Chapter Four Back to Previous Chapter "Turn about," Elizabeth commanded her brother. Walter sighed and turned about obediently. "I feel ridiculous." Elizabeth looked him over with a practiced eye and reached out to pluck an imaginary bit of lint from his vestment. "Well, you look splendid." She turned him toward the looking-glass. "See for yourself." The first thing he noticed--the first thing anyone would notice--was the elaborate embroidery worked on the vestments in gold and silver and coloured threads. Mrs. Musgrove had commissioned the vestments herself, insisting that Sir Walter Elliot's grandson and namesake would be properly turned out for his debut as rector. Walter had unthinkingly gone along with her plans, and when the vestments arrived, had gazed at them in utter horror. His own taste was rather spare and elegant; he was privately rather pleased that clergymen were expected to wear black at all times. There was no time to order new vestments before Charles and Anne's wedding, and as Anne had specifically requested that he perform the ceremony, he was forced to wear them. However, as Walter became accustomed to his reflection, he realized that his sister was correct; he looked splendid. On a smaller, less handsome man, the vestments would have been ridiculous indeed, but on Walter they sat perfectly. Well, if this does not go off well, I cannot place the blame on Mamma, he thought wryly. The previous weeks had been a whirlwind of activity at Uppercross. The Cottage had been turned inside out, painted and papered and scrubbed in preparation for its new tenants. Furniture arrived by the waggonload, including a pianoforte that the young squire had purchased as a wedding present for his bride. Charles himself was rarely at the Great House, dividing his time between the stables, the Cottage, and Oakmont Park. Walter had experienced no less a whirlwind in his own affairs. He had gone to see Dr. Smythe two days after Elizabeth and James' wedding and told him that he was prepared to take orders. Dr. Smythe, still shrewd despite his advanced years, looked at him keenly. "I must say that I am surprised by this sudden discovery of your vocation." Walter confessed, "I am not entirely sure that I have a vocation, sir." The older man laughed. "In my day it was not considered necessary for a clergyman to have a calling. That he was an educated and a gentleman was sufficient to recommend him to the Church. Your parents are of my generation; they have provided you with a way to make your living, but you have never seemed especially desirous of following the path they have laid out for you." Walter squirmed a bit under the rector's keen gaze; he felt like he had as a boy, when he had run away and hidden in the woods rather than attend Sunday afternoon service. Dr. Smythe had questioned him just as closely on that occasion, but his kindness was always evident, and Walter had left the parsonage chastened and relieved that he had escaped eternal damnation. "I know that in the past I have not conducted myself as a clergyman should," he said softly. "But I am endeavouring to change my ways." "Use not the Church as a crutch, son," said the rector kindly. "It is commendable that you wish to better yourself, but that is a matter between you and your conscience. You cannot hide behind your position as a priest. You will still be a man, fallible and open to temptation." "I know that," he said. "But I would like to try." The rector smiled at him. "Very well," he said. "I shall do what I can for you." Bishop Prescott had been obstinate, insisting that Walter should spend a year as a deacon, as most young clergymen did, before taking the vows of priesthood. Dr. Smythe intervened; Walter well understood his new duties, he said, and the year of training would not be necessary. The bishop had at last grudgingly agreed, and when Walter tried to thank the rector, he had waved his hand dismissively. "Ephraim Prescott and I have been adversaries these forty years," he laughed, "since we were boys at Oxford. He was a loud advocate of the Clapham sect and was furious every time I was able to refute his doctrinal arguments, which was nearly always. He has grown no less loud over the years, but you see it has not affected his career." Walter smiled at the older man, who had been the rector of Uppercross for nearly twenty years, taking the position when Walter's uncle Charles Hayter had inherited Winthrop and given up the Church. "I am surprised that you have never received such a promotion, sir." "Oh, I never aspired to anything greater than the living of Uppercross," smiled Dr. Smythe. "This is a delightful village; my family was happy here, both my late wife and my children. And your father manages his properties admirably." Walter knew that his father's involvement in the estate's management was minimal at best, but he remained quiet. "I've no taste for politics, son, be they secular or clerical. And now," he added, taking up a Greek text, "it is back to work for you. We must ready you for your examination." A few very short days later, Walter went to Wells to be examined. Bishop Prescott, a burly man with a fringe of grizzled hair around his ears, regarded him scornfully. "I have no love for those who view the Lord's work as a sinecure. Caldwell Smythe can sing your praises for days, but I have seen your sort a thousand times. The Church needs good men, men who will work hard and glorify the Lord, not incompetent younger sons who will leave their duties to underpaid curates while they idle about in watering-places." Walter could not help wondering why a man who could afford to idle about in watering-places would bother to take orders if he did not have a calling, but said only, "I assure you, your eminence, that I have given long thought to taking this step, and I feel that I am prepared to do so. I did not take orders when I was of age because I was not fit. I do not consider the position a sinecure, sir." Bishop Prescott stared at him from beneath bushy eyebrows. Walter gazed back at him steadily, not allowing his anxiety to show in his expression. Finally the older man looked away, then began firing questions at him in rapid succession. Walter answered every one, his confidence gaining with each correct answer. One week later he was kneeling before the bishop in the cathedral. The older man's ham-like hands descended heavily upon Walter's head as he intoned, "Receive the Holy Ghost for the office and work of a priest in the Church of God, now committed unto thee by the imposition of our hands. Whose sins thou dost forgive, they are forgiven; and whose sins thou dost retain, they are retained." And that quickly, Walter was a priest. Only a week, an hour, before he had been an ordinary country gentleman, known mostly as a decent rider, an excellent shot, and charming to the ladies, and now he had been given rights and powers that made his head swim. While at Cambridge he had read some of the writings of the Roman historian Tacitus, including reports of the rituals performed by the ancient Celtic druids; Walter could not help but think that the pagan priestmakings, with their pain and blood and sacrifice, had the advantage of making one feel as though one had truly earned the right to such power. That had been only a little more than a week ago, and it was time now for Walter's first official act as rector: the marriage of Charles and Anne, a match which he had once attempted to promote and was now obliged to solemnize. Nothing could make him happier than to be the agent that brought together these two people whom he loved, and who belonged so indisputably together. His thoughts flew back to the night of his sister's wedding, when he had walked out onto the Great House verandah for a bit of air--and perhaps to escape Gwendolyn's presence, which he could not ignore--and had stumbled upon Charles and Anne in a passionate embrace. He knew his brother well enough to understand that Charles would never take such a liberty unless he had spoken and been accepted; there was a second's stab of pain, of desperate and terrible envy of his brother's joy, which had immediately given way to sincere and abundant happiness. And then, when Anne had learned that Walter would be in orders before the date of the wedding, she had asked him to perform the ceremony. Charles had added his petition, and Walter had been unable to say no, truly touched and honoured by their request. Elizabeth was still fussing with the back of the vestments, and finally Walter shook her off. "I do not want everyone saying that the priest's vanity held up the ceremony, Eliza. It is not my wedding, after all." "No, but we can't have you disgracing the family, either." She gave one last tug and said, "Now you are perfect." "Not quite," he said ruefully, grinning down at her. "Well, as close as you shall ever get." She smiled up at him, her dimples deepening as her white teeth flashed. Walter looked over his sister critically for the first time since she had arrived at Uppercross a few days earlier; he had been too overwhelmed by his own affairs to spend much time with her, although he was glad that she had volunteered to help him with his vestments before the wedding. She was wearing a sophisticated and expensive-looking gown, which he did not remember seeing amongst her wedding-clothes; James must have purchased it for her in London. She looked very much the wealthy young matron, a state that suited her well. "Marriage agrees with you, love. Are you happy with James?" "Ecstatically so." "Good. And now Charles and Anne! Who would have thought they would marry?" he could not resist adding, although he had long known of their mutual affection. "I would," Elizabeth laughed. "Anne's been in love with Charles for ever so long! And he has always been mad for her. He just needed time to become accustomed to the idea, the way I needed time to become accustomed to the idea of being in love with James." Walter stared at her. "You knew that they cared for each other, and you kept it to yourself?" Elizabeth tilted her head to one side and said, still laughing, "Dearest, sooner or later you will begin to understand that I know everything that goes on in this family. Which reminds me," she added, "I am glad that you have thrown off that Gwendolyn Clay. She is not the woman for you. I shall keep my eye out for a proper girl, one who will take good care of my brother," brushing away a last wrinkle, "the rector of Uppercross." Walter could only stare at his sister in astonishment. He would never have imagined that Elizabeth, good-natured and warm-hearted and yet whimsical and frivolous, had such potential for perspicacity. "Well, dearest, you are suitably magnificent and yet should not outshine the bride, which is the proper place of the clergyman at a wedding. I must find my seat or I shall miss Anne." She reached up and touched his cheek. "Be not anxious, brother. I know Anne and Charles are glad to have you lead them through their vows." "Thank you, love," he whispered, pulling her into an embrace, clumsy in the swaths of his flowing garments. "I hereby apologize for every puddle I pushed you into and every time I pulled your hair or teased you." "Apology accepted." She kissed his cheek and left him with a last squeeze of the hand. As she exited the sacristy, Delbert Stock, the curate, entered. He already wore his vestments, although the faded and carefully-patched articles had nowhere near the magnificence of the pastor's. "It's time, sir," he said to Walter. "They're waiting for you." Walter took a deep breath, released it, and walked out, Delbert trailing closely behind, carrying the prayer book. Walter felt as if every eye was riveted on him; he could only bring himself to look at Charles and Edward Wentworth, standing by the rail, both of whom were grinning widely. "Lovely gown," whispered Edward as he arrived at the altar. "You must give me the name of your mantua-maker, cousin." Charles snickered, his head down, so that he would not burst into braying laughter at his own wedding. Delbert frowned at them, snorted, and lifted his chin haughtily. Walter ignored them, although he was secretly rather entertained by Edward's teasing. His courage boosted by this impertinent greeting, he was able to finally look out at the assembly in the pews; all familiar faces, friends and family and neighbours. His mother and father, smiling proudly (his mother weeping prodigiously at the same time); his aunt Wentworth in the other forward pew, her eyes shining as she gazed upon her nephew, resplendent in his grand vestments. And then the door to the tiny vestibule opened and Sophie Wentworth began to walk down the aisle, and all attention flew to the back of the church. A moment later Sir Frederick Wentworth entered, smiling broadly, his eldest daughter on his arm. Walter watched his brother's face, transformed with love and pride as he gazed at the woman who would soon be his wife. Anne was beautiful indeed. She wore a wine-coloured silk gown highlighted with fringes of elaborate white lace and a long, gauzy veil, edged with more lace of the sort that Walter had learned from Gwendolyn was a product of the ingenious lace-makers of Brussels. A wreath of pink roses, so pale they were nearly white, rested on her head, anchoring the wispy white length to her hair. She carried a bouquet of the same roses, tied with a froth of ribbons and lace. When they reached the altar, her she smiled up at her father and slipped her arm from his, taking her place beside Charles. The bride and groom exchanged smiles full of love and anticipation. Walter felt his own heart ache for a moment; That I had someone to look at me so! He wrenched his attention back to the task at hand and turned to Delbert, who had the prayer book ready, opened to the proper page. He took a deep breath and spoke. "Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony..." He became more comfortable as he continued, even managing to smile at his brother as he said, "Charles, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?" Charles smiled down at Anne. "I will." "Anne, wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?" Anne's face was glowing, her smile reflecting her beloved's. "I will." Walter continued, "Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?" Sir Frederick stepped forward and placed Anne's hand in Walter's, who in turn placed it into Charles' hand. "Charles, please repeat your vows after me," he said softly. "I, Charles, take thee, Anne, to my wedded wife..." Charles repeated the words, his baritone voice full of emotion that carried to every corner of the church, "...to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth." He kept grinning down at Anne until Walter hissed at him, "Release her hand, Charles." His brother jumped guiltily and did so, to some soft laughter from the assembled onlookers. Anne took up Charles' hand in her turn and repeated her vows, her soft voice spreading warmly over the congregation: "I, Anne, take thee, Charles, to my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth." Walter nodded to Edward, who produced a thin gold band and placed it on the open prayer book. Walter handed the ring to Charles, who placed it on the third finger of Anne's left hand, repeating his brother's words: "With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow: In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen." The bride and groom knelt before Walter, and he prayed for them, and never had he uttered a more heartfelt petition; he wanted more than anything for these two people whom he loved so well to be happy together, and to have a long life full of blessings and love. He sincerely felt his good fortune at being the agent by which they were joined, and the happiest moment of his life was when he joined their hands with his own and said, "Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder. Forasmuch as Charles and Anne have consented together in holy wedlock, and have witnessed the same before God and this company, and thereto have given and pledged their troth either to other, and have declared the same by giving and receiving of a ring, and by joining of hands; I pronounce that they be man and wife together, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen." The joy in his brother's eyes, and in Anne's, now his sister, caused Walter to bow his head for a moment, too overcome by emotion to continue. But at last he lifted his head and finish the ceremony, and was sufficiently comfortable that he was even able to observe Edward exchange a smile with Miss Catherine Leigh. Perhaps my services will again be required before long, he thought in some amusement. And then the service was completed, and they all signed the register, already filled out in Mr. Stock's painstakingly neat yet childish hand. Charles came to Walter while Anne was signing, and took his hand. "Thank you, brother," he said softly. "I shall remember this day always, and the part in it that you undertook so well." "It was my privilege, and my pleasure," said Walter, shaking Charles' hand. "And now you had best see to your bride." Charles grinned broadly and claimed Anne from Mr. Stock, who was making quite a fuss over her, and led her outside, where a chaise waited to carry them to Oakmont Park. Walter started for the vestry to change but was stopped by his still-weeping mother. "Oh, Walter," she sniffed, "that was such a beautiful ceremony! I always knew you were meant for the Church. I am so proud--" she could not continue, but sobbed into her handkerchief. "Goodness, Mamma," said Walter, embarrassed. "Do collect yourself." After a few gulping breaths, Mrs. Musgrove was again able to speak. "You don't understand," she said in a little-girl voice. "Eliza left me, now Charles, and you will be moving into the parsonage. All my children are gone!" Walter smiled to himself and folded her into an embrace. "We will still be very close by, Mamma," he said, patting her back soothingly. "Charles and Anne will be at the Cottage, and I will be just down the road at the parsonage. I remember when we lived at the Cottage you complained about how our aunts and uncles were always coming over from the Great House. And Eliza and James will visit often. I'm sure you will see us as much as you ever did." "It will not be the same," she sobbed into his magnificent vestments, making a large damp spot that Walter regarded with some distaste. "The house will be so empty! I'm so used to you and your brother and your sister coming and going, running up and down the stairs, arguing and laughing and calling to one another. It just will not be the same." "I promise to come over to the Great House every day to shout and stomp about," he said lightly. "Will that help, love?" His mother looked up at him, caught the twinkle in his eye, and burst into rueful laughter. "I suppose I am being ridiculous. Forgive me, Walter." "You, ridiculous, Mamma? Never." He kissed her and released her. "But I must change before you make these wonderful vestments unfit for use." She was immediately concerned for the garments. "Oh, yes, do," she said. "Your father and I will hold the carriage until you are ready." "Thank you," he said and hurried off to the vestry before she could detain him any longer. Walter leaned back against the cushions of the large arm-chair and sighed contentedly. The wedding breakfast had been abundant, and he had found himself unusually ravenous and had partaken heartily. When they finished eating, the guests had retired into the large, elegant drawing room, where the unmarried young ladies present took turns at the pianoforte. Content to be passively entertained, Walter allowed his gaze to wander about until it was arrested by the sight of Sophie Wentworth surrounded by a group of young men, some in blue coats. Sophie seemed thoroughly delighted with her position; as Walter watched, one of the boys attempted to seize her hand, and she struck the offender's arm lightly with her folded fan. She did not seem put out at all by the boy's impertinence, but smiled coquettishly up at him through her eyelashes. How many times have I seen Gwen do the same thing? he thought angrily. And after my brother took his life in his hands to protect her from ruination! The day after Walter's ordination, Charles had turned up at breakfast with bruising around his cheek and eye. Walter had assumed that his brother had suffered a riding accident, and was delighted with the opportunity to tease him. "Charles, you dog," he cried, leaning over to seize his brother's chin and turn his head in order to inspect the contusion. "You will be married in less than a sen'night; could you not wait that long to force yourself upon Anne? But it is good to see that my future sister can defend herself against such ungentlemanly behaviour." Charles did not respond to this impertinence, but only gave Walter a baleful glare. "Father," said Walter, addressing Mr. Musgrove, who sat at the other end of the table with his dish of tea, "I do believe that today is one of Charles' difficult mornings. What say you?" Mr. Musgrove's eyes twinkled at him over his tea-cup. "All appearances support your theory, son. You have my leave to tease him into a better humour." Charles pushed back his chair, muttered, "I shall be at the stables," and stalked out of the room. His brother and father raised their eyebrows at one another, but did not comment further; the young squire was occasionally bad-tempered before noon if he had not gotten sufficient rest, and they were both inclined to attribute Charles' mood to that cause. Then Mrs. Musgrove came fluttering in, all excitement. "Where is Charles?" she exclaimed. "I have just had the most astonishing report from my maid!" "Charles went to the stables," replied her husband, his brow furrowed. "What kind of report, Mary?" Mrs. Musgrove had stopped before the table, and cried, "Oh, bother that cook! She has not made my toast!" She rang the bell impatiently and ordered toast from the maid that responded. When the servant was gone, Walter prompted his mother, "What report, Mother? Is everything well with Charles?" "Oh, yes, everything is quite well. You will never guess what he has done! It is so heroic!" "No, Mother, I cannot guess, and apparently you are taking great joy from keeping Father and me in suspense." "Well, Walter, if you will give me a chance, I--" the servant reappeared with the plate of toast, and Mrs. Musgrove laid a finger across her mouth. Walter exchanged an impatient glance with his father; her maid knew, why should she think the other servants were not informed as well? The door finally swung shut behind the girl, and Mrs. Musgrove said in a stage-whisper, "Sophie Wentworth tried to elope last night with Henry Clay, and Charles stopped them! He took a horse-whip to Mr. Clay in the public street! Have you ever heard anything so gallant?" Walter was all astonishment. Charles flogging Henry Clay! He knew the worth of servant's gossip, but knew that there must be some truth in it as well. He was appalled at the thought of his gentle, bookish brother fighting the cruel and malevolent Clay. That must be how he came by that bruise. He could have been killed, a week before his wedding! What in the world was he thinking? Mrs. Musgrove was still speaking. "Apparently Frederick had to pull Charles away from Mr. Clay. The Wentworth coachman saw the whole thing and told the cook, who told the scullery-maid, who was here this morning to fetch some butter, and my Martha heard all about it. Oh, I long to see Charles, and tell him how proud I am of him! I never would have thought he was capable of such an action!" "Don't be silly, Mary," said Mr. Musgrove. "You know Charles would do anything he could to help one of the girls." "I will go to the stables," said Walter, draining his tea-cup and rising. "I want it from my brother's mouth. I trust not servants' gossip." He took his hat and greatcoat and strode outside, just as Anne Wentworth rode up on Wamba, accompanied by the Admiral's head groom. "Hello, Anne," cried Walter, genuinely glad to see his cousin. "If you are looking for Charles, you should have gone straight to the stables. Perhaps he will be more sociable to his bride than he was to his family." "Actually, I was hoping to speak with you," said Anne, looking at him anxiously. "Of course," said Walter, and helped her down from the sidesaddle. A servant led Wamba away. "You may return to Oakmont Park, Flynn," said Walter to the groom. "My brother or I will see Miss Wentworth home." "Very good, Mr. Walter," said Flynn. He touched his knuckles to his forehead in the way of sailors and rode away. When they were alone, Anne said, "Has Charles told you what happened last night?" "No," said Walter. "My mother had some fantastic story from her maid about Charles taking a horsewhip to Henry Clay. My father and I have attributed it to servants' hyperbole." "In this case, I am afraid that the hyperbole is very close to the truth," said Anne with a sigh. "My sister tried to elope last night with Henry Clay. Charles rode after her on Wilfred, and my father and Edward followed in the carriage. Charles arrived first, and found that Mr. Clay had the advantage of a firearm, so he used the horsewhip in self-defense." "But Sophie is well?" exclaimed Walter in some alarm. "Clay didn't--" he bit back the words. Anne gave him an embarrassed smile. "She assures me that her virtue is intact, and I have chosen to believe her. Last night she was all penitence, but this morning she is as bold and careless as ever. That is why I wished to speak with you." She paused. "Yes, Anne, what is it?" Walter prompted her gently. "I wish you would talk to Sophie," she said. "To try to persuade her not to be so -- forward. I fear that another man will come along and misinterpret her behaviour. Her virtue may not survive the next such attack." Walter found it difficult not to laugh aloud at the irony of her request; he, of all people, to teach deportment to a young lady! A new realization dawned: he would often receive such requests now. The thought distracted him from the task at hand; he was unable to think clearly, but Anne was waiting for his answer, her face expectant. "Have you not spoken to her, or your brother, or your parents?" he temporized. "We have all spoken to her, of course, but she listens not. I ask you this favour in the hope that she would pay more attention to you, as a clergyman. And I would prefer that this not go outside the family." "Of course," said Walter, no longer able to resist the earnest entreaty in her large brown eyes. "I would be glad to speak to her, Anne." He hesitated a moment, then added, "Where is Clay? I should feel a great deal better knowing that he is not about the neighbourhood seeking another opportunity to importune your sister." "He is gone." Anne sighed. "One can only hope that his departure is permanent." "He has no reason to come back here. Sir William has cut him off, and his sister as well." Anne looked at him curiously. "Yes, Charles told me that you had given him that information. How did you come by it?" Her question was innocent, and Walter knew that Charles had not told her about him and Gwendolyn. "I was quite friendly with Miss Clay at one time. But no more." Anne gave him a searching glance, then nodded in comprehension. "I see. I am glad that you have learned about her true nature in time to save yourself." He could not help smiling at her words. "Fear not, Anne, Gwen is completely gone from my life. It is a requirement for one to exorcise all one's demons before taking orders." That made her laugh, and he was glad to see her smile. Just then, they noticed Charles walking toward them. "There you are, love! I was surprised to see Wamba enter the stable without his mistress, so I came in search of you." Anne looked up at him sorrowfully. She gently brushed her finger across the purpling along his cheekbone and said only, "Oh, Charles." He turned his face away from her touch, scowling. "Do not say anything, Anne. I am well, and Sophie is well, and it is best that we forget the whole incident." "As if I could forget what you did for my sister." Charles looked at Walter, embarrassed. "I suppose you know about it now?" "Yes, and I would rather have heard it from you." "I will not have it discussed. It is over and best forgotten." "Tell that to the servants. They are hailing you as a conquering hero. How do you think my parents and I came by the information?" Anne said, "I will wait for you inside, Charles." She reached up and gently kissed the bruise, then touched Walter's arm, mouthed a silent "Thank you," and went into the house. When they were alone, Walter whispered fiercely, "What were you about, Charles, fighting Clay a week before your wedding?" Charles looked at him, surprised. "What else could I have done?" he asked. "I could not allow Sophie to go with him. You must see that." Walter remembered bruises on the arms and face of Hannah, the housemaid, and said, "No, you are right. But without a gun, Charles? You should have known that he would be armed!" "I did not think of it," Charles admitted. "If you were there, Walter--if you had seen Anne's face, and Edward's, and my aunt's and uncle's--you would not have thought clearly, either." "I suppose not," said Walter. "But think of Anne! What would she have done if you were hurt, or worse?" He seized his brother's arm. "Do not be a fool, Charles. You are a very fortunate man to have a woman like that love you so well." "I know it." "Good. Then I trust that you will not engage in any more battles with the likes of Clay." He released Charles' arm and said, "And now I would like to hear your version of last night's events rather than the scullery-maid's, if you are so inclined." Charles took a deep breath and related the story in flat tones. "And then my uncle arrived and told Clay to begone and trouble his family no more. And Clay drove off in a post-chaise." He hesitated, and added, "I am not proud of my actions last night, Walter. I gave in to my lowest emotions, anger and hatred and envy. And there was no reason for it." "I find nothing in that recitation of which to be ashamed. Clay is an animal and deserved to be treated like one." Walter did not realize the vehemence of his words until he noticed Charles gazing at him keenly. "I suppose you would know," he said simply. "Yes," said Walter, unwilling to elaborate. Charles hesitated, then said, "Walter, were you--did your feelings for Miss Clay run very deeply?" After a pause, Walter replied, "At one time, yes, they did. But those feelings ended when my eyes were opened to her true character." The picture of Gwendolyn with Dalton was before him again, and he pushed it away angrily. "You have such a capacity for love, Walter. It will take an extraordinary woman to fully deserve it," said Charles quietly. "Now, I have neglected my fiancée enough for this day. I think I might suggest a ride, since her horse is here. Will you join us?" Walter, momentarily stunned by his brother's casual words, finally stammered out a negative reply, and Charles patted his arm and went into the house. Recalling that moment, and thinking of the injury his brother had suffered, the evidence of which he still bore on his wedding day, a physical symbol of the danger in which he had been placed on Sophie's behalf, Walter could no longer stomach watching his cousin flirt so outrageously. He walked over to the group and said, "Good day, gentlemen. You will forgive me if I take my cousin away for a private word?" Sophie looked up at him flirtatiously. "You want to be alone with me, Walter? I am not sure that I should trust you." Walter gave her his most charming smile. "Why, Sophie, you have nothing to fear from me. I merely wish to discuss family business." Her eyes traced him down, then up. She smiled and said, "Of course. Gentlemen, you will excuse me?" They scattered before her as she took Walter's arm. They went into a small, empty sitting-room. Walter shut the door and turned to find Sophie standing rather too close to him. "You are a sly one," she said, laughing. "Family business, indeed! I had no idea that you admired me, Walter." He deliberately stepped away from her. "Family business, indeed. Your sister asked me to speak to you. She is concerned about your behaviour with young men. After the contretemps of last week, and after the display I just witnessed, I can see why." "Oh, Anne!" she said scornfully. "Now she is married she will be insufferable. I have assured her that I shall not elope. That does not mean that I cannot talk to men." "Of course not," said Walter patiently. "But when you talk to them, you must maintain a ladylike mien. They will take their cues from your behaviour. If you are demure and proper, you will earn their respect. If you act the slattern, they will treat you as such." Anger flashed in Sophie's eyes. "As you treated Gwendolyn Clay?" she countered, then laughed at the look on his face. "Oh, yes, Walter, I know. Henry told me all about you and Gwen. You have no right to lecture me, sir." "Yes, my behaviour with Gwen was wrong," he admitted. "But I saw the error in my ways and I have corrected them. I will not take advantage of any other woman. But if Gwen had not made herself available, I would not have taken advantage of her in the first place." Sophie tossed her head and waved a hand dismissively. "Gwen is a ninnyhammer. I shall not give myself to any man without my marriage-lines, I assure you. Even Henry--he tried to sweet-talk me into letting him--but I would not. Not until we were married." "Clay was willing to wait because his main object was your fortune. You are fortunate that you did not tease him, or some other man, beyond his capacity to resist. Your high ideals would not have protected you then, I assure you." Sophie stared up at him defiantly. "I know what I am doing." "You little fool," said Walter angrily. He strode over to her and seized her hands, his face close to hers. "Do you not know what you did? You placed your father and your brother, and my brother, in a dangerous and difficult position. Did you seriously expect them to stand by and watch you throw yourself away on Henry Clay? Did you not realize that they were bound to protect you and your honour, not only by the conventions of society but because they love you? Be glad that they were not forced to fight Clay. I may not have had my brother's wedding service to perform today, but his funeral. Or your father's, or your brother's. Would you have liked that, Sophie? To be wearing bombazine and crepe instead of that pretty silk? To see your father, or Edward, lying in their coffin in that drawing-room, instead of your sister in her wedding-gown?" She was crying uncontrollably by then. "Stop," she said, sobbing. "Stop, Walter, please. I did not mean it. I did not think." "No, you did not," said Walter, releasing her. "But do think of that before you flirt with one of those puppies out there, or anyone for that matter. Think of your father or Edward on a cold field at dawn, facing off with pistols at twenty paces. Even if they were not killed or injured, being forced to flee to the Continent. You would never see them again. Think of that, Sophie. And remember what I said." "I will," she nodded, gulping, her face wet with tears. Walter took pity on her. "Very well," he said. "Now, pull yourself together. Have you a handkerchief?" She did not, and he took out his own and handed it to her. She scrubbed her face, and even the residual redness of her eyes and nose could not dull her beauty. Walter sighed to himself; he was sure his harsh words would keep her from disgracing her family for this day at least, and perhaps a little longer, but it would be a constant task to keep the bounders at a sufficient distance so that her head was not turned. "Do I look all right?" she asked, innocently. "Yes," he said, sighing again. "You are quite presentable, Sophie." She smiled at him, not coquettishly this time, but in a friendly way. "I shall think about what you said," she added. "I hope that you do." Sophie nodded and left the room. Walter did not follow her, but sat down heavily in the nearest armchair and sighed. He placed his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands, oppressed by the growing realization that this rector business was going to be a great deal more complicated than he had first thought. Continued in Next Chapter ~ Table of Contents By A Lady Comment on this story Home ~ Site Map ~ Contact Original Images and Content Copyright © 2002 by Margaret C. Sullivan. All Rights Reserved.