To Tempt the Saint Read online

  Eight

  The rain dribbled down the window and George watched it blankly.

  So gray and dreary. Life.

  But it continued on.

  George had discovered that early on, and here he was discovering it again.

  No matter how one felt about the matter, life continued on.

  Collin pushed in the door without knocking, he’d probably brought tea, and George, for one bright moment, was grateful for his friend.

  A true and steady friend, here whenever he was needed.

  Collin held a letter in his hands, not tea, and George closed his eyes.

  “It’s from your father, George.”

  “Throw it in the fire.”

  He’d been so looking forward to writing his father, months ago. To having the satisfaction of choosing a wife before the old man could.

  To knowing that, no matter what his father said or thought, George had chosen his own future.

  And now, he had nothing again.

  No want or purpose. No reason to be anything but what someone else had long planned for him to be.

  Collin dropped the letter on George’s lap and said softly, “It’s Henry.”

  George didn’t wait for Collin to be ready, didn’t pack anything, didn’t stop to even think how long he would be gone.

  And he was grateful to be so close to home. Grateful that it only took a couple hours of hard riding to be running up the front steps, hardly taking the time to throw the reins of his borrowed horse to the nearest servant.

  He ran to his brother’s room, stopping with his hand on the knob.

  He didn’t pray, just paused. And wished he could pray.

  He pushed the door in and Lord St. Clair sighed in relief and then stood, looking as if he’d aged ten years. Old and frail and worn out.

  And Alice, sitting next to the head of the bed, stared vacantly at a spot on the floor, tear tracks marring her face though no tears were falling right then.

  She didn’t look at him; he doubted she knew he was there.

  Henry lay in his bed, his breath ragged, his face pale and ghostly.

  Dying. Again. For the last time, it looked like.

  Henry had been getting sick for years, closer to death with each episode, and George had never come before.

  His father had never sent a letter like this last one.

  Henry needs you. Please, come.

  Short, no explanation. It had been more alarming than if his father had described every detail of Henry’s failing health.

  But it had seemed as if his father couldn’t spare the time it would take to even write how bad this episode was, and George had come running.

  Lord St. Clair helped Alice to her feet and she protested.

  “I can’t leave him.”

  “George is here.”

  “He’s here?”

  When his father nodded, she looked around the room, and then the tears started falling.

  She whispered, “No.”

  As if a word could stop Death when he was waiting.

  As if it was George who would swoop in and take the father of her children, the man she’d loved for years.

  George had no power here. No way to speed or slow his brother’s passing. No way to end his brother’s misery. No way to end Alice’s.

  George was a vicar. Not for very long and not a very good one, but he knew what his duty was.

  Comfort. Peace. As much as he could give to the both of them.

  But he had none for himself; he didn’t know how to give it to them.

  Lord St. Clair gently guided Alice out the door and she called over her shoulder, “Please, George! Pray for him. Don’t give up on him yet. Please!”

  Her cries woke Henry and he stirred, groaning. He took a shallow breath, opening his eyes enough to recognize his brother and then closing them again.

  “Comfort him, son,” their father said as he pulled the door shut.

  George pulled the chair around to face the bed and took up the vigil. He put his head in his hands and stared at the blankets so he wouldn’t have to stare at his dying brother’s face.

  Henry spoke slowly, haltingly. “I’m glad. You came. I wanted you. To hear my sins.”

  “Henry–”

  “Not you, the vicar. You, my brother.”

  George closed his eyes. “Then I will be forced to tell you mine and no man wants those to be the last words he speaks to his brother.”

  “Now or never. George. And I need. Your forgiveness.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “I loved her.”

  George whispered, “Not a sin.”

  “Not for you, either. I hated you.”

  George kept his head in his hands but opened his eyes and looked up.

  Henry said, “Forgive me.”

  Emotion welled in George’s throat and he couldn’t speak, and Henry said, “I was Cain. You were Abel. You know, able.”

  Henry grinned slightly at his own joke and George shook his head, suddenly thinking of Twiggy. Suddenly thinking she would have something to say here. A quote with a double meaning. And he thought Henry would have liked her.

  At least the her George had known.

  “I was so jealous. Of your health. Your future. I, the elder. But treated. Like the younger. Like a child. I hated you. And when I. Had the chance. I killed you.”

  George sat up and folded his arms. “Then we are having a very interesting conversation.”

  Henry whispered, “I knew you loved her. And I took her.”

  The room absorbed his confession and the silence was so loud, the roaring filled every part of George.

  The emptiness filled him.

  The emptiness had filled him since the moment his brother had ripped his heart from his chest.

  Henry shifted painfully on his death bed. “I should have died. Before it was too late. For you and her. Better for everybody now. If I just sleep.”

  “Better for no one,” George said and scraped his chair back.

  He stomped from the room. Past Alice leaning against the wall just outside the bedroom and weeping silently into her handkerchief. Past his father, sitting in a chair and staring blankly at nothing. He jerked when George flew past.

  “Is he. . . Did you. . . Did you comfort him, son?”

  George shouted, “No!”

  He stomped down the stairs and out the door and didn’t stop.

  Wouldn’t stop.

  He’d keep on going until he hit the sea. And he wouldn’t stop then, either.

  Pray for him, George. Comfort him, son. Forgive me, brother.

  What was he supposed to do? What?

  Did they think he spoke directly into God’s ear?

  Did they really think he was a man of God? He wasn’t.

  Only a man.

  A prideful, lustful, greedy, vengeful man.

  A man who’d hated his brother for so long, he couldn’t stop. Not even now, when it was too late.

  George didn’t make it to the sea.

  The graveyard stopped him in his tracks. His mother’s grave called to him.

  They would bury Henry here, next to her, and George lifted his head to the sky.

  He took you. I asked and I begged and I cried, and He took you anyway.

  And I raged and I cursed and I hated, and He didn’t take Henry.

  He paused before entering the consecrated ground, just a slight check, and then firmly planted his boot on the soil.

  He wound his way toward his mother’s headstone. Cold and empty and neglected for so long, and he didn’t know what she could do.

  Mother, your sons need you, and he’d said that once before. Right before she’d left them, right before she’d died, because she’d had no choice.

  And he realized the emptiness had filled him long before Henry and Alice.

  He squatted and pulled at the plants growing at the base of the stone.

  “I can’t pray for Henry now,” he said to no one. “I don’t dare
; God has never answered any prayer of mine.”

  A bird twittered in a nearby tree and a cow bell rung in the distance.

  “And what would I say, anyway? Let him live? Let him continue to suffer when all he wants is peace? When death would end his pain?”

  No answer. Like always. And George fell on his rump, propping his arm on his knee.

  No answer.

  Only the birds chirping.

  Only the wind rustling the leaves in the trees.

  Only the cows lowing softly.

  Only Alice weeping and his father mourning and his brother dying.

  Pray for him.

  Comfort him.

  Hear his sins.

  Be a vicar, when he would rather be anything but.

  George picked up a little twig that lay on the grass, twisting it in fingers.

  He still had the twig Miss Twiggy had given him. A token of her esteem, and he’d felt so stupid for cherishing it.

  For thinking he’d loved her when she’d been lying about who she was.

  Just like he was lying about who he was. Lying still.

  A vicar, when he was anything but.

  “It isn’t the same,” he said to the twig.

  But. . .what kind of woman gave a man a twig as her favor?

  What kind of man would cherish a twig?

  And how would she have known?

  And he wondered for the first time just how many there had been. How many men had thought they’d found their future when they’d found her.

  He still thought of her, far too often.

  Still wished he could sit next to her. Here. And tell her about his brother and Alice. Tell her about his father.

  Talk with her and tell her all the horrible parts of himself and listen for her censure and then, never hear it.

  As if she already knew.

  I don’t know why I like you, she’d said. Sour, she’d described him.

  George smiled.

  He was sour. And he sourly missed her.

  She didn’t exist, and he still missed her.

  George went back to his knees and worked once more clearing around his mother’s grave.

  Loving mother, devoted wife.

  And then below that, hidden beneath the growth and neglect.

  Thy will be done.

  George stopped and stared, wondering why his father had added that. The man was not known for being humble, for meekly accepting what life handed him when he could just as easily play God himself.

  Except he hadn’t been able to save his wife. Hadn’t been able to heal his son.

  Only to work with what he was given.

  To somehow know what was a choice and what wasn’t.

  How was one supposed to know the difference? How was one supposed to know His will when there was never any answer?

  Only the birds and the cows and the wind.

  Only a long-buried mother. Only a brother he loved and hated.

  And a woman he couldn’t stop thinking about.

  George. . .didn’t pray, couldn’t pray, but he whispered, “I’m not a vicar. I can’t do it.”

  But, what else was there?

  Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns. . .

  George looked up.

  Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin. . .

  George looked down.

  Wherefore, if God so clothe the grass of the field, which to day is, and to morrow is cast into the oven, shall he not much more clothe you, O ye of little faith?

  George stood up.

  Matthew 6:26-30

  George sucked in a breath and heard nothing else.

  Alice and Lord St. Clair were inside Henry’s room when George climbed back up the stairs. They rose, as if to leave, and he stopped them with a raised hand.

  He stood at the foot of Henry’s bed and opened his Book of Common Prayer.

  And for the first and last time, he comforted his brother and prayed for his healing and heard his sins.

  For the first and last time, he prayed with his whole heart.

  For the first and last time, he was a vicar.

  He began, “Peace be to this house, and to all that dwell in it. . .”

  Honora stayed in York longer than a week.

  Three little girls had clung to her, crying and wailing, and Freddy’s little chin had wobbled while he’d tried not to, and Honora had given in.

  Her father wouldn’t have been surprised by her lack of resolve anyway, though she did refuse to eat meals with him again. And after the first night she went without dinner, a tray had been sent to her room each evening.

  There were many things she thought of her father, but he would not let her starve while she stayed under his roof. Would not throw her out if she wouldn’t leave herself, and somedays she wished he was universally hard. That she didn’t have to reconcile his care for her with his utter lack of respect.

  But she stayed, and she stayed away from him. She surrounded herself with her sisters, brushing hair and tying ribbons and listening non-stop because they never stopped talking. She played with her brother, glad that her father had finally got the son he wanted more than anything.

  Honora was allowed to take them out of the house as long as a maid and a footman accompanied them, and she knew her father hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d said that he would keep Chastity from making the same mistakes her mother had. That there would be no opportunity for sin to enter his household again.

  The maid and footmen sandwiched their little group today. Honora, Temperance, and Chastity had decided to take a walk atop the restored sections of the city wall– Honora wanted to see the new Victoria Bar entrance that had been opened in the wall since she’d left and the girls had both been promised a small birthday gift.

  The girls chatted happily and Honora pointed out sights that were somehow both intimately familiar and long forgotten, and she nearly missed the gentleman leaning against the wall inside one of the circular tower outcroppings.

  His hat sat squarely on top of his head and he read the newspaper as if he didn’t have a care in the world and Honora’s stomach filled with lead.

  She stopped pointing and talking, tilting her chin down to hide her face with her hat. She forced herself to keep pace with her sisters and not turn and run like she wanted to.

  They passed him, her sisters still laughing and giggling. One step, ten steps, fifteen. . .

  And then a voice behind her called out, “Oh, Miss Kempe? How do you do?”

  The girls stopped, turning to see who had called out, and Honora ground to a halt.

  He knew her name. Her real name.

  Honora turned slowly and faced George. She forced the dread from her voice before saying, “Why, Mr. St. Clair. You’ve found me.”

  He folded his paper and took a step forward and Honora took an involuntary step back. She murmured to the footman, “Take the girls ahead. I’ll only be a minute.”

  When the footman hesitated, she said with a guileless smile, “I won’t stray from your view.”

  The footman began herding the girls forward and George pulled his hat from his head, sketching a slight bow.

  “You look well,” he said.

  “And you.”

  She looked behind her, making sure her party was out of earshot, then dropped her smile.

  “Are you here alone or should I look for Mr. Moffat as well?”

  George replaced his hat and motioned for her to continue on her journey. She hesitated, looking over the side of the wall, and he said, “Don’t worry. It’s too short of a fall for there to be much use in chucking you over.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him, then turned and began walking toward her sisters very slowly.

  He joined her, saying, “Last I heard, Mr. Moffat was in Bath. He journeyed there from Edinburgh.”

  Honora forgot to breathe.

  “He’d made friends with a haberdasher.
Are you all right, Miss Kempe? You look pale.”

  She sucked in a breath. “Fine.”

  “Hm. How many were there?”

  She didn’t answer, her heart beating too loud for her to think of anything clever, and George tilted his head.

  “Fellows you’ve jilted,” he clarified, as if she didn’t know what he was asking. And when she still couldn’t answer, he frowned. “That many?”

  “Why are you here? To see that I am punished for my crimes? I stole nothing from you.”

  “Didn’t you?”

  “We were engaged for but one day. No one knew.”

  “I knew,” he said and Honora closed her eyes briefly.

  George said, “I wanted to find you. The real you.” He looked at the little party ahead of them. “This was not what I was expecting. The daughter of a dean? Well-off and well-cared for. No need for your charades, at all.”

  Need. Honora supposed she could have stayed and died living under her father’s roof. It’s what she should have done.

  But every day, she’d watched her baby grow older and everyday she’d been able to breathe less and less.

  Even now, she looked at Chastity and the rage built inside her breast. Rage at the way the world was. Rage that she couldn’t do anything to change it.

  Only rage at it, and hurt, and make those who would never have to suffer like she had, pay.

  She said, “No need. Only a choice I made. How did you find me?”

  “Would you believe that as soon as I wondered where you’d run off to, I thought of York? Realized that you’d spoken of York with longing in your voice and then it was but a short jump to conclude you might come here. Though if you had not been here. . .I don’t know where I would have headed next. Perhaps to Bath like Mr. Moffat; forced to work backwards to find out from whence you came.”

  “It was very clever of you, Mr. St. Clair. I applaud you.”

  He smiled at her tone. “Yes, you sound quite appreciative. Are those your sisters?”

  Honora whirled toward him, stepping in front of him and stopping them both.

  She didn’t know what she would have said. If she would have begged to keep her sisters, her family, safe.

  She’d never thought, never, that anyone could have followed her trail back to York.

  Never thought that if she’d been caught, anyone else would pay except for her.