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Vicars Revenge
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1 through F › Barchester Chronicles
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
2
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1,529
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5
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Category:
1 through F › Barchester Chronicles
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
2
Views:
1,529
Reviews:
5
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Barchester Chronicles, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Vicars Revenge
Vicars Revenge
Obadiah Slope had been master at Puddingdale for five years now. He was still licking his wounds from how he had been used and mistreated by people that he considered friends. He was especially hurt at Mrs Bold. She did invite him for tea several times a week and she did greet him with smiles and she spoke to him; what was he supposed to think? He genuinely thought that she was favourable to him.
He had taken a sip of port. It had transpired that Mrs Proudie was no longer alive; he was hoping that the Bishop Proudie would follow shortly. It wouldn’t benefit him in anyway it would just be a nicer world without them. He read the evening newspaper and snorted a little before his eyes fell on a rather interesting article.
Barchester Dean Dead!
The new Dean of Barchester has died this afternoon. He had been suffering from fever and colds for the past three months; no amount of cures has managed to save him. The widow, Mrs Arabin, has now lost her second husband. She had a son from her first marriage to John Bold, and a daughter with her second husband. Our condolences go to this rather gentle and misfortunate woman.
Obadiah snorted. Gentle wasn’t the way she was with him in their last meeting. He still hadn’t understood what he had done wrong. He thought he said some very pretty things. He thought that he had said all the right things as well. He rubbed the cheek that she slapped and he could still feel the sting to this very day. He sighed and folded the newspaper back up. He wasn’t above trying again. If she refused him then it was obvious she was a simpleton. He was a strong, healthy man not prone to disease; he’d live with her for a long time, they’d go grey together.
He uncrossed his legs and walked to the door. He was about to make preparations to go for a walk, as it was a balmy summers evening. Then there was a ring at his door. He furrowed his brow. He didn’t encourage company at the best of times; after the abominable treatment of his former so-called friends he shrank from company.
He answered the door; he was shocked at who was standing on his doorstep.
“Why, Mrs Bold,” he sneered. “What brings you to my doorstep?”
“I suppose you’ve read in the paper about my husbands death?”
“A most miserable loss to the profession,” Obadiah said insincerely.
“Well, the Bishop Proudie wishes to see you,” she sniffed.
“Hmm, what about?” he asked.
She lowered her eyes blushing shamefully.
“It appears there is a new opening,” she said. “We need a temporary Dean.”
“And why did he send you and not your father?” he asked.
“He did send my father but he...”
“Couldn’t show his face to me? Yet you could Mrs Bold?”
“That is no longer my name!” she said defiantly.
“You will always be Mrs Bold to me, dear woman, I had hoped to make you someone else.”
“You only wanted to marry me for my money!” she exclaimed passionately. “You didn’t want to marry me for love!”
He leant against the doorframe. “So certain of that are you?” he leered. She chanced to look up at him and stammered her reply:
“It was, wasn’t it?”
Obadiah said nothing, as he fetched his travelling cloak and wrapped it around him. He stepped out of the door and locked the door.
“I trust you are not on your own?” he asked.
She nodded. “My father is in the carriage.”
He nodded. No one would let a new widow on her own with what he had been described. Every newspaper in England had labelled him a disaster to rich, vulnerable women.
He walked up to the carriage and opened the door to see Septimus Harding sitting down looking extremely uncomfortable.
“Mr Harding,” Obadiah greeted oily.
“Mr Slope,” he replied coolly. Obadiah opened the carriage door and handed Mrs Bold inside the carriage. He still liked the feel of her soft hand in his. He could still rise from the ashes.
As the carriage rattled and rolled he saw the beautiful, sad countenance of Mrs Bold. He knew he still had a chance. Now that that teasing rotten Signora Neroni had left the scene tail between her non-functioning legs. It turned out that Mrs Proudie had seen her and threatened the paper with what she knew about the scheming harlot.
Her cheeks were damask in the summer twilight. Her eyes cast downward. He had to admit that it was a very brave thing for her to do to come to him. She had more mettle than anyone else he knew. She had even slapped him in the face; he had to admit that his heart had broken that afternoon.
It did not quench his desire for revenge though. He wanted so much to see her beg for forgiveness. If she sought him out he would test her resilience. He might even try other things; he’d show her exactly what he was capable of.
A/N - I haven't read the book but the production was made in the early eighties when adapters were more respectful of the works they adapt than they are now. I am going by the production and hey, Alan Rickman always inspires me to write smut!
Obadiah Slope had been master at Puddingdale for five years now. He was still licking his wounds from how he had been used and mistreated by people that he considered friends. He was especially hurt at Mrs Bold. She did invite him for tea several times a week and she did greet him with smiles and she spoke to him; what was he supposed to think? He genuinely thought that she was favourable to him.
He had taken a sip of port. It had transpired that Mrs Proudie was no longer alive; he was hoping that the Bishop Proudie would follow shortly. It wouldn’t benefit him in anyway it would just be a nicer world without them. He read the evening newspaper and snorted a little before his eyes fell on a rather interesting article.
Barchester Dean Dead!
The new Dean of Barchester has died this afternoon. He had been suffering from fever and colds for the past three months; no amount of cures has managed to save him. The widow, Mrs Arabin, has now lost her second husband. She had a son from her first marriage to John Bold, and a daughter with her second husband. Our condolences go to this rather gentle and misfortunate woman.
Obadiah snorted. Gentle wasn’t the way she was with him in their last meeting. He still hadn’t understood what he had done wrong. He thought he said some very pretty things. He thought that he had said all the right things as well. He rubbed the cheek that she slapped and he could still feel the sting to this very day. He sighed and folded the newspaper back up. He wasn’t above trying again. If she refused him then it was obvious she was a simpleton. He was a strong, healthy man not prone to disease; he’d live with her for a long time, they’d go grey together.
He uncrossed his legs and walked to the door. He was about to make preparations to go for a walk, as it was a balmy summers evening. Then there was a ring at his door. He furrowed his brow. He didn’t encourage company at the best of times; after the abominable treatment of his former so-called friends he shrank from company.
He answered the door; he was shocked at who was standing on his doorstep.
“Why, Mrs Bold,” he sneered. “What brings you to my doorstep?”
“I suppose you’ve read in the paper about my husbands death?”
“A most miserable loss to the profession,” Obadiah said insincerely.
“Well, the Bishop Proudie wishes to see you,” she sniffed.
“Hmm, what about?” he asked.
She lowered her eyes blushing shamefully.
“It appears there is a new opening,” she said. “We need a temporary Dean.”
“And why did he send you and not your father?” he asked.
“He did send my father but he...”
“Couldn’t show his face to me? Yet you could Mrs Bold?”
“That is no longer my name!” she said defiantly.
“You will always be Mrs Bold to me, dear woman, I had hoped to make you someone else.”
“You only wanted to marry me for my money!” she exclaimed passionately. “You didn’t want to marry me for love!”
He leant against the doorframe. “So certain of that are you?” he leered. She chanced to look up at him and stammered her reply:
“It was, wasn’t it?”
Obadiah said nothing, as he fetched his travelling cloak and wrapped it around him. He stepped out of the door and locked the door.
“I trust you are not on your own?” he asked.
She nodded. “My father is in the carriage.”
He nodded. No one would let a new widow on her own with what he had been described. Every newspaper in England had labelled him a disaster to rich, vulnerable women.
He walked up to the carriage and opened the door to see Septimus Harding sitting down looking extremely uncomfortable.
“Mr Harding,” Obadiah greeted oily.
“Mr Slope,” he replied coolly. Obadiah opened the carriage door and handed Mrs Bold inside the carriage. He still liked the feel of her soft hand in his. He could still rise from the ashes.
As the carriage rattled and rolled he saw the beautiful, sad countenance of Mrs Bold. He knew he still had a chance. Now that that teasing rotten Signora Neroni had left the scene tail between her non-functioning legs. It turned out that Mrs Proudie had seen her and threatened the paper with what she knew about the scheming harlot.
Her cheeks were damask in the summer twilight. Her eyes cast downward. He had to admit that it was a very brave thing for her to do to come to him. She had more mettle than anyone else he knew. She had even slapped him in the face; he had to admit that his heart had broken that afternoon.
It did not quench his desire for revenge though. He wanted so much to see her beg for forgiveness. If she sought him out he would test her resilience. He might even try other things; he’d show her exactly what he was capable of.
A/N - I haven't read the book but the production was made in the early eighties when adapters were more respectful of the works they adapt than they are now. I am going by the production and hey, Alan Rickman always inspires me to write smut!