JOHN WAS EMPHATIC. “PARSON, YA really ’ave te come this time.”
Jack agreed, since never before had Lord Wilson sent for him on a Thursday morning. This was unusual. Jogging along in the carriage, he wondered what the next hour would bring. He had half expected a summons from the big man on Sunday evening, but when nothing happened, he had hoped Lord Wilson had reflected on the sermon and slunk off in defeat. Maybe it was even used to awaken him spiritually. Miracles still happen! Ever since his heated sermon on Sunday morning, he had questioned himself. Was his anger righteous indignation, or was it just plain old, sinful anger? He still was not sure of the answer.
A footman opened the large door of the library and announced Jack’s arrival. Lord Wilson ignored his salutations and thrust a letter in his hands.
“Read that, Hayworth!”
Jack stood and read. He immediately recognised the handwriting to be that of Reverend Sidney Brinkhill.
My dear Lord Wilson,
I do hope that you and your dear family are all in good health. I am sorry to hear that you are finding my curate’s preaching unacceptable. Seeing as you undertake to pay for any expense in removing him and finding a more suitable minister, I humbly take your advice and will dismiss him from my service. I am suffering from much pain and ill-health so am grateful to you for your kind condescension in arranging all the details and removing this burden from me.
Yours sincerely,
Sidney Brinkhill
Jack finished reading the letter, and on looking up saw Lord Wilson smiling smugly at him over his brandy glass. Not wanting him to see his shaking hands, Jack tossed back the letter and stuffed his hands in his coat pockets.
“No one beats me, Reverend Hayworth.”
“‘Vengeance is mine, I will repay,’ says the Lord.”
“Ha ha, you and your quotes.”
“And when would you like the vicarage vacated?”
“Within the fortnight. But you have preached your last sermon already. As soon as you get the letter from Brinkhill, which will arrive before Sunday, you will be trespassing if you enter that pulpit.”
“You bribed him!”
“Don’t call it such a nasty name, but yes, I did use a bit of monetary persuasion. It usually works, even on men of the cloth.”
“Does the Bishop of Maidstone know about this?”
“He will in due time; he has never been one to stand in my way.”
“And what about the parishioners of Capford? Who will care for their souls?”
“How holy of you to care about the peasants! As it so happens, I have a nephew who has just finished his divinity training and is in need of a post.”
“Is he a man of God?”
“Ho ho, I don’t think he would aspire to that. No, he is a third son who needs an easy livelihood, does not have the wit to take up law or business, and is willing to be moulded by his dear uncle.”
“This is despicable!”
“We are commanded to look after our own, Hayworth.”
Fearing he would say something unadvisable, Jack turned on his heels and left the room without another word.
To add insult to injury, Lord Wilson had not ordered the carriage to wait, so there was no means of conveyance back to the vicarage. Jack kicked the gravel in annoyance, then decided that walking might be the best thing to do right now anyway. He walked briskly down the long drive and then took a path through the woods. So what, if I am shot at by Wilson’s gamekeeper? I don’t have a job anyway.
His mind was a heaving mass of thoughts, all vying for his attention. What of the Capford congregation? His preaching? His future? How would Rebecca react? And the parishioners? The church officers? What about Sunday? The Sunday school outing? His committees? He needed to get home and write to Rebecca. He needed to tell . . . to tell . . . there were so many people to tell. People who would be affected by the news.
As he strode through the undergrowth, getting splattered with mud, he wanted to pray, but a coherent prayer seemed impossible. All he could manage was “Lord, help me!”
As he emerged from Wilson’s wood and crossed one of the Biggenden meadows, it started to rain. Jack trudged on, and his writhing thoughts were beginning to take shape. A letter would be a completely inadequate way of conveying the news to his wife—he would go to London himself and stay away for the Sunday. He needed to tell someone. Mr. Collins, his church warden, or Mr. Grey, the Sunday school superintendent, seemed the most appropriate choices, but he shrank back from visiting either. Mr. Collins would be at risk of a heart attack, and Mr. Grey would be with Mrs. Grey, who would flap and cluck around like a disturbed hen.
“Hello there, Reverend Hayworth,” sang out a friendly voice.
Jack looked up to find he had nearly walked into Joe with the sheep dog.
“Hello, Joe. Rain has come on a bit.”
“Has indeed. Caught you out, by the looks of things.”
“Yes,” agreed Jack looking at Joe’s waxed galoshes, then at his own soaking trousers. “I’m not very suitably dressed.”
“Well, good day to you, Vicar.”
“Good day, Joe.”
“Oh, sir, and by the way, Violet and I really enjoyed your Sunday sermons. They were top-notch. Thank you.”
“I’m delighted to hear it. Thanks for telling me.”
“We’re both looking forward to next Sunday too!”
Jack smiled lamely and continued on his way.
Meeting Joe made him think of the Brookes family. They would be just the couple to speak to first. They were sensible, weathered folk with wisdom and wit in equal measure. Sanctified common sense, his mother would call it. They were also the kind of people who could cope with an unexpected visitor bringing in a trail of muddy puddles.
Just as he had hoped, Mr. Brookes was at home for his midday meal.
“Come in, my lad, come in and dry yourself out,” came the warm, inviting welcome.
Mrs. Brookes hung Jack’s dripping coat on the back of a chair near the stove, and her husband invited him to the kitchen table.
“Share a crust with us, boy.”
They were all eating before more was said.
“I saw Wilson’s carriage going to your place this morning. Is the man ill?”
Jack smiled within himself. Not much in the village went unnoticed by Mrs. Brookes. He swallowed a mouthful of bread and cheese and launched into his story.