The Vicar's Wife

10

"George, wherever could she have gone?" Mrs Foster paced the sitting room, expression pinched. "It has been hours!"

"Would it put your mind to rest if I went in search of her?"

"How!" Sharp, she whirled on him, eyes narrowed. "Without knowing where to start you might as well be wandering uselessly!"

Mr Foster kept his opinion on that to himself, for he had a rather good idea of where their daughter had scampered off to. Still, he did not voice the thought, instead, folding the evening paper neatly before standing up.

"My dear, you worry too much. Hattie is sensible enough to be under her own supervision for a while."

"Sensible-!"

"And no doubt she is not in her own company, so if something goes awry, we will hear of it."

"What do you mean, not in her own company!" Lucille's features paled at the implication. "She would have more sense than to go to the vicarage without a chaperone...would she not?"

"I did not say anything about her whereabouts, my dear, only that I doubt she is alone. Now," tucking the paper under his arm, he wrapped gentle fingers around her elbow, steering his wife from the window. "Come, it is time to see about supper."

"But-!"

"Lucille." The edge in his tone stopped her protest. Large blue eyes met his, brimming with unease. George looked into them, remembering how much they had resembled Hattie's, many long years ago. "Don't fret, my dear. All is well, I am certain."

"We are so close to a marriage, George," she whispered. "Her flightiness might very well ruin this at the last moment."

"Believe it or not, I believe Jonathon Forsythe to be in love with our daughter. Her easily distracted nature and temperament are countered by his vast patience, so I have no worries that their engagement will end in anything but matrimony."

"I pray you are right," anxious eyes flicked toward the road leading up to their door, hoping to see the lithe form of her daughter. Disappointment made her frown. "Still, she ought not to be out alone."

"Tush, dear...she's respectable and engaged to be married. Hattie knows what our expectations of her are. I have faith she will not disappoint."

At that moment, Hattie Foster wasn't thinking about expectations, respectability, or her position in society. Her dearest Forsythe's lips were on hers, his arms around her waist. The new and unexpectedly pleasant experience was taking up all her conscious thoughts. When he stood back, firmly but gently giving himself space, she blinked in confusion, gasping lightly.

"My darling Forsythe...what's the matter?"

"Go home, Hattie," he breathed in a rasp, having to clear his throat. "Go home this instant."

"Why-?"

"Because I care too much for you to allow you to stay a moment longer."

"I don't understand."

"I will explain it thoroughly to you after we are wed."

"Oh," a blush crept across her cheeks at his tone, and she looked down, fiddling with a golden ringlet. "I see. Well...thank you for – well...I suppose..."

Feeling foolish, she stopped talking but his expression melted her doubts away. With a tender smile and a chaste peck on her cheek, he waved her toward the door, calling for Seabourn. The old man appeared a moment later.

"See Miss Foster to her gate, please." Taking Hattie's hand, he brought it to his lips, pressing lightly. "Until our next meeting, dear one."

"Mr Forsythe," her flush was wine-coloured as she curtsied. A quick flash of affection made her eyes sparkle then she was hurrying away, embarrassed to display more in front of the dignified butler.

Forsythe watched her go, amused, enamoured, but beneath it all, troubled. His past was a dark one, something he was ashamed to speak of in polite society.

A man of two and twenty years, barely old enough to understand the ways of the world, he'd gotten caught up in the shipping and transportation of goods across the sea. That in itself was not the problem. Trouble arose in the form of Hannibal Newton, a cruel, thoughtless, negligent sea captain that was known for bringing slaves in from colonized islands. While he was within legal rights to his chosen profession, Forsythe took issue with his methods during a voyage on his crew.

On that same voyage, having his own private goods aboard ship, was Clifton Wentworth. It was soon obvious the pair held the same dim view of the captain's abuse of power. Hannibal Newton considered himself of a superior race, when in fact, he was merely the dregs of his society.

Most of the 'cargo', as they were referred to, were sickly, starving, filthy, and dying. Forsythe found he could not stand by and watch other human beings suffer in such a cruel fashion. While mutiny was illegal and punishable by law, the now vicar soothed his choice by committing a non-violent takeover. He drugged the captain, bound him, and locked him in the brig five days from port. Those that protested were given space next to their captain.

The tricky part of the situation came the next day when a storm arose on the far horizon. It demanded a change in course for the ship and crew. Forsythe consulted with the sailors that were on his side, determining they could try to outrun the storm or turn around. Votes were taken, and the ship returned to the harbour the slaves had come from. Upon reaching it, Forsythe, with the help of Lord Wentworth, was deliberately lax in how well the 'cargo' was secured. By dawn, the vast hold was empty, shackles laying loose on the floor.

The mutinous crew decided to follow suit, Forsythe included. Law could be brutal in the outlying colonies. Within the day he found passage as a crewman on a merchant vessel bound for the orient, leaving the next morning. Wentworth got aboard a passenger ship for England, all gone before Captain Newton broke out of his own brig. Word spread that he put his ship in pursuit of Forsythe's new vessel, knowing he could not touch the young Duke of Essex. A violent squall was said to have sunk Newton's ship off the Caribbean coast. There were no reported survivors.

"Until now." Rubbing his neck, the vicar scowled, seeing his reflection in the window. Much older now, having decided upon a peaceful life far from the ocean, he thought the past dead and buried. "Blast."

Newton's arrival here could upset his entire life. It could force him to flee, leaving behind everything he'd come to love. Ice formed in the pit of his stomach at the thought. Hattie. Fingers curled into a shaking fist, his lips pressed firmly together.

"I shall not give way...there must be a solution." At that particular moment, however, he could not think of one.

For her part, Hattie was merrily strolling down the lane, old Seabourn in tow behind her. A happy hum came from her lips, a smile brightening her youthful features. Her Forsythe was the best of men, she was certain! A sweet, kind, handsome, charming-

"Have care, Miss," the old servant's voice caught her attention, her gaze following the subtle nod of his head. A shape was in the shadow of the wood on the far side of the road, motionless, silent. A shiver went up her back as Hattie paused, studying the distant figure. It resembled a man.

"Who-?"

"Let's not delay, Miss. The vicar won't forgive me should any harm befall you."

"I suppose you are right," casting one last look, she gasped at seeing the figure gone. It had been there just a moment before! "Who was that?"

"I couldn't say, Miss," the old man's pace increased a fraction, urging her to keep up. "It'd be just as well to never see it again."

"How peculiar," she murmured, imagining all sorts of unpleasant happenings regarding a mysterious shadow. "It certainly could not be anyone of my acquaintance."

"Unlikely, Miss."

A few moments later they stood at the gate leading to her parent's home, Seabourn breathing a silent sigh of relief. As an old man, he'd seen many things come and go in his life, but rare was a light such as Hattie Foster. Her sweet, giving nature, easy smile, and friendly humour had thoroughly captivated his master, brightening the halls of the vicarage with promise. Somehow, that shadowy figure had put a chill in his aged bones, and he had a feeling it could bode ill for his master's bride-to-be.