It was inevitable. Henry had to wake up from his nap sometime. Judging from the gray skies outside, it was still raining but not quite dark. His stomach rumbled, indicating that it was perhaps suppertime and his digestive system was improving. Could old Vincent cook? Henry didn’t think he could manage the stairs to the kitchen quite yet.
He hadn’t lain abed like this in his life. Even when his foot was almost shot off, the Boers had no interest in coddling him. The pater expected him to be at the breakfast table no later than seven in the morning after a bruising early morning ride. So to lie about like a loafer had been an unusual way for Henry to spend his day.
Of course, there had been an interlude today where he was relatively active. He wondered if the remembrance of it brought a blush to Rachel’s cheek. What was she doing now? Fixing dinner for her father? Mending by lamplight? He hoped she’d finished the bloody altar flowers.
Henry didn’t intend to see them personally. He figured he could get out of going to church services tomorrow due to his illness. And besides, the vicar had moved in with him for the night. Surely that counted for something towards his immortal soul.
Sainthood by osmosis.
“Ah! You’re awake!” Old Vincent sounded disgustingly chipper. He had that voice used by adults to address children and the mentally deficient, all false cheer and bonhomie.
“Just about. What did I miss?” Henry asked, tongue firmly in cheek.
“I’ve just been reading. Listening to the rain.”
“Don’t overexcite yourself.” Henry stretched and heard a cracking noise in his neck. He really should get out of bed and totter about the room. His daily walks had become almost something to look forward to, especially if seeing Rachel was at the end of the journey.
“No chance of that. Puddling’s not the place to go if one wants excitement.” Walker gave a rueful smile.
“Tell me something I’m not aware of. How do you stand it? You’re still young, and reasonably intelligent, as far as I can tell. Don’t say you find the inmates fascinating. I’m boring myself witless.”
“One doesn’t enter the ministry for excitement,” Walker replied. “In most cases, the work I do here is very gratifying.”
Henry stopped himself from snorting. “I suppose you get a cut of the loot. The Puddling Rehabilitation funds that are awarded to the townspeople every year.”
Walker’s lips thinned. “A clergyman doesn’t expect to get rich.”
“What, a man of your indubitable talents has no ambition to be a bishop?”
“You are mocking me, Lord Challoner.”
Henry supposed he was. Walker had power over him, and he didn’t like it. And there was the business of Rachel, who was engaged to both of them although not all of the parties seemed knowledgeable about this fact.
“I imagine you’ll want to marry one day,” Henry said, working his way toward the truth.
“I haven’t given it much thought, actually,” Walker said, surprising Henry not in the least.
“Really? I thought marriage was a requirement if one wants to advance in the church.”
“You are the one pushing for my advancement. A bishop!” Walker chuckled. “I’m sure my sights are not fixed on so grand a prize.”
“Well, a wife would be helpful, wouldn’t she? Just in the general way of things. Better to marry than to burn and all that rot.”
“I haven’t met—” Walker paused. “That isn’t quite true. The young lady who once caught my eye proved to be unattainable. We were…doomed, I suppose one might say. She was promised to another.”
Henry raised a brow. “Really? I wouldn’t let anything stop me if I were in love.”
“Wouldn’t you? No, I suppose a man like you wouldn’t. You’d just charge ahead, no matter the cost.”
Henry decided not to be offended. “A man like him” seemed capable of almost anything. “Then you must not have loved her enough.”
“That wasn’t it!” Walker said with some heat. “There were other circumstances as well.”
“There are always circumstances,” Henry said, and wondered at the precise state of Walker’s.
“Yes, well, it’s all very well for you to sit in judgment.”
“I’d never judge,” Henry said truthfully. “That’s my father’s specialty. I’m more a live-and-let-live fellow. Was she beautiful?”
Walker’s face took on a dreamy cast. “Exquisite. And the sweetest girl imaginable. Her mother treated her abominably, arranging a wretched marriage for her. I hope she’s managing.”
“You don’t know?”
“I cannot interfere. We agreed we couldn’t keep in contact. She’s a married woman now! It wouldn’t be fitting.”
“Pah! So you let this poor girl marry some scoundrel? What kind of Christian charity is that?”
Henry knew he’d gone too far when Walker tromped over to the bed and hovered above him, his face mottled in anger. “There is such a thing as honor to the greater cause. I’ve given my word—I have responsibilities—you don’t know the suffering—”
“All right, all right. Calm down. I’m a sick man, remember? You’re supposed to be taking care of me, not smashing me to smithereens. So, you and Miss Everett don’t have an understanding?”
“Who? Oh, Rachel. No. There’s been some village gossip, but I feel nothing for her but friendship. There will never be another woman for me.” Walker collapsed in a chair, looking melancholy.
Better and better. Walker was obviously not in any way smitten with Rachel.
The poor bastard.
So, Walker didn’t have all the answers. Henry reflected on the man’s counsel so far, lecturing Henry on the sanctity of marriage and the perils of the pursuit of excess pleasure. Walker, apparently, would have neither.
“You don’t know that. Someone else might come along.”
Walker shook his head. “I have a constant heart, Lord Challoner. I view my celibacy as a blessing—now I can devote my total attention to God and the residents of Puddling.”
“That sounds awfully grim.”
“We all have our crosses to bear. Mine is inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. Are you hungry?”
Henry was, which was a good sign. “I believe I’m over the worst of my indisposition. You don’t have to stay the night.”
“It’s my duty. You are in our care.”
“In that case, how about some soup? It shouldn’t be too much trouble to heat.”
Walker rose. “Shall I bring it upstairs, or are you well enough to dine below?”
“I’ll come down.” Henry would have to get out of bed sometime. He watched as Walker made to leave the room. “Watch your head!”
But Henry’s warning was too late. Poor old Vincent fell to the floor. Henry had had a mind to fetch a hatchet and cut the bloody crossbeam down after the first time he’d hit his own head. Of course, the roof might come down with it.
“Damn it all to hell.” Henry stumbled out of bed, still a little dizzy. He bent over the vicar, who was out cold in the hallway. “Whoever had designed this house must have had dwarfs in mind. Can you hear me, Walker?”
There was no response. A straight red line ran the length of Walker’s forehead, but there was no blood, thank goodness. He went back to the bed, grabbed a pillow and stuffed it under the vicar’s head. Now what? Should he try to go for help?
Henry wanted Rachel back. He wished she’d never gone home. He could have been spending his evening in far more satisfactory fashion than sitting next to an unconscious minister.
Henry gave Walker a few light taps on his ruddy cheeks. “Come on, man. Wake up.”
Finally, Walker groaned.
“There you are!” Henry said cheerfully. “I knew your head was as hard as mine. You Puddling people really need to do something about this cottage’s architecture. You wouldn’t want a Guest to decapitate himself, would you? That would ruin the foundation’s reputation in one fell swoop. Get it?” Henry laughed at his own inane joke.
“A reputation is nothing to be trifled with,” Walker muttered. “‘A good name is rather to be chosen than great riches, and loving favor rather than silver and gold.’ Proverbs 22:1.”
“It would be nice to have the money, too, don’t you think? Can you get up?”
“Of course I can get up.” Walker swayed as he tried to sit, and Henry caught him.
“Look at the pair of us. Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum. Stonecrop is strewn with landmines for fellows our size. I’ll help you down the stairs.”
It was Henry who found the crock of soup in the ice box and heated it. Walker was delegated to cutting up and buttering bread since he was dizzier than Henry at present. The two of them sat at the kitchen table in the waning light enjoying the simple fare, which would have been much enhanced by a slug or three of claret.
“I shall speak to the governors about the lintels and beams,” Walker said, wiping up a dribble of soup from his lips. “This place is dangerous. Of course, not all the guests are as tall as you are. The last lady who stayed here had no difficulty.”
“What was her sin? Not jumping high enough when her husband told her?”
“It was nothing so trivial.”
“I don’t know, Walker. I’ll bet half the Guests here are no barmier than you or I. This is quite a racket you Puddlingites have, making ordinary high spirits seem evil.”
Walker stirred his soup, then dropped the spoon with a clatter. “High spirits? Is that what you call defiling your father’s home with prostitutes?”
“They weren’t—well, I guess maybe they were. I did a stupid thing.” It had seemed amusing to Henry at the time. He hadn’t expected his father to discover the girls, but considering all the noise they made, it was inevitable.
“So you’ve seen the error of your ways.”
Henry nodded. “Yes. I’m cured. My father wants me to marry and settle down when I get out of here? Done.”
Walker’s face lit. “That is good news. I’ll report on your progress to the governors.”
Henry had to ask. “Is there a chance I can leave before the official time is up?”
“I doubt it. We’ve yet to settle on your Service.”
“But—”
“I’m sorry— it’s tradition. Methodology may have changed over the last few decades—we no longer dose the Guests with laudanum or tie them into straitjackets, for example—but the Service is inviolate. You need to do something for the greater good. And it’s early days for you. Heaven forfend, but you may backslide.”
Henry had no intention of backsliding or frontsliding. He was willing to take on all the labors of Hercules if it meant Rachel would become Lady Challoner.