The Journal of a Vicar's Wife Read Online Free Page B

time reading and sewing, as Cook finished the stew that I was to take to the unfortunate Richards family.
    It was after midday when the stew had cooled enough for me to carry it to the Richardses’ cottage. I walked, as it was not overly far, and my husband had taken the chaise carriage on his route.
    The weather was still somewhat chill, and I’d wrapped myself about in a dark blue woollen shawl, and tightened my bonnet about my chin to prevent its loss from an unexpected gust of wind.
    I walked past several neat cottages belonging to various families in the village, and inclined my head at several villagers as I made my way. The Richardses’ house was one in unmistakeable mourning. The curtains were closed, and the older child in the garden wore a black cap on her head in respect for her deceased sibling.
    ‘Hello,’ I called, feeling quite the imposter on the grieving household.
    ‘Oh, Mrs Reeves. But it is wonderful you’ve come,’ the little girl bobbed. I knew her name to be Mary. ‘Come inside, and sit in the parlour. Mama is abed but I know she’ll be glad to see you.’
    I smiled and entered the house.
    Inside was dark, with curtains drawn and few candles to light it. It smelled stale, and I should have thought an open window would have been beneficial but dared not suggest it.
    ‘It’s Mary, isn’t it?’ I asked the child.
    The girl’s brown eyes widened with delight at my knowledge. ‘Yes, Ma’am.’ She bobbed again, and I could not help but think she should make a very fine maid one day.
    ‘Be a dear and take this to your kitchen. My Cook has made you supper.’
    ‘Oh! You’re very kind, Mrs Reeves. Mama shall be ever so grateful.’
    There was a thin voice that carried down the stairs. ‘Mary, who are you speaking with?’
    ‘It’s Mrs Reeves, Mama, the vicar’s wife.’
    There was a pause. ‘Please, send her up.’
    Mary’s hands were full of the stew and she looked from me to the stairs to the direction of the kitchen.
    ‘I shall make my way to your Mama,’ I assured her. ‘You take that the kitchen.’
    Mary bobbed gracefully once more, and placing my hand on the balustrade I began to walk up the stairs. The wood was old and rotting, something Lord Stanton’s man of business would do well to take care of.
    As I reached the landing I stepped into a darkened room. I could smell birth blood, sweet and cloying in the air. It took my eyes some time to adjust to the dimness of the room, but by and by I made out the form of the unfortunate Mrs Richards, sitting abed.
    ‘Mrs Richards,’ I said, and moved forth, taking the chair that rested by the bedhead.
    The woman spoke and her voice was etched by grief. ‘Mrs Reeves, thank you for visiting.’
    ‘I am sorry to hear of your loss,’ I added, but the words seemed tight in my throat, for despite the darkness I could see quite clearly the form of the deceased babe, swaddled still in its cradle on the other side of the bed.
    My heart tightened, and a sense of shared grief cloaked me. For a moment I could not think of anything to say, then I remembered those sage words I’d read in my Bible studies the night before.
    ‘The Bible tells us, Mrs Richards, “blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted”.’ I spoke softly, my hand searching for hers. I held it then, and though hard and roughened from her labours it was weak, cold and small. I gripped it tightly, and we were silent a time.
    Then her sobbing began. Such pain I had never heard. She sobbed as though her heart was breaking. ‘He was just a wee thing,’ she cried.
    My hand gripped hers tighter, and I was glad of my pious husband’s sermons then, for I have no experience with such pain in my life. I have no personal repertoire from which can offer words of comfort other than those my husband had advised me to learn.
    ‘The Lord is close to the broken hearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit, Mrs Richards. You shall hold your son again in the Heavenly