Seducing Mr. Heywood (25 page)

“Do you like horses, Mr. Walters?” Charles inquired, walking toward the Rowley stables.

“I do, sir.” Jesse Walters nodded his head. “And, please, call me Jesse.”

There were tears in Clarissa’s eyes as she stroked Sophia’s cheek. “You have grown even more beautiful, my dearest,” she whispered.

“I would have recognized you anywhere, Miss Bane,” Sophia replied, her voice quavering with like emotion. “I cannot believe you were so nearby all of this time.”

Bromley had silently brought a tea tray into the drawing room and then closed the doors behind him. Sophia brought Mrs. Walters to the long green-and-white-striped divan in front of the fireplace and they sat drinking in each other’s faces, their fingers entwined.

It was time for the question that must be answered first, after fifteen long, puzzling years.

“Why did you leave me?” Sophia asked, her lips quivering.

Clarissa placed her fingers over the younger woman’s lips, to stop their trembling. “Oh, my dear, my dear, I never wanted to leave you. Your father—”

A hard look flattened Sophia’s blue eyes. “What did that blackguard do?”

The former governess had decided she would never tell her beloved girl the true story of the events that had led to her departure from the Dunhaven estate. She had debated the matter with her own conscience, at length, and had concluded that she would only tell Sophia part of the truth. The whole truth of the awful matter would serve no purpose now. It had happened a long time ago, and at times, Clarissa thought it must have happened to someone else. She had removed herself from the injury and distress with a great effort of will; if she had not done so, she knew she would have gone mad.

“Dearest Sophia, my child,” she began, stroking her
arm, “your father would not allow me to accompany you to London. He dismissed me. I was so distraught that I argued with him.” Her voice was firm as she recounted her expurgated version of that last encounter with the Earl of Dunhaven. “I argued with him too forcibly, it seems, and he…Well, he struck me, my dear.”

Sophia cried out in dismay at the outrage. Her eyes brimmed with tears.

“No, my dear, do not weep. It was a very long time ago and I am fine, now, but—” Clarissa moistened her dry lips and continued. “In his great anger at my defiance of him, your father shoved me. I hit my head against the mantelpiece. It caused a kind of forgetfulness, a jar to my memory. When I saw a surgeon, much later, he called it amnesia.”

Clarissa endeavored to explain. “By the time I had regained my senses, I had wandered far off. I came to not knowing who I was nor where I had been. It was a nightmare, my dear, but gradually, I regained my memory.” Now she blinked back tears.

“It was too late, though, to help you. Your father had married you off, three times by then, or so your nice Mr. Heywood told me. You must understand that I did not know to whom you were wed, or whence you’d gone. I did not have the connections among the
ton
to find out. Nor did I know of such things as Bow Street investigators. I was not a sophisticated Londoner.”

“Amnesia…” Sophia rolled the strange word on her tongue. “How long did this strange ailment, this amnesia, last?”

“Over two years,” Clarissa Walters lied. In discussions with doctors, she’d discovered that the loss of one’s memory—amnesia—was a rare occurrence. She had fashioned her version of the circumstances leading to her removal from Dunhaven around this unusual medical state. As there was no one expert in the condition, she felt she could fabricate at will. She hoped Sophia would believe her, although she deplored the necessity of having to lie to her dear girl. But the truth, Clarissa thought, would be so much more hurtful.

“Oh, Miss Bane!” Sophia wrapped her arms around her former governess, holding her tight. “I thought you dead, just like my mother!” She shook uncontrollably, then recovered, looking Clarissa in the eye. “I thought my father had killed you, too!”

The Reverend Jesse Walters seemed very interested in him, Charles thought, as they rode the horses borrowed from the Hall’s stables. Why would an eminent churchman take such an interest in a lowly rural vicar, he wondered idly.

“Do you plan to spend the rest of your career here, sir, in Rowley village?” Walters asked Charles.

“This is a pleasant corner of the world,” the vicar responded. “Unless circumstances mandate a change, yes, I would like to remain here. I am guardian to the late Baron Rowley’s two sons, and I take that responsibility seriously. They are fine lads and need a male figure to—”

Walters interrupted him. “But surely Lady Rowley will remarry. She seems to have a penchant for the wedded state.” He laughed.

Bristling at the unkind statement and the priest’s laugh at his own little jest, Charles attempted to calm himself. He was growing too thin-skinned, perhaps, concerning remarks about Sophia.

“You, sir, are a young single man,” Walters continued, unaware that Charles had taken umbrage over his last remark. “Surely you are considering taking a wife? The proper kind of wife is an asset to a young man seeking advancement in the Church; she helps him to step up the ladder, as it were. My own wife, Clarissa, was a priest’s daughter and fully understood her role in my career. She was eminently suited to the task of helping me achieve my goal.”

The older man’s comments were beginning to annoy Charles. The wonderful Miss Bane, the woman who had educated Sophia Eliot so well, now seemed relegated to an ancillary position, merely the useful helpmate of an ambitious churchman. There was, surely, more to Mrs.
Walters than that! She seemed a gifted, intelligent woman, fit to be a man’s true mate, not merely a glorified servant.

“I do have a lady in mind, sir,” Charles responded, his lips stiff.

“Ah, I thought so! Mr. Heywood, I will be retiring in the next five years. I have as yet found no one I would consider worthy to fill my post as secretary to the archbishop. What say you to transferring to York Minster, as my assistant? In time, with the right woman behind you, you might ascend to my position. Would you consider it?”

“Sir, I m-m-mean, Jesse—” It was not easy to address the older man by his Christian name, as he had asked. “You know nothing about me.”

“Ah, there you are wrong, Charles! I have made inquiries. You come from a distinguished family, Baron Rowley thought very highly of you, and the other priests in this region have noted your devotion to your congregation. Your record at Cambridge was above those of the majority of young men who take orders. You are personable and popular. In addition, you have a fine mind. I have spoken with you long enough to ascertain that fact.”

The archbishop’s secretary beamed. “We must simply be sure that you marry an appropriate helpmeet before too long, and you will be on your way. St. Mortrud’s is a delightful small parish, and fine for undistinguished men like the previous vicar, who was not good for much else, but you are a candidate for a much larger position in the church.”

Walters reached over and clapped Charles on the back, not noting the resulting wince. “I would be very glad to see you achieve these goals.”

“Thank you, sir, but I…I don’t know if—” Charles protested.

“Nonsense, nonsense! You are too modest.” The clergyman’s knowing smile seemed to imply that modesty was a fine virtue, in its place. “Now you did say that you have a young lady in mind?”

“Yes, sir, I do.” Not exactly a young lady, Charles thought, knowing that Sophia was possibly two or three years his senior.

The priest’s smile grew broader. “Well, lad, do not keep me in suspense! Who is the lucky young woman?” “I…I…I have not yet asked for her hand, sir,” Charles stammered.

“As if she would refuse a fine young man with such a career ahead of him, sir! Come now, who is she?”

“Lady Rowley, sir. She is the woman to whom I plan to propose,” Charles averred, sitting straight in his saddle.

The other man’s face fell. He began to speak, then cleared his throat. “Surely you are jesting, my son? That lady would not suit, not at all! She is the last woman an ambitious young churchman should consider!”

Charles looked the archbishop’s secretary in the eye. How could Miss Clarissa Bane have ever married such an uncharitable man? He had noted, too, the disparity in their ages; Jesse Walters was at least twenty years older than his wife. His heart ached for that good woman.

“I do not jest, sir, especially not when a lady is involved.”

“You need to think this through, Charles. It would be a shame to throw away a promising career for mere…Well, I think you know what I mean, sir.”

Charles’s lips thinned. The man was insulting! “No, sir, I cannot imagine what you mean.”

“You are not a man of the world, my son. Lady Rowley is not what one looks for to fit the role of a clergyman’s wife! Your career would be irrevocably damaged.” Walters shook his head.

“I tried to persuade Clarissa not to come here, but she insisted. I informed her that perhaps it was not a good idea to renew her acquaintance with such a notorious woman as Lady Rowley, that it might reflect badly upon me—”

Charles felt the tips of his ears redden. Out of respect for the man’s office, he would not say what he thought,
but the temptation was strong. “Sir, Lady Rowley loves your wife as a daughter loves her mother. She—”

Walters waved away the remark with an impatient gesture. “The woman is no better than a courtesan! Her reputation is exceedingly infamous.”

“Let he who is without sin cast the first stone,” Charles responded, turning his borrowed horse toward Rowley Hall. Christ in his infinite mercy had defended a woman taken in adultery, shielding her from the angry crowd that would have stoned her to death. One of the most faithful of His little flock was Mary Magdalene. Sophia was hardly the Magdalene, but Charles felt that he would be damned forever if he continued to listen to the vile words issuing from this prominent churchman’s mouth.

Sophia Rowley was well on her way to becoming the woman God meant her to be—he was sure of it—a decent, loving woman and mother, a good neighbor and friend. And he, Charles Heywood, humble man of the cloth, loved her. He would not sell his soul or his heart for worldly success. The prospect of advancement in the church, with the backing of a man like the Reverend Walters, did not tempt him. And it was well past time that he proposed to Sophia, whatever the consequences.

She was all that mattered to him now.

As an adult, Sophia had never had a confidante, a true and sympathetic female friend in whom she could place her trust. Now, pouring out her heart once more to her former governess, she was overjoyed. She had told Mrs. Walters all about her darling sons, rapscallion John, the improbable new Baron Rowley, and mathematical prodigy William, so small and yet so bright. Now the conversation had turned to another dear to her, the vicar of St. Mortrud’s.

“I do believe I am in love with him,” she confessed.

Clarissa Walters laid her hand on top of Sophia’s and patted it. “He is a lovely young man, Sophia. You could not do better than Mr. Heywood. And I suspect that he is very fond of you, too.”

Sophia’s eyes flew to Clarissa’s face. “You think so?”

“I do, child,” she smiled.

Sophia’s cheeks flamed. “I fear I have been very—” She cleared her throat, then continued. “I fear I have been very forward with the vicar.”

Clarissa frowned. “What have you done, my dear?”

“I…I have been bent on seducing him for several months now. I have spoken to him shamelessly,” she replied, hanging her head.

Mrs. Walters patted her former charge’s hands and
dispensed kindly advice. “You were in London too long, Sophia, amongst worldly and fashionable people who scorn modesty and laugh at high moral principles.”

Sophia raised her head. “That is true; I know it now. It would have been far better if I had stayed with George. He gave me my freedom, thinking it was what I desired most in the world, but it was my undoing.” She shook her head vigorously, blond tendrils flailing. “And I have doubtless given Mr. Heywood a disgust of me.”

“How could you do that, child?”

Sophia’s whisper was so faint that Clarissa bent close to hear her. “I told him that I desired to bed him. And other things.”

The older woman smiled. “He appears to me to have only respect, and, I would say, love for you, my dear. He is a man of God, like my own good husband, and has heard many confessions. I do not think that anything you might have said would shock such a fine man as he.” She paused. “Do you truly love him, then, Sophia?”

“I do! I do! I never thought to marry again, but now—”

“Encourage him to propose, then, my dear,” was the prompt reply.

A rueful smile curled Sophia Rowley’s full lips. “Charles, propose to me?” She chuckled. “I believe that I would have to be the one to ask!”

“Well, then, do so!” Clarissa stroked Sophia’s soft cheek with the back of one hand. “If you truly want the man to be your husband, it is no disgrace to do so!” Her eyes twinkled. “Faint heart, my dear, ne’er won fair gentleman.”

John and William arrived home from their sojourn in the Lake Country at the end of that week. The summer had passed quickly, and so much had happened. Even now, Sophia could not believe it. Country life was not as boring as she had first thought. Kidnappings, contagions, elopements, and the promise of love…

She had taken to heart Mrs. Walters’s suggestion concerning a proposal of marriage from her to the vicar, and she was summoning up her courage. It would take all that she had. The loss of her last lover had dealt a great
blow to her self-assurance; more so, she realized now, than to her heart.

The love she felt for Sir Isaac was a shadow compared to the fierce passion engendered by Charles. When with the vicar, she could not keep her hands to herself. She struggled to keep him at arm’s length. It was almost embarrassing. Never, never, had sophisticated, worldly Lady Sophia Rowley so loved a man.