Shannon was deaf to her stepfather’s pious entreaties, but she was not immune to the hand that lay heavily on her shoulder. Thomas’s long fingers squeezed her flesh as he worked himself into a frenzy, vividly describing the ways in which Shannon used her body to tempt lesser men than himself. When he spoke of the encouragement Shannon gave the young men in the parish, drawing their lustful glances even in church, his hand slid down her back until it rested at the base of her spine. Shannon shifted uncomfortably, biting her lower lip to keep from giving voice to her thoughts, but her small movement only brought the unwanted hand in contact with her buttocks. She squeezed her eyes shut when, after an infinitesimal pause, Thomas’s palm followed the rounded curve of her bottom.
“Admit that you are as all women, Shannon Kilmartin,” Thomas said lowly, breathing heavily. “Admit before God that you are Eve, tempting men with the fruit of your body.”
“I am Eve,” Shannon said, choking on the words, her stomach churning. Silently she begged for him to take his hands from her. “I am Eve,” she repeated when his hand moved to her leg, insinuating itself between the chemise and her bare skin.
“And what do you do?”
A tear dropped on her folded hands. “Nothing. I do nothing. I swear it!”
“Liar!” His fingers pinched her thigh until he heard her sob brokenly from the pain. “Do you think I don’t know why you were wearing that harlot’s dress? Already you are leaning toward sluttish ways, baring your bosom, flaunting your naked shoulders, all the while knowing that I may come upon you. You would mistake me for the young bucks that pant after you, sniffing at your skirts as you pretend to go about the Lord’s work. Admit it! Admit that you wore the gown to entice me, to draw me into your spider’s web even as your mother drew me!”
“I admit it!” she sobbed.
“You enjoy the attentions of men. You like to have their eyes upon you.”
“Yes!” She thought she would be sick. She would have answered in any manner necessary to have his touch removed from her flesh.
Thomas’s grip relaxed and he withdrew his hand from Shannon’s thigh. Using the cane and the edge of the bed to lever him, Thomas struggled to his feet. “You will remain praying this hour,” he grunted as his stony gaze swept Shannon’s trembling form. So that she would not see his shaking hand if she looked up, he steadied it on the knob of the walking stick. Her first denials had not fooled him, he told himself again. He had been right to force her admission. She was as her mother was before he had purged Mary’s soul, driving out the wantonness that had led her to lie with another man without the benefit of vows. To himself he admitted the exorcism was a partial success at best. He was drawn to Mary time and time again. He remembered how Mary’s body had tempted him to her bed and how he had prayed with her afterward so that they might be cleansed of the sins of the flesh. He cleared his throat, erasing the memory of Mary’s struggles beneath him, and returned to the present. He swore he would see his stepdaughter’s beauty scarred before he would allow her to take the same path as her mother. “If you have obeyed me truly and are released of your sins, I will know it on the morrow.” He turned from her and limped to the door, shutting it behind him quietly.
When Shannon was alone she crawled onto the bed, drawing a blanket around her and pressing her face into the pillow so no one would hear her crying. Though she wanted to bathe, wanted to remove the lingering feel of her stepfather’s hand from her skin, she was afraid to move lest Thomas come back to her room and accuse her of trying to further entice him. He would think she was worse than the devil’s spawn if he discovered she soaked naked in the wooden tub rather than wearing a bathing shift.
Shannon reached for the small wooden box that rested on her bedside stand. Taking off the lid, she stared at the tarnished locket inside. She could not wear the locket, for its clasp had been broken even before her mother had given her the piece. She had never asked her stepfather to have it repaired, afraid he would learn what the locket meant to her and take it away. Thomas Stewart did not allow her to wear any jewelry, thinking it a sign of great vanity. Shannon opened the locket and looked at the gentle, delicate features of her mother. The miniature portrait of Mary Kilmartin had been painted when Mary was still a child, not more than five, yet Shannon found comfort in knowing there had been a happy, innocent time in her mother’s life.
The candlewicks on the mantel sputtered in their own wax and the flames were extinguished, leaving Shannon in darkness except for the meager light from the hearth. She was too tired to stoke the logs, and a chill crept into her small room as the wind gathered force across the English countryside, rattling the panes of glass in the solitary window.
Shannon fell into a restless sleep, waking often with a nervous glance toward the door. Thomas never returned to her room, and finally she was defeated by exhaustion, clutching her mother’s locket to her breast as she slept.
It was sunlight touching the soft planes of her face that brought Shannon awake. She grazed her temples with the tips of her fingers, massaging them gently to ease the throbbing in her head. Cautiously she opened her swollen lids, wiping her sticky eyes with a corner of the blanket. Memories of the previous night flooded her, bringing a rush of heat to her cheeks. Shannon replaced the locket, which had fallen from her grasp sometime during the night, and slipped out of bed. She poured water from a pitcher on her dresser into the basin and then scrubbed her face, giving special attention to the places where Thomas had touched her. The bruise on her left shoulder was ugly, but it did not hurt overmuch. The two welts on her right side were another matter, sore, red, and tender to the touch. She grimaced when she saw them, knowing the marks would last for days.
She dressed quickly, choosing a brown, coarsely woven bodice with tiny hooks down the front so she could fasten it herself. The skirt was of the same dull homespun material, and Shannon pinned a white apron to the bodice and secured the ties around her waist. Her stockings were white, carefully mended in several places, and her shoes were sturdy work clogs of stiff black leather with a square buckle as their only adornment. Shannon brushed her heavy hair with a few rough strokes before she scraped it back into a severe bun at the nape of her neck. Her crisply starched mobcap effectively hid the jet tendrils that were too short or just too ornery to stay in the confines of the coil.
One glance in the looking glass assured her that Thomas could find nothing provocative about her mode of dress. As an additional precaution Shannon slipped on her fingerless knitted mittens, which covered her hands and forearms. Shannon’s last glimpse in the mirror satisfied her. Her face was drawn and pinched, her eyes still puffy from the bout of crying. No, she thought, there was nothing the least objectionable about her appearance.
When Shannon left her room, she went immediately to the cottage’s kitchen. The housekeeper’s rounded figure was bent over her breadboard, where she was shaping loaves to be placed in the hearth’s oven.
“There’s porridge in the kettle,” Bess said without looking up from her work.
“I don’t want anything,” said Shannon, quite happy that Bess was ignoring her. Shannon’s relationship with the widowed housekeeper was tenuous at best. Thomas Stewart had employed Bess Henry to look after Shannon as well as do light housework and cooking since the time of his wife’s death. Looking back, Shannon supposed the conflict between her and Bess was inevitable. In Shannon’s eyes, Bess was an intruder, insinuating herself into their lives with all the finesse of a wild boar. Shannon had wanted to take over the reins of the household, and perhaps, at last, earn a smile of recognition or a word of small praise from her stepfather. But that had never happened. Bess had seen to that. While the housekeeper had an infinite store of patience for the parishioners who often visited the vicar’s cottage, she modeled her attitude toward Shannon after Thomas Stewart’s. Shannon found herself in the unenviable position of having two adults to please, and quickly learned that nothing she could do would satisfy either. Shannon took a seat at the table, her eyes darting nervously toward Bess. Had her stepfather told the housekeeper anything of last evening?
Bess grunted. “Suit yourself. It’s no concern of mine if you’re all skin and bones.”
Shannon pretended to be unaffected by the disparaging remark. “Is Father awake yet?”
“He was up early, not like some slugabeds that come to mind. He took the carriage to the church, said you’re to go about your work and he’ll speak to you this afternoon.”
Shannon’s stomach tightened. She did not want a reprieve. She wanted the confrontation now. “I thought I might pick berries this morning. I know of a patch not far from here.” She glanced at Bess uncertainly. “May I do that, Bess? I could make some preserves and take them to the Fosters and the Millers. They scarce have time for such things with their new babes.”
Bess turned away from putting the loaves in the oven. “Chores first.”
Shannon nodded. “Of course.” She excused herself from the table and got the straw broom and feather duster. “I’ll start in the parlor.”
The vicarage was not a large residence, consisting of six rooms on two floors, and it did not take long to complete the chores that were part of Shannon’s daily routine. The parlor was swept clean; the furniture once belonging to Mary Kilmartin Stewart was lovingly dusted. Shannon took less time with Thomas’s study, for it was a room that did not invite her presence. Shannon made her father’s bed, swept the floor, and gathered clothes for washing. Bess took a few minutes from her baking to check Shannon’s work and grudgingly admitted everything was as it should be. Before she could change her mind, Shannon took her shawl and basket and hurried out the door.
Shannon’s spirits lifted the moment she was walking down the narrow path away from the cottage. On either side of her was a neat row of pink and white rosebushes she and her mother had planted years ago. Shannon still nurtured the flowers as a tribute to her mother, though Thomas thought the activity was foolish. She walked more than a half-mile along the main road, skirting the edge of the wood, before she saw the path she must take to reach the best berries. Though the sun was out, pinkening Shannon’s cheeks, the air was cool, and she was glad she had the loosely woven white shawl about her shoulders. Her pace slowed as she entered the wood. The trees were in full bloom, blocking the sunlight and providing shade that would have been welcome on a day less cool.
Humming softly to herself, Shannon swung the basket at her side as she went deeper into the wood. She paused long enough at the brook to remove her shoes and stockings and then started across the water haltingly on a series of moss-covered stepping stones. Icy water lapped at her toes and her face was a study in concentration as she struggled to keep her balance. She regretted that she had not searched for a shallower crossing. She measured the depth of the rushing water around her and realized that if she slipped, she would have further cause to regret that she could not swim one stroke.
When she safely reached the other side, she gave a little whoop of laughter at her success and fairly danced as she continued on her way. As soon as Shannon reached the patch of wild strawberries, she took her shoes and stockings out of her basket, laid them aside, and set about her task earnestly. Shannon ate one berry for every ten she picked and her lips were soon tinted a kissable red that would have brought a blush to her cheeks had she but known it.
