The Vicar's Frozen Heart (7 page)

Mrs. Tompkins’s eyebrows shot up. “That be more than he told anyone around here.”

So much for finding out about Tremain and his past
. “Is he acquainted with the viscount?”

Mrs. Tompkins buttered another piece of bread and bit into it with gusto. “Who’s to say? We’ve never seen hide nor hair of his lordship in these parts. Ever.”

How strange. Usually a member of the peerage made some sort of appearance at his country seat during the course of the year.

“From what I hear, the viscount was given the estate by his father, the Duke of Gransford, about three years ago. His lordship be the second son of a very rich duke. Though he came into the title through his mother’s side, I hear. I don’t understand all those rules.” Mrs. Tompkins continued between bites. “He’s never been here. Sent his steward, a Mr. Dibley, and hired a few servants, but other than that stays in London, I gather. Mr. Colson has weekly meetings with Mr. Dibley and they handle the viscount’s business. Also handle our concerns. Between the two of them, they serve the tenants and this village. Been many a year since we’ve had an aristo in the area.” Mrs. Tompkins ran her bread through the gravy on her plate and took another bite. “Some may say the vicar has a frozen heart, but he cares about us all and sees us well, I’ve no doubt of that.”

Eliza could hardly believe it. Such a cold, austere man did not possess anything as basic as a heart and warm feelings for his fellow man, though she supposed it must be a requirement for his position as a priest of the Anglican faith. And he did assist her. She’d only see him lower his mask for a few moments, when he caught her watching him as he washed, then again while they stood close in his parlor and he admitted she tempted him. But even a man without a heart experienced carnal yearnings. That must be it. She stirred his lust and nothing more. He certainly stirred hers. Somehow, she had the feeling there was much more to the vicar than he showed publicly.

* * * *

The pounding was insistent and incessant. A rhythmic beat growing ever louder, closer, like an approaching train hurling down tracks. The effect was mystifying, frightening and he could hear men’s voices speaking of it fearfully. Tremain could see nothing; only hearing the thundering rhythm and then a haunting chant as accompaniment. A war chant. A Zulu war chant and march. Four thousand Zulu warriors, battle hardened and merciless, were about to overrun the small British garrison at the Rorke’s Drift mission station. Sweating and lying on his bunk in the infirmary, Tremain could do nothing but wait out the battle. An injury to his upper thigh and an accompanying high fever hampered him from joining his fellow soldiers in the 24th Regiment of Foot. He drifted in and out of consciousness. Delirium made him weak and vulnerable and utterly useless.

A private entered the room. “They’re banging their spears against their shields! Thousands of them! They are going to kill us all!” Tremain could hear snippets of the battle, the rifle shots and screams. How much time passed, he had no way of knowing. A few of the more ambulatory men fired shots from the windows and the loop holes cut in the infirmary walls.

At once, flame engulfed the hospital. A Zulu warrior burst through the straw roof, dropping to the floor. The warrior repeatedly speared one of the screaming, sick soldiers helpless in his bed until he screamed no more. Tremain clutched the rifle he’d been given. Could he even use it? He thrust forward, hoping the bayonet would make contact with one of the warriors who now filled the room, spreading through it like a plague of locusts. He and his fellow soldiers were all going to die.

Sweet Jesus.
Tremain bolted upright in bed, his breathing ragged and harsh. Sweat poured down his face in rivets. Cold, clammy gooseflesh rose around his neck and down his arms. Three years and he was still disturbed by these nightmares. As if reliving that horrid day wasn’t enough, his thigh pained him to the point of madness. Be damned if he would take laudanum. He had enough of that the first few months after his injury. He would never allow himself to wallow in such a drug-induced haze again. Nor did alcohol help, though when the throbbing raged as it did right now it managed to take the edge off.

Unfortunately, his bottle of brandy was in a cupboard in his study. Could he even walk to the room to fetch it? Damn it all, he would crawl.

Swinging his leg around, he cried out in misery. He’d almost lost the entire leg from the upper thigh down. A battlefield sawbones had wanted to hack it off. Tremain wondered now if it would have been better to let the quack take the damned limb and be done with it. Trailing his fingers across his naked skin, he felt the many raised scars and obvious indentations. He’d been carved like a piece of pork loin. Muscles and tendons were destroyed. “You will never walk again.” Well, he had proved the blighters wrong, but at what cost?

Hanging onto the bedpost for dear life, he pulled himself up as he bit his lower lip until it bled. He stood absolutely still for several minutes until the agony lessened, then reached for his cane and hobbled slowly toward his study.

The sun hovered on the horizon, casting golden shadows across the property. Tremain stood at his study window with a full tumbler of brandy clutched tight in his hand and watched the sun rise. Bad enough he dreamed of death, today he would have to deal with it more directly as Ruth Payne was not expected to see out the day.

Isn’t this why he turned to the church after the army? He would have been drummed out at any rate, thanks to his injury. Regardless, he made the decision to give his life in service to his fellow man, hoping against hope it would bring him some modicum of peace. To serve penance for the lives he’d taken in the name of Queen and Country.

All it did was leave him empty. Not surprising, as he left his heart and soul in the Transvaal at that burned-out mission hospital. He stood a broken, wounded animal and would acknowledge as much. Glancing at his desk, he took notice of the unopened correspondence. Letters from his parents and brothers. Also in the pile lay a letter from a former lover no doubt wishing to become reacquainted. The sickening scent of lilies emanated from the envelope, informing him the correspondence came from the widow, Lady Samantha Trimly, his last mistress before he left for South Africa. He should toss it in the flames. Meaningless sex held no temptation for him. Not any longer. Especially not the numerous, debauched encounters he indulged in during his affair with her. With complete indifference, he hurled the letter into the fire.

He took a sip of the brandy. The burn caressed its way down his throat, the fire easing the ache in his thigh and leg.
Liar.
Miss Eliza Winston tempted him to the point of pain. Since the war no woman had aroused him in such a raw, stark way. The attraction was earthy, lustful, but also hinted at something deeper, which disturbed him more than the actual desire itself.

With a decided grunt, he hobbled to his desk and sat. After pulling out blank paper from the drawer, he opened the ink bottle and dipped his pen. He would write to this housekeeper, Mrs. Travers, in Yorkshire, and request detailed information on Miss Winston
. Eliza.
If the stubborn young woman was determined to stay in the village, he should be certain of her past since he had recommended her to the Tompkinses. Admittedly, he wanted to know more for his own personal reasons as well.

Though he had every intention of ignoring the impulsive and forceful emotions churning within him in regards to Eliza, he should know of her character in case things took a turn.
Right
. Imagine if the vicar took up with the barmaid. The reverberations from it would be felt for miles. Continuing to sip his brandy as he scribbled away, he barely heard the knock at the front door. Frowning, he glanced down at his naked state. He must stop traipsing about the house in the altogether. Gripping his cane tight, he made his way to the front entrance. “Who is it?” he barked. Dawn had barely broken.

“’Tis Tommy from the inn. Mrs. Tompkins said to fetch you and get you to nip along sharpish if you be wantin’ to catch the last breath of Ruth Payne and say yer prayers and such over her.”

In spite of the dire circumstances, Tremain actually smiled briefly in amusement. He doubted Mrs. Tompkins wanted the lad to use those exact words. “Very well. I’ll be back in a moment to let you in, Tommy.”

The cane thumped on the wood floor as he made his way toward his bedroom
.
He had watched helplessly as poor Ruth lingered in agony for months, wasting away before his very eyes. There was no mercy in life, but then he had never seen any on the battlefield, either. Yet, he would try to bring her comfort and peace.

Too bad he could not muster any up for himself.

Eliza did not report to work until three that afternoon, and in the interim didn’t relish the thought of sitting alone in her tiny cubby-hole of a room. Instead, she offered to help Mrs. Tompkins in the kitchen, slicing carrots and potatoes for the meat pies. On top of being a tavern wench, she was now a scullery maid. It was all rather sobering. The position of governess at the manor meant she didn’t have any manual labor to contend with. Her meals were brought on trays, her clothes washed, and her room usually tidied by a maid. She never stopped to consider how hard others worked below stairs. How arrogant of her. How thoughtless.

Well, she’d been brought down a peg or two. Reaching above yourself was not the thing to do, a lesson learned. The servants had sneered at her snobbish ways and no doubt triumphed in her downfall. She reached above herself again by lusting after the tall, broad-shouldered vicar. Would she
ever
learn? As if the man would offer anything more substantial than a quick toss in the sheets. Perhaps not even that, if she admitted the truth. He may be tempted, but he would never act on it. The cold, relentless control he wielded over his emotions proved her point.

Her depressing thoughts were interrupted by Mr. Tompkins lumbering into the kitchen. “Where’s Tommy? He should take food to Ruth Payne’s. The vicar is there and has been since dawn. He and the boy, Drew, should eat.”

“I’ll take care of it, don’t you worry none. Go on with your chores,” Mrs. Tompkins called out. Her husband gave her a smile and an affectionate slap on her backside. Mrs. Tompkins flushed. “Go on, you wicked man. Be off.”

A stab of envy clutched Eliza. The couple, though they had no children, was loving and kind to each other. They worked side by side as partners. It struck her then and there that she longed for such a loving alliance, and if the relationship had a potent physical side, all the better. It seemed the Tompkinses did.

“If you’ll give me directions to the Payne home, I will take the food,” Eliza offered.

Mrs. Tompkins wiped her forehead with her sleeve, then held up her flour covered hands as she had been working with the pastries. “Bless you, my dear. If you could slap together a few bacon butties I’d be thankful. There are slices of seed cake in the larder. You will find a basket on the shelf.”

Eliza gave the woman a warm smile as she made her way to the pantry. After assembling everything, she also made herself a bacon butty to have later. She’d not indulged in ages. After packing the food in brown paper and placing the items in the basket, she fetched her wool coat, gloves, and scarf.

The sun shone high in the clear blue sky, but a decided chill lingered in the air. Thankfully the village was not large and the instructions Mrs. Tompkins gave were easy enough to follow. Turning down a narrow alley, Eliza noticed the structures became less prosperous. As she rounded the corner, she spotted a tall man and a small boy standing by the back entrance to the Payne’s little hovel. No mistaking those shoulders, it stretched the wool of the black coat in an attractive way. Eliza ducked into a darkened alcove, out of their sight but not hers, and near enough to hear the conversation.

“...but why did she have to die, Vicar?” The lad sniffled.

Tremain laid a comforting hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I have no words to explain why, Drew. I will not say it is all God’s plan, because I am not sure exactly what that means. Nor will I say your mother has gone to a better place. For how can death and finality be better than life and living?”

This is a priest?
Eliza was utterly fascinated at his words. No false platitudes or hollow clucks of sympathy. No droning on in prayer. He spoke truth--his truth--to a child no less.

Tremain crouched down in front of Drew. “But know this. Her suffering is at an end. Your dear mother no longer has worries or responsibilities. She is truly at peace. Mourn her, miss her, and never forget her, lad. She loved you and thought only of you with her last breath. Remember her with love.”

Drew sobbed and threw himself at Tremain, who looked shocked at the sudden embrace. He froze as if not knowing what to do and a furrow appeared between his thick, black brows. His arms remained stiff at his side. A few tears gathered on Eliza’s own lashes as she watched the anguish of not only Drew, but also Tremain, unsure of how to react to the boy’s desperate grasp.

Suddenly he hugged the boy, holding on for dear life. “Yes, let it out, Drew. Let it all out.” His voice was soft with emotion.

“What...what will become of me, Vicar?” Drew sniffled. “Nobody wants me.” He pulled back and gave Tremain such a distressing look of worry that Eliza felt her heart tighten.

“Tonight, you come home with me.”

Drew wiped the tears from his face with the tattered sleeve of his coat. “I can?” he asked hopefully.

“Yes. Go inside and gather your things. Tomorrow we will discuss your future in more detail.”

The boy gave him another hug before running through the back entrance. Tremain stood and turned his back to her. His shoulders slumped as he clasped his hands behind him. He lowered his head and Eliza could not be sure if he prayed, cried, or both. Perhaps neither. Slowly, she backed out of the alcove and made her way to the front of the flat.

An older woman let her in, a neighbor, Eliza guessed. The woman pointed her toward the back alley. Clutching the basket close, she made her way down the narrow hall and then stepped through the back entrance, closing the door behind her.