The Vicar's Wife

11*

"You have quite the imagination, dear," George Foster stood by the window after dinner, a glass of scotch in one hand, a cigar in the other. The cultured yard and woods beyond were muted with twilight. Hattie had been retelling the strange encounter with the shadow. Expression tolerant, her father glanced at her.

"No doubt a vagrant passing through on his way elsewhere."

"Then ought he not have asked for money or some such aid?" Lucille countered worriedly. "Why just stand there, staring?"

Mr Foster eyed her in vague annoyance for siding with Hattie's imaginings rather than being reasonable.

"Believe it or not, some have a little pride in themselves, and dislike being gawked at in their pitiable state."

"But Papa," Hattie stood, intent on making her point. "If that was so, should he have not kept out of sight altogether?"

"My dear girl, how can I know the mind of another man? Especially one fallen on hard times?"

"You just said-"

"Hattie," his tone warned her to stop. "You have come safe. Nothing became of your, I use the term encounter loosely, so put it from your mind."

"Yes, Papa," slightly put out to have been dismissed, she flounced back to the settee, plopping next to her mother. Lucille put a consolatory arm around her shoulders, squeezing affectionately.

"Tush, my dear, your father is right. Think of how dreadful it might have been had anything unfortunate actually come of the encounter."

George spun on her, incredulous, but any hope of stopping the storm before it started was dashed. Hattie's large eyes were full of alarm, the very worst possible scenario already flooding her mind. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Foster silently reminded himself that women would be silly regardless of logic and that his wife and daughter were two prime examples of that fact. It was, he supposed, swallowing an impressive amount of scotch, an ideal thing that he adored them both as much as he did. If not, the animated conversation that lasted until bedtime would have utterly put him out of his wits.

Hattie found it difficult to sleep that night. Over and over, she kept imagining a leering face at her window, peering in on her as she slept. Getting up to see for herself did no good, for dark clouds had gathered overhead, wind blowing wildly among the brush and branches. Resting her forehead against the cold glass, her sigh formed a sphere of mist on the pane.

"Drat...I shall never sleep at this rate." Dragging herself back to bed, she plopped heavily onto the mattress, fluffing the covers up over her head. In that way, she missed the shadow that separated itself from the rest, moving to stare intently through the glass.

A rash of voices and footsteps pried her eyes open at the ungodly hour of quarter past seven the following morning. Sour-tempered, head aching dully, she swung her feet from the bed, swaying as she lurched unsteadily toward the window. The majority of the chaos seemed to be outside her window. Prying the pane open, she leaned out, glaring blearily outside.

"What is the meaning of this noise?" Her voice brought everything to a stark halt. "Have any of you any idea what the time is? I have barely even fallen asleep, and your ruckus prevents any attempt at success!"

"Hattie," her father's voice swung her gaze toward him. "Get back inside at once, girl! You are not properly dressed to be seen!"

In a crisp white nighty, hair tied in knotted curls, barefooted, she ought to have been ashamed. Instead, her curiosity was piqued.

"Whatever is the matter, Papa? Why is the entire staff outside my bedroom window?"

"Hattie!" Lucille's shrill cry spun her around as Mrs. Foster rushed into the room, flying over to yank her from sight. Slamming the window shut, she locked it then swung the curtains closed. Before her daughter could either protest or inquire, she was squeezed in a fierce hug.