The Merchant and the Clergyman (3 page)

Mum had gone on to suggest it would also be a
good opportunity to reconnect with his cousin Kip. Where the woman
ever got the notion he’d become fast friends with that blighter
during his brief boyhood visits at the Darnley estate, Declan
didn’t know. He’d most emphatically told her he detested Kip. Now
it appeared the loathsome boy had turned into a despicable man.
Whatever had occurred between Kip and the curate, Declan was
convinced his cousin instigated it. Although perhaps some of Kip’s
babbling today was true—Declan smiled at that thought.

When he arrived at the front door of the
Darnley house, he discovered Kip and his bride hadn’t arrived home
yet. The new butler didn’t know Declan and nearly sent him around
back before Declan convinced him he was an actual wedding guest and
relative.

The butler scanned him from shabby coat to
dusty toe. Declan had been traveling for many miles and had walked
several more from the train station, so it was no wonder the man
guessed he was some sort of peddler with his bag in hand. “Shall I
send a boy to collect the rest of your luggage from the station,
sir?”

“Thank you. That would be greatly
appreciated.” Declan peered around the front hall, which remained
unchanged since he’d visited fifteen years before. “Is my aunt at
home?”

“Mrs. Darnley is taking her afternoon rest.
She should be present at supper.”

Declan wanted to see Mary privately and talk
openly minus the presence of his uncle, cousin, or any other family
members. “Could you inform her of my arrival?”

The butler gave the frown of the deeply
inconvenienced. “I shouldn’t want to disturb her rest.”

“She’ll want to see me,” Declan replied
firmly. “Do let her know I am awaiting her summons.” He thrust his
bag at the astonished butler to remind him of his place.

The butler passed the bag off to a footman,
then led the way upstairs to the room prepared for Declan.

The same sweeping staircase and beautifully
carved banister led to a long corridor with a threadbare carpet in
blue and gold. As a boy, Declan had slept in one of the smaller
rooms adjacent to Kip’s. This time he’d been placed in a large
bedroom overlooking the gardens. He splashed his face and neck
clean at the wash basin and did his best to shine up his dusty
boots with a handkerchief. The butler still hadn’t returned to say
Aunt Mary would see him, so Declan wandered about the place a bit,
noting the seediness of the furniture and carpets. It appeared the
influx of Mary’s dowry had long ago run out and with very little
effect on the house. He would love to have a fly’s-eye view of how
this estate was managed—or mismanaged—by the squire. From the
run-down appearance of the place both inside and out, Declan
wagered Darnley was either poverty-stricken or an extreme
skinflint. Funny that Kip’s attire and demeanor suggested no lack
of money.

Declan wound up in the parlor where,
uninvited, he poured himself a glass of port at the sideboard. He
swirled the liquid in the glass and stared out the window,
wondering where Kip and his fiancée had gone.

“Mrs. Darnley will see you now.” The butler’s
voice made him start so, he nearly dropped his glass. Declan turned
abruptly and caught a small smile curving the man’s lips as if he’d
fully intended to startle the pushy guest. “She will see you in her
waiting room.”

Declan followed the stiff figure back to the
second floor and into the brocaded and fringed jewel box where his
aunt sat in a creampuff of a chair. She looked nothing like the
woman he remembered, a younger, paler version of his mother. Deep
lines now etched Mary’s face, between the brows and on either side
of her mouth. She could’ve been his energetic mum’s older sister.
She didn’t rise to greet him but held out both hands. “My dear boy,
it is so good to see you again.”

“Aunt Mary.” He went to her, took those frail
hands, and bent to kiss her lined cheek. “You’re looking… Are you
feeling quite well?”

She shook her head. “Not well. Not well at
all.” Her gaze darted around the room as if spies might hide in the
bric-a-brac, and she lowered her voice. “I am so afraid. Can you
help me?”

His stomach dropped with a sickening thump.
Something was very wrong here. Either Mary was suffering from some
brain disorder, or she had true cause to be afraid. He sank to his
knees at her feet and gazed into her dilated eyes. “What are you
afraid of, and how can I help?”

“We can’t talk about this here. Someone might
be listening.” Her voice was barely a whisper, but she gripped his
hands so hard it hurt.

What the bloody hell was happening? “We could
stroll in the garden,” Declan offered. “Fresh air might do you
good, darling. Do you think you could walk that far?”

Her head bobbed up and down on her skinny
neck like a flower on a stem. “Yes. Yes, I think a walk might
indeed help, and I think I can make it if I lean upon your
arm.”

She wore a wrapper and slippers, but Declan
was not going to call the maid to have her dressed properly. The
urge to get her out of her oppressive surroundings drove him to
nearly lift her from the chair, put an arm around her, and propel
her out of her boudoir and down the stairs.

Outside, fresh air blew the cobwebs away, and
Declan felt calmer. Whatever was wrong with his aunt, real or
imagined, he would get to the bottom of it and see her content
before he left this place—even if it meant taking her away with
him.

*

Exposure—the thing he’d dreaded and avoided
for his entire life. Now James risked everything through no fault
of his own. A spear of pure loathing for Kip Darnley shot through
him, rather shocking him with its intensity. James wished he were
the sort of man who would punch another man in the face, although
that knee to the groin had felt awfully good.

Likely he was in no danger and Kip’s talk was
all bluster. If the man spread a rumor about James’s inclinations,
he would only cast a whisper of doubt about his own. And as for the
cousin, Declan Shaw, it appeared he would remain quiet about what
he’d seen.

Nevertheless, James felt unsettled as he
paced his cottage until he couldn’t stand its confines any longer,
and then he burst forth and strode rapidly down the road. He would
visit parishioners to keep from stewing over what had transpired
with Kip and his cousin, the unnerving Declan Shaw.

“Mr. Fletcher, how do you do?” Mrs. Moore
greeted him. The plump widow, who knew everything about everyone in
the village, hurried over to tell him the latest news. “Jasper
White is nearly gone at long last.” Her round face was solemn. “I
know Mrs. White sent her son up to the church. Though why she did
that, I don’t know. Jasper came right out, said he didn’t like the
nine tailors rung for him on the church bell. He said he didn’t
want the deathbed tolling.”

“Perhaps Mrs. White sent her son to find
Vicar Hollister.”

“Ha.
That
gentleman is quite busy with
the plans for the squire’s son and so on.”

And everyone knows how much he dislikes
deathbeds
, her scowl finished for her.

“I’ll go visit the Whites—though I’m sure
Reverend Hollister has as well,” James added hastily. He had no
interest in undermining the vicar. Mrs. Moore might enjoy the
entertainment of village disputes, but James would avoid them as
much as possible. Naturally, Kip and those accusations came to
mind. James shifted from foot to foot as if he could run away from
the thought of Kip.

“I see you’re impatient to get going. I’ll
bid you a good day so you can visit Mr. White before it’s too late,
if it isn’t already.” Mrs. Moore sniffed. “You’ll do the right
thing.
You’re
a good man.”

James approached cottager Jasper White’s
door, half expecting to see the black crape that signified the old
man had passed at last. For days, Jasper lay on death’s door with
his elderly wife holding his hand and waiting for the end. James
prayed with her nearly every day and wished he could stay longer or
do more to ease her suffering. But death would arrive on its own
timetable, like a train with an erratic schedule. Jasper’s children
had gathered at the deathbed days ago, waiting for the candle to
extinguish so they could mourn, yet the man’s spirit stubbornly
clung to life, and eventually the younger family members had to
return to their own lives, except the one son who lived with
them.

No black crape on the door yet. James knocked
and entered on Aggie White’s soft “Come in.” She was dampening the
sick man’s brow as he wheezed for every breath, and she glanced up
at James. “He’s close to the very end now, I fear. I’m so glad Mr.
Hollister sent you.”

James didn’t bother to correct her. He came
up behind the seated woman and pressed a hand to her thin shoulder,
rubbing gently as he recited the twenty-third Psalm, the most
popular of David’s poems with its affirmation of life after death
and a comforting shepherd to lead the way. James had spoken those
words many times in his brief three-year stint as a curate. The
words had begun to lose meaning for him, as did most of the Bible
passages which used to offer him strength and comfort. Recently,
his faith floundered and a pervading sense of
does this truly
help anyone
had begun to take hold. But such doubts mustn’t
leak through to poor Aggie in her time of need.

James imbued his voice with absolute belief
as he recited, “I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

Perhaps his faith hadn’t entirely winked out,
for he felt a warmth glow deep inside, a sliver of hope that every
promise God had made via his prophets was true.

When he’d finished the prayer, James got a
cup of water for Aggie and encouraged her to eat and drink a
little. As he’d expected, she refused. He didn’t press her to keep
up her strength or to rest, but pulled a chair to the opposite side
of the bed and waited along with her in silent solidarity. It
helped no one to be hounded about eating or sleeping while they
were struggling to say good-bye to a loved one.

Minutes felt like hours as Jasper labored to
reach his mysterious, unknown goal. James grew calmer as he sat
very still and waited. The drama of earlier that day seemed of
little import now, and even thoughts of the outspoken stranger
didn’t ruffle him as he held Jasper’s cold hand. At long last, the
final breath exhaled, no new breath entered the old man’s body, and
Aggie White gave a soft sigh for her husband.

James murmured the Lord’s Prayer, and after a
bit, Aggie joined in. He gave her a few more moments before moving
on to the inevitable ritual that surrounded death. He covered
Jasper’s face and offered to spread the word and to send a neighbor
woman over to help clean and dress the body for burial. But most
importantly, he drew Agnes’s sparrow-light body against him and
simply held her for several minutes. He didn’t let her go until her
grip on him loosened, then he looked down into her face. “It will
be all right.”

“I know. He’ll be with God now.” She gazed at
him with red-rimmed eyes and said the words with such conviction,
James could almost believe again too.

The rest of his day was taken up with sitting
with the Whites’ son after he arrived, sending the neighbor’s boy
to find the doctor, and making sure all of Aggie’s needs were seen
to. It was nearly dusk when he returned home and entered the death
in the parish register. James had barely put pen to paper when
there was a knock at his door.

Declan Shaw
. For a few seconds, he was
absolutely convinced that was who his caller would be. Why he
should think that, he had no idea. There was absolutely no reason
for the man to be here at seven o’clock in the evening—though he
had
said he would return.

James’s glimmer of excitement was swatted
like a fly when he opened the door to find the Reverend Ethan
Hollister on his doorstep. The vicar was the last person he cared
to face at the end of this trying day. James wished he dared simply
to shut the door in the man’s face. Imagining the apoplectic
expression, the possible heart attack at such outrageous rudeness,
made him smile. Hollister’s elegant, impeccably dressed form tended
to make James feel ill-kempt and shabby, even in his best clothes.
The minister wore a well-cut black coat and white clerical collar
and never had a hair of his silver mane out of place. He wore a
mantle of assurance bordering on arrogance, and maintained in his
person all the competence, grace, and aplomb that James feared he
himself lacked.

“Good evening, Mr. Hollister. Do come in.”
James ushered his superior into the parlor. They perched on the
edges of the two stiff-backed chairs facing each other. “Jasper
White passed away this afternoon. The funeral will be
tomorrow.”

The vicar closed his eyes in prayer for a few
seconds. “I’d already heard. God rest his soul. But lucky to have
it over with before the Darnley wedding, which is the reason for my
call.”

Fear flared inside James, but he knew any
foul accusation from Kip would have brought Hollister steaming here
in a rage.

“I understand you’ve refused to perform the
ceremony as young Darnley requested.”

“Yes, sir. I thought, it being a gentry
wedding, your officiating would be more appropriate.”

“Quite right.” Hollister’s nostrils flared
slightly. “By all rights, I
should
be the one to officiate
such an illustrious union, yet for some reason, Miss Parker and Mr.
Darnley have settled on you. Perhaps because you and Darnley were
schoolmates.” He gave James a hard-eyed stare. “I’m rather
surprised you would refuse the request.”

“As I said, I felt the honor should be
rightfully yours.” Oh, he was good at buttering up his superior
when the occasion warranted. He
must
convince Hollister to
do the deed, for James could not possibly join Kip and his young
bride in a religious ceremony with any sort of grace. No matter who
performed the service, he prayed it would be more than a sham
ceremony for a sham marriage.