Greetings of the Season and Other Stories (37 page)

“I’m not sure I understand myself how emptying my coffers to fix highways and drainage ditches is of any benefit to me, but I will look into it. You’re late, you see. The squire was already at me about the parish, too, as if I was in short pants again, needing a lecture on my responsibilities. I suppose I can check if my steward is doing a competent job.”

“I am sure you will make a fair judgment once you visit the tenant farmers and the villagers.”

“Deuce take it, I said I’d look at your church, not spend my time inspecting pig pens and cow byres. That other is my steward’s job, and if he is not doing it, I’ll find another.” His handsome dark eyes narrowed. “You and Squire didn’t discuss this between you, did you?”

“No, my lord. Well, yes, but not in so many words, just that we were both pleased to see you in Sussex. We are glad of the opportunity to bring injustices to your notice.” He had to add, in all honesty, “Squire did mention he was hoping you’d decide to stay on in the country.”

“Not bloody—pardon, not blessed likely. I will see what’s to be done, though, just to stop the flow of mail. I’m not Golden Ball, you understand. I cannot fix all the woes of the world with my bank checks.”

“Of course not. No one expects that.” Evan took another sip of his toddy, feeling the spirits warm him from the inside out. “Simply put, we are hoping that, once you are aware of the deplorable conditions, you will see fit to make an increase in the living wages of those who are dependent upon you.” He tacked on a “my lord.”

“Like yourself, you mean?”

Evan felt his cheeks growing warm now. “I…ah… Whittendale laughed. “Squire mentioned your plight, too. He sang your praises for what you’ve tried to do for the people, said you needed some support. I’ll look into it.” The viscount was being so reasonable, not at all condescending, that the vicar couldn’t help raising his estimation of the man. Why, Evan thought he might even like the gentleman. Until Lord Whittendale said, “Squire mentioned his daughter, too.”

Evan detested the dastard. He also dropped his napkin. When he bent to retrieve it, the sound of ripping stitches reverberated through the room.

The viscount had his obnoxious quizzing glass out again. “You are in a sad way, aren’t you?”

May he never know how sad, Evan silently prayed around a forced smile.

Whittendale sat back in his chair. “But tell me about Squire’s daughter. Little Alice used to be a charmer. Is she still? I know I saw her at some ball or other, but all those chits in their white gowns look alike.”

“That would have been Miss Prescott’s come-out at Lady Henesley’s. And yes, Miss Prescott is still everything pleasing. A fine young woman. A blessing to the neighborhood, in fact.”

“I suppose she’d make some chap an admirable wife, then?” His lordship stared into his cup of cheer, without any. “As Prescott and my innumerable female relations keep reminding me, it is past time I considered setting up my nursery. I do not relish shopping the Marriage Mart.” He swallowed the contents of his cup and poured another, shuddering. “Almack’s, by Hades. Be simpler to take one who’s to hand.”

Evan felt compelled to defend his Alice as more than just a convenient solution to a pesky problem. “Miss Prescott would make any man an excellent wife. She is kind and intelligent, compassionate to those less fortunate.”

Whittendale winced. “A veritable paragon of virtue. Lud, that I’ve come to this. I suppose that’s what parson’s mousetrap is all about.”

“Not in this parson’s book, my lord. What about affection, loyalty, shared interests?” Evan was repeating what he’d told Alice’s father, hoping to be heeded this time. “What about love and passion? Do you not want those things from the woman with whom you will spend the rest of your life?”

Whittendale grimaced at the “rest of your life” part. “Hell, no. That’s why they make mistresses, don’t you know? A chap wouldn’t want a wife enacting Cheltenham tragedies every time he decided to attend a mill instead of another blasted musicale, or when he let his eye wander, if you know what I mean.” He noted Evan’s frown. “No, of course you don’t. Forgot your calling. Trust me, Vicar, a well-brought-up miss makes a comfortable wife, and a comfortable life, without all those other entanglements.”

Knowing he was stepping beyond the line, even for a supposed spiritual advisor, Evan felt he had to say, “Lady Farnham is a beautiful woman who shares your way of life.”

Lord Whittendale nodded his agreement, then raised one dark eyebrow. “So?”

“So she would make you a more suitable bride than Alice…Miss Prescott.”

The viscount threw his head back and laughed. “You really are a green ’un, Merriweather, trying to legitimize a liaison. A man don’t marry his mistress. Oh, Prinny might have tried, but the scandal sheets made a laughingstock out of him. Lady Whittendale, when I finally take a bride, will be unsullied, with a spotless reputation, as befits my station in life.” He held up a manicured hand with a flashing ruby in his signet ring. “Not that Bea is a lightskirt, mind, or would play me false while we have an understanding. She’s a good sort, Beatrice is. Married off to the old wind-bag at an early age, and never strayed from his side that I ever heard. The thing is, Reverend, with no bark on it, Bea is used goods.”

“What, like a carriage discarded for a newer model?” Evan was appalled. “She is a woman, my lord, not an old shoe.”

The viscount’s eyebrow raised again. “I think you forget who pays your salary, sirrah. The salary you wish increased. Or perhaps you think those clerical collars give you license to poke your nose where it don’t belong.”

Where he didn’t belong was in the profligate’s parlor, trying to impart a smidgeon of a scruple. Evan set his cup down and stood. “I have taken enough of your time, my lord. I appreciate your promise to address the needs of our little community.”

“Yes, yes. I shall be at the chapel on Sunday, as promised. I suppose the squire’s chit will attend, so I can take a look at her then, too.” Walking the vicar to the door, Lord Whittendale added, “You know, Merriweather, you ought to consider taking a wife yourself. Find a homely woman with a handsome dowry, and you will be set for life. You won’t need to be hanging on my sleeve for every little thing like the carriage I’ll send you home in.”

Missing windows and rotted pews were no little thing. The viscount would see for himself, so Evan had to be satisfied for now. He bowed his head. “Too kind, my lord. As a matter of fact, I am also considering matrimony.”

With the same woman.

*

They were supposed to be putting flowers in urns, instead of roses in Alice’s cheeks. The placement of the wreaths and boughs for Whittendale’s impending visit had deteriorated to placing not so chaste kisses. Evan Merriweather was a devilish kisser, for a holy man. In fact, ’twas a good
thing
mistletoe was considered too pagan for the church, or Heaven alone knew where such goings-on would lead.

The mice knew.

“You see, everyone understands the rules about ‘Be fruitful and multiply.’ Even h
uman
people.”

“Aye, and these two need our help, too, so keep gnawing. They can’t mate until we rescue the church, no more than we can.”

The last remaining St. Cecilia Churchmice were in St. Francis’s niche, grinding away at the layers of paint coating their favorite golden statue.

“But we’re getting nowhere,” Passeth-All-Understanding complained. “My teeth are worn to nubbins, and we’ll never have St. Francis shiny enough by Christmas Eve for anyone to notice.”

“We will if you stop staring out the crack in the wall at that little field mouse.” Exultemus Domine flicked his
whiskers clear of paint chips. “Besides, as soon as the vicar and that nice Miss Alice leave, we can go nibble on the meal she brought for us.”

“Those are flowers and greens, Ed.”

“They call it salad. Not filling, but better than nothing. Keep gnawing.”

5

They did not want the church to look shabby and unloved for the London visitors, but Evan and Alice did not want St. Cecilia’s to look so festive that Lord Whittendale could ignore the disrepair.

The mice helped. They ate the decorations.

Balancing on that same thin line, Evan spent hours on a sermon that would gently nudge his congregation toward the path of righteousness, without being either censorious of the sinners or accepting of the sins.

The mice helped. They ate his notes.

Reciting from memory, the Reverend Mr. Merriweather first had to master a nearly uncontrollable urge to stare at Alice, who looked enchanting to him in a blue bonnet and a warm red wool cloak. Sitting between her mother and her great-aunt Minerva in the third row, Alice kept her eyes on her prayer book, but a tender smile played upon her lips—the lips he’d been kissing. Evan lost his place and had to start over.

This time he forced his eyes to the rest of the congregation. The few faithful worshipers from the village were sitting in the last rows as usual, ready to bolt if the roof collapsed. They were all wrapped in shawls and mufflers, for the church was as cold as Lord Whittendale’s heart this mid-December morning. The White Oaks house party occupied the first two pews, dressed in all their finery, with Lady Farnham at the viscount’s side, in a gaily decorated bonnet and fur-lined mantle. Whittendale looked bored, but the beautiful young widow nodded encouragingly, so Evan cleared his throat and began again, trying to inject a bit more fervor, a touch of fire and brimstone along with the—

“Cherries! I see cherries!” Passeth-All-Understanding was jumping up and down on St. Francis’s right side.

White-muzzled Exultemus Domine frowned from the statue’s other side. “Can’t be cherries. Cherries are in summer. This is winter, you catbait.”

“Your eyesight is as dull as your teeth, Ed. I tell you, I see cherries on that lady’s hat.” The younger mouse wrinkled his nose. “It even smells like cherries.”

“No, the human people roll in flowers so they don’t smell so bad. That’s what has you confused.”

“I know cherries when I see them!” And Passeth-All-Understanding was going to get himself some. He leaped from the statue’s niche to the mildewed molding, then scurried down a warped wall panel and under an equally flawed floorboard, coming up again at the correct crumbling pew. He climbed nimbly up the back of the wooden seat and jumped from there onto Lady Farnham’s shoulder, thence to her high collar, just inches away from the cherries on her bonnet. He was just about to reach up for one of the tender delicacies when he realized he was standing on the enemy—an ermine. A jumped-up weasel, to be sure, but still a mouse-menace. So he screamed.

No one heard him, of course, nor the rest of Mr. Merriweather’s sermon, for all the ladies were shrieking, the ones who were not swooning, at any rate. Thinking the roof must be falling in, the villagers fled for the door, clogging the exit, only to be shoved aside by the Londoners. Squire Prescott had to half carry his wife out, and Alice, white-faced, supported Aunt Minerva behind him. Shouting “Tallyho,” Lord Whittendale and one of his sporting friends took up the hunt after the tiny, terrified culprit, up the aisles and down the pews, until Passeth-All-Understanding passed between the fallen stones in the far corner, and bolted for the out-of-doors. The gentlemen charged out the side door, still on the chase.

“…So go forth and sin no more,” Evan concluded to the echoing stones and plaster saints. If the mouse hole were big enough, he’d crawl through it himself.

Then he realized that the church was not entirely evacuated. Lady Farnham remained huddled in her seat, abandoned, ashen, trembling, clutching her Bible as if for defense. He approached her cautiously, lest he frighten the poor woman worse. “My lady, are you injured or unwell? Shall I fetch your maid? Lord Whittendale?”

She shook her head no.

“A glass of water, then? Wine?” He’d give her the sacramental wine, if that would help.

“No. Thank you.”

“A vinaigrette?” He dubiously eyed the tiny beaded reticule dangling from her arm. “Smelling salts?”

“No. Please do not concern yourself, Mr. Merriweather. I will recover in a moment.”

But Evan could see tears coursing down the widow’s high cheekbones. He fumbled in his pocket to find his handkerchief, then debated handing such a plebeian linen square to her, aware that Lady Farnham was used to far finer fabrics. Then again, she was not used to being attacked by maniacal mice.

She accepted his handkerchief with a nod, then clasped it to her mouth in a wad, as if trying to stifle her sobs. Evan had nothing else to offer but comfort. He awkwardly patted her shoulder. “There, there, my dear. You’ll feel better in a moment.”

“No, I won’t,” she wailed, flinging herself into the vicar’s arms. She clung there, weeping on his chest.

Giving solace to the sorrowful was one thing; holding his patron’s mistress was quite another. Mr. Merriweather tried to loosen her arms from around his neck, but Lady Farnham was latched on like a limpet. Lud, how could he explain this to Lord Whittendale? How could he explain it to Alice? He cleared his throat. “My dear lady, I know you were startled, but it was only a mouse.”

She laughed, a pitiful keening sound, but sat back, blotting at her eyes and nose. “No, it’s not only a mouse. It’s a baby.”

“A baby? You’re…? His? Of course it is. I should not have asked. Have you told him?”

“What for?”

“So he can do the honorable thing, of course.”

“Oh, he would do what the polite world considers proper—give me a check and a deed to a little cottage somewhere. He might even come visit now and again when London grew too hot or too cold or too thin of company.”