“And yet,” His Grace of Walden said, “my sister did not come to me for help. She did not come to the family duke, the man who owns one of the largest banks in York. She came to the man who excels at making a difference.”
Lumley took a philosophical sip of his wassail. “Missus and I get overwhelmed. So many weans and not enough coin. Then you find a way for them to earn a few pennies with the shoveling or weeding or sweeping. It’s not charity. It’s teaching them that hard work deserves a fair wage. That’s all they need, some pride and ingenuity. We forget that.”
He exchanged a look with Wiles. “Then you come around,” Lumley went on, “reminding us that our brood is prodigious healthy. That our oldest has a talent for drawing—you’ve helped us see that, helped him hone that talent with Her Grace.”
He peered at his drink. “You pointed out that wee Mary is clever with her letters. Missus and I forget those things, and yet, they matter, Vicar. Good health, a sound mind, some skills… They matter more than all the fancy coaches in the world. You not only remind us of that with words, you live that. You make a difference in your example. We don’t want a vicar who spouts the Scriptures and can’t be bothered to admire yet another new baby. We need you.”
“I knit,” Old Man Weller said, “because you reminded me that Mrs. Lumley hasn’t the time, and her babies need blankets just the same. We have a lending library because of you, and don’t the ladies just love to gather there and sort out the ills of the world? We have flowers on the green, free to anybody, because you prodded His Grace into providing the wherewithal. Go to your cathedral if you must, Vicar, but we will mourn the loss of you.”
You have built a cathedral here. Joy had said that.
“Lest I be castigated for slacking,” Rothhaven said, “I will entrust you and these good fellows with a little tale. Once upon a time, there was a man who suffered the falling sickness. The damned illness, and the measures taken to contain it, had turned him up flighty and fearful. He never ventured forth, never mixed with society. He was lonely as only a fool on the moor can be lonely.”
“You were not a fool,” Lord Nathaniel interjected.
“This is my tale,” Rothhaven retorted. “I will tell it as I see fit.”
“Brothers,” Mr. Wentworth murmured.
“Go on,” Pietr said, though he had the sense these offerings—for that’s what they were—were somehow his confession. His tale.
“I had—the fellow, rather—had a ferociously bad seizure. The local vicar was called in to administer last rites. I was—the fellow, rather—was horrified. He’d not seen a strange face for years. He’d not had to make conversation, much less explain himself to anybody. Vicars are busybodies. They gossip and judge. They are a tolerated imposition on the people because the Crown’s control of us must be bolstered by threats of eternal hellfire. Nobody needs a perishing vicar sticking his beak where it’s not needed.”
Precisely. “And that—”
Rothhaven held up a hand much as his brother had, and Pietr did not dare speak.
“I needed that vicar. Do you know what he did? That vicar, an unprepossessing fellow with the dimensions of a dragoon, asked me of my illness. ‘Is it very difficult?’ he asked. An hour later, I was still searching for words, still trying to explain myself to this patient fellow with the kind eyes, who pretended that lukewarm tea was ambrosia and stale shortbread manna from heaven. He simply talked to me. Asked the occasional question, and when he rose to leave…”
Rothhaven stared off at nothing, and the silence in the room spoke loudly of courage and hope.
“I did not want him to go,” Rothhaven said. “I, who feared ridicule, who feared the next seizure, who feared open windows, did not want that man to leave me. I had spent time with a stranger, more than an hour. I had taken tea with a caller. I had held a conversation even. My entire view of myself—a hopeless eccentric doomed to solitude, a burden on my family—changed because a man stopped by for tea. You thanked me for the damned tea and made it convincing. You might have said a few prayers, but mostly, Pietr Sorenson, you listened, and you did not judge. Nathaniel rescued me from the madhouse, but my recovery did not truly start until you came to call.”
Pietr set down his drink. He recalled that summons to the Hall, recalled expecting to find Lord Nathaniel in difficulties, only to find a very different situation indeed.
“You never betrayed our confidences,” Lord Nathaniel said. “Never breathed a word, never questioned me about any of it. You have no idea, Sorenson, no earthly, heavenly, human idea of the difference you’ve made. How dare you abandon us now for some pile of pious old stones?”
“When my duchess and I needed a swift, discreet wedding ceremony,” Rothhaven said, “we knew we could ask it of you. We knew you would safeguard our happiness, no questions asked.”
“You and Her Grace were so obviously besotted,” Pietr replied. “Utterly smitten. Of course you needed marrying.” He looked around at a half-dozen men who regarded him solemnly in return. “I meddle… I have a license to meddle.”
Ned Wentworth, who’d been noticeably quiet, remained by the window. “I wish to Almighty God somebody had been around to meddle on behalf of me and my family, Sorenson. Instead, it was Newgate, starvation, and crime until my path crossed Walden’s. I suspect these men could recite your accomplishments until sundown, but the person you need to convince to stay here in Rothton isn’t Pietr Sorenson, it’s Pietr Sorenson’s prospective wife.”
“Joy must marry well,” Pietr said. “I cannot change that.”
“She could marry no finer man than you,” Rothhaven said gently.
“Her family’s situation is becoming known,” Walden added. “She could marry Fat George himself, and that would not stop the creditors from seeking payment.”
“Bellingham will wash his hands of them,” Mr. Wentworth said, “even if he marries Miss Danforth. I manage His Grace’s banks, and I know how Society politely turns its back on those who falter. Do you really want Miss Danforth to have to watch while his lordship cuts her off from the family that means so much to her?”
“I don’t have the coin they need to come right,” Pietr said. “Bellingham won’t allow his in-laws to be cast into debtors’ prison. I have room at the vicarage for them. I have my investments. My wife would never know hardship, but as for the rest of it… I cannot solve problems of that magnitude.”
Mr. Wentworth sent a glower over his shoulder at the pair of dukes whom most of Society spoke of in whispers.
“Happens I know a banker with some blunt,” Mr. Wentworth said. “He knows a couple of worthless idlers who excel at sorting out investments and finances. If that pair cannot bring order to the Danforth situation, then it cannot be done this side of heaven.”
“I could not impose to that extent,” Pietr said. Though, would Joy want him to impose? Did she need him to impose? To seek that kind of help? Humility was a virtue, wasn’t it?
“The duchesses and my wife,” Lord Nathaniel said, “would deal with us severely if we allowed all of your kindness and consideration to go unrepaid. You have a wealth of coin of the heart. We have an abundance of a different sort of resource. The Danforths can be taught to economize. They can be made to understand a ledger, just as we in the village have learned to be kind and honorable with one another.”
Ned Wentworth turned to face the room and speared Pietr with a look. “I never wanted to be a pickpocket. Do you want to be a dean?”
A pickpocket? If Ned Wentworth could go from pickpocket to banker… Miracles were possible. Pietr had always believed that miracles were possible. Spring was a miracle, birds, healthy children, and human kindness. Most of all, human kindness was a miracle.
“No,” Pietr said, getting to his feet. “No, I do not want to be a dean. Not ever. I do not want to leave Rothton, and I most assuredly do not want to spend the next twenty years wishing I had mustered the courage to offer for the woman I love.”
Pietr’s gelding would
not be able to catch the coach, but he’d cross the moors safely enough. “Gentlemen, I leave you to your decorating. I have a declaration to make.”
“Told ye,” Wiles said. “My money’s been on ye from the start, Vicar. Best of luck, but we’ll all want to attend the wedding.”
“Take Loki,” Lord Nathaniel said. “He loves a good gallop, and he delights in snow.”
“As do I.” Pietr bowed to everybody at once and left at a smart but dignified march.
“Stop the perishing coach,” Joy hollered over Hiram’s bleatings. “Stop the coach this instant, or I will toss my brother into the snow!”
She was determined enough to do it too. Not angry, or not very angry, but determined. Grandpapa had meant well, meant to offer his son better prospects than Grandpapa himself had faced, but those intentions had been misguided.
“No place to turn the ’orses,” came back from the box. “Nothing but damned moor.”
And yet, the coach slowed. The coach finally slowed. The ground-eating trot became a jarring jog, and then the horses ambled to a halt.
“We got us a highwayman,” the coachy yelled. “One bloke, but on a damned fast horse. No point risking the beasts on this footing.”
The bend in the road allowed Joy to see a lone rider streaking along in the coach’s wake.
“Fine riding,” Hiram said. “A madman, clearly, but he can ride that hell beast.”
The rider’s scarf streamed out behind him, his head was bare, and the wind had turned his cheeks ruddy.
“That is no madman,” Joy said. “That is my Viking.”
“Vicar, you mean. Did you forget a locket or something back at the parsonage?”
“Not a locket, but something precious.” I left behind my heart.
The horse pranced up to the coach, a great dark steed who did not appear to notice that the moor was covered in snow. Joy opened the door the better to lean out and see Pietr stop his mount directly before the team.
“You want I should stand and deliver?” the coachy asked. “All I have is me spare flask. Ye done already nicked my good one.”
“I want you to cease nattering so I can cast my heart into the lady’s keeping.” Pietr nudged the horse around to the side of the coach, which put him only slightly above Joy’s eye level. “I apologize for interrupting your journey, Miss Danforth.”
“I am delighted that you interrupted my journey. You cut quite a dash on that horse, Mr. Sorenson.”
“A dash? I do?” He petted the horse, whose sides heaved with exertion. “Loki is a good lad. Likes a run every now and then, for which God be thanked.”
“I have realized something,” Joy said, rather than risk that the words would go unsaid. “Something important.”
“As have I. Ladies first.”
“If I marry Lord Apollo, I am ensuring my brother’s ruin. My family’s ruin. Money must be dealt with, render unto Caesar and all that, but Hiram is turning rancid before my eyes. Another year or two of strutting around in finery he cannot afford, and he will be lost to all hope. The only reason Lord Apollo has decided to marry me is that I’m short and plain.”
“The blighter told you that?”
The horse’s ears pricked at Pietr’s tone.
“Yes. His lordship is short. What he lacks in inches, he makes up for in arrogance. He likes looking down on me. Likes that I will always be grateful for his proposal. He said he will have no trouble managing me and that his good looks will be enough to ensure that our children are handsome. I am to be grateful and dainty. I am not dainty, Pietr. I am little and fierce.”
“You and yonder vicar are daft,” Hiram said. “The pair of you are flaming—”
“Hush.” Joy and Pietr had spoken in unison.
“Be still,” Pietr added. “I must be heard, or I will go daft in truth. Joy Danforth, I have only modest means, though they are adequate. I am accounted a fine judge of pies, my toes are made of cast iron from having been tromped on by so many wallflowers and by the estimable Mrs. Blackwell. I am not given to long sermons nor to chattering, except apparently when I am proposing.”
He took up the reins, though the horse was standing as docilely as a lamb. “My heart is yours,” Pietr said, regarding Joy with blue, blue eyes. “Will you have the rest of me as well? Please say yes. Your family can live with us if need be—we have room at the vicarage—and my guardian angels have agreed to sort out all the money and whatnot. Lord Apollo does not deserve you, and—I mean this in all humility—you have done nothing to deserve the penance he would be either.”
Pietr sat very tall on his horse, the chilly breeze riffling his hair. Hiram had fallen silent, while the coachy was dabbing at his eyes with his sleeve.
“Pietr Sorenson,” Joy said, “you have a genius for kindness as wide and magnificent as the moors. You have a soul as lovely as the blue Yorkshire heavens, and you are the warmth at the heart of an entire village. You are the love of my life, and I will speak my vows with you and only with you.”
“You mean that?” he asked. “You will marry me?”
He was so hopeful, so brave. “Yes, I will marry you, and that old cathedral will just have to muddle on without you. We will build our own edifice out of gratitude, kindness, caring, and laughter.”
“And pleasure,” he added softly. “Profound pleasure.”
“That too, but the foundation will be love, Pietr.”
“Amen. The foundation will be love.”
The coachy flourished a dented flask. “I’ll drink to that. Don’t suppose there’s someplace I can turn these ’orses about? Gettin’ a might nippy up here with all this proposin’ and plightin’ goin’ on.”
“Danforth,” Pietr called. “Can you manage to stay in the saddle all the way back to the village? Loki has galloped off the fidgets, and Joy and I have more to say to each other.”
“Do go on, Hiram,” Joy said, stepping back from the coach’s door. “You fancy yourself a man of accomplishments. Get that horse back to the village in one piece, why don’t you?”
Loki chose then to start propping and prancing in the snow, which seemed to amuse Pietr. “He’s a good lad, Danforth. Just a bit lively. Wants encouragement and guidance.”
Hiram watched the horse curvetting and fussing. “P’raps I’ll just ride up top?”
“Very well,” Pietr said, climbing from the saddle. “Loki, you can toddle along behind the coach.” He fixed the reins to the boot. “John Coachman, you’ll reach a crossroads on the other side of this hill, and you can turn the team there. Danforth, out of that coach and take my scarf. You’ll need it.”
Hiram got down, Pietr climbed in, and a few minutes later, Joy was rolling along, snuggled next to the man she loved.
“What changed your mind?” she asked. “You let me start across the moor, Pietr, and every bend in the road only broke off another piece of my heart.”
“I conferred with wiser heads,” Pietr said, looping an arm around Joy’s shoulders. “I cannot abandon the place where I am most useful and where I so clearly thrive. I needed to be shown a few home truths, and I need you to thrive beside me. What changed your mind?”
Oh, to be next to him again, to be cuddled right up next to him. “How do you know I did change my mind?”
“The coach was slowing down as I rode up. I left strict instructions that the coachman was to listen only to you. You told him to halt. Why?”
“Because, Hiram was yawping about the right people, and luck at the tables, and new dresses… all the things that brought the Danforths to a sorry pass in the first place. I saw that if I did not take the steps with my family that my grandfather had declined to take—to see that they lived within their means, to remind them that new slippers must be paid for—then we would be not merely in debt, but ruined as human beings. I might mean well, marrying Lord Apollo, but I’d been fooling myself about what the actual results would be and about what love required of me.”
“The Danforths won’t be ruined,” Pietr said,
arranging the robe over both their laps. “They will practice economies, liquidate assets, and live humbly, but they won’t be ruined. Mr. Wentworth has sent his dukes into action, and that’s all that need be said on the matter. I must kiss you now.”
Pietr in fact kissed her all the way back to the village, a shorter distance than Joy would have preferred. The coachy pulled up at the inn where, for some reason, a crowd had assembled.
“I assume,” a tall, dark-haired fellow said as Joy climbed from the coach, “that you have restored our vicar to his usual good spirits, Miss Danforth?”
Pietr descended and took Joy’s hand. “His Grace of Walden bids you good morning, Joy. His Grace of Rothhaven will do likewise in a moment. I am happy to announce that Miss Danforth has restored my fine spirits to a full measure of holiday good cheer. She has agreed to marry me, and we will make our home here for as long as children need skating lessons and new babies need blankets.”
“A very long time indeed,” Walden said, bowing to Joy. “Congratulations, best wishes. Wassail for all, to celebrate the happy occasion!”
A stampede ensued, one that left even Mrs. Blackwell smiling. Hiram joined the throng, as did the coachman, various elders, more than a few children, and the rest of the village. The holiday assembly began as a spontaneous celebration and continued well past dark.
A new tradition began, of holding the holiday assembly at an earlier hour, the better to include the whole village. Other traditions remained—the skating lessons, the snow shoveling and flower patches—and new souls arrived, including several little darlings born at the vicarage.
Whether the undertaking was building a family, maintaining a village, or planting some posies, as long as Pietr and Joy dwelled at the vicarage, the foundation was love.
The foundation was always, always love.
To my dear readers
I do love me a holiday tale! There’s just something special about a bleak time of year being when many of us form some of our sweetest memories and reconnect with our dearest friends. I am left wondering, though, about what Ned Wentworth, now all grown up and sporting about in London finery, will do for his own happily ever after.
A Rogue in Winter Page 11