Yes, he’d laughed so hard he’d nearly fallen out of his chair, just like his son. So he wasn’t sufficiently serious anymore, was he? He laughed too often? He was too light-hearted? And this diminished him?
Dear God, what was he to do? He knew Samuel was right. He knew his flock was right. Everyone had seen the incredible changes—everyone except him.
But now he did.
He had changed.
It wasn’t a respectful, devout change.
He had become a man seduced by all that was unimportant to the salvation of his soul.
It was a licentious change.
He moved to his desk, read the pages he’d written for his sermon. He felt a shaft of pain as he read, and surprise at what he’d written so naturally, so easily—so joyfully. He closed his eyes for a moment. Then he tore the pages in half.
Tysen didn’t remain at the vicarage for lunch. He went to the Dead Spaniard Inn to have Mr. Gaither’s barmaid, Petunia, serve him a cup of spiced tea and a cold plate of chicken and warm bread. He felt the damp from the thickening rain and cold to his bones.
He ate and waited for Mr. Gaither to show himself, which he did after Tysen had taken only two absent-minded bites of the chicken and wondered yet again what had become of his life.
“Ah, Reverend Sherbrooke, it’s delighted I am to see you home again. You were away far too long, sir. Many good people lapsed a bit, didn’t attend Mr. Pritchert’s sermons. A good fellow, but long-winded he is, poor man. But Samuel Pritchert is always there, always ready to shoulder another man’s burdens, to counsel him, to help him wipe clean his plate when it’s dirty. But tomorrow you’re finally back in the pulpit. Everyone will be in church.”
Mr. Gaither was wider than his apron, and his heart was as big as his belly. He was a good man, a man Tysen had respected for the entire eight years he had been the vicar in Glenclose-on-Rowan. Mr. Gaither had dealt more than fairly with his wastrel older brother, who had, evidently, just taken a ship to the Colonies, to find new vic-tims to fleece.
“Have you ever traveled to Scotland, Mr. Gaither?”
“Not I, sir. Born and raised here, been here all my life. I believe it’s best for a man to know his roots and stick close to them.”
Not very subtle, Tysen thought, and took a bite of the warm bread.
“I saw your wife, sir, just yesterday afternoon, with little Meggie, over at the draper’s shop on High Street. They were laughing, sir, over nothing at all as far as I could tell, as far as anyone else could tell. She’s a looker.”
“Yes, Meggie looks a great deal like her aunt Sinjun,” Tysen said.
“No, I meant your wife. All the, er, men think so.”
Tysen wadded the piece of bread into a ball in his fist. His heart began to pound, death-hard strokes. Now Mr. Gaither wanted Tysen to believe that Mary Rose was a strumpet to be ogled? He remembered Mr. Sanderford in Brighton. Mary Rose hadn’t wanted him to flirt with her, she hadn’t, and Tysen felt a leap of rage at this insult, and nearly choked on the bread he’d been chewing. He managed to calm himself. He said, after he’d motioned Mr. Gaither to seat himself, “My wife and daughter are very fond of each other. Naturally they laugh together. Now, I don’t know precisely what you mean, Mr. Gaither, by this ‘looker’ business. You have met my wife. Did you not come to the vicarage just three days ago with your dear wife to share tea with us?”
“Naturally, my lord. Mrs. Sherbrooke was very gracious to everyone. It is just—oh, dear, I surely meant no insult to you or to her, Reverend Sherbrooke.”
“Perhaps you should try for an explanation, Mr. Gaither, one that is readily understandable.”
“Dear heaven—the pain, the embarrassment—to speak of it, sir. No help for it. Your wife flirted with Teddie Tate! Shameless, it was.”
“Ah,” Tysen said, utterly confused now. The only man Mary Rose had ever flirted with in her life was him. Again, he remembered Sanderford, and he nearly smiled, remembering how Mary Rose had compared him to Erickson MacPhail.
“Poor Bethie Tate, well, dear Bethie was in tears, sobbing her heart out to Miss Strapthorpe.”
“I see. It is Miss Strapthorpe who mentioned this to you?”
“Oh, Miss Glenda mentioned it to everyone, Reverend Sherbrooke.”
“Other than flirting with Teddie Tate, is there any other sin my bride has committed?”
“Oh, sir, now you’re upset and I never meant for you to be. I know, I know, Miss Strapthorpe fancied you for herself, and thus you think this is all a lie to discredit your wife, that it is nothing more than the spite of a rejected female.”
“That’s it exactly, Mr. Gaither. Miss Strapthorpe is a single-minded young lady. I fear I offended her by not giving her what she wanted—namely, myself and the vicarage, which she wanted to expand into the graveyard.”
“You don’t say! What a thought that provides. Just imagine drinking your tea atop old Mrs. Beardsley’s coffin, and she’s been down under for over fifty years now.”
“I believe Miss Strapthorpe had visions of removing the coffins.”
“Oh, dear,” said Mr. Gaither and shook his head. “Aye, and I’ll wager you were plain-speaking with her too, sir, and not unkind.”
“I suppose so.”
Mr. Gaither stroked his fingers over his clean-shaven jaw. “It’s true that her disappointment is great, according to Mrs. Bittley and Mrs. Padworthy. I heard them talking just outside the tavern, while they were waiting for their husbands to down their final mugs of ale. Proper sods, their husbands were that day. Aye, it is a strong possibility that Miss Strapthorpe perhaps exaggerated the thing a bit.”
“More than a bit. Now, all that is distraction, Mr. Gaither. Tell me what this is all about.”
“I will try, sir. You see, everyone remarks on the fact that you have quite lost your head over your new wife, that you have fallen snare to a man’s weakness. An ordinary man’s weakness. And that is it, sir.”
“I see,” Tysen said slowly, and thought, well, I have certainly heard enough of this before, and he rose from his chair. It was all very clear to him now. “I am very sorry that everyone believes that I have somehow changed when all I’ve done is gotten married.”
Mr. Gaither looked at him sadly. “A very melancholy thing to happen to a man of God, Vicar. A disastrous thing.”
Tysen felt his heart pounding again, only this time each deep stroke sent a deep, searing ache through him. His head rarely ached, but it did now, a biting pain just over his left temple. He said, “Is laughter such a bad thing, Mr. Gaither?”
“If it exposes naught but more laughter, Reverend Sherbrooke,” Mr. Gaither said, pity in his eyes now, “then I fear it likely is, at least for you, sir.”
Tysen left, turning right on High Street, nodding, speaking, looking all his parishioners in the face as he met them. Few met his eye. He wasn’t kissing Mary Rose, he wasn’t laughing. He probably looked as serious as if he was conducting a funeral. He ignored the rain, falling more heavily even now, and walked to the beautifully tended old graveyard beside his church. Glenda Strapthorpe had wanted to take away all the graves and build a wing onto the vicarage? It boggled his mind.
He was still shaking his head in disbelief as he walked among the graves, eventually wending his way through the stones to his favorite. The man buried here had been a violent warrior, yet when Tysen came to the grave, he felt peace, a measure of serenity. He laid his hand on the ancient headstone, feeling the centuries-old texture that was still changing, year by passing year. It was just possible to make out the nearly obliterated lettering: Sir Vincent D’Egle, born in 1231, died in 1283. There were fresh flowers on the grave, leaning against the marker. Meggie had brought them, he knew, because she’d long known that he somehow identified with this one particular grave. They were bedraggled now, the rain tearing them apart. He felt as bedraggled as those wretched flowers. He moved just a bit away from it and sat on the long stone bench. He looked up at his church, at its magnificent spire,
rising so tall above every other building in Glenclose-on-Rowan. The thick gray stone looked solid and timeless beneath the gray-clouded, weeping sky. He’d sat here many times listening to the bells rung by his sexton, Mr. Peters, feeling the incredible sounds seep into his very soul.
He closed his eyes and prayed for a very long time.
27
THE VICARAGE WAS crammed to the attic rafters. Douglas and Ryder and their families had all descended, unannounced and unexpected, late that Saturday afternoon, piled into three carriages that overflowed the vicarage stable.
The vicarage was filled with shouting children, laughing adults, a housekeeper who was nearly in hysteria from the pressure of it all, and him and his wife.
Mary Rose was gowned in the new dress Sinjun had given her, a dark-green wool with lace at the neckline, long fitted sleeves, banded with a dark-green satin ribbon beneath her breasts. It looked, he thought, very well indeed on her.
Mary Rose was overwhelmed, he knew, but looking at her now, not as her husband and a man who was coming to know her, but as a stranger would, he thought her nervousness wasn’t obvious. She smiled, she was gracious, she dispensed tea and small cakes and tarts, she listened intently to any child who happened to engage her, and she smiled happily at him whenever she had the chance.
As for Tysen, he wanted to close himself in his study and remain there, in the darkness, steeped in the pain and doubt and uncertainty that had penetrated to his very soul. But he couldn’t. His brothers and their families had come to visit, only the good Lord knew for how long, because neither Douglas nor Ryder would say. All they did was poke him in the shoulder and laugh. He sat there quietly, a teacup in his hand, saying nothing, just listening to everyone talking, arguing, all of it so very normal and, yes, lighthearted. Just a bit over a week ago, he’d held Max up by his ankles as punishment for saying merda to his cousins. He closed his eyes against the pain of it, against the inevitability of it.
Mary Rose didn’t know what was wrong. Tysen was acting strangely, and it wasn’t brought on by the visit by his siblings—no, he’d been abstracted for the full hour before they’d arrived. When he’d come in, his hair plastered to his head from the hard-blowing rain, she’d skipped up to him, laughing, scolding, smiling, so filled with pleasure at the simple sight of him, sodden but here with her again, and she’d come up on her tiptoes to kiss him. He’d not moved.
Slowly, slowly, her arms had fallen away and she’d stared up at him. “What is wrong, Tysen? What happened?”
“Nothing,” he said and left her.
She’d wanted to yell after him to get out of his wet clothes, for he was probably soaked to the bone, but she didn’t. She just stared after him.
Now he was acting as though the world was going to end at any moment, and he didn’t know whether he was going to heaven or to hell.
What had happened?
Because Mary Rose was worried about her new husband, she wasn’t particularly nervous about the unexpected visit of her new family in her own home. Besides, she knew them now, had seen naked statues with Alex and had made an apple pie with Sophie. Still, Meggie stood by her, her hand on her shoulder, her small protector, and she felt a rush of love.
Meggie said, “In this darker light, your hair and Aunt Alex’s look exactly the same color.”
“I know,” Alex said. “In the bright sunlight, Mary Rose’s hair is shinier and richer, altogether more charming.”
“I wasn’t intending that exactly,” Meggie said, and grinned at her aunt.
“You have no guile, Meggie,” Alex Sherbrooke said, and popped a small apricot tart into her mouth, closing her eyes as she chewed. She said then to Mary Rose, “As I told you at Northcliffe Hall, we are both cursed and blessed, you and I, what with all these curls and twisters and waves. At least there is so much hair, we should never go bald in our later years.”
Mary Rose offered Alex another apricot tart and took one herself.
“You’ll also never become flat-chested,” Sophie Sherbrooke said, eyeing her sister-in-law’s bosom. “What do you think, Mary Rose? Don’t you think that God was overly generous to Alex when he handed out bosoms?”
Mary Rose laughed. “Very unfair, indeed.”
“What is this about breasts?” Douglas Sherbrooke said, walking lazily to where his wife sat, sighed as he looked at her bosom, and lightly kissed her mouth.
“Douglas, that is not at all appropriate,” his wife said.
“I have told you, dearest, that ‘bosom’ is a very faint vague sort of word used only by females. What you have are breasts. Thank God.”
Sophie cleared her throat. “Actually, whatever we were speaking about, Douglas, it wouldn’t hold your interest. Do go torment poor Tysen. To be perfectly blunt, our conversation isn’t for your tender ears, my lad.”
Mary Rose said a few minutes later to Sophie Sherbrooke, after Douglas had strolled off, an eyebrow arched upward, a smile on his lips, “I so enjoyed meeting all the Beloved Ones. I have never seen Tysen shouting and laughing quite so much as when a dozen of the children had taken him to the ground and were holding him down and sitting on him.”
“He did enjoy himself,” Sophie said, and frowned slightly as she looked over at him now. Mary Rose knew what she was seeing. A man who was distracted, a man who wasn’t really with them, but off somewhere, deep in his thoughts, and she’d bet those thoughts weren’t wonderful.
Sophie turned to smile at her husband as she said, “It is bedlam.” She saw that Ryder was standing in the middle of the drawing room, holding Leo’s head under one arm and Max’s head under the other, rubbing them together. “Ryder loves them all so. Give him a crying child and that child will be smiling within moments. You know he is also a member of the House of Commons. That job and the children keep him very busy.”
“You make it sound like you do nothing at all save sit about eating sweetmeats,” Mary Rose said. “Remember, I was there at Chadwyck House. I saw how you never slowed from dawn until dusk.”
“Well, I quite enjoy being responsible for all our tenant farmers. I can tell you the very best sheep-breeding methods, the most efficacious manures to be plowed into our fields, the best milking cows to be had—goodness, I am quite the expert on crops. Just let me tell you all about barley and rye sometime.” She laughed gaily, adding, “In addition, naturally, I have to keep my dear husband under control, always a fascinating and demanding job.”
“I saw that it was,” Mary Rose said.
“Ha,” Alex said, poking her elbow into Sophie’s side. “Ryder dotes on you. He gets within three feet of you and he’s licking his lips. It’s embarrassing, Sophie.”
“And just what about you, Alex? You’re one to talk. I can see Douglas staring at your bosom from across the room, and he is supposed to be attending to what poor Tysen is trying to say.”
Mary Rose listened to the good-natured bickering between her sisters-in-law. She liked them both, impossible not to. They were open, friendly, and didn’t seem to mind at all that she was from Scotland and spoke with a lilt.
Alex said then, “Max was telling us all what he said to you at dinner one evening when you first came. Something about he wouldn’t eat his broccoli—and he said it in Latin. Then you answered—also in Latin. Well done, Mary Rose. Max seems so much less, well, how do I say it? He seems more lighthearted, more ready for fun, than he ever has before. It’s amazing, don’t you think, Sophie?”
“Oh, yes,” Sophie said thoughtfully. “And Leo. He simply couldn’t sit still at Chadwyck House. He was just telling me that he likes to ride, primarily with you, Mary Rose. He said that you could sing to a horse and the horse would start running faster than the wind.”
Mary Rose thought about that small jest with Leo, still so surprised that her borrowed mare, Dahlia, had actually nearly run her legs off when she’d sung that Robert Burns ditty. “They are both dear boys,” Mary Rose said, “unlike Meggie here, who gives me nothing but trouble. She is always criticizi
ng me, always telling me what I should do and what I shouldn’t do.”
Meggie only laughed and pulled Mary Rose’s earlobe.
Sophie and Alex looked at each other. They’d been pleased before when a laughing Tysen had brought his bride to visit them. They were even more pleased now. Tysen had chosen well this time.
Meggie said, “Mary Rose has nearly as sweet a smile as you do, Aunt Sophie.”
“Very well,” Sophie said on a sigh. “You may wear my garnet bracelet, Meggie.”
“Thank you,” Meggie said.
“That was well done,” Mary Rose said, tilting her head at Meggie. “Am I as easy as your aunt?”
“I haven’t yet tested you, Mary Rose. We will see.”
Mary Rose later went to the stables with Leo to see his uncle Douglas’s stallion, Garth, a brute with a vile temper, Leo told her, that made Uncle Douglas laugh with pleasure when he tried to fling him off his back. She was to sing a Robert Burns ditty to Garth, and then they would see. She opened her mouth and managed to sing nearly one complete verse to the huge horse before he did his best to trample them. She moved nearly as quickly as Leo.
Yes, Mary Rose thought as she dressed for dinner, her new family were very nice people, delightful really, and they seemed to like her very much—the Scottish bastard who was now, magically, an English vicar’s wife. She’d even brought her husband a hundred-pound dowry.
She managed to find beds for all their guests. The three boy cousins would sleep with Max and Leo, and she imagined that they would be awake most of the night. Grayson, Sophie and Ryder’s son, was a mesmerizing storyteller, despite his meager eight years, or maybe because of them. In the dark of the night, Ryder had told her at Chadwyck House, his boy could make his listeners’ hair stand on end. He’d told his first ghost story at three years old, and his old nurse had run screaming from the nursery.
She gave Meggie’s bedchamber to Douglas and Alex, and once again Meggie would sleep in their bedchamber. It was a pity. She wanted to know what was bothering Tysen.