Page 17 of Lady Willa's Divinely Wicked Vicar
Chapter 5
Charlie rose up from the pew and his morning prayers of gratitude. All the Courtlands’ guests, including delicious Lady Willa Sheffield had departed from the house party yesterday morning. He had spent the day distracting himself from his sorrow to see her go. The only thing to take his mind from her leaving was to construct his plan to win her hand in marriage–and do it quickly.
But before he could fully comprehend the steps of that, he had a new problem to attack. His father’s.
“Time to go,” he said aloud to the altar and tucked the duke’s letter into the inside pocket in his waistcoat. His father had been brief in his missive, declaring his need to see him in person. The sooner, the better.
“‘This is not news, so much, as a hope you and I might discuss the future.’”
Charlie had a suspicion of the reasons for the man’s request. Indeed, since Charlie had turned seventeen, his father had cause to call him to him for comfort and advice. While he’d served abroad, his sire and he had not communicated but by letter—and they had missed each other sorely. Since Charlie’d come home from the wars, this was the third such summons. He had never refused, for the Duke of Southbourne was unlike many of his ilk. An attentive parent as well as a devoted master of his extensive estates, the eighth duke of his line tended to his duties with relish. Would that Charlie’s older brother Oliver and their father’s heir were as dedicated. In truth, had Oliver shown any indications of his responsibilities as steward of the Southbourne estate, Charlie would not have had cause to visit so often. He stood, as ever, ready to heed the duke’s request.
“Sir!”
At a woman’s urgent summons, Charlie spun toward her. “Mrs. Billoughby?”
“Aye, sir. I need ye, I do.” She stood at the chapel door, her eyes glassy, her old grey gown hanging from her thin shoulders. “My husband, sir. He’s not right. Ye must help me.”
Inwardly, Charlie sighed. But sent her a consoling smile. “I will do my best, ma’am.”
What he found when they came upon the man sprawled unconscious beneath an oak tree was no surprise. In his cups again, George Billoughby needed his bed more than he needed any sermon by his vicar.
Wyndym Abbey
Dorset
Four hours later, Charlie dismounted from his horse and handed the reins to his father’s groom. “Thank you, Harman. A big bucket of mash, a brush and a good rest is the ticket.”
“I’ll do well for ‘im, sir.”
Wyndym Abbey spread before him on the brow of the hills of Sussex. The red brick and limestone enclave was seven hundred and ten years old, once housing eighty or more Cistercian monks. Over the centuries, it had been altered to a sprawling maze of buildings. The main house was a mansion perched atop the rolling downs, like an eagle hovering over its nest. The windows were tall, thin and dark. The pale stonequoinsat the corners marched up three stories. The rooms were high and wide, cavernous really. The front door was a two-foot thick slab of oak that had kept out thieves, marauders and defied armies. In fact, it had stood against many, so said the scrolls unearthed from their hiding place in the medieval chapel’s floorboards.
The abbey had defied all the world, save the Tudors. Henry the Eighth, to be exact, took the monastery from its monks and gave it to his favored man, Ruark Alred Compton for his services. That man had aided Henry in his quest to impress the French King Francis on the Field of Gold. But it was the greater family legend, oft told, that Ruark was instrumental in securing the affections of many a lady for the sovereign, including the illustrious and ill-fated Boleyn girls.
Charlie loved the manse. In its endless halls, he’d delighted in playing bowls in the long corridors with his brother. The kitchen with its eight-foot-tall fireplace rivaled that at Hampton Court and the warmth of it could spread along the pantry and the estate offices up the stairs into the formal dining room. Though his mother oft complained of faulty flews and chills of the other rooms, she gave up her criticisms when she grew older. Instead, each afternoon she descended to the old kitchen to take her tea, read or write her correspondence.
“Welcome, Lord Charles.” The butler inclined his head, using the honorific of his status as the younger son of the family.
Charlie handed over his hat and pulled off his gloves to give those over as well. “Good afternoon, Clive. How are you?”
“Well, sir. Thank you for inquiring.”
“And your wife?” James Clive, now in his forties, had married the lively Irish housekeeper more than ten years ago.
“In fine health, sir.”
Charlie shrugged out of his great coat and let the butler take it. “I’m happy to hear it.”
“Your father works in his library. I can, if you like, show you up?”
“No need, Clive. I imagine he expects me?”
“He does, sir. He hoped you would come home straight away.”
Charlie—it was said by his father—had never disappointed him. The duke was easy to please. It was Oliver who saw it other and lived to prove it. God save him.
Charlie took the broad wooden stairs at a run. As was his wont, he offered a salute to the severe image of Ruark and his stoic wife hanging like guardians upon the walls. He smiled up at the portrait of Charles Edgar Compton, the seventh duke, his grandfather. The old man and he had played whist and chess from the earliest days that Charlie could remember. As that man lay dying, age seventy-five, he’d confided to his son that it was Charlie who should be heir. But there was nothing for it, as Oliver, wastrel that he was even then at age sixteen, had always seemed in perfect health.
“Good afternoon, Papa!” Charlie stood at the open doors to his father’s book-filled study. The shelves lined the four walls of the dark mahogany room. A four-foot-tall globe of the earth sat before the carved desk. In front of a map table, stood a matching globe of the heavens. He circled round them to approach his father and hug him.
