Greetings of the Season and Other Stories (36 page)

*

With less than a month to live—not that Evan believed in curses or such, of course—the vicar decided to relish what few pleasures came his way. He accepted Miss Prescott’s invitation to survey the conservatory. She thought they might decide how best to decorate St. Cecilia’s, in case the tonnish guests chose to attend services there. Pine boughs could cover the expanses of missing mortar, and perhaps one of her mother’s potted palms or flowering plants could hide that gaping hole in the rear comer.

Evan agreed with whatever Alice suggested, although he doubted that the London party would step foot in his little church, or any church for that matter, sinners that they were. No, he told himself, he should not condemn them without evidence, certainly not while he himself was having impious thoughts of Miss Prescott as she bent over this fern and that flower. Perhaps Lord Whittendale was not a rake, after all, and perhaps Lady Farnham was not his mistress. Victims of vicious tongues, that’s what they might be, not villains. Surely they’d attend a few parties, let the locals gawk and gossip, then return to their butterfly lives in London—without Alice.

Before Whittendale left, Evan did mean to show him the disrepair, even if he had to drag his lordship into the church by the silly tassels on the high-polished boots he was sure to be wearing. Once the viscount had made provisions for St. Cecilia’s, then Evan would speed him on his way with his blessings. As long as he left without Alice.

The vicar trailed behind Miss Prescott, moving a pot for her, fetching the watering can when she noticed a thirsty plant. Now his head was filled with the scents of warm earth and Alice, instead of Squire’s cigar. He still could not think properly.

“There, I think these will do,” she finally said. “I’ll see that they are brought to the church on Saturday, along with more greens and a ribbon or two. You don’t think bows would be too frivolous for church, do you?”

The only bow Evan could think of was the one tied beneath the high waist of Alice’s blue gown, right beneath her delectable décolletage. He took a deep breath and blurted: “What do you think of your father’s plan?”

She did not pretend to misunderstand. “Oh, I think Papa is happy in his plotting, but nothing will come of it. Lord Whittendale could have married any number of wellborn beauties with dowries far greater than mine if he wished to be wed at all, which I doubt.” She plucked a dead leaf off an ivy.

“But your father is correct; the viscount will have to wed sometime.”

“Yes, and I fear Papa will do his best to re
min
d the unfortunate gentleman, as if his own family was not ragging at him enough. But so many snares have been set for Lord Whittendale that by now he must be too downy a bird to fall into any ambitious parent’s net.”

“If he is ready to start his nursery, however, how can you be so certain he won’t be smitten with you?”

Alice chuckled. “Lord Whittendale is not interested in country misses. He was polite enough to attend my come-out ball at Lady Henesley’s. That’s Mama’s godmother, you know. He must have felt duty-bound to come, since our families have known each other for ages, of course, although not on such familiar terms. The viscount brought a crowd of his friends, all gentlemen who rarely accepted such insipid invitations, which quite puffed up Lady Henesley. Whittendale took the floor with me for one set, which inflated my own consequence. Mama was
au anges.
Two days later, when we passed in the park, he did not recognize me as an acquaintance. So no, I do not fear he will be interested in making me an offer.”

“Your father is convinced otherwise.”

She shrugged and removed another spent bloom. “Papa will have no one to blame but himself when he is disappointed.”

Evan had to persist, because he had to know. “What if he does manage to convince the viscount? Would you be tempted to accept? Your father can be very persuasive.” So could the viscount’s worldly assets.

“I should hate to go against Papa’s wishes, but no, I would never accept an arranged match with Lord Whittendale, no matter the advantages. That is simply not the kind of marriage I want. I would rather remain unwed, in fact, than give myself into the keeping of a man who does not care for me, nor I him.”

“Good.” Convinced, Evan could breathe again. “You deserve a husband who will cherish and adore you, not merely require a mother for his heirs. You will find such a man, I know it.”

She stopped fussing with the flowers and turned to him. “Will I? Where?”

“Where? Um, the assemblies in Upper Winfrey? London in the spring?”

“I have been there. What about here?”

The vicar swallowed. “Here?” He looked around. Here was a dark room that smelled of growing things. The only thing she could find in a place like this was trouble. “Oh, Lord. We really should not be alone like this.”

“Nonsense. You are the family’s spiritual advisor. Who better to discuss such an important decision?” She turned, and would have tripped on her skirts but for the arm Evan put out to steady her. Then her hand was on his shoulder as she looked up into his eyes. “I think we have both come to the same conclusion, haven’t we?”

“Concerning Lord Whittendale?”

“Bother Lord Whittendale.” Alice stepped closer still, and licked her lips.

Evan Merriweather was a man of honor, a man of principles, a man of the cloth, by heaven. Hell, he was merely a man. He kissed her. Her lips were as sweet as he’d known they would be; her body as soft in his arms as he’d dreamed it would be; her tiny mews of pleasure as heady as a choir of angels. “The Devil!” He dropped his arms, and nearly dropped Alice. “Good grief, what am I doing?”

“You are kissing me, and about time, sir.”

“No, no. I cannot kiss you!”

“But you do it so well,” she teased, a tender smile on her pinkened lips.

“No, I mean I cannot compromise you. Your father’s trust…my calling. This is wrong, my dear.”

“Oh, then you do not love me? That would make it wrong indeed. I thought… That is, forgive me if I was wrong.” A tear trailed down her silky cheek.

“Oh, Lord,” he cried, kissing the tear away. “Of course I love you, my angel, more than life. I have from the first minute I saw you.
But do you…? That is, could you…?”

“Love you? Of course, silly. Or did you think I kiss every gentleman of my acquaintance in Mama’s conservatory?”

So he had to kiss her again, until his conscience pricked him. No, this time it was a cactus. “Thunderation, Alice, you deserve so much better
than
I can give you.”

“Do you mean I deserve a cold and empty marriage, as I would have with Lord Whittendale?”

“Never. But you know it will take an act of divine intervention before your father gives us his blessing.”

Alice stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “Well, you are on good terms with the Lord, aren’t you?”

4

Evan could speak to God, but he couldn’t speak to Squire until he’d spoken to the viscount. Without an improvement in his condition, Mr. Merriweather would not, could not, subject his beloved to life in the vicarage. Alice thought her father would relent and support them, but Evan could not bear to take both Prescott’s daughter and his charity. What kind of man battens on his in-laws? Rather he batten on his distant cousin, who could well afford to pay an honest wage.

Dressing with care once more, Evan set out for White Oaks, Lord Whittendale’s estate. By the time he got there, though, a cold, windy rain had set in, so he was damp and disheveled, chilled to the bone. The viscount’s niffy-naffy London butler made him wait in the unheated hall, dripping on the marble entry, while he inquired if his lordship was receiving. Evan could hear laughter from down the corridor, men’s and women’s both, so the viscount was already entertaining. Surely a lord’s pleasures could be interrupted a moment for the Lord’s work?

Feeling more wretched and clumsy with every step, Evan followed the starched-up butler down the hall. If the servant was so top-lofty, he thought, how accommodating could the master be? The majordomo snapped his fingers at a footman to take Merriweather’s coat and hat, rather than soil his own immaculate white gloves. Perhaps in similar manner Whittendale would try to relegate Evan to his secretary’s care, rather than disturb his revelries. Not this time, the vicar swore to himself.

The company was arrayed as if for portraits, in elegant groupings of twos and threes. Posed most becomingly, dressed in silks and satins, with jewels sparkling from necks, wrists, and cravats, they all had d
rinks
or cards or each other in hand, and the clock not yet gone on noon. A few looked up from their conversations, then went back to their pastimes, dismissing the rumpled rustic as of no account. One or two of the woman smiled at him speculatively, as if watching his coat stretch across his shoulders. Lud, he thought in panic, what if the seams were finally giving out? He’d be half-naked in the
haute monde.
Evan almost turned and fled back the muddy way he had come. No, he had to speak his piece. For St. Cecilia’s. For Alice.

The viscount strode forward, his hand extended. Surprised, Evan shook it, noting his lordship’s firm grip. Whittendale was a noted sportsman, after all, so Merriweather should not have been unready, yet he’d been recalling the dissipated, debauched, and drink-sodden spawn of the devil from their previous interview. Instead, the viscount was the picture of good health and good grooming, some few years older than Evan’s own six-and-twenty, with black hair that fell in deliberate tousles. Evan was sure the viscount did not have a cowlick, just as he was sure the gentleman’s well-fitting, securely stitched coat cost more than his own yearly stipend.

The viscount was about Evan’s height, but he seemed of sturdier build, and his brown eyes were laughing at the vicar’s inspection. “Do I pass muster, old chap? Or were you expecting that I’d grown horns and a tail since we met last? A bad day, if I recall, after a good night. Never mind. Come stand by the fire and warm yourself. Bea, fetch the good vicar some cognac, will you? No, better make that hot tea, from our visitor’s disapproving looks. One of the early martyrs must have worn such an expression on
his
face just before meeting the lion.”

A tall, stunning, auburn-haired woman in a flowing green velvet gown brought Evan a cup of tea. Her smile was enough to warm him to his damp toes, even without the blessedly hot brew. Whittendale’s introduction confirmed that this vision was Beatrice, Lady Farnham. The sultry looks that passed between them and the seemingly accidental brushing of her skirts against Whittendale’s thighs confirmed that they were lovers.

Embarrassed all over again, Evan stammered, “I…I did not mean to intrude, my lord, just to beg a moment of your time.”

Whittendale sipped his cognac, his eyes watching Lady Farnham as she joined a pair of Tulips at the pianoforte. “Yes, yes, you are going to shame me into looking over your little church, aren’t you? I did read your letters, you know.”

He had not answered a one. “The living is in your keeping, my lord,” Evan said. “No one else will see to the repairs, and I cannot afford to do more than patchwork with my income.”

“Very well, I shall make an inspection. Perhaps I’ll bring my guests this Sunday. Heaven knows they could use some religion.”

Evan thought he’d start with the seven deadly sins. More than a few were in practice this morning: lust, sloth, avarice, and adultery, unless he missed his guess and a wedding ring or two. “There was another matter, my lord, if we could be private? I could return later if this is not a convenient time?” Evan hated having to make an appointment like some importunate tradesman, and he hated worse the idea of trekking home on such a miserable day and then back again. Still, he would not get the viscount’s back up. The reverend realized, belatedly, that he should have sent round a note asking the viscount to name a time for their meeting. Of course, he had no handy footman to carry the message, and he doubted Lord Whittendale would have replied at all.

To Evan’s relief, the viscount shook his head. “Nonsense. You are already here. Since my guests and I are forced indoors by the poor weather, this is an opportune moment, although I cannot imagine what’s important enough to bring you out in the rain.” He pulled a quizzing glass on a ribbon from his pocket and surveyed Evan’s wet, muddy boots. “Gads, did you walk the distance?”

“The vicarage has no mount, my lord.” In case the not-so-gentle hint irritated his host, Evan added, “Exercise is good for the soul, my lord.”

“So is a hot fire on a cold day, dash it. Well, come along, then. We can be private in my book room.”

Evan regretfully put down his tea, which he had been letting cool. Thank goodness his hands were no longer numb from holding the fragile cup, he thought. Thank goodness he hadn’t dropped the dainty thing. He followed his patron back to the hallway, past the poker-backed butler. Before they could be seated, a footman brought in another tray. “Lady Farnham thought your guest might wish refreshments, my lord.”

“How kind of her,” Evan said as he accepted a mug of hot lambswool punch, for its warmth and its encouragement. He cleared his throat and began his memorized speech: “You see, my lord, there is more wrong with St. Cecilia’s than a rotted roof and loose floorboards. The whole neighborhood is in difficulties, and I cannot make your steward understand that it is in your interest to meet those needs.”