The Vicar's Daughter

By Blair Bancroft

Independent and capable Prudence Wedderburn, daughter of a vicar, is a woman before her time. She not only manages the parish duties usually performed by a vicar's wife, she has learned the art of healing, and during her father's final illness, she also assumes some of his religious duties—all actions welcomed by her village until her father's death abruptly ends her life as First Lady of Kenner's Cove, Kent.

Well aware she must curb her independence—even learn to practice subservience, a quality entirely unknown to her—Prudence accepts a position as governess to a five-year-old girl in Cornwall. Where, alas, rumors of her activities in Kent plunge her into difficulties with the church, she clashes with her pupil's father (an earl), finds herself hip-deep in smugglers and Cornish legends, is befriended by a 500-year-old cat, and discovers that someone—several someones?—want to kill her. Finding a happy ending in a deluge of disasters will be the vicar's daughter's greatest challenge.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blair Bancroft
• Release date: Aug 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9780999851975

Blair Bancroft

Blair Bancroft recalls receiving odd looks from adults as she walked home from school at age seven, her lips moving as she told herself stories. And there was never a night she didn't entertain herself with her own bedtime stories. But it was only after a variety of other careers that she turned to serious writing. Blair has been a music teacher, professional singer, non-fiction editor, costume designer, and real estate agent. She has traveled from Bratsk, Siberia, to Machu Picchu, Peru, and made numerous visits to Europe, Britain, and Ireland. She is now attempting to incorporate all these varied experiences into her writing. Blair's first book, TARLETON'S WIFE, won RWA's Golden Heart and the Best Romance award from the Florida Writers' Association. Her romantic suspense novel, SHADOWED PARADISE, and her Young Adult Medieval, ROSES IN THE MIST, were finalists for an EPPIE, the "Oscar" of the e-book industry. Blair's Regency, THE INDIFFERENT EARL, was chosen as Best Regency by Romantic Times magazine and was a finalist for RWA's RITA award. Blair believes variety is the spice of life. Her recent books include Historical Romance, Romantic Suspense, Mystery, Thrillers, and Steampunk, all available at Smashwords. A long-time resident of Florida, Blair fondly recalls growing up in Connecticut, which still has a piece of her heart.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The knock on the front door echoed hollowly up the stairs. At three in the morning, as I sat by my father’s bedside, prayer book in hand, a sudden vision of the Grim Reaper leaped to mind. For death was surely with us, hovering, waiting for Father’s last breaths. A welcome release from the suffering he had endured for far too many days and nights, and with the surety of life in a better world for William Avery Wedderburn, the kindly, much-loved vicar of Kenner’s Cove.

I pried myself to my feet, tightened the sash of my robe, and made my way downstairs. Miss, oh miss, you must come at once, Ella Spriggs burst out the moment I opened the door. ’Tis the old man. I fear it’s the end for him.

Joshua Spriggs and my father had been running the last race together for the past two years—and were, apparently, ending it together as well. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and asked Ella to wait in the parlor while I dressed. I had done all I could for Father and had no doubt what he would tell me if he had the strength to do so: Go, my child, do what you must. Do what you have done since the wasting disease struck me down. Minister to those in need—the sick, the grief-stricken, the tormented, the dying. Our parishioners need you, and God will understand, if strangers cannot.

I tied my bonnet strings, settled my shawl about my shoulders, and picked up my prayer book. Duty called, and I would answer.

The distance from the rectory to the Spriggs family’s well-kept cottage was not far. Situated at the lower end of the high street, the cottage stood proud and firm a scant hundred yards from the sea. I could hear the faint slap, slap of waves as we walked past the early spring flowers framing the walkway. Even by light of a half-moon, I could see the immaculate thatching on the roof, the shine of fresh paint on the walls. Though never mentioned except in whispers, everyone knew Tom Spriggs, Ella’s husband, augmented his fisherman’s income by frequent trips to France. Which likely explained why only his mother, Nancy, and elder daughter, Alice, met us at the door.

Come in, come in, miss, Nancy Spriggs cried, her gray hair hanging limply about her face. Thank the good Lord you’re here. He’s right bad, close to breathing his last, I fear. As she spoke, she led me to her husband’s side, and for the second time that night I saw the mark of death. Why, O Lord, I wondered, take these two men, so diametrically opposed in thought, word, and deed, on the same night? Wily adversaries, Father and Joshua Spriggs had thoroughly enjoyed wrestling with each other’s wildly varying philosophies of life while remaining united by a single thread—a belief in God Almighty.

I tried to make sense of it, reaching for well-worn phrases, such as God moves in mysterious ways, but tonight, maintaining my composure in the face of death was a bit of a struggle. Yet I must, for I was needed.

I had been strong for so long—ministering to the sick, counseling the grief-stricken, listening to the woes of wives with too many children, with husbands who beat them, of women whose only desire was to run as far from our tiny Kentish village as they could go. On occasion, even men had confided their woes to me. Why I was entrusted with such confidences I could not say, except my father had been ill for a long time, and as the vicar’s daughter, I, Prudence Abigail Wedderburn, was raised to serve.

You must read the words, miss, Nancy Spriggs urged. He needs to hear them.

Since Joshua Spriggs had once been the area’s chief smuggler, teaching his son all he knew, I had no doubt his wife spoke true, and yet . . .

Please, miss. Nancy Spriggs nodded toward a chair set close to the bed. The withered fingers draped over the quilt managed a faint wiggle—Joshua Spriggs beckoning me forward, confirming his wife’s words.

I sat, looked into deep blue eyes set in a face grown as hollow as my father’s. A face worn not only by time but by wind and sea and high adventure. And tonight it was left to me to do what must be done, for after two years of assuming more and more of my father’s duties, I had become the vicar in most people’s eyes, no matter how shocking that might be to outsiders.

I opened the prayer book and began to read: "Almighty God, look on this your servant, lying in weakness . . ."

Not long after I began, the old man’s hand went limp, the colorful quilt ceased to rise and fall. I continued on to the Litany at Time of Death. We sinners beseech you to hear us, Lord Christ: That it may please you to deliver the soul of your servant from the power of evil, and from eternal death . . . Nancy, Ella, and Alice—stoic in the face of the inevitable—murmured the responses while silent tears rolled down their cheeks.

When the responsive reading was complete, I read on, fearing we might all give way to maudlin excesses if I stopped.

Depart, O Christian soul, out of this world; In the name of God the Father Almighty who created you; In the name of Jesus Christ who—

The door banged open, bringing a cleansing whiff of the sea into a room stifled by death. Tom Spriggs stood on the threshold, his lips moving in a profanity he did not speak aloud. Even in the abject grief of the moment I could not help but admire the picture he made. True to more than a dollop of Norse blood, his head barely cleared the lintel. His hair was sandy blond, his eyes the same blue as his father’s, his body strong, his attitude intense. Tom Spriggs was a man who could stand up to a gale, a man other men followed. And for more than a decade of my twenty-five years, his was the face I envisioned when I dreamed of the man who would someday be mine. Though my girlish dreams of love and marriage faded a bit more with each passing year, I had only to look at the long-married Tom Spriggs to renew my hopes for my future. Surely somewhere, somehow . . .

Ella held up her prayer book and with Tom looking over her shoulder, we repeated the responsive reading and finished the prayer for the dead. The pale gray of pre-dawn lit the way as Tom Spriggs escorted me back to the vicarage.

I ascended the stairs with a heavy heart, almost certain of what I would find. And I was right. William Avery Wedderburn, vicar of the village of Kenner’s Cove, had breathed his last.

Three weeks later

Dear Mrs. Chalke,

Thank you for your prompt response to my advertisement.

I paused, my quill poised over the paper. Were my words too bold, as if I were the employer not the prospective employee? Although I had never been farther from home than Folkestone, I was not totally ignorant of the ways of the world. Having run my father’s household since the age of fourteen, I had enjoyed far more independence than most women, married or single. Analyzing problems, giving orders had become second nature. That expected female trait, subservience, was not.

I would adapt. I had no choice.

Truth was, Mrs. Chalke’s letter was one of only two replies to my advertisement for a position as governess. The first had been from a household in Sussex with six children, and to say I welcomed the letter from a Mrs. Ewella Chalke in Cornwall with but one small girl in need of a governess would be putting it mildly.

I took up a new sheet of paper and began again.

Dear Mrs. Chalke,

I was pleased to receive your letter of March 12th. I am enclosing Characters from three respected citizens of Kenner’s Cove and hope you will find them satisfactory. If so, I am available immediately as I must vacate the vicarage in time for the arrival . . .

I frowned, crumpled the second sheet of paper, but paused before sending it flying into the fire. It would be more sensible to make all my mistakes on this sheet before penning a final copy. I unfolded the crumpled page with care, blew on the ink to dry it, then carefully smoothed it flat. Well, not quite. It looked as old and wrinkled as I felt. After an all-too-quavering sigh of which I was instantly ashamed, I huffed a whoosh of disgust at myself and scratched out all the words after I am available immediately.

Once again taking up my quill, I began with a brief explanation of why, at age five and twenty, I was seeking my first position. Happily, it was not necessary to spell out the details. Everyone understood that the only daughter of a widowed vicar bore heavy responsibilities, both for her father’s well-being and for the day-to-day workings of the church. And that everything I was—including all my good works—died with him.

I was now a nobody, on the verge of being evicted from the only home I had ever known.

I winced, gritted my teeth, and returned to my letter, detailing among my many parish responsibilities my experience teaching young children. Should I reveal what I had learned from Old Maude? I wondered. Some people were suspicious of healers, particularly female healers, likening them to witches. Yet how could such a useful skill be frowned upon? Kenner’s Cove being too small to support a doctor, I had eagerly absorbed all Maude Bell could teach me.

After frowning at my letter for some time, I added a single sentence stating that, under the tutelage of the village herbalist, I had some experience treating the sick and injured.

I gazed at the nearly finished draft of my letter, my lips curling in a faint smile. Hopefully, Mrs. Chalke would be pleased by the idea of employing a vicar’s daughter with a well-above-average education. There was no need to go into details she would never expect to hear, such as my assuming far more of my father’s duties than the church hierarchy could approve.

I was still contemplating my letter when Mrs. Jameson, who had been housekeeper at the vicarage since my mother came here as a bride, came huffing and puffing up the stairs. Miss, miss, it’s the Bishop! Breathless and clearly horrified, she stared at me, wringing her hands.

I could not have heard correctly. I had already heard from the Bishop, who had graciously granted me the time I needed to prepare the vicarage for the occupancy of the next vicar, as well as time to find a position to keep the wolf away from the door. Bishops did not come to villages like Kenner’s Cove. Not ever.

Another letter, I mused, holding out my hand. I hope he is not moving up the date of my departure.

Not . . . letter, she gasped. He’s here. I’ve shown him into the parlor.

Merciful heavens! Or perhaps not so merciful. I strongly suspected only something dire could have brought the bishop to my door. A blot of ink dripped onto my letter to Mrs. Chalke. Drat! It’s only a draft, only a draft. Chin up, shoulders back, march!

Miss Wedderburn. Bishop Crimpleshaw rose from the well-worn sofa in the parlor, as did a ferret-faced man introduced as Dean Babbage who had been seated in a wingchair nearby. But of course bishops were of too great consequence to travel alone.

My Lord Bishop. I dropped into the most respectful curtsy I could manage. In truth, I had little experience in bending the knee to anyone. There was no one of title in Kenner’s Cove, even the nearest squire a good ten miles distant.

I sat primly upright in a ladderback chair facing the sofa. The bishop was a portly gentleman of middle years, and quite shockingly, it occurred to me that when arrayed in full vestments, he would be as roly-poly as one of Tom Spriggs’s casks of brandy.

Pay attention!

Both men had resumed their seats, and Bishop Crimpleshaw was examining me with considerable interest. Finally, he cleared his throat, and said, I imagine my coming here is something of a surprise.

It is indeed, my lord. I wish I might have known so that we could have prepared a proper welcome.

He gave me a sharp look, recognizing the rebuke behind my words and clearly unaccustomed to such plain-speaking. He drew a deep breath. Now that I have met you, Miss Wedderburn, I find it easier to credit the tales I have been told.

Tales? Light dawned. I knew why he was here. Though who among our parishioners had broken their silence I could not imagine.

Yes, I could. There were always a few wizened souls who lived to think the worst of others. In Kenner’s Cove, not more than two or three, but one would have been enough.

The bishop’s gray eyes flashed, a look of grim satisfaction crossing his aristocratic features as he noted my comprehension. Is it true you have been acting as vicar in place of your father? To the point of reading the Last Rites?

Clasping my hands in my lap, head high, I responded as steadily as I could. Until the past few months my father was able to deliver his sermons and offer the sacraments. And when he grew too ill to do so, you were gracious enough to assign a curate who traveled here each Sunday from Folkestone. But Mr. Minott was not present during the week, nor was he here at night when help was needed, so yes, I was called instead. And on occasion, my help included reading from the prayer book or the Bible. I did not at any time offer the sacraments.

You. Are. Female, Bishop Crimpleshaw declared with something akin to horror. And even if you were male, you are not ordained by the Church of England.

Someone needed to do it, my lord, I pointed out with more stubbornness than wisdom. When the villagers asked, I answered.

Incorrigible! the bishop snapped. A confirming echo sounded from Dean Babbage.

Swallowing my pride because I must, I descended from my high horse and added in the most conciliatory tone I could manage, My lord bishop, I am leaving Kent, most likely for a position as governess in Cornwall. I will no longer be a thorn in your side. Therefore, I would be exceedingly grateful if you allowed the subject to drop.

What about the witchcraft? An interjection from the bishop’s sycophant.

I beg your pardon! I fear my reaction was closer to a screech than a dignified rebuttal.

Be quiet, Babbage. Bishop Crimpleshaw scowled at his companion before turning back to me. For several ticks of the clock, silence prevailed. I quaked, belatedly acknowledging that Bishop Crimpleshaw held my life in his hands. If he turned against me, all doors would shut in my face. I would be fortunate to find a position as scullery maid or . . . worse. My stomach churned. I feared my breakfast was about to reappear.

My lord bishop, I said, appalled as I heard the quaver in my voice. Healing people—and I presume my work with Mrs. Bell is what prompts such a shocking allegation—is a worthy calling, as far from witchcraft as one can get. I considered it a great privilege that when Maude Bell was getting on in years, she chose me as her successor, teaching me all she knew. And now that I am leaving, I know not who—

Miss Wedderburn!

I snapped my mouth closed, attempting a façade of indifference to my fate, even as I knew anxiety shown from my face like a beacon.

The bishop blew out a long breath; his shoulders slumped. Miss Wedderburn, your presumption in assuming the role of vicar is shocking, a heinous violation of the rules of the church. But for the sake of your father, I absolve you of your sins.

Holding my breath, I waited.

As for the other charge . . . Bishop Crimpleshaw heaved a sigh. I regret there are those who still equate female healers with witchcraft. I have no quibble with you dabbling in herbs and potions, except that it is all of a piece with an independence that is far from becoming in a female, let alone an unmarried female.

Jaws clenched tight, I bowed my head. Thank you, my lord.

You are going to Cornwall, you say?

Yes, my lord, I have hope of a position there.

And no more nonsense about playing vicar?

Never, my lord. And if the occasion arises, my inner voice taunted, you know quite well you will do exactly the same again.

See to it. Bishop Crimpleshaw stood, Dean Babbage rising with him. I wish you God speed in whatever you do, Miss Wedderburn. And trust that from this day forth, you will comport yourself as a gentlewoman should.

After seeing my visitors out, I stood a few moments in the front hall, my head bowed in prayer. Cornwall seemed far enough away to be heaven-sent for a wayward creature like me. A place where I could bury myself in a child’s life and forget all that had gone before.

But was I strong enough to put aside the dreams of a household of my own? And after so many years of independence, could I learn to be subservient? In truth, except for Bishop Crimpleshaw, I could not remember the last time anyone had ordered me about.

Dear Mrs. Chalke . . .

With great care I transcribed the final version of my letter. I not only needed this position—it was the right place for me, I was certain of it. Cornwall would be my refuge. A snug haven where I could recover from the nightmare of the last two years.

No challenges beyond the rugged beauty of the West Country. And a girl of five. What could possibly go wrong?

Chapter 2

To my immense relief, Mrs. Ewella Chalke of Lamorran Place, Penarvon, Cornwall, was pleased to offer the position of governess to Miss Prudence Wedderburn, daughter of the late vicar of Kenner’s Cove. I told myself it was meant to be, that my grief and stress would lessen with distance and time. That the West Country would help me return to some semblance of the confidant young woman I once was. I boarded the stagecoach with tears in my eyes but hope in my heart. Whatever was out there beyond the narrow confines of our village, I welcomed it.

I confess my view of an England I had not seen before was somewhat marred by the ups, downs, and sideways swayings of a coach whose driver seemed determined to keep to his appointed schedule, no matter what ruts and potholes stood in his way. Needless to say, I welcomed the stops in each town and city along the way, not merely for respite from the jouncing but for close-up views of new places, new faces. The most wondrous sight, however, was our Prince Regent’s fantastical palace in Brighton. I had heard tales, of course, but frankly had not believed them until I found myself gawping through the glass at a structure right out of a book of fairy tales.

Nothing else en route could hold a candle to The Pavilion. Though I questioned the Prince Regent’s good sense—surely he could have fed the population of London for a year or more with the amount spent on a palace he would use but a few weeks a year. Yet I was delighted to have seen it—the wonder, however, tarnished by the growing realization of how truly small and insignificant I was in the scheme of things. In Kenner’s Cove it could be said I ruled the roost. Outside it, I was even less than the nobody I had become upon my father’s death.

No indeed, my inner voice chided. The burdens of an entire village have been lifted from your shoulders. You will be reborn as a governess, responsible for no more than yourself and one small child. You will be paid, receive actual coin of the realm. A miracle in itself.

Put that way . . .

I sat back, closed my eyes, and allowed a modicum of my former confidence to stiffen my spine. And just in time, for there were drawbacks other than rough roads on this, my first journey outside the confines of Kent. I had been warned about the impropriety of staying alone at inns along the way, but the alternative—traveling day and night on a succession of mail coaches, snatching meals catch as catch can—filled me with horror. Therefore, I wrapped myself in the stern cloak of the Vicar’s Daughter, and was rewarded by innkeepers eyeing me with a minimum of skepticism. Nor did I suffer from any untoward advances. I, Miss Prudence Abigail Wedderburn, the upright daughter of the vicar of Kenner’s Cove, was above approach.

Except, of course, by the Bishop of Canterbury.

Looking back, I wonder at both my temerity and my innocence. I regarded the passing world with the delight of a child while wearing a cloak of Do not touch that would have become a duchess. Then again, perhaps it was my plain face and drab clothing, nothing to spark the interest of even the most lecherous fellow traveler.

Portsmouth, Southampton, Bournemouth . . . What an amazing country was our England. I saw harbors full of ships ten times the size of the fishing boats in Kenner’s Cove, caught glimpses of great houses larger than any structure I had ever imagined. Unfolding before me were picturesque inland villages, some boasting churches with tall spires, others with squat Norman towers. Cottages, farmhouses, barns, brown soil freshly turned for planting.

In Exeter I boarded a coach that would take me inland, across Devon to the western coast of Cornwall. Okehampton, Launceston, Bodmin Moor . . . I stared, never having seen the desolation—or unique beauty—of ground that could not be farmed. By the time we reached St. Ives, I had begun to believe that Cornwall went on forever. Surely Lamorran Place could not be much farther.

And then, suddenly, I was standing in an inn courtyard, my trunk at my feet, watching the coachman crack his whip and the horses thunder away, leaving me standing there, clutching my portmanteau, my trunk at my feet. What now? I gulped a breath, turned to one of the ostlers who had just finished hitching a new team to the coach. Can you tell me how to find transport to Lamorran Place?

As if he had not heard me, he turned toward the stables, bawling Opie! at the top of his lungs. ’T lady’s here.

A man of perhaps sixty years strolled out the broad stable door, looked me up and down. Be you Miss Wedderburn?

Much startled, I admitted I was.

Three days now I’ve been t’ town, looking for y’, he grumbled. Come by slow coach, did y’?

I had begun to adjust to the reality that I was no longer the most respected lady in my village. These words confirmed it. I was no more than a lowly governess in the employ of Mrs. Chalke of Lamorran Place.

Then come along, the older man barked, shouldering my trunk as if it weighed but ounces instead of goodly number of pounds. Step lively—sun’s lowering. Don’t want to be benighted.

My mind numb—after what seemed like endless days of travel, the end had come too quickly, disgorging me into the unknown. I followed him to a gig, watched as he strapped the trunk to the back, accepted a hand up, and tried to organize my thoughts as he hitched a sturdy cart horse between the poles. Instead of being taken-aback, I should be grateful Mrs. Chalke had sent someone to fetch me. It boded well for a situation that could have been far different from the welcoming refuge that I sought. I simply needed to remember I was now an employee; if not below the salt, then not far from it. I was not the lady of the house. Not the village healer, nor the secret vicar.

I took a deep breath and found the salt air comfortingly familiar.

I be Opie Pearce, my driver announced and gave the horse his head.

Like the stalwart cart horse, I set my face towards Lamorran Place. My new home.

Lamorran Place. I had thought nothing of the name when I wrote Lamorran Place, Penarvon, Cornwall on my letters to Mrs. Chalke. Outside big cities, numbered street addresses were rare. But some forty minutes later, I was totally unprepared for an imposing gatehouse with towering wrought-iron gate, even less so for the grandeur of the great house that came into view as the gig rounded a bend and revealed a sprawling structure of gray granite, more like a fortress than the gracious country homes I had glimpsed in Sussex, Hampshire, Dorset, and Devon. It was imposing, and ancient. Crenellated—not some modern architect’s reproduction, but a true relic of an era when men shot arrows from the slits between the crenels and clashed with swords on the wall-walk behind.

Oh. My. Goodness. I had expected the modest-sized home of a family who numbered themselves among the gentry, perhaps no more than a good-sized farmhouse. Lamorran Place, however, was the kind of imposing edifice associated with dukes and duchesses, earls and countesses.

As we topped a rise and pulled up beneath a portico, also constructed of gray granite, I caught a glimpse of water. Not the gentle swells of the southern coast but the tall, white-capped waves of the Atlantic Ocean pounding against towering cliffs only a few hundred yards from the fortress-like house. My days of travel had indeed brought me to a stark new world. Exciting. Awesome. Dangerous to the unwary.

My brain, though spinning, had begun to suspect the truth, even before a plump woman somewhere between fifty and sixty, dressed in black bombazine, met me at the door, her round face lit in a broad smile of welcome. Mrs. Ewella Chalke, housekeeper. And clearly not mother of the child I was to teach.

I followed Mrs. Chalke up a grand cantilevered staircase, which, she informed me with no little pride, was part of the renovations ordered by the Sixth Earl of Trenholm more than a century earlier. The housekeeper’s chatter continued nonstop as we continued on to the third story: I would meet Lady Delen in the morning—tonight was for rest and recovery from what must have been a wearing and tedious journey. Mrs. Chalke hoped I did not find Cornwall too stark after the green fields of Kent; I would find the house quiet as my lord was seldom in residence; I was to pay no mind to tales of fairies, ghosts, or anything else that went bump in the night, for though everyone knew Cornwall was the most haunted county in England, she was certain a good Christian woman like myself would take no fright at a ghost or two.

As the housekeeper paused before a door at the end of long corridor, she turned to me, adding with a significant look, And as someone who lived in Kent, I need not remind you that when it’s dark of the moon and the smugglers are out, we look the other way.

I admit words failed me. Not five minutes in the house, and I had been warned of fairies, ghosts, and smugglers.

Mrs. Chalke threw open the door and I forgot all else. I had repeatedly told myself to expect little in the way of comfort—I was, after all, merely a lowly employee. Yet before me was a corner room a good deal larger than my bedchamber in the vicarage. The fabrics of the coverlet, bedcurtains, draperies, and two armchairs were in blending shades of blue, ranging from azure to a deep blue-green, accented