The Vicar’s Illicit Liaison, The Teatime Tattler April 1815

Dear Reader, The village of Fenwick has been shaken to its core by the discovery that its revered curate, Mr. S., has feet—nay, entire limbs—of clay. First, he allowed his nephew, a bold impertinent boy, to insult our own beloved Mrs. F. Second, as noted in a previous report, he spent much time alone with a female visitor to the village. But now he has taken up with another female, a visitor’s maid. Said maid has been staying all day at the presbytery, purportedly nursing Mr. S.’s wards through the influenza. Today, she sunk so far in depravity as to stay overnight on the pretext that Mr. S. is now ill. This is unlikely to end well.

“Will ye ‘ave anuvver glass, Piety, my dove?” her husband asked. Piety Withers held out her glass.

“Don’t mind if I do, Withers,” she agreed, ignoring the frowning looks Mrs Brewster was casting at poor Withers. The innkeeper’s wife had said, when handing over the wages that Piety had earned, “Now don’t let your husband get his hands on this money, Mrs Withers.”

Mrs Brewster could keep her nose out of Piety’s business. It made Withers happy to have cash in his pocket. Dear man. So what if he could never hold down a job or retain possession of as much as a farthing? He was fond of Piety in his way, and never raised a hand to her, unlike some husbands she could name.

Why, look how he had insisted on buying her a drink as soon as she handed over the carefully counted coins that she’d deemed sufficient to content him? He’d praised her for her industry, assured her that all of his friends were jealous of him for having such a lovely wife, and invited her to celebrate their good fortune at the Queen’s Barque Inn. Little did he know that she’d kept at least two-thirds of the windfall and hidden it where he’d never find it. Not that she felt guilty. He’d soon drink or gamble the rest away.

“I’ve a bit of a worry, darlin’ Piety,” Withers declared, wrenching her from the sad direction of her thoughts. She donned an expression of interest and waited to be told what concerned him.

“This business with the vicar and the skirt from London,” he said. “Young Alice was readin’ a bit from the London papers this afternoon, she was. Says that there maid Conroy is havin’ it off with vicar.” Withers shook his head. “Should ye be workin’ there, darlin’?”

Piety’s eyes flashed. “That is just not true, Withers. Miss Conroy has been looking after the vicar while he was sick, and anyone who says different is making things up and has a nasty mind.”

“But it was printed in the paper, my dove.” Withers didn’t read, and was inclined to invest anything in print with the same reverence owed to Holy Scripture.

Piety snorted. “The Teatime Tattler, I suppose. Someone here in this village has been sending gossip and scandal to that terrible paper, and if I find out who it is, I shall pull their ears for them, and so I will. Making such trouble for that dear lady. Mr Somerville, too, after he worked himself into his own fever running around in the rain seeing to the sick. They should be ashamed!” She shook her fist.

Withers nodded. “If you say so, my dove. But ye’ll not be stayin’ there after dark.” He nodded again, firmly, satisfied that the problem was solved by his decree. “Shall I walk ye home before I go out fishin’ wiv Billy and Si, Piety, darlin’?”

Piety downed the last of her cider and stood up. Fishing, my left foot. If the boat left the dock, she’d be surprised, and certainly she did not expect the cronies to bring home anything more than their empty flasks and a headache each. Still, she gave Withers a peck on the cheek. He was, after all, not the world’s worst husband.

Who is the snooping reporter?

As told in Storm & Shelter in eight original novellas, refugees—the injured, the devious, and the lonely, lords, ladies, and simple folk; spies, pirates, and smugglers—all sheltered at the Queen’s Barque Inn. Now concern is buzzing in Fenwick on Sea and across these United Kingdoms, as scurrilous gossip about the goings on during the recent storm spread through the reports in that scandal rag, The Teatime Tattler. Who is the snoop?

You can help

Correctly identify the reporter and be entered to win a $100 gift card and other great prizes. There are details and instructions for entering here: https://bluestockingbelles.net/belles-joint-projects/storm-shelter/wanted-the-snooping-teatime-tattler-reporter/

Clues

There are clues in every story in Storm & Shelter. Find more clues by following on to each stop in our Snooping Reporter Blog Hop. The next stop features Grace Burrowes’ pony, who has a strong opinion about the identity of the reporter. https://bluestockingbelles.net/belles-joint-projects/storm-shelter/wanted-the-snooping-teatime-tattler-reporter/who-has-been-telling-tales/ 

Local prize

Comment on this post to go in the draw for winners’ choice of any Jude Knight ebook.

About the book

When a storm blows off the North Sea and slams into the village of Fenwick on Sea, the villagers prepare for the inevitable: shipwreck, flood, land slips, and stranded travelers. The Queen’s Barque Inn quickly fills with the injured, the devious, and the lonely—lords, ladies, and simple folk; spies, pirates, and smugglers all trapped together. Intrigue crackles through the village, and passion lights up the hotel.

One storm, eight authors, eight heartwarming novellas.

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