He regretted not taking the pony and trap now, but the last time he had used it to visit one of his parishioners in Low Southwick Bess had been as skittish as a foal on the way home, something obviously having upset her. Sprites of Satan, some of those children were. But it gave emphasis to his standing, the horse and trap. He must remember that in the future when dealing with such as Mrs Woodrow.
In the last few minutes, the sleet had turned into fat flakes of snow which were beginning to settle as the temperature dropped, but Jeremiah’s mind was on something more serious than the weather as he reached his front door. The reverence given to a man of the cloth such as he, was surely a courtesy of the utmost importance and he could not, he would not allow the common rabble to display such impertinence. For their own sakes. Where would society find itself, if dishonour and insolence were allowed free rein? The Woodrow woman’s indictments against the shipyard owners – several of whom he counted among his personal friends – could not be tolerated. It was his clear Christian duty to have a quiet word in the necessary ears. It stood to reason, if the father had been stirring up anarchy within his own home, the sons must be tainted with the same brush. The old grandmother couldn’t have come to such conclusions on her own, she was merely a woman, after all. She must have heard talk. Rebellious talk.
Jeremiah breathed in deeply, exhaling slowly as he turned to look back over the pebbled drive and neatly manicured lawns and flowerbeds either side of it. The vicarage was a substantial building of three storeys and set in half-an-acre of ground. It was situated a few hundred yards from the main village, the church rising up behind it like a sentinel keeping watch over the grids of streets running down to the River Wear. He had been born in the master bedroom thirty-eight years ago, and apart from his time at ecclesiastical college he had never lived anywhere else. Just weeks after he had left college, his father had contracted cholera from one of his parishioners in Low Southwick, and within days he had died, his mother passing away of the same disease within the week. Jeremiah had remained in good health, something he had felt was God’s provision, especially when the bishop of the diocese, a family friend, had made it plain he wished him to continue in his father’s place.
Taking off his hat, Jeremiah banged it against his leg before turning and opening the front door. Immediately a strong smell of beeswax and lavender oil met his nostrils, and as he stepped into the tiled hall he exhaled again, this time with a feeling of satisfaction. His home was one of order and discipline – he would not tolerate anything else – and with his wife being of like mind, their existence together was harmonious. When the bishop had made it clear he expected Jeremiah to find a wife post-haste in view of his changed circumstances, introducing his niece at a dinner party shortly afterwards, Jeremiah had taken the hint and within twelve months he and Mary were wed. It didn’t matter to him that Mary was plain and severe in outlook – probably the reason she’d had no suitors at the age of twenty-five – she was domesticated and of good breeding and perfectly suited to her role as a vicar’s wife.
Such was his passionless nature he could have continued quite happily through life without a mate, but he had performed his husbandly obligations every so often and in due course Mary had given birth to their son, John, five years after they were married – a respectable interval, they had both felt. Matthew had followed two years later, and the twins, David and Patience, four years after that. By unspoken mutual agreement they had decided that their procreation function in the sight of God was adequately discharged, and both had felt relief that that side of marriage – obligatory but slightly distasteful – was over.
He was taking his coat off when Bridget, their little maid, came through the door at the end of the hall which opened into a corridor leading to the kitchen and servants’ quarters. His father had employed a cook and a maid, and Jeremiah had grown up in a very comfortable household along with his sister Esther, but his initial salary as a young vicar had not been such to afford servants. When he had married Mary, the bishop had seen to it that his niece could continue to live in the manner to which she was accustomed, and so Bridget, her mother Kitty who was cook and father Patrick who took care of the grounds and any odd jobs, had joined them. That had been twelve years ago and Jeremiah didn’t pay the little family a penny more than when he had first taken them on. He considered that they were adequately fed and clothed and had a roof over their heads; their wage was something he secretly resented.
Jeremiah’s eyes narrowed as he registered the start the little maid gave when she saw him, and as she scurried to his side he could see something was amiss.
‘Oh, sir, we didn’t know you were back,’ she said in a loud whisper. ‘The mistress asked me to keep an eye open for you, but then she wanted some more hot water for the pot and—’