Page 26 of Indecently Daring

Chapter 9

My Lord,

Forgive me for writing again so soon, only after you had gone I was feeling nostalgic and opened up my keepsakes box. I came across something that you ought to have. I had quite forgotten I had it, but it is rightfully yours. I hesitate to impose upon your time again, but I believe it would be best if you came to collect it.

―Excerpt of a letter to The Most Hon’ble Ciarán St Just, The Marquess of Kilbane from Mrs Louisa Clifford.

20th January 1845, The Vicarage, Sussex.

Harry sighed as he heard yet another knock at the door. Inspiration was sorely lacking for this week’s sermon, and the constant interruptions were not helping a bit. He glanced up at the clock and sighed. It was time he was about his business, in any case. He must see Betsy White and find out how she and her new babe were going on. The poor woman already had seven children underfoot, and if her lump of a husband was being of any use whatsoever, Harry would eat his hat. He must remember to take the box he’d made up for her, too. He’d bought some basic items and filled it with flour and sugar, a large slab of bacon, a fresh loaf and a few jars from his own store cupboard. He remembered having done the same thing for Jeb’s mum, and had tried hard to forget the abusive she had served him in return. Mrs Maby had thrown a pot of jam at him, narrowly missing his head, all the time railing against God and do-gooders and people who ought to mind their own bloody business. So, he’d tried his best to do as she asked, but a neglected child was not something he could turn a blind eye to.

Harry carried the heavy parcel with him to the front door, trying not to regret the last jar of strawberry jam from his larder. Betsy needed it more than he did. After he’d visited Betsy, he’d go to Mr Figges, who still swore he was breathing his last, but he’d been saying that every day for the past ten months, by Harry’s count. Harry thought the old fellow seemed remarkably sprightly for his advanced years, but one never knew. He’d not forgive himself if the man died and he’d not bothered to come by, so he visited most days. Sometimes Harry read from the Bible, but more often than not from a novel, or from the paper he took with him and always accidentally left behind so the old man could enjoy it in peace.

In the hallway, Harry set down the box and opened the door, making a mental note to ask Lady St Clair if he’d have a new housekeeper soon. It would make life much easier. His heart sank to his boots as he looked upon a pair of limpid blue eyes that gazed up at him adoringly.

“Miss Steadman,” he said, trying his hardest not to sound impatient with the girl. “I was just about to go out. What can I do for you?”

“Oh, Reverend Martin,” she said with a sigh, gazing at her shoes and then looking back up at him through her lashes. Harry wondered if she practised that in the looking glass and then scolded himself for being uncharitable. “I must speak to you in private.”

“Certainly not,” Harry said briskly. “That would not be at all appropriate.”

“B-But I must,” the girl said, wringing her hands together. “I simply must!”

Her voice rose an octave, and her eyes glittered dangerously. Harry experienced a stab of alarm. Good Lord, perhaps the girl really needed to talk to him. “Well, if you wish to speak to me, you can come back with your mother or, better still, perhaps you ought to speak to her instead of me.”

“Oh, I couldn’t do that!” she exclaimed, putting a hand to her heart with a fluttery motion that he was almost certain she had practised. “Mama would never understand.”

Oh, drat the girl. Harry reminded himself severely that this was his job, the girl was one of his flock and as deserving of his attention as anyone else.

“In that case, you may walk with me. I’m going to see Mrs White and I see no harm in you accompanying me as far as the bridge, as it’s on your way home. If you would wait, I’ll fetch my coat and hat.”

Harry hurriedly shrugged into his coat, put on his hat, and gathered up the box for Mrs White.

“Now then, Miss Steadman, what can I do for you?” Harry asked, once they had closed the gate to the vicarage.

“Well, it’s rather… delicate,” Miss Steadman said, blushing and looking away from him.

That did not bode well.

“Are you certain you couldn’t speak to your mother about it?” Harry asked hopefully.

“Quite certain,” Miss Steadman replied, a mutinous set to her chin.

Harry sighed. “Well, then. I am at your disposal. Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“Yes,” the girl said, giving him a desperate glance and then looking away again.

Oh, the poor child, Harry thought, instantly castigating himself for not having taken her seriously. How many times must he learn the lesson about putting others before himself?

“Miss Steadman, please. You may confide in me. I shall do anything in my power to help you, but you must tell me what the problem is. Would I be correct in supposing that there is a boy at the heart of this situation?”

“Oh, no, not a boy,” she said with a faint air of disgust. “A man.”

Harry felt anger lance through him at the idea some man had taken advantage of this innocent girl who had no defence against such a wicked seducer.

“I see,” he said, striving to sound calm and doing his best to keep his feelings at bay so she would tell him the rest. “And what happened, Miss Steadman?”

“I-I fell in love,” she said, gazing up at him with those big blue eyes.