A/N: to Kathmak, and I suppose anyone else who was concerned about Molly fainting: no, she's not ill! I'm chalking it up to overwrought nerves. Take a spooky place like that, and couple it with being alone as well as an active imagination..it's enough to freak anyone out! Also, disclaimer: the views expressed here are not my own, but the character's, and are reflected by the time period. Thank you again to everybody who's been reading and reviewing! :)
IV. Of Mothers and Wives and Phantom Men
Sundays were never a pleasant affair. It was not that Molly was derisive of God, on the contrary: it was simply that she disliked the Pastor intensely. His condescending tone, at once indulgent and patronizing, was something she could not give herself over to with the honesty she so valued. But a night spent in the carefree pleasure that dancing might afford must be balanced with the affairs of the soul; and so to church she must go, before the evening's ball seized her attention completely.
As she tread the cobblestone path winding its careful way towards the church, she dawdled behind the brisk pace Mrs. Hooper had set, kicking at the smaller stones. "Hurry up, Molly, we will be late!" exclaimed Mrs. Hooper, tugging Dr. Hooper alongside her as if he were a small child.
"Coming, Marm," she called in a sing-song voice, as she attempted to make her footsteps as small as possible. But no matter the size of her steps, they did inevitably bring her to the entrance of the small church, where the Pastor stood in all his pompous benevolence. His presence served to hold the doors open as much as to greet the congregation, and she scrutinized him for all of a moment, attempting to read by his manner what the subject today's sermon would be. He was a small and sallow man, with the shrewd face of a weasel and a vacant glance that seemed to nevertheless hone in on the most unwanted of aspects. The wind whipped her skirts into a frenzy as she approached, the ribbons of her bonnet fluttering behind her. Dr. and Mrs. Hooper had already disappeared into the depths of the church, and Molly hurried after, dropping a hasty, "Good morning, Pastor Nathan," in the hopes that he would not have time to begin a conversation.
But he spoke quickly, "I trust you are well, Miss Hooper?" leaving her with no choice but to turn, as she glanced at him in distaste. "You do look a bit pale," he remarked, his nasal voice lifting with the curl of his lips.
"I am well," Molly shot back crossly, then sighed at the Pastor's knowing smile.
"Ah, I believe I've seen this demeanor in a young lady before, I know the signs," he replied with a sly look, tapping his nose with one pale finger. "You've met Mrs. Vernet's nephew, the young Mr. Holmes, have you not? Striking fellow. Mrs. Vernet herself has informed me of the...possibilities..." Molly stifled a groan swiftly; had the woman nothing better to do than to gossip with the Pastor?
"Of course," continued Pastor Nathan, "I have yet to meet the man myself, but one knows, one knows…Oh, well, I suppose the sermon won't read itself, will it…" he smiled once again, and slunk off to the pulpit, leaving Molly fuming. She gathered her skirts to herself with more force than intended, and seated herself alongside her parents in the hard wooden pews. The temerity of the man! True, he had known her since birth, but the implications were absolutely outrageous. Was the whole of Dartmoor determined to get her married?
Pastor Nathan climbed to the pulpit laboriously, puffing a bit more than was perhaps healthy for a man of his years; but reach his goal he did and, without further ado, he fixed the congregation with a vapid, magnanimous expression. "The utmost of a woman's character," he began, "is expressed in the duties of daughter, sister and, eventually, wife and mother. It is secured by soft attraction and virtuous love."
Molly bit hard upon her lower lip in an effort to keep her face stoic, and glared at the little man. Every Sunday was an exercise in patience, as she could often catalogue a dozen more interesting things she could be doing in her head; but this Sunday it seemed that Pastor Nathan had prepared his sermon especially for her. He looked at her pointedly as he continued,
"If a woman happens to have a particular superiority- for example, a profound mind- it is best kept a profound secret. For in a woman's most vital role is not found the treacherous talent of learning, but the gentleness of domesticity, and simple accomplishment. This strength must be cultivated with a sweet temper..."
The wind, that irresistible power of nature that breathes furious life into the most inanimate of things, chose this moment to hurl itself upon the little building with primal force, leaving the parishioners breathless and uneasy. It whistled through the cracks and crannies of the old stone, giving the walls ancient voice: and speak they did, with the moans of a structure that had left its marks in centuries past.
Those living in Dartmoor were familiar with the wind in all its formidable aspects, and so should not have allowed themselves to be so easily swayed- but there was something sinister in the deep groans; something not altogether of Nature. And so the Pastor faltered in his speech, and the congregation shifted anxiously in their seats. In Molly it brought an agitation bordering on pain, for again it was that same chilling wind that lurked on the moor, brushing past her cheek like a lover's soft hand.
Molly…
She squeezed her eyes shut, moving her lips in silent prayer. For here was a house of God, and no East Wind would reach its spectral fingers here. The Pastor cleared his throat tentatively, and began again, his voice creaking like a tree in a gale.
Molly…
It whispered past her ear, and she turned, eyes blazing, to face her phantom that dared lay foot in a holy house.
The figure of a man, dark and stooped, was framed against the door. He had not been there only moments before, she was sure of it; yet the sinister aura that surrounded him caused her breath to catch painfully in her chest. Straightening slowly, he threw back his shoulders, creating an elegant silhouette against the edges of the church. He twisted his neck methodically, popping the pockets of air free from their trapped apertures. But his head then bore itself steadily up, and he looked upon her: and it was a dead, black stare that gazed at her, drawing her very soul into its depths.
In that moment that was an eternity, she was transfixed: it was as if she glimpsed a dream world where time meant nothing but dread. She could not think but to lose herself in the dark pools of his eyes- and only when her breath grew short could she recall herself at all. She drew a great gasp then, sucking in the air grown thick about her, and wrenched her eyes from the man. Glancing about, it seemed to her that none other than herself had seen him; and for a brief, fleeting moment, she wondered if she were going mad.
"Oh!" The Pastor wailed, and her attention was caught once again, "But it was Woman who was the downfall of Man, and erelong the Garden, too, became withered and dry..."
Gently, the sharp air blew itself with delicate haste across the nape of her neck, and she turned once more- but her phantom had disappeared, leaving only a fog of disquiet billowing in his wake.
