Chapter Thirty-Seven

Eleanor dipped her paintbrush into the jar and swirled it around, releasing a cloud of ultramarine that dissipated like wisps of smoke until it dissolved, rendering the water a pale blue color.

"Are you not cold, Mrs. Riley?"

She turned to see Reverend Staines standing over her shoulder.

"Not particularly," she replied. "I find I can get so absorbed in my work that I lose all sense of the world around me."

He glanced at the easel. "Exquisite."

"Hardly," she replied, laughing. "The proportions of the steeple are all wrong—see?"

"Why do you always do that?"

"What?"

"Talk yourself down whenever someone compliments you. Can you not accept praise with grace?"

"I'm only speaking the truth," she said. "I've made the steeple too tall, which means the angle of the roof is out of proportion."

He sighed. "Perhaps you consider yourself unworthy of kind words? I often wonder what your life was like before you came to Sandcombe to make you distrust the praise of others." He gestured to the space beside her on the bench. "May I?"

"We're in your garden, reverend—which happens to have the finest view of the church."

He sat beside her. "In that I agree with you. The building's at its best in the spring, when the May trees are in bloom. You must come and paint it then—that is, if you're still in Sandcombe."

"I've no intention of leaving, reverend."

He tutted. "I thought I said not to call me reverend. I'd prefer Mr. Staines, or"—he hesitated, and she could swear she saw a faint blush on his cheeks—"perhaps, in an informal setting such as this, I might prevail upon you to call me Andrew."

She averted her gaze at his familiarity.

"How do you manage to depict the walls?" he asked. "There must be hundreds—nay, thousands—of stones. Do you paint them all? I wouldn't have the patience."

"Neither would I." She laughed. "Art isn't about replicating a subject—it's about depicting what we see. Much like your sermons, a work of art exists to challenge the observer."

"In what way?"

She gestured to her canvas. "What do you see when you look at the walls of the building?"

"Stones," he said. "Hundreds of stones."

"But, if you look closer, you'll see that I've depicted only a few stones here and there. Everywhere else, I've merely given the impression of stones by blending the colors."

He leaned closer, then nodded. "Remarkable—how did I not see that before?"

"Because your eye fills in the detail. With your sermons, you select verses that mean something to you, rather than merely reciting what's in your Bible. That way, you permit your congregants to take whatever message feels right for them."

He drew in a sharp breath, then shook his head in disbelief. "You understand! In fact, I believe you may be the only soul in Sandcombe who does. It's what I believe my vocation to be—to give guidance and understanding, rather than enforcement and instruction."

Eleanor dipped her brush into the jar once more, then wiped it on a rag and closed her paintbox.

"Forgive me," he said, "I didn't mean to disturb you."

"You could never be a disturbance, Mr. Staines. Besides, I must let the canvas dry before painting the foreground."

"Which do you prefer?" he asked. "Portraits or landscapes?"

"It depends on the subject," she said. "A portrait is more challenging because the smallest flaw in proportion renders the subject unrecognizable."

"Is that why you've painted so many portraits of me?" he asked, laughing. "Even Mrs. Ham has one of your pencil drawings of me on her wall at the inn."

Dear Mrs. Ham had taken pity on Eleanor at first, purchasing her sketches for a shilling each. But now, she adorned the walls of her guest rooms with Eleanor's seascapes with the intention of attracting the interest—and custom—of travelers, from which Eleanor had managed to earn a modest, but steady, income.

"Mrs. Ham has portraits of everyone on her wall," Eleanor said. "There's one of her terrier beneath one of the candle sconces in the bar."

"Don't you find faces difficult to draw?"

She nodded. "The trick is to see a face as areas of light and dark, with the bone structure beneath as planes and angles. When I'm drawing a nose, for example, I see shadows and curves. I don't see a nose."

"Except, perhaps, in the case of Mrs. Fulford, where, I fear, one cannot help but see a nose—and little else."

Eleanor suppressed a giggle. "Honestly, reverend, I should reprimand you for such uncharitable thoughts."

"Or commend me for my honesty."

"Then I'll be honest in turn, and tell you the reason I sketch you so much," she said. "It's because you have the most interesting face in Sandcombe."

His eyes widened, and a flare of regret rippled through her at the desire in his expression.

"Ought I to be flattered?"

"Forgive me, but no," she said. "I'm afraid a flaw of mine is my inability to say the right thing without giving offense. I was merely remarking, from an artistic point of view, that you have an interesting bone structure—the way the shadows play across your cheekbones…"

He took her hand, his fingers warm to the touch.

"Heavens! You're cold," he said. "We must get you inside."

He leaned closer, and her heart somersaulted in her chest.

What have I done?

"I would hope you see me as more than a mere subject. I should like you to see me as a friend."

Panic swelled inside her, and she withdrew her hand.

Disappointment flared in his eyes, followed by resignation.

"And now it is I who must beg forgiveness," he said. "Though you are out of mourning, it's thoughtless of me to assume that you no longer grieve for your late husband. Here…" He picked up the easel. "Let's get your things inside before you catch cold. There's tea waiting in the parlor—with some of my cook's leftover Christmas cake."

"How can I refuse an offer of leftover Christmas cake?"

Eleanor followed him inside to the parlor, where tea had been set out. He escorted her to a chair, then poured the tea. When he returned with her cup, stirring the contents, she caught the faint aroma of cinnamon and honey.

Perfect.

He gave a soft smile. "Your maid told me how you like your tea. The cinnamon arrived shortly after Christmas. Have I made it right?"

She nodded, returning the smile, and his eyes sparkled with pleasure.

"I know tea is a poor substitute for the late Mr. Riley, but perhaps it will be enough to enable you to forgive my crassness of earlier."

She met his warm brown gaze, and her conscience pricked at her heart. This good, kind man did not deserve to be deceived.

"I fear I'm the one who must beg forgiveness," she said.

"What for?"

"I've not been entirely honest. I-I'm not—" She hesitated. "I mean—I'm not a widow."

"Your husband's alive?"

She looked away, her cheeks warming as she felt his gaze on her. "I am unmarried."

"I see," he said after a pause.

"B-but there was a man."

He drew in a sharp breath, and she fixed her gaze on the window, anticipating admonishment. The ticking of the clock on the mantelshelf filled the air, together with the steady sound of his breathing.

Then, with a rattle of crockery, he set his teacup down and sat beside her.

"There is a man," she said. "A man that I—"

"Don't speak of it," he said, and she flinched.

But what did she expect? Of course he'd judge her. Who wouldn't—particularly a vicar?

Then his warm hand took hers. She glanced up, meeting his gaze, expecting to see disgust.

But she only saw understanding.

"I had wondered if you were unmarried," he said. "Your maid often refers to you as ‘miss,' and though at first I thought it a slip of the tongue—particularly if she'd served you before your marriage—you often seemed uneasy being referred to as Mrs. Riley."

"Then you're more observant than most."

"In my vocation, observation is a necessity. As is the capacity to listen without judgment."

"I fear you may condemn me for having sinned," she said.

"We're all sinners in the eyes of the Almighty," he replied softly. "It's in our nature. Every day we commit thoughtless acts that serve our own gratification at the expense of others. Who am I to dictate what is, and isn't, a sin? We must all look to our own hearts—and consciences. Did you love him?"

She hesitated, then nodded slowly, biting her lip to stem the tears.

"I see," he whispered.

She tried to withdraw her hand, but he caught it in both hands and held it firm.

"No. Eleanor—if you'll permit me to call you by your given name—there's no sin in having loved another. And whatever happened, I can see you suffer for it."

"H-how do you know?"

He stroked the back of her hand. "The first time I set eyes on you at church—sitting in a pew at the back, set apart from the rest of the congregation, with your maid beside you—I saw pain and weariness in your eyes. In the weeks since your arrival, that pain may have lessened, but it's still there, isn't it?"

"Perhaps."

"Then I would venture to say that, rather than having been the sinner, you were sinned against."

She reached for her teacup and took a sip.

"Did he take advantage of you?"

Her teacup rattled against the saucer as she looked up. "Did he what?"

"It happens more often than you might think. A young woman, blinded by love and tempted by promises, accepts a man's attentions, only to find herself heartbroken, abandoned, and ruined." He shook his head. "Some men are utter cads."

"Reverend, I—"

"No, Eleanor," he interrupted. "He's the sinner—and is, no doubt, indulging in sin while you live in obscurity, shouldering the burden of his whim. If there were any justice in the world, I'd—"

"Please!" she cried. "It wasn't like that."

"I'll wager every na?ve young girl has said that after finding herself abandoned, willingly taking on the sins of a blackguard because she's foolish enough to—"

She withdrew her hand. "I'm no fool—and he didn't abandon me! We had an agreement. W-we were always going to part. It was my doing. I wanted to know what it might be like—just once—to be loved. Truly loved."

"Yet he didn't love you in return."

"Perhaps he did," she whispered. "But not enough."

"But surely, when you declared your heart, he ought to have—"

"I never declared my heart," she said. "I wouldn't—I mean, that's a risk I'd never take."

"I understand," he said quietly. "The deepest love goes hand in hand with a fear of rejection that overcomes all hope. And you therefore take what is on offer, knowing that the pain of rejection if you admit—even to yourself—that you yearn for more would be too much to bear."

She drew in a sharp breath at his words. How could he possess such insight, almost as if he'd crawled inside her mind? Such an ability to understand her—she'd only seen it in another…

But she could no longer think of him.

"So, you ran from him," the reverend said.

She shook her head. "He and I parted as friends. We're still friends, I believe."

"You believe?"

She forced a smile. "I'm hardly likely to see him again. Doubtless he'll live out his life with little thought for me, and I'd rather remove myself from his path. I shall always hold him in high regard, but I would rather never see him again than endure the prospect of being merely his friend."

"Is that why you came here, changed your name, and removed yourself from London Society?"

Her stomach flipped at his words. "H-how did you know…"

"Your accent betrays you," he said, smiling. "Having two sisters who are readying themselves for their first Seasons, I can tell when a young woman has been subjected to years of elocution lessons. But running from your problems is not the solution. And running from your family…" He hesitated. "Unless they cast you out—Sweet heaven, Eleanor, is that why you're here?" He shook his head. "I despair of the world sometimes. A parent's duty is to love their child no matter what. Perhaps if I wrote to your family on your behalf, they might relent. I'm ashamed to say it, but we live in a world where the word of a man of the cloth may be enough to effect a reconciliation."

"I'm here by choice," Eleanor said. "My father hasn't forsaken me—he set me free. I have no wish to return to London." She smiled at the memory of the last time she saw Papa—his strong, steady arms around her, the familiar smell of him, of cigars and spices, while he bade her farewell and a prosperous, happy, and independent life. "Most fathers would have thrown their daughters out after what happened. But Papa didn't, not even when…"

"When what?"

"I promised myself I'd never speak of it again," she said. "Harriet knows, of course, for I couldn't bring her with me under false pretenses, but we agreed that neither of us would mention it. But I find myself compelled to speak of it, just once, so that you may judge me as I ought to be judged."

His eyes widened, but he remained quiet, as if he waited for her to trust him.

As another had done, that beautiful night at Rosecombe when she had given her heart and body to the man she loved.

Perhaps it was possible to have a friendship with a man. Here—and now—was a man who offered that friendship.

"You can trust me with the truth, Eleanor," he said, his voice catching at her name, "though I understand that your trust is not something I can ask of you. If you cannot trust me today, I shall be patient and wait until tomorrow—and all the tomorrows thereafter. Then, if you are still unable to trust me, I shall accept, with grace, my flaw in not being worthy."

He leaned back, then retrieved his teacup and took a sip. "Perhaps you might like some fruitcake after all?"

"I lay with him," she said quietly.

He said nothing, but when she looked up, his gaze was filled with understanding.

"And then I drew portraits—to remember him by…" Her cheeks warming, she looked away. "Intimate portraits."

He remained silent for a while. "You mean like William Etty?"

Etty—where had she heard that name?

"Etty's making something of a name for himself for depicting nudes," he continued. "Causing something of a scandal, due to the accuracy of the color tones when depicting the—ahem—flesh. Or so my father tells me. He's a patron of the Royal Academy."

"Oh." Her cheeks grew hotter until they almost burned.

"I take it you drew a rather detailed nude of your lover."

Shame needled at her.

"I knew you'd judge me," she said. "Like all the others, when my sister—" She broke off and sighed. "They weren't meant to be seen. They were a private treasure for me to keep, to remind me that, for a brief moment, someone found me desirable." She rose. "I should go."

He leaped to his feet and took her hands. "Oh, Eleanor! You think I'd judge you merely for loving another? It breaks my heart to hear that you believe yourself unlovable, and undesirable, when you are quite the opposite. But what do mean, all the others?"

She drew in a deep breath to steady herself, but the despair threatened to overwhelm her. "M-my sister showed them to the guests during a dinner party."

"She what?" he cried, tightening his grip. "Was she mistaken?"

"I'm afraid it was intentional—though I fear she wasn't in possession of her wits."

He set his mouth into a firm line. "She must have known what she was doing."

"Perhaps." Eleanor sighed. "But I fear she didn't fully understand the consequences."

"Even the dullest wit would know that such a revelation would ruin you—and most likely ruin your family also. I cannot comprehend that a woman would do that to her own sister! Does she hate you that much?"

Eleanor opened her mouth to deny it, then hesitated. Perhaps Juliette did hate her—a hatred born of a failure to understand her difference. She'd been unable to disguise her resentment of Eleanor's betrothal to Montague—or her glee when it ended.

"Many things give rise to hatred, Mr. Staines," she said. "I'd ask you not to judge Juliette too harshly. I believe she suffers—and perhaps she acted because she hoped it would end her suffering. Did you not say in one of your sermons that those who commit acts of evil are merely trying to restore a perceived imbalance in the world? That it's human nature to resent the happiness of another and to destroy it if they can—even if it leads to one's own destruction?"

"That doesn't mean acts of evil should go unpunished when they lead to the suffering of others. Your sister ought to be horsewhipped."

Eleanor flinched at the anger in his voice. "Is that how you treat someone who commits a transgression?"

"That was more than a transgression, Eleanor. It was a deliberate act to destroy another. Why in the name of the Almighty would she do such a thing?"

"I've asked myself that question every day since I came here," she replied. "I can only think she did it because she failed in her own pursuit of a man."

"There it is," he said. "The folly of an unmarried woman desperate to do anything to snare a title. My elder brother has experienced such a woman—ruthless, immoral, and willing to destroy any female rival in her quest to ensnare a man so that she might plague him for the rest of his days."

"Do you have such a low opinion of my sex?"

"I do of women like your sister, who think nothing of destroying the lives of others for their own gratification." He shook his head. "Forgive me—before I was ordained, I experienced much of the desperate debutante. I can understand why you left London Society. It's somewhere I have no intention of setting foot in. I pity my poor brother, who, as the heir, is obliged to submit to the Marriage Mart. I pray he never encounters your sister."

Eleanor shrank back from the force of his anger, which was almost tangible.

Then he sighed. "It's to your credit that you defend your sister, but I'll never understand why a woman would treat another so cruelly. To have driven you from your home—she must have known what she was doing."

"What does it matter?" Eleanor said. "I'm here now, living my own life—somewhere quiet where I can do what I love."

"Paint?" he suggested, his expression softening.

"Not just that—but live on my own terms, not being dictated to."

"By a husband."

She nodded. "When a woman marries, she surrenders her freedom to her husband."

"Not all husbands."

"Almost all," she said. "So, Juliette didn't really do me any harm."

"But what about the man you…" He made a vague gesture in the air, his cheeks reddening. "Didn't he come to your defense? After all—he was the subject of your drawings."

"He doesn't know," she said, "and I won't tell him."

"Why not?"

"I don't want him feeling as if he needs to act out of obligation."

His chest rose and fell in a sigh. "Ah," he said. "There it is."

"There what is?"

"The consideration for another with little regard to your own gratification. The purest form of love."

Her throat constricted at the thought of…him. Her eyes stung with tears, and she lifted a hand to wipe them away. The reverend caught her wrist and held it in a firm but tender grip.

"You still love him, don't you?"

She longed to deny it, but her defenses crumbled at his gentle touch and tender gaze, and she bowed her head.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. Then he placed a hand on her cheek and wiped the tears away with his thumb.

Then she looked up and let out a low cry.

"Mrs. Riley?"

Harriet stood in the doorway.

He withdrew his hand and stepped back, his blush deepening.

"Begging your pardon," Harriet said. "Mrs. Palmer's expecting you—for the sitting, for her portrait?" She stepped into the parlor, and her eyes widened. "Reverend, what have you done to my mistress?" She rushed toward Eleanor. "Oh, miss! Look at you—you're trembling all over. You—" She broke off as she realized her mistake. "I-I mean, Mrs. Riley, ma'am."

"It's all right," he said. "I know."

"Y-you know?"

"Yes, Harriet. I commend you for taking such excellent care of your mistress after what happened."

"He knows everything, miss?"

Eleanor nodded. "You needn't worry, Harriet. Mr. Staines is a friend." She took his hand. "A good friend. He'll not tell a soul, will you?"

"No—Eleanor."

Harriet flinched at the familiar address. "Miss Eleanor deserves a friend after what that sister of hers did."

"And she does have a friend," he said. "Eleanor, I'll ask nothing of you other than that one day—in your own time—you might find it in yourself to trust me with your friendship." He glanced at the clock on the mantelshelf. "Now, don't let me detain you if Mrs. Palmer's expecting you. Do you wish to leave your easel and canvas here? I can keep it safe for when you resume your painting of the church."

"Yes, thank you," Eleanor said.

With Harriet's assistance, they gathered the rest of her materials, then he ushered her out of the vicarage, pressing a wrapped slice of cake into Harriet's hands.

"Oh, reverend—I couldn't possibly."

"Please," he said, giving Eleanor a wink. "If you don't take it, I'll be expected to eat it all myself, and though my tailor would appreciate the custom, I am not minded to purchase a new wardrobe just yet."

"Then we shall accept both the cake, and your friendship, with pleasure," Eleanor said.

Arm in arm with Harriet, she took her leave. Halfway along the road, she turned back to see him standing in the doorway, watching her.

"He loves you, miss," Harriet said. "There's none kinder than him. You could do worse."

For a moment, the image flashed before Eleanor—of a comfortable life with a kind man whose company she enjoyed, and, one day, a family of her own. The image was perfect, save for one thing.

She didn't love him.

Her heart belonged, irrevocably, to another.