Corey McFadden (2 page)

Then one morning there was a change. Joanna awoke with a feeling of urgency. Without waiting to don her dressing gown she fairly flew into her father’s room, propelled by some nameless fear that clutched at her heart. She stopped short and smiled in relief to see him sitting up, awake and alert for the first time in a fortnight. He patted the bed, and she rushed over to sit beside him, taking his hand in hers. She was shocked at the heat of it. Somehow she had thought the fever was gone, that he would be well now and they could go on.

He looked into her eyes as if he understood her confusion, and smiled at her. “Everything will be fine, my dear,” he rasped out. “I’ve been puzzling it out and I’m quite sure of it.” His eyes were too bright, as if his soul burned within, or perhaps it was just the fever. “But you must promise me you will never lose your faith, not even for a moment. Promise me.”

Joanna nodded, unable to speak, tears spilling from her eyes. He was better. He was sitting up. Things would be fine now. William watched her nod and squeezed her hand. He smiled and closed his eyes. She could feel a certain tension leave him, as if he had willed himself to find the strength to sit up and speak to her and now he needed it no more. He slept.

Joanna held his hand for a long time, noting that his breathing was troubled and shallow. The room was freezing. Gently she pulled her hand from his light grasp and stood up to tend the fire. She slipped into her dressing gown and went downstairs to put water on to boil on the kitchen fire. When the water was hot, she made two cups of tea and brought them up. He was sleeping still, so she put his cup down by the fire and took his hand again in hers. She sat that way for several hours until his breathing slowed, then stilled altogether. She sat quietly and held his hand, noting how it cooled in hers. There would be time later to tend to things. For now she would sit with Papa.

* * * *

The large, wet clods of black dirt hammered on the lid of the coffin, each thud like a blow to Joanna's heart. She stood in the icy, gray drizzle, alone except for the young curate from the next village who fumbled with a wet prayer book and stumbled miserably over the words, and two grave diggers, respectful enough but distant in their grim task. Joanna thought with bitter sorrow that someone, some one of the many to whom her father had ministered over the years, should have braved the cold, wet day to pay tribute to the passing of this good man, William Carpenter, vicar of Little Haver these thirty years.

But there was no one much left, really. Little Haver was a dying village without the old-world charm that kept some villages alive, or the burgeoning trade and industry that rescued others. It was off the beaten path and had nothing more to recommend it than decent grazing and rocky farmland. The inhabitants had grown old. The smarter of the young ones had looked around and seen nothing much to hold them there. London was close enough to lure away those who, mistaken or not, felt that the city offered dreams for the asking. Papa had always asked the old ones for news of these young folk, but more and more of late the response had been tight-lipped and laconic until finally he had asked no more.

And he had buried the old ones, with this same prayer book in hand. Only he had not needed to read the words printed there. The holy words were written in his soul, and he had no need of a book to help him talk to God. But the young folk did not come back for the funerals of their elders, and the graves sank low and untended and there was no one to mourn. Except Papa.

And now there was no one to mourn Papa except his daughter, Joanna.

Now at the gravesite, chilled to the bone and alone, Joanna could barely hear the words of faith, sputtered out as they were over the sounds of the rain and the heavy mud hitting the coffin. She held fast to the image of her father, alive with his grace and goodness, smiling and whole, not the poor, pale shell she had finally surrendered to the undertaker. Bitterly did she refuse to think of the future, as much as the fear tried to encroach on her consciousness. This was her last tribute to her wonderful father, and she would not allow her doubts, her dwindling faith, to mock the man going now into his grave.

“...then shall be brought to pass the saying that is written, Death is swallowed up in victory. Death, where is thy sting? Hell, where is thy victory?...”

The sound of hoofbeats startled Joanna. The young curate, Mr. Conway, faltered as they both looked up to see a horse, coming too fast, nearly upon them. With mud flying and splashing on Joanna’s black dress, the horse was reined in. A figure on its back was heavily cloaked against the icy rain, but Joanna knew who it was. The horse came to a stop inches from her. Stifling her anger, Joanna turned back to the curate, signaling him to resume. Behind her, she could hear the sounds of the man dismounting, then she felt his presence close to her.

“My condolences, Joanna,” the voice seemed to hiss in her ear as she felt a hand on her arm. Resisting the urge to shake him off, she made no acknowledgment. The young curate had returned to his scriptures, but his nervous eyes darted again and again to the figure behind her and the words became more and more muddled. Joanna seethed inwardly that this venomous man had dared to intrude upon her father’s burial.

“I know you are upset just now, but I would like to talk to you,” the voice continued low in her ear. There was a slight pressure as he squeezed her arm. She stood immobile. Faltering to the last, the young curate stumbled to a halt and closed his soggy book. He stood in the rain and looked up miserably at Joanna as if he were uncertain what he ought to do next. Behind him the relentless thuds continued as the heavy, wet dirt, shovelful after shovelful, sealed William Carpenter from the light of day.

Joanna gave the young curate a small smile. He had been kind, and now he was cold and wet, after all. Pulling her arm away from the intruder, she walked toward the young man. In her hand were several shillings for his trouble. Papa would have wanted her to make some small emolument, she told herself, no matter that these shillings would be sorely missed and soon. As she handed him the small gift, he gave her a grateful look.

“May I do anything else for you, Miss Joanna?” he asked gently. William Carpenter had been widely known in these parts as a generous, godly man, of the rarer sort who came to the church by way of real calling instead of family expediency. The young man had been awed to find himself called upon to conduct this service, then shocked to find that this good man would go to his grave alone, but for his lovely daughter. Well, his own vicar was in bed with a bad cold, after all, and the other neighboring villages were too far away for a cold, wet journey. Still, he felt rather sad at this bleak, lonely farewell, and found himself wondering in a rather maudlin way who would be on hand at his own funeral.

“Thank you, no, Mr. Conway,” Joanna said warmly. “But I am very grateful to you for coming all this way in the rain. You had to walk, didn’t you? Why not come back with me for some tea before you start back home?” A flicker in his eyes as he looked past her warned her of the approach of the intruder.

“I’ll not hear of him walking in this weather, Joanna,” the voice behind her said, too loudly. “And as for tea, since I must speak with you anyway, you will both return with me to the manor. Then I can send the curate home in my coach.”

Joanna stiffened, aware that she had received not an invitation, but a summons. As his tenant at sufferance, she had no choice but to obey his order, nor did she wish to cause any kind of scene.

“Squire, I should be most grateful for a little tea, but I wouldn’t dream of inconveniencing you over a coach,” began Mr. Conway diffidently, stumbling over his words in the presence of real gentry. “And may I offer you condolences on the recent death of your father.”

“Nonsense, man. It’s no inconvenience at all, and everyone is wet enough as is.” He took Joanna’s arm again and held fast. “Would you care to ride, Joanna, while I lead the horse?” he said as he propelled her toward the beast.

“No, Squire, I am not a good rider. I would prefer to walk.” Joanna spoke in tones as chilly as she could manage without giving overt offense.

“As you wish, my dear,” he answered, swinging his leg up over the horse’s back as he mounted with ease. “Come along now, no point in any of us getting any colder.” As the horse moved off, Mr. Conway fell in quickly, eager, understandably, for a nice cup of tea. Joanna stood for a moment, closing her eyes, fighting her grief.

Oh, Papa! she thought, willing the tears not to fall, I will miss you so much, but I will not lose my faith, I will not, no matter what!

The grave diggers had stopped throwing dirt and were tidying up the gravesite. She stood and looked at the mound, aware that the horse continued its slow pace away from her. The sleet continued to fall. “Bless you, Papa,” she said gently, then turned away to follow the horse.

* * * *

Ambrose ambled along, smiling to himself in spite of the cold rain. The curate was scrambling in the mud to keep alongside, but as a newly anointed squire, he had nothing to say to that sodden fool and kept silent. He had only invited the young man to make Joanna less inclined to balk at coming along with him.

Ambrose spared a quick glance back to make sure she followed, unwilling as she obviously was. Joanna was looking particularly lovely on this dreary morning in her shabby black dress, her dark hair in damp disarray, and two high spots of angry color on her cheeks. Ambrose had long been aware of the delectable bit of stuff living right down the lane in the vicarage, but it hadn’t been worth the battle he knew he’d have with the two old men to take what he knew was waiting for him. She was ripe for a man, he calculated—must be twenty-two or thereabouts, if he himself was twenty-seven. He seemed to recall there were some five years between them, even if he hadn’t taken much notice of the chit until recent years.

He was aware from his last conversation with that maudlin old man, her father, that she would now be penniless and at his mercy. Just where he wanted her. Her demeanor with him at the gravesite told him she was obviously enraged. So much the better. She must recognize the helplessness of her position. Her large brown eyes had snapped at him in impotent rage and her pretty, smooth cheeks were flushed with fury. She was a lovely little thing, not too tall, with a well-ripened figure and luxurious dark hair that now spilled willy-nilly from her pins. Oh, yes, he had lusted after her these last few years, but she had been out of his reach while his prudish father and hers were around to protect her. But now she would be all his.

* * * *

Joanna noted that Ambrose had not stopped to see whether she would follow, assuming in his arrogance that she would not dare refuse his kind ‘offer’. Well, he was right, she thought ruefully to herself, making her way behind the horse, splashing through mud. She had best find out how much time she had before she would have to vacate the vicarage. She hurried her steps, anxious to get it over with so as to avoid irritating him. She caught up quickly and fell in with them just behind Ambrose’s line of vision. He was ignoring Mr. Conway, who gamely plodded alongside the horse. She could imagine that were it not so cold, Mr. Conway would be blushing to the roots over the condescension and kindness being shown him. Joanna herself was at a loss to explain it. She had never known Ambrose to exert himself in the least degree except for his own pleasure.

It did not take them long to reach the manor since the cemetery was adjacent to the grounds. The rambling old house looked gray and forbidding, its stones streaked and darkened with constant rain, and what vegetation had bloomed with abandon last summer was twisted and black in the winter wind. Still, she had loved this house, she thought to herself, looking up at its forbidding facade. It had been the site of many a happy evening spent with Papa and Squire, the old Squire, of course. Ambrose had been sent off to school when Joanna was a toddler and had been home infrequently since then, so the house held no dark memories of him for her.

Handing off the horse to a stableboy, Ambrose strode quickly up the stone steps of the front entrance, leaving Mr. Conway and Joanna to make their way behind him. The door was opened by Benson, an elderly man, old Squire’s retainer who had been there nearly all his life. He’d always had a smile and a nod for Miss Joanna, but today, though he gave her a look of sympathy, his eyes shifted quickly and nervously back to his new master. Joanna noted that his hands trembled and that his steps were uncertain. Poor man, she thought. He is old and Squire is gone. Things will be different under Ambrose and he knows it.

They followed the new squire into the drawing room, Ambrose calling out over his shoulder, “Tea, man, and quickly! We’re all freezing and wet. And have the gig brought round to take the curate home.” Benson hurried away, too fast, thought Joanna, for his elderly legs. Gig, indeed! It had no cover on it and would offer no protection from the weather. But it could be drawn by one horse and thus would inconvenience Ambrose less. Well, at least Mr. Conway would not have to walk.

Ambrose stood with his back to the fire, warming himself, and, indeed, taking up all the heat. He was a large man, imposing in bearing, with a face that would have been considered handsome were it not for the petulant mouth and the perpetually sardonic expression about the eyes, as if he found the world amusing at everyone else’s expense. His black hair was tied in the back in a greasy queue, since he had not seen fit to wear his powdered tye wig in the rain. His frock coat was up-to-the-minute in fashion, a pastel brocade nipped at the waist and falling to the knee where his breeches met his white silk stockings. He cut a formidable figure and he never failed to use it to his advantage, imposing and intimidating where he wished.

Joanna, having divested herself of her wet cloak in the hallway, willed herself not to shiver, noting that Mr. Conway gave the occasional involuntary shake. She put her hands behind her back and chafed them to warm herself. Neither had been asked to sit, an oversight, no doubt, but one that could not be remedied by merely taking it upon oneself to sit down. Ambrose, never at a disadvantage because of his height, beamed down on Mr. Conway.