The Journal of a Vicar's Wife (3 page)

I sobered a little then, and ran my hands down my gown, smoothing it. ‘Only a little,’ I admitted. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Reeves,’ I said, stemming another laugh that was swelling in my breast. ‘Shall we have supper?’

He looked down at me once more, his expression peculiar. ‘Indeed, I am rather hungry,’ he admitted, and offering me his arm he led me to the dining room.

Our cook had made a simple but tasty meal, as she always does. It was promptly served by Minny, who blushed under Frederick’s polite questioning. At 14 now, she is a plump and unassuming looking woman, her cap a little too large and her apron a little too tight. She bobbed and excused herself quickly, leaving my husband and I to dine alone.

I dread dining alone with him, so great are the silences, which was why I often drink a brandy before.

I watched my husband, and my previous mischievous mood slowly darkened. He sipped from his wineglass and I watched his elegant fingers curl around the stem. I bit my lip. I wish he would touch me as eagerly and gently as he did that glass, and that his lips might touch mine as the wine did his.

I sighed. ‘How was Mrs Richards’ infant?’ I asked eventually.

‘He passed.’ my husband replied, and guilt assuaged me. Had a little innocent babe passed yonder whilst I glutted my unladylike appetites on Mr Goddard’s hard and ready member? I blushed, and the brandy swilled like curdled milk in my belly.

‘I’m terribly saddened to learn of it,’ I whispered, my voice catching. ‘The poor thing. Poor Mrs Richards. I shall have Cook make a stew and take it on the morrow.’

Frederick surprised me then, by smiling and gently taking my hand and offering it a squeeze. My heart fluttered at his unexpected gesture.

‘That would be most kind of you,’ he said, approval shining in his eyes.

Ridiculously, I felt buoyed by his praise, and gathered my confidence to open discussion once more.

‘I cannot understand why a life so young should be cut so short. It seems cruel does it not?’

Frederick’s smile faded, and frown grew in its stead. ‘Does not the Bible say ‘For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die’? Today was that babe’s time, difficult though it may be for us to understand and accept. ‘He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.’

He extracted his hand from mine and fixed me with a stare. I felt suddenly chilled by his abrupt disapproval.

‘You would do well to continue your Bible studies, Mrs Reeves,’ he chided. ‘Your ignorance in this can be nothing but an embarrassment to me, especially if you wish to go forth and offer Mrs Richards consolation. You should fortify your knowledge on these subjects, so that your words will offer not only solace but knowledge of the Word of God as well. To this end, I shall select some passages for you to study this evening, so you may go forth armed with God’s Word tomorrow and offer your sympathies.’

I knew at that instant he would not be coming to my rooms that night, and that whatever glimmer of approval I had seen in him had died, almost as certainly as had the Richards child.

‘Of course, I should be most grateful,’ I replied, as gently as I was able.

I did not attempt conversation again, and we ate in silence. Eventually it was my husband who broke the tedium of the meal.

‘I received a letter today,’ he said, and sipped from his wine glass. He delved in his jacket pocket and extracted a creased correspondence.

‘Indeed? From whom?’ I asked, placing down my fork.

‘My cousin, Mr Jonathan Reeves,’ he said, studying my face for some sort of reaction.

‘Oh,’ I responded and, felt a little sick upon hearing the name.

Frederick frowned. ‘He has been asked to take his father’s position working with Lord Stanton in assisting with the tenants. He requests that we may be able to house him on those occasions he comes to Wiltshire.’

I hesitated. ‘Oh,’ I repeated.

Frederick’s face softened a little. ‘Knowing as I do your former attachment to my cousin, I am asking if this suitable. If not, I shall speak with Lord Stanton himself, and see if we can find some other alternative accommodation for Jonathan’s visits to Wiltshire.’

His concern was touching, and I felt a rare moment of affection for my stiff and unyielding husband.

‘My former attachment?’ I murmured and took a gulp of wine.

‘Why yes, you did once hope to marry him, did you not?’ he added.

Yes, it was true. I had wanted to marry Jonathan Reeves once upon a time, indeed, but he was from a terribly impoverished family and with a dowry as modest as mine, our future would never have been a comfortable one. It had been little surprise when my father refused his offer for my hand. It was six years ago now.

I had naturally been disappointed, but very shortly after Jonathan’s failed offer, my father offered my hand to Frederick, who was in the market for a bride, instead. I had little time to think of him again. My father had been of the belief that my ‘lively nature’ was liable to cause our family disgrace if I did not wed someone more appropriate, and soon. Truly, there was naught I could do but agree to the marriage. Besides, I knew Frederick would make a better match for me. Frederick’s financial situation and social standing as vicar of a wealthy estate made an eminently more desirable prospect than Jonathan’s modest proposal. So, knowing that it was a good match, I accepted and we were hastily wed.

‘Mrs Reeves?’ Frederick asked. His tone had grown stern.

‘Yes of course, I wanted to marry him once, but that was years ago!’ I said brightly. ‘Now I have you, and couldn’t be more pleased,’ I lied.

Frederick smiled a little sadly at that. ‘Shall I let him know that you would welcome his visit as much as I?’

‘Of course,’ I nodded. ‘Is he married then?’ I asked, having not seen him for some time and being very much isolated from the London scene in Wiltshire.

‘No, I do not believe so.’

I bit my lip to stem a flutter of excitement that had begun to grow in my belly. When I’d known Jonathan, I had been young and an innocent. After his failed marriage offer, I’d been hastily wed off lest word of my affections for the impoverished gentleman spread. Thus, now, I am no innocent, but a married woman. I know much of the world and how it functions. I am of the heartfelt opinion that having another gentleman in the house could be exciting, and an entirely pleasant change from the endlessly dull sermons given by my husband.

‘Well, no doubt he may find one of the girls in the village to his liking. Mrs Davis’ daughters are very amenable girls, and very skilled,’ I said.

‘You wish to be his match-maker?’ My husband’s voice was amused.

‘I don’t see why not. Mrs Davis’ husband is from a very fine old family.’

‘You are very kind to be thinking of such things,’ he said.

I nodded without saying anything. Though these words came from my tongue, I had no desire to see them come to fruition. No indeed, other plans had set seed in my mind – and they were not kind in the least.

This evening, I retired to my rooms later than usual. I had spent time beside the fire sewing and considering the arrival of Mr Jonathan Reeves. As I walked into my room, I could smell my husband’s scent linger. I frowned and looked about – for he was not there. With a despondent sigh, I changed into my nightdress. As I turned to make for my bed, I saw, lying against the white coverlet, my Bible. It was open to a page, and I noticed slips of paper marking other passages further in.

My readings for the evening, then.

My husband had not retired without designating me Bible studies.

How terribly kind of him.

I bit my lip, willing myself not to be disappointed. I would have very much preferred my husband to be laying abed waiting for me, rather than my Bible. Still, I picked it up. It was heavy in my hands as I slipped into my bed. I knew I could do naught but read those passages, for I had little doubt that in the morning my husband would test my learning.

I read the first poignant passage on grief from Isaiah, then several from Philippians, and three from John. My eyes were growing tired in the flickering candlelight when I turned to one last, neglected bookmark:

Ephesians 4:1-3: I therefore, a prisoner for the Lord, urge you to walk in a manner worthy of the calling to which you have been called, with all humility and gentleness, with patience, bearing with one another in love …

What the Devil does it mean?

I have read that passage many times and yet I still cannot quite understand its meaning! Is this some secret message of affection from Mr Reeves? I can scarce believe that to be true! In all our years of marriage he has never indicated true affection for me. Perhaps it is merely some indecipherable passage that I in my ignorance cannot interpret correctly?

Perhaps, or perhaps not.

Oh! And if it were some declaration of affection, it would certainly make my connection with Mr Goddard even more sinful!

I want to ask him. Yet I must not. This day has been a long one, and my eyes are growing weary. Perhaps in the morning it will seem clearer.

Tuesday, 4
^th
May 1813

I found this morning that Frederick had departed for his vicarly duties before I had risen. This is not an uncommon occurrence, though perhaps I slept later today than is my usual habit, mainly due to my wakeful night of reflection. Minny had left a cup of tea beside my bed. I stared at it, the steam still rising in weak wafts. Beside the teacup was the Bible, still open at the confusing passage Frederick had marked for my consideration.

I therefore, a prisoner for the Lord, urge you to walk in a manner worthy of the calling to which you have been called, with all humility and gentleness, with patience, bearing with one another in love…

I sat up and partook of my tea, musing on the words. Perhaps Frederick considers himself a prisoner for the Lord? Was he in some peculiar way explaining his religious fervour? I was uncertain – and what could it mean, ‘bearing with one another in love?’ Was this the first confession of love I had received from my husband? Or was there some other meaning that escaped me?

I wish to ask him at some later time what he meant by this quotation, though I am unlikely to do so. For I know, if I were to question the words of the Holy Book, whatever discussion we may have been having would be reconstructed into a tiresome and regretful sermon about my ignorance.

At length, Minny assisted me to dress. I slipped my Bible into my reticule and descended to break my fast. Naturally, I was devilishly hungry from my late night, and ate everything. Without the watchful eye of my husband, I feared not being a glutton. I then spent some time reading and sewing, as Cook finished the stew that I was to take to the unfortunate Richards family.

It was after midday when the stew had cooled enough for me to carry it to the Richardses’ cottage. I walked, as it was not overly far, and my husband had taken the chaise carriage on his route.

The weather was still somewhat chill, and I’d wrapped myself about in a dark blue woollen shawl, and tightened my bonnet about my chin to prevent its loss from an unexpected gust of wind.

I walked past several neat cottages belonging to various families in the village, and inclined my head at several villagers as I made my way. The Richardses’ house was one in unmistakeable mourning. The curtains were closed, and the older child in the garden wore a black cap on her head in respect for her deceased sibling.

‘Hello,’ I called, feeling quite the imposter on the grieving household.

‘Oh, Mrs Reeves. But it is wonderful you’ve come,’ the little girl bobbed. I knew her name to be Mary. ‘Come inside, and sit in the parlour. Mama is abed but I know she’ll be glad to see you.’

I smiled and entered the house.

Inside was dark, with curtains drawn and few candles to light it. It smelled stale, and I should have thought an open window would have been beneficial but dared not suggest it.

‘It’s Mary, isn’t it?’ I asked the child.

The girl’s brown eyes widened with delight at my knowledge. ‘Yes, Ma’am.’ She bobbed again, and I could not help but think she should make a very fine maid one day.

‘Be a dear and take this to your kitchen. My Cook has made you supper.’

‘Oh! You’re very kind, Mrs Reeves. Mama shall be ever so grateful.’

There was a thin voice that carried down the stairs. ‘Mary, who are you speaking with?’

‘It’s Mrs Reeves, Mama, the vicar’s wife.’

There was a pause. ‘Please, send her up.’

Mary’s hands were full of the stew and she looked from me to the stairs to the direction of the kitchen.

‘I shall make my way to your Mama,’ I assured her. ‘You take that the kitchen.’

Mary bobbed gracefully once more, and placing my hand on the balustrade I began to walk up the stairs. The wood was old and rotting, something Lord Stanton’s man of business would do well to take care of.

As I reached the landing I stepped into a darkened room. I could smell birth blood, sweet and cloying in the air. It took my eyes some time to adjust to the dimness of the room, but by and by I made out the form of the unfortunate Mrs Richards, sitting abed.

‘Mrs Richards,’ I said, and moved forth, taking the chair that rested by the bedhead.

The woman spoke and her voice was etched by grief. ‘Mrs Reeves, thank you for visiting.’

‘I am sorry to hear of your loss,’ I added, but the words seemed tight in my throat, for despite the darkness I could see quite clearly the form of the deceased babe, swaddled still in its cradle on the other side of the bed.

My heart tightened, and a sense of shared grief cloaked me. For a moment I could not think of anything to say, then I remembered those sage words I’d read in my Bible studies the night before.

‘The Bible tells us, Mrs Richards, “blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted”.’ I spoke softly, my hand searching for hers. I held it then, and though hard and roughened from her labours it was weak, cold and small. I gripped it tightly, and we were silent a time.