The Journal of a Vicar's Wife Page 5

  At that moment I wanted nothing more than to return home and cleanse myself. There were spatters of blood and spilled vinegar on my dress, and my hair was unkempt. It was as if the stains on my clothing were reflected by those on my soul. As I was considering this unhappy thought I heard a carriage pull up behind me.

  I turned, and instantly recognised the horses.

  It was my husband.

  I looked up; my husband sat aloft the carriage looking stern and pious as always. I felt my heart constrict.

  ‘Mrs Reeves, good day,’ he said and tipped his hat.

  Could he not greet me with more affection? I wondered. Yet I did not say such, for I knew it would do little good. Instead I tilted my own straw hat in return, ‘Good day, Mr Reeves.’

  ‘Would you allow me to escort you back to the vicarage?’ he asked, formal as ever.

  How strange it is, really, that I should be so formal with my husband when I am so open with Mr Goddard.

  ‘That is kind of you,’ I agreed and wondered whether if he knew the immorality of my heart, he’d repeat the offer. I do myself a great disservice with these unhappy inner conversations, so instead I focussed on the man before me.

  With a curt nod, Frederick leapt down from the carriage in a gesture of surprising grace. He took my hand and my skin thrummed with heat from just this slight caress. I smiled at him, and thanked him, noting how very fine he looked this day. He must have ridden some distance, for his cheeks were burnished by the sun despite the large brim on his hat. With his strong arms, he lifted me up into the carriage – in a fashion he had not used since the day we had wed. I gasped at the unfamiliar sensation of his strong hands at my waist and sank down onto the seat.

  I shifted a little uneasily and remained silent. If he had been another husband, and I another wife, perhaps he would have rested his leg beside mine so that I could feel the heat of his body, or perhaps captured my hand and offered it a squeeze – yet he did no such thing, and an inch or so of distance seemed to separate us at all times.

  ‘I see you have the accounts. Did you visit Mr Quake?’ he said after a time, gesturing down at the ledgers tied with a ribbon in my lap.

  ‘Why yes, I did.’

  ‘All is in order, I hope?’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed. Without brandy to fortify me, I did not make mockery.

  My husband’s gaze deepened. ‘I had a look at the ledgers last week, and saw a few mis-entries. Mr Quake is still giving you lessons, I hope?’ Frederick asked.

  I looked at him. Some worrisome part of my mind feared he knew of my wicked dream, and what kind of lesson it had involved. Yet the look in my husband’s eyes was curious rather than suspicious, so I dispelled the notion.

  ‘Yes, he gives me lessons,’ I said, and my mind flew back to that depraved dream.

  ‘I hope he is very considerate in his teachings with you,’ he said. ‘There is naught worse than a brutal and tiresome teacher.’

  Oh! It is ridiculous is it not? My husband’s words were so honest, but truly quite funny considering the circumstances. Was not my husband the brutal and tiresome teacher, rather than the Mr Quake? I felt a spark of rebellion.

  ‘Mr Quake is indeed very considerate, I assure you. Far from being brutal or tiresome, I’ve come to find him and accountancy all rather intriguing.’

  This was only a small lie.

  Frederick smiled gently down at me. If only he knew of my dream and my forbidden desires.

  When we returned to the vicarage, I took immediately to my rooms so that I may change my dress and wash the remnants Louisa’s injury from my hands.

  I always have a pitcher of fresh water in my rooms for such circumstances, and a fresh flannel. It was as I had just wiped the last specks of blood, and reached for a fresh gown, that there was a knock on my door.

  ‘Yes?’ I called, believing it to be Minny.

  ‘Mrs Reeves, may I come in?’

  My throat tightened with surprise. It was my husband.

  It is a highly unusual circumstance that Mr Reeves visits my rooms at all, but never in daylight. As I have said, we participate in marital intercourse so scarcely, and usually on those occasions it is late in the evening. So to have Mr Reeves request entrance to my rooms before luncheon on a weekday was supremely unsettling, but not at all unwelcome.

  ‘Of course,’ I said my hands flying to my hair. ‘Come in.’

  The door opened and Frederick entered. His frame fairly blocked the doorway, and I was reminded once more how imposing a man he is, even when he is not behind the pulpit.

  He took one glance at me and his cheeks reddened.

  ‘Forgive me, I did not realise you had undressed.’ He turned, readying himself to depart once again.

  ‘That is quite all right. I was simply changing for luncheon,’ I said, gesturing to my discarded dress. ‘Please, do not go.’ I reached for his hand to halt his withdrawal.

  Mr Reeves’ hand was very warm.

  He looked down at my hand holding his, and an expression of surprise rushed across his face, which then darkened.

  I knew that I should lose him then, he would depart and then any chance at conversation, amore or indeed anything else at all should have no occasion to occur.

  ‘Mr Reeves, it shall not take me long to dress. You may assist me instead of Minny if you wish,’ I spoke in a rush.

  He said nothing for a time, and so I forged forth, hoping that my state of deshabille may entice him to stay when my words failed. Without allowing him time to respond, I turned to face the looking glass, correcting a pin in my hair. ‘I did not tell you earlier, but I happened upon Mrs Hatfield on my way home from Mr Quake. Poor little Louisa had cut her hand terribly. Mrs Hatfield asked if I may attend to her; I fear I have soiled my gown.’

  Mr Reeve’s eyes darkened. ‘Is that so? I had noticed no stains.’

  I turned to face him and smiled, perhaps a little too brightly. Much to my surprise and delight, his gaze actually devoured me – an expression I’d scarce seen on him before. I knew my chemise was nearly sheer, as it was one of my more worn ones – white, but the cotton so old and thin, my form was clearly visible beneath.

  My throat tightened, but I continued in the vein of our conversation as propriety insisted. ‘Yes. I have suggested that Mr Cole goes to maintain the injury. I am no physician, after all.’

  Frederick nodded. ‘It was good of you to offer your assistance.’ He sounded choked. I saw his eyes dart away, lingering instead on the small wooden crucifix that hung upon my wall. I knew then that he had some type of concern, for he uttered a sigh.

  I smoothed the cloth over my breasts and down my sides. ‘Is something the matter, Mr Reeves?’ I asked, and reached for my dress.

  He turned and looked at me once more, a frown forming a deep crease betwixt his brows.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘As a matter of fact, there is.’

  My heart beat a little wild tattoo, and my hand hesitated over the fresh gown. Was he to say something of what had happened the other night? I prayed so. Or had he found out about Mr Goddard? I prayed not. I worried my lower lip, dressing forgotten.

  ‘You frighten me, what is it?’

  ‘I have reservations about Jonathan coming to stay,’ he confessed.

  My surprise was piqued. ‘Jonathan?’

  ‘Indeed, I cannot help but feel that this will be awkward for you.’

  Thank the Good Lord! I was delighted by his concern for me. In my acquaintance, Mr Reeves has never seemed an overly jealous or concerned husband. Certainly, issues of morality and faith concern him, but my well-being, or comfort for that matter, have always seemed a secondary thing to him, I’m certain. So it was that his confession made my breast swell with utter delight.

  I laughed, hurrying to reassure him. ‘No, not at all. It was years ago and I married you, after all.’ I smiled.

  My words did not have the placatory effect I had anticipated. My smile wilted, for Frederick’s face was grim.

  �
�We wed because your father wished it. You would never have married me otherwise. Had your father given you his blessing, you would have been Jonathan’s wife, not mine.’

  The silence grew heavy and Mr Reeves’ eyes held mine as if he challenged me to deny the accusation. I caught my breath.

  This was truly a day for revelations. Was this jealousy from my pious husband? For certainly these words had sprung forth from some deep part of him that actually cared – did they not? Confusion whirled through my head. I had never heard Frederick speak so. Ever. In six years of uneventful marriage, he had never mentioned our courtship, or lack thereof. Nor had he ever shown any indication that my failed courtship with his cousin had caused him even the slightest concern.

  ‘Mr Reeves, what are you saying?’ I asked.

  My husband’s face remained tight– but not as it does whilst pontificating. A muscle convulsed in his jaw, as though some thought or feeling was being powerfully restrained.

  ‘You married me because your father wished it, did you not?’ His voice was hoarse, and held a bitterness I’d never before noted.

  I nodded most cautiously. ‘Of course, but I could have refused you. I was not forced.’ My throat grew somewhat tight as I spoke.

  Frederick shook his head and his eyes flashed with a dangerous light. I felt his gaze travel from my face and drag slowly down my neck, past my bust to linger at the cleft of my thighs, where I knew the dark hair of my mons was visible through the thin chemise.

  He looked away before speaking. ‘I had, at one time, hoped that you may come to feel a greater affection for me than you had for Jonathan,’ Mr Reeves said, his tone less aggrieved but entirely more awkward.

  I moved to speak but he silenced me with a sharp lift of his hand. I bit my tongue.

  He coughed and continued. ‘I understand that Jonathan is younger and more handsome than I, but still I had hoped your affection for me would grow. Yet, six years into our marriage you still refer to me as Mr Reeves, and we are no closer now than when we first met.’

  A surprised and hurt lump formed in my throat, and I tried to speak. For it is not that I have no affection for the man, surely. I admire him at times, and welcome his affections or at least I do when they are so rarely offered. Have I not made my attempts at marital harmony obvious enough?

  I felt my brow crumple, and lifted my gaze to meet his.

  ‘I know that a marriage such as our may not be of an overtly affectionate nature,’ Frederick continued, ‘but I had hoped for something more – and now, if Jonathan is to come under our roof, I have fears that …’

  I felt my breast constrict. ‘You fear what? That I should fall in love with him once more?’ The words were released before I had time to censor them.

  Frederick looked at me, his eyes hard. ‘You deny the possibility?’

  I could not believe what my ears had heard; for though he spoke just words, the meaning behind them was unmistakeable. My pious, righteous, unbendable, difficult husband was jealous.

  ‘Yes, I do deny the possibility.’ I finally had the sense to exclaim. ‘My youthful affections for Jonathan were just that, youthful misadventure. I have not seen the gentleman in years.’

  There was an interminable moment of stillness, before Frederick made to speak. I could almost see the thoughts flit across his proud face.

  ‘Forgive me then,’ he said with a bow and made to leave.

  ‘Wait,’ I cried and made to hold his arm. ‘If you wish for more affection in our marriage, or fear that my old affections for Jonathan may pose some threat to you – why do you not act to ensure it does not occur?’

  His face hardened, and I feared I had spoken out of turn.

  ‘Such as what?’ he asked, his eyes darkened.

  ‘Offer me your affection instead. It embarrasses me to be more explicit, but Mr Reeves I want your affections! Yet you scarce allow yourself to even touch me.’ My words tumbled forth foolishly. ‘Why, on the last time you entered my rooms no more than three words were spoken! Is this how our marriage shall always be?’

  His face hardened again. ‘Mrs Reeves, I do not think…’

  ‘Maria! You must call me Maria!’ I cried.

  He leaned closer and touched my arm. ‘Maria.’

  I thought for that fleeting moment he understood, and hearing him speak my name made my heart swell with sweet and utter longing.

  ‘Please,’ I whispered, leaning into him, ‘Do not go. Do not let these words be the last we speak today.’ I kissed his clothed arm.

  It was clear my gesture of affection appalled him. ‘It is luncheon,’ he said, and his voice shook. ‘I ought to depart downstairs.’

  ‘No,’ my voice was weak. ‘Stay.’

  He turned his pitiless eyes on me, but for just a moment, I believe I saw longing there; a longing as deep and profound as the one I found in myself.

  ‘It is improper,’ he said.

  Anger swiftly replaced my longing and I stared up in disbelief. ‘Why is it improper? I need you … Frederick. Prove to me that you feel more for me than our occasional, perfunctory conjugal relations would have me believe.’

  I opened my heart to him with those words. Truly I did. I said what had burned in my breast year upon lonely year.

  But what he said next near broke my heart.

  ‘You read too many novels.’

  He pushed me away. ‘Relations betwixt a man and a woman are for procreative purposes. You are speaking through lust – a mortal sin.’

  With that, my husband was transformed into the pious vicar. My hand slipped from his arm and I turned away, not wishing him to see the pain across my face.

  ‘I shall call Minny to dress you,’ he said curtly.

  I did not turn as he departed. I could not, but I listened to him leave – each footstep like a nail in the coffin of my empty marriage. My melancholia rose like a beast from nightmares. Finally, I sank down into the chair by my window and stared out over the garden, seeing nothing. I could not even weep.

  I do not know how long I lingered, but as I did a knowing, a certainty, grew within me. I could not change him. My husband would never give me what I craved. I would spend another six years alone and pining in this bedroom, childless and alone, wracked with fleshly cravings that he would never allow himself to sate.

  The longer I sat, the more my melancholia was replaced by something potent and fiery. My anger grew, as it is wont to do.

  It is sinful perhaps, unfair, very likely – but I confess now that I am determined not to pine any longer. Whatever small measure of guilt I have felt over my intercourse with Mr Goddard shall be no more. The questions over my morality I shall never ask of myself again. For I am decided. I shall have what I want, indeed I shall, if not from the man to whom I am wed, then any who offers it to me.

  Saturday, 22nd May 1813

  I have not written in many weeks, in part because there was naught of import to write, and in part because I had no wish to. I can say that my anger at my neglectful husband has not abated and to this end, I have seen little of the man, and I cannot say I am disappointed.

  Since that fateful conversation, Mr Reeves has taken to avoiding me and I to avoiding him. He has, naturally, left me with ample biblical readings to while away my time, but I confess to not reading them. Instead, I have gone about my duties quite gaily. I have visited the Hatfields and Miss Louisa’s hand is making a fine recovery indeed. In addition, I have indulged myself thrice with Mr Goddard; once in our sitting room, once in the woods behind the dairy, and on the last occasion we had a tryst in the abandoned cottage behind Stanton House.

  I had hoped, most sincerely, that our trysts might result in getting me with child. For I understand now more than I did before that I will not suffer to live another year in this empty, loathsome house. To this end I have prayed to the Lord for a child. Yet I was tragically disappointed. No doubt the Good Lord, in his wisdom, has chosen to smite me for my sins – for my courses arrived a week since, and I have been confin
ed to the house. It is indeed a curse for women, though I am fortunate to have spare cloths to absorb my bleeding. I pity the poorer women, who can only bleed into their chemises.

  Anyway, today I was renewed and free of my monthlies. During my confinement, I endured a mightily awkward conversation with Mrs Cartwright, who suggested I take a selection of herbs to aid procreation. To this end, I have decided to visit Mrs Richards, the unfortunate woman who lost her babe. Firstly, I shall offer solace, but my primary reason for visiting is to procure these herbs for conception. You see, Mrs Richards’ sister is a fine midwife with knowledge of herbs. Mrs Cartwright has told me that Mrs Richards holds stores of her sister’s herbs and gladly would give me some if I were to stop by.

  So this is what I have chosen to do.

  I set my way to Mrs Richards’ house and – unsurprisingly perhaps, for fortune seems to enjoy tormenting me – I crossed paths with my husband. He was walking with his Bible in hand, clearly returning to the vicarage for a luncheon.

  ‘Mrs Reeves,’ he greeted me.

  ‘Mr Reeves,’ I bobbed in reply. It is ridiculous, this distance between us, and all the more ridiculous for he is the cause of it. My irritation at the man began to stir. My hand gripped my reticule a little tighter.

  The mere hint of a frown down turned my husband’s lips a moment.

  ‘Will you not join me for a luncheon?’ he asked, quite suddenly. I determined a flash of nervousness in his eyes – though I may be just being fanciful. Still, I had not expected an invitation from him. Indeed, these were the very first words of civility we had spoken since our last unhappy discussion.

  I stilled, not knowing quite how to respond. One must understand, I very much wished to visit Mrs Richards and collect my herbs, yet, my husband was offering me the proverbial olive branch – would it not have been unjustly cruel to disappoint him?

  His brow darkened, and I rushed to respond. ‘Thank you, yes, but I must visit Mrs Richards. I had promised to call, you see, and should not like to upset her.’

  ‘Mrs Richards?’ Mr Reeves replied. ‘Certainly, I shall escort you then. I should like to see how she fares.’