Page 10 of Heartbreaker of the Ton
Why did he not continue?
The silence seemed to stretch, and she held her breath, tensing her body in anticipation for…
For what? Condemnation? Would he single her out as the ultimate sinner—yet another man to condemn a woman for a moment of weakness, declaring that, no matter how fervently she prayed for forgiveness, her tenancy in hell was already secured?
The child in her arms began to cry as she tightened her embrace with the instinct to protect him from the condemnation of the world.
Bastard. By-blow…
Words she’d heard before—hushed whispers from the doctor who’d delivered her son, leaving her bleeding and in pain so that he might return to his worthier patients as quickly as possible. Reverend Gache’s protests of allowing sinners into his church, which were abruptly silenced by the clink of Papa’s sovereigns.
Tears pooled in her eyes as she clung to her son. He let out a wail that echoed around the church, and a volley of tuts and hisses filled the air. The family at the front turned their heads in unison, the bright, wide-brimmed hat of the squire’s wife almost knocking off her daughter’s bonnet.
“Well,really!”
Etty cringed. How she longed to yell back at the woman—to ask her whether she believed there to be no sin greater than a child crying! But she had come to Sandcombe to hide away from judging eyes. To be left alone.
“Hush, my love,” she whispered, rocking her child to and fro. But his cries persisted. Perhaps, if the vicar continued his sermon, the congregation would ignore her and resume their attention on him.
She looked up. He was still staring at her, but the soft, searching expression in his eyes had gone. Instead, they had darkened with anger. His hands, which he’d been gesturing with while he spoke, now clasped the edge of the pulpit, the knuckles whitening.
Perhaps that was what his sermon was really about—that there were some sins which could never be forgiven.
Etty stood, cradling her son in her arms. The vicar’s eyes widened and he leaned forward, as if to see her better.
She slipped out of the pew then retreated toward the door. The vicar opened his mouth as if to speak, and she grasped the door handle and turned it, wincing as it creaked open. She exited the building, the door swinging back with a bang. Then, clutching her son, she ran through the churchyard, only slowing once she was out of sight of the church.
Chapter Six
“Amostinterestingsermon, vicar,” Lady Fulford said as she exited the church, arm in arm with her husband.
“Thank you, Lady Fulford.”
Andrew bowed his head in acknowledgment, awaiting the admonishment. Lady Fulford always described something she found fault with asinteresting. It was her way of acknowledging the efforts of those she considered lesser beings, while also explaining how they must do better next time.
“Though I fail to understand,” she continued, her nasal whine set at just the pitch to scrape against his nerves, “why you saw fit to ask so many questions.”
“A vicar does not exist to instruct his congregation on what to do, Lady Fulford,” he replied. “His role is to present his congregation with questions on pertinent issues.”
“Nonsense!” she scoffed. “What’s a vicar’s purpose if not instruction? You are responsible for the moral and spiritual welfare of your flock, Mr. Staines. A shepherd must instruct his flock to prevent them from straying.”
“My flock consists of men, women, and children, Lady Fulford—not sheep,” Andrew said. “The Almighty has gifted us with the free will to decide for ourselves what we must do. We should therefore be given the empowerment to make our own decisions. An act of goodness has little merit if it’s undertakenunder coercion or instruction. But if it’s undertaken with free will, gladly and joyfully, then it has greater merit.”
“Free will is all well and good, vicar, but if all of us had free will, the world would descend into chaos,” she said. “Would it not, Sir John?”
Her husband nodded. “Quite so, my dear. Not all of us are the same. Consider the difference between men and women, for example. Men are stronger and more capable of directing the world. That is why a woman vows to obey her husband—so that she might act upon his instructions. And then”—he gestured toward the other people milling about the churchyard—“there’s the distinction of rank. The lower classes rarely know what’s best for them, and are in need of instruction in order to survive.”
“Instruction from men such as yourself?” Andrew couldn’t help asking.
Sir John narrowed his eyes, and Andrew suppressed a shudder at the flicker of spite in their expression—the pale blue the color of ice. Almost involuntarily he glanced toward Mr. Gadd, who stood less than ten feet away. The farmer watched them, apprehension in his eyes, his youngest daughter standing beside him. Then he touched his cap and bowed his head.
“Sir John,” he said.
The squire glanced at the farmer, then took his wife’s arm and strode out of the churchyard.
Andrew lifted his eyes to the sky for a moment, uttering a silent prayer for the uncharitable thoughts that always entered his mind when he spoke to the Fulfords.
And for the ungodly degree of anger that had gripped him during the sermon when he’d overheard Lady Fulford voicing her disapproval of the crying child.
