The Journal of a Vicar's Wife (6 page)

I poured more vinegar onto the cloth and renewed the cleansing. Soon, the child’s cries abated and for the first time I took time to consider the wound again. It was deep, deeper than what I was comfortable even looking at, and the size on the small hand was concerning. As the child moved the afflicted limb, I saw the wound gape open, red and garish. I realised at that moment it would require sutures. Such a wound could never heal without being sealed.

‘Mrs Hatfield, do you have a needle and thread? I am afraid the cut will require some stitching.’

Louisa’s large blue eyes widened in undeniable alarm. ‘No!’ she cried.

‘I’m sorry, but the cut will not close if we do not stitch it.’

Mrs Hatfield’s lips tightened. ‘Yes, Mrs Reeves. I think you’re right.’ Her voice grew stern. ‘Louisa, you’ll do what you’re told.’

‘Get her a glass of brandy, for her nerves, and a leather belt or strap so that she may bite upon it. I have no laudanum to make her insensible, I’m afraid.’

Mrs Hatfield nodded grimly and retrieved the requested items. As my uncle had shown me many years since, I washed the needle in a little vinegar and threaded it.

We offered Louisa a tipple of brandy, which she bravely downed and very nearly upped. We then put the leather strap betwixt her teeth and asked her to bite down.

I have never felt quite so cruel as I did when I started to stitch the poor child’s hand. Tears streamed down her face at the first insertion and low moans emanated from her chest. It was to our great relief that by the third stitch, her eyes rolled in her head and she fainted clear away. I then rushed to complete the stitching.

When it was done, Louise began to stir and I bandaged her hand with white cotton cloth.

‘There, you were terribly brave,’ I said. ‘Perhaps Mr Hatfield will allow you your choice of sweet from his shop this evening for all your bravery.’

Louisa’s eyes glistened and I watched Mrs Hatfield wrap the child in her arms and offer comfort.

‘Thank you, Mrs Reeves. I never knew you was as good at healing as this.’

I smiled, feeling touched. It was nice to be truly useful. I’d not cared for wounds for well over a year. The village physician, Mr Cole, was usually able to do such work, so it was a rare occasion indeed that I was ever called upon to assist in matters of medicine – but I did like it when I was.

‘Don’t thank me yet, Mrs Hatfield. We must wait to see that the wound does not fester. You ought to get Mr Cole to visit and check it tomorrow.’

She nodded, and I stood.

‘Here,’ she said, and searched in the pocket of her apron. ‘Take this.’ She offered me some shillings. The coins shone in the light dull light of the cottage.

‘No, no, Mrs Hatfield.’ I waved her hand away. ‘I do not require any recompense. If I may just have some water to wash my hands, I must be on my way. My husband may return for lunch, you see.’ I had no notion if he would do such a thing, having scarce spoken to him in what seemed an age, but she agreed and with exaggerated reluctance, Mrs Hatfield placed the shillings back in her apron and hurried to get me a washbasin.

A little later, I left Hatfield Cottage and resumed my stroll to the vicarage. Now the excitement was largely past, doubts about my morality and fortitude as a vicar’s wife cloaked me. After coming so eagerly to the Christian assistance of the Hatfields, I felt my fleshly sins with Mr Goddard and my nocturnal fantasy of Mr Quake quite appalling.

At that moment I wanted nothing more than to return home and cleanse myself. There were spatters of blood and spilled vinegar on my dress, and my hair was unkempt. It was as if the stains on my clothing were reflected by those on my soul. As I was considering this unhappy thought I heard a carriage pull up behind me.

I turned, and instantly recognised the horses.

It was my husband.

I looked up; my husband sat aloft the carriage looking stern and pious as always. I felt my heart constrict.

‘Mrs Reeves, good day,’ he said and tipped his hat.

Could he not greet me with more affection? I wondered. Yet I did not say such, for I knew it would do little good. Instead I tilted my own straw hat in return, ‘Good day, Mr Reeves.’

‘Would you allow me to escort you back to the vicarage?’ he asked, formal as ever.

How strange it is, really, that I should be so formal with my husband when I am so open with Mr Goddard.

‘That is kind of you,’ I agreed and wondered whether if he knew the immorality of my heart, he’d repeat the offer. I do myself a great disservice with these unhappy inner conversations, so instead I focussed on the man before me.

With a curt nod, Frederick leapt down from the carriage in a gesture of surprising grace. He took my hand and my skin thrummed with heat from just this slight caress. I smiled at him, and thanked him, noting how very fine he looked this day. He must have ridden some distance, for his cheeks were burnished by the sun despite the large brim on his hat. With his strong arms, he lifted me up into the carriage – in a fashion he had not used since the day we had wed. I gasped at the unfamiliar sensation of his strong hands at my waist and sank down onto the seat.

I shifted a little uneasily and remained silent. If he had been another husband, and I another wife, perhaps he would have rested his leg beside mine so that I could feel the heat of his body, or perhaps captured my hand and offered it a squeeze – yet he did no such thing, and an inch or so of distance seemed to separate us at all times.

‘I see you have the accounts. Did you visit Mr Quake?’ he said after a time, gesturing down at the ledgers tied with a ribbon in my lap.

‘Why yes, I did.’

‘All is in order, I hope?’

‘Yes,’ I agreed. Without brandy to fortify me, I did not make mockery.

My husband’s gaze deepened. ‘I had a look at the ledgers last week, and saw a few mis-entries. Mr Quake is still giving you lessons, I hope?’ Frederick asked.

I looked at him. Some worrisome part of my mind feared he
knew
of my wicked dream, and what kind of lesson it had involved. Yet the look in my husband’s eyes was curious rather than suspicious, so I dispelled the notion.

‘Yes, he gives me lessons,’ I said, and my mind flew back to that depraved dream.

‘I hope he is very considerate in his teachings with you,’ he said. ‘There is naught worse than a brutal and tiresome teacher.’

Oh! It is ridiculous is it not? My husband’s words were so honest, but truly quite funny considering the circumstances. Was not my husband the brutal and tiresome teacher, rather than the Mr Quake? I felt a spark of rebellion.

‘Mr Quake is indeed very considerate, I assure you. Far from being brutal or tiresome, I’ve come to find him and accountancy all rather intriguing.’

This was only a small lie.

Frederick smiled gently down at me. If only he knew of my dream and my forbidden desires.

When we returned to the vicarage, I took immediately to my rooms so that I may change my dress and wash the remnants Louisa’s injury from my hands.

I always have a pitcher of fresh water in my rooms for such circumstances, and a fresh flannel. It was as I had just wiped the last specks of blood, and reached for a fresh gown, that there was a knock on my door.

‘Yes?’ I called, believing it to be Minny.

‘Mrs Reeves, may I come in?’

My throat tightened with surprise. It was my husband.

It is a highly unusual circumstance that Mr Reeves visits my rooms at all, but never in daylight. As I have said, we participate in marital intercourse so scarcely, and usually on those occasions it is late in the evening. So to have Mr Reeves request entrance to my rooms before luncheon on a weekday was supremely unsettling, but not at all unwelcome.

‘Of course,’ I said my hands flying to my hair. ‘Come in.’

The door opened and Frederick entered. His frame fairly blocked the doorway, and I was reminded once more how imposing a man he is, even when he is not behind the pulpit.

He took one glance at me and his cheeks reddened.

‘Forgive me, I did not realise you had undressed.’ He turned, readying himself to depart once again.

‘That is quite all right. I was simply changing for luncheon,’ I said, gesturing to my discarded dress. ‘Please, do not go.’ I reached for his hand to halt his withdrawal.

Mr Reeves’ hand was very warm.

He looked down at my hand holding his, and an expression of surprise rushed across his face, which then darkened.

I knew that I should lose him then, he would depart and then any chance at conversation,
amore
or indeed anything else at all should have no occasion to occur.

‘Mr Reeves, it shall not take me long to dress. You may assist me instead of Minny if you wish,’ I spoke in a rush.

He said nothing for a time, and so I forged forth, hoping that my state of
deshabille
may entice him to stay when my words failed. Without allowing him time to respond, I turned to face the looking glass, correcting a pin in my hair. ‘I did not tell you earlier, but I happened upon Mrs Hatfield on my way home from Mr Quake. Poor little Louisa had cut her hand terribly. Mrs Hatfield asked if I may attend to her; I fear I have soiled my gown.’

Mr Reeve’s eyes darkened. ‘Is that so? I had noticed no stains.’

I turned to face him and smiled, perhaps a little too brightly. Much to my surprise and delight, his gaze actually devoured me – an expression I’d scarce seen on him before. I knew my chemise was nearly sheer, as it was one of my more worn ones – white, but the cotton so old and thin, my form was clearly visible beneath.

My throat tightened, but I continued in the vein of our conversation as propriety insisted. ‘Yes. I have suggested that Mr Cole goes to maintain the injury. I am no physician, after all.’

Frederick nodded. ‘It was good of you to offer your assistance.’ He sounded choked. I saw his eyes dart away, lingering instead on the small wooden crucifix that hung upon my wall. I knew then that he had some type of concern, for he uttered a sigh.

I smoothed the cloth over my breasts and down my sides. ‘Is something the matter, Mr Reeves?’ I asked, and reached for my dress.

He turned and looked at me once more, a frown forming a deep crease betwixt his brows.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘As a matter of fact, there is.’

My heart beat a little wild tattoo, and my hand hesitated over the fresh gown. Was he to say something of what had happened the other night? I prayed so. Or had he found out about Mr Goddard? I prayed not. I worried my lower lip, dressing forgotten.

‘You frighten me, what is it?’

‘I have reservations about Jonathan coming to stay,’ he confessed.

My surprise was piqued. ‘Jonathan?’

‘Indeed, I cannot help but feel that this will be awkward for you.’

Thank the Good Lord! I was delighted by his concern for me. In my acquaintance, Mr Reeves has never seemed an overly jealous or concerned husband. Certainly, issues of morality and faith concern him, but my well-being, or comfort for that matter, have always seemed a secondary thing to him, I’m certain. So it was that his confession made my breast swell with utter delight.

I laughed, hurrying to reassure him. ‘No, not at all. It was years ago and I married you, after all.’ I smiled.

My words did not have the placatory effect I had anticipated. My smile wilted, for Frederick’s face was grim.

‘We wed because your father wished it. You would never have married me otherwise. Had your father given you his blessing, you would have been Jonathan’s wife, not mine.’

The silence grew heavy and Mr Reeves’ eyes held mine as if he challenged me to deny the accusation. I caught my breath.

This was truly a day for revelations. Was this jealousy from my pious husband? For certainly these words had sprung forth from some deep part of him that actually
cared –
did they not? Confusion whirled through my head. I had never heard Frederick speak so.
Ever
. In six years of uneventful marriage, he had never mentioned our courtship, or lack thereof. Nor had he ever shown any indication that my failed courtship with his cousin had caused him even the slightest concern.

‘Mr Reeves, what are you saying?’ I asked.

My husband’s face remained tight– but not as it does whilst pontificating. A muscle convulsed in his jaw, as though some thought or feeling was being powerfully restrained.

‘You married me because your father wished it, did you not?’ His voice was hoarse, and held a bitterness I’d never before noted.

I nodded most cautiously. ‘Of course, but I could have refused you. I was not forced.’ My throat grew somewhat tight as I spoke.

Frederick shook his head and his eyes flashed with a dangerous light. I felt his gaze travel from my face and drag slowly down my neck, past my bust to linger at the cleft of my thighs, where I knew the dark hair of my
mons
was visible through the thin chemise.

He looked away before speaking. ‘I had, at one time, hoped that you may come to feel a greater affection for me than you had for Jonathan,’ Mr Reeves said, his tone less aggrieved but entirely more awkward.

I moved to speak but he silenced me with a sharp lift of his hand. I bit my tongue.

He coughed and continued. ‘I understand that Jonathan is younger and more handsome than I, but still I had hoped your affection for me would grow. Yet, six years into our marriage you still refer to me as Mr Reeves, and we are no closer now than when we first met.’

A surprised and hurt lump formed in my throat, and I tried to speak. For it is not that I have no affection for the man, surely. I admire him at times, and welcome his affections or at least I do when they are so rarely offered. Have I not made my attempts at marital harmony obvious enough?

I felt my brow crumple, and lifted my gaze to meet his.

‘I know that a marriage such as our may not be of an overtly affectionate nature,’ Frederick continued, ‘but I had hoped for something more – and now, if Jonathan is to come under our roof, I have fears that …’

I felt my breast constrict. ‘You fear what? That I should fall in love with him once more?’ The words were released before I had time to censor them.