Page 3 of Loyalty (The Chaplain’s Legacy #5)

T he murder was all anyone could talk about. In the Birchall shops, at the rectory and around the polished dining tables of the gentry, there was only one topic of conversation, and every day brought some new snippet of information. Sir Hubert Strong, the magistrate, was called in, then the coroner. The murdered man’s wife, the blind Lady Alice, had discovered her husband’s body and screamed loud enough to waken even the servants in the attics and basements. The gentleman had been killed with an axe! To Katherine’s mind, that was the most shocking element of all. A knife or a pistol one could understand, but an axe? How abominably barbaric.

Then came the news that some people had been sent for from Hartlepool, men with expertise in investigating such horrific events.

“That is good news, at least,” Aunt Cathcart said, as they lingered at the dinner table one evening. “Sir Hubert is all very well for common thievery or poaching, but a murder of this nature, and to the earl’s brother-in-law, too! Much better to hand it over to experts.”

“All it means is that it is not a straightforward case of an intruder, as we thought at first,” Uncle Cathcart said. “Strong is baffled by it, seemingly. Who would want to kill the chaplain? Surely he cannot have an enemy in the world.”

There was general agreement on the point, but nevertheless, they spent the rest of the evening in increasingly wild speculation.

Katherine took no part in these discussions. She did not know the chaplain well enough to have any speculation to contribute, but there was one office she could fulfil for him, and that was to pray. The Cathcarts were not diligent in their religious observances, but Katherine more than made up for their lack. Thus the deceased chaplain was added to her morning and bedtime prayers, and even the murderer received his share of her thoughts, too, in the heartfelt hope that he would repent of his wickedness. It did not seem enough, however, so whenever she left the rectory after a sewing session, she slipped into the church to add a few more prayers to the great deluge she had already sent.

She was thus engaged one day about three weeks after the murder, when she heard the great wooden door creak open and then close again, followed by the soft sounds of someone creeping on booted feet down the aisle, and trying vainly to be silent about it. She was kneeling at the Lady Chapel rail, eyes closed, and she knew no one would disturb a praying figure. Keeping immobile, she bowed her head a little more, hoping the booted feet would pass on, perhaps to the vestry or to one of the pews. To her surprise, the feet stopped, and a little jingle of metal — fobs, perhaps, or a pocket watch chain — followed by the scraping of chair legs on the tiled floor suggested that the interloper had sat down just behind her.

Startled, she turned to see who it was, and was astonished to see the familiar face that haunted her dreams. And yet, it was not so familiar today, for there was no trace of that wonderful broad smile that always made her want to smile too.

“Mr Atherton!” she said, jumping up and spinning round to face him.

Slowly, as if it were a great effort, he rose to his feet, turning his hat in his hands. “Does it work?”

“I… beg your pardon?”

“Prayer. Does it work? Does it give you what you wish for?” His voice was bleak, empty of its usual lilting optimism.

She gazed at him blankly. That was not the purpose of prayer! Yet she could not possibly say so, not to a man of his rank, not to a man who made her twittery inside whenever she saw him. Impossible to say a word!

“Does it make you feel better, then?”

“Oh yes! Such a comfort.” What a strange question! To talk to God… to unburden oneself and put all one’s worries in His hands… surely everyone must feel better after praying?

“Perhaps I should try it, then.” The smile flickered for a moment. “Ah, now I have shocked you. Forgive me, but not everyone is as good a person as you.”

“No, no,” she murmured, blushing violently. How unworthy she was of such a compliment, for was not everyone a sinner, in some way, great or small?

“I wish I could pray,” he burst out, sinking onto the chair again, “for I am in great need of comfort just now and I see none in the mortal realm. When I was a boy, and said my prayers every night, kneeling beside my bed like the well-brought-up child I was in those days, I would ask God for all the things I believed would make me happy. The ability to learn Greek. A new toy soldier for my collection. My older brothers not to tease me. My father to praise me… or even notice me. It is dispiriting to be the third son, Miss Parish, especially one who has no especial attribute to please such a man as my father. Ah, innocent times! I long since learnt that God does not dispense favours in that way, and accepted that my life is not, perhaps, as filled with sunshine as some others, but I could make it so. I could fill it with sunshine myself, by smiling on the world and playing the jester to make everyone laugh. But today… I cannot laugh now, for the most appalling thing has happened. We are destroyed, quite destroyed and I do not know what will become of us, truly I do not, and prayer will not help me one whit.”

He looked so despairing that Katherine sat down beside him and reached out one hand to touch his sleeve. “At such times, I pray for the strength to endure.”

Turning himself fully to face her, he took her hands in his, so that even though they both wore gloves, she imagined the heat of his touch and blushed crimson again.

“Ah, Miss Parish, you have suffered too! You understand. I shall tell you, I think, what has occurred, for I must tell someone or I shall burst. My uncle Nicholson, the chaplain who was so foully murdered earlier this month, having preached piety at us for thirty years, was never ordained as a clergyman at all. That would not have mattered a bit if all he had done was recite the Sunday offices and read us dull sermons, but his very first act as chaplain thirty years ago was to marry my parents. Thus, we now find that their marriage is invalid and all six of the children of that marriage are rendered illegitimate. English law permits no remedy for this situation, so Walter is disinherited, and the title and all Father’s estates will now fall on Uncle George, and after him, my cousin Bertram, who has his nose so deep in his ancient books that he hardly knows what century it is. The last thing he wants is the responsibility of an earldom on his shoulders. It is appalling, and I have no idea what will happen to us all.”

“That is dreadful, but you will recover from this blow, I promise you. Every challenge is also an opportunity. God never burdens us with a greater load than we can bear.”

“You have such certainty!” he cried, releasing her hands and slapping his hat against his thigh. “I wish I could be so… so serene, so contented with life, yet you have suffered grievously, too. Your parents both dead, your home lost… and you had no brothers or sisters.”

“Brother,” she said, her voice almost a squeak. Such intimate talk! “I… had a brother.”

“I did not know that. Was he older than you or younger?”

“Older. Ten years older. In the navy. Lost at sea.”

“I am so sorry. How did it happen?”

“In battle… Cape St Vincent.” His expression was so sympathetic that she could not resist telling the rest of it. “His friends did not see him fall, and his body was never found… many prisoners were taken, so there was some hope for a while… but we have not heard a word in ten years, so we assumed… but I still pray for him, Mr Atherton, that he is safe and well somewhere, perhaps unable to return home. One never knows. Sometimes miracles do happen.”

“Indeed, they do!” he said, the smile suddenly returning in full, as if the clouds had that moment parted. He jumped to his feet. “Thank you for listening to my ramblings, Miss Parish. I am sorry I burdened you with my troubles.”

“No burden, sir.”

“Oh, but it was very wrong of me, and I would be glad if you would forget my ill-humoured words. We shall pretend this conversation never happened.”

She nodded in acquiescence, and with a smile, a quick bow and hasty steps down the aisle, he was gone, leaving her bemused and exhilarated in equal measure.

***

K ent was uncomfortable after this encounter. To be spilling all the family secrets to Miss Parish, of all people! She was such a timid soul, and so innocent, with those great eyes looking up at him as if he were the fount of all wisdom, yet today he felt his unworthiness more than ever. If only he had taken up a career, as he should have done… as he could have done, if he had only had the determination. He was not, perhaps, suited to the army or the church, but a government post might have been appropriate. Diplomacy, or something of the sort. His father might have agreed to that.

But he had always said that he liked to have the boys at home. “The girls will marry and leave me, that cannot be helped,” he had said, “but you boys need never leave. I like to have male company about me, otherwise I shall be quite outnumbered by the ladies.”

When Eustace had inherited his estate three years ago and was at the castle less often, the earl had been even more adamant that Kent should not leave home. And so he had drifted on, never pressing his case, telling no one what he really wanted to do.

He was not minded to meet anyone else he might be tempted to talk to, so he used the churchyard’s back gate behind the church to access the path back to Corland, then went straight to the stables for his horse. A brisk ride across the moors cleared his head a little, but he still needed time to himself… time to think. He was not much given to introspection, but now of all times was surely the moment for it. He had never thought much further ahead than the next meal, not liking to consider the way his life might unfold in the years to come. But whatever of good or bad he might have hoped for, all of it had been ripped away from him, and he no longer knew what was in store for him.

He knew where he was going, however, for there in front of him was the tower. It had been built for a former owner of Welwood to enable him to watch the stars move across the sky. No one watched the sky from it now, but once or twice a month, Kent came here to watch for something else entirely.

The tower was built on a low rise amidst fields. Beyond the largest field was the road from Helmsley, and beyond that, Welwood-on-the-Hill, Eustace’s estate. Kent’s horse ambled along the narrow lane to the tower and halted obediently, knowing that he had arrived. Kent turned him into the large field where Eustace kept the retired ponies and donkeys, lifted the stone that hid the key and unlocked the tower door.

On the ground floor, a large square room was attached to provide a kitchen and larder, as well as a comfortable sitting room with a fireplace and a table big enough for a dozen men to sit around. The tower itself was smaller, a stone stair winding up past three floors to an upper room with huge windows and a narrow balcony with outer stairs leading to the roof. The summer was rarely balmy enough to make the roof enticing, so the upper room was fitted out with a brazier, several comfortable chairs and a sofa, together with a low pallet, rough mattress and blankets, providing the watchers with basic comforts.

On a stand, looking through the eastern window, was the telescope, an exquisite construction of brass that cheered Kent just by its existence. The world could not be a wholly terrible place when there were men in it who could make such wonderful devices. There was a box in the corner that the telescope had arrived in many years ago, and inside the lid was a small brass plaque with the name and address of the manufacturer. Some years ago, Kent had written to the address inscribed thereon, and after some weeks received a very courteous reply from an elderly gentleman who remembered making that very telescope. They enjoyed a wide-ranging but sporadic correspondence for two or three years before the old gentleman died, but Kent remembered him with great affection.

After running a respectful finger along the length of the telescope, he threw himself into a chair with a wooden footstool to accommodate his feet and pondered his situation.

He must change! That much was clear to him. This moment was not quite the miracle of which Miss Parish spoke, but it was perhaps a lever to tip him out of his comfortable rut and force him to take charge of his life. Eustace… he must talk to Eustace and make changes there, and then he would talk to his father.

These resolutions thus made, he returned to the ground floor and found some cheese and stale bread in the larder. He was making a modest repast of these items when the door opened and Eustace stalked in.

“I saw that slug of yours in the field, brother, so I knew you were here. Why do you not get yourself a decent mount? Father would not quibble over it.”

“There is nothing wrong with the horse — except his name, of course. Whoever called him Stupendous obviously had a different mount in mind altogether. I should rename him — Adequate, maybe. Satisfactory. Tolerable. But he gets me where I want to go without complaining or tossing me into a ditch, which is all I ask of him.”

Eustace was investigating several bottles sitting on the table, but they were all empty. “Is there no brandy left?”

Kent only laughed.

His brother laughed, too. “Stupid question, I suppose, but it feels like a brandy sort of day. Come back to the house — there’s plenty there waiting to be drunk.”

“No, I must get back and see what Father is up to. What are we going to do, Eustace? Is there anything we can do?”

“About Nicholson? Not a thing, I suspect. He cannot be ordained posthumously, and it would not help if he could be. Nothing is going to make us legitimate again.”

“No, the lawyer fellow made it clear about that, but I meant Walter. He has lost everything, and—”

“We have all lost everything!” Eustace said savagely. “We are all illegitimate, our good name destroyed, and through no fault of our own.”

“But Walter is worse off than we are, brother. You have your inheritance already, so it hardly matters to you, and I… I am the third son. I was always destined to make my own way in the world. Maybe now Father will listen to me. But Walter—”

“Walter, Walter, Walter! He still has Bea Franklyn and her forty thousand pounds, Father has promised him a house… his allowance… everything. That is some consolation, is it not? Whereas we have yet to find brides, and how much more difficult is that now that we are bastards?”

Kent was silent. He had not even begun to think about marriage for himself, for he was only two and twenty, but clearly Eustace, five years older, was already considering that path.

Eustace hurled himself into a chair beside Kent, one leg cast carelessly over the arm, idly reaching for a piece of cheese. “Ugh! This is dreadful stuff. How long has it been here? Almost two weeks, I suppose. I shall restock before the next arrival.”

“Brother,” Kent said tentatively, “do you ever feel… well, that it may be time to give up the game?”

“Give it up? Whatever for? You are not afraid, are you, little brother?”

“Of course not, but… well, it seems wrong. It is wrong.”

“Nonsense! Who is harmed by it? And it is an adventure, is it not? You used to find it the most tremendous fun, quite apart from bringing in a little extra money for everyone. We younger sons have to be gainfully employed, after all.”

“You do not — you have a tidy income from Welwood, and I could do something more useful.”

Eustace only laughed. “What could be more useful than this? Everyone enjoys the benefit.”

“I mean something useful to society at large, not just our own people. I am tired of it, brother. Tired of the creeping about at night, the secrecy, the pretence. Tired of being trapped here on the moors. There is an entire world out there to be explored, full of new ideas and men of energy and ambition, while I am confined to this narrow corner of Yorkshire.”

His brother shifted both feet to the floor and leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. “Now, what kind of talk is that? We Athertons stick together, always. Have we not always agreed to that? The girls may marry and go away if they please, but we brothers stay close to home. This is our place and our duty, and nothing that has happened can change that. Understand?”

Kent nodded, but the restlessness inside him was not assuaged. He rode home in a thoughtful mood to find his father in a towering rage, pacing up and down his small study like a caged beast. Walter was not, it transpired, to have the consolation of Bea Franklyn and her forty thousand pounds after all.

“It is outrageous!” spluttered the earl, waving his arms so hard that he almost slopped brandy out of the glass he held. “All she ever wanted was the title, so Walter is thrown over while she sets her cap at Bertram, poor fellow! Well, she will catch cold at that. He will never look at her unless she speaks to him in Latin.”

“I am so sorry, brother,” Kent said at once to Walter, who nursed his own brandy. “What a dreadful thing for you, on top of everything else.”

Walter gave a small shrug. “Better to find out her true nature now rather than after the wedding, eh? But what I am to do with myself now I cannot imagine.”

“Yes, we shall both have to find employment,” Kent said.

“Nonsense,” their father said. “I can still support my own sons, I hope. You cannot imagine you would be turned out on your ear.”

“Father, I ought to have a career,” Kent said. “Younger sons have to earn their keep.”

“Pft,” the earl said, taking a long drink of brandy. “The church, the army, the law… what would you do?”

“None of those,” Kent said quickly.

“Then what?” his father said. “What can you possibly be, if not a gentleman?”

“An engineer,” he blurted. “I have always been fascinated by machinery, so… an engineer. That is what I should like to be.”

They both laughed at him.