Faces of the Wind

Chapter 9

After breakfast with the Thundertons, Adrian returned to his uncle's house. The gale had calmed and was replaced with bitter, stinging breezes, and the sun was blocked by a shield of grey clouds, layer above the other.

Lydia got the door. Unlike most of the town's gentry, Arthur's family did not believe in exploiting their servants while they sat around doing nothing. Natalie's mantra was, "The less you work the sooner you age."

"Was your affair fruitful?" Lydia asked when she was met with a toothy grin from Adrian.

"Pretty well," he replied, "I imagine."

"Do you think he will report it to the constables?"

"Why? He'd only shame himself by letting all of Hampshire know I tossed him in the river as he pled and whimpered like a pig being led to his slaughter." He walked inside with Lydia.

"That's a harsh image," she pointed out, pulling a face.

"You should have seen his expression and heard him," he giggled, but his smile faltered when his stare met his uncle's glare of reproach.

"And what was the fruit of your ill business?" Arthur asked, his tone flat, "What have you accomplished?"

"Satisfaction," Adrian replied abruptly, shrugging.

"Have you undone what Jack did?"

"No."

"Next time you embark on a hazardous mission of mischief, take a minute to reflect on the outcomes and the consequences," Arthur said, "if the gains outweigh the consequences, go ahead, but always be ready to face the consequences."

"Hazardous?" Adrian frowned, "I merely—"

"It would always be best if you do not meddle in other people's affairs," Arthur interjected, his tone as grim as his expression.

Adrian frowned. "You're a spoilsport!"

"Have you had breakfast, Adrian?" Jeffrey asked, appearing at the stairs.

"Yes, father," he replied then turned to look at his uncle, "I must go to the studio now." He left quietly.

***

Seven ladies gathered at St. Nicholas Church, among whom were Irene and Arden. Rev. Maverick Lichfield leaned against one of the benches, facing the ladies, whose eyes were fixated on him, drawn to the wondrous stories he told them. His head was bald in the middle with reddish fluffs on both sides.

"In order to learn and become better versions of yourselves, you need to completely submit to your teacher," he said, leaving the bench be and standing straight, "when I was your age, if my teacher told me to jump off a bridge, I did it without questioning him. I learned from the masters but at the time, I was a thoughtless lad who could not comprehend much."

Arden was not listening. The man's wide nostrils with all the dark hair inside them were very distracting. She had to take breaks from looking at him and pretended she was writing down notes when, in fact, she was writing a novel. A loud blow to the bench in front of her made her jump and tear a sheet of paper with her pen. The room roared with laughter. She looked up and saw Maverick's horrid face.

"Why, my child, are you not paying attention?" He asked, a wide smile stretched his cavern-like nostrils and revealed his wooden teeth. "Look at your friend, Irene—see how she looks at me without blinking," he added, "all her senses are drawn to me. It seems you have no interest in becoming a better lady?"

A spark of indignation could be seen in Arden's eyes. She smiled slyly then said, "Vicar, how can you instruct us on becoming better ladies when you are not even a woman?"