THE VICAR OF WRYNBURY Nancy Moore
As the Edwardian era fades into WWI, Cyril Dunstan, a man with a mysterious past, accepts the post as vicar in a small country town of Wrynbury. His benefactor and only ally, Anne Gladwyn, repeatedly attempts to assist the reticent and surly vicar with the task of reviving the dilapidated village church against all odds. Anne hopes to find some purpose to her dull and unsatisfying life as well as solve the mystery of the vicar’s history and demeanor. Their journals and accounts show the tenuous beginnings of a partnership that turns into a friendship then blossoms into a passionate emotional tie that could destroy all they have worked for. In a time when religious and social constructs would never allow the two to satisfy their desires, they must decide what to sacrifice in order to have happiness during the tumultuous early days of the 20th Century.
CHAPTER ONE Anne April 3, 1911 He wasn’t what we expected. Not what we expected at all. And now I wonder what it was that I had actually anticipated. Perhaps I had thought he would be robust and pleasant or even gentle and soft-spoken. I can see either of those personalities as our new vicar. What I still cannot comprehend is the man who now resides at our humble vicarage. What were they thinking sending him to us? I’m not even sure how to describe him with any generosity. He’s brusque and severe and cold and very, very peculiar. Nothing appeared to please him: not our hard work or the parish itself. I know we’re only a small village with poor people, but shouldn’t someone truly inspired in their calling enthusiastically embrace the challenge of St. Mildrith’s? And would he have not known what he was facing well before he came? If it wasn’t enough that he was so ungracious, I’ve had no end of struggle with the Church and the village to get him here. It is as though after eight years, they still do not wish to trust that this community’s prosperity is an honest concern for me. Despite our earnest endeavors, our money and position have earned Ned and I nothing but cool acceptance and at times, suspicion. I wonder why I try. Ned asks me why, and I cannot answer him. Except that, it would be nice to feel I was a true member of this community. I remember my life in Shrewsbury with Great Aunt Clara and Edie, and I miss the feeling of family and belonging. I need a purpose. Ned has his hunting and business with the mines. I have nothing. He doesn’t see how lonely my life is here. I fear I will have quite a job on my hands if I undertake this vicar into my good graces. For he is even more of a stranger to them than I am
and far less amiable about his situation. He appears truly vexed with his assignment, and I am at a loss as to how to soothe him. I believe that this will leave me attempting to mend a wide fissure between two very distant, foreign lands: our strange new vicar and Wrynbury’s reclusive people. How that is done when I am hardly seen as neutral is beyond me. But I am the only one to do it. Therefore, I must try. If all does go well, I could be hailed as a heroine to Wrynbury. If it goes badly, I may be asking Ned if we might not move back to Shrewsbury after all. They had told us he was a “bachelor of a medium age,” and immediately we were swept up into daydreams of having new blood at St. Mildrith’s. After the church had sat mostly empty for two years with no one to tend it or its flock, we would have been happy to have anyone. But a young, strong, passionate clergyman was exactly what we needed to stir this stagnant, listless congregation to new heights with modern ideas. Some of the young ladies even wondered if he might be handsome and dashing. All of us were doomed to disappointment. They had said Monday, so Monday we converged on the vicarage to await his appearance. He arrived via a rig hired to meet him at the Broseley station twelve miles away. We ladies stood outside the humble cottage, a small welcoming committee nervously waiting. From the rig, a tall, thin man dressed in black coat and trousers descended to the ground, brushing dust from his clothes with a look of distaste upon his face. If handsome and dashing were anyone’s hope, then they were deflated as soon as he looked up at us. He was of the appropriate age, perhaps thirty-five or so. But he was very far from handsome. His shabby dark hair wilted against his high forehead and looked rarely attended to. His long face was crowded with sharp features. Forefront was a hawkish, almost vulgar nose with large nostrils that flared as he surveyed us with narrow eyes pale as weak tea from under a heavy, furrowed brow. His expression was not friendly or receptive.
We all immediately noticed his harsh manner and took varying degrees of retreating steps. Somehow, I found myself at the front of the now-huddling group. “Mr. Cyril Dunstan, I assume?” I piped up bravely. He at least put forth the effort to attempt a smile, though it was slight, hinting on sardonic and did not meet the coolness of his eyes. “Welcome to Wrynbury!” I continued with a fixed, brittle smile. “We’re very, very pleased that you have come and hope that you soon consider this your home. I am Mrs. Gladwyn and this,” I reached behind me to pull one of my associates forward, “is Mrs. Grant. And this Mrs. Pennyman, Mrs. Rowley, and Miss Glennis Rowley.” Mr. Dunstan tilted his head slightly at each of us and then dared to widen his smile enough to show the barest hint of crooked teeth. “It is a pleasure to have such a grand committee awaiting me. And quite unexpected.” His words lacked as much conviction as his expression. But his voice was a surprisingly rich, smooth baritone that executed proper enunciation indicative of aristocratic schooling. His eyes then went to the cottage behind us and took it in with pronounced disappointment. “I’m afraid the vicarage is still in need of some minor repairs. But it was always a lovely home when the Darbys resided here.” Even I could hear the forced, desperate cheer in my voice. “It won’t take long to have it in tip-top condition, I’m sure.” “We did sweep and dust,” Mrs. Rowley offered. “The stove is ready for a fire, and the mattress has been aired out.” He looked back at us with dubious concern, then moved past to enter the home. We followed behind anxiously, still moving together as a herd. As he examined the cottage’s three rooms, we explained the various attributes and tried to address issues in a positive manner. The chimney may smoke, but it can be cleaned. The window in the bedroom doesn’t shut tight, but with warmer weather coming, it won’t be such a bother. The water pump will only need a little use to once again be in fine working order.
Knowing his eyes were taking it all in for the first time made me much more self-conscious of the shabby conditions. The few rooms were sparsely furnished with basic, hard-worn necessities. There was no plumbing except for the kitchen hand pump. No gas lights. No heat, except for the cook stove and fireplace. Mr. Dunstan, too, appeared to be cataloging all these detractors, for his expression changed from mild shock to dismal resignation as he finished his tour. Our original plan was to escort the new vicar to the church to complete his welcoming. Now none of us wished to know what Mr. Dunstan might think of the piteous little house of worship. Its ancient beauty would undoubtedly not hold much enticement for him. “We would be happy to stay and help you get settled,” I offered, then received a nudge in the ribs from one of my friends who appeared to not think it a good idea. “No,” Mr. Dunstan replied in a gloomy voice, wiping his hands on a wrinkled handkerchief he pulled from his coat. “I believe I can manage things from here. You’ve all been too kind. It has been a pleasure, and I do look forward to seeing you at Sunday services.” Again, the obligatory smile was stretched across his grim face, and he briefly shook each of our hands as we exited the cottage. Being the last one out, I was hardly past the front stoop before the door was snapped closed behind me with enough force to rustle my skirts. We all stopped to look at each other with a mixture of worry, shock, and offense. Holding our tongues, we made our way to Mrs. Rowley’s for tea. Once there, we could resist no longer and quickly descended into discussing our impressions of the new vicar. None were good. “He’s as ugly as sin!” declared Glennis. Though clever and not quite twenty, she was a duplicate of her mother: tall and narrow with gingery hair and round spectacles. She had hoped for an eligible vicar of alluring looks. The continued dismal prospects for viable suitors vexed her more with each passing month. “It’s not his looks that bother me so much as his attitude,” I said. “It seems obvious to me that he has no enthusiasm to be in Wrynbury.”
“Well, then he should go right back to where he came from: teaching hoity-toity children,” snapped Mrs. Pennyman, a stern, stout, widow with iron-gray hair and no issue with ever speaking her mind. “That would leave us without a vicar again,” I sighed. “Besides, he surely knew about the rough conditions of St. Mildrith’s. Why would he agree to take it if he wasn’t eager for such a challenge?” “Why would he leave a fancy boarding school to come here, anyway?” Glennis asked the question all of us had been puzzling over. Just last year Mr. Dunstan had been headmaster of a small but prestigious private school north of London. The reason for his change of profession was not clearly stated, but I liked to assume that he had tired of the city or demands of the school. The Church was a noble calling. “This parish was good enough for Mr. Darby for twenty years,” Mrs. Grant chimed in. The slight, colorless wife of a farmer rarely made strong remarks. “And before him, our vicar was here a good fifteen. This Mr. Dunstan should be thankful we took him.” Several nodded in agreement. “I’m certain that finding someone willing to take the parish of Wrynbury was not an easy task,” I added. “I spent two years hounding the Diocese with letters, and we could have gone longer without a vicar or regular services. There isn’t much to entice people to Shropshire. There are clergy battling each other for positions, but none wanted St. Mildrith’s. It’s we who should be thankful to have Mr. Dunstan.” “You always have to look at the bright side of things, Anne,” Mrs. Pennyman said, though I detected a bit of annoyance in the statement. “Really, it must be quite disconcerting to move across the country to a new place where you don’t know a soul and have the monumental task of rebuilding an old parish. He is going to need all the help he can get. And I plan to be of help as much as possible,” I stated with conviction. “If St. Mildrith’s does not rise from the ashes, it won’t be because I didn’t do my part.” I gave them all a challenging look. They only answered with doubtful expressions and patronizing smiles. It wasn’t the first time I had been accused of being too benevolent. This place was so full of distrust, cynicism, and suspicion; I figured it
needs someone who will occasionally stand for optimism. Even if I don’t always believe it myself. Though they were some of my only friends in Wrynbury since my arrival eight years before, I had often felt marooned on the outside of their tight social circle that was formed from generations of familiarity with each other and the community. I would never be accepted, nor any of my children were I to ever have any. But I continued to try to ingratiate myself in whatever way possible. Few, such as the Rowleys and Mrs. Pennyman, treated me nearly as a friend. Some, such as the Smyths, the Grants, and the Marches, treated me as a curious but harmless guest. To many others, I was still that odd orphan girl from Shrewsbury who married the only son of wealthy mine owners who likewise never truly fit in the town of Wrynbury. I was not sure why I was pledging myself to Mr. Dunstan. I believed him to be as unpleasant and insincere as they did, but I honestly felt sorry for him and the job ahead. And perhaps I also saw a kindred soul in Mr. Dunstan, for despite being clergy, he may be no more easily accepted than I was as a newcomer. Being the patron, it would be expected that I reach out to him and assist in making his transition easier. Wrynbury needs to believe in Mr. Dunstan and St. Mildrith’s. But first I will need to believe in them myself before I can sway anyone else. ~
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Nancy Moore is originally from Northeastern Missouri and graduated from Truman State University with a degree in mass communication. She's worked in publishing, marketing, journalism, and in the non-profit field. She's dabbled with writing since childhood, winning a few awards for creative writing in her youth. It wasn't until later in life that her hobby developed into a serious pursuit. She is an unabashed Anglophile who loves Harry Potter, Doctor Who, and Sherlock as well as any historical drama series to come out of the U.K. Nancy loves reading historical dramas, horror, biography, and non-fiction historical. She currently lives in St. Louis with "the greatest guy ever," her cat, and dog.
ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR
Tracey Sylvester Harris
Raised by two professional artists — her father a commercial graphic artist and her mother a popular impressionistic painter — Harris’ art career began at an early age. Her parents moved to Cambria, CA when she was a teenager and opened an art gallery featuring her mother’s work. Far from being an “easy in,” Harris worked hard to create an artistic identity separate from her parents’ and to hone the quality of her paintings to earn an invitation to exhibit in the family gallery. Since that time, Harris has been represented by galleries nationwide, exhibiting in group shows from San Francisco to New York City. Solo exhibitions of her work have been held in New York, Santa Monica, Carmel, and her hometown of San Luis Obispo. Harris lives with her husband of twenty years and has two sons. Visit her online at www.tsylvesterharris.com.