Page 52 of Lady Willa's Divinely Wicked Vicar
Chapter 11
He took stock of the reflection in the old cracked mirror. Haggard as one of his father’s hounds, he could carry rocks in the bags under his eyes. No, he’d not slept well. Fixing his white chasuble over his threadbare black robe, he thrust his nose closer to the tarnished mirror. A ghost of himself, he was, looking worse than if he still walked the Spanish plains. Good thing all eyes would be on the bride this morning.IfEsme appeared.
He wrinkled his nose.
But his doubts echoed Wills’s. After over-hearing what Esme’d said yesterday, Wills didn’t think Esme would marry this morning. But Esme, like all of them, was a creature of her upbringing. She did as she was bid, trained to do, follow the rules. She’d come. She’d stand and take her vows. Then she’d wait for her new father-in-law, the duke of Brentford to do the right thing and sign the papers that would make their contract legal and recognized as his son’s wife. The old roue was being a bugger because he wanted a bigger financial settlement from the well-to-do bride’s father. Money!
Money or politics or family honor! To hell with them all. None were reasons to marry!
“Sir!” A ragged voice hailed him from outside.
Charlie whirled.
“Surrr!” Whoever it was, took to pounding on his door. The rattle shook the rafters.
Charlie lunged toward the door, swung it open and there stood…or rather,weavedGeorge Billoughby.
“Vicar! Me wife! You tell ‘er.” The man wagged a finger at him and stumbled inside.
The waft of alcohol that shrouded Charlie made his eyes water. “Billoughby—” Charlie caught him as he fell against him.
“Com-ton. Me wife’s thrown ‘er pot a’ me.” He burbled, licking his lips, rubbing one ear.
“Your head?” Charlie tipped the man’s head this way and that. No blood there. But head wounds were the worst. The bleeding would be copious and the effects could be life-threatening.
Billoughby grabbed Charlie’s stole. “She’za witch. Mus’ shtop ‘er.”
“Come lie down, George.” He led him to the settee. But the man sprawled over it on one elbow like a lady enticing her lover. He’d most likely been up all night. “You’ve got to rest.”
“Can’t. Na here. Got to go home, ya see. Witch’z shpeakin’ agan’ me.”
“I understand why.”
George rose up again, yanking on Charlie’s stole as leverage. His face in Charlie’s, he spluttered about his wife talking against him to his children.
“Come, George. You’ve got to stop this. Stop the drinking. Rest now. Rest.” He pushed him down. He hated to go, but he couldn’t do much for him until he was sober. “I’ve got a wedding to perform.”
“Corrland’z girl. Good girl. Mad, ya know.”
Yes, well. Aren’t we all?“Rest. I’ll return later, George. That’s good. Put this over you.” Charlie swiped a knitted blanket from the back of a chair and threw it over him. It’d smell like a brewery tomorrow. So would his house. But what could he care until tonight?
“Stay there, George. Just stay.”
Best to get to the chapel. Prepare. Hope he did not smell like George when he got there!
He glanced at his ancient wooden wall clock. One minute more and the crazy rooster would pop out of his coop and croak like a frog on the hour. Nine o’clock. Time to go.
Charlie smoothed his wrinkled stole around his neck and grabbed his hat. Pocketing his own time piece in his waistcoat beneath his robe, he wondered what else he might do for George.
Douse him with well water?
Serve him right. But it’d be cruel, too. He couldn’t do it.
He carefully shut the door to his cottage and burst into a jog along the lane toward the church. Doffing his hat to two ladies who headed the same way, he passed them hoping the morning breezes would chase away any aromas of gin…and George’s sad condition.
Those on this path were from the village or from the Courtland farms. They curtsied to him or pulled their forelocks, though they needn’t. He’d oft told them not to pay him such obeisance, but they knew he was a duke’s son. And social strictures died hard.
He bore the burden of those rules himself. Confound it! Money, position and power. A lethal combination.
