Page 22 of Miss Determined
“He’s probably no worse than the rest of his kind, but I pray heaven keeps him and his ilk far, far from the Arms. Can I get you some cobbler for your sweet? Ma makes the best pear cobbler you ever did taste, and we serve it with a dash of brandy and a dollop of whipped cream.”
“Perhaps later. I’m off to call on the vicar and stretch my legs a bit.”
“You’ll want to pop in at the vicarage smartlike. Vicar Raybourne likes a lie-down after his nooning. Getting on, he is. Ma says being holy all the time is hard work, but somebody’s got to do it, because heaven knows that’s certainly not a job for the likes of her.”
Miss Pevinger hefted her tray and decamped on a smile, while Trevor wished he were a Dorning in truth. He nonetheless made the short jaunt around the green to the vicarage, rapped on the door, and was admitted by a plump, graying housekeeper to a cozy, if slightly worn, study.
King James held pride of place on a standing desk by the mullioned windows, open to the Gospel of Luke.
The Blessing of the Hounds was rendered with competent good cheer over the fireplace—Amaryllis DeWitt’s work?—and a sofa liberally adorned with pillows suggested that Mr. Raybourne’s devotion to napping was pursued here as well.
“Vicar will be along shortly, Mr. Dorning. He’s working on Sunday’s sermon. Mr. Raybourne is very conscientious about his sermons.”
The twinkle in the lady’s eye suggested Mr. Raybourne had already embarked on his afternoon slumbers.
Trevor was rereading the parable of the Good Samaritan and feeling wretched about his conversation with Miss Pevinger when Mr. Raybourne bustled in.
“I have a caller, I’m told. A Mr. Dorning. Shall I have Mrs. Pevinger bring us a tray, or do we indulge in a tot to ward off the lingering chill of departing winter?” Vicar was a spare man with thinning white hair and snapping blue eyes.
“Trevor Dorning, at your service.” He bowed, which seemed to amuse Mr. Raybourne. “The air does still carry a slight nip, doesn’t it? Despite the bright sunshine and twittering birds, spring hasn’t yet arrived.”
“You and I shall get on quite well, Mr. Trevor Dorning. Do have a seat. What brings you to Crosspatch, and can you help us put a new roof on the nave? Naves are always needing new roofs, it seems—every hundred years at least—but then, the weather in England would try the roof of heaven itself. And if you don’t favor vicarage brandy, Mrs. P will be only too happy to bring us a tray. Gives her an excuse to linger at the door.”
Raybourne tossed a square of peat onto the desultory fire. “Mrs. P’s brother owns the inn,” he went on. “Between them, they hear every bit of news Crosspatch boasts, and I daresay I do too. You did a fine bit of riding earlier today, for example. That colt should have been started over fences long since. He’d like the work too. I know his sire. Don’t suppose you ride to hounds?”
He dusted his hands and gestured to the pair of reading chairs before the hearth.
“I can manage well enough in the second flight,” Trevor said, “but blood sport in general has no appeal for me.”
“You are a fine equestrian, as I have seen with my own eyes, but like me, you prefer not to be in at the kill. A gentleman of refinement.” Raybourne poured a bumper of brandy into a plain tumbler.
“A tot will do for me,” Trevor said, because indifferent brandy was not to be endured for any save dire medical purposes.
The vicar passed over a more modest portion. “To your health, a good growing season, and neighborly accord in the churchyard.” He took the other reading chair and sampled his drink.
Trevor raised his glass. “And a new roof for all the deserving naves.” He sipped and was pleasantly surprised. The brandy was far from flat, meaning Raybourne had either just opened the bottle, or he made short work of any bottle he did open. Trevor put the age north of four years—the oak came through, but politely—and the blend well balanced.
“Pevinger doesn’t dare supply me with inferior spirits,” Mr. Raybourne said. “I will wax loquacious in the pulpit, and the faithful do so enjoy my talent for brevity. I’m partial to Luke the Physician because he raises uncomfortable questions. Did you know we find the Good Samaritan and the Prodigal Son only in Luke’s gospel? Two of my favorites, but you did not come here to discuss Scripture.”
“I didn’t?”
“Of course not. You rode out with Amaryllis DeWitt and are smitten. We are all smitten with our Lissa. Then I see you trot back to the Arms aboard the self-same juvenile miscreant you rode out on, meaning Miss DeWitt at least nominally approves of you.”
Never underestimate a country parson or his housekeeper. “I understand the DeWitt ladies are in an awkward situation.”
“Lissa doesn’t mince words, does she? If I were twenty years younger… but I’m not, and Mrs. Raybourne has my undying devotion.” Raybourne took another sip of his brandy. “Lissa told you that her brother has gone missing, didn’t she? We don’t mention Gavin DeWitt around strangers, or much at all, but the boy needs to come home soon if the ladies aren’t to face dire consequences. Mourna DeWitt has got it into her head that Lissa must marry some fellow with enough consequence to take the solicitors in hand, though short of the Almighty and His holy thunderbolts, I’ve yet to meet the young fellow up to that task.”
To discuss the DeWitts’ situation beyond generalities struck Trevor as disloyal and indiscreet. “I’m actually in the area looking for a property to lease or purchase. Miss DeWitt was good enough to acquaint me with the surrounds and to introduce me to her family. She gave me to understand that Lark’s Nest and Twidboro Hall are both rental properties with some acreage.”
“You don’t want either one, sir, though you will excuse an old man’s blunt speech. The Marquess of Tavistock owns both, and he holds the living here at St. Nebo’s. He’s young, so we can hope that he learns some responsibility and compassion, but so far, he bears far too close a resemblance to his late father.”
Trevor took a fortifying taste of the brandy and prepared to be castigated in effigy once again. “You knew the previous marquess?”
“One doesn’tknowa fellow like that, not if one is merely a rural vicar. We might politely refer to the late marquess as old school. An uppish, titled prig with no concern for anything but his own consequence. One pitied his wife, a mouse rather than a marchioness. The present lordship is said to be on something of a grand tour, though I wish he’d tour St. Nebo’s nave. The roof leaks right over the front pew, and with luck, we could host his lordship on a rainy Sabbath. My parishioners would forgive me any long-windedness on that occasion. Have you considered Miller’s Lament?”
Did anybody haveanythingpositive to say about Lord Tavistock? “I want to grow grain for beer-making, and a miller’s lament would seem ill-suited to the venture.”
“Not that sort of lament. The land is all well and good, but the lament part relates to a marital situation dating from the time of Good Queen Bess.” Raybourne prosed on, about three daughters and three parcels of land, and the miller ending up with the best parcel and the homeliest daughter, with whom he had eleven children, et cetera and so forth.
