Mariel (3 page)

“Convenient? For what?” Mariel turned to him in surprise. She had hoped he would be offended and leave. It appeared he had thicker skin than the previous parson.

“To speak of your involvement in the village.”

“I was not under the impression that my secular activities were of interest to you, Reverend.” She moved past him to the door, her dog following like a variegated shadow. Putting her hands on the dark-green velvet portieres, she stated, “If, and I stress if, I find the time to discuss this, I will inform you. Good day, Reverend.”

Her footfalls racing up the stairs echoed back into the parlor. Ian shook his head when Miss Phipps began to apologize. “No need.”

“She is not usually like this.” The woman wrung her hands, wanting to ease the situation. “It is the fire. Losing the Cloister like this has broken her heart.”

He nodded. “I understand.” He did comprehend what she could not say. Miss Phipps's devotion to her difficult lady showed him that Lady Mariel might not be as immovable as she wished to portray.

Wishing her a good day, he left the house. His carriage waited. The household staff had known the interview would be short in duration. Smiling, he picked up the reins. If Lady Mariel thought she had daunted him, she guessed wrong.

Upstairs, Mariel listened to the renewed reprimand on her unacceptable behavior. She had learned long ago to act as if she was hearing Phipps while she thought of other things. The older woman had been with her too many years for Mariel to say what she truly felt. It made Phipps happy to think her lady heeded her advice. When her companion took a breath, Mariel hastily agreed to be kinder next time she met the new minister.

As soon as she was alone, she changed into an old dress. Taking ink, paper, and a pen, she skulked down the stairs. No one stood in the foyer. She slipped around the base of the steps to flee along the hallway that led to the original part of the house.

She easily threw the new bolt on the door separating the two sections. At first, as she entered the spartan building, she could imagine nothing had changed. Within a half dozen paces, the signs of the fire dissolved her dreams. By the time she had walked a few more feet, the roof was gone and the destruction complete.

She found the bench where she had been sitting when Reverend Beckwith-Carter interrupted her. Putting the ink bottle on the stone next to her, she began the most difficult letter she had ever written.

“Dear Uncle,

“I wish I could find words to soften the blow of what I must tell you. I can think of none.

“Two nights ago there was a fire in the old Cloister. The new Cloister is relatively unharmed. The wind, in addition to the well thought-out design of the house, saved it. As for the monastery section, it …”

Her pen halted. She could not write the words. To do so would legitimize them. She did not want to lose the hope that she could waken and find this all to be a nightmare.

Mariel did not like to admit something had happened she was unable to fix. This helpless feeling was so strange she did not know how to handle it. Anger overwhelmed her. Whom or what she was furious with, she did not know. Having no one to blame this on increased her irrational rage.

Her toe toyed with a small pebble fallen from the wall. Even without Phipps's lecture, she had known her behavior toward the reverend was unacceptable. Although she did not care what the man thought of her, she knew her uncle would have been ashamed of her lack of hospitality. She adored her uncle and never wanted to give him cause to think badly of her. He was her only living relative, and despite his journeys to the farthest realms of the earth, a closeness existed between them that no distance could lessen.

A stone tumbled to the floor. She looked up, her sorrowful thoughts interrupted, but saw no one. She sighed.

The fire had made her too jumpy. Tomorrow she had to go into the village to deal with the problem at the Ladies' Aid Society. Then she would fulfill her promise to apologize to Reverend Beckwith-Carter.

Smiling, she collected her writing materials and rose. That would shock the new minister. Her atonement for taking out her frustration on him would be the last thing he expected. Soon he would learn that Mariel Wythe was not like the other ladies of his church.

As she walked through the rubble, Mariel decided that she would relish her relationship with Reverend Beckwith-Carter. He was not easy to cow with a sharp word. She thought they would have many confrontations during his tenure in Foxbridge. She anticipated the next gleefully.

Chapter Two

Ian heard a strange clanking from beyond the parsonage, but could not break away from his work. The prose flowed so perfectly from his pen, he hated to pause to see what was causing the sound. He enjoyed working in the cozy study. From the moment he arrived and discovered that this small house would be his home during his assignment to the church in Foxbridge, this had been his favorite room.

Far less formal than the drawing room across the hall, its walls were covered with an Oriental paper of pale cranberry. More chairs than the room should contain crowded around the paisley settee with its carved arms and cabriole legs. The centerpiece of the room was the massive, rolltop desk situated between the two front windows overlooking the village green. A side window gave him a view of the hills between the settlement and the glory of Foxbridge Cloister near the ocean.

As the noise continued, his mind refused to concentrate until he satisfied his curiosity. He pushed his chair back on the gray rug, which showed the signs of many such motions over the decades.

He arranged the pages on the top of his desk and stood to straighten his collar. As he pushed aside the cream lace curtains at the window, his eyes widened in shock. Moving along the green was a sight more bizarre than any from his wildest dreams.

Grasping his cane, he rushed to the foyer and out onto the porch just as the vehicle slowed to a stop directly in front of him. The driver of the horseless carriage lifted wide goggles and removed a full hat covered with veiling to reveal shining dark hair and a pert nose between sparkling, blue eyes.

“Lady Mariel!”

“Good morning, Reverend. I hope I haven't interrupted you. I drove in for the Ladies' Aid meeting at the schoolhouse, but I am a bit early. If you have time, I thought we could discuss the matter you hinted at during your visit to the Cloister.”

Mariel had not discovered the proper phrase to allude to her behavior of the day before, so she acted as if they had parted amicably. Guessing the reverend was a gentleman, she assumed he would not correct her outrageous statement.

He offered her his hand as she stepped lightly from the strange vehicle. “What is it?”

With a laugh, she realized he was so astounded by her automobile that he had heard nothing she'd said. “This is the latest form of transportation. It is an electric automobile.”

“Electric?”

“Yes. I have a generator in the stable to recharge it. We have no electricity in the Cloister, so it was easiest to put the generator in an unused building. Every night, I connect the cables to the batteries behind the seat. In about ten hours, they charge enough so I can get a day's driving out of it.”

“An automobile,” he repeated in awe. He ran his hand along the chrome decorating the outside of the blue machine.

Outwardly, it looked little different from a normal buggy. The four wheels could have been exchanged for the ones on his carriage. The seat was positioned slightly farther back. Instead of reins, a lever sprouted up next to the driver's seat. Pedals on the floor must deal with starting or stopping it, but he did not have enough knowledge about these new automobiles to guess which. On the floor in front of the driver, gauges had been inserted into the dashboard. All of it was as alien to him as if it had been brought from the moon.

Stretching to look closer at the interior of the vehicle, whose top was lowered, he asked, “How far can you travel?”

She shrugged, watching his eager examination of the automobile. “I am not exactly sure. I use it only around Foxbridge. I can drive myself without tying up the time of one of the workers in the stables. The man who sold it to me told me it has a top speed of nearly fourteen miles per hour, and it can go for thirteen hours before it must be recharged. Of course, on these twisting roads, I must travel much slower.”

“Amazing.” He glanced at her and saw her knowing smile at his boyish awe. “I am sure you get this reaction wherever you go.”

“All the time.” She looked with affection across the green to the small, white church and the two storied schoolhouse. Grouped around them were small houses much like the parsonage. “Fortunately, the people here in the village are accustomed to ‘Lady Mariel's contraption.'”

When he stepped closer, he gazed at her with the same intensity he had used to appraise the automobile. She did not back down before his regard. Her eyes appraised his reaction to his inability to intimidate her this way. Slowly, her gaze traced the uncompromising line of his jaw and the firm planes of his face. He was an undeniably handsome man. His clerical collar and the subdued color of his white shirt and black vest flattered his masculinity.

Softly, he asked, “You came to speak with me, Lady Mariel?”

“Although I hate to admit it, I came to apologize.” The words were not as difficult to say as she had feared. “Reverend, I can only hope you will excuse my intolerable actions yesterday.”

“You were bereaved by your loss.”

“Yes,” she whispered, astounded by his ability to discern what she tried to hide. She shook herself mentally. Compelling green eyes could not be allowed to make her forget herself. “Yes, I was,” she continued in a normal voice, “but that was no excuse to act as I did. If you want to learn about the community groups I am involved with, I would be glad to answer your questions.”

“Won't you come inside, my lady?” He offered his arm. For a second, she hesitated, then tossed her hat and driving goggles onto the passenger seat. Her fingers touched the fine linen of his shirt sleeve to rest on the strong muscles beneath. Instantly, she had to fight the desire to pull away. A tingle, like a low electric shock, raced through her. Only her desire to hide her reaction kept her hand on his bent arm. As if they had talked of nothing more personal than the automobile, he asked, “You like being different, don't you?”

“Yes,” she answered hastily. She was pleased he had not noted how his nearness disconcerted her.

She did not understand why she reacted this way. Reverend Beckwith-Carter did not like her particularly, and she expected he would cause her trouble. She should not be so thrilled by the warmth of his skin, separated from her by only a single layer of fabric.

Mrs. Reed, the parsonage's housekeeper, came forward to greet her as they entered the front hall of the small house. The silver-haired woman had kept the parsonage for Reverend Tanner before he retired. Mariel smiled. She had worked on church projects with this lady, who was as thin as her name suggested. She respected the older woman's common sense and ability to deal with pettiness, which exasperated Mariel to distraction.

“Good morning, Lady Mariel. I just took biscuits from the oven. You will have some?”

Unbuttoning the heavy mackintosh she wore to protect her clothes from the dust blown up by the wheels of the automobile, Mariel nodded with a smile. She smoothed her simple skirt and the wide sleeves of her cream, voile shirt. “You know I can't resist your biscuits.”

“Jam? Strawberry is your favorite, if I recall correctly.”

“If it is no trouble.”

“Certainly not. Reverend?”

He had been watching the young woman hanging her coat on a hook as if she was as at home here as he was. Aloud he told Mrs. Reed that whatever she had would be fine. He admitted to himself it should be no surprise Lady Mariel was familiar with the parsonage. She had lived in Foxbridge all her life. He had been here only a few weeks.

When he motioned toward the study, she smiled coolly. His lips tightened. The open friendship she showed Mrs. Reed would not be wasted on him. He had hoped Lady Mariel would not be an adversary, but it appeared she did not share his feelings.

He waited while Mrs. Reed brought in the tray, and he listened to the two women talk about people he barely knew. When the housekeeper excused herself, he rose to close the door. He met Lady Mariel's wide blue eyes. Secretly, he was pleased to see she was astonished at being alone with him unchaperoned. Perhaps she was not as immune to the pressures of society as she pretended.

“Will you pour, Lady Mariel?”

“Of course, Reverend.”

“My name is Ian,” he said as he took one of the warm biscuits from the plate on the painted tray.

She glanced up in surprise before returning her attention to her task. “I am aware of that. Sugar, Reverend?”

When he did not answer, she found her eyes captured by his again. With the sugar tongs in her hand, she sat motionless as a warmth she could not halt sifted through her, bringing a rose tint to her cheeks. His smile teased a similar reaction from her lips.

Breaking the bewitchment, she said far more serenely than she felt, “Sugar, Ian?”

“Two, Mariel. I trust I may call you that.”

“I am sure I have little choice,” she retorted with a touch of sarcasm. When he disdained the offer of cream, she handed him his cup. “You are incredibly difficult to deal with.”

He smiled as she poured her own tea. “That is odd. I was thinking exactly the same thing about you.”

With a laugh, she leaned back against the prickly horsehair upholstery. She raised her cup to her lips, but grimaced as the steam from the hot liquid billowed in her face. “You have the advantage over me. You must have heard of my recalcitrant nature.”

“Recalcitrant was not the word your adversaries used. Stubborn is the one I heard most.” He picked up a biscuit, lathered it with strawberry jam, and offered it to her. When she accepted it graciously, he continued, “The people around Foxbridge admire you very much, Mariel.”