The Scottish Bride - Catherine Coulter [125]
Tysen didn’t remain at the vicarage for lunch. He went to the Dead Spaniard Inn to have Mr. Gaither’s barmaid, Petunia, serve him a cup of spiced tea and a cold plate of chicken and warm bread. He felt the damp from the thickening rain and cold to his bones.
He ate and waited for Mr. Gaither to show himself, which he did after Tysen had taken only two absent-minded bites of the chicken and wondered yet again what had become of his life.
“Ah, Reverend Sherbrooke, it’s delighted I am to see you home again. You were away far too long, sir. Many good people lapsed a bit, didn’t attend Mr. Pritchert’s sermons. A good fellow, but long-winded he is, poor man. But Samuel Pritchert is always there, always ready to shoulder another man’s burdens, to counsel him, to help him wipe clean his plate when it’s dirty. But tomorrow you’re finally back in the pulpit. Everyone will be in church.”
Mr. Gaither was wider than his apron, and his heart was as big as his belly. He was a good man, a man Tysen had respected for the entire eight years he had been the vicar in Glenclose-on-Rowan. Mr. Gaither had dealt more than fairly with his wastrel older brother, who had, evidently, just taken a ship to the Colonies, to find new vic-tims to fleece.
“Have you ever traveled to Scotland, Mr. Gaither?”
“Not I, sir. Born and raised here, been here all my life. I believe it’s best for a man to know his roots and stick close to them.”
Not very subtle, Tysen thought, and took a bite of the warm bread.
“I saw your wife, sir, just yesterday afternoon, with little Meggie, over at the draper’s shop on High Street. They were laughing, sir, over nothing at all as far as I could tell, as far as anyone else could tell. She’s a looker.”
“Yes, Meggie looks a great deal like her aunt Sinjun,” Tysen said.
“No, I meant your wife. All the, er, men think so.”
Tysen wadded the piece of bread into a ball in his fist. His heart began to pound, death-hard strokes. Now Mr. Gaither wanted Tysen to believe that Mary Rose was a strumpet to be ogled? He remembered Mr. Sanderford in Brighton. Mary Rose hadn’t wanted him to flirt with her, she hadn’t, and Tysen felt a leap of rage at this insult, and nearly choked on the bread he’d been chewing. He managed to calm himself. He said, after he’d motioned Mr. Gaither to seat himself, “My wife and daughter are very fond of each other. Naturally they laugh together. Now, I don’t know precisely what you mean, Mr. Gaither, by this ‘looker’ business. You have met my wife. Did you not come to the vicarage just three days ago with your dear wife to share tea with us?”
“Naturally, my lord. Mrs. Sherbrooke was very gracious to everyone. It is just—oh, dear, I surely meant no insult to you or to her, Reverend Sherbrooke.”
“Perhaps you should try for an explanation, Mr. Gaither, one that is readily understandable.”
“Dear heaven—the pain, the embarrassment—to speak of it, sir. No help for it. Your wife flirted with Teddie Tate! Shameless, it was.”
“Ah,” Tysen said, utterly confused now. The only man Mary Rose had ever flirted with in her life was him. Again, he remembered Sanderford, and he nearly smiled, remembering how Mary Rose had compared him to Erickson MacPhail.
“Poor Bethie Tate, well, dear Bethie was in tears, sobbing her heart out to Miss Strapthorpe.”
“I see. It is Miss Strapthorpe who mentioned this to you?”
“Oh, Miss Glenda mentioned it to everyone, Reverend Sherbrooke.”
“Other than flirting with Teddie Tate, is there any other sin my bride has committed?”
“Oh, sir, now you’re upset and I never meant for you to be. I know, I know, Miss Strapthorpe fancied you for herself, and thus you think this is all a lie to discredit your wife, that it is nothing more than the spite of a rejected female.”
“That’s it exactly, Mr. Gaither. Miss Strapthorpe is a single-minded young lady. I fear I offended her by not giving her what she wanted—namely, myself and the vicarage, which she wanted