Faces of the Wind

Chapter 15

For nearly a month now, Irene has been finding emotional refuge in the company of Maverick, the stranger who established himself as a savior for the souls of Seteventon's young ladies. He understood her, cared for her feelings without having agendas of any kind—neither romantic nor materialistic, and he seemed to want to help her. Above all, unlike her parents, he treated her like an equal and showed interest in her thoughts. He was the only person who did not treat her like she was a dumb doll.

Mrs. Generals dropped her outside the chapel before noon and left to attend to other affairs. She was not needed anyway. Irene found none of her peers at the chapel even though Maverick said in his letter that the weekly meeting has been rescheduled. Maybe she arrived too early, she thought as she walked toward the altar with the intention of saying a prayer. Before she reached it, the tiny figure of the reverend made her jump. She placed a hand on her heart.

"Vicar!" She let out a sigh of relief, "You startled me!"

He smiled very widely, but there was something different about him. Not in his looks, but the air about him was confusing and not as friendly as it normally was. Today, she found his smile insidious and repulsive. He drew very close to her and ran a hand over her cleavage. She stepped back; he seemed possessed.

Her face went cold and her lips white. "Are you well, vicar?" She asked, taking a second step back as he approached her.

"We both shall fell very well in a moment," he replied and seized her wrist.

She pulled her arm with all her might but could not free her wrist from his clutch. Her heart pounded loudly. "I... I m-must," she stammered, "I m-must t-tell my chaperone... sh-she... she is still w-waiting... outside. I m-must t-tell her t-to... l-leave."

He was not listening. He held her closer and hissed in her ear, breathing liquor over her face, "I need to show you something very important and inspiring."

"I... assume I m-might have l-lead you on by mistake," the tremble in her voice was very obvious now, "I... I'm sorry if y-you m-misunder-stood... I assure you, th-this was... n-not my intention."

Despite his small, weak-looking figure, he was way stronger than her. He forcefully dragged her behind him. Her struggles were fruitless and her voice failed her.

***

Arden dragged her aunt along to meet with Chris Chapman, an ambitious young publisher who ran his business in the south side of the Strand, one of London's most important streets which linked court, Parliament and Westminster Abbey in the west to the financial center, heart of the legal establishment and St Paul's Cathedral in the east.

Somehow, Arden managed to persuade her aunt to wait outside Chris's office as she felt she could not be her truest self in the presence of an older family member. She was adamant to impress the man and begin working towards establishing herself as a published novelist.

"I will have an editor give your story a quick read, but I can promise you nothing as people in London these days are more fascinated by stories of murderers than by feminine romances," Chris said, frowning at the title page of the manuscript Arden presented. "Blossoming Hearts," he read in an undertone, sitting behind a modest wooden desk in a room subtly decorated, with book covers hanging on the walls and striped beige drapes tied to one side to allow some sun into the small office. He was a handsome middle-class man with the tidiest abundance of chestnut hair and a clean shave.

"I'm from Steventon, Mr. Chapman, so I am not well-informed of the latest literary trends in London though my father regularly brings me the latest publications, such as Jane Eyre, which is closer to being a romance, I believe," she responded, trying her best not to sound offended or defiant.