Page 22 of The Curse of Penryth Hall
I took a fortifying breath and stepped into the morning room.
Tamsyn was seated in the very same chair I’d occupied during tea with Mrs. Penrose earlier this morning. My gaze flitted to her strained and vacant expression. Much the same as the one she wore at dinner with her husband. Her expressive hands were folded and still in her lap, bearing a distinct resemblance to a butterfly under glass.
Neither she nor her companion acknowledged my presence at all, so consumed by their conversation that I might have been a ghost myself, or some ephemeral thought not worthy of a second notice. I leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, and took in the tableau before me.
The man at her side looked to be a vicar, based solely upon the dog collar he wore. A rather rounded and jolly-looking man. Cheeks pink and flushed, possibly a score younger than Mr. Owen, but decidedly less clever looking than the old man. His skin, other than his face, possessed a rather mealy shade of pale. The sort of fellow who couldn’t be in the sun more than a handful of minutes before taking on a decidedly porcine hue.
There was an almost tangible snap in the room when Tamsyn’s eyes lit upon me and her expression brightened. “Ruby!”
My heart gave an irrational start at my name. She thrust her hand out for me to join her, and like a fool I went, settling my hip against the faded Chippendale chair she occupied.
She put my fingers in her own and clasped them tight to her shoulder. “Reverend Fortescue. This is the woman I was telling you about.”
I could only imagine what she had said about me. Clearly not the truth of our connection or the good vicar would haverun for the hills to save his own immortal soul, rather than sit across the drawing room with such unabashed admiration on his face. At the very least, the fellow would have begun rummaging the well-worn pages of his prayer book for a suitable bulwark against my corrupting nature. Amused by my own imaginings, I glanced down to his hands. Odd that he didn’t have one. What sort of vicar came condoling without a prayer book?
“Ah, the estimable Miss Vaughn, is it?” He smiled at me with far too many teeth. Even and uncannily white. One should never trust a man with too-perfect teeth.
“I’m not certain on how estimable I am, but I’m Ruby Vaughn, yes.”
He laughed at that, a bit too loudly. His smile indelibly printed upon his face as his blue eyes wetly took in every ounce of me. And while I wasn’t up to snuff on religious affairs, I was quite certain that he was thinking things his maker would take issue with.
The room was close, stale, and thick. In stark contrast with how it had been a few hours before when I sat in here with Mrs. Penrose, polishing off the contents of my flask. I longed to yank back the thick damask curtains and unlatch the windows—let in the light of day. The birdsong. Something. Yet Tamsyn held my fingers in a vise, pealing out her fear clear as the Penryth Bells.
Her thin chest rose and fell rapidly. I squeezed her shoulder. Her bones far too frail as if she had been slowly wasting away over the last two years. A thought that I couldn’t bear.
“It heartens me you’re here with Lady Chenowyth in her time of need.”
Another squeeze.
She was trying to tell me something. Her thumb drummed nervously on the side of my hand. I shifted my grasp enoughto hold her still with my own. She was revealing too much to this man. Though I hadn’t a clue what she was trying to tell me.
“As any good friend would.”
His gaze shifted from Tamsyn to me.
“Yes, as I was telling Lady Chenowyth.” He cleared his throat with a moist hack. “I’ve heard the most horrific whispers about her poor husband’s demise. It’s unfathomable what stories people will concoct to explain what’s in truth naught but the devil’s work.”
Tamsyn’s pulse galloped beneath my thumb. Her skin was growing damp. “The devil, Reverend? I cannot believe that an educated man of the cloth would believe in such things as curses.”
“I don’t, Miss Vaughn. I simply mean it’s the sinful nature of man that’s done the deed.” His cerulean eyes sparkled with barely concealed glee. “All this talk of curses and beasts… It’s heathen nonsense. Carryovers from the pagans. Popery even.”
I schooled my expression into an imitation of well-heeled boredom and sniffed. “Indeed.”
“You see, this is precisely what occurs when you allow the uneducated to self-govern. I was telling Lady Chenowyth the same just moments before you arrived. You see, the common folk need people like us—of good breeding—”
I nearly choked.
“To guide them with a firm hand. Shepherd them if you will. Otherwise, if left to their own devices, not only are they vulnerable to the most venal sins, but they also come to the most perplexing notions.”
Like a man rising from the dead?But I didn’t voice my annoyance. It was no good arguing with those whose minds were already iron-tight. The man perplexed me. Sir Edward was scarcely cold, and yet the vicar had already arrived. Hurryingto the house and secreting himself away with the grieving widow when it had only been perhaps a handful of hours since the body had been discovered. Perhaps he was only here out of Christian charity, but something in his demeanor told me there was another motive behind his swift appearance.
The vein at his temple bulged as he carried on the conversation entirely on his own. “I’ve heard that the mad housekeeper here has called for thePellar.” Reverend Fortescue’s cheeks grew even more ruddy at the mention of Mr. Kivell.
“Mmm…” I’m not sure what devil had gotten into me. But I was beyond tired of listening to him go on. “Ah, yes, I left him not a few moments ago, your Pellar. Quite a charming fellow. Found him in my bed. Well. Under it, to be precise.”
The vicar choked for a moment before recovering his composure. “Charmer’s more like. Barely civilized, preying upon the poor, weak-minded members of my flock. You won’t find him in a pew come Sunday. What may I ask was he doing under your bed?”
“Whatever he wanted, I presume, as I wasn’t there to keep him company.”
