The Elsingham Portrait - By Elizabeth Chater Page 0,58
get rid of that woman you’re harboring—”
“Mrs. Cameron, is it?” asked the Vicar quietly. “My poor woman, are you ill? Do come in and sit down. How can I help you?”
“You old fool, it’s yourself you’d better help—” began Elspeth. But this was too much for the men of the parish. Already embarrassed by the situation they had let themselves be led into by this woman, impressed as always by the Vicar’s gentle dignity, they found themselves shocked and shamed by Elspeth’s rudeness. And she not even a member of the church, but some non-conforming fanatic!
“Here, now then, Mistress Cameron, you’d best hold your tongue,” advised Jonas sternly. And Mrs. Tilley, resentful though she was of Newton’s behavior, was forced to agree with her husband that Farmer Bennet’s housekeeper had no business calling the Vicar an old fool. She moved forward and took Elspeth’s arm.
“Come away, Mrs. Cameron. We’ll let the men handle it,” she suggested gently enough, but her words and gesture angered Elspeth beyond endurance. To think that the girl she hated should be resting peacefully within this house, protected by the Vicar from getting her just desserts, and that now the village folk she had roused against the creature were turning craven . . . they’d let the wanton stay here to corrupt the hearts and minds of decent men like Richard Bennet, stupid fool that he was, too blind to see what the woman really was. . . ! Elspeth could not endure it. She jerked her arm out of Mrs. Tilley’s grasp and lunged toward the Vicar.
“You are harboring that Jezebel! Separating husband and wife! What kind of immorality is this in a Christian household?”
The Vicar did not flinch under the wild attack. “Poor woman, she is beside herself. Here, Tilley, Barry, help her into the parlor and I’ll have Newton prepare a cup of tea for her. Some of you ladies come in too; this poor creature cannot be left unattended. Is she having a fit, do you think? Should one of you men go for the doctor?”
Elspeth, firm in the grasp of the two men, stared from the Vicar’s gentle face to the stern visages of her captors. Then she glared around at the rest of her following, now a very sheepish-looking mob indeed. She knew she had lost the battle.
“No need for that,” she managed to say, harsh-voiced. “I’ll return to Bennet Farm, since these timorous Sassenachs have no stomach for a battle against evil. But I warn you all,” and she glared around the circle, “you’ll rue this night’s work, when that wanton destroys your children and ensnares your men—”
Whatever else she might have said was cut off as the villagers, uneasy now at the situation they had created, hustled her out of the Vicar’s hallway and onto the porch. Remembering that Richard Bennet would not be at the farm, the Vicar called out, “One moment, please, Tilley! I cannot bear to think of that poor woman trying to make her way home alone to the Bennet Farm. I suggest, therefore, that your good wife put her up in a room at your inn—I shall pay the charges, of course. Then she can have a quiet night to recover her wits before she takes the drive to the farm.”
There was a general murmur of approbation at this generous forbearance on the part of the offended party, and several men were heard to tell their wives that THAT was the man they had been urging their husbands to attack, and how they’d be able to face the good Vicar on Sunday their husbands couldn’t imagine. Whereat several of the wives protested that it wasn’t their idea to come on this wild-goose chase, and of course everyone knew the Vicar was a saint.
Listening to these and other comments as the erstwhile mob wended its way cautiously down the driveway and along the road—for the torches, neglected, had long gone out—the Vicar closed his door with relief. And turned to find Newton at his elbow with two large glasses filled to the brim.
Silently the Vicar accepted one, and silently master and servant toasted one another’s performance.
Nineteen
Richard was sorry that the distance between the vicarage and the Manor was so short. He had never held a woman as he now held Kathryn, seated before him on the saddle. She was warm and soft, yet firm, and he was very conscious of her fragrance and resilience in his arms.
“I am in love,” he said quietly, and