The Journal of a Vicar's Wife (10 page)

Unusually, I discovered that Frederick, far from returning the book on sutures to the bookseller, placed it in the bookshelf of the sitting room, alongside other books of that interest me.

I was touched by this, and secretly take it with me on my walks and read it then. I suspect Frederick knows that I read it, but he has not mentioned it again, and nor have I.

One could think that a lady may grow bored of reading and walking in the countryside, but that would be untrue.

There is one curiosity that has come to my attention since taking these turns about the countryside. I have noticed a distinct growth in affection betwixt Jonathan and the young, boring governess at Stanton. Oh, perhaps I am being cruel. I am certain she is a kind enough sort.

No doubt it is my melancholia speaking.

I have noticed they meet almost daily, in the gardens of Stanton House, and take turns about the grounds. I’ve watched them on occasion, laughing and chatting. It makes me sad. It makes me envious. Yet, day by day I’ve followed them.

Jonathan and I have not spoken overmuch since his discovery of my infidelity. I can still see the disapproval burn plainly in his eyes and so avoid direct conversation. Yet there is so little for me to do in the vicarage, and almost nothing with which to entertain my mind; I find that following him and watching is the only thing that takes my thoughts from those other unhappinesses.

My suspicions over the strength of their affections have however, been confirmed. For today after our church service, Jonathan introduced the lady to my husband.

The day was sunny and quite pleasant as we exited the church. Relief flooded me; my husband’s sermon was dull and dry and I could scarcely wait to get away. As I went to depart, Mr Hatfield caught my attention.

‘Mrs Reeves.’ His smile was broad. ‘I’ve not yet had an opportunity, but I wished to thank you for your attendance on Louisa’s hand. She’s made a sterling recovery.’

I felt my face stretch with a broad relieved smile. ‘You need not thank me,’ I said, inclining my head. ‘I was very happy to assist her.’

I heard a cough come from beside Mr Hatfield, and noticed Mr Goddard walking up.

I felt my cheeks bloom and had to hold myself from throwing a furtive and terrified glance towards Jonathan, who stood not far away, speaking with my husband and the plain governess.

‘Mrs Reeves, good day,’ Mr Goddard said, and offered me a slight bow. I bobbed in return, unable to catch his eye.

‘Mr Goddard,’ I replied and forced myself into a smile. ‘How are you?’

‘Quite well,’ he replied. ‘Yourself?’

‘I’m very well indeed,’ I enthused, trying to affect a cheery façade.

‘I’ve been busy doing the milk rounds,’ he said, his eyes teasing. ‘Not seen you about much though, Mrs Reeves. Anyone would think you don’t like my produce anymore. Dare I suggest you’re receiving produce from elsewhere these days?’ A wicked smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

My cheeks heated, and shame enveloped me as surely as a widow’s cape. I found myself unable to respond. For indeed, how was one to respond to such ribald rudeness?

Thankfully, Mr Hatfield exploded and came to my rescue. ‘What tosh! We all know Goddard’s Dairy makes the best products in the county. Nary heard a word against you! Upon my own honour I’d wager Mrs Reeves receives dairy from nought else!’

I laughed a little then, for truly was it not funny? In Mr Goddard’s absence, I’d shared pleasure nor produce with any man at all.

I looked Mr Goddard in the eye then, sparkling, devilish and full of life. ‘You know very well what I think of your produce, Mr Goddard, but I have learned recently it does not do to indulge to excess.’

His eyes darkened, and his shoulders fell.

Mr Hatfield guffawed loudly. ‘True Mrs Reeves, very true.’

I smiled at him, hoping the conversation might turn to something more genteel when I heard my name called.

‘Mrs Reeves?’ His voice was like death knell. My smile and mood fell heavy.

‘Excuse me, gentlemen,’ I said. I inclined my head towards Mr Goddard and the Hatfields, and walked slowly to my husband’s side. I could smell his lavender soap as I took my place to his left. I looked up and flittered my gaze from Jonathan to the plain governess. On closer inspection she was not so plain, but not comely either. Her dark hair was bound tightly, and her brown eyes wide.

‘I believe you may recognise my wife.’ My husband’s voice was soft and did not quite hold the austere authority it usually does, ‘Even if there has been no formal introduction? Miss Martha Swan, Mrs Maria Reeves.’

Miss Swan inclined her head, and I felt her observe me keenly. My hand fluttered to my large cap and fondled the green ribbon there. I hesitated, unsure what to say. Jonathan had mentioned her on several occasions, as well he might, being so smitten with her.

‘Miss Swan. How wonderful to meet you, finally. Mr Jonathan Reeves has spoken of you … ceaselessly.’ I smiled at Jonathan, and I believe he blushed.

‘Maria …’ My husband spoke my name. It was like a bolt of lightning in my breast. I could not mistake the reproach in his tone, but it was soft and scarce audible.

I turned to face Miss Swan, and her pale cheeks flushed with colour, a response that seemed to make her more pretty than plain.

‘I am delighted to meet you,’ Miss Swan said. ‘I hear you do admirably in doctoring,’ she added. ‘I dare say, if you were not so busy, you ought try your hand at becoming a physician.’

In the corner of my eye, I saw my husband nod in agreement. I inclined my head, unutterably relieved that the conversation was warming towards something favourable.

‘I would, indeed, if such a thing were possible,’ I lamented. ‘But you are kind to say so.’ I hesitated, pondering what to say next. ‘I just know we shall become wonderful friends.’

‘I should like that,’ Miss Swan replied, though her face didn’t quite match her words. I wondered then that if Jonathan spoke of Miss Swan to me, perhaps he had been speaking to Miss Swan of me as well. My cheeks flushed.

‘You have not been at Stanton long then, I gather?’ I asked, eventually willing my cheeks to cool with a flutter of my fan.

‘No, not at all that long, really,’ she responded, rather quietly.

The conversation grew stilted. The gentlemen hovered beside us, clearly suffering the same awkwardness.

Still, there was naught to but forge forth in convivial discussion.

‘Well, you are fortunate to be at Stanton House. The grounds are particularly lovely there, and the woodlands! Just perfect for private wanderings and contemplations, I daresay.’

That was wicked of me, wasn’t it? Yet the words had escaped before I’d decided to speak them. I shouldn’t torment these two budding lovers, for that’s what I knew them to be.

Poor Miss Swan paled at my words, and she sent a stricken look towards Jonathan. In that glance, I
knew
there was more to their walks and affections than I’d first suspected. Perhaps I was not the only woman in the village to be indulging my desires with a man I ought not.

‘Mrs Reeves,’ Jonathan’s voice was cool; the softness I was once familiar with had departed. He offered his arm to the governess. ‘I am certain we have detained Miss Swan long enough. I may take leave of you and escort her back to Stanton.’

My husband shared a sharp glance at Jonathan, and I looked down.

‘Of course,’ I murmured and my husband bowed a farewell.

‘Good day, Mrs Reeves, Reverend,’ Miss Swan all but whispered before Jonathan steered her from the churchyard.

* * *

I watched them go, and as I did, I felt a hand on my arm.

‘Mrs Reeves.’ It was my husband. I turned to face him.

‘Yes, Vicar?’ I replied, distracted. Beyond my husband’s broad shoulder I could see Miss Swan and Jonathan take the path through the woods towards Stanton House. My brow furrowed and an intense sensation of unease rippled through me. Miss Swan seemed like a gentle lady, a kind one, and yet I was jealous of her. I berated myself at the thought. She was very lucky not to have to rely on a man as I did. She was lucky that she had the ability and sense to have an occupation that could support her into old age. She was not trapped as I was in a marriage that made her existence misery. I envied her, yes indeed. What sane woman would not? Yet as I thought this, I was suddenly consumed by a deep concern for her as well.

Would it not be a terrible thing for an independent young woman such as Miss Swan to be captured by a man? To be seduced by the handsome face of Jonathan Reeves, as I had been so many years ago? For was it not that very same seduction that had caused my father to marry me off to the next respectable man who offered his hand? Yes, it was.

I knew then I had a duty.

I had to warn her; I had to stop her from making a terrible fool of herself. She may think herself fond of Jonathan. For indeed he is a lovely man, but he has no future! He has no funds! She would be committing herself to a life of utter poverty and despair.

I realised in that moment that I must warn her; warn her of the dangers that lay before her if she pursued her affections with Jonathan.

‘Mrs Reeves?’ My husband’s voice broke my reverie, and I fear I scowled at the man. ‘Did you not hear me?’

I looked up and met his solemn brown eyes. ‘Forgive me, no.’

‘Shall we return to the vicarage for an early meal?’ he asked, and I detected a hesitancy in his voice that I was not at all familiar with.

My heart gave a tight squeeze, and I wanted to take his hand and walk back to the vicarage, break bread with him and have him love me. That sweet moment of hesitancy made me dream of things not worth dreaming. For Frederick would never do such a thing.

Indeed, no. If I were to accept his offer, there would be no sweetness at all. Instead, we would walk back to the vicarage in silence, eat in silence and perhaps he would question me on my Bible readings. I didn’t want that. I loathed it.

Instead, I wanted to rescue Miss Swan from making a grievous error.

‘No,’ I replied after a moment self-collection. ‘I wish to take a turn in the woods.’

Perhaps I was being fanciful, perhaps not, but I believe I detected a shadow of disappointment cross his fine features.

‘Would you like me to attend with you?’ he asked after a moment.

I was startled by this second unexpected offer. It is a rare thing that my husband offers to spend time with me, but twice in one day! Those silly, fanciful thoughts bounded back to the forefront of my mind.

It was just as I was to answer in the affirmative and forgo my rescue attempt with Miss Swan that a Mr Swinton approached with an untimely request. He is a handsome man, Mr Swinton, but dreadfully aloof. The smooth-shaven plains of his face had taken on a terse, unhappy appearance.

‘Mrs Reeves, Reverend, ’ he greeted us quickly, and I bobbed politely. He nodded, and turned to my husband. ‘Vicar, if I may have a word with you?’

My husband smoothed the frown that threatened his brow and inclined his head. ‘It seems you may take your turn about the woods in peace after all, Mrs Reeves,’ he said, then turned with a wry curl of his lips.

I felt suddenly, shockingly disappointed – and not in the usual fashion I am with my husband.

‘Of course, Mr Swinton, how may I help you?’ he said and turned. I was dismissed then, without any preamble or the pretext of civility that one would ordinarily afford one’s wife.

I hesitated under a swoop of confusion. How could he so quickly shift from attentive to dismissive? Yet it was apparent he would not address me further. Releasing a sigh, I turned and departed the parish grounds. I could hear the hushed tones of my husband’s conversation with Mr Swinton and turned to observe them.

In this light, looking austere in his vicarly black, he turned a benevolent smile upon the other man and I wished mightily to be the recipient of that gaze. Eventually, I turned away, and paused to observe a cluster of late-flowering daffodils beside an ancient gravestone. They looked very happy there. How odd it was, that such beauty could grow next to such gloom.

I turned and followed the path, consciously repeating the footsteps of Miss Swan and Jonathan before me. I did not lie when I said that the woodlands are magnificent this time of year, so alive and rich with the scent of pine.

I was lost in musing for a while, and wandered in the serenity only nature can offer, until the sound of hushed voices reached my ears. It was undeniably Miss Swan and Jonathan. I delayed a time, by a patch of wildflowers, just long enough to allow the lovers time to retreat.

I didn’t truly intend to follow them so secretly, though that is what I did. I knew I ought not, yet I found myself trailing after their hushed voices, wickedly keeping far enough away to remain undetected.

It was to my deep surprise that halfway along the path Miss Swan and Jonathan turned deeper into the woods. Clearly, they were not returning to Stanton House just yet.

I continued following my quarry discreetly until they approached a neglected cottage that nestles beside the woods and an overgrown lane. I stood a time, in the shadow of the trees, as Jonathan lifted Miss Swan into his arms and took her over the threshold.

I could not stem a wince. Their affections were more advanced than I had even dreamed. Evidently, silly Miss Swan had no notion the damage such affections could cause.

As their lips met, I wondered just how far along the pathway to carnality their affections had run. Clearly, there was no innocent chatter or chaste caresses to be had in the rooms of the dilapidated cottage.

My wicked body heated with frustration and anger.

Jonathan would ruin her, just as his misplaced affections had ruined any chance I’d had at finding a happy marriage.

The realisation stung like a bee. Had I not fallen for Jonathan’s charms all those years ago, my father would never have thought to marry me off to Mr Reeves. I would have perhaps made another match, a better match, a happier match.

The door closed behind the couple and I approached the cottage cautiously.

Such a conflict of thoughts and emotion roiled through me. Jonathan had never gone so far as to entirely seduce me, as he clearly had with Miss Swan. The scoundrel! Yet calling him a scoundrel didn’t sit well on my tongue. For how could kind, forgiving Jonathan behave so? I simply couldn’t fathom it. Was this not the same gentleman who had kept my own wicked secret?