The Vicar's Wife

16*

After hearing about the upsetting incident, Lucille Foster had indeed forbidden her daughter from leaving the house unaccompanied. Despite Hattie's strenuous protests, nothing could dissuade Mrs Foster from her decision, and George went along with it. This entire matter was becoming more than he could deal with, so other than sending Hattie off to live with relatives, he felt his wife had the right idea.

Each night Farmer Brimmings' dogs ran loose around the estate though nothing had yet to come of it. The wedding day was fast approaching, with all the details coming together in seeming perfect unison. Only one rather uncomfortable detail remained for Lucille Foster to explain to her youngest child.

Drumming her fingertips on the settee edge, attempting to focus on her mother's droning Hattie was enduring the rather grotesque speech on her upcoming duties as a wife. It was tiresome! Surely there was more to married life than dull bedroom requirements! Rolling her eyes, she tried to hide her yawn.

"Pay attention!" Lucille pinched her arm savagely, wringing a protesting cry from Hattie. "This is important!"

"So says you!" The girl retorted, rubbing the offending spot vigorously. "It sounds dreadfully unpleasant! Why must I hear of this, when no doubt my Forsythe will be of a different nature than you suspect?"

"He is a man, dear." Her mother's expression was stern. "He is no different from any other man!"

"Not so!" Shooting upright, seizing the opportunity to flee, the girl whirled for the door. "You shall see! I will go ask him directly!"

"Hattie!" Aghast, Lucille launched to her feet. "Harriet Foster, you get back here this instant! Don't you dare go!"

But the girl was gone, flown from the house like an escaped bird. Fleet of foot, she sprinted for the lane beyond the gate, blowing past Mister Foster, who nimbly dodged aside. Her latent cry of apology was met with an amused smile as the gentleman shook his head. Too late he remembered she was not to be off anywhere unaccompanied.

Cutting through the woods, glad to have her freedom, Hattie's curls bounced around her cheeks dancing in step with each heartbeat. The walls of her house had begun crowding in on her of late, and the chance at fresh air was most welcome-! A horrid scent assaulted her nostrils a few hundred meters from Brimmings' lane. Slowing her step, instinctive fear widened her eyes. Atrocious! Covering her nose, she began to look around for the source.

In the brush, under a scattering of leaves and branches, lay Dog. Jerking back with a scream, Hattie slapped her hands over her mouth in horror before wrenching away. Stomach heaving, she barely managed not to vomit, knees going watery. Straining through blurry vision, she stumbled toward the sounds of the distant farmhouse. Old Brimmings saw her coming, pausing in his work to stare as she swayed, features ashen.

"Miss Foster, are you ill?"

"Oh, Mr Brimmings!" Her cry was ragged, tears streaking down her cheeks. Poor Dog!"

"My dog...?" Partially worried, he set aside the shovel, hurrying to her. "What are you saying?"

"I...I found him...dead..." whispering, she pointed with a shaking finger. "Poor dear..."

"Are you certain?" Gruff, his fingers tightened on her arm. "This is not a jest?"

"I'm certain," tears spilling down her cheeks, she sniffled brokenly. "I'm so sorry!"

Ushering a shaken Hattie to an overturned barrel, he bade her sit, offering a somewhat dusty linen from his pocket.

"Shall I fetch you some water? Or brandy?"

"Don't leave me," shivering, clear blue eyes gazed up at him. "Please, just for a moment?"

"You're safe, lass."