To Have and to Hold (10 page)

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Sebastian's peevish mood stayed with him as he stripped off his dirty work clothes, washed over the sink in his new bathroom, and pulled on clean shirt, trousers, waistcoat, and coat, Preest hovering over him all the while. He couldn't have said why he was still chafing over the idea of Mrs. Wade having to visit the blasted constable once a week; he seemed to be taking the whole thing personally. What was it to do with him? Still, it rankled. It was an imposition on her freedom, if nothing else. She'd paid for her supposed sins, hadn't she? Wasn't ten years enough? He felt riled up on her behalf, and angry with her for
not
being angry. Or not showing it, anyway. But then, there was precious little she did show. Her everlasting reserve was fascinating in its way, but he was getting bloody sick and tired of it.

Preest went to answer a knock at the bedroom door, returning a moment later to announce, "My lord, Reverend Morrell is here."

Sebastian swore under his breath, feeling mildly put upon.
So it's come to this, has it?
he taunted himself, peering into the glass at his clean, combed reflection.
A visit from the ruddy minister, for God's sakel
Respectability had been foisted on him by virtue of a title and a crumbling old manor house, and the onerous weight of it was getting on his nerves. When Preest started fidgeting around his shoulders with a lint brush, he shrugged away, muttering, "Oh, sod it," and stalked out of the room.

The maid had put the vicar in the rosewood drawing room. His broad back was in silhouette against the window, out of which he was gazing at the river bridge with such absorption, he didn't hear Sebastian until he said, "Reverend Morrell?"

He turned swiftly, as if jarred from a memory, and blinked a faraway look out of his eyes. They met in the middle of the room and shook hands. The minister had a vigorous grip. He was tall and good-looking, and about thirty years younger than the man Sebastian had for some reason been expecting. "Welcome to
Wyckerley, my lord," he said warmly. "I'm sorry I wasn't here to say that to you when you arrived."

"I doubt that, Reverend, considering that if you had been, you'd have missed your honeymoon. But the sentiment's appreciated."

The vicar grinned, acknowledging the truth in that. "Mrs. Morrell asked me to give you her regards, and to say she looks forward to making your acquaintance very soon."

"That's kind of her. I feel as if I already know your wife, because of the correspondence we've shared in the months since my cousin died. You'll stay for lunch, won't you?" he asked, gesturing for the minister to take a seat on the sofa. One of the maids came in just then, with two glasses of wine on a tray.

"I'm afraid that's impossible today. Another time, I hope."

"Most certainly," Sebastian responded, with unexpected conviction. They said a few more conventional, socially correct things to each other, and then, almost imperceptibly, they both relaxed. They began to talk naturally and animatedly about the character of the village, its inhabitants, its potential for prosperity and advancement. Reverend Morrell showed himself to have an optimistic but unsentimental grasp on the economic realities of the neighborhood, and, thankfully, no unrealistic expectation of the new lord to perform miracles. Sebastian told him he was thinking of making a few investments in local enterprises, and the vicar made some intelligent-sounding recommendations, including a copper mine owned by Mayor Vanstone.

Eventually the conversation took a more personal turn, with the vicar confiding that he had grown up in Wyckerley with Geoffrey Verlaine for his best friend— Sebastian's cousin and the previous viscount. Reverend Morrell's marriage to the widowed viscountess had taken place barely a year after Geoffrey's death, Sebastian recalled. There was a story behind that intriguing fact, he was quite sure, but he wasn't going to hear it today, regardless of how swimmingly he and the vicar were getting along. In the same discreet spirit, he didn't burden the reverend with the news that Lynton Hall was only a stopping place for him, and when his father died and Steyne Court became his, he planned either to sell Lynton, lease it, or let William Holyoake run it for him
in absentia.

Apart from all that, he was relieved to find that he liked Christian Morrell as a man. The circumstances of village politics and social custom would require them to deal closely together, at least for a time, so it was good to know that the vicar was sensible, not too pious, and evidently neither a saint nor a hypocrite.

The hour lengthened. "Stay for lunch," Sebastian urged again, more forcefully this time.

Reverend Morrell stood up. "I really can't, and I won't keep you any longer from yours."

They walked outside together. The stable lad brought the vicar's horse, a fine-looking chestnut stallion. The two men talked about horses for a while, and the minister surprised Sebastian again by being not only keen but uncommonly knowledgeable on the subject. He promised to come back and see the new foal when he had time, and gladly agreed to join Sebastian in a ride over the moors one morning soon.

With his hand on his horse's withers, Reverend Morrell mentioned casually, "I met Mrs. Wade this morning, my lord, on my way to the Hall."

"Oh, did you?" Sebastian knew he was imagining that his innocent tone of voice sounded disingenuous. It wasn't like him to indulge in a guilty conscience; something about the golden-haired minister just brought it out of him.

"I have a churchwarden who makes it his business to keep me apprised of more local gossip than I care to hear—and so I knew who she was before she told me. Knew her history, and how it came about that you employed her."

"Did you?" This time there was no innocence, only coolness in his voice. "Did you have some question about that, Reverend?"

Instead of answering, he said, "Miss Lydia Wade paid a call on me yesterday."

"And who might Lydia Wade be?" Sebastian asked, although he knew. Holyoake had told him.

"She's the daughter of Randolph Wade. She and Mrs. Wade were friends before the marriage—but perhaps you already know this."

He murmured noncommittally.

"It was news to me, frankly. I wasn't living in Wyckerley ten years ago, when my father was the vicar. As a matter of fact, he married Randolph and Rachel Wade—as Mrs. Wade was just reminding me."

"Indeed. And what was it Miss Wade came to see you about?"

The reverend's intelligent brow furrowed. "She was upset. She said she was in attendance at the magistrate's hearing when Mrs. Wade's case was heard."

Sebastian narrowed his eyes. "She wouldn't be a yellow-haired woman, would she?" he said slowly. "Rather pretty, a nervous manner, knits a lot?"

The reverend looked impressed. "That's Lydia to the life. She knits grave blankets, actually. Incessantly. Great black squares, one after another, more than the parish could ever—ah, well." He stopped, looking abashed, as if he'd almost said something uncharitable. "As I said, she was upset when she came to see me. May I speak bluntly?"

"Ofcourse."

"She was more than upset, she was outraged, because—using her words—the woman who coldbloodedly murdered her father and then lied under oath about his moral character is now abroad in the neighborhood, living the good life as a trusted member of our new viscount's household. Her words," he said again, apologetically.

Sebastian folded his arms combatively. "And what's this to do with me?''

' 'Lydia keeps very much to herself, but she's known to be somewhat high-strung. Unstable, frankly. She lives with her aunt, a Mrs. Armstrong, who is—forgive the cliche—a pillar of the community. But Mrs. Armstrong has been ill lately and not able to keep as close an eye on her niece as she would like." He ran his hand over the soft leather of his horse's saddle, frowning. When he looked up, his clear-eyed gaze defused Sebastian's vague, unsettled antagonism. "I'm afraid there may be trouble, my lord. And I wanted to pass on to you something that's ... unpleasant, but which you have a right to know. A duty to know."

"What is it?"

"There's talk in the village that you haven't hired Mrs. Wade for a housekeeper, but for a mistress." He said it quietly and didn't look away; there was no accusation in his voice, only concern.

That made a sarcastic retort harder to muster. But Sebastian managed. "Forgive me, Reverend, if I make no reply to that except to say that village gossip has never been the guiding principle by which I live my life. In a word, I'm unimpressed." But anger was kindling inside him slowly, insidiously—from what source he couldn't imagine, since village gossip in this instance was dead on target. "No, 'unimpressed' doesn't quite cover it," he corrected with a sneer. "I'm contemptuous."

Reverend Morrell didn't turn a hair. "Then think of her."

"Think of whom?"

"Mrs.—"

"Mrs. Wade? Whom do you suppose I was thinking of when I hired her? Did your rumor-mongering churchwarden mention what they'd have done to her if I hadn't given her a post in my household?"

"He said—"

"They'd have sent her to gaol—for nothing, for being unemployed. Is that what Christian charity gets one in St. Giles' parish, Vicar?"

"I hope not, my lord."

"I hope not, too. Tell me, Vicar, can you save Mrs. Wade from the workhouse? What post have you got in mind for her?"

"I've thought about it. To tell you the truth, I haven't come up with anything."

Something eased inside; Sebastian felt an odd weakness, like a man girding himself for the fight of his life, only to learn that his opponent wasn't coming to the battlefield. "Then the point of this conversation escapes me," he said with finality.

Reverend Morrell's lucid blue gaze never faltered. "Understand, what I've said wasn't intended to offend you. I believe you're an honorable man. I also believe Mrs. Wade has paid for her crime and deserves to be treated with decency and compassion." He paused, looking as if he had more to say, but after a moment he only held out his hand. They shook and told each other good-bye.

Mounted on his horse, though, the vicar had parting words. "If you would like to continue this conversation, or"—he smiled with rather charming self-deprecation—"in the unlikely event that you would ever care to hear my counsel on the subject, I hope you won't hesitate to call on me."

"I'll keep that in mind," Sebastian said neutrally. Earlier, he'd written the vicar off as too unworldly a soul to understand the designs he had on Rachel Wade. Now he wasn't so sure.

7

"Ah, Mrs. Wade, there you are. I'd like you to go to the village with me."

It was amusing to watch her lose her composure. She'd had her nose in an account book, making notations in it, while one of the maids, on her hands and knees just inside the cavernous linen cupboard, called out to her things like, "Sixteen muslin pillow slips, not embroidered. Twenty-one embroidered, all of 'em white."

"My lord," his housekeeper greeted him, flustered, "do you mean—now?"

"I thought now, yes, inasmuch as I'm meeting the mayor in half an hour or so. That is, if you can tear yourself away from this fascinating inventory-in-progress."

She colored, but whether from his sarcasm or the avid scrutiny of the maid, still kneeling in the closet— Violet, he thought her name was—Sebastian couldn't be sure.

"Yes, of course, my lord, I'll—this can wait. We'll finish later, Violet. You can ... go and help Cora in the kitchen."

Violet scrambled to her feet. "Help
Cora,"
she echoed in an aggrieved tone, and for a second Sebastian thought she was going to refuse the order. She was a parlormaid, he recalled; she must consider helping in the kitchen beneath her. She shifted her black-eyed glance in his direction, then back to Mrs. Wade. "Yes, ma'am," she muttered, half curtsied to him, and flounced off toward the servants' stairs.

"I hope you don't tolerate insolence among your charges, Mrs. Wade," he said seriously—as if it mattered to him.

"I'm still learning, my lord. And—I think I'm improving. Violet can be difficult sometimes, but the fault is mine as much as hers. Giving orders is not something I'm . . . particularly used to."

It was a long answer for her; she must be in a talkative mood. Side by side, they walked down the center staircase. In the foyer, she excused herself— "for two seconds, my lord"—while she went to get her hat, and she was almost as good as her word. That pleased him, if the hat did not. It was a poke bonnet of flat black straw, in the giddy height of fashion about fifteen years ago; its protruding sides, like giant blinders, almost hid her interesting profile. But she looked so enchanted with the bright morning when they stepped out into the courtyard, Sebastian lost interest in saying anything unkind to her about her hat.

"Shall we walk or ride?"

That brought her up. "Whichever you prefer, my lord," she replied dutifully.

"Of course. But in this case I'm asking you."

She looked worried; she feared a trap. "Are you in a hurry?"

"No, are you?"

"No, my lord." Was she smiling? He couldn't be sure because of the damned hat.

He waited.

"Shall we. .. walk, then?"