A Heart Deceived (11 page)

Nevertheless, it would not hurt to remain in the kitchen and begin preparing another cold meal for lunch. Out of Roland’s sight would hopefully mean out of Roland’s mind. Besides which, busywork would put off thinking about Will … what had happened to him. What kind of man he’d become. How he’d been killed. Had he called out her name at the very end?

As she unwrapped the last of the bread, unbidden tears watered her eyes. So much for busywork. Sniffling, she calculated that between her, Roland, Old Joe, and Ethan, the remaining crust would do for the rest of the day’s meals. Thin slices, though. She grabbed a knife and sawed back and forth, trying to ignore the hole in her heart and fear in her soul.

“Miriall!”

She jerked. The knife slipped. A line of red on her finger swelled into a big droplet. Pain followed, as did a stream of blood. Just as well, for now her tears would not be questioned.

Snatching the bread cloth, she pressed it against the wound, then frowned up into Roland’s face where he stood in the doorway. “Must you startle me so?”

“I would have a word with you. In the study.” He disappeared before she could accept or deny the request.

With a final sniffle, she wrapped the cloth tight around the gash, leaving the bread uncovered. She scooted out of the kitchen, and with each step, her stomach twisted tighter. How to tell Roland about Will? How to explain Ethan? She crossed the study’s threshold but remained close to the door. No sense venturing too deep into a lion’s den.

Roland turned from the window, hands clasped behind his back. He was clad in his usual somber black, and his stance appeared more threatening than usual. “There is a rebellious streak in you.”

Rebellious? She’d followed him as fast as humanly possible. Her jaw dropped, but it took a while before anything came out. “I … I do not understand.”

He stepped closer, crossing his arms on his chest. A sneer lifted one side of his mouth. “Rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft.”

She clenched the rag wound about her injured hand, willing the increased pain to draw her mind from his horrid accusation.

Roland’s nostrils flared as he considered her. “What have you to say, woman?”

How could she speak? It took all her will to simply breathe.

“What did I see, Miriall?”

Before she could answer, he was upon her. He grabbed her face with both hands, pulling her into the room, forcing her to look upward. “What did I see when I glanced out my window?”

Her heart sank.

“Answer me!” His hands squeezed her cheeks like a melon. One sharp twist, and he’d break her neck.

Oh, Lord.
Is that what had happened to the vicar?

A burst of panic made her sweaty and clammy at the same time. Still, she refused to reveal anything about Ethan or what she’d learned about Will, lest Roland slip over the edge of sanity.

Like a rearing stallion, Roland’s breaths huffed. His eyes were wide and dilated, his skin pulled taut as he glowered. For one sickening instant, her father’s face superimposed over her brother’s, and a black memory surfaced. This was exactly how her father had looked seconds before apoplexy felled him—the night he’d tried to coerce her into becoming Lord Shelton’s mistress. It was her refusal to comply that had vexed him into paralysis. She lowered her eyes.

“You!” Roland’s voice slapped her.

She winced.

“You …” He let go, and she steeled herself for a tangible blow.

Her muscles ached from the tension as she waited. At the very least, she should have already met with a cuff to the side of her head.

But no strike came. Even so, she would not engage in eye contact and stared instead at the rug.

“Your silence exposes your guilt.” Roland began circling her, his polished shoes coming into view with each rotation. “As does my witness. I saw you, Miriall, coming from the potting shed. I will not have it. I will not brook your disobedience. You will give me your word that this … this … gardening is at an end.”

He planted his boots in front of her. “Now!”

She jumped, more from relief than anything. Her erratic heart rate slowed, as did her shallow breaths. Dear Lord, all this talk of rebellion and witchcraft, and all because of gardening? Glancing up, she blinked. “Of course. No more gardening.”

“I should hope not. You’ve given your word.” He lifted his chin and stared down his nose. “And all liars shall have their place in the lake of fire, you know.”

She nodded. Did he not threaten her with that daily? “I understand.”

“Do you? I wonder. You worthless bit of baggage. There is not another in all of God’s creation as useless and—”

A loud knock on the front door carried from the foyer, and Roland brushed past her. She stumbled to the overstuffed chair and sank into it to recover. La, as if that were a possibility.

“Master Brayden? Master Roland Brayden?” The words carried through the study door. Miri cocked her head at the unfamiliar voice and strained to listen.

“Yes?” Roland answered.

“I am Bishop Fothergill, come to make inquiry about the vicar, Mr. Eldon.”

“He is not here,” Roland said.

“Exactly. That is the matter I wish to discuss.”

12

Miri’s cheeks scorched as she leaned over the kettle one more time to see if the water yet boiled. No bubbles. She straightened before her eyebrows ignited. Serving tea was her best option to manage joining Roland in the sitting room, where even now he and the bishop discussed Mr. Eldon. Ooh, if this silly formality caused her to miss important information … well, hang the proper temperature! She grabbed a cloth and removed the kettle from the fire, then poured tepid water into a teapot. No doubt Roland would later harangue her lacking hostess skills. So be it.

She scurried down the corridor, porcelain rattling. Just before she reached the sitting room door, she slowed and entered at a funeral march. Setting the tray on the sideboard rather than the tea table at center, she kept a certain distance to conceal her breathlessness.

Roland sat with his legs stretched before him, peering out the window. “Yes, I have been delayed there as well. Wallingford ought to do something about that bridge. One can hope it will be fixed when you return home … how long did you say you were staying again?”

Miri’s shoulders loosened. Apparently she’d missed nothing more than the boring details of a long journey.

From the corner of the room, the bishop signaled for a cup of tea. Interesting that he’d chosen the spindly Chippendale to sit on instead of the more stalwart settee. A man of his size ought to be more concerned. He was all belly, with legs and arms sticking out at regular intervals, topped off with a balding head. Indeed, he was so round that the bottom four buttons of his vest could not be fastened, and the rest might pop at any moment, putting someone’s eye out. “My visit is indeterminate. I suppose it shall depend upon what I uncover.”

Miri averted her gaze to the tea tray, hopefully hiding her dismay. With the bishop’s indefinite visit, it would be doubly hard to keep Ethan’s presence and Roland’s behaviors a secret. She snatched up the teapot, and the lid jiggled as she poured, clattering at just the wrong time.

“Is there a problem, Miriall?”

Other than his madness, Will’s death, and the vagabond hidden in the garden shed, she didn’t have a care in the world. She pressed her lips tight and set down the traitorous pot, then collected the cup and saucer. Ignoring his question, she turned and served Bishop Fothergill.

Roland stood, glowering. He stalked to the mantle, watching all the while as she returned to fill a cup for him.

“I believe I asked you a question.” His voice scolded harsher than a fishwife’s.

She took care not to stumble on the rug lest she spill and add to her growing list of iniquities. Padding toward him, she offered his tea. “I fear I am not as proficient as Mrs. Makin. Were she here—”

“Take responsibility for your own inadequacies, numerous as they may be.”

Lowering her gaze, she could not stop the burning that rose to her cheeks. She should be used to reprimands in front of company, yet her body never failed to react. “I am sorry, brother.”

Behind her, the bishop’s chair creaked. “May I understand this to be your sister, Master Brayden?”

Roland glared his warning for her to behave before looking past her. “Yes. This is Miriall. The church has been overly gracious in allowing my sister to reside at the rectory with me. I hope to remedy that situation soon enough.”

“Oh?” The bishop gave her a kindly smile. “How so?”

Miri fixed a stare on her brother’s face. Her life could very well depend on his answer, and for that she might almost hate him.

Roland refused to make eye contact. “I believe Master Witherskim, administrator of Bedfordshire School for Boys, is soon to make an offer. It is a suitable match.”

Suitable! Her hands clenched. She’d sooner mate with the wretched beggar out in the potting shed. She whirled and resumed her station near the sideboard, hardly able to hear over the angry thrumming in her ears.

“I see.” The bishop eyed her from head to toe, creating an awkward lull in the conversation. When Fothergill finally realized Roland’s glower now belonged to him instead of her, he stifled a cough. “Well, then, on to the business at hand, shall we? It has been brought to the diocese’s attention that Mr. Eldon is inexplicably absent from his post. Have you any information on his whereabouts?”

Roland took an inordinate amount of time setting his cup on the mantle. At length, he clasped his hands behind him and returned his attention to Fothergill. “I am not aware it is my duty to account for the vicar.”

The bishop cocked his head. “Neither is it your duty to fill the pulpit, sir, which I understand is exactly what you have been about. Do you deny this?”

Roland pressed his mouth into a thin line.

Miri tensed, foreboding stealing the breath from her. If Roland’s hold on sanity unleashed at this moment, they’d both be out on the streets.

“Perhaps you did not hear me.” The bishop leaned forward. “I asked if you deny filling the pulpit.”

Roland froze, a roe before a hunter. He stared at the oak molding on the far wall, the muscles of his jaw working as he must be grinding his teeth. How close was he to snapping?

Fothergill narrowed his eyes and studied him. “You seem agitated, Master Brayden.”

Outside, a gust of wind rattled the windowpanes, the only noise brave enough to breach the silence.

At last Roland opened his mouth. “May I ask, Bishop, how you were apprised of the situation?”

“Not that it signifies, but Squire Gullaby sent word. He finds it rather interesting, as do I”—Fothergill lifted his chin—“that the vicar suddenly went missing not long after your arrival.”

Her brother’s hands emerged from behind his back, curled into fists. He skewered Fothergill with a piercing stare. “What are you insinuating? My history within the church is impeccable.”

Miri let out a breath. An angry Roland was a predictable Roland.

“I insinuate nothing, Master Brayden. I state facts.” As the bishop shifted his weight, the back chair legs creaked a complaint. “Your service as headmaster of Pembroke is without blemish and cannot be argued. I daresay your bout with brain fever was as much a blow to the institution as to yourself. But it is also a fact that you were sent here to recuperate, not to fill a pulpit. Do I make myself clear?”

Roland’s fists loosened into splayed fingers. “Quite.”

“Good.” The bishop sniffed. “Until the vicar is found, I will see to this parish. Know that I plan to delve further into Eldon’s absence, and I will brook no opposition on the matter.”

Miri hugged herself. She did not need this inscrutable fat saint nosing about.

“Well, then, I shall attend your horse. Miriall”—Roland nodded at her—“shall see you to a chamber. No doubt you should like to refresh.”

“What? Am I to learn the groom and housekeeper are missing too?” The bishop pushed up to stand, and the front chair legs harmonized with the back in relief.

“We are a bit short staffed at the moment.” Roland strode from the room, dismissing the bishop with a wave, either not expecting or requiring a reply.

“No vicar, no staff.” Fothergill crossed to where Miri stood near the door, the smell of talc overwhelming. “Curious indeed. I imagine my visit to Deverell Downs will prove remarkable in more ways than one, eh miss?” He elbowed her as he passed by.

Miri pinched the bridge of her nose, warding off a sneeze. The bishop had no idea what sort of prophecy he’d just spoken.

Two steps from the bedroom door, Nigel ducked. Whooshing air lifted the hair by his ear as a shoe sailed past him and nailed the wall, leaving an ugly black mark. Not that he hadn’t expected some resistance to his offering of Pegg’s services to Buck, but this? Saucy woman. If only he could redirect that passion. Turning to face her, he softened his tone. “Listen, lovey—”

The other shoe hit him square in the eye.

“Ow!” Pressing fingertips against the sting, he growled. “Wut you wanna go and do that for? Ain’t Nigel ere been your sweeting? Why, I oughtta—”

“Get out!” She reached for an overlarge crystal oil lamp.