Seducing Mr. Heywood (23 page)

The boys had arrived safely and were busily exploring the Lake District. They had never sailed before and greatly enjoyed that experience. Greetings from the Mainwaring children to her and Charles were also passed on. A Charlotte Anne, Miss Mainwaring, particularly
wanted to be remembered to Charles. A twinge of jealousy struck Sophia.

The other letter looked, from the hastily scrawled address, to have been written rather in a hurry. Puzzled, she cracked the seal and scanned the few lines of text. It was from Robert Winton, Lord Brent!

Brent had married Joan over the anvil in Gretna Green. He tendered apologies from himself as well as Joan for not being honest with Sophia, but they had thought it better to do what they must do, and then explain. Brent said that they were in love, and added that Joan was the sweetest, most honest, and true female he had ever encountered, as well as being decidedly pretty. He hadn’t known that he’d been looking for a redheaded woman all his life!

They were on their way to Nottingham, where he had a small estate. His family would be furious, but he’d deal with them at a later time. Right now, he had other things to think about. He wanted Sophia to know he was happy, and he urged her, too, to follow her heart. He sent his regards and Joan’s to the vicar and to the Rowley Hall staff.

What an
on-dit
! Sophia mused. The
ton
would savor it with their morning newspapers and Charles’s housekeeper would soon spread it all over the county, giving hope to maidservants everywhere. Sophia wished the newlyweds well, though she remained exasperated with them and vowed she would ring a loud peal over both their heads when next she saw them!

And where would she ever find as good an abigail as Joan? She sighed and wondered briefly about a suitable wedding present for the couple. The poor dears would be shunned by the
ton
—until, of course, the next scandal erupted.

Her thoughts returned to Charles, as they so often did these days. She wanted to marry him; that was the truth of it, but she did not expect him to propose. Must she, then, do the proposing herself? She tapped Brent’s letter against her front teeth slowly, pondering the situation.

It took the better part of a day for Charles to catch up with Jarley. Then Lancashire Lad needed a rest and so did his master. They would wait until the next day and ride at a leisurely pace, not
ventre a terre
, arriving at York prepared to seek out and speak with Mrs. Jesse Walters,
nee
Clarissa Bane. What irony—she’d been in Yorkshire the entire time! Charles thought of George Rowley, who had wanted so much to interview that lady and reunite her with Sophia. The vicar felt the presence of his late mentor’s spirit and believed he was pleased.

Charles was elated, yet a bit blue-deviled, also. He had fulfilled his self-given quest but had probably lost his fair lady forever. The image of Brent and Sophia at the recent festivities at Rowley Hall was etched in his mind. They seemed to belong together. They were part of the same world, a world in which Charles, despite his lineage, would never quite fit. The
beau monde
was a far cry from St. Mortrud’s modest church where he shepherded his flock amongst the rustic environs of Rowley Village.

The cathedral city of York had an ancient history. Named Eboracum by the Romans, it had been home to the distinguished Sixth Legion. In more recent times, Christianity had spread to the far reaches of northern England and Scotland from this city. The Archbishop of York bore the title Primate of England, and the cathedral was one of the largest and grandest in the British isles.

A far cry from modest St. Mortrud’s, Charles mused, a far cry indeed. When his father asked Charles if he had ambitions to succeed in the Church of England, he implied that his son could aspire to the mitre of a bishop or the grand robes of an archbishop, and all the splendor, honor, and prestige such offices could confer upon an ambitious man.

The two weary travelers regarded the massive cathedral from the vantage point of the city walls, walls that dated from the fourteenth century and were probably built on the circuit laid down by the Romans. From here they had a magnificent view of the river Ouse, the church of St. Mary, the Roman Catholic St. Wilfrid’s, and numerous other small churches that surrounded York Minster, the Castle, and Clifford’s Tower. That thirteenth century structure, built on a Norman keep from the time of William the Conqueror, had been the site of an infamous
massacre of five hundred Jews during the reign of King Richard I.

Charles preferred quiet, benign St. Mortrud’s. If he had any calling at all, it was to serve God in that backwater village. The pomp of the established Church, the majesty of its primates, were anathema to him. His father might want such for his son, but he did not. His stammer, not the problem now that it was used to be, would erupt in full force were he to attempt to launch a sermon from mighty York’s imposing pulpit. The very thought made him shudder! He was not an ambitious man.

York Close was a hidden enclave only a few hundred yards from the massive cathedral, a three-sided rectangle of simple two-story terraced houses, each with its long front garden and enclosed back garden. The open side of the rectangle fronted a gravel drive. Here lived the canons, the choirmasters, the vergers, the sextons, the bell-ringers—all those nameless folk who toiled at York Minster and their families. It was a small, tight community of like-minded church folk. Number Five was the home of the Reverend Jesse Walters, Secretary to the Archbishop.

As Jarley unlatched the wrought-iron gate, Charles closed his eyes and prayed fervently that Mrs. Walters would receive them and hear him out. What she must have suffered at the hands of the earl was beyond imagining. He hoped she had put it behind her and that he would bring her no nightmares, no bad memories. He sighed, signaled Jarley that he was ready, and together they approached the door, where he rapped firmly on a brightly painted oak panel.

A petite young maidservant greeted them with a smile and asked them to step inside. “I will see if Mrs. Walters is receiving visitors today,” she informed them smartly as Charles handed her his calling card, one edge folded neatly to show that he was indeed calling in person.

Jarley and he exchanged nervous glances. They could barely speak, tense as they both were with anticipation.
Would the lady receive them? They were, after all, strangers to her.

The little maid came back to ask the nature of their visit, if they would not mind?

Charles’s throat was dry; he cleared it. “It concerns an old acquaintance of Mrs. Walters, Lady Sophia Rowley—”

Mrs. Walters now emerged from behind the drawing room doors, where she’d been eavesdropping, hidden from sight. They saw a small brown-haired woman with a gentle face marred by a white, ridged scar below her right temple, close by her eye.
Miss Bane
! It must be the governess; Charles remembered Susan Cantwell’s vivid description of that facial scar.

He bowed his head and introduced himself and his companion. “I am the Reverend Charles Heywood, ma’am, and this is Mr. Jarley. We bring you greetings from the Cantwells of Bickley. They were so kind as to furnish us with your direction.”

Mrs. Walters frowned. “Susan and Asa? It has been ages since I have seen them. Marigold, please bring us tea. Gentlemen, please do come and sit down, rather than stand about chatting in the hallway.”

Charles smiled at the woman’s commanding presence, despite her diminutive size. He could imagine her as the governess who’d so thoroughly taught Sophia her Greek and Latin and mathematics. She swept through the drawing room doors and motioned them to a sofa and side chairs.

“Now, gentlemen, pray continue,” she demanded.

“I am the vicar of St. Mortrud’s, ma’am, in Rowley Village—”

“Yes, yes, St. Mortrud’s,” Clarissa Walters interrupted again. “My husband was acquainted with Mr. Fairbourne of that parish. He has retired to Brighton, I believe.”

Charles nodded. “Indeed, ma’am, he was the gentleman whom I succeeded three years ago.” He paused for breath, expecting another interruption from the formidable little woman, but there was none. He continued. “Baron Rowley, who appointed me to that living, passed away earlier this year—”

“God rest his soul,” the lady interrupted.

“Ah, yes.…He was a good man, an exemplary husband and father, also. He was married to Sophia Eliot, your former charge.” Charles waited for an exclamation of surprise, but Clarissa Walters merely clutched her hands tightly together.

“Sophia?
My
Sophia?” she whispered, then asked, “Is she well?”

“She is quite well, ma’am. Quite well indeed. And she wants to see you again, very much. She speaks of you lovingly.” Charles’s heart was thumping loudly and happily in his chest, curious to see Mrs. Walters’ next reaction. So far, she’d seemed amazingly calm.

Now Clarissa Walters brought her hands to her face; her shoulders heaved. She began to weep quietly. Alarmed, Charles rose and offered his handkerchief. Taking it gratefully, she blew her nose, sinking back onto the sofa as if the wind had been sucked out of her small frame. She wiped her tears daintily with the edge of the cloth.

“My dear child, my angel,” she murmured. “Ah, it has been so long…I feared…You said her husband had died? How old was the gentleman?”

“He was sixty-six years old and had been ill for several years,” Charles replied.

“Her father married her at fifteen to a gentleman over three times her age?” Mrs. Walters asked.

“No, ma’am, it is a very long story.” And, over tea and cakes, Charles related that tale. Clarissa Walters heard it through, from beginning to end, and wept silently from time to time into the vicar’s handkerchief as she listened.

Jarley, a hefty reward from Lawyer Norton bulging in his pocket for his long, ultimately successful pursuit of Clarissa Bane, set off for London even as Charles headed west to Rowley Village. Charles was contemplating the best way to break the news to Sophia that her old governess was alive and well and would be arriving within the week, accompanied by her husband, to be reunited with her charge after fifteen years.

He would, however, leave it to the ex-governess to
explain what had happened to her. Charles had little desire to recount how ill used the woman had been at the hands of the despicable Tom Eliot, Earl of Dunhaven. Whatever Clarissa Walters chose to tell Sophia or to omit was up to her alone.

As he rode his horse into the stableyard of the Hall, Charles was relieved to see that the atmosphere seemed to be relaxed and calm. Rowley Hall had had enough crises and emergencies, he thought, to last him through his dotage and beyond. The grooms went sedately about their work, mending harness, currying horses, raking straw, and mucking out stables. One was whistling a jaunty country air. Peace fairly thrummed in the air. The vicar sighed happily as he dismounted and Lancashire Lad was taken away for a rubdown.

“How have things been, Smithers?” Charles asked the head groom, a man of the late baron’s generation.

“Ah, sir, more excitement!” Smithers responded, a twinkle in his rheumy eyes.

Charles’s heart plummeted in his chest, resting near his knees. Complacency had taken flight with Smithers’s words and Charles’s fantasy of life returning to normal at the Hall had flown away with it. “What has occurred, then, since I have been away?” He was almost afraid to ask.

“Lord Brent and his lady eloped to Gretna Green, and were wed o’er the anvil, they were! Took us all by surprise, they did, e’en Bromley—”

Charles felt faint; he had not expected Sophia and Brent to marry so quickly! While he was haring up and down the Kentish countryside looking for lost governesses and agonizing over losing her, they had wed.

Stammering slightly, he asked, “Ha…have they returned?”

Smithers gave the vicar a strange look. “Returned? Now, sir, why would they?”

Surely Sophia would not go off and leave her boys! “Where are they, then?” Charles queried.

“Why, at Lord Brent’s estate, near Nottingham, we heard. We’ll not see them again for a while!” The old groom snickered.

“But why…how…Why would Lady Sophia abandon her boys like this, even for Lord Brent?” Charles was confused.

“Lady Rowley? But, sir, what does she have to do with this?” Smithers replied. “Sure, and she has lost her maid, but—” The groom scratched his bald pate.

“Her
maid
, Smithers?”

Smithers nodded, eying him somewhat askance. “Joan, sir, milady’s abigail that eloped with Lord Brent a fortnight ago. The mistress is looking for a new girl, but—”

Charles resisted the impulse to gather the old man into his arms and kiss him. Her abigail! Joan, eloping with Lord Brent? Who would have thought it? The Lord truly worked in mysterious ways. His heart singing, Charles ran to the Hall, eager to see Sophia and to impart his great news.

Sophia was reading a new letter from her boys. It was smeared with inkblots, its lines so crossed as to almost be unreadable, but no less dear to her. She wore a simple long-sleeved dress with a roller printed design of alternating yellow and black flowers over white, the first dress made to her specifications by Mrs. Clover, Rowley village’s premier seamstress. A far cry from the fashionable frocks cut for her by Madame Gruyon in London, it was nevertheless cool and comfortable and easy to don.