Always Believe in Love (Emerson Book 4) Page 3

  But she feared she hadn’t done a very good job of it.

  “Good morning, sir,” she said, rising reluctantly from her task

  “Good morning, Miss Winston. Fussing about with those records again, I see.” His disapproval was clear. “Frankly, I don’t know why you bother. Everyone in those ledgers is long dead. Who cares if they married or sired children?”

  Kate knew it was a question others might reasonably ask. But, somehow, when Mr. Bramwell did so, it was especially vexing. Probably because he was vexing. She knew it was an unkind thought and reminded herself to pay special attention to Sunday’s sermon in hopes of improving her soul. Until she remembered Sunday’s sermon would be one of Mr. Bramwell’s creation and would undoubtedly be quite vexing, itself. She told herself to think of one of dear Oscar’s old sermons, instead.

  But even dear Oscar would have had a difficult time tolerating Mr. Bramwell.

  Kate took a deep breath and smiled. “I like learning about the marriages and births of so long ago. Many of them are the ancestors of the current villagers. It is gratifying to see the manifestation of their love all these generations later.”

  “But no one of note has ever lived in the village. It is simply one generation of fishermen producing the next.”

  Kate’s smile became quite brittle. She had to remember that the lease on her cottage was at the mercy of Mr. Bramwell’s whims. If he turned her out, she would have no place to go. She kept smiling, though it fatigued her more than running up a very steep hill. “The fishermen make up the backbone of this village, sir. They feed us and they are able to support their families with the bounty from the ocean. And was not Christ Himself a fisherman?”

  Mr. Bramwell tut-tutted in a way that was annoyingly, uniquely his. “You completely misunderstand the Bible, Miss Winston. Jesus Christ was not a fisherman. He was a gentleman and, thus, had no profession. He was, metaphorically, a ‘fisher of men,’ in which He cast a net to find followers and, I am quite certain, had to throw any number of them back. I know I would have.”

  “How exactly did you find your calling, Mr. Bramwell?” She’d wondered that since making his acquaintance.

  “I have always been pious myself, though not to a vulgar degree, of course. My great uncle found the living for me, given I had no taste for the military, though I would have liked to have ordered men about, and the uniforms are quite smart. Have you given much thought to your own future, Miss Winston?”

  “I brought a warm scarf in case the weather grows colder. But if you mean in the long term, I haven’t given it a great deal of thought.” And she prayed he wasn’t about to make any suggestions on her behalf.

  “You are not getting any younger, Miss Winston. ‘Struth, you should have been married some years ago. What are you? Two and twenty?”

  “Three years older than that, sir.”

  Mr. Bramwell made a face like a spider had just crawled into his ear. “I cannot imagine what the old vicar was thinking to allow you to be unwed at such an advanced age.”

  “I believe,” Kate ground out, “he thought my marrying was my concern.”

  “How decidedly queer. The poor man must have been quite barmy in his old age. Well, I shall remedy that, of course. You simply must marry by your next birthday.”

  “On what grounds do you make such a pronouncement?”

  “As your spiritual advisor, of course. It is the Christian duty of every young woman to marry, bear children and tend to her husband. Unless she is unchaste, of course, then there is no hope for her and she must face damnation. Also, we cannot have you be indigent and have to rely on the church’s charity.”

  “I do have a modest inheritance from my parents.”

  “But probably not enough to attract a man.”

  Kate slowly breathed in and out. She knew no amount of paying attention to sermons would make up for striking a vicar, no matter how good it would feel.

  “How much is the stipend?” asked Mr. Bramwell, with a bit too much interest.

  “I was taught it is impolite to speak of money.” Not to mention she didn’t want to give Bramwell yet another reason to come around any more often than he already did – which was much too frequently. “I fear I shall have to go about obtaining a husband the old-fashioned way, by attracting one with my mind and spirit.”

  “I’ve never heard of that working, but I suppose you could try. But pray remember, Miss Winston, that I will be available if you need me. Indeed, I would count myself flattered if you would consider me your confidante on matters of the heart.”

  “Thank you, sir. I shall be certain to keep that in mind.” Much as one was always cognizant of the location of bees in the garden. “If you will excuse me, I’d like to get back to my task while the light is still good.”

  After a few moments of Bramwell leafing through ledgers in hopes he’d be asked to stay, he mercifully departed. But Kate couldn’t rid her mind of what he’d said. She did wish to marry, though she was fairly certain there was no one in the village she wanted as a husband. Had picking a spouse always been this difficult? She looked at the ledger in front of her, written in the elaborate handwriting of some curate decades earlier. Those people had each found his or her life’s mate. Of course, many were likely arranged marriages. But some must have been love matches.

  Perhaps she would be so lucky.

  She went back to work, copying the details of the major events of other people’s lives, and wondering when the events in her own life would begin to unfold.

  * * *

  Nick stretched his back, hoping the journey to Weymouth was nearly at an end. He’d thought of having his carriage stop in Dorchester, which was nine miles inland. There was a revenue garrison there which might provide him the information he needed, though he wasn’t certain he wanted his inquiries to be quite so public. If Simon didn’t have proof, he didn’t want to provide him any. Though what he’d do if he found the old earl had actually committed treason, he had yet to consider. He was, after all, a loyal citizen of the Crown. If the old earl had been guilty of such crimes, perhaps the title should revert to Simon.

  But he’d decide that when he had to.

  His carriage finally drew to a halt and Nick got out, not even waiting for the coachman to let down the steps. Weymouth was like every other town along the coast they’d travelled through. There were dozens of small, stone cottages with thatched roofs that sat along a small hill looking out at the sea. The sky was grey, the wind was cold and the air smelled like salt and fish. But mostly fish.

  He’d taken one of his smaller carriages since he hadn’t wanted to attract too much attention to himself. But from the way the villagers stared, he realized any conveyance above a cart would have attracted attention. Villagers in towns such as this tended to view any outsider with suspicion. It would be a tall order to gain their trust, but unless he wanted to rely solely on official records, he needed to form a bond with the people there.

  He had told his coachman to find the first decent inn, but after a surprisingly quick trip from one end of the village to the other, he learned there was only one choice, the Anchor’s Mate. It looked to have half a dozen small rooms to let and one large tavern.

  He took a moment to look at his surroundings. There was the village green, which was no doubt the site of various festivals, and a small church just north of there. The church might be a good place to start his search, since a perusal of its ledgers would tell him a great deal about the families in the area. Perhaps there was even an old lady who worked in the rectory who could assist him.

  He entered the small inn, which smelled of stale ale. A short, bow-legged man with a weathered face approached, looking him up and down.

  “Are ye lookin’ for a meal, a room fer the night or a woman? I could possibly arrange fer all three.”

  That wasn’t a good sign. Nick hoped the village’s one inn wasn’t also its brothel. “Two of the three, if you please. I am Nicholas Chilcott and I would like a room and a me
al.”

  The man smiled, revealing four teeth scattered haphazardly about his mouth. “I was jus’ jestin’ abou’ the woman. Me wife would have me bollocks if I tried to run a bawdy house. I don’ know no Chilcott. You from Lunnon?”

  “Only on occasion.”

  “Me name’s Brewster, Mr. Chilcott, sir.”

  “It’s a pleasure. May I see the room?”

  “I reckon ye can. Also,” he added, after looking around, presumably to see if Mrs. Brewster was within hearing range, “if ye change yer mind about the woman I can mebbe make arrangements.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Brewster, but just the room and the meal.”

  The man shrugged, then showed Nick to a very small room which looked out in the direction of the fishing boats.

  “Do you have something on the other side of the inn?” asked Nick.

  “This be the best view, sir!”

  “It has also a breeze that is, well, fragrant.”

  “Wot do ye mean by ‘fragrant?’”

  “It has the…smell of the sea.”

  “And a nice scent it is, ain’t it?”

  Only if one didn’t have a sense of smell. “Do you have something in back?”

  “Depends on if ye like mice. We have a bit of a rodent situation back there.”

  “This shall do nicely, thank you.”

  “If yer wantin’ a meal, ye can either come to the tavern or we’ll send somethin’ up to ye, later. The missus is a real good cook. And if ye need anythin’ else…”

  The man looked meaningfully at Nick.

  “I shall bear that in mind.” Nick gave Brewster a few coins to hasten his departure, then surveyed the tiny room. The bed was narrow and too short. The wooden chair had three full-size legs and one which had been broken and spliced back together a good two inches shorter than the others. The fireplace was small but serviceable and, hopefully, had a functioning flue. More problematic was the sea breeze, which smelled of fish and decay. He hoped the wind would soon shift or that he could conclude his business in the village quickly.

  As he looked out the window, he saw several fishing vessels coming in to shore. Most were sitting low in the water, which meant their day had been fruitful. There were a few larger boats with sails, as well as a dozen or so rowboats. Several men were offloading nets full of fish, dumping them onto the sand. They worked quickly and efficiently. No doubt most of the men had been doing this since they were children. Indeed, there were several boys not much older than his six-year-old niece Anna who were sorting through the fish, placing like with like and occasionally playing a trick on a young co-worker. The older men watched over them and from a distance it looked like they were joking with their own colleagues.

  Nick realized with some surprise that he envied them. Those men belonged to a group. One they were born and raised in and would likely die in. It wasn’t dissimilar to the structure of the ton. One was born into Society and usually spent an entire life there. Few people chose to leave its environs, though some were cast out.

  Such as deposed earls. As he watched the men enjoy themselves as they worked, it occurred to Nick that he wouldn’t miss the ton. He had his family and friends like the Kellingtons. Not much else mattered.

  As he watched, a group of three young women slowly walked by the men. They’d timed their excursion perfectly and it was obvious that for them the day’s catch was the men, not the fish. Several of the younger men called out to the women, who giggled and waved. For their part, the men seemed to lift the nets higher and faster, showing off their strength to impress the girls. It was, Nick realized, a courting ritual as old as the village itself. He reckoned more matches had been made this way than at a year of village assemblies.

  Then another young woman came into view as she walked by the beach. Well, “strode” might be a better word for it. She’d been walking at a much faster clip than the others. Certainly at a speed which would’ve been considered quite unfashionable for ladies in London. After all, it was much more difficult to admire a lady’s form when she sped past you. It was more advisable to amble slowly, giving a better view of one’s posterior and breasts. The other women had known that. But this woman had walked past as if she had a destination in mind, as if she’d paid no heed at all to the men around her. Which, of course, made them notice her all the more.

  She looked rather tall, though it was difficult to know from this distance. She was slim, but as the wind whipped the old greatcoat she wore, he could see the outline of long, well-formed legs. The kind of legs a man wouldn’t mind having wrapped around him. If this was one of the women the inn’s proprietor had offered to procure for him, he might be tempted to take him up on it. But this woman was a lady. That much was obvious even from a distance.

  Her hair was light brown and the setting sun highlighted the fair strands. It was pulled back into a bun at the nape of her neck, even as the wind was blowing ringlets about her face. The other girls’ bodices showed off their bosom, despite the chill of the day. But the lady seemed perfectly content wearing the old greatcoat which was better suited to a man.

  Yet despite the fact she wasn’t trying to attract attention – or maybe because of it – the men hailed her as she walked past, much to the dismay of the other girls. The lady in the man’s greatcoat chatted pleasantly with the group, even making them laugh a time or two. Both the men and women enjoyed talking to her, save for one of the girls who stood off to the side glaring at her.

  There was nothing about the lady’s movements which would indicate she was flirting with any of the men. She had none of the coquettish mannerisms of ladies of the ton. Not that he thought she was a member of that overblown group of gossips. No member of the ton would stop to speak to fishermen, nor be so forthright as to make them laugh out loud as she’d done now half a dozen times. What was she saying that entertained them so? For some reason, Nick really wanted to know.

  He shook himself from that surprising thought, even as the lady took her leave of the group and continued on her way with the confident, forthright stride which made him think she was anxious to reach her destination. Perhaps to a waiting husband? That might explain the man’s greatcoat. She looked old enough to be married, but for some reason the thought didn’t sit well with him.

  The men and women resumed conversing amongst themselves, but Nick couldn’t help wondering about the lady who’d left them and was now, courtesy of her fast walking, likely halfway to London.

  The fanciful thought made him smile. The first real smile he’d had since beginning his journey. Perhaps he’d even get the chance to make her acquaintance. And the first thing he’d ask was why she was in such a hurry to reach her destination.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Nick’s attempts to sleep on a thin, lumpy mattress abruptly came to a halt shortly before dawn the next day. He was awakened by the sounds of fishermen preparing for the day’s work. Perhaps they thought to catch the bloody fish asleep.

  He also realized that even in the cool morning, the smell was no better than the day before. He was glad he’d set out on this journey in the cool springtime weather. He couldn’t begin to imagine what aromas the summer sun would bring.

  He dressed in the dark, fumbling around for his clothes. When he was reasonably attired, he made his way downstairs. He could hear breakfast being prepared in the kitchens, occasionally punctuated by colorful language from Mrs. Brewster.

  Since it was obvious no meal would appear in the immediate future, Nick stepped outside in the chilled morning air. The sun was just beginning its climb, washing the sky in shades of pink and grey. He took a deep breath, looked around and concluded that while beautiful, dawn was still vastly overrated.

  Faced with the unpleasant choice of standing outside freezing or returning to his uncomfortable bed, Nick decided to warm himself by walking through the small village. He began his journey walking up the narrow lane toward the village green. There were lights on in most of the cottages despite the hour and he could smell
bread baking and coffee brewing.

  The village was not that dissimilar to the one near his estate, other than the fishermen and the sea. His farmers arose before dawn and he imagined their wives had any number of tasks to perform to take care of their homes, children and husbands. There was something to be said for a life where you knew the day’s tasks when you arose.

  He looked up to see a man slightly older than himself walking toward him. He was dressed in the solemn clothing of a vicar and looked much too enthusiastic about the morning. But when the man spied him, he frowned.

  “Good morning, sir,” said Nick, bowing to the man who continued to stare.

  “You are new in town,” said the man in a manner which wasn’t an outright insult, but fairly close.

  “Passing through. I am Nicholas Chilcott.”

  “The Reverend Edgar Bramwell. I am the vicar here.” He said it as if expecting either congratulations or a donation to the church.

  “I’m certain it is interesting work.” It was early and Nick’s conversational skills were still abed.

  “What brings you here, Mr. Chilcott?” Bramwell asked, after a long pause.

  Nick gave the response he’d deemed would raise the least suspicion. “I am somewhat of an amateur historian and would like to learn more about your village and the area.”

  “Why on earth for?”

  Why was the blasted man making this so difficult? “I like the sea.”

  The vicar nodded as if that made sense. “I am the most learned man in the village, of course. So I’m certain I can answer any questions you might have.”

  “You’ve lived here your whole life?”

  “Heavens, no. Only moved here a few months ago once the old vicar passed. But I am a man of great knowledge.”

  But if Bramwell had moved there recently, he wouldn’t have the answers Nick needed. “Do you have any type of archives at the vicarage?”

  “We do. There are several musty ledgers, filled with little of importance. But you are welcome to come by and browse through them. Miss Winston messes about with the books – she is unmarried and, as such, has nothing to occupy her time.”