I grit my teeth. I heard this tale in the village. It was one of the first about Miss de Lacey that greeted me at the tavern.
Ridiculously, I am jealous. Even more so because Mr. Holster comes to church regularly with his family. In the intervening years, he has acquired a small holding, and he is now married with a numerous family.
“Mr. Holster hardly seems the worse for the experience,” I manage, hoping to sound mild.
“And don’t forget Terrence French,” Mrs. Pender says. “He never speaks of it, and he has been married these many years, but we all know it is true. She hadhimtoo.”
I am growing exceedingly vexed. Are the women going to recite every one of Annabelle’s old lovers? I did not know ofthisrumor. I try to fight back the soft edge of jealousy in my gut. But I can’t stop myself from imagining Annabelle riding Terrence French, the slovenly town solicitor who only comes to church on Christmas and Easter.
“But that is not all,” Mrs. Carpenter says. “Then there was poor George Garrison. And what a bright, promising boyhewas. Only eighteen and going to Oxford with his fees paid. But he drowned down by the lake—withher. They say she let him drown, Mr. Saintsbury.”
I start at this story. I had not known of this George Garrison either. When she inherited, the tavern keeper relayed details of Annabelle’s reputation, touching on Frank Holster and her reputed doings in London. I had not thought she had been involved with multiple local men.
“Yes,thatiswhy Mr. Liddell was in a latherthe other day beside her coach,” Mrs. Reson explains. “Mr. Liddell is brother to George’s sister—the boy’s uncle.”
I urge myself to keep my composure. The woman is intimating that somehow Annabelle de Lacey is responsible for the death of this young man, George Garrison, many years ago.
There is no way that the woman can be speaking the truth. Annabelle de Lacey is many things—powerful, exacting, cold, brutal. But the woman I know, who can treat me so roughly and so gently at once, could not have as good as murdered a young man.
My gut lurches. I am sure and not sure all at once.
“And not to mention what they say of her in London,” Mrs. Pender adds. “A new man every week I’ve heard.”
“Were you there, Mrs. Reson and Mrs. Carpenter? When this young man drowned?” I say mildly, knowing I will lead these women with gentleness more than force. They have experienced much of force in their lives—and it has only made them harder. “Were you able to observe Miss de Lacey’s conduct for yourselves?”
“Well, of course not,” Mrs. Reson blanches.
“And in London?” I press.
The women say nothing.
“Then perhaps we should not pass judgment on events we did not witness. It is certainly not what the Lord would want. Especially when it is his job to judge, not ours.”
A beat of ashamed silence runs through the assembled women and I know I have found my advantage.
“I am not claiming that Miss de Lacey has not erred in her ways. But we all err and make mistakes in conduct.”
“But letting a boy die, Mr. Saints—” Mrs. Carpenter begins.
“You have no evidence to support such a fantastic claim,Mrs. Carpenter. And would you like people to make up lies about you or yours just because circumstances do not appear as they ought?”
I must tread delicately here. But I have to find some way to touch on the hypocrisy of these women. Mrs. Carpenter’s niece has a baby, and the father died before he had been able to marry the girl. Everyone in the village accepts that young couples anticipate their wedding vows. Still, Jenny Carpenter was left in awkward circumstances when her fiancé succumbed to pneumonia last April and she welcomed a babe six months later.
“I—she—” Mrs. Carpenter splutters.
“I believe in the forgiveness of the Lord,” I say to the gathered women, “and the principles of Christian charity and beneficence. Do not forget:forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. I expect no violence to erupt in the parish in which I am reverend. Especially not against a woman who has employed so many and seen to so many improvements for my parishioners. And certainly not because my parishioners see fit to play the role of God and mete out judgment.”
The women bow their heads with real contrition. I was wise to touch obliquely on Jenny Carpenter even though I have no wish to impugn the young woman. But Mrs. Carpenter cannot be the only woman in this circle who has a relative or who even herself has not made some little mistake in this regard.
“And I hope I will always be a friend to any woman in my parish,” I continue. “For the role of women is a sacred one and of much importance to our society here in Trescott.”
I hope the women hear the words as I mean them.
Leave Annabelle de Lacey alone.
Chapter 13
Annabelle
