The Journal of a Vicar's Wife (9 page)

‘What a ridiculous question,’ I heard myself respond.

For a moment, Jonathan looked utterly bewildered by my response, before he released a slow and heavy sigh. ‘Then, why?’

I felt my cheeks redden and my heart sink. It was a terrible be thing to be caught doing, yet even more terrible would be explaining my reasons to him.

How could a man possibly understand why I do this thing?

Jonathan spoke before I could. ‘Maria, you are putting me in a damnably awkward position and you know it.’ His voice was soft, dangerous even. ‘I am yet to decide what to do about this. Your answer now may make all the difference.’

I looked up at him and held those eyes, not so angry now, not so dangerous, just sad and confused.

‘He does not love me,’ I said, the words catching in my mouth.

‘Who? That boy or your husband?’

‘My husband,’ I replied stiffly, for I disliked his referring to Mr Goddard as ‘boy’.

I could hear Jonathan’s sharp inhalation of breath. ‘Frederick doesn’t love you?’

‘No. He does not.’

Jonathan released a loud breath. ‘Of course he loves you. You’ve been married six years. A level of affection certainly should have grown by now.’

‘No,’ I shook my head, ‘Do you see any children about me, Jonathan?’ I asked, loathing the fact that tears began to burn beneath my eyelids. ‘I am so lonely. Rarely does he touch me, and I fear no child shall ever be conceived in this marriage.’

‘Maria! A child could well be conceived in this marriage, only not by your husband! Do you mean to beget a bastard?’ he cried.

I bit my lip and looked away. He understood the gesture.

‘You do, don’t you?’

What could I say?

‘I’m utterly lonely, Jonathan,’ I repeated. ‘I want a child of my own. If Mr Reeves will not give it to me, then…’

Jonathan turned to face the cold fireplace. ‘Lord in Heaven.’

‘The Lord has nothing to do about it!’ I cried throwing my hands to my head. ‘All Mr Reeves speaks of is the Lord and I’m sick of it!’ Though I cringe to admit it, I screamed. ‘I am sick of it!’ Then, I fear, I began to weep. I wept like the babe I shall never have.

After a moment, I felt Jonathan’s arm on mine.

‘Hush there, hush now.’

‘Don’t tell my husband about Mr Goddard. Please.’

I looked up and held Jonathan’s brown eyes, as solemn and deep as ever my husband’s were. He took my hand. ‘I shan’t.’ He paused. ‘But you must cease it, immediately, Maria. Do you understand?’

I nodded my head furiously. I never wished to see Mr Goddard again, regardless. Where was the man’s chivalry, to leave a lady exposed and not come to her defence? Still, I couldn’t really blame him, for I should probably have done exactly the same thing if I hadn’t fallen over.

‘Thank you,’ I whispered.

Jonathan frowned once more. ‘Please don’t thank me. I am doing my cousin a dreadful disservice, and one that sits very ill with me indeed.’

Thursday, 18
^th
June 1813

So many unhappy thoughts wrack my heart.

Last night, when my husband returned home, I could scarce look him in the eye. Frederick was as he ever is, polite and distant, and perhaps it was his ordinary manner that somehow made me feel worse. Or was Jonathan’s cold gaze? I could feel the weight of Jonathan’s judgment like lead.

Either way, dinner was insufferable and I retired to bed early, feigning a headache. I knew it was cowardice on my part. Still, I could not bear to suffer Jonathan’s gaze a moment longer, nor accept conversation from my husband, knowing he was ignorant of what Jonathan was not. The guilt I had previously been so adept at smothering seemed fanned by shame that evening.

‘Are you quite unwell, Mrs Reeves?’ my husband asked as I made my awkward excuses to leave. I could smell the scent of post-parandial brandy upon his breath, something he usually does not partake in. Surprising me, he laid his palm across my forehead. His touch was gentle, and warm. ‘Should I call for the physician?’

His concern made tears scald my eyes.

‘I am no more ill than I ever have been,’ I replied. ‘I think I shall be well after a good night’s sleep.’ My voice faded to a whisper.

‘Good night then,’ he replied. As I turned to depart I caught Jonathan’s eye once more. It was hard, and I could feel his disapproval like a whip strike.

The guilty, unhappy lump in my throat expanded. I inclined my head and left, closing the door behind me.

After I had escaped the unhappiness of the sitting room, I leaned back against the door for a long moment. I could feel my heart hammer in my breast and hear the short pants of my panicked breath.

In truth, as I rested there, I expected to hear Jonathan to burst forth with the filthy details of my infidelity. I could almost imagine the furious expression of my husband.

Yet it did not happen. As I leaned heavily against the sitting room door, I heard the gentlemen commence conversation about the death of Admiral Charles Middleton instead. Despite my fearful imaginings, there was nary a mention of my unfaithfulness.

At length, my ears grew tired from straining to eavesdrop and I made to depart for my room. As I did, the door creaked open behind me. I nearly stumbled in horror.

‘Mrs Reeves?’ my husband called. I turned, my face constricted in utter terror.

‘Oh!’ I exclaimed, my hand flying to my bosom to stem my heart’s frantic pounding. ‘I…’

‘I had thought you’d retired,’ he said. His face gave nothing away.

To look at the man now, one would never suspect him of piousness, or of insensitivity to the needs of his wife. No, he looked handsome and quietly concerned. He was the epitome of husbandly duty.

‘Yes … I thought I had left my … Bible in the dining room.’ I gestured towards the direction.

His gaze grew quizzical and he shook his head. ‘I have left it by your beside, as I always do.’

I recoiled at my own stupidity. ‘Of course, forgive me.’

I bobbed, and turned to leave, but was surprised when I found my hand captured by his.

‘Mrs Reeves, are you certain you’re well?’ he asked, gently pulling me for a closer inspection. I was suddenly shockingly close to him. I could feel his breath caress my cheek with each gentle inhalation. Guilt, sorrow and my ever-present desire for my husband flushed through my breast. Yet, standing as I was, the angle permitted me to see into the sitting room, where Jonathan’s eyes locked with mine.

‘I’m well, please do not worry over me,’ I hastily assured him, and tried to step away.

Frederick held my hand tightly, so as to disallow any withdrawal. His hand held mine slightly tighter. ‘Shall I walk you to your room?’

His offer was so unexpected I nearly staggered again. I looked at him, at his suddenly earnest expression, tempted to say ‘yes’.

Then my gaze caught Jonathan’s in the sitting room once more. It was as stone.

‘No, no. I shall be well. Good night.’ I inclined my head and tugged my hand from his. He released it with a scarcely audible sigh.

* * *

I awoke this morning, not entirely refreshed. I had dreamed of wicked things. I dreamed of Mr Goddard, my husband and Jonathan, each having his way with my lustful, sinful body.

I lay abed far longer than was my usual habit, and at length I heard the carriage depart, and I knew my husband had left for the day. I carefully dressed and descended downstairs to eat.

Jonathan was gone, presumably to work at Stanton. I should feel more at ease, but I do not. I have begun to fear that as each hour passes, my sins merely are increased, and the repercussions of my transgressions intensified by an ever-encroaching sense of doom.

To this end, I simply must figure a plan of how to assure Jonathan I shall not be unfaithful again – if not to gain his understanding, then to ensure his ongoing silence.

Wednesday, 23
^rd
June 1813

By and large, I have found in the passing week that my husband has been strangely more attentive. It has just been small things, inconsequential things to any observer.

Today, true to my promise with Jonathan, I have officially ended the attachment I had with Mr Goddard.

He came with his delivery as is usual. He was almost sheepish in his address of me.

‘Mrs Reeves,’ he began and extended a brown packet of cheese towards. ‘I’m sorry about …’

‘Enough,’ I raised my hand and took the parcel. ‘In light of recent … events, I do not think you should deliver produce here anymore.’ I said.

His pretty face fell.

‘If indeed there is another who could deliver goods to the vicarage, it would be greatly appreciated.’

‘No Mrs Reeves, there ain’t going to be no one else deliver produce here,’ he replied, his shoulders suddenly taut.

I shuddered at his crude insinuation. Did he think that I would actually take another dairyman into my bed after how he’d left me?

I felt my eyes narrow. ‘In that case, it will be Mrs Cartwright or Minny who receives you, not I.’ I gestured to the bottles of milk. ‘You may take them around the back.’

Mr Goddard’s face softened

‘Ah, give it up,’ he teased and stepped forward.

I shook my head, and stepped from his grasp. ‘I do not jest, Mr Goddard. Please, take the milk around the back.’

At that, my amorous dairyman shrugged and gathered the bottles. ‘You let me know when you change your mind, eh?’

My lips slammed tight. It was silly and perhaps unfair to be angry at the man. He had done nothing I wouldn’t have done in his position.

‘I will,’ I replied tightly, then closed the door in his face.

Though ending this chapter of my life is a good thing, I spend the remainder of the day in a most melancholic state. For now what do I have to look forward to?

My husband’s nonexistent advances? Jonathan’s cool disapproval?

To this end, I spent the rest of the day sewing and writing. When my husband returned this evening, I was in very low spirits indeed. I had, I confess, partaken of two brandies, which I should not have.

He entered the vicarage and peeled off his jacket. As he did, I noticed a bundle in one of his hands. It appeared he had purchased a new book.

Some religious text, no doubt.

My husband is a man of bookish constitution, so the purchase of a new book is not an entirely surprising event, yet the content of this text was touching to me in the extreme. After a moment’s pause, my husband handed the bundle to me, and smiled.

‘What is it?’ I asked, touching the brown paper curiously.

‘Open it,’ he encouraged with a smile.

His smile melted my belly. There are few things more lovely in this world than my husband’s smiles. It is just a shame they are as rare as they are beautiful.

After a moment I peeled open the paper and discovered that the book was entirely devoted to the art of sutures and closing of wounds.

Warm delight filled my body, and was swiftly replaced by cold shame. After a moment, I realised that Frederick was speaking.

‘I met with Mr Cole, the physician, this morning,’ he said.

‘Indeed?’

‘Yes, and he spoke highly of your attendance on Miss Louisa’s hand. I responded that you had an avid interest in such matters and expressed my desire to see you flourish in the arts of healing. To this end he suggested I purchase this book – to assist you in your learning. Which I did.’

He gestured to the text, and I opened it. It was overflowing with diagrams and sage advice.

‘Oh.’ I exclaimed and pulled the book to my breast. ‘Thank you.’ I had wished for such a book for many long years.

As my delight was about to make me say something rash, I remembered the sword hanging above my head.

I remembered the terrible things I had done.

‘I don’t deserve this,’ I said after a moment, turning the book over in my hands, my throat suddenly tight.

He stared at me a lengthy while, and I shuddered under his gaze. ‘Do you not?’ he asked.

I shook my head. ‘No.’

I dared a glance at his face. His expression was puzzling, and I thought he might ask me why, and offer me an opportunity to unburden my terrible sins.

I wondered for an instant if I should. Should I confess my unfaithfulness to my husband? Yet what he said next made me thankful I did not.

‘Then I shall return it,’ he retorted, and in that instant I felt the glorious book lifted from my hands.

I caught his expression to find it suddenly stern.

I gasped, not entirely certain as what to do.

He waited, holding the book in his hands and glowering down upon me. Yet in his gaze there was certainly something beyond the irritation, hurt perhaps?

I do not know.

‘Maybe it is for the best …’ I murmured. ‘Thank you for considering me.’

I left before he could say any more, my heart as heavy as the book I’d just refused.

Sunday, 11
^th
July 1813

It seems I am cursed to endure terrible day after terrible day. Surely it is God punishing me. Some weeks have past since my last account, and things between my husband and I have not improved. For several weeks after my meeting with Mr Goddard, I lived in the greatest fear that Jonathan would speak of the incident again, but he has not.

Then I began to fear him telling my husband. For certainly he has no reason to keep such terrible news from his cousin! Yet, it seems that Jonathan still has not spoken to my husband about it, and for this I am grateful. True to my word, I have seen neither hide nor hair of Mr Goddard, and he has taken all his deliveries to the back door rather than the front. To ensure my weak body does not fall for his charms again, I have done all I can to make myself scarce on the days he comes to deliver as well.

Instead of moping about my unhappy circumstances, I have taken to walking about the woods and countryside. I take my Bible with me, under the pretext I shall do my study in nature’s holy cathedral, but I do not. I cannot help but notice my husband has added numerous more paper slips to the Book, more dour recommendations to read. I know it frustrates him that I neglect to read them, but he says nothing on the matter and hence nor do I.