Practical Widow to Passionate Mistress (Transformation of the Shelley Sisters 1)

Now, as she turned up the lane towards Martinsdene, the church tower was visible ahead, the slopes of the hills and the angles of the copses as they met the fields were all achingly familiar. Life had gone on while she had been away and the place that had once been the centre of her world had got along perfectly well without her. Meg shifted the valise from one hand to another.

Jago had found nothing here but a wall of silence. It was only her anger and the hope born of desperation that made her even try. But try she would. There was even the faint, forlorn hope that her father would welcome her back, that after all these years apart they might find a way to reach each other. Meg walked into the Royal George inn. ‘Good morning, Mr Wilkins. I require a room for two nights.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ Ben Wilkins put down the cloth he had been polishing tankards with and smiled his familiar gap-toothed smile. ‘We’ve a nice one overlooking the green.’ Then he blinked, stared and Meg smiled back. ‘Miss Margaret! Why, they said you’d run off with young Mr Halgate, so they did—and here you are, home again.’

Meg winced inwardly at the word home, but kept her smile bright. ‘Yes, here I am. It is good to see you looking so well, Mr Wilkins.’

‘I’ve been married to Jenny North—you remember her?—for five years now and we’ve three nippers, all bright boys too. And Jenny, she’s smartened this old place up wonderful fine…’

Meg nodded and smiled and waited until Ben ran out of news and started thinking. ‘But, Miss Margaret, why do you want to stay here?’

‘I may not be very welcome at the vicarage,’ she said frankly. His expression showed embarrassment and comprehension and an obvious question. ‘But I need to find my sisters.’

‘I don’t know, Miss Margaret. It’s a mystery, certain sure.’ All she got after half an hour of speculation and gossip were the dates that Jago had gleaned.

‘I will visit my father, of course,’ she told Wilkins as he carried her bag upstairs, ducking under the low beams in the room he showed her to. There was no point in trying to be secretive. Better to be frank and give the village gossips something accurate to clack their tongues over.

And there was no point in putting things off either, she decided after eating the luncheon that Jenny Wilkins had provided along with five years’ worth of village news.

The vicarage looked just as it had when she had left. She walked in at the side gate and cut across the yard to the kitchen door. The garden was clipped and regimented, the door knocker shining, the white curtains starched. Everything as upright as its inhabitants, Meg thought with an attempt at humour.

The back door was open so she went right in. I am a grown woman now. He can neither control me nor harm me. So why was she feeling sick?

Mrs Philpott the cook, greyer and stouter than Meg remembered, was standing with her back to the door at the range. ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Philpott.’

The cook turned stared, gasped, ‘Miss Margaret!’ and went into strong hysterics, throwing her apron over her face and shrieking.

‘Oh, be quiet and pull yourself together!’ Meg gave her a little shake and the hysterics turned into gasps. ‘I have come to find out where my sisters are,’ she said as calmly as she could.

‘What is this racket?’ The door opened to reveal the Reverend Shelley, spectacles on his nose. ‘I am attempting to write tomorrow’s sermon—’ He stopped dead. ‘Margaret!’

‘Father.’ Once, long ago, there had been laughter, once he had loved her, she thought, reaching back into childhood memories and the hazy recollections of the time before Mama died. She had wanted so much when she was growing up to please him, make him proud of her, find that vanished love again. She held her breath—she was home again, the prodigal daughter. Would he forgive her? Could she learn to love him again?

‘What are you doing here, you sinful girl?’ The pain twisted in her stomach. Rejection, not forgiveness. But she would not weep, there were her sisters to think of.

‘Where are Arabella and Celina?’ Meg demanded, her eyes fixed on her father’s face, searching for some hint that he knew as avidly as she had searched for some spark of welcome. But there was only baffled anger and righteous indignation on the vicar’s lean features.

‘I do not know and I do not care. They have fallen into sin as you did, I have no doubt. I failed to drive the wickedness out of you all, now I must bear the burden of it.’

Meg stood her ground for a long minute. She was not going to allow him to intimidate her, or to hurt her, ever again. It was worth coming back, worth the pain of the last few minutes, just to know that. Without a word she turned on her heel and walked away.

Sunday dawned bright and sunny. Meg lay listening to the sounds of the inn and the village starting the day, then got out of bed and began to wash and dress. She had one more idea, one more faint hope. If that did not work then she would go back to London, find whatever employment she could with no references, and advertise for her sisters. And she would forget Ross Brandon. The last resolution seemed impossible. How could she forget him when she ached for him, worried about him, thought about him every moment?

She timed her arrival at church for Matins just as the organist lifted his hands from the keyboard and the vicar emerged from the vestry. Her veil down, Meg slipped into the rear pew. It was strange to be back here. The view was different from here and not from the high-sided Vicarage box pew. But there were the familiar monuments on the walls and the familiar hymn boards hanging on the pillars. The same vases held greenery around the font and the organ still wheezed on the high notes.

The ritual was soothing, although her father’s sermon was both dull and uninspiring after the warmth of Reverend Hawkins’s words.

She waited until the service was over and the congregation got to its feet, then stood out in the aisle and threw back her veil.

‘Please, may I have a moment of your time?’ She pitched her voice to carry and they stopped talking. Heads turned, she saw some she knew, saw recognition dawn. ‘My name is Margaret Shelley and I am trying to trace my sisters. Can anyone help me? If you know anything, however insignificant it might be, I beg you to tell me. I will be at the Royal George until tomorrow. I would be so grateful if you—’

She had lost them. They were all still staring up the aisle, but not at her. The breeze from the open door caught at her veil as she turned. A big man was standing beside the font, his face expressionless under a shock of black hair. It

needed cutting. Perrott should have…‘Ross.’

Someone gasped, then the spell was broken as her father emerged from the vestry, still in his cassock. ‘What is this? Margaret, you will leave this church immediately!’

‘This is not your house to order anyone from,’ Ross observed, his deep voice echoing around the stone walls in the shocked silence. ‘It belongs to a higher authority.’ Someone giggled nervously and the vicar turned a furious glare towards the sound. Ross ignored him, addressing himself directly to the congregation. ‘Miss Shelley has not received any reply to her question. As she said, we will be at the inn and will be most appreciative of any assistance you may give us.’