by Anne Perry
“He accused me of having written a very horrible letter to him,” she answered. “About the death of his first wife. The letter was anonymous, accusing him of awful things. He didn’t actually quote anything. I think he couldn’t bring himself to repeat the accusations. But if I didn’t stop, he said, he would tell Clementine.”
“He won’t,” Hooper said with certainty. “He doesn’t want you to know what’s in it, and he certainly doesn’t want Clementine to know.”
She met his eyes very directly. “John, he thinks I wrote it. So, I must know what’s in it,” she protested.
He ignored her words. “Does he want other people to know what’s in it? Did he give any clue to what it’s about?”
“Something to do with Rose, his first wife. She died tragically.”
“Did you know her?”
“No, that was before he came to live here.”
Hooper sat silent for a few minutes.
Now it was she who waited.
He stood up slowly. She started to rise, but he held out his hand in a sign to stop her. “No, I’m going to do this alone. You stay here, and lock the door behind me.”
“He’s not going to…” she began. Then she remembered Marlowe’s upraised hand in the church room with the flowers.
Hooper caught her hesitation. “What?” he demanded.
She said nothing, trying to decide how much to tell him.
“Celia?”
She looked up. His face was very grave, his eyes unblinking.
She would break something between them if she did not tell the truth. From then on, he would never be sure she was being totally honest. That was something Marlowe was not going to take from her. “He made as if to strike me, in the church flower room…but he didn’t.”
Hooper did not ask why she had not told him before. Perhaps he understood. “Keep the door locked after dark. You did before I came here, you must still do it.” The ghost of a smile lit his face for a minute. “For my sake. I want to think you’re safe beside the fire.”
She nearly argued, but she realized the intense seriousness in his eyes and sat back. “Yes, John,” she said with an obedience that held an echo of humor. But it was also one of the safest, most precious things she felt.
* * *
Hooper sat and watched Arthur Roberson. Seen in the dramatic glow of the gas lamps in the vicarage sitting room, Roberson’s face appeared startlingly stronger than in the western light outside, and more deeply marked by its lines. It was a more interesting face than Hooper had supposed. How many other people’s griefs had this man listened to without ever sharing his own? Who did he go to when doubts or profound loneliness assailed him?
“Perhaps apology is necessary for forgiveness,” Hooper suggested. “I don’t know. It is necessary for Celia. She is concerned for Clementine.”
“Clementine may be the salvation of Seth Marlowe,” Roberson said with a slow, sad smile. “She is a gentle creature, but not by any means weak.”
“That does not mean she cannot be hurt,” Hooper pointed out.
“Life is not avoiding pain, Mr. Hooper. It is learning how to deal with it with grace and courage. The lives of great people are stories of victory over pain and loss. Long, quiet lives of putting up graciously with difficulty and thinking of others.”
There was nothing Roberson had said that Hooper could disagree with. In fact, within him, the words touched chords of admiration. But they had nothing to do with Seth Marlowe threatening Celia.
Hooper smiled apologetically. “And not passing on your pain to other people, using it as an excuse for lashing out. Isn’t that part of your task, to help us achieve that?” Hooper was silent for several moments, but nothing came to his mind to help the vicar. His emotions were occupied with the distress he had read in Celia’s face, heard in her voice. She identified with Clementine in her loneliness, in her apprehension at making mistakes as she set out on a new course in her life, with no mother or sister or aunt to guide her.
He remembered with tenderness his own early months with Celia after they were married. She had tried so hard to hide her nervousness. Suddenly, she was burning dishes she had cooked beautifully a hundred times. She was meticulous in laundering everything in sight. He had teased her, and sometimes he had made mistakes, taken something too lightly and hurt her, when he was trying to pass over it. He almost acknowledged his error, then realized the only tactful thing was not to mention it. A gentle turn was sufficient, a quick word to acknowledge a kindness, something said or done to please him.
And that worked in the other direction as well. He, too, had been serious. In particular, he had been physically awkward, afraid of hurting or embarrassing her. It was she who had moved gently and assured him. He blushed even now at the thought of it.
He must protect Clementine, because in a way she stood in Celia’s place. Did he even imagine that Marlowe loved Clementine as he loved Celia? And had he any right at all to judge?
Roberson was watching him, waiting.
“When you are embarking on something new,” Hooper said, “something that has to succeed for your happiness, it takes high courage, or else very little imagination, not to fear mistakes that will cost you much. We must try to encourage Marlowe not to forbid Clementine from having friends. She is young, she needs other women with whom she has something in common. A little laughter, lightheartedness. She’s not…” He stopped, seeing Roberson trying to find words.
“He will change,” Roberson said earnestly. “Misery, loneliness, can alter people. He has suffered more or less alone for—”
“His wife left him,” Hooper said, aware that it was harsh.
“A tragedy,” Roberson said quickly. “She was…”
“Deeply unhappy,” Hooper said for him. “Do you know why?”
“Not really,” Roberson said immediately. “Seth didn’t live here then. He told me something of the pain he felt. In confidence, of course. She was a woman with…” He shook his head. “I can’t discuss it, Mr. Hooper. I’m sure you have seen many tragedies that you were not free to speak of to others. I sometimes wonder how you keep your balance. Are you free to discuss your work with your wife?”
Hooper smiled. “She doesn’t ask, but yes, sometimes late in the evening, when I can’t let go of it and go to bed, I’ll tell her bits and pieces.”
“It helps.”
“Yes, it helps,” Hooper agreed.
Roberson smiled, and it was a startlingly sweet expression. “You are a very fortunate man, Mr. Hooper. Don’t rob Seth Marlowe of a chance to find his better self. Give Clementine the opportunity to give it to him and to find her best self, too. She is a healer, you know. I don’t mean with medicine, I mean with kindness, patience, generosity, and laughter. She can share his way of life with him. He could be reborn, as it were. Forgiveness is a miracle, Mr. Hooper, in more ways than perhaps you know.”
Hooper drew in a slow breath. “Yes, I do know that very well. I have been forgiven for more than anyone can deserve. I’ve made mistakes, some of them big ones, that have affected other people. But only a few earn self-forgiveness without reparation. And true regret means sorrow, not excuses or justification.”
“I know,” Roberson agreed quietly. “Clementine will help, and Celia, perhaps, in time.” He leaned forward. “Give them a chance, Mr. Hooper, please?”
There was only one possible answer. “Of course, Vicar. But not at Celia’s expense. Please convince Mr. Marlowe that if he gossips about her, in any way, I will hear of it, and I will not forgive.”
Roberson drew in his breath and then was silent.
“It’s your calling to defend the innocent, Vicar, as well as the repentant.”
“I know that, Mr. Hooper. As yours is, I believe. You catch the guilty, but far better if you can prevent the crime in the first place.”
&nbs
p; “Yes,” Hooper admitted with a smile at the vicar’s gentle but powerful argument. “I think you would like to prevent Seth Marlowe from spreading vicious rumors about people, rather than, for instance, trying to mend the damage after it is done. Poison cannot be sucked out the same as it can be taken in. I think you know that.”
“I disagree—” Roberson began, but Hooper would not let him finish.
“Take a casual piece of slander,” Hooper went on. “About a man, for example. His wife believes it, because she thought the person who gave it to her was honorable. Everyone knew she believed it. So, when it divided the family, sons and daughters against each other, other people took sides. Then it was proved false. Everyone apologized to him, but can he ever forget that they had believed it? Above all, that his wife had believed it of him? You can’t mend that. Apologize, repent all you like, the wound is there.”
“I suppose you are right,” Roberson conceded. “Then we had better not believe everything about Seth either. Give him the chance to make Clementine happy. Think well of him, and he may live up to it.”
“And my wife?” Hooper asked. “Will you ask him, even tell him, that he must not accuse her of having written anyone a poisonous letter?” He saw the horror in the vicar’s face and stopped.
“Poisonous? How very dreadful.” Roberson’s voice was hoarse with shock, and his skin was pale. “He must…he must have been shaken to the core.” He was clearly searching for a reason to forgive. “Did he tell you what it said?” He put his hand up to rub his brow, as if it might somehow get rid of the horror of what he had heard. He looked up at Hooper. “He was confused, at a loss…” He attempted to explain Marlowe’s actions.
“In a temper,” Hooper replied.
Roberson shrugged, regret in his face. “Perhaps.”
“Most people would not believe it,” Hooper said, hoping that was true, but he knew how cruel whispers could be. He thought of what Celia had said to him. “And, of course, it is a dreadful stain on the soul of whoever writes such things. Are they not also important?”
Roberson held up one hand. “I know, I know. I will speak to Marlowe. And…and I will think hard as to who it may be who would have written such a thing. I admit, I have no idea…”
“Thank you,” Hooper acknowledged.
* * *
At home, he had to explain it to Celia. He did not want to disillusion her about the vicar’s willingness, or even his ability, to confront Seth Marlowe and tell him some of the bitter truths about his own behavior, his criticism, and his judgment.
“He said he’ll try,” he gently told Celia.
They were standing in the kitchen, Celia at the bench while she boiled the kettle to make tea and put out his favorite biscuits. She turned round to face him. “You mean he will not succeed? Seth Marlowe will listen politely to Arthur, but then continue exactly the same way as before. He knows all the arguments and has all the right quotations. He can find a verse of damnation to cover any situation.”
“I’m not arguing with you, love,” Hooper said quietly, putting his hand out to touch her. “That’s why we can’t let it go. Marlowe will use that charge again when he feels it will serve him—or simply loses his temper.”
She bit her lip and nodded slowly.
“Forgiveness is Arthur’s job,” he added, seeing that she was hesitant.
“I know,” she said quietly, and there was deep, aching pain in her eyes as she stared at him. “But that can become an excuse for always turning the other cheek or—if you want to be more honest—looking the other way.”
He was taken aback by her candor. She had known Arthur Roberson for years, listened to him with respect, but she was not unaware that at least some of his gentleness came from evading unpleasantness. It was easy to do and, at least at first, it did not offend the conscience. Especially if you did not look any further ahead than what was best for the person with you. It was so easy to want to say what they needed to hear, at that moment.
“Write about repentance?” he probed, then immediately wished he had not. He saw the confusion in her face.
“I’m not sure,” she admitted. “I used to think it was beautiful to forgive unconditionally—and it has to be unconditional or it is not real. But now I’m not sure. Is it only because I am involved? I can forgive as long as I am not threatened? That’s pretty poor, isn’t it? In fact, it’s first-class hypocrisy. It’s just…” She looked close to tears. “It’s so easy to make it sound right, and I don’t know what the answer really is.”
She was asking Hooper, obliquely at least, to suggest the answer. And he could not. It was not the time to guess. Instead, he closed his hand over hers, and slowly her fingers tightened around his.
* * *
When Hooper was gone, Roberson remained sitting in the big chair beside the fire, turning over in his mind what he had heard. It saddened him and he concentrated on that feeling, because the one that lay just a little behind it was so much worse. He admitted to himself now: it was fear for Clementine. He had no doubt that her optimism, her laughter, and her gentleness would ease the pain that held Marlowe’s heart so tightly. How long would it take him to learn to trust her? And how would she bear it if he took too long? If he doubted her, and she had to stand alone against his distrust?
Roberson would not willingly allow anyone to hurt Clementine, but how would he know? She would not confide in him if Marlowe did, that was certain. He put the guard up against the fire and went out into the hall.
He put on his warmest coat, hat, and scarf, pulled the gloves out of the pocket, and set out to see Seth Marlowe, battling his way against the wind, which had shifted to the east and become colder. He had gone over and over it in his mind, trying to find the best way to word what he had to say. There was a lot to know about Seth that he had not told Celia Hooper. In fact, in over twenty-five years in this community, since he had first come here as a curate at the beginning of his career, he had learned far more secrets, hopes and fears, false guilt and real, than he wanted to recall. That, and his own doubts, were the heaviest burdens he knew.
It had been much easier in the beginning, when he and Una were first married. She had shared so much. It made his heart ache to recall how sweet she had been. Then she had become ill. It had seemed slow at the time, a cold that had stayed longer than earlier ones. Then she grew tired much more easily. There were fevers and chills, weariness, then at last the knowledge that she was not going to get better. He had struggled to accept that. What was the use in believing in a God of miracles if He would not, or could not, cure Una?
Had he tried hard enough, prayed humbly enough? At dark moments, he believed that if he had been better, stronger in his faith, Una would have lived. What would he give to have that guilt lifted? All he could do was plead for forgiveness for others, and make it wide enough and deep enough to include himself as well.
He reached Seth Marlowe’s door and knocked. Marlowe opened it almost immediately and, upon seeing the vicar, his grave expression relaxed.
“Come in, Arthur, come in.” He stepped back invitingly.
Roberson followed him through the austere hall and into the well-furnished, very masculine sitting room with its brown leather upholstered chairs and dark Turkish carpet. There were very few pictures on the mantel, and none of them were personal. There was a polished wooden desk against one wall. The bookshelves were packed, and a few books spilled over onto a polished mahogany table. It was the refuge of a very serious man. He could not imagine Clementine comfortable in here. But then, perhaps he did not know her as well as he imagined. He must make himself remember that.
He sat down where Marlowe indicated, then Marlowe himself sat down, comfortably, one leg crossed over the other. This was a place where he was very obviously relaxed, effortlessly in control. A large fire burned in the grate beneath the fine classical Adam fireplace.
&nbs
p; “What may I do for you, Arthur?” he asked. “Plainly, something is on your mind.”
Roberson hated confrontation. He saw his role as peacemaker, not warrior. But there was no evading this, for Clementine’s sake.
“Seth, it has come to my attention that you have been the victim of a very unpleasant letter. Anonymous, of course. People who write such things never have the courage to sign their names.” He stopped, seeing the anger harden in the other man’s eyes, his face set in well-worn lines of displeasure.
“It is not your concern, Arthur,” Marlowe said, his voice altered in tone and edged with real temper. “I did not wish to trouble you with it, and I still do not.”
“I am afraid it is no longer your choice,” Roberson replied.
“Indeed, it is,” Marlowe retorted.
“Not now that you’ve chosen to accuse Celia Hooper of having written it.”
Marlowe’s eyebrows rose. “Do you know that she didn’t?” Marlowe challenged. “Why did she mention it at all? Does she expect you to fight to clear her name? I assure you, that is not necessary. I have told no one else. But if she does it to other people, they may not be so forbearing.”
“We will deal with others, if they exist.” Roberson sat perfectly still, but he was uncomfortable, his body rigid in the well-padded armchair. Now that he had begun, he felt his own anger at Marlowe for this attack on Celia. “You accused Celia, and she naturally told her husband, since any attack on her reputation must automatically affect him.”
“She lied, you know? Under oath. Apart from the offense against God, it is perjury under the law.” Marlowe’s eyes were hot and angry.
For a moment, Roberson was going to answer that it was none of Seth Marlowe’s business. Then the wiser, cleverer choice came to his mind. “Yes, I do know,” he answered. “The law did not find fault with her, but it seems that you do. In spite of her repentance and apology, you accuse her, find her guilty without a hearing, and condemn her. What happened to the repentance and forgiveness you agreed with so intensely only last Sunday?”
