19. A Whit of Divine Intervention

19

A WHIT OF DIVINE INTERVENTION

Please, God, let this overly inquisitive pryer stop talking.

Matthias Trumbull could not help but question the last few days. The ones that had landed him here, riding a delayed stage beside the most verbose man he had ever had the misfortune to meet. Chatty and so very corpulent, Thias's hinterlands commanded less than thirty percent of the squab where he'd paid for half. Mayhap the man grilling each of the passengers was really the regent in disguise?

The absurdity of that had him gritting his teeth and plastering a pleasant expression, however false, upon his countenance. Why had he listened to his aunt and uncle? Trusted them after their humbug of this past spring, when they gifted him a vacation, of all things, in Brighton?

Who went to Brighton in December?

What? Had they expected him to fall in love with the first woman he glimpsed away from his parish?

Nay, not love perhaps, but definitely lust . Did Aunt Margaret not also gift you with new tooth powder before the trip?

Thias barely suppressed a moan, recalling the sole female recently met—the one close to him in age, not nearly the young innocent he knew they thought he needed for a bride—he wouldn't have minded exchanging tooth powder with. But that was neither here nor there; "there" being not exactly Brighton, but instead the posting inn they'd spent the last evening stranded in, sharing a private parlor and more intriguing (lust-inspiring, to his dismay) conversations than he could remember having with anyone since he'd made his commitment to the church.

The subdued moan? One of unfamiliar longing. Of fleshly desire. Something he'd buried—with commendable success—these last years.

He hadn't dressed like a vicar for the trip, and that had nothing to do with Aunt Margaret handing him his bag at the same moment his meddling uncle gave him his ticket last week. Without the white bands about his neck, the white surplice or black cassock worn when sermonizing or officiating, his somber black attire beneath was nondescript. Away from the vicarage and his parish, he could blend in with other gentry fair enough.

When he was home, he gave his attention and time, the vast majority of his thoughts, to his flock and little else. It was only the rare occasions when he ventured beyond the vicarage and traveled, that his thoughts proved difficult to control. Almost as though discarding the trappings of his calling released his inner demons to jaunt forth.

Oh, come now. Desire isn't any sort of demon.

Mayhap not. But it sure can feel like one without a proper form of release. And ever since his little "outing" with Uncle Bamber this past spring… Desires of a different sort had begun hounding him. He'd learned, after the fact, he had unknowingly assisted England's now infamous Lady Scandal, and the little-known Lady Imposter, find their loves, officiating over vows he'd later insisted the two couples recite again, after they each purchased a common license, allowing him to do things in the proper order.

Havey-cavey was all well and good—lest it could get one in hot water. Any good parson knew to avoid putting themselves in peril with the Church of England.

Yet, ever since all that occurred months ago (no doubt aided by the noises he'd endured as the happy couples indulged in intimate acts he truly—sincerely—would have preferred his wattles not been privy to), Thias found odd thoughts of finding his own lady closer to the surface. And this surprise trip had not helped.

Especially after meeting the female he now secretly thought of as Lady Valiant.

His Lady Valiant. The timing was all wrong, she being widowed not that horribly long ago. But that didn't stop him from dreaming, or seeing her everywhere.

The hair was completely the wrong color, as was the age, but the young gentlewoman that had joined them at the last moment, before the stage rolled out of East Crossings put him in mind of another female, the one he'd spent the last few hours developing an asinine, go-nowhere, tendre for. For this composed female, too, knew how to keep her pockets closed and private, didn't conduct herself as a flibbertigibbet (much like the man seated next to him, significantly older than every other passenger unfortunate enough to be snugged inside tighter than was comfortable along with his flapping jowls).

I cannot believe you thought that.

Aye, rather freeing, is it not?

For once, not having to mind his thoughts, his words, his every action… This whole week had proved a revelation.

And not of the biblical sort.

For was he not known as always available, whether his flock needed prayer over their souls, over their regrets (even over sins they didn't quite regret), or for their crops or any other trifle they came to him with? He was the reliable clergyman in the area (unlike the aged one a parish over who had become more enamored with tippling swill than saving souls).

A dependability he was now beginning to question, especially with each year added to his tally.

From the comments the older, grandmotherly sort of parishioners had filled his ears with since he turned forty—three years past, and still without a wife—a good third of them thought he harbored a secret fancy for one of the flock (inaccurate). Another third suspected he didn't favor women (wholly inaccurate). The remaining third? Those were the ones who wore on him. Who found trite reasons to visit the vicarage all week long, any excuse they could find to either try and entice him—should they be without a spouse—or to entice him toward their daughters, granddaughters or nieces...

No, thank you. It wasn't that there was anything particularly wrong with any of the women of his acquaintance, but none of them stirred him. Certainly not as much as he had been, hours past, sharing the private parlor with his Lady Valiant.

'Twas a true pity the recent widow who stirred him beyond what he would like to admit was in no position for a suitor. Even worse, that she lived, most incommodiously, on the opposite side of England.

Arranging his knees toward the coach wall beneath the open window, nothing dripping in the further north they galloped, the roads and air drying out, he looked again at the young black-haired miss that had joined them. The female, in complete disarray when she first climbed inside, had tamed her hair beneath a rather drab and drooping bonnet, pulled a snagged shawl around her shoulders—attempting to disguise where her dress had not been fastened (he knew because he was observant). Not only had she quickly righted her appearance, despite the stockings that were missing—giving him a glimpse of trim, forbidden ankles, but she kept her own counsel, seeming lost in her thoughts and content, if somewhat sad, to be dwelling there.

Her grateful, relieved look hardened his resolve as he continued to engage with Harrell, annoying jabber mouth that he was. At least his living had given Thias the talent of making small talk with only a part of his garret, leaving the rest to wander, to wonder…

As King Solomon wrote in the third chapter of Ecclesiastes, There was a time to speak, a time to keep silent, and an eventual time to find one's mate.

And I think all the blather has turned your brain barmy, if you are now misquoting the good book thus.

"Loughborough! Five minutes for new horses! On to Derby next."

When the stage rolled to a lumbering halt, the man next to him made his excuses about staying inside, "What, eh, knee doesn't like the stairs."

Thias rather thought his knee didn't like the amount of bulk Mr. Harrell carried, but was happy enough to stretch his legs. He waited until the young couple with the babe exited, then looked back at the other remaining occupant, the single female. She had not exited the stage at the prior stop. Might could do with a visit to the privy. "Miss? Would you like an escort to the office?"

She already knew he was a vicar; he'd not prevaricated about it when being peltered with questions by Mr. Heft and Jowl. "Require any sustenance I could pick up for you?"

Though her clothes were fine enough, and she too mature to be one of his many nieces and too young to be one of his aunts, he still felt a peculiar sort of protectiveness toward her. Aye, in direct proportion to how many bladed questions the older man had pricked her with.

She met his gaze with a tight smile. "Thank you, but nay. I will wait until the next stop."

"Mr. Harrell? Anything for you, sir?"

"Eh? Aye!" The man plucked a crown free from a bulging purse and held it out. "Get us both something, my good man."

Thias's eyes widened at the unexpected generosity. "Certainly, sir." He allowed his gaze to connect with hers, trying to offer whatever comfort he could at abandoning her now to the other man's exuberant personality. "I shall be back in a trice. Don't let them continue without me."

Which was actually a jest, for the stage waited for no man—nor man of God.

But three and a half minutes later, as he headed back, the bundled food just purchased warming his hand, a clasp upon his shoulder, quickly released when Thias spun and stopped, arrested his rush to return.

'Twas the hatted married gent that had ridden with them thus far. How peculiar. The man stood taller now, seemed much more imposing than he had within the crowded confines of the coach, and his missus and their babe were nowhere in sight.

"Aye?" Thias prompted. "This was your stop, correct?"

He had learned that much during Mr. Harrell's inquest of the couple.

"It is." The other man's eyes darted to and fro, and he lowered his voice to speak swiftly. "But the woman still in the carriage? The one seated across from you? Watch her. Do not let her off the stage alone. "

"What?" The unexpected warning startled Thias. "What do you know?—"

But the other man was gone, striding off and disappearing around the side of the nearest building, and the coachman's cry gave Thias no time to query or investigate further.

What the devil was that about?

Brisk steps brought him back to the stage, eager to clap his peepers on the female, mayhap sit next to her for this next posting, inquire about her safety, about?—

But when he climbed inside the stagecoach, wrapped bread and ham in hand for himself and Harrell, 'twas to find a burly brute crowding the female in question, his arm tight across her shoulders, whispering in her ear.

And the gentlewoman herself? Far from prompting recollections of his pleasantly strong and forthright Lady Valiant of the few hours prior to the stage, the black-haired miss now had a soured look of distaste puckering her lips and creasing her brow. A stubborn, rebellious gleam lighting her eyes.

"Hail there," Thias greeted the fresh comer with false gaiety, as the horses jolted forward, more than half surprised Harrell wasn't already conducting his own Inquisition.

His attention remaining on the female across from him, and the scowling man whispering into her ear, Thias handed over Harrell's portion of food without looking to the side. "Here you are."

If the brutish man's cloying regard was unwarranted—and with everything in him, he knew that it was—then Thias could be just as obstinate as another. "And you? Well met, good sir. You seem quite familiar with our other passenger here." Seeing her flinch when the rogue's grip tightened, Thias hardened both voice and posture. "Just who in blazes are you?"

"Well, well, little dove. Looks like I was right and you an' the cuff lied last night." The hugesome male wedged himself beside her, bringing with him a rife amount of malodorous scents. From his unwashed body that made her nose cringe to the sharp tang of onions blasting from his mouth that watered her eyes, her every breath was a struggle through fear realized.

She'd been found.

Shortly after Mr. Trumbull, and the parents with their sleeping babe, descended, the threat above had barreled in and clamped unwelcome hands on her person, keeping her in place. After a single blink of surprise, Mr. Harrell had looked away.

"You wasn't claimed, not one bit." Hot breath assaulted her face. Fingers pinched painfully tight over her shoulder as he drew her so close not a flea could have squeezed between them. "But I'll see to that, I will. Just as soon as we get to Congleton fer the night."

Mr. Harrell coughed. Susanna wanted to plant her boot in the nosy's gullet—he knew she was traveling alone, yet did nothing to grate this newcomer nor question his unwanted presence. Instead, fixed his gaze everywhere but at them.

Everywhere…

Everywhere this unwanted scab pawed along her side crawled with disgust. What a difference the person made. At such variance from the closeness shared with another last night. For this nasty's touch brought nausea storming through her middle and bile up her throat.

More sneered threats followed. More ugsome promises. More vile words breathing filth into her ear over and above the noises of the inn yard as horses were led off and replaced. The new team full of energy, stomping the thick earth and jostling her prison.

Regret stormed her mouth like rancid meat. She clutched the handles of her valise, debating whether to slam it into his nose or thrash it against his groin. Which might do the most damage? Thank heavens she had the gifts weighing her bag?—

"Hail there." Mr. Trumbull climbed the steps, to the irritated shouts to "Make haste," coming from their coachman. The whip cracked overhead and they were off, practically before the vicar could gain his seat, the motion throwing her forward.

Mr. Trumbull's eyes met hers as he took in the restraintive hold—and no doubt her resistance to it. She gave a slight, very slight shake of her head. Nay, I do not want him here. I do not want him touching me.

A single slow and focused blink and she knew he understood. She did not release her grip on her bag, but the nausea eased enough she could at least swallow.

"Do not cry out against me," the varmint at her side said, squeezing her shoulder enough to leave bruises, "lest you want this one here to meet my chive."

Chiv. She knew he meant his knife, for she felt the edge of it pressed against her side, out of sight of the others. He moved and the point of it pricked through her dress. She couldn't stop her flinch.

Mr. Trumbull gave a growl-snort, something she couldn't imagine had ever graced his pulpit come Sunday, as his features firmed and he leaned forward, fixing the rook next to her with a glare. "Just who in blazes are you? Unhand the lady!"