapped bitterly. “Impotence is a rather unpleasant condition, George."

  The doctor studied him for a moment. “Is that why you've never married again, Elliot?” he probed softly.

  The vicar lowered his eyes. “I was wrong to marry in the first place,” he murmured. “I've promised God I shan't make that mistake again. I'll never be able to love anyone but Mary. I . . . can't. I tried with Emily, you know I did. And I did love her, but it was a different sort of love, George, and you know that, too . . . something more like gratitude than love
, that she could accept me as I was knowing about Mary, and that, too, brought guilt. Emily deserved so much more."

  The doctor emptied his lungs wearily. “You've wasted your life,” he said, “thrown it away upon a chit who didn't know you existed, and a degenerate who's going to put you in your grave. And you'll let him, because he's all you've got left of her. And to think I called him a ghoul!"

  "No,” said the vicar solemnly, “he's all the family I've ever really known. He's wrong, George, in the way he conducts his life, and that pains me. I've been determined to help him since before I ever came here. Whatever the bond between us is, it was formed before we ever met. But you're right about one thing, I would lay down my life for that man if need be. He's just done that very same thing for me—and for Ted. You're all wrong about my feelings for you, though, because, George, if need be I'd lay my life down for you as well, you crotchety old crosspatch, and don't you ever forget it!” He shielded moist eyes with his hand. “You've hurt me today, George Howard. I thought you knew me better, man."

  Howard sputtered and cleared his gruff voice. “Ahhhh, I'm sorry I've upset you,” he grumbled awkwardly, wearing repentance badly. “That's the last thing in the world I intended, but sometimes you make me so damn mad."

  "George, you believe in God. You have the love and respect of every man, woman, and child on this coast. Morally you are beyond reproach. Colin has no one but me and Ted. I'm a priest of the Church. I want to help him. I want to reach him. I must! Don't you understand? That's who I am. I've no need to reach you. You reached me, when Mary died and I was ready to fling my collar over the cliff out there. But what you didn't know—what nobody knew, least of all, Colin—was that I intended my neck to be in it when it went over the edge."

  The doctor stared slackjawed, and Elliot answered the expression. “Yes, George—oh, yes. I was about to take my life. I began to contemplate that the minute you told me Mary was with child. I was so devastated, I just wanted to die. You don't know how I longed to be the father of her children. You don't know with what passion I wanted her. So much, George, that I cannot function as a man to this day, and yet, her ghost still haunts me—torments me—arouses me. And, God help me, I do embrace that wraith.” He dropped his head into his hands.

  "Have you ever told any of that to Chapin, Elliot?"

  "About the impotence . . . and the haunting?” He shook his head. “No, of course not. I'm too ashamed. But we were talking about suicide. And the day Mary died, as I sat in her chamber with my collar in my hands, you made me see how selfish it would have been for me to take my life. I was so immersed in my own pain I'd lost sight of the congregation you reminded me was waiting for the church that was yet to be built. That was my responsibility. I owed those people, whom I didn't even know then, something more important than I was. You taught me a very valuable lesson that day, George. You taught me the difference between a man and a coward. Today I taught that same lesson to my son."

  Howard didn't speak at once. He got to his feet and went to the vicar's side laying a hand on his shoulder. “He did try to take his life, didn't he?” he said quietly.

  The vicar nodded the head in his hands.

  "Why?"

  "Because of Colin's arm."

  "But why? What had he to do with it?"

  "Malcolm's at the bottom of it actually. I know you don't share my feeling about him, but you weren't there in the church with me four years ago when I saw what he is. Oh, I know you think I feel as I do because of Mary. Well at first I did, I'll not lie to you, but not anymore. That, however, is not the issue.

  "There were brambles beneath Ely's harness the morning of my seizure. That's why the horse ran away with the trap. When Colin came the next morning we talked about that. Malcolm did the same thing to Harris years ago and he dislocated his shoulder—you tended him yourself if you remember? Colin is convinced that Malcolm put those brambles there, and I know he did, but, of course, I have no proof, which is usually the case whenever Malcolm is involved. We were discussing that and the fact that Harris’ gun was still up in the loft, and Ted overheard us.

  "He came ‘round here—took Exchequer, mind—and got that pistol. Meanwhile, Colin took Ely and got here just in time to save my son from the gallows. Ted had already fired once and missed Malcolm when Colin reached him. They wrestled for the pistol and in the struggle Ted tore Colin's arm open. The boy blames himself. He's certain it's his fault Colin lost the arm."

  The doctor ground out a sigh. “Where is that pistol now?"

  "I've no idea."

  "Elliot, did Ted reload that iron?"

  "I don't know that, either. Why, George?"

  "Harris fired one shot when he came down on that fork, and Ted fired one you say? That pistol only holds two shots, Elliot. If Ted didn't reload it . . ."

  The vicar gasped. “They were struggling for an empty gun?” he cried. “Has Colin lost his arm for naught? Oh, George!"

  "All right, easy, Elliot. We don't know that for certain. Perhaps it's best that we don't."

  The vicar stared toward him for a long moment, searching his face. “Tell me the truth,” he murmured, “was that struggle responsible? Has he lost the arm because of it? Would he have lost it if . . . if he hadn't opened that wound?"

  The doctor breathed a sigh that brought his posture down. “I don't know, Elliot,” he admitted. “I honestly don't know."

  The vicar smiled sadly. “God bless you, my friend,” he said. “On the one hand it's my fault, and on the other, Ted's. Perhaps it's best that we don't know that for certain, either, eh? Ahhh, George!"

  The doctor shook Elliot's shoulder. “Neither of you is at fault,” he barked. “It was a nasty, unfortunate accident—an act of God. I won't have you riddled with guilt over it. Christ! How have you room for more?” His demeanor shifted and he wagged his head. “Well, I suppose I owe the man an apology,” he begrudged. “I had no idea, of course, and I said some pretty harsh things to him yesterday."

  "That isn't important,” said the vicar. “I'd rather he didn't even know we've discussed it, if you wouldn't mind, but . . . if you could find it in your heart to be a little less rough when you tend him? He's in such pain, and he's right, George, you are a bit heavy handed with him you know. My God, when you treated that bullet wound four years ago, I was shocked and appalled watching you, and it hurt me. You're so kind and compassionate with everyone else."

  The doctor hung his head and pursed stubborn lips, and Elliot gripped his sleeve. “The man is devastated over the loss of that arm. Oh, he'd never show that to you, but he is, George, and it breaks my heart. Please, for me, won't you ease up a bit?"

  The doctor tugged at his side-whiskers. “Ahhhh, I don't intentionally set out to hurt the bounder,” he brayed grudgingly, “but goddamn it, Elliot, that man brings out the worst in me because of what he's doing to you. I'm sorry... I'll try and be more careful in future."

  But he couldn't meet Elliot's eyes then, and he deftly changed the subject. “As to the business over Malcolm, you're right, I don't share your views. I've always felt sorry for the bastard. If he is what you say he is, I wouldn't be surprised, considering the heavy hand you've dealt him over the years.” Dosed with Elliot's scathing reproof, no less effective for it's silent delivery, he threw up his arms. “All right, all right! Don't look at me like that. I've had enough castigation for one day.” He squared his posture and studied the vicar's dismay with mixed emotions. “Look here, are you sure it's safe to leave Ted alone just now?” he said.

  Elliot nodded. “It's going to have to be, George, because I can't leave Colin. You were right, I did tell him the truth about Ted, only because I knew you'd be out here barking about that wrist. Colin's written him this,” he said, handing him the sealed parchment he'd slipped from his pocket. “Would you take it to Ted, please?"

  Howard took the letter, but the vicar hadn't finished. “There's one more thing,” he said. “Ted is to return to school Thursday week. The coach is arranged at the
livery. Will you see him off for me?"

  The doctor stared down, arms-akimbo. “What about your Sunday services?” he snapped. “Are you going to board up the church now, too, until the bounder can stand on his own two feet again?"

  "No, of course not,” said the vicar. “I'll come ‘round and conduct services on Sunday no matter where I am. Will you see the boy off for me, George?"

  "Yes, of course, I will, but don't you think you should?"

  "No,” murmured the vicar, shaking his lowered head, “I don't want to see him again just now . . . not yet awhile . . . possibly not for a good long while."

  * * * *

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  Chapter Forty-six

  * * * *

  It was a month before Elliot Marshall returned to St. Michael's vicarage. He was tired. The shock of Colin's amputation and Ted's suicide attempt combined coming on the heels of his seizure had taken their toll and he knew it, though he would have denied it to the death should Colin or Howard have challenged him.

  Woebegone at the sight of him, Colin couldn't bring himself to add yet another burden by way of involving him in his own dilemma. It was painfully plain that ordeal had worn the vicar thin, and toward the end of his confinement Colin thought of little else but having him safe and away before he could stumble upon his situation accidentally. Consequently, he mended quickly, and by the first of March was on his feet somewhat shakily, due to the fact that blood loss had rendered him weaker than he cared to admit, even to himself. Though he'd left his bed, he was still confined to his chamber, vertigo and nausea being plagues that attacked him with excessive motion. Nevertheless, driven by determination, he grew stronger daily, and between them, he and George Howard finally convinced Elliot to go back to the vicarage.

  Malcolm didn't leave the house during Elliot's stay, as Colin knew he wouldn't. He would hardly give Jean the opportunity to talk with the vicar alone, and it wasn't until the second evening following Elliot's return to St. Michael's that Malcolm went into the village again. He'd scarcely reached the rutted south road astride the sorrel when Jean burst into Colin's chamber and slid the bolt behind her. He was standing beside the terrace doors stripped to the waist, the arm, bound in linen, strapped to his chest. Anguish and relief intermingled in the moist teal eyes that trembled toward her, and before he could speak she was holding him close.