The Devil's Own Page 6

  According to his twin, he was the only person, other than the doctor, ever to be allowed inside the cottage. Now it looked as though another person was to be added to that elite list. Miss Tomblin hadn’t even noticed his return. He stood by the door, quiet as a mouse, and watched as she sat, rapt, listening to a children’s tale about a mischievous fairy and a goose girl.

  His eyes took in the place. Much to his surprise, she’d made an effort to neaten it a bit more while he’d been outside. And now the troublesome girl had beguiled the sharp-tongued crone who was supposed to have helped drive her away. To be fair, Mrs. Small seemed to be in an unusually good mood today, if his brother was to be believed.

  He cleared his throat, alerting the women to his presence.

  Miss Tomblin’s startled, rain-gray eyes swung around to meet his. “Oh,” she gasped, guilt flooding her face as she rose. “I’m so sorry—here I am idling when I ought to have been working—”

  “Working?” snapped Mrs. Small, turning a fierce glare on him. “And here I thought ye brought her along to keep an old woman company!”

  Uh-oh. “We are here to serve in whatever capacity you’ll allow, dear Mrs. Small. If that be only to bring you good cheer, then so be it.” He motioned to Mary to sit back down.

  This seemed to mollify the crone somewhat, but the fire in her old rheumy eyes didn’t die down entirely. “Ye can best serve me now by letting me sleep in peace.” She turned back to Miss Tomblin. “I’m afraid I’ve tired meself. Ye’ll have to come back next Sunday to hear the rest.”

  Perfect. Now she’s got a bloody invitation.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Small,” said Miss Tomblin, beaming. “I shall most definitely return. Tell me, is there anything special I can bring you when I come?”

  The old woman’s eyes gleamed. “Well, since ye asked, me old hands get bored o’ idleness. ’Tis a powerful long while since I had any yarn to busy them. If ye’ve any to spare—just the bits nobody wants, mind ye—I would not have it go to waste.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  If the look on his assistant’s face was any indication, she’d bring a whole bloody basketful. He’d have to tell her not to overdo it, lest the gift be rejected out of pride. He decided to leave before any further damage could be done. “I’m afraid we must be getting on, Mrs. Small. Thank you for the pleasure of your company.”

  “The pleasure was mine, Father Wayward,” replied Mrs. Small, using the old, formal form of address.

  Their hostess continued to natter on a bit while his assistant put on her outdoor garments, and he again marked her cheerful demeanor. Daniel had called her a right curmudgeon, warning him to be as quick as possible in his tasks so as not to have to endure her constant criticism any longer than necessary.

  “I’m ready,” said Miss Tomblin, eyes alight with eagerness.

  Devlin kept his face neutral and led the way out. An uncomfortable sensation settled in his gut, and he recognized it as remorse.

  He’d thought to admonish her for her initial reaction to Mrs. Small’s humble circumstances, but she’d quickly gotten over her distaste—an involuntary response for which he couldn’t, in all honesty, fault her—and had comported herself well. And she’d made the old woman genuinely happy.

  His companion’s face practically glowed as she trudged alongside him. “Where does Mr. Messingham live? I’d never even heard of him until your mention this morning.”

  “That’s because he prefers solitude. He’s a writer.”

  “Oh? How exciting. What does he write?”

  “Poems, mainly,” he recalled his brother telling him.

  “A real poet,” she murmured, her lips curving up again. “I knew this would be a good day.”

  He suppressed a twinge of misgiving as he again struggled his way up into the driver’s seat and waited for her to climb in back. She thought she was about to have another pleasant visit, but he knew better. Mr. Messingham might not be as vocal in his complaints as Mrs. Small was supposed to have been, but he was troublesome in a different way. He positively loathed females and made no bones about expressing his dislike. “He lives not too far from here. He and Mrs. Small are neighbors of a sort.”

  The quarreling sort. He despised her, and she him. They’d known each other since their youth and had never gotten along. Daniel hadn’t been sure what had started their feud, but according to him its embers still burned hot.

  Snowflakes began to meander down from the leaden sky as they wended their way farther down the road. He wondered how long they had before the weather put a halt to their journey. This time when he stopped, it was beside a clear path neatly bordered by smooth river stones.

  Getting down, he marked how his leg was beginning to ache already. “Quilt, loaf, and jam, Miss Tomblin,” he called back carelessly over his shoulder.

  But she was already coming to join him, a loaf in one hand, a quilt-wrapped jar in the other, and an anticipatory smile on her face.

  Again, that twinge of conscience. Bloody hell. Shoving it aside, he continued toward the house. He was on a mission to liberate his brother from her infatuation, and nothing must deter him.

  A red gate blocked the path, and on it hung a small sign that said, do not disturb. Ignoring it, he opened the gate and pressed on toward a neat little cottage just visible between the trees. It was tidy but had clearly seen better days. The door opened before he set his crutch on the first step.

  “What business have you bringing that here?” said the white-haired old man who’d emerged to block the way. He pointed rudely at Miss Tomblin. “I won’t have curious female fingers poking about in my house, prying into my private things. The girl will have to wait outside.”

  For a moment, shock held Devlin speechless. From the corner of his eye, he watched the happy smile fade from Miss Tomblin’s face. He’d known Messingham was a misogynist and might be unwelcoming, but this went beyond the pale. There were societal strictures to which even the worst woman haters were expected to adhere—one simply did not speak to a lady in such a manner or refuse to offer her shelter from inclement weather.

  Awkward silence stretched. His original plan to expose her to the harsher attitudes of some of the village’s nastier residents now seemed unappealing. He found no amusement whatsoever in Mr. Messingham’s hostile reception.

  Say something. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Messingham, but it’s very cold. I could not in good conscience leave my assistant outside in such conditions while enjoying your fireside hospitality. We came only to deliver your New Year’s gift from the church.” Turning, he addressed his companion as he tucked his crutches under one arm and balanced on one foot. “If you’ll just hand them to me, Miss Tomblin, I’ll give them to Mr. Messingham, and we’ll be on our way.”

  “Of course,” she said crisply, doing as asked. Though her mouth was a hard, disapproving line, her eyes were dry and her voice steady as she passed him the items one at a time.

  Again, not what he’d expected. Most gently raised ladies would have at least expressed shock over such treatment and quite possibly even teared up, but not Miss Tomblin. Unable to dredge up a smile for what was, arguably, his brother’s most unpleasant parishioner, Devlin extended the items toward the man. “Happy New Year, Mr. Messingham. May the peace of our Lord be upon you.”

  The old man’s frown eased into a look of uncertainty as he took the gifts. “You won’t come in, then?”

  “I think not,” Devlin responded evenly, holding his gaze.

  “Well,” said the old man, visibly upset at this turn. Beneath the edges of his white beard, his cheeks colored. “Well, perhaps I was a bit hasty with my words, at that.” His chin jerked up. “Surprised me, you did, that’s all. I was not expecting company today.”

  Devlin continued to stare at him without speaking.

  Mr. Messingham glanced at Miss Tomblin with clear ambivalence. �
��Still, I did promise last week to show you my latest accomplishment. I suppose she can come in—provided she sits quiet and keeps her hands to herself.”

  He was about to refuse when Miss Tomblin spoke for herself. “I assure you, Mr. Messingham, that I’ve no interest in violating your privacy. If you and Reverend Wayward have business to discuss, please don’t let my presence prevent it. I shall be content to remain quiet at your hearth and confine my feminine curiosity to your fire.”

  The old fellow’s white brows shot up. “Well, now. You don’t like me much, do you, girl?”

  Her chin rose, and she met his gaze unflinchingly. “Our Lord requires me to extend to you Christ-like love, but I’m not required to like you any more than you are required to like me.”

  A bark of laughter burst from Mr. Messingham’s now-smiling mouth. “Now there is something one does not see every day: a female who neither dissembles nor cries over a perceived slight. I could perhaps learn to tolerate such a one—briefly.” He stepped back and held open his door. “Come in, then, and warm yourself by the fire. Don’t touch anything.”

  Devlin watched, dumbfounded, as Miss Tomblin marched past him into the house.

  “Cup of tea, Reverend?” offered his host as he struggled up the final step and in.

  “No, thank you.” They still had a long way to go today, and his bladder’s capacity was finite. “What was it you wished to show me?”

  The old man’s eyes lit. “Ah! Let me fetch it.” Shuffling off, he disappeared into another room, returning a moment later with a small book in his hands. “See here? It finally came.”

  Taking the book, Devlin peered at its title: Love Once Spurned by Johnathan Messingham.

  Its author leaned close to whisper, “It’s all about the inherently fickle nature of…them.” He jerked his chin toward the hearth, where stood Miss Tomblin warming her hands by the fire. “Call it a friendly warning to my fellow man, if you will. May it save many good ones—including yourself—from a lot of unnecessary travail.” He pressed the small book into Devlin’s hands. “For you.”

  “Oh, thank you, but I could not possibly take your only—”

  “I’ve another copy, never you fear. This one is for you.” His gaze narrowed and slid toward Miss Tomblin once more. “Don’t think I’ve not noticed how they pursue you. Every time I’m in town, I see the bloodhounds nipping at your heels—though I suspect you don’t. Consider it a gift in return for your many kindnesses.”

  Given no other choice, Devlin accepted it with a nod of thanks. “Your thoughtfulness is most appreciated.” He glanced at Miss Tomblin, whose face remained impassive, though he was sure she’d overheard. “I’m afraid we cannot stay longer. The weather is turning, and we’ve still several people to visit.”

  “Yes, of course, of course,” said the old man. But instead of standing aside, he grasped Devlin by the shoulders, hard, and drew him close. “Watch yourself,” he breathed, filling the air with the scent of smoked fish and cheese. “She’s crafty, that one, hiding her feelings. Her sort are the most dangerous of all.” His voice lowered yet more. “You never know what they’re thinking.”

  Now that, he could agree with. And he did—privately. On being released, he collected Miss Tomblin and hastened to leave Mr. Messingham’s strangeness behind. An oppressive weight settled on his spirit as he ushered her through the red gate. Unable to bear it, he called out, “Miss Tomblin?”

  She stopped but did not turn.

  He caught up and awkwardly maneuvered around to face her. “Please accept my apology for the manner in which Mr. Messingham conducted himself just now.”

  A crease momentarily marred the perfection of her brow. “The fault was not yours,” she reasoned. “You cannot be held responsible for another man’s words.”

  “No, but I knew the sort of man he was,” he admitted, ashamed. “As such, I ought not to have brought you here. He was not only rude, but unkind. And you are undeserving of such unkindness. Please forgive me.”

  …

  So, he had chosen the worst personages in Harper’s Grove to visit first! She’d thought nothing of Mrs. Small’s cantankerous attitude, but on facing Mr. Messingham’s blatant venom, she’d begun to suspect herself the target of a deliberate effort to frighten her away. It hadn’t worked. It wouldn’t work. And now she had the advantage.

  “There is nothing to forgive,” she answered with as much solemnity as she could muster, given that she felt like crowing in triumph. “I suppose after…” She’d sworn not to bring it up, but the air between them needed clearing, and now was the perfect time. They were alone, and he was feeling guilty. “After my impulsive words the other day, you must feel awkward in my company.”

  His face remained utterly devoid of any clue as to what he might be thinking.

  “I’ve thought about what happened,” she continued, choosing her words carefully. “About why I said what I said to you.” A flush heated her cheeks. This was going to be uncomfortable, but she needed to start building a foundation of trust between them, and that meant revealing certain truths. Even if they were embarrassing ones.

  As he seemed either unwilling or unable to speak, she forged ahead. “You see, I once loved someone, but he proved both cruel and false,” she told him, surprised to find the memory still pained her. “Shortly after privately declaring his devotion to me, he eloped with someone else. I was deeply affected by his betrayal but consider myself fortunate to have learned the truth before it was too late.”

  Still, he remained frozen, like an animal poised for flight should a suspected threat prove real.

  Damn. There was no way he would ever trust her if he thought she was still in love with him. Tension stretched her every nerve to the point of agony. She tried to break it with a smile, but it was weak and shaky. Best to simply get on with it, then.

  “As I said that day, you are everything he was not,” she went on. “I admit that I became quite enamored of you for it—but I know now that it was not love I felt. Love requires time spent together, and with one embarrassing exception, this is the first time we’ve spoken more than a simple greeting to each other.”

  The wariness faded from his eyes, and he appeared to relax a little. “Then you’re…not…”

  “I was infatuated,” she finished for him firmly, startled to find that the words—intended merely to placate—rang as true inside as they did out. The revelation gave her serious pause. But if I’m not in love with him, then what is it I feel? Why am I so drawn to him? “I’m fond of you, of course, and I respect you,” she added quickly, mind racing. “But there is a great difference between fondness and the sort of attachment one feels for a spouse.”

  Some distant part of her was impressed that she’d somehow produced what sounded like a perfectly rational explanation, while desperately trying to parse her own conflicting emotions.

  Later. Figuring out her own feelings would have to wait. Right now, the relief she observed easing the tension in his face took precedence.

  “Indeed, there is,” he agreed with a vigorous nod.

  She floundered for a moment, searching for the words that would further allay his unease, and again thought back to her blunder. Embarrassing truths, indeed. “You must understand, I was feeling so overwhelmed that morning,” she went on awkwardly, forcing herself not to look at him to gauge his response. “Papa had just announced his plans for us to go to London for the Season, along with his express desire that I should be married by its end. I prayed for a miracle. When you came in but a moment later, I thought…”

  She let it hang there, hoping…

  At last, he cleared his throat. “Yes, I can see how you might have mistaken the coincidence for a divine answer. The Lord does respond to our prayers,” he added hastily, “but usually in a less obvious manner and rarely with such immediacy.”

  “The Lord works in mysterious ways?” she
replied, risking a glance and offering up a wry smile. “Thank you, by the by, for not revealing the depth of my folly to my mother.”

  The corners of his mouth twitched promisingly. “Are we not all impetuous at some point?”

  Now laughter came easily. “Some of us rather more often than others, I fear.” The sensation that swept over her when his soft laugh joined with hers was one of supreme contentment. With no conflict between them now, it was like being with a friend. A question that had been nagging at the back of her mind now rose to the fore and popped out of her mouth before prudence could prevent its escape. “You seemed so shocked that day. Has no one ever said such a thing to you?”

  The color in his cheeks deepened a shade. “I can honestly say no, never. At least, not like that.”

  Her bewilderment was genuine. “I find that surprising, considering the way some of the women look at you. Not that you’ll have noticed,” she couldn’t help adding.

  A sheepish smile tilted his lips. “I’m not blind, Miss Tomblin. You are certainly not the first lady to become enamored of a clergyman. At seminary, we were warned against encouraging such attachments, as they are invariably founded on a lie.”

  Her face formed a frown before she could stop it. “A lie?”

  “Indeed. A most dangerous lie. People generally assume clergy to be better than other men. They see a clerical collar or tie, and they think the one wearing it infallible. Naturally, we are held to a much higher standard than other men—and in truth we ought to be, for we set the example for our parish. But the fact is, we are no less human than anyone else, and are subject to the same worldly influences. We make mistakes.” A strange look entered his dark eyes. “I made one today.”

  Mary’s heart began to gallop, seemingly unaware of her recent decision to take a step back from her pursuit. “How so?”

  “I tried to influence you indirectly, when it’s clear now I could have simply talked to you about what happened.” He shot her a piercing glance. “You speak more plainly than any other woman I’ve ever met.”