The Lord I Left Read online

  Finally he sighed, and looked over at her with a posture of defeat.

  “Alice, I’m not going to be able to get you to Fleetwend in this weather.”

  Chapter 9

  Henry had developed a theory about the humming: Alice hummed the way he prayed.

  To ease her worries. To be alone inside her thoughts—or perhaps to be released from them. To turn them outward, so that inside, she had peace.

  And so he hummed too, because prayer eluded him just now. He felt defeated.

  All day, he’d studied Alice like she was a verse of scripture he was trying to illuminate. Her broken sobs the night before. Her seeming inability to acknowledge her vulnerability and grief in the light of morning. Her joy in simple, earthly pleasures—raindrops, hot buttered rolls. Her fierce convictions about her work, and his, and her impish delight in rattling him. The way she was sometimes so intense it felt like her gaze might scorch him—and sometimes so dreamy that had he not been acutely aware of her body’s nearness, he would have thought she’d floated away when he wasn’t looking.

  He could not remember the last time he had met a person who made him contort his mind to comprehend her—to pin her down as this or that. There was a singularity to her that seemed to defy classification. An originality that was precious—worth protecting.

  And he was failing at it.

  He knew it was not his fault that the weather had turned too severe to finish the journey, but he felt responsible. And disappointed, for he had hoped it was within his gift to lift the burden of worry from Alice, rather than to contribute to its protraction.

  (And was there not, if he was honest, a selfish motive too? Had he not wanted her to look at him and know that, whatever their philosophical differences, he had come to her aid? Had he not wanted her admiration, or at least her gratitude?)

  (He had. Nay, he still did.)

  But he had only added to her worries.

  Why had he debated with her? If the Lord wished for Henry to remind Alice of His love for her, surely discussing sin and punishment was not the way. He should have told her of the way the Lord could hold you. The comfort of the endless, awe-inspiring sacrifice of Christ.

  He’d done exactly as his father always said: put principle ahead of people.

  And now he sat beside this girl he’d failed, braced in the shameful echo of the words he’d known were true for an hour, but had not been able to bring himself to voice until this moment: I’m not able to get you to Fleetwend in this weather.

  He snuck a glance at her, fully expecting to see contempt written on her face for his inability to do what he had promised. Fully feeling he had earned it.

  But she merely looked up at the sky and nodded.

  A realist, apparently, Alice Hull. He was not sure why this surprised him.

  “There was a sign for an inn a half mile away. Leave me there and I’ll catch the next mail coach that comes through once the snow stops. You’ve been more than generous in taking me this far.”

  “No, of course not. We’re near enough to my father’s house to make it there. I’ll take you with me and as soon as the roads are passable, we’ll drive on to your mother’s. If the weather clears overnight, we could get there by mid-morning.”

  She looked at him like he had sprouted horns. “You want to take me to your family home?”

  He nodded, not acknowledging the implication of her question, though he knew very well what she must be thinking.

  “It’s no imposition,” he said quickly. “They have plenty of space.”

  She laughed softly. Lack of space would not be the reason for their objection to bringing home a woman such as Alice, and her eyes made clear she knew this as well as he did.

  “And how were you planning to explain where you’d collected the likes of me, Reverend?”

  Well, he couldn’t.

  He had offered to take her to Fleetwend assuming that he could deliver her to her door without anyone who knew him learning he’d driven a woman of questionable character alone across the countryside. If it became gossip, there would be the question of propriety—perhaps damage to his reputation. But more immediately, he could not set off this delicate reunion with his father on the wrong footing. Which meant he could not tell his family who she was.

  He would have to lie.

  He’d known this, abstractly, but it felt much worse now that he had to suggest a deceit aloud.

  “I will introduce you to my parents as a widow. Mrs. Hull. A member of my fellowship on her way to visit her ailing mother.”

  The unsavory nature of the request felt sour leaving his mouth—not least because it would no doubt confirm her view of his questionable ethics.

  “I mean no offense,” he added quickly. “Truly. It’s just that … my father is sensitive to the appearance of things, and he would not approve of me driving an unchaperoned maiden.” He did not add that if his father knew the nature of the work of this particular unchaperoned maiden, he would without question throw them both out of his house, and likely never speak to Henry again.

  Nor would he be discreet about his reasons why.

  Rumors could get back to Reverend Keeper. It was imperative Henry prevent gossip. His future depended on the Reverend’s belief that he was reformed.

  Alice drummed her fingers on her knee. “I will not cause trouble for you Henry. You may say whatever you like. But I’m confused. Is it not a sin to lie to one’s own family?”

  He sighed. “It is. But the greater sin would be to leave you stranded when your mother is ailing, and it is in my gift to take you home.”

  “Ah, I see. You uphold your own morality.” She scrunched up her mouth, a pronounced twinkle in her eye.

  He had to grant her grudging respect. He, too, liked to gloat upon winning arguments.

  “I see your point. But I would argue that my father’s objections are not rooted in morality. My father would disapprove of my driving you home because it lacks the appearance of respectability. From a moral standpoint, I know that I would not behave in such a way that your respectability or mine would be called into question, whatever the appearance. The appearance is not what is important to me if the intention and result are good.”

  She looked at him earnestly. “I’m teasing, Henry. I understand your relationship is strained. I’ll do whatever I can to help you. Whatever you need me to say or do, just ask.”

  Her sudden sincerity touched him. He prayed there would not be call to ask—that the weather would clear with the sunrise, and he would have no further cause to perpetuate untruths.

  “Thank you, Alice.”

  She shrugged. “Such are the advantages of an immoral woman.”

  Despite his low mood, he laughed. She smiled broadly, like she was pleased to have amused him. That is, until he drove past the forested outer grounds of his father’s land, and the rolling hillocks came into view. On the highest of them sat his father’s house, grand and large enough for ten families, all its windows lit with candles. Such a waste.

  “Foreskin of Christ!” Alice uttered, gazing at it like it was something tasty she could eat.

  He nearly choked. “Alice, please. You mustn’t speak that way.”

  She continued gaping, unperturbed. “You live here?”

  He shook his head. “Not me.”

  Her eyes had gone as large and round as sixpence in her dainty head. She’d obviously not been expecting him to hail from an estate like landed gentry. And in truth, he didn’t. His father had purchased the estate when Henry’d been eleven and already at school. The glass-monger’s airs in buying the old priory were met with great scorn by the other landholders in the area, who laughed at the enormous, modern house he built on the land. That Charles Evesham was richer than all of them made no difference then, and Henry doubted it made any now.

  But his father had not believed the contempt of his betters would last. He’d thought he could buy respectability. And perhaps, in a way, he had—for Henry’s brother had married
well, and his mother planned to bring his sister out next year in London.

  “Good thing I’m wearing my furs,” Alice pronounced, grinning merrily at him.

  Despite himself, he smiled.

  Alice pointed at the spires of the snug, stone building to the west of the main house.

  “What’s that?”

  “The old priory. It’s the original structure on the estate.”

  “What does your family use it for?”

  “Nothing in particular. Storage. It’s mostly empty—the chapel has some pew-boxes and a decrepit old organ my sister likes to pretend she can play.”

  Her eyes remained fixed on it. “It’s beautiful.”

  It was, and yet the sight of it filled him with unpleasant memories of his father chasing him and his friends out of it when they’d gathered there to worship, accusing Henry of holding a conventicle that would get them all arrested. He looked away.

  As they neared the house, the grand front door burst open and his sister, Josephine, came running out of it in only her gown. She waved her arms and beamed as she dashed down the steps past a waiting footman.

  “You’re here!” she cried, as he slowed the curricle to a stop. “Oh, Henry, I thought you would never arrive. I’ve been watching at the window for hours, worried the snow would keep you.”

  He hopped to the ground and pulled her into a long, tight hug. Despite their difference in age he and Josephine had been close as children. They still exchanged letters, but since the last time he’d seen her she’d transformed from a girl into a polished young woman. It made him sad that he had missed it.

  “Where’s your coat, goose?” he asked. “You’ll catch your death.”

  From over his sister’s shoulder he noticed Alice wince at the word death, and he immediately reproached himself for speaking so insensitively of mortality when its specter haunted those she loved.

  Josephine released him and turned to look at Alice. “Why, you didn’t tell us you were bringing a lady home,” she whispered. “Don’t tell me you’ve gone and eloped. Father will have a fit.”

  The idea of being married to Alice Hull brought a flush to his cheeks that he could feel despite the bracing air and the flecks of snow that tumbled off his eyebrows.

  “No,” he whispered back. “This is Mrs. Hull,” he said in a louder, warmer voice. “She’s a member of my church. Her mother lives nearby and is ailing. I hoped to take her home on my way here. But the weather has not cooperated.”

  Alice bowed her head and accepted Henry’s hand to be helped down.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Hull,” Josephine said, flashing a big, bright smile at Alice, who smiled back. He noticed Alice held herself erect and demure, without a trace of the impish cast to her features she had displayed in cursing at the size of his father’s house.

  Foreskin of Christ was not a swear he’d heard uttered in even the worst kind of brothel, and Alice Hull was only coarse when she wanted to be.

  Which meant she’d said that just to provoke him.

  Why?

  I’m teasing, she’d said. Did that mean that she liked him? Considered him a friend? Or did she do it because she still mistrusted him?

  Why did the answer seem so important?

  (Because you—)

  Josephine grabbed his arm. “Come inside! The cook made you rum pudding and I’ve been salivating over it all day.”

  He refrained from noting that he did not allow himself rum or pudding.

  Instead, his stomach knotted with his nerves, he followed his sister up the stairs into his father’s house.

  Chapter 10

  Alice could feel the tension radiating from Henry as they walked inside the house. He was nervous and trying not to show it. It was a state she knew well from observing new members at Charlotte Street, but not one she had expected from, a grown man, walking into his family’s home. It made her a little sad, how uncertain he seemed to be here. She hoped, for his sake, that his visit would be a warm one.

  She tried to keep a subdued expression on her face as servants took their coats, for she did not wish to embarrass Henry by marveling too openly at the extraordinary splendor of the house.

  But it was difficult, because the place was like a monument to luxury. The carpets were brilliant and plush beneath her feet. The elaborately carved woodwork gleamed under hundreds of wax candles set in enormous, sparkling chandeliers and delicate, etched sconces. Every surface was bedecked in crystal vases and intricately painted bowls and fanciful glass ornaments. She wanted to run off and explore, to count the rooms and examine the gilt-framed portraits and run her fingers along the tapestry-paneled walls and sniff the hothouse flowers and weigh the delicate china ornaments in her palm.

  “My dear, my dear,” a tall, red-haired woman cried, rushing into the room to greet them. She grabbed Henry and clutched him to her bosom with obvious relish. “Oh, my boy, how very happy I am to have you home at last!”

  “I’m happy to be here, Mama,” Henry said. The smile of pure gratitude on his face nearly broke Alice’s heart.

  He’d clearly gotten his build and hair from his mother’s side, for Mrs. Evesham was nearly as tall and broad as her son. She squeezed him for so long that, after a moment, he seemed to shrink a bit with embarrassment at the outpouring of maternal affection. It was a gesture she recognized from having made it many times herself.

  Don’t do that, she wanted to tell him. Be grateful for her love for you. For her health.

  Henry’s eyes scanned the vast and empty hall. “Where are the others?” he asked.

  Mrs. Evesham straightened, and the joy seemed to leave the room like a candle being snuffed. “Your father and Jonathan are in the study having brandy.”

  “Of course,” Josephine added, with a look that indicated this was their usual practice, and one she found trying.

  Henry’s stomach growled loudly, causing his mother to laugh. “Ah, still my hungry Henry,” she said affectionately.

  Henry winced, clearly not fond of this pet name.

  Mrs. Evesham did not seem to notice. “Fear not, supper will be in an hour. In the meantime, I’m sure you’ll want to freshen up. Henry, your room is just as you left it. And Josephine, would you show Mrs. Hull to the bedchamber next to yours? I’ll think she’ll be more comfortable there, instead of alone in the guest wing.”

  “Thank you,” Alice said. “I’m so grateful to you for your hospitality.” She did not add that she doubted there was a single room in such a house in which she would not be comfortable, right down to the scullery closet.

  Josephine smiled warmly at Alice, gesturing for her to follow her up the grand staircase.

  “You’ll want to dress for supper,” she said kindly, taking in Alice’s drab gown. “Father’s quite formal about his table.”

  Bollocks. All she had beside her service dresses was her dark receiving gown, more apt for a funeral than a rich man’s formal banquet. She didn’t mind looking odd for her own sake, but she wanted to be as good as her word in not causing trouble for Henry.

  She wished she’d had time to ask him questions. How would a proper Methodist widow dress? How would she behave? Who would she have been married to? Would he have been handsome? Would Mrs. Hull have been his queen?

  “Oh, I’m in mourning, you see, and—”

  Josephine nodded. “Of course. If you haven’t packed for company, perhaps you’d like to borrow something of mine? I’m a little taller than you”—this was an understatement, for Josephine shared her brother’s height—“but my maid could pin up the hem in a few minutes.”

  “Thank you, if it’s not too much trouble.”

  Josephine laughed. “Not at all. Baxter will be pleased to have another victim of her vicious hairdressing. Don’t say you haven’t been warned.”

  Alice laughed too, though she was surprised that Henry’s sister’s manner was so cheerful and warm. It did not match the formality of the house, nor her polished accent.

 
Josephine led her inside a room with an enormous bed, three times as wide as the small one in Alice’s garret at Charlotte Street. It had four carved wooden posts and was surrounded by curtains held open with frilled ribbon.

  “I’m just next door if you need anything,” Josephine said. “Baxter will bring a gown to you and I’ll come and fetch you for supper.”

  “Yes, please. Thank you, Miss Evesham.”

  Josephine smiled and shut the door.

  Alice went to the floor-to-ceiling looking glass and examined her reflection.

  She looked like a hedge-bird—more appropriate for begging at the stable door of this palace of a home than for sleeping in it. Her gown was rumpled and her hair was matted up in torrents from the hooded cloak. Her mother would have a fit, her looking such a shambles in a place as fine as this. Alice, girl, pin up your hair and act the lady.

  Hearing Mama’s voice so clearly in her mind knocked the wind right out of her. She remembered the words Henry had murmured through the wall the night before:

  Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,

  I will fear no evil,

  For you are with me.

  She had not prayed in years. But the soothing nature of those words called out to her, and she knelt before by the fire and clutched the little harp that dangled from the necklace at her throat.

  I’m coming, Mama. Please wait for me.

  The words did not feel like enough. She tried again.

  Dear God:

  Was that how one prayed properly? Was it like writing a letter?

  I know I have not been a faithful correspondent, and it’s selfish of me to resume our acquaintance only to ask you for a favor. But please, if you receive this message, let her live. Grant me the time to say goodbye.

  God gave no sign of having heard her, but the door swung open and a woman marched in carrying a beautiful blue gown embroidered elaborately with lavender blossoms.

  “You Mrs. Hull?” she asked.

  Alice nodded.

  The maid curtsied. “Baxter, madam. Miss told me to pin you into this. Let’s get you undressed.”