I imagine taking her on it again and again.
I imagine what her quim would feel like on my cock—and find myself having to stifle a moan.
I imagine thatsheis my bride, my wife, and that I take her as her husband.
Absurd, futile, painful—and yet so sweet.
Luckily, regarding my absence last Sunday, no calamity occurred. My curate, Mr. Peabody, assumed I was ill without warning—which is exactly what I told him—and wasn’t able to appear. So he preached the sermon instead.
In short, no harm came of it.
If you don’t count the damage to my soul, at least.
Which less and less it appears that I do.
Now I am in the village to pay a visit to a sick parishioner, a little old woman, Mrs. Katey, who lives behind thegreengrocer. I sit in her tiny drawing room now, the fire low despite the chill in the air. She obviously cannot afford more warmth. I pity Mrs. Katey and wish I could do more for her—but I struggle to keep my mind on her problems.
“It is the rheumatism, you see, Mr. Saintsbury. That is why it is difficult for me to come to church. But I could never miss it. No matter the pain.”
“Ah, yes, Mrs. Katey, and the parish thanks you. We need good parishioners.”
My mind slides away from her and towards Trescott Abbey even as I say the words. I feel guilty that I am so bored by the earnest old woman. She is exactly the type of person that I became a clergyman to help. I try to recenter my thoughts on her and her needs.
“Is there any mention of rheumatism in the Bible, Mr. Saintsbury?”
Was there?I scan over my memory.
“In metaphor, yes, I believe,” I say, calling up what I know with great effort. “And the scriptures reassure us that?—”
My words are cut off by a loud cry from the street. It sounds like multiple voices raised in the square.
“Heavens, what is that, Mr. Saintsbury?”
I rise and stride to the window.
“I cannot see, Mrs. Katey. But you must excuse me. I feel honor bound to investigate if there is any trouble.”
“Of course, Mr. Saintsbury,” she says, her alarm evident.
I stride from the place and make my way to the square.
When I turn the corner I see a crowd gathered around a carriage—Annabelle de Lacey’s landau, I realize with a start.
Trepidation lurches through me.
I advance on the crowd and see a large man, a local laborer, Jack Liddell, at the center of the cacophony.
Liddell looks none too sober—which is a problem that my short time in the town has made me familiar with. The man came to church one Sunday already in his cups and was escorted out by a crowd of gentlemen before I could take the pulpit.
This time, however, the crowd—largely composed of other laborers and villagers, some of whom I know and others who I only faintly recognize—does not look antagonistic to him.
“We cannot let this whore rule over us,” he bellows at the others. “We all know she is wicked! And yetsheruns our village!”
“Silence, you blockhead,” screams the coach driver, Simmons. “Out of the way! Or we will have the constable upon you!”
With a seize of panic, I realize what is happening. Annabelle de Lacey is in her carriage, the crowd is not letting her pass, and they are jeering.
“Really, Liddell,” puffs Mr. Thompson. “You are a beast to speak of a lady so.”
