Seducing Mr. Heywood (26 page)

With the boys home, she was temporarily distracted from her mission. Their tales of hiking the massive fells, fishing in the icy tarns, sailing on Lake Windemere, and getting to know their host’s neighbors whetted Sophia’s appetite to follow in their footsteps.

“You would like Mr. Heywood’s family, Mama,” William told her solemnly.

“And they are very curious about you,” John added. Both boys were sitting at her knees in the rose garden. John swatted a fly as he spoke.

“They are?” Sophia had her arms around William’s neck, hugging him close.

John swiveled to face his mother. “Lady Rosina, Mr. Heywood’s mother, asked us many questions about you.”

Sophia’s face flushed slightly. She would wager that lady had many questions she would not venture to ask a ten-year-old boy about his notorious mother! “Such as?”

William piped up. “She wanted to know if you talk of marrying again.”

John poked his brother in the chest. “
Gudgeon!
” Sophia gave him a stern look. “Beg pardon, Mama,” he mumbled in apology.

“She wants to know!” William defended himself. He turned to Sophia. “Miss Mainwaring asked if you are pretty,” he continued. John rolled his eyes.

Sophia smiled. “What did you tell Miss Mainwaring?” She ruffled William’s baby-fine hair.

“What could we say to her but the truth?” John asked. “We told her that you are the most beautiful woman in the world, and the best mother, too.” His eyes, so like Sophia’s, gleamed with pride.

William pursed his lips. “That did not make Miss Mainwaring very happy,” he stated.

Sophia bent down to kiss the crown of John’s head. “Am I truly the best mother?” she teased her sons.

Both boys jumped to their feet and threw their arms around her, nuzzling her neck, tickling her, and making her laugh. Their whoops of laughter reached inside the Hall, where Bromley was discussing the dinner menu with Mrs. Mathew.

“I wish the old master could see this,” Bromley said, a catch in his throat.

The cook nodded, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye with her apron. “Who would ever have believed it, Mr. Bromley? That she—that Lady Rowley—those boys—” Overcome, she could not go on.

Bromley patted her shoulder. “It is nothing short of a miracle, indeed. We must all thank God, truly.”

“And dear Mr. Heywood, too,” she added in a firm voice.

“Mr. Heywood, too,” Bromley agreed, his eyes moist.

Lady Sophia was an infrequent attendee at church services. Over the past months, however, she realized that her position as mistress of Rowley Hall demanded that she make an appearance at St. Mortrud’s on the Sabbath. That, and the urging of her boys, found her in the first pew at the old church every Sunday, setting a good example for the villagers and tenant farmers.

Today, Lizzie was helping her dress, as a replacement for Joan had yet to be found, and the question of what to wear was of utmost importance. “What do you think, Lizzie?” She turned to the servant girl. “The printed muslin?” She furrowed her brow and debated the cut of the neckline with herself: it was high, but was it high enough?

“This spencer would complement the costume,” she thought aloud. “The blue of the dress pattern is the same hue as the spencer.” She held the long-sleeved, waist-length jacket with the high standing collar against the
dress; it was an item she’d rarely worn, but it did suit the simple high-necked frock.

“What a pretty print it is, my lady, all the little crosses. Good for church-going.” Lizzie dimpled at her joke.

The “little crosses” were fleur-de-lis. The deep gold dress sported an all-over pattern of fleur-de-lis, an indication of its smuggled origins across the Channel. It had traveled from a smuggler’s boat overland to Mme. Gruyon’s dressmaking establishment. To Lizzie, the French heraldic symbol of the lily flower looked like a cross, and Sophia would not disabuse her of the notion. Fitting for church, Lizzie said; well, then, so be it!

“Yes, you are right. Most fitting.” Lizzie helped her don it, and Sophia surveyed the result in the looking glass. She liked the effect. “Can you do my hair, Lizzie?” As the girl nodded, Sophia instructed her. “The bonnet will hide my hair, so a simple bun low at the back of my neck, with some curls to the side of my face, will do.”

It would not do to be flamboyantly dressed or coiffed at St. Mortrud’s. Sophia’s goal was to be unobtrusive, to blend in with the woodwork and the congregation. She had grown fonder of the little country church. Charles and she had discussed a memorial for George on two occasions, but they’d made little progress owing to recent events. It was important, however, and they must endeavor to firm their plans to honor the late baron’s memory.

Lizzie set the plain silk bonnet, in a shade of blue that matched the jacket and the field of fleur-de-lis marching across the dress, on Sophia’s head, then adjusted it. The girl stood back, as if admiring her creation and Sophia smiled.

“That will do, Lizzie. Yes, that will do very well.”

Mrs. Walters and her disapproving husband would share the Rowley pew on this day. The Reverend Walters’s dislike was apparent to Sophia; she was sensitive to such from long experience with notoriety. It was an amazing contrast, the unconditional love that flowed to her from her former governess and the dislike on her husband’s face whenever Sophia caught his eye.

Clarissa and Jesse Walters were childless. Sophia, always Miss Bane’s child, still was, so it seemed, but Walters would never acknowledge her as a kind of foster daughter. Sophia felt unclean when he looked at her. As a whole, she was not keen on men of the cloth. In her experience, they tended to be far too judgmental. Except, of course, for Charles, who would not presume to judge another, and who was love and caring.

Sophia flushed. It would not do, she thought, catching her suddenly pink cheeks in the looking glass, to have impure thoughts about the vicar in his church. As always, she must restrain herself. She giggled, hoping once again that the stout stone walls of St. Mortrud’s would not fall down when she walked inside. Reverend Walters would never forgive her. She giggled again, picturing that austere face in a hail of broken stones.

She covered her mirth before she made a goose of herself in front of her servant, whose puzzled look was reflected in the glass. It would not do. She hurriedly pulled a handkerchief from her reticule and dabbed at her eyes, which were beginning to stream.

Lizzie, alarmed, asked if anything was the matter.

Sophia shook her head. Regaining a modicum of composure, she rose to join her sons and her guests for the service at St. Mortrud’s.

God help me!
she prayed.
If I giggle during Charles’s sermon, he will never forgive me.
The Rowley family seating was in the first row, directly in front of the pulpit. She was more accustomed to having his curate deliver the service, as Charles had been away so much of late, but when he was there, it was difficult for them both. She had learned to look down, away, anywhere but into his beautiful gray eyes. To do otherwise would be both their undoing. They were a rare pair, she and the vicar, were they not? The notorious widow and the stammering priest.

“Mama!” Sophia saw William, his hair slicked back, dressed in his Sunday best, John behind him, the nursemaid, Harriett, hovering nearby. “You look beautiful!”

“She always looks beautiful, you nodcock,” John hissed,
so low that Sophia barely heard him. She smiled. At least her older son was not pushing or pummeling his brother, as was his custom. Was it because it was the Lord’s day? Well, if John could force himself into his best behavior, then so must she.

No giggles, no making faces at Charles and discombobulating him. She was Lady Sophia Rowley, after all, mother of the late baron’s sons and heirs, was she not? She would behave herself in church. She owed it to dear George as much as to the congregation and to the vicar.

Sophia looked forward to seeing Charles in full clerical regalia today; the rich robes suited him. She was impressed and awed. He seemed to have an aura that was not present when he wore his everyday garb. He seemed taller, more distinguished, older: God’s representative on earth.

The church service was full to its ancient rafters this morning. Even Lewis Alcott was present, grinning broadly from the last pew. Well, Charles would not focus on Lewis’s grin, or on Lady Sophia’s lovely presence. The addition of the Walterses was unnerving, given his recent exchange with the archbishop’s austere secretary, but he had prepared himself as well as he could, though his knees were knocking under his grand ecclesiastical robes.

Charles focused on his sermon and on the fact that the Reverend Jesse Walters had no choice but to hear what he was going to say. And the vicar of St. Mortrud’s had a good deal to say this morning, he reflected as he mounted the old stone pulpit.

The congregation sang the first hymn in lusty, full-bodied voice. As the people shuffled back into their seats, Charles gripped the lectern, resisting the impulse to run both hands through his hair. He fixed his gaze on the baptismal font at the rear of the church; he would be undone if he looked into anyone’s eyes. Totally undone if he looked into Sophia’s beautiful eyes.

He began with a prayer for the souls of all the living and dead of his parish, noting the deaths from the contagion
and the loss to them all of Baron Rowley earlier in the year. He told them that in a short time a simple marble memorial to the baron would be affixed to the wall of the church.

“George, Baron Rowley, would think even this simple remembrance was excessive, but we know better. He was a good man, humble, always, before God, and his goodness and humility must be acknowledged. The Rowleys have been part of this land since the time of King Henry I, and they made their mark here. Baron Rowley was part of a long line, a line that is continued with John and William. We will honor him with this plaque as he deserves to be honored.”

There were muffled “amens” from the congregation. Charles resisted the temptation to steal a glance at Sophia. The big old Bible lay closed before him; he opened it to the Book of Amos. Mindful of the many sermons that had been launched from that worn pulpit, he cleared his throat and began yet another one.

“These are ‘The words of Amos, who was among the shepherds of Tekoa, which he saw concerning Israel in the days of Uzziah, king of Judah and in the days of Jeroboam, the son of Joash.’”

Charles read selected passages from the prophet’s words concerning the dark fate of the indolent and the unrepentant and of the glowing future to come for the people of Israel, when the Lord had promised that “the plowman shall overtake the reaper, and the treader of grapes him who sows the seed,” and when “the mountains shall drip sweet wine, and all the hills shall flow with it.…”

Charles shut the Bible and regarded the congregation. This time he focused on dark-haired Chloe Brown, who sat between her parents a few rows from the front. He smiled at the child and she smiled back sweetly. He saw her raise a little hand and flash a half-wave at him.

“Why have I come to read the words of Amos this morning? Why this fiery prophet who brought the wrath of the Lord down upon sinners, punishing them for their transgressions? Why this dark, solemn book and this solitary
prophet from the poor kingdom of Judea, this simple farmer dressed in wild animal skins? How can this ancient prophet speak to us, a people so many years removed from his time?”

His glance swept the congregation, then focused on the wooden timbers that supported the roof of the church. He gazed at the purlin, that heavy, horizontal beam set along the roof’s slope to conduct and distribute the weight of the old rafters. This fine, time-weathered old church, he mused briefly, standing tall so many years. St. Mortrud would be pleased that it still stood whole. He brought himself back sharply to the thrust of his homily.

“Our present-day church is the spiritual descendant of the solitary Amos and the disciples, the apostles of Christ, who went two by two into the cities and into the wilderness to convert souls yearning for God. Yet spirituality is an individual pursuit,” Charles stated, his voice firm and mellow, echoing in the silent church.

“All of us are alone before God. Yes, now we are all here together, worshiping in unison, but, ultimately our belief in God is a personal matter, between each man and the Creator of us all.” He paused, shut his eyes, and took a shallow breath.

“All human unhappiness, I do believe, comes from not being able to sit quietly, alone, to ask what sort of person we are, and what sort of person we want to be. No one can do this for another. But God can help each of us accomplish the task. With the grace of God, many things that seem impossible can be made possible.”

Now he looked at John and William, who were attentive, not squirming; at Mrs. Walters, who listened raptly, her lips parted; at the Reverend Walters, whose eyes were shut, arms crossed against his chest. And at Lady Sophia, whose white brow was furrowed, her mouth almost grim, her solemn gaze fixed on his face.

For that moment, only Sophia existed for him in the full-to-bursting congregation. It was as if a bright white light surrounded the two of them, blocking out everyone else. He caught his breath quickly and continued.

“The p-p-prophets of old,” he stammered, “p-p-prayed
on the mountaintops or in the desert, both lonely places, yet God heard them. He spoke to them. We seek God here, in this humble church, we endeavor to speak to Him and hope He hears our feeble cries.” Charles’s voice, overcoming his attack of stutters, was anything but feeble now, as it filled the high, wide ceiling of St. Mortrud’s.

“The Book of Amos is about redemption for sinners. The Lord punishes, yes, that is true, but He also forgives. Cast not the first stone at another, but look to your own heart. Seek your own redemption, with the love and help of God. As the Lord promised redemption after great suffering to the Israelites, so it is no less for any of us.”

Charles returned his attention to Sophia, who was now smiling at him. Her lips mouthed something he could not catch. It would not do to look at those lips, ripe with promises of…He hurried to finish the sermon.