Seducing Mr. Heywood (6 page)

“It must have been after 1800,” Charles replied. He squatted to see better, his fingers moving over the deeply incised stone. “Not worn. No more than a few years old. Certainly, then, after your marriage to him, my lady.”

“He loved her,” she said in a quiet voice, a voice slightly tinged with envy. Even as he married her, he’d loved his first wife.

Charles nodded. “So I have been told. He adored her. I heard that she was his childhood sweetheart. Grew up on an adjoining estate and never left home. The villagers here still speak fondly of her.”

Sophia’s face muscles felt stiff. Tears stung the back
of her eyes, as she pondered such spousal devotion. Something she’d never experienced, not ever. She rose briskly, brushing at the skirts of her walking dress, now stained green by fresh grass, willing back tears. She never cried!

“Well! So George also fancied the poems of Mr. Wordsworth.”

“We often read them aloud together in the evenings. He was much comforted by them at the end,” Charles added. Rowley had said he enjoyed listening to the vicar’s voice, and Charles had been moved by the old fellow’s quavering baritone, once-rich, but steadily growing weaker over those last months. He missed him. Should he have spoken so? He wondered, too late, about George’s feelings for his late wife. Lady Sophia had seemed taken aback by his remarks and by the deep sentiment of love expressed on the tombstone.

Sophia’s eyes flew to Charles’s face. “He did not suffer, did he?” There was a sudden urgency in her voice, almost a panic.

Charles’s first reaction was to reach out to console her, but he stayed his hand. Though she seemed distraught, it would be inappropriate. “No, my lady, he did not suffer; he passed away peacefully. He had been ailing for a very long time, but he was not in great pain. At least, it never appeared so to any of us. He never asked for laudanum.”

“I should have been here, Mr. Heywood, say it! I know that is what everyone thinks. I know it is why everyone hates me!” Sophia’s voice rose in bitter self-condemnation. Her arms were stiff at her sides, fists tightly clenched.

Now Charles did reach out, taking her rigid, gloved hands in his larger ones, opening them up, spreading her fingers. “Nay, my lady, nay! Do not think such things! George…the baron…He never had a harsh word about you. He valued you highly as the mother of his sons. He loved those boys more than any father ever loved his children, I do believe that.”

“He did not love
me
, Mr. Heywood. I suspect you know that.” Sophia was aware that her display of emotion
was unseemly, especially in front of a man she had decided to seduce, but she could not stop herself. She was making a cake of herself, acting the fool, and yet she could not stop.

“Lady Sophia,” Charles attempted to console her, “the baron admired you greatly. He often praised you.…”

But his words, meant to reassure her, sounded lame, even to him.

Sophia Rushton Ferguson Rowley, nee Eliot, pursed her lips, speaking slowly. “No one has ever loved me, Mr. Heywood. I fear I am not at all lovable.” She laughed, wincing at the hollow sound, hating this maudlin display of self-pity. Hating herself.

The young vicar flinched as if he had been struck, stunned by her self-loathing. “Do not say that, Lady Rowley. It is untrue!”

“La! I am but feeling sorry for myself, Mr. Heywood. Do, pray, excuse me.” She hastily withdrew her hands from his and fixed him with a coquettish stare. “Please forget this silly conversation, I beg you. Cemeteries must bring out the worst in me!”

Charles frowned. The lady had let her formidable defenses down, if only for a few moments. The sight of that beautiful verse inscribed on the family tombstone, full of emotion and love, verses from a favorite poet for the baron’s much-loved first wife, had upset Sophia, his unloved second wife. Well, he was going to upset her even more, now, he feared, for he had to discuss That Other Matter that Baron Rowley had, up to his last day on earth, refused to discuss with him. He cleared his throat.

The moment had come. The Other Matter Charles wanted to discuss was about to be put on the table. The vicar of St. Mortrud’s recollected the painful discussion he’d had with his patron, Baron Rowley. Was he deliberately disobeying, disregarding, a dying man’s wishes? Yes, he was, he conceded that point, but the baron was wrong, Charles Heywood was sure of that. George Rowley was an exceedingly humble man, for all that he was rich, locally powerful and possessed an old and respected title. As vicar, Charles was overruling his last wish. He had been unable to persuade the baron, but perhaps, he could convince the widow.

Unfortunately, he could see that Lady Sophia had been upset by the discovery of the loving inscription ordered by her late husband for the first Lady Rowley. Women! Created from Adam’s rib, wondrous creations indeed, but also man’s eternal torment. Charles cleared his throat.

“Lady Sophia,” he began, “I do not believe you have been inside St. Mortrud’s?”

Sophia’s dark golden brows knit together. “No, sir, I do not believe that I have.” She was no churchgoer. As
a child, she attended the small church not far from the Dunhaven estate, but as an adult, she associated churches with weddings, her weddings. Unpleasant memories. Churches had fallen out of favor with her; she avoided them.

“Well, then, may I escort you inside? You will find this small church most interesting, I think. It is very old and probably was erected on the foundations of an even older Norse place of worship.” Charles led the lady under an arch and through the rounded wooden Norman doorway. It was dark and cool inside the church. Motes of dust, caught in the still air, floated in the muted yellow light streaming through the leaded glass windows.

Peaceful
, Sophia thought with surprise,
wondrously peaceful.
A very small church, indeed, smaller inside than it appeared from the outside. The stone walls were thick and solid. Sophia took off her gloves and placed the palm of her right hand on the near wall. Cool to the touch, but not clammy. The baptismal font was behind her, a curiously carved basin. It was partially filled with water.

“This appears extremely old,” she commented, running her hand around the worn stone rim. She looked up at Charles for more information, strangely interested.

Charles nodded. “From the days of St. Mortrud, according to tradition.”

“Who
was
this St. Mortrud? I confess, I have never heard of such a saint. Indeed, I have no idea if this personage was male or female.”

“Male. St. Mortrud was an early convert to Christianity. He is thought to have been of Norse ancestry, and possibly the son of a Viking chieftain. He was martyred, killed by a band of marauders pillaging the area. His bones are said to be buried under this baptismal font.”

Lady Sophia quickly pulled her hand off and stepped back from the simple stone font. A shiver ran up her spine.
Martyred saint’s bones! Relics! This smacked of popery, of the worst practices of Rome.

The vicar noted her quick movements and attempted to reassure her. “My lady, there is no proof that bones are buried there. It is tradition, after all, not fact.”

“Why do you not excavate under the font, then”—she gestured—“to clear the matter up once and for all?”

Charles smiled, showing excellent white teeth. “These are matters of faith, my lady, and faith is not to be tampered with lightly. It does no harm to believe the mortal remains of a saint are buried here.”

“It smacks of popery, Mr. Heywood. I am surprised you condone such superstition. Are you a latter-day Vicar of Bray, sir?”

Charles shook his head, not at all insulted by the lady’s reference to the infamous vicar who changed his religious beliefs to suit the times. “The baron, hardly a papist, would never dream of such an act. And in this, I believe he was right.” He hesitated. “On other matters, however, I disagreed with him.” There, he had created an opening.

Lady Sophia’s eyes widened. “What matters were those, Mr. Heywood?”

Charles’s voice was firm. “I believe we should establish a suitable memorial for Baron Rowley, my lady, a memorial befitting his status and comparable to the memorials in this place of worship for other members of the Rowley family.” He indicated with a sweep of his arm the various sarcophagi and wall monuments that crowded the humble interior of St. Mortrud’s.

Sophia’s eyes followed his gesture. She walked to the closest object, an intricately carved wall monument. “This is—” She peered at the stone carving.

“A memorial to the first baron, Roger, who fell in battle during the invasion of Normandy by King Henry I. His body was buried in France, but his heart was carried home. That, my lady, is called a heart monument. Roger Rowley’s heart is contained therein.”

Lady Sophia flinched, drawing back in alarm.
Bones! Hearts! Was this a charnel house or a church?
She shuddered delicately.

Charles ignored her reaction of disgust, pointing out the details of the small monument. “Note the intricacy of this carving, my lady, the multiple frames about the carved portrait of Roger Rowley, and the symbolism in
each corner, the heraldic elements, the lions, the eagles…”

“I’m sure,” Sophia muttered. She was vastly uninterested in heraldry!

“And here,” Charles continued, pointing to the timber tomb of another baron, a sarcophagus with a recumbent figure clad in armor, his hands together on his chest, pointed upward in an attitude of prayer. “This is a common pose from the early fifteenth century, but entirely carved of wood. It is most unusual.” His enthusiasm was clearly not shared by his audience of one, from the bored expression on the lady’s face.

Somewhat desperately, Charles walked to a small stained glass window in the chancel, stepping into the area of modest pews set aside for the clergy and choir. “This was commissioned by Henry Rowley, about 1500. Note the imagery, with a portrait of Henry kneeling in prayer and this depiction of Death in the adjacent roundel, aiming an arrow at his breast.”

Lady Sophia gulped at the distressing pieces of colored glass, badly mottled by age. Death, a skeleton, wore a malevolent expression on its skull face, clearly pleased at the shot he was taking. Already, she’d had more than enough of these disturbing
mementi mori
and was overcome by a desire for fresh air. The atmosphere had become cloying and unpleasant. “Yes, yes, Mr. Heywood, I am sure this is all very historic, very meaningful, but—”

“My lady, I beg your pardon! I was simply attempting to show you the Rowley legacy inside this modest church. I had hoped that Baron Rowley would consider a suitable memorial to his life. For this,” he indicated all the other memorials, “this is a testament to the good lives and brave deeds of his family. This is something for the boys to be proud of; this is their heritage.”

Sophia was becoming exasperated. “George was an exceeding modest man, sir, as you well know. I could not imagine him giving much thought—especially as he lay ailing—to a memorial in this church. His primary concerns, I am sure, lay elsewhere.”

“Indeed, they did,” Charles agreed. “His primary concerns were for his sons, my lady, for their welfare and for yours. I pressed him on this issue, but to no avail; he was unwilling to deal with it. But I petition you, my lady, to agree with me on this. George Rowley deserves a material testament to his life and goodness in St. Mortrud’s. It is fitting.” He added, “And the people here would expect it.”

“Are we to pander to the people of Rowley Village, then?” Lady Sophia’s tone was scathing. What she felt about the people of Rowley Village was patently apparent.

“Not pandering, my lady, not at all, but an acknowledgment of how important the baron was to their lives, as well as to his immediate family. John and William need a visual memorial, something tangible, in a continuous line from Roger Rowley to their own time.” He pointed to the heart monument and to the imposing timber casket. “It is their heritage.”

Sophia was unmoved. “I don’t know, Mr. Heywood, if George did not think it necessary…”

“He evidently thought it necessary to inscribe that poem to Lady Lucy some years after her death. He wanted her remembered, my lady. Why any less remembrance for him?”

“You are persistent, sir, I must say.” Lady Sophia regarded the vicar with a mixture of amusement and admiration. He was a passionate man, there was no doubt about it, and single-minded, as well.

“I beg you to think upon this, my lady. A simple wall monument; marble, perhaps, nothing ornate, for that would not suit the man he was. Please, do consider this.” There, he had stated his case for the memorial. Now it was her decision. If she chose to ignore him, a monument to George would not join the solid testaments ringing the walls of St. Mortrud’s, memorializing his valiant ancestors, that long line of Rowleys and the family history. It would be a shame.

“My lady, though your husband never fought in battle for his kings, nor ventured far from his manor, he was
no less valiant than these others. He was a kind and generous landlord, a good friend, an excellent husband and father. Surely, attention should be paid to such a man?” Charles pressed his suit with the baron’s widow as he had pressed it with the late baron.

“Sir, you thought a great deal of my husband. Your concern is impressive,” Sophia commented, moved by his speech.

“I have rarely known his like,” Charles replied quietly. “Attention should be paid, my lady. It is simply his due. And…and it would mean so much to the boys.”

His trump card, the boys. Charles hated to use it, but…

Lady Sophia shut her eyes. There it was, that unfamiliar prickling at the back of her eyeballs again. No, not tears! She never, ever cried. It would not happen now. The vicar’s comments were loving and true; George deserved to be remembered. The boys would expect her to show that she cared. And she did care.
She did!
She felt great sorrow, now, more sorrow every day, for that man’s death. He had been kind and generous to her. He had removed the greatest threat to her life, her father.