Page 42 of Rules for a Bastard Lord
“I am as pure as the Virgin Mary, Vicar,” she said stiffly. “I am traveling tomorrow to get proof. And then you will not stand in my way when I return.”
“Well, naturally I would not refuse any good woman where Charlie’s heart has attached.”
“Excellent. Because we both know that your son will need a good woman. One who can read and write in a fair hand, who will help him with his sermons and the mundane tasks of this living. Assuming, of course, he remembers to send gifts and please Lady Claybrooks in all the ways that august personage likes to be flattered.”
The vicar’s expression darkened. “I am not dead yet, my girl. This ismyliving, and I’ve no need for anyone to—”
“No, sir, you are not, thank God.” Part of her worried that God might strike her dead for pretending to be thankful. She did not like this man, and yet she would make a bargain with him for the good life of his son. “And yet imagine how you might benefit from my possets blessed by your own hand and sprinkled with holy water.”
He stiffened. “That is paganism.”
“No, sir. I seek your blessing as a member of Christ’s church. And we both know that herbs tended and properly cured—with a priest’s blessing—could bring in coin. For the poor, of course.”
He was not a quick thinker, but he got there eventually. He glanced at his worn vestments and battered furniture. His living was not a generous one, but it was a life that suited him and his son. Assuming, of course, there was a woman who managed the mundane tasks of life. She might also visit the sick for him, a task he loathed. And if she sold them a posset or two, then everyone would benefit. And she’d stop hearing him sling accusations of lewd heathenism at her from his pulpit.
“I don’t need help,” he said, but his words were slow, his brows furrowed in thought. It was only pride talking, but she would bet her garden that greed would win over pride.
“I’m a good Christian woman,” she said, just as she and her mother had been saying since the day she was born. “And I mean to marry your son.”
She stood up without acknowledging his ponderous frown. He would either help her or hinder her. Either way, she would marry Charlie.
A moment later, he called after her. “Go ahead. You may see Charlie.”
She found the vicar’s son easily. He sat where he often did, in the shade of his favorite tree with a book open on his lap. Sadly, the text was in Greek, so she couldn’t guess at its content. She sat down beside him and spoke sweetly.
“Hello, Charlie,” she said, then belatedly realized he’d been sleeping.
“Wot? Oh my… ’Ello, Bluebell. Wot you doing ’ereabouts?”
She smiled, knowing that Charlie would never criticize her accent. His was thicker than hers. “Were you studying?”
“Hmm? Er, I was cogitatin’,” he said with good humor. “But you know I’ve read this so many times, I can recite it in me sleep.”
“Was there a passage that you struggled with?”
He shook his head, then adjusted his position to face her directly. “Plato, well, most of the ancient philosophers ’ad a system of question and conversation. Argument wot pushed everyone to better thinking.”
“I see,” she said, not seeing at all.
“But I’ve got no one to argue with.”
Ah. Yes, his father was the closest thing to an educated man around here, and he was not one to appreciate discourse. The vicar’s style was quick judgment followed by vehement damnation. But his son was more of a talk-the-matter-to-death sort.
“You can talk to me. My Greek is terrible, but I would love if you explained it.”
“Truly? It’s ’ard to follow.”
She nodded. “Truly. I love the sound of your voice, even if I comprehend only a tenth of what you say.” That was a lie. She had a passing understanding of Plato, if not from her own tutor, then from many afternoons spent talking with Charlie. It pinched her ego that he forgot she’d wrestled with the Greek philosophers right beside him. But it wasn’t personal. Charlie forgot everyone.
Nevertheless, she looked forward to a pleasant afternoon of intellectual discourse wherein no one would pressure her to kiss or spread her legs or any such base things. Just Greek philosophy and no worries about how she spoke or what she said. After all, Charlie didn’t care what anyone said except that it pushed him to think deeper about his studies.
Simple. Peaceful. Relaxing.
And so damned boring, she struggled to keep awake.
*
Maybelle finally escapedCharlie to go home. She’d meant to go straight home and rest, but she’d heard from the vicar that little Sarah Grummer, the carpenter’s five-year-old child, was sick with a fever. “A bad one,” he kept intoning. “Very bad. Very sad to lose a little one.”
