The Journal of a Vicar's Wife (7 page)

Frederick looked at me, his eyes hard. ‘You deny the possibility?’

I could not believe what my ears had heard; for though he spoke just words, the meaning behind them was unmistakeable. My pious, righteous, unbendable, difficult husband was jealous.

‘Yes, I do deny the possibility.’ I finally had the sense to exclaim. ‘My youthful affections for Jonathan were just that, youthful misadventure. I have not seen the gentleman in years.’

There was an interminable moment of stillness, before Frederick made to speak. I could almost see the thoughts flit across his proud face.

‘Forgive me then,’ he said with a bow and made to leave.

‘Wait,’ I cried and made to hold his arm. ‘If you wish for more affection in our marriage, or fear that my old affections for Jonathan may pose some threat to you – why do you not act to ensure it does not occur?’

His face hardened, and I feared I had spoken out of turn.

‘Such as what?’ he asked, his eyes darkened.

‘Offer me
your
affection instead. It embarrasses me to be more explicit, but Mr Reeves I
want
your affections! Yet you scarce allow yourself to even touch me.’ My words tumbled forth foolishly. ‘Why, on the last time you entered my rooms no more than three words were spoken! Is this how our marriage shall always be?’

His face hardened again. ‘Mrs Reeves, I do not think…’

‘Maria! You must call me Maria!’ I cried.

He leaned closer and touched my arm. ‘Maria.’

I thought for that fleeting moment he understood, and hearing him speak my name made my heart swell with sweet and utter longing.

‘Please,’ I whispered, leaning into him, ‘
Do not go
. Do not let these words be the last we speak today.’ I kissed his clothed arm.

It was clear my gesture of affection appalled him. ‘It is luncheon,’ he said, and his voice shook. ‘I ought to depart downstairs.’

‘No,’ my voice was weak. ‘Stay.’

He turned his pitiless eyes on me, but for just a moment, I believe I saw longing there; a longing as deep and profound as the one I found in myself.

‘It is improper,’ he said.

Anger swiftly replaced my longing and I stared up in disbelief. ‘Why is it improper? I need you … Frederick. Prove to me that you feel more for me than our occasional, perfunctory conjugal relations would have me believe.’

I opened my heart to him with those words. Truly I did. I said what had burned in my breast year upon lonely year.

But what he said next near broke my heart.

‘You read too many novels.’

He pushed me away. ‘Relations betwixt a man and a woman are for procreative purposes. You are speaking through lust – a mortal sin.’

With that, my husband was transformed into the pious vicar. My hand slipped from his arm and I turned away, not wishing him to see the pain across my face.

‘I shall call Minny to dress you,’ he said curtly.

I did not turn as he departed. I could not, but I listened to him leave – each footstep like a nail in the coffin of my empty marriage. My melancholia rose like a beast from nightmares. Finally, I sank down into the chair by my window and stared out over the garden, seeing nothing. I could not even weep.

I do not know how long I lingered, but as I did a knowing, a certainty, grew within me.
I could not change him
. My husband would never give me what I craved. I would spend another six years alone and pining in this bedroom, childless and alone, wracked with fleshly cravings that he would never allow himself to sate.

The longer I sat, the more my melancholia was replaced by something potent and fiery. My anger grew, as it is wont to do.

It is sinful perhaps, unfair, very likely – but I confess now that I am determined not to pine any longer. Whatever small measure of guilt I have felt over my intercourse with Mr Goddard shall be no more. The questions over my morality I shall never ask of myself again. For I am decided. I shall have what I want, indeed I shall, if not from the man to whom I am wed, then any who offers it to me.

Saturday, 22
^nd
May 1813

I have not written in many weeks, in part because there was naught of import to write, and in part because I had no wish to. I can say that my anger at my neglectful husband has not abated and to this end, I have seen little of the man, and I cannot say I am disappointed.

Since that fateful conversation, Mr Reeves has taken to avoiding me and I to avoiding him. He has, naturally, left me with ample biblical readings to while away my time, but I confess to not reading them. Instead, I have gone about my duties quite gaily. I have visited the Hatfields and Miss Louisa’s hand is making a fine recovery indeed. In addition, I have indulged myself thrice with Mr Goddard; once in our sitting room, once in the woods behind the dairy, and on the last occasion we had a tryst in the abandoned cottage behind Stanton House.

I had hoped, most sincerely, that our trysts might result in getting me with child. For I understand now more than I did before that I will not suffer to live another year in this empty, loathsome house. To this end I have prayed to the Lord for a child. Yet I was tragically disappointed. No doubt the Good Lord, in his wisdom, has chosen to smite me for my sins – for my courses arrived a week since, and I have been confined to the house. It is indeed a curse for women, though I am fortunate to have spare cloths to absorb my bleeding. I pity the poorer women, who can only bleed into their chemises.

Anyway, today I was renewed and free of my monthlies. During my confinement, I endured a mightily awkward conversation with Mrs Cartwright, who suggested I take a selection of herbs to aid procreation. To this end, I have decided to visit Mrs Richards, the unfortunate woman who lost her babe. Firstly, I shall offer solace, but my primary reason for visiting is to procure these herbs for conception. You see, Mrs Richards’ sister is a fine midwife with knowledge of herbs. Mrs Cartwright has told me that Mrs Richards holds stores of her sister’s herbs and gladly would give me some if I were to stop by.

So this is what I have chosen to do.

I set my way to Mrs Richards’ house and – unsurprisingly perhaps, for fortune seems to enjoy tormenting me – I crossed paths with my husband. He was walking with his Bible in hand, clearly returning to the vicarage for a luncheon.

‘Mrs Reeves,’ he greeted me.

‘Mr Reeves,’ I bobbed in reply. It is ridiculous, this distance between us, and all the more ridiculous for he is the cause of it. My irritation at the man began to stir. My hand gripped my reticule a little tighter.

The mere hint of a frown down turned my husband’s lips a moment.

‘Will you not join me for a luncheon?’ he asked, quite suddenly. I determined a flash of nervousness in his eyes – though I may be just being fanciful. Still, I had not expected an invitation from him. Indeed, these were the very first words of civility we had spoken since our last unhappy discussion.

I stilled, not knowing quite how to respond. One must understand, I very much wished to visit Mrs Richards and collect my herbs, yet, my husband was offering me the proverbial olive branch – would it not have been unjustly cruel to disappoint him?

His brow darkened, and I rushed to respond. ‘Thank you, yes, but I must visit Mrs Richards. I had promised to call, you see, and should not like to upset her.’

‘Mrs Richards?’ Mr Reeves replied. ‘Certainly, I shall escort you then. I should like to see how she fares.’

Well! This was unthinkable. I could not have my husband present when I went to Mrs Richards to request aid in conception. How mortifying!

‘Oh, Mr Reeves. That is very kind, but no, you need not. I should only be a short while. Indeed by my return, Mrs Cartwright will have luncheon on the table and I can join you then.’

‘Nonsense. I’ll not hear of it. Come, Mrs Reeves.’ He proffered his arm, and I had no option but to accept it.

We walked in a stiff, unwelcome silence. The sun was warm today, and it beat down upon my back causing my skin to flush and glow.

At length we came to the Richards home, a home still in mourning – though not as deep as before. The curtains were open, loud chatter came from the open window.

My husband stepped forth and knocked crisply on the door, then withdrew behind me. Mrs Richards veritably flung the door open. ‘Mrs Reeves!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’ve been expecting you.’ She smiled warmly and I embraced her. She was dressed in dark lavender, in deference to her lost child, but looked much improved since our last meeting, and I was thankful for it. Her eyes then caught those of my husband. ‘Vicar! I had not expected you, but yes. What a pleasure.’

Mr Reeves bowed.

‘Come in, come in. Please.’

I followed Mrs Richards into the house; two of her daughters curtsied at our entrance and made for a hasty departure from the kitchen. I noticed immediately the improvements to the cottage; new stairs and floorboards.

At Mrs Richards’ ushering, I sank down in the kitchen on a rustic wooden chair, my husband beside me.

‘Well, I suppose you’re eager to get to business, Mrs Reeves,’ Mrs Richards began, without offering me time to give condolence. She looked from me to my husband, a small frown creasing her brow beneath her large lavender cap. ‘I’ve spoken with my sister, and she recommends herbal teas for you. Yes she does. Chaste tree berry, white peony and yarrow, she said, and I’ve got some here.’ She took three brown paper packages and handed them to me. I accepted with a flush and whispered ‘Thank you’.

Mrs Richards continued, in a very thorough and firm fashion. ‘Just take a spoonful of chaste tree berries, and steep them in boiling water a good five minutes. After that, drink. If you’ve got sugar or honey, that may make it taste better. She recommends you try chaste berry first, then the white peony, then the yarrow a month apart. She said if you don’t fall within four months, she’ll come and see you.’

I could feel my husband grow tense beside me; his eyes caught and held mine. They were curious and unfortunately hostile. His clean-shaven cheeks burnished red.

‘I beg your pardon?’ my husband interrupted with a cough. ‘What is all this?’ He took a brown package from my hands and examined it.

Mrs Richards looked startled by his clearly unusual question. ‘Why, Mr Reeves, these are herbs to aid conception,’ she said, heat gathering in her cheeks.

In that instant I felt as small and as silly as a chit.

My husband’s scowl deepened. ‘Aids to conception?’ His voice had taken on that dangerous note it often does before he commences a pious lecture.

‘Why, yes. Mrs Cartwright said that you and your wife are having trouble conceiving, and my sister, being a midwife, has been good enough to give Mrs Reeves these herbs to help.’

‘We do not need aids in conception. If we remain childless it is God’s heavenly will!’ he thundered. ‘To interfere in the work of the Lord is a sin!’

Mrs Richards paled, and I confess I too shrank back in my chair. The entire meeting could not have gotten any worse, or so I thought, but I was mistaken – for he turned his fury on me.

‘Mrs Richards, I do not blame you, for you do not know better. But Mrs Reeves
,
I despair of you! You are well versed in the Bible, I speak of these matters near incessantly. We shall have a child in God’s time; not yours, not mine, but the Lord’s. Potions, herbs and witchcraft offend God, and are against His rules. You as my wife should know better. Stand and we will depart immediately.’

Well, what could I do? Naught. I stood, my face burning in shame.

‘Good day, Mrs Richards,’ I said, and when I beheld her eyes, they were deep with horror and pity, both I presume directed upon me. ‘Forgive me.’

Without farewell, Mr Reeves then took my arm and steered me from the house – a gesture humiliating and rude in the extreme.

I was so angry.

I am not by nature prone to the tears so common in my sex, but on that terrible walk to the vicarage, I confess that tears burned in my eyes. These were tears I claim to be associated not with sadness but impotent, useless fury. Frederick had humiliated me in front of a woman I both admired and liked.

At that moment, I could not have hated the man more.

As we reached the vicarage, Mr Reeves strode inside, taking large angry steps.

‘The sitting room, Mrs Reeves,’ he said tightly, tearing off his hat and throwing it by the hatstand. I saw Mrs Cartwright’s face pale as she backed out the sitting room, pity swimming in her large dark eyes.

There was nothing I could do but do as he bade. To this end I sank down on a padded chair, the twin of my husband’s. I studied his face, handsome, angry, unforgiving.

Unforgiving? Perhaps not, for that would go against the word of God – something he would never do.

He stood before me, utterly imposing. Perhaps I should have been frightened. I wasn’t. I wasn’t in the least. This man simply made me furious. He had everything I wanted; yet refused to give me any of it.

‘Mrs Reeves, I cannot express how terribly disappointed I am in you.’

I looked at him. Did he expect repentance? Perhaps. Yet repentance was the last thing he was going to get from me, now or
ever
.

‘I see that,’ I replied, dismissively.

My husband’s expression clouded again. ‘You have made a fool of me,’ he growled, taking a step closer.

‘No more so than you have made a fool of me.’ I replied, passionately now.

He seemed taken aback by my attack. ‘Whatever do you mean?’

I looked at him, holding him in the greatest contempt. ‘I am a woman, fertile yet childless despite being married six years. Our village looks upon me with pity for they believe me to be barren. I am not barren, Mr Reeves! It is your lack of passion and attention that makes me look barren in the eyes of the village!’

My husband was horrified and had I not been in such a fury, perhaps his expression may have been cause for amusement. Surprise verily flushed over his face.

‘Mrs Reeves …’ he exclaimed, ‘I have as much passion as the next man, I assure you!’

Though it was unladylike, I scoffed. ‘Indeed? Women talk, you know, Mr Reeves, about subjects that may offend your … delicate ears. I heard Mrs Wellings complaining to Mrs Brigby at the haberdashery that her husband is near insatiable. Every night he comes to her and she, though I cannot fathom it, laments the fact!’