The Scottish Bride - Catherine Coulter [126]
“You don’t say! What a thought that provides. Just imagine drinking your tea atop old Mrs. Beardsley’s coffin, and she’s been down under for over fifty years now.”
“I believe Miss Strapthorpe had visions of removing the coffins.”
“Oh, dear,” said Mr. Gaither and shook his head. “Aye, and I’ll wager you were plain-speaking with her too, sir, and not unkind.”
“I suppose so.”
Mr. Gaither stroked his fingers over his clean-shaven jaw. “It’s true that her disappointment is great, according to Mrs. Bittley and Mrs. Padworthy. I heard them talking just outside the tavern, while they were waiting for their husbands to down their final mugs of ale. Proper sods, their husbands were that day. Aye, it is a strong possibility that Miss Strapthorpe perhaps exaggerated the thing a bit.”
“More than a bit. Now, all that is distraction, Mr. Gaither. Tell me what this is all about.”
“I will try, sir. You see, everyone remarks on the fact that you have quite lost your head over your new wife, that you have fallen snare to a man’s weakness. An ordinary man’s weakness. And that is it, sir.”
“I see,” Tysen said slowly, and thought, well, I have certainly heard enough of this before, and he rose from his chair. It was all very clear to him now. “I am very sorry that everyone believes that I have somehow changed when all I’ve done is gotten married.”
Mr. Gaither looked at him sadly. “A very melancholy thing to happen to a man of God, Vicar. A disastrous thing.”
Tysen felt his heart pounding again, only this time each deep stroke sent a deep, searing ache through him. His head rarely ached, but it did now, a biting pain just over his left temple. He said, “Is laughter such a bad thing, Mr. Gaither?”
“If it exposes naught but more laughter, Reverend Sherbrooke,” Mr. Gaither said, pity in his eyes now, “then I fear it likely is, at least for you, sir.”
Tysen left, turning right on High Street, nodding, speaking, looking all his parishioners in the face as he met them. Few met his eye. He wasn’t kissing Mary Rose, he wasn’t laughing. He probably looked as serious as if he was conducting a funeral. He ignored the rain, falling more heavily even now, and walked to the beautifully tended old graveyard beside his church. Glenda Strapthorpe had wanted to take away all the graves and build a wing onto the vicarage? It boggled his mind.
He was still shaking his head in disbelief as he walked among the graves, eventually wending his way through the stones to his favorite. The man buried here had been a violent warrior, yet when Tysen came to the grave, he felt peace, a measure of serenity. He laid his hand on the ancient headstone, feeling the centuries-old texture that was still changing, year by passing year. It was just possible to make out the nearly obliterated lettering: Sir Vincent D’Egle, born in 1231, died in 1283. There were fresh flowers on the grave, leaning against the marker. Meggie had brought them, he knew, because she’d long known that he somehow identified with this one particular grave. They were bedraggled now, the rain tearing them apart. He felt as bedraggled as those wretched flowers. He moved just a bit away from it and sat on the long stone bench. He looked up at his church, at its magnificent spire, rising so tall above every other building in Glenclose-on-Rowan. The thick gray stone looked solid and timeless beneath the gray-clouded, weeping sky. He’d sat here many times listening to the bells rung by his sexton, Mr. Peters, feeling the incredible sounds seep into his very soul.
He closed his eyes and prayed for a very long time.
27
THE VICARAGE WAS crammed to the attic rafters. Douglas and Ryder and their families had all descended, unannounced and unexpected, late that Saturday afternoon, piled into three carriages that overflowed the vicarage stable.
The vicarage was filled with shouting children, laughing adults, a housekeeper who was nearly in hysteria from the pressure of it all, and him and his wife.
Mary Rose was gowned in the new dress Sinjun had given her, a dark-green