The Scottish Bride (Sherbrooke Brides 6)

Mr. Gaither was wider than his apron, and his heart was as big as his belly. He was a good man, a man Tysen had respected for the entire eight years he had been the vicar in Glenclose-on-Rowan. Mr. Gaither had dealt more than fairly with his wastrel older brother, who had, evidently, just taken a ship to the Colonies, to find new vic-tims to fleece.

“Have you ever traveled to Scotland, Mr. Gaither?”

“Not I, sir. Born and raised here, been here all my life. I believe it’s best for a man to know his roots and stick close to them.”

Not very subtle, Tysen thought, and took a bite of the warm bread.

“I saw your wife, sir, just yesterday afternoon, with little Meggie, over at the draper’s shop on High Street. They were laughing, sir, over nothing at all as far as I could tell, as far as anyone else could tell. She’s a looker.”

“Yes, Meggie looks a great deal like her aunt Sinjun,” Tysen said.

“No, I meant your wife. All the, er, men think so.”

Tysen wadded the piece of bread into a ball in his fist. His heart began to pound, death-hard strokes. Now Mr. Gaither wanted Tysen to believe that Mary Rose was a strumpet to be ogled? He remembered Mr. Sanderford in Brighton. Mary Rose hadn’t wanted him to flirt with her, she hadn’t, and Tysen felt a leap of rage at this insult, and nearly choked on the bread he’d been chewing. He managed to calm himself. He said, after he’d motioned Mr. Gaither to seat himself, “My wife and daughter are very fond of each other. Naturally they laugh together. Now, I don’t know precisely what you mean, Mr. Gaither, by this ‘looker’ business. You have met my wife. Did you not come to the vicarage just three days ago with your dear wife to share tea with us?”

“Naturally, my lord. Mrs. Sherbrooke was very gracious to everyone. It is just—oh, dear, I surely meant no insult to you or to her, Reverend Sherbrooke.”

“Perhaps you should try for an explanation, Mr. Gaither, one that is readily understandable.”

“Dear heaven—the pain, the embarrassment—to speak of it, sir. No help for it. Your wife flirted with Teddie Tate! Shameless, it was.”

“Ah,” Tysen said, utterly confused now. The only man Mary Rose had ever flirted with in her life was him. Again, he remembered Sanderford, and he nearly smiled, remembering how Mary Rose had compared him to Erickson MacPhail.

“Poor Bethie Tate, well, dear Bethie was in tears, sobbing her heart out to Miss Strapthorpe.”

“I see. It is Miss Strapthorpe who mentioned this to you?”

“Oh, Miss Glenda mentioned it to everyone, Reverend Sherbrooke.”

“Other than flirting with Teddie Tate, is there any other sin my bride has committed?”

“Oh, sir, now you’re upset and I never meant for you to be. I know, I know, Miss Strapthorpe fancied you for herself, and thus you think this is all a lie to discredit your wife, that it is nothing more than the spite of a rejected female.”

“That’s it exactly, Mr. Gaither. Miss Strapthorpe is a single-minded young lady. I fear I offended her by not giving her what she wanted—namely, myself and the vicarage, which she wanted to expand into the graveyard.”

“You don’t say! What a thought that provides. Just imagine drinking your tea atop old Mrs. Beardsley’s coffin, and she’s been down under for over fifty years now.”

“I believe Miss Strapthorpe had visions of removing the coffins.”

“Oh, dear,” said Mr. Gaither and shook his head. “Aye, and I’ll wager you were plain-speaking with her too, sir, and not unkind.”

“I suppose so.”

Mr. Gaither stroked his fingers over his clean-shaven jaw. “It’s true that her disappointment is great, according to Mrs. Bittley and Mrs. Padworthy. I heard them talking just outside the tavern, while they were waiting for their husbands to down their final mugs of ale. Proper sods, their husbands were that day. Aye, it is a strong possibility that Miss Strapthorpe perhaps exaggerated the thing a bit.”

“More than a bit. Now, all that is distraction, Mr. Gaither. Tell me what this is all about.”

“I will try, sir. You see, everyone remarks on the fact that you have quite lost your head over your new wife, that you have fallen snare to a man’s weakness. An ordinary man’s weakness. And that is it, sir.”

“I see,” Tysen said slowly, and thought, well, I have certainly heard enough of this before, and he rose from his chair. It was all very clear to him now. “I am very sorry that everyone believes that I have somehow changed when all I’ve done is gotten married.”

Mr. Gaither looked at him sadly. “A very melancholy thing to happen to a man of God, Vicar. A disastrous thing.”

Tysen felt his heart pounding again, only this time each deep stroke sent a deep, searing ache through him. His head rarely ached, but it did now, a biting pain just over his left temple. He said, “Is laughter such a bad thing, Mr. Gaither?”

“If it exposes naught but more laughter, Reverend Sherbrooke,” Mr. Gaither said, pity in his eyes now, “then I fear it likely is, at least for you, sir.”

Tysen left, turning right on High Street, nodding, speaking, looking all his parishioners in the face as he met them. Few met his eye. He wasn’t kissing Mary Rose, he wasn’t laughing. He probably looked as serious as if he was conducting a funeral. He ignored the rain, falling more heavily even now, and walked to the beautifully tended old graveyard beside his church. Glenda Strapthorpe had wanted to take away all the graves and build a wing onto the vicarage? It boggled his mind.