“Aye, Farnham’s widow is coming along, for all the good it’ll do her. A man don’t marry his mistress, puss.” Now Evan was blushing, as well as Mrs. Prescott and Mrs. Naysmith. Only Aunt Minerva, used to the freer morals of an earlier age, was unaffected by Squire’s bluntness. The colonel harumphed. “Ladies present, I say.”
Ladies were supposed to be conveniently deaf, dumb, and blind to the existence of such creatures, Evan knew, even when their husbands paraded their convenients through the park or at the Opera. That was the kind of marriage Squire wished for his daughter?
It appeared so. “Tender sensibilities be blasted,” Squire Prescott said, reaching across the table with his knife to spear another boiled potato. “Everyone knows it’s due. A fellow might light on any number of full-blown roses, but he’s going to wed the unopened bud.”
A virgin, Evan thought. Squire was back to sacrificing virgins on the altar of ambition, like some pot-valiant pagan.
Aunt Minerva was nodding her agreement. “Unless he’s dicked in the nob, and no one ever called little Randy Whitmore a slowtop.”
Squire passed her the dish of eels in aspic, as reward for agreeing with him. “Right. A chap don’t want to worry over his wife’s morals, or what cuckoo bird is landing in his nest, especially not the toffs with their generations of blue blood to preserve. He don’t want his sons’ noses bloodied defending their mum, and he don’t want to be forever dueling over rumors of her misconduct, either. There has never been a shred of gossip about my girl, and never will be, do you hear?”
Evan heard the warning, and could only wonder. Did Squire Prescott think he would cast dishonor on Alice’s name? He’d sooner see his own tongue pickled in that aspic. “Of course not. Miss Prescott is the embodiment of virtue. A perfect lady. More so than many with the title before their names, I daresay.”
“Just think, our dear Miss Prescott will be Lady Whittendale.” Mrs. Naysmith was already calculating the cachet of having a titled lady as patron.
“My little girl, a viscountess,” Mrs. Prescott said with a contented sigh.
Alice was sputtering, trying to topple her parents’ air castles before they collapsed around her. She might as well have tried to hold back the tide, for Mrs. Prescott was already wondering where they should hold the wedding ceremony. “Not at St. Cecilia’s, that’s for certain, not with half the county and all those elegant London guests coming. Perhaps the viscount would prefer to be married in the City after all. I’m sure his town house can easily accommodate the wedding breakfast.”
“Mama, there will be no—”
Squire turned to Evan. “So what do you think, eh, Reverend?”
Evan thought the mutton in his mouth tasted like masonry.
3
“I wish you would reconsider your notion to approach Lord Whittendale about a match with Miss Prescott, sir.”
“I’ll just bet you do, Merriweather. I’ll just bet you do.” Squire puffed on his cigar, filling the dining room with a blue haze. The ladies had departed for the withdrawing room, and Mr. Naysmith and the colonel had stepped out to use the necessary.
Evan did not want to think of the meaning behind Squire’s words. Did everyone know of his calf-love for Alice? Had he been that obvious in his admiration? Evan brushed that dreadful thought aside with a sweep of his hand to clear the smoke. Maybe he could sweep away the fog in his brain box, too, for it was imperative that he think clearly now. Alice’s entire future depended on him.
“As…as spiritual advisor to your family, I beg you to reexamine your heart. Do you truly think that Lord Whittendale will make your daughter a good husband?”
Squire blew a smoke ring. “As good as any. I never heard of Whittendale being the brutal sort. He’ll not lay a hand on her, not with her papa next door.”
“Good grief, I never meant to imply otherwise. I was thinking of her happiness.”
“Of course she’ll be happy as Viscountess Whittendale. She can have all the pretty dresses she desires, and she can enjoy herself in Town now and again, with invites that would never come her way as some country gentleman’s offspring. She’ll want for nothing. Rest assured I’ll make sure the settlements are generous.”
“Those are material things. What of peace of mind? Miss Prescott and my lord have neither interests, experiences, nor friends in common. Heavens, what will they even talk about?”
“The weather, for all I care.” Squire’s cheeks were getting red again, behind the blue smoke. “Dash it, they’ll make friends, learn new interests, same as every married couple. That’s what leg shackles are all about, don’t you know. No, of course you don’t.”
Evan bravely persevered. “I know that a couple needs more than a license to make a go of a marriage, sir. You and Mrs. Prescott share a fine affection. Would you wish less for your daughter?”
The squire thought for a moment, swirling his brandy in its glass. “They can ride together, that’s what. It’s a start. Alice is a notable horsewoman, and Whittendale is renowned for his prowess.”
The viscount was known for his neck-or-nothing style of riding. Surely Mr. Prescott did not intend for Alice to take up Lord Whittendale’s daredevil ways. Evan’s stomach lurched at the thought of gentle Alice riding hell-for-leather through the woods of White Oaks. She’d be tossed, or left behind at the first too-high hedge. He gulped a swallow of the brandy, knowing he’d have a headache later. He already had a heartache, so what was the difference? “He’ll abandon her here in the country as soon as she is breeding. You know Lord Whittendale will not give up the pleasures of the City.”
“Aye, and her mother will be thrilled to have the infants nearby to spoil. I won’t mind dandling a little lordling on my knee either. Wonder if Whittendale has any courtesy titles lying around for his firstborn? Aunt Minerva will know.”
Evan almost shouted in desperation. “But what of Alice?”
“She loves children. Always has. Says she wants a bunch of the little blighters. What comes of being an only child, I suppose. Not that Mrs. Prescott and I didn’t try, a’course.”
“No, I mean, what of Alice’s wants and desires?”
“As lady of White Oaks, my gal will be the first female of the neighborhood. She can do all the good deeds she wants. Why, she might just be able to put in a word for you with his lordship, get you a raise in living and fix up the church so folks won’t be afraid the roof’ll collapse on them.”
Evan gave up. “Perhaps his lordship will not be interested,” he muttered under his breath. Perhaps pigs would fly, too.
Squire’s hearing must have been better than his comprehension. “He’ll be interested, by Jupiter. He’s not fool enough to turn down the chance to get Prescott Manor when I toddle off.”
“Lord Whittendale does not seem terribly concerned with increasing his holdings. He could make White Oaks a more profitable estate, with better management.”
“No matter. Once he takes a gander at my Alice, he’ll see all the advantages.”
That’s what Evan feared, too. How could any man resist her sweet charms? He sighed.
The squire heard that, too. “It’s not as though her heart is given to another eligible gentleman, you know. I wouldn’t stand in the way if Alice showed a partiality, long as the chap was in a position to make her a decent offer. I don’t aim to see my puss living hand to mouth in some ramshackle cottage, you understand.”
Evan understood all too well.
“Take a bloke like yourself, hard-working and with a good head on your shoulders. Nice, steady fellow, righteous, even. But you haven’t got a pot to piss in, have you?” Only a chipped, battered bowl, which was how Evan was feeling at this moment.
“No, I’ve got to look out for my little chick, I do. Asides, you mightn’t live past Christmas Eve, what with the day being a tad unhealthy for the vicars of St. Cecilia’s, you might say.”
*
With less than a month to live—not that Evan believed in curses or such, of course—th
e vicar decided to relish what few pleasures came his way. He accepted Miss Prescott’s invitation to survey the conservatory. She thought they might decide how best to decorate St. Cecilia’s, in case the tonnish guests chose to attend services there. Pine boughs could cover the expanses of missing mortar, and perhaps one of her mother’s potted palms or flowering plants could hide that gaping hole in the rear comer.
Evan agreed with whatever Alice suggested, although he doubted that the London party would step foot in his little church, or any church for that matter, sinners that they were. No, he told himself, he should not condemn them without evidence, certainly not while he himself was having impious thoughts of Miss Prescott as she bent over this fern and that flower. Perhaps Lord Whittendale was not a rake, after all, and perhaps Lady Farnham was not his mistress. Victims of vicious tongues, that’s what they might be, not villains. Surely they’d attend a few parties, let the locals gawk and gossip, then return to their butterfly lives in London—without Alice.
Before Whittendale left, Evan did mean to show him the disrepair, even if he had to drag his lordship into the church by the silly tassels on the high-polished boots he was sure to be wearing. Once the viscount had made provisions for St. Cecilia’s, then Evan would speed him on his way with his blessings. As long as he left without Alice.
The vicar trailed behind Miss Prescott, moving a pot for her, fetching the watering can when she noticed a thirsty plant. Now his head was filled with the scents of warm earth and Alice, instead of Squire’s cigar. He still could not think properly.
“There, I think these will do,” she finally said. “I’ll see that they are brought to the church on Saturday, along with more greens and a ribbon or two. You don’t think bows would be too frivolous for church, do you?”
The only bow Evan could think of was the one tied beneath the high waist of Alice’s blue gown, right beneath her delectable décolletage. He took a deep breath and blurted: “What do you think of your father’s plan?”
She did not pretend to misunderstand. “Oh, I think Papa is happy in his plotting, but nothing will come of it. Lord Whittendale could have married any number of wellborn beauties with dowries far greater than mine if he wished to be wed at all, which I doubt.” She plucked a dead leaf off an ivy.
“But your father is correct; the viscount will have to wed sometime.”
“Yes, and I fear Papa will do his best to remind the unfortunate gentleman, as if his own family was not ragging at him enough. But so many snares have been set for Lord Whittendale that by now he must be too downy a bird to fall into any ambitious parent’s net.”
“If he is ready to start his nursery, however, how can you be so certain he won’t be smitten with you?”
Alice chuckled. “Lord Whittendale is not interested in country misses. He was polite enough to attend my come-out ball at Lady Henesley’s. That’s Mama’s godmother, you know. He must have felt duty-bound to come, since our families have known each other for ages, of course, although not on such familiar terms. The viscount brought a crowd of his friends, all gentlemen who rarely accepted such insipid invitations, which quite puffed up Lady Henesley. Whittendale took the floor with me for one set, which inflated my own consequence. Mama was au anges. Two days later, when we passed in the park, he did not recognize me as an acquaintance. So no, I do not fear he will be interested in making me an offer.”
“Your father is convinced otherwise.”
She shrugged and removed another spent bloom. “Papa will have no one to blame but himself when he is disappointed.”
Evan had to persist, because he had to know. “What if he does manage to convince the viscount? Would you be tempted to accept? Your father can be very persuasive.” So could the viscount’s worldly assets.
“I should hate to go against Papa’s wishes, but no, I would never accept an arranged match with Lord Whittendale, no matter the advantages. That is simply not the kind of marriage I want. I would rather remain unwed, in fact, than give myself into the keeping of a man who does not care for me, nor I him.”
“Good.” Convinced, Evan could breathe again. “You deserve a husband who will cherish and adore you, not merely require a mother for his heirs. You will find such a man, I know it.”
She stopped fussing with the flowers and turned to him. “Will I? Where?”
“Where? Um, the assemblies in Upper Winfrey? London in the spring?”
“I have been there. What about here?”
The vicar swallowed. “Here?” He looked around. Here was a dark room that smelled of growing things. The only thing she could find in a place like this was trouble. “Oh, Lord. We really should not be alone like this.”
“Nonsense. You are the family’s spiritual advisor. Who better to discuss such an important decision?” She turned, and would have tripped on her skirts but for the arm Evan put out to steady her. Then her hand was on his shoulder as she looked up into his eyes. “I think we have both come to the same conclusion, haven’t we?”
“Concerning Lord Whittendale?”
“Bother Lord Whittendale.” Alice stepped closer still, and licked her lips.
Evan Merriweather was a man of honor, a man of principles, a man of the cloth, by heaven. Hell, he was merely a man. He kissed her. Her lips were as sweet as he’d known they would be; her body as soft in his arms as he’d dreamed it would be; her tiny mews of pleasure as heady as a choir of angels. “The Devil!” He dropped his arms, and nearly dropped Alice. “Good grief, what am I doing?”
“You are kissing me, and about time, sir.”
“No, no. I cannot kiss you!”
“But you do it so well,” she teased, a tender smile on her pinkened lips.
“No, I mean I cannot compromise you. Your father’s trust…my calling. This is wrong, my dear.”
“Oh, then you do not love me? That would make it wrong indeed. I thought… That is, forgive me if I was wrong.” A tear trailed down her silky cheek.
“Oh, Lord,” he cried, kissing the tear away. “Of course I love you, my angel, more than life. I have from the first minute I saw you. But do you…? That is, could you…?”
“Love you? Of course, silly. Or did you think I kiss every gentleman of my acquaintance in Mama’s conservatory?”
So he had to kiss her again, until his conscience pricked him. No, this time it was a cactus. “Thunderation, Alice, you deserve so much better than I can give you.”
“Do you mean I deserve a cold and empty marriage, as I would have with Lord Whittendale?”
“Never. But you know it will take an act of divine intervention before your father gives us his blessing.”
Alice stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “Well, you are on good terms with the Lord, aren’t you?”
4
Evan could speak to God, but he couldn’t speak to Squire until he’d spoken to the viscount. Without an improvement in his condition, Mr. Merriweather would not, could not, subject his beloved to life in the vicarage. Alice thought her father would relent and support them, but Evan could not bear to take both Prescott’s daughter and his charity. What kind of man battens on his in-laws? Rather he batten on his distant cousin, who could well afford to pay an honest wage.
Dressing with care once more, Evan set out for White Oaks, Lord Whittendale’s estate. By the time he got there, though, a cold, windy rain had set in, so he was damp and disheveled, chilled to the bone. The viscount’s niffy-naffy London butler made him wait in the unheated hall, dripping on the marble entry, while he inquired if his lordship was receiving. Evan could hear laughter from down the corridor, men’s and women’s both, so the viscount was already entertaining. Surely a lord’s pleasures could be interrupted a moment for the Lord’s work?
Feeling more wretched and clumsy with every step, Evan followed the starched-up butler down the hall. If the servant was so top-lofty, he thought, how accommodating could the master be? The majordomo snapped his fingers at a footman to take Merriweather’s coat and hat, rather
than soil his own immaculate white gloves. Perhaps in similar manner Whittendale would try to relegate Evan to his secretary’s care, rather than disturb his revelries. Not this time, the vicar swore to himself.
The company was arrayed as if for portraits, in elegant groupings of twos and threes. Posed most becomingly, dressed in silks and satins, with jewels sparkling from necks, wrists, and cravats, they all had drinks or cards or each other in hand, and the clock not yet gone on noon. A few looked up from their conversations, then went back to their pastimes, dismissing the rumpled rustic as of no account. One or two of the woman smiled at him speculatively, as if watching his coat stretch across his shoulders. Lud, he thought in panic, what if the seams were finally giving out? He’d be half-naked in the haute monde. Evan almost turned and fled back the muddy way he had come. No, he had to speak his piece. For St. Cecilia’s. For Alice.
The viscount strode forward, his hand extended. Surprised, Evan shook it, noting his lordship’s firm grip. Whittendale was a noted sportsman, after all, so Merriweather should not have been unready, yet he’d been recalling the dissipated, debauched, and drink-sodden spawn of the devil from their previous interview. Instead, the viscount was the picture of good health and good grooming, some few years older than Evan’s own six-and-twenty, with black hair that fell in deliberate tousles. Evan was sure the viscount did not have a cowlick, just as he was sure the gentleman’s well-fitting, securely stitched coat cost more than his own yearly stipend.
The viscount was about Evan’s height, but he seemed of sturdier build, and his brown eyes were laughing at the vicar’s inspection. “Do I pass muster, old chap? Or were you expecting that I’d grown horns and a tail since we met last? A bad day, if I recall, after a good night. Never mind. Come stand by the fire and warm yourself. Bea, fetch the good vicar some cognac, will you? No, better make that hot tea, from our visitor’s disapproving looks. One of the early martyrs must have worn such an expression on his face just before meeting the lion.”
Greetings of the Season and Other Stories Page 27