The Rector of Uppercross
Chapter Three
Several birds rose squawking into the blue September sky, startled out of the underbrush by the beaters and the dogs. Walter raised the gun to his shoulder with the ease of long practice, sighted, and pulled the trigger. He dimly heard the echo of his father's shot, almost simultaneous with his own. The birds flew on undisturbed, the barking dogs running after them.
"Bad luck, son," said Mr. Musgrove, handing his gun to Thomas to be reloaded.
Walter handed his own gun to Thomas and accepted a loaded firearm in exchange. The beaters went shouting into the brush once more, disturbing yet more birds, who flew indignantly away. Walter lifted the rifle once again, then lowered it, distracted by a rustling sound in some shrubbery by the small dirt road that wound through his father's land. "Thomas, what is that?" he asked the servant in annoyance.
Thomas went to investigate, and called back, "It's a horse, Mr. Walter. A mare."
"A mare?" Walter walked over to inspect the creature. "Is she one of my father's?"
"No, sir," said Thomas. "She's one of Sir Frederick's. I saw him riding her when he hunted with Mr. Musgrove last."
Walter finally reached Thomas, who stood by the mare. The creature ignored them and continued to graze. A sidesaddle, thought Walter. Anne went riding with Charles--oh, dear Lord, I hope--
"She must have wandered away from Miss Wentworth," Walter said to Thomas, concealing his own more gruesome thoughts. The grave expression on the servant's face indicated that the concealment was not necessary; Thomas had leapt to the same conclusions. "I will go and look for them," Walter added, taking up the mare's reins. He handed the shotgun to Thomas, climbed up on a nearby fence rail, and managed to pull himself onto the mare's back without impaling himself on any of the protruding appendages of the sidesaddle. The single stirrup was much too short, adjusted to fit the petite Anne, and Walter did not bother with it.
"Tell my father that I will see him back at the Great House," said Walter. Thomas nodded and would have walked away, but Walter called him back. "Give me the gun." Thomas handed him the firearm wordlessly and watched him ride away, a crease between his brows; the Uppercross servants were as fond of Miss Anne Wentworth as were the Uppercross sons.
Despite the lack of stirrups, Walter managed to get the mare to a trot; she was a spirited creature and pulled at the reins, and he was hampered by the shotgun he held across the saddle, but he kept her under control. He followed the dirt path toward the Great House, and shortly before he reached the drive he saw two horses; as they drew closer, he realized that one rider was Charles, mounted on that great beast Wilfred, and the other was a grey carrying Henry Clay and Anne.
"Here you are!" Walter cried in relief. "I saw my uncle's horse grazing by the side of the road, and you can imagine how concerned I became when there was no rider." He noticed that Clay was holding Anne rather tightly and that she did not look at all happy about it. He also noticed his brother's rigid jaw and glowing eyes. "What's going on here?" he asked. "Anne, are you all right?"
"The mare was spooked by a fox and ran away," said Anne. "Mr. Clay kindly helped me." Clay grinned at Walter triumphantly. Charles looked as if he were about to explode, and Anne was obviously miserable, struggling in the most ladylike way possible to release herself from Clay's grip. Walter had seen how Clay treated women during his sojourn with Gwendolyn, although he had been too distracted by his own concerns to properly digest it at the time, and he was sickened to imagine Anne in such degrading circumstances.
"You have had quite a shock, cousin," he declared, attempting to clear the suddenly thick air with a touch of humour. "We must get you back to Uppercross. Perhaps Mamma will move over on the sofa and make room for you. My brother and I can take her there, Clay, you need not trouble yourself."
"It is no trouble," responded Mr. Clay, not loosening his grip on Anne. "We are very nearly there." They were at the foot of the drive.
"You may as well dismount here," said Walter. "I will take the horses to the stable. I espy my uncle Benwick's equipage in the drive, and I've no stomach for Byron and Scott today," he added, pointing toward his uncle's barouche, which had seen better days.
Anne stumbled as she slid from the back of Clay's horse. Clay caught her and held her tightly although she struggled to free herself. Charles was clearly enraged, but to his brother's dismay said nothing.
"Go on into the house," Walter said to Anne and Mr. Clay. "I require a few words with my brother." Mr. Clay offered his arm to Anne, who took it uncertainly, and they went into the house.
Walter grabbed his brother's arm and pulled him aside. "What are you about, Charles, letting Clay manhandle Anne like that?" he whispered. "Upon my word, you are a most unnatural lover. I would have driven him off with my crop."
Charles looked at him in surprise. "You know? You know how I feel about Anne?" he cried. "How could you? I only just realized it myself this day."
"It was obvious to me, brother, but remember I know you better than anyone," said Walter. "I saw how it was last night when you were dancing. I supposed you may need a push, but I'd no idea you would stand back and let another man walk away with her. Especially the likes of Clay."
Charles turned away, his head hanging, and Walter's pique faded at his brother's unhappiness. "What can I do, Walter, call him out?" asked Charles resignedly. "If she likes another man better than me, I would never stand in her way."
Call him out? Depend on Charles to respond so severely! "It would be one thing if she actually did like him better," said Walter soothingly. "I certainly did not stand in Catherine Leigh's way when she showed her preference for Edward. But I'll wager that Anne finds Clay as revolting as we do." Are you blind, brother? She is mad for you!
"You didn't find his sister revolting last night," Charles reminded him.
Walter laughed shortly. "Gwendolyn is a very...obliging girl," he said with a grin. He did not realize that the bitterness beneath his humour was not visible to his more literal-minded brother. "But you can't possibly imagine that I have any serious intentions toward her." Not after what has passed between us.
"Then I wish you would not behave in such an unbecoming manner."
"Don't lecture me, Charles," said Walter. "And don't change the subject. Go in there and claim your lady's hand." He took the horses' reins and started walking toward the stables.
At the stables, he delivered the horses to one of the grooms and turned back with every intention of returning to the house. However, as he walked away from the stables, his eye was caught by the spire of Uppercross Church, standing out amidst the treetops. Walter stood staring at the spire for several long moments, then found himself walking toward it, propelled by some unknown force.
The church door was open, as always; nobody in Uppercross would ever disturb the church. He entered the tiny sanctuary, lit only by the sunlight streaming through the stained-glass windows installed by his ancestors in commemoration of great events and deceased family members. The names and images of Musgroves past stared down at Walter as he made his way slowly up the aisle to the squire's pew; he could not shake the feeling that they stood in judgment upon him. Are you worthy to lead this parish? they cried. Are you deserving of the heritage we have passed to you? He had to admit to himself that, thus far, he had not been. But he also knew instinctively that it was not too late for him to change his ways. The question was whether he had the fortitude to do so.
He stood by the Musgrove pew, naturally the foremost and most handsome. This had been his vantage point of the building for his entire life. He remembered coming to Sunday service as a boy and sitting in this pew with his grandparents and parents and aunts and uncles. During school holidays, his father's mob of younger brothers and sisters overflowed into the pew directly behind, but as the young squire's son, Walter always had a place in the front. For so many years now, it had only been Walter, Charles, Elizabeth, and their parents; they barely used half the pew, yet the only other worshipers ever invited to share it had been their own house guests. And now Eliza will be gone. But perhaps Charles will bring his wife, and his children. He smiled at the thought of little Musgroves with Anne's delicate features, climbing about the pew and getting into mischief as their father and uncle had before them. And my wife and children? They would be entitled to a place here as well, especially if their father is at the lectern...
His gaze went to the chancel, separated from the pews by a simple wooden rail and gate. Walter walked toward the chancel, took a deep breath, and opened the gate and stepped through it.
From the lectern, the church appeared strange; perhaps it was the absence of light, usually supplied by the candles in the chandeliers. Perhaps it was the empty pews, which Walter usually only saw filled with his neighbors and the villagers. Or perhaps it was simply that his perspective had changed, in many ways. He had never realized that the rector stood physically higher than the worshipers, having to ascend several steps to reach the lectern. Walter looked down on the pews and imagined them filled, faces turned up to him, accepting the wisdom he offered like baby birds taking bits of food from their mother. He had learned doctrine at Cambridge, had studied Scripture and the lessons that the members of the Church of England were told to reflect upon daily, but had never realized the crushing obligation that the rector carried. It was he who would direct those souls in the pews, he who would give them the guidance they needed to follow the laws of God and the Church. Am I worthy of that duty? he silently asked the shades of Uppercross, reflected in the coloured windows along the walls. Can I do this? Or more to the point, should I do this?
He stood at the lectern for some time, his hands tracing over the leather binding of the old Bible placed there, gathering strength from his ancestors, collected here over the course of so many generations. When he finally left the church, Walter knew that no one could prevent him from fulfilling his destiny, not even Gwendolyn Clay; no one, that is, but himself.
Walter walked up to the house, deep in thought, and was nearly to the door when he looked up to see Anne Wentworth climbing into Sir William Elliot's carriage with Gwendolyn just behind her. What game are you playing now, Gwen? he thought angrily. Charles stood nearby, his brow contracted and his eyes glowing greenish-gold. He stared malevolently at Henry Clay, whose gelding pranced impatiently next to the carriage.
Gwendolyn turned her head and saw Walter. She held out her hand and called, "It is good to see you, Mr. Musgrove."
Startled into gallantry, Walter took her gloved hand and helped her into the carriage. He felt something sharp-edged in her fingers, and realized that it was a piece of paper, folded into a tiny square. Gwendolyn took her hand away, leaving the paper behind. Walter immediately closed the paper into his fist--it would not do to enter into an argument with Gwen, not out here in front of his mother--and pulled the fist behind his back, clasped in his other hand.
Charles stood beside the drive, watching the carriage drive away; Anne did not return his gaze. Walter wondered what in the world had happened at the house while he had been woolgathering in the church. His brother finally turned away and moved to enter the house; Walter stood in his path, gazing at him earnestly. Charles pushed past him and went into the house.
You have a nerve, Musgrove, Walter thought bitterly. You want to be the rector of Uppercross, want to guide and assist your parishioners, and you cannot even assist your own brother in his distress. A fine clergyman you'll make.
He went into the house and to his bedchamber, flung himself into a chair, and then remembered the note from Gwendolyn, still clenched in his fist. He opened the tiny paper and read the note, written in Gwendolyn's round and sprawling hand:
Walter love,
Do come to Kellynch tonight. I have a piece of news for you. My mother retires to her chamber at ten, and Sir William retires at eleven; Jeanne will let you in at a quarter past the hour.
Your Gwen
My Gwen indeed, Walter thought angrily. He would certainly go to Kellynch that night. He needed to bring that part of his life to a close, once and for all, before he could begin anew. The decision gave him some relief, and he dressed for dinner in a tolerably improved mood.
He slowed the horse as he approached Kellynch, fearing that the ringing of the horse's shoes on the stones would awaken the household. He approached the door, wondering what to do; he could hardly ring the bell. As he drew closer, however, his problem was solved; the door opened, and a headful of riotous black curls emerged.
"Monsieur Musgrove, sir?" came a hoarse whisper.
"Yes, Jeanne, it is I," he whispered, and she smiled and beckoned him in. Walter tied the horse to the post and followed her inside.
Jeanne led the way upstairs, the light of the candle she carried glancing off the walls. She paused by a door, opened it slightly, and peeked in. "Mademoiselle?" she whispered. Walter could not hear any answer, but apparently she received one that satisfied her, for she pushed the door open and stood back to allow him to pass the threshold, then closed the door behind him.
Walter entered the room, decorated in heavy wallpaper and fabrics that reflected Lady Elliot's vulgarly elaborate taste. He looked around as his eyes adjusted to the candlelight, and did not see Gwendolyn anywhere. He cautiously took a seat in a brocaded and fringed chair not far from the doorway.
After a few minutes, Gwendolyn emerged from a connecting room, her silken nightclothes trailing about her. Walter was amazed, as he had been in the past, how so much fabric could cover her body so ill; however, the sight excited not the desire it had in the past, but only a detached sort of fascination.
"Walter, my darling," she whispered, laying a hand on each of his shoulders and bending to press her lips to his.
Walter moved his head so that the kiss landed on his cheek, then gently pushed her back and stood. "Gwen, I am not here to make love to you," he said quietly. "I am here to tell you that I am aware of your activities to upset my brother's happiness, and that I will not stand for it."
Gwendolyn stared up at him for a moment, then burst into low laughter. "You must be joking, lover. I know not from whence you receive your ideas, but I assure you that the happiness of the Musgrove family is most important to me." She reached up and caressed his face. "One member of the Musgrove family in particular."
Walter turned his face aside and stepped away from her. "I no longer desire your favours, madam. I came here in the hope of appealing to your sense of propriety, although I see now that I was mistaken."
"Walter," Gwendolyn said, no longer laughing. "I have never known you to be cruel."
"You have not importuned on my family in the past. Whatever game you are playing with my brother and Anne Wentworth, you will stop immediately."
She raised her eyebrows. "I am afraid that it is not within my power to end that particular game, sir," she said coldly. "My brother has set his heart on marrying Anne Wentworth, and he has constrained me to assist him."
"Constrained you?" cried Walter. "How can he do so?"
"You forget," said Gwendolyn quietly. "I have a home only by my brother's sufferance."
Walter had never considered that part of Gwendolyn's life. Reflecting on his visits to the townhouse, he realized that Henry and Gwendolyn did not display the affection that Walter shared with Elizabeth. The Clays could be in the same room and barely acknowledge the other's presence. And Gwendolyn was correct; her home depended upon her brother's charity. Walter did not like to think of the requirements that Henry exacted upon his sister in exchange for his benevolence. "But Sir William gives you an allowance, does he not? Could you not hire your own establishment, perhaps engage a companion to live with you?"
"Sir William has informed Henry and me that he will no longer give us an allowance," she said quietly. "You see how that changes my position in my brother's household. He inherited the townhouse from our father when he reached his majority, and owns it outright, but I received nothing. Believe me, Walter, I have no desire to interfere in your brother's happiness with Miss Wentworth."
"But why has Sir William denied you now, after assisting you for so many years?"
"I suspect," she said with a wry smile, "that it had something to do with the fact that he has found my bed-chamber door locked during this visit."
Walter stared at her, a horrifying realization dawning upon him. "Gwen, you don't mean that he--" he stopped, unable to complete the thought.
Gwendolyn looked at him in surprise. "My dear, whom did you think first seduced me? Sir William was my first lover, when I was fifteen years old. I assumed that you were aware of our past--" she paused, searching for a word, "--connection."
"The villain!" exclaimed Walter. "To take advantage of you in such a way! You were under his protection, under his roof, his own wife's daughter!" Walter paced the room restlessly. "And where was your famous brother? He should have taken a whip to Elliot in the street. I have a mind to, myself."
"But you have no right," she responded gently. "And do not think that I was an unwilling victim. I took great pleasure in being able to give Sir William something that my mother no longer could."
"You were fifteen years old," said Walter softly, his heart aching for her. "You did not know what you were about, love."
"I knew," she said, just as softly. "Oh, I knew. And if I had it to do over, I am not sure I would do differently." Walter had no answer for this; his new feelings of sympathy for her had flown with her last statement, replaced with resignation and a tinge of sadness. She is debauched, utterly and completely. I can do nothing for her.
Taking his silence for approbation, Gwendolyn changed the subject. "I really invited you here tonight to tell you something very important," she said, smiling at him. "I am thinking of getting married."
Walter actually laughed at this. "Married? What victim have you entangled in your web, Gwen?"
"No victim," she said, still smiling. "I have a very willing partner in mind." She walked up to him and laid her hands on his chest. "I thought a great deal upon what qualities I required in a husband, and I realized that you, Walter Musgrove, encompass every one of those qualities."
"I find that difficult to believe," he responded, removing her hands and walking away from her once again. "I would think that a large fortune would be your first requirement."
"It is desirable," she agreed. "But the most important quality is compatibility. Surely you remember how well we got on together."
I could hardly forget it, Walter thought wryly.
Gwendolyn continued, "You understand me, Walter, as no one else could."
A few months ago, Gwen--nay, only a few moments ago--I would have agreed with you, but no more. The sight of Gwendolyn in Dalton's arms, burned into his memory, was before Walter as he spoke. "Compatibility between spouses is indeed important, but I would rank trustworthiness more highly. And that is why I could never marry you, Gwen." He had turned away from her and did not notice the colour rush from her face at this statement. "How could I marry a woman who would give herself to the first man who dangled a diamond trinket before her?"
Gwendolyn's paleness was replaced with an angry flush. "You dangled no such trinkets before me, and yet I gave myself to you. What does that tell you, sir?"
"It tells me, madam," he said deliberately, turning back to face her, "that you sell your favours mighty cheaply indeed."
"How dare you," she whispered. "I have never asked you for a shilling. And I have never sought anything from you but your affection." She pointed a shaking finger at the door. "You may leave, sir."
"Gladly." He walked toward the door. He paused there a moment, looking back at her, a last bit of regret still preying upon him. "What will you do, Gwen?" he asked her.
She would not face him. "I have made plans," she said quietly. "The Honourable Mr. Westfield has long been enamoured of me. I shall write to him in the morning."
"That moon-faced puppy?" Walter asked indignantly. "You cannot be serious!"
"Why do you think so?" she asked, her voice quiet and steady. "I must do whatever I deem necessary to maintain my situation. You have no right to speak to me thus."
"No," he agreed. "Good night, Miss Clay." He left, shutting the door softly behind him.
Gwendolyn moved to the window, which faced the front of the house, and watched Walter mount his horse and ride away. She had long ago trained herself to not weep in the presence of others, from the first time that Sir William had entered her bed-chamber all those years ago. But by the time that Walter reached the roadway, the tears she had been holding back began to course down her face, and she sobbed as sorrowfully as she had at the age of ten, wrapped in the arms of a boy who grew into the man that she loved.
Walter let the horse drink from the trough, then put him in a stall, carefully returning the tack to its proper place. He put out some hay for the horse, thinking, This is what I have learned from you, Gwen. I have learned how to disguise the evidence of my wrongdoing. God help me.
He unlocked the front door of the Great House and slipped inside. He shut the door quietly behind him and turned to see Charles, standing in his dressing-gown, gazing back at him steadily.
"You were at Kellynch?" Charles asked finally.
"I was. How did you know?"
"I saw Miss Clay hand you a note. I concluded that an assignation was being planned." The disappointment in his brother's eyes cut Walter to the quick.
"It wasn't what you think," said Walter. "I was breaking it off." He could hardly tell Charles of everything that had happened. Perhaps, some day, he would be able to do so, but not tonight.
Charles, of course, could not understand his brother's words. "Breaking it off?" he cried. "What sort of connection did you have with Miss Clay that needed to be broken off?"
Walter sighed. "Let us go into the library," he said. "A brandy would be most welcome." Despite Charles' disapproval, Walter knew that he would be a sympathetic listener, and his brother's sober consideration was exactly what Walter needed to order his confused thoughts.
In the library, Charles poured drinks for both of them. Walter took a gulp and threw himself into a chair by the dying fire. Charles seated himself nearby.
Walter stared at the glowing embers in the fireplace and tried to sort out what he should tell his brother. "It started earlier this year, when I was in London," he said. "We met by chance. Gwendolyn travels in a very fast circle, which I found exciting at first. She was very attentive, and I allowed myself to be flattered and petted into a more intimate relationship." He took another sip of his brandy. "Tonight she told me that Sir William is cutting off her allowance and her brother's. Apparently the baronet has tired of paying for their intemperate lifestyle."
"I can't say that I blame him," said Charles. "Henry Clay is perfectly capable of earning his own living, and had Miss Clay guarded her reputation more carefully, she might have married quite comfortably."
"She still thinks that she can," said Walter. He chuckled ruefully. "The silly bit of muslin thought I would marry her."
"Does that surprise you? After you acted the libertine?"
'Twas not I who seduced her first! "I and half the rakes in London! You have heard the talk about her, Charles, don't deny it."
"I have," Charles admitted. "She made an advance at me this afternoon."
Walter looked around at him in astonishment, entertained in spite of himself. "At you? Really? The look on your face must have been priceless! What I would have given to see it!" Although Gwen would have been more surprised had he taken her up on her offer!
Charles was not amused. "Anne may have seen us together," he said. "I can only imagine what she must be thinking about me."
Walter sighed, annoyed once again with Gwendolyn Clay and all her ilk. "I'm sorry. I had not considered that. Don't think too badly of Gwen, brother," he added, surprising himself somewhat. "She hid it well, but she is near desperation. She had some wild plan about a viscount's son who is enamored of her. I recall seeing him hanging about the townhouse, a round-faced puppy with shirt collars so high they looked like blinders. He will suit her admirably," he added bitterly. The brothers sat quietly for a time, watching the fading embers in the fireplace and sipping their drinks.
"I wonder if Henry Clay is in similar hopeless straits," said Charles thoughtfully. "It would explain his sudden attention to Anne."
"Anne's fortune is not large," Walter agreed. "But it would give him a stake and the means to settle any pressing debts." He was pained by his brother's troubled face. "I would not worry, though. Anne is a clever girl. I don't think she will be taken in by a fortune-hunting rogue." No, Anne loved Charles, of that Walter was convinced.
He set his glass down with a sudden resolve to fully unburden his heart. "Charles," he said, turning toward his brother earnestly, "Do you think Father would give me the Uppercross living if I took orders?"
His brother stared at him in astonishment. "Of course he would. Dr. Smythe has been eager these five years to retire and join his daughter in Brighton. He has only been waiting for you to take orders. What has convinced you to do so, after all this time?"
"Do you remember yesterday when I asked you if all this marrying business had persuaded you to follow suit? Well, I must confess that it has affected me." Walter stood and went to the brandy-bottle to refresh his drink. He took a sip and returned to his chair. "I cannot deny that I have spent the years since I finished at Cambridge in idleness and self-indulgence. My parents have never forced me to seek an occupation, and it was certainly not my preference to do so. There were many pleasures to be had and I was loath to give them up. However, I have long felt that something was missing in my life. Last night at my uncle's house, when I saw Catherine Leigh, I knew what was missing."
"You are in love with Miss Leigh?" asked Charles quietly.
"How can I tell?" asked Walter pensively. "I cannot even attempt to court her. I have no fortune, no title, no promised inheritance. I have nothing to offer a woman but myself. Until now, that has not been important to me. But I have come to regret my conduct of late. I am ready to make myself worthy of the regard of a girl like Catherine." He turned to his brother, who was smiling broadly. "Don't make fun of me, Charles, I can't stand it from you. You pattern-card, I know I should have been imitating your exemplary behavior all these years, but you should rejoice that your reprobate brother has seen the error of his ways."
"But I am delighted!" cried Charles, leaning over to slap his brother's back. "This is a turn of events that I confess I had not expected, but my pleasure is no less for the surprise. By all means speak to Father, but you should probably wait until all the excitement is past."
"I will," promised Walter. "As soon as Eliza and James are off for their wedding tour, I will speak to Father and Dr. Smythe. Hopefully that good man can be prevailed upon to convince the bishop that I am a proper candidate for the church, despite my chequered past." He drained his glass and set it on a table. "I am off to bed, brother, with a much lighter heart, now that I have unburdened it," he said. He looked at his brother, his heart overflowing with affection. "Thank you, Charles. I meant it when I said that I wish I had patterned my behavior on yours."
Charles was silent for a long moment. "I have never set myself up to be a pattern-card," he said finally. "But I am glad that you consider me such, if it has aided your decision."
Walter grinned at his brother and exited the library, his mind already awhirl with plans and hopes.
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