Thunder and Roses (22 page)

All his attention on Clare, Nicholas was unaware of the byplay. “If you’ve caught your breath,” he said, running a seductive hand over her hip, “can I persuade you to another kiss?”

She stared up at him, torn by the bitter contrast between what she experienced in his arms, and what she had seen in
Tegwen’s
eyes. Unevenly she said, “No. No, I must go.”

He lifted a hand, as if to stop her, but she brushed by and left from the room, scarcely seeing her surroundings.

If only she had left ten minutes sooner.

 
The room felt very empty without Clare in it. Nicholas stared into the fire, wondering what it would take to stop her mind from warring with her body. It was the same each time they came together. First, she was shy and a little doubtful. Then, she would begin to respond, opening like a flower at dawn. Finally, with shattering abruptness, she would remember that she was not supposed to enjoy what was so utterly natural.

He ground his fist into the mantelpiece with frustration. Once she overcame her religious priggishness, she would make a superlative mistress; sensual, intelligent, understanding. Her passion for good works might occasionally be tiresome, but that would be a small price to pay for having her in his bed.

He didn’t doubt that once she became his mistress, she would be content to stay with him when the three months were up. Not only would she want to, but it would be effectively impossible for her to return to her life in Penreith. The trick was to get her into his bed in the first place.

He was getting damned tired of her vanishing like a rabbit down a burrow every time her conscience caught up with her.

12

 
Clare slept badly that night. It had been easy to gloss over the gravity of her behavior when she was under Nicholas’s spell. A kiss was only a kiss, more naughty than sinful. But seeing herself through
Tegwen’s
eyes had forced her to confront her own behavior. No longer could she deny her weakness, her lustful craving.

As she lay sleepless, she heard the beckoning sound of Nicholas’s harp. More than anything on earth she wanted to follow that siren song, to forget her pain in the warmth of his embrace. But that would be like a moth trying to cure its attraction to the candle by diving into the flame.

She rose in the morning with heavy eyes and a heavier heart. The thought of going to chapel made her hands shake, but she could not stay away. She had never missed a Sunday service in her life, and doing so today would be an admission of guilt.

As she donned her sober gray Sunday dress, she wondered if Tegwen would be at the service, and if the girl would tell others what she had seen. Bleakly she realized that the question was not if but when; Tegwen would hardly be able to wait until she could share the scandalous news. The girl loved being the center of attention, and the story of the schoolmistress kissing the Demon Earl would be irresistible. If the news wasn’t out yet, it would be very soon.

While driving to Penreith, Clare overtook the new cook, Mrs. Howell, who was on her way to the chapel. Mrs. Howell accepted a ride cheerfully and spent the rest of the journey t
hank
ing Clare for finding her the situation at Aberdare. Apparently she had not yet heard anything that impugned Clare’s morals.

They arrived just as people were taking their seats. Ordinarily Clare would have found comfort in the familiar benches and whitewashed walls, the wooden floor that gleamed with lovingly applied wax. Today, however, she found herself watching to see if any of the other worshippers were regarding her oddly.

A quick scan of the congregation showed that Tegwen was not present. As Clare slipped into her usual place by Marged, her friend smiled and nodded toward Huw, who sat between Owen and Trevor, the oldest Morris son. Huw’s narrow face glowed with happiness and his small body was clad in warm, sturdy garments that had been outgrown by one of his new foster brothers. For the first time in his short life Huw had a real home. When Clare thought of what the boy had endured in the pit and at the hands of his brutal father, her own problems seemed less important.

The deacon in the pulpit named a hymn and the singing began. Music was an integral part of Methodist worship, and it brought Clare closer to God than prayer ever had. As she raised her voice her tension began to dissolve.

Her peace lasted only until a late arrival entered and took a seat in the back. Amid the soft rustle of whispers, Clare heard her own name. Feeling ill, she closed her eyes and steeled herself for what was to come.

Zion Chapel had no permanent preacher, so worship was conducted by members of the congregation and visiting ministers. Today’s sermon was being given by a preacher named
Marcross
from the next valley, but he broke off as the whispers increased in intensity. Voice thunderous, he said, “And what, pray tell, is more important than the word of God?”

More muttering and a creak of wood as someone stood. Then a harsh female voice rang through the chapel. “There is wickedness among us today. The woman to whom we have entrusted our children is a sinner and a hypocrite. Yet she dares sit with us in the house of the Lord!”

Clare’s mouth tightened as she recognized the speaker as
Tegwen’s
mother.
Gwenda
Elias had strong opinions about a woman’s place, and had never approved of Clare’s teaching or of Clare herself. And now Mrs. Elias had a weapon to punish Clare for every disagreement the two women had ever had.

Marcross
frowned. “Those are grave charges, sister. Do you have proof? If not, be silent. The house of God is no place for idle gossip.”

Every head in the congregation turned to Mrs. Elias. She was a tall, heavyset woman, her face carved by lines of righteousness. Raising one hand, she pointed at Clare and boomed, “Clare Morgan, daughter of our beloved former preacher and teacher of our children, has succumbed

to wicked lust. Not four days ago, she moved into the house of Lord Aberdare, the one they call the Demon Earl. She claimed she would be his housekeeper. Yet last night, my daughter Tegwen, who works at Aberdare, found this shameless slut in the earl’s embrace, half-naked and behaving with utter indecency. It was only God’s grace that my innocent child did not catch her in the act of fornication.” Her voice trembled theatrically. “T
hank
heaven your dear father is not alive to see you now!”

The eyes of the congregation turned to Clare. Her friends, her neighbors, her former students, regarded her with shock and horror. Though many faces showed disbelief, others—too many—showed that she had already been condemned.

Looking uncomfortable at being caught in a local dispute,
Marcross
said, “What have you to say for yourself, Miss Morgan? Fornication is always a sin, but it would be particularly despicable in someone like you, who holds a position of trust in the community.” A murmur of agreement rose.

The blood drained from Clare’s face, leaving her faint. She had known this would be difficult, but the reality was more painful than she had dreamed possible. Then Marged took her hand and squeezed it. Glancing up, Clare saw concern in her friend’s face, but also faith and love.

Her support gave Clare the strength to rise to her feet. Gripping the back of the pew in front of her, she said with as much composure as she could muster, “Tegwen was one of my students, and she has always had a rich imagination. I cannot deny that she saw a kiss last night. I was feeling … grateful to Lord Aberdare, both because he saved my life yesterday, and because of actions of his that will benefit the village.”

Briefly she closed her eyes, searching for words that would be honest, yet not incriminate her too badly. “I won’t pretend that what I did was either wise or right, but a kiss is hardly fornication, and I swear that I was as decently clothed then as I am this moment.”

A child piped up, “What’s
fo’ncation
?”

Almost as one, women with young children and unmarried daughters rose and hustled their offspring outside. More than one woman cast a longing glance over her shoulder as she left, but there was no question of letting children be exposed to such a subject. As Marged collected her brood, she gave Clare a sympathetic smile. Then she, too, withdrew.

When the room had been cleared of innocents, Mrs. Elias resumed the attack. “You can’t deny that you are living with the earl, nor that you have behaved indecently.”

“Your own daughter is living under Lord Aberdare’s roof,” Clare pointed out. “Aren’t you concerned for her virtue?”

“My Tegwen lives with the other servants and scarcely sees the earl, but you are with him constantly. Don’t try to deny it! Even if you are telling the truth and you are not yet his mistress,” the sneer in Mrs. Elias’s voice underlined her disbelief, “it will only be a matter of time until you surrender your virtue. We all know about the Demon Earl, how he seduced his grandfather’s wife and caused the deaths of the old earl and his own wife.”

Her voice choked with genuine emotion. “I was chambermaid to Lady
Tregar
, and she herself told me of her husband’s infidelities, great tears in her beautiful eyes. He broke her heart with his adultery. Then, when his wickedness was discovered, he frightened her so badly that she ran away to her death.” Her tone turned venomous. “You are so smug, so sure of your virtue, that you think you can consort with Satan and not be corrupted. For shame, Clare Morgan, for shame! As Thomas Morgan’s daughter, you’ve always thought yourself better than others. Yet I tell you now that if you stay in the devil’s house, you will soon be carrying his brat!”

Anger stirred in Clare, giving her strength. “Who are you more interested in condemning—me or Lord Aberdare?” she said sharply. “I know that you loved your mistress, and that you still grieve for her. Yet no one but the earl himself knows what was between him and his wife, and it is wrong for us to sit in judgment. Yes, his lordship has a black reputation, but from what I have seen of him, he is less wicked than he is painted. Does anyone here have personal knowledge of vicious behavior on the part of the earl? If so, I have never heard of it. Has he ever seduced one of the village girls? No one in Penreith has ever named him father of her child.” She paused, her gaze running over the congregation. “I swear before God that I will not be the first.”

The silence was broken when
Gwenda
Elias snapped, “So now you are defending him!
 
To me, that’s clear proof that you are succumbing to his lures. Very well, go to that devil, but don’t take any of our children with you, and don’t ask our forgiveness when you have ruined yourself!”

A man muttered, “She has admitted to indecent behavior. Can’t help but wonder what she isn’t admitting.”

Clare’s fingers whitened as her fingers tightened on the pew back. Perhaps submissiveness and confession would be more Christian, but part of her nature that she had never recognized demanded that she fight back. Looking at the man who spoke, she said, “Mr.
Clun
, I sat with your mother every night for a week when she was dying. Did you think I was a liar then?”

She found another accusing face. “Mrs.
Beynon
, when I helped you clean your cottage after it flooded and sewed new curtains for your windows, did you think I was immoral?” Her icy glance moved on. “Mr. Lewis, when your wife was ill and you were out of work, I collected clothing and food for you and your children. Did you think me corrupt then?”

All three of the people she singled out looked away, unable to meet her glance.

In the silence, Owen Morris rose to his feet. As a deacon and class leader, he was one of the most respected men in the society. “Justice belongs to the Lord, Mrs. Elias. It is not for us to forgive or condemn.” His grave gaze went to Clare. “There is not another member of our chapel who has served others more than Clare Morgan. When the earl demanded that she work for him in return for his assistance to the village, she voluntarily took leave from the school so that no hint of scandal would touch the children. Her reputation has always been above reproach. If she swears her innocence, should we not believe her?”

A murmur of agreement spread through the room, but it was far from unanimous. Mrs. Elias snapped, “Say what you will, I refuse to worship under the same roof as a female who consorts with Lord Aberdare.” She turned and marched toward the door. After a moment, others, both male and female, got to their feet and started to follow.