by Joyce Cato
At forty-eight, Celia contrived to look a good few years younger, and succeeded. Her blonde hair seemed as natural as ever and she was always well groomed and wore make-up discreetly but well. She wasn’t married either, and Felicity knew a lot of men in the church didn’t approve of that. If they had to have a woman vicar, they reasoned, then she should at least be safely and decently married.
But all in all, Felicity mused, I don’t think I actually like the new vicar all that much. Was that very wicked of her? Oh, she certainly admired her – in a way. Felicity recognized in the Reverend Celia Gordon someone who would always succeed in whatever she set out to do.
And Celia made no secret of the fact that her role model was Barbara Harris, the first woman bishop ever appointed. Of course that had been in America, and it was still proving far harder to breach the bastions here in the Church of England, but Celia was determined to do it. Even if it meant easing out old fossils like Archdeacon Sir Matthew Pierrepont.
And no doubt she’d have to cross swords with him next week.
She sighed now as she reached once more for the information pack sent to conference goers, which, this time, was being held somewhere in the Cotswolds. She ran her eyes over the guest list again, lingering on the name of Bishop Arthur Roland Bryce, her main rival for the Chair of the United Ecclesiastical Conference to be held in London next year.
Now there was a really important conference.
She leafed absently through the brochure about the hotel, and something about the name of Heyford Bassett sounded vaguely familiar. But then, as she began studying the agenda properly, a specific name immediately caught her eye.
And made her heart leap.
Graham Noble! She smiled, her big blue eyes softening. Could it be her Graham Noble?
She remembered being a young and eager theology student, and meeting a young graduate just out of the seminary on a bleak winter’s day in a bleak, northern city. She’d never seen a more handsome man in her life, either before or since. But he’d been both dedicated and (as she’d discovered both to her chagrin and masochistic delight) determined to stick to his vow of celibacy whilst unmarried.
Could it really be the same man?
She hoped so. Oh she really, really, hoped so.
In a large but not particularly picturesque house nestled comfortably in an acre of landscaped grounds on the outskirts of Barnsley in Yorkshire, the lady of the house was busy cooking in the kitchen. Across the marble-topped work surfaces, she glanced with genuine fondness at the longhaired youth seated at the kitchen table and reading a textbook on Oliver Cromwell.
‘Not still worrying about prelims, I hope?’ she asked gently.
Robin Bryce, the only son of Bishop Arthur Roland Bryce and his wife Chloe, glanced up at his mother and shrugged. He was nearing the end of his first year at Cambridge, studying Modern History, and exams loomed large.
‘Any tea left in the pot?’ a surprisingly rich baritone voice cut across the kitchen, preceding a somewhat short but very good looking man with blond hair and striking green eyes. As he neared the central island where his wife was busy with a pile of raw meat, he took in the domestic situation in a flash.
Chloe shot her husband a swift, vicious look.
There was a deceptive aura of sophistication about Chloe Bryce. At forty-one, she’d managed to keep her figure ferociously trim. it was currently shown off to perfection by fashionable, tight fitting cream slacks. She had matched this with a dark chocolate-brown cashmere sweater of exactly the same colour as her big impressive eyes. Add to that a chic bell-shaped cap of near-black hair, an impressive array of jewelled rings on each hand, and expertly applied make-up, and she looked as if she could have owned and managed a Parisian fashion empire.
But the expression in her eyes as she watched her husband walk to the teapot and gingerly cup his hand against the side of the ceramic, belied her image totally. There was scorn in those eyes, where there should have been only amused aloofness. There was pain there too, where there should have been nothing but haughty defiance. And anger. Far too much anger.
For all her outward appearances, Chloe had a very unsophisticated personality.
‘No, Robin and I always have coffee. Remember?’ her voice, as ever, brimmed with sarcasm.
Robin looked from his father to his mother and sighed. There’d been another family row, obviously, or rather just a continuation of the old, usual one. But whatever had caused the present crisis, Robin was on his mother’s side. He always was. No one knew better than he did just what his mother had had to put up with for all these years.
His father sat down opposite him with a big envelope full of printed information, whilst his son eyed him with distinct disapproval. Whatever had caused the latest row was bound to be about another woman – either imagined or otherwise. Nothing else upset his mother to quite this extent.
When the silence finally became too oppressive, Robin got up and took his book into the living room, shutting the door carefully behind him.
‘What’s that?’ Chloe asked shortly, nodding at the information pack Arthur had spread out around him.
‘Oh, just the paperwork for this church conference. Are you sure you want to come, Chloe?’ he murmured blandly, vaguely scanning the agenda. ‘It sounds like it’s being held in the back of beyond this year, and I know you’ve got that Aids benefit charity ball still to organize.’
Chloe literally snorted. ‘Oh no you don’t,’ she hissed. ‘I’m coming to … to …’ she snatched one of the papers from his hand and scanned the address, ‘Heyford Bassett, and don’t even try to talk me out of it.’
Arthur Bryce sighed wearily, ‘All right, all right, I just thought—’
‘I know what you just thought,’ Chloe said bitterly. ‘But you can think again. I’m not about to let you out of my sight for five minutes let alone for a whole weekend. There’s no knowing what you might get up to. And then bang goes our shot at the Minster.’
Arthur’s handsome face darkened perceptibly at this jibe, but whether in anger or guilt Chloe wasn’t sure. His next words quickly clarified the matter.
‘For pity’s sake Chloe, get a grip! I’m not about to do anything to rock the boat. But if you carry on like this, people will start to talk.’
‘Hah! When do people ever talk about me?’ Chloe’s voice vibrated with anger. ‘Don’t you dare lecture me about how people can talk. Do I ever do anything to shame us? No. Only you do that, Arthur. Only you – you and your affairs.’
Arthur thrust aside the brochure he’d been pretending to read and rose slowly to his feet. A slinky Siamese cat that had been asleep on the windowsill lifted his creamy head and regarded his mistress with wide, interested blue eyes.
Arthur sighed and walked to the nearest widow. There he stared abstractedly outside, where a chaffinch sang heartily on a full bird table. ‘One affair, Chloe. Just the one,’ he said quietly. ‘And that’s all over and done with now,’ he added listlessly. ‘Please, can’t we just forget about it?’
He looked at her, noting the turned back and hunched shoulders, and the angry jerking of her hands as she dealt with the vegetables. ‘You know that I’m really glad that you’re coming to the Cotswolds with me, don’t you?’ he tried again. ‘I just thought that it’s so far to go, and it’ll be so dry and boring. Have you read the titles of some of the lectures?’
Chloe shrugged, unwilling to be appeased. ‘I needn’t have to sit through them anyway. I can always spend Saturday in Oxford or Cheltenham, shopping.’
‘That’ll be nice,’ Arthur said, correctly anticipating that the worst was over.
‘Any news from the archbishop yet?’ she asked dully.
‘About chairing the committee?’ Arthur mused. ‘No, not yet, but I was talking to the archdeacon yesterday and he, very discreetly, mind you, indicated that I was going to get it. But be sure to keep that to yourself.’
Chloe sniffed. ‘Don’t I always? Do you really think you’d be where yo
u are now if it weren’t for me?’ She turned to glare at him.
Arthur smiled. ‘No, Chloe,’ he said, just a little sadly. ‘I don’t suppose I would be.’
And he meant it. Nobody knew better than Arthur just how much a wife could make or break a man in his sort of profession. Which was exactly why he’d married the only daughter of a well-to-do entrepreneur in the first place. The people Chloe knew had come in very handy right from the start. As had her skills as a hostess, her behind-the-scenes management ability, and her good looks and style. Not to mention everything else that she’d brought to this fifty-fifty marriage of theirs.
Chloe nodded, apparently satisfied by his acceptance of her true worth. And as she did so her eyes ran, with some satisfaction, along the far wall, where she kept all her trophies. These ranged from when she’d been a teenager at school and consisted mostly of medals in swimming and hockey. But there was also a first prize for an Economics Essay from University, and later still, proof that she had completed a rather prestigious gourmet cookery course in France.
She had even designed and helped to make her own wedding dress, which all had agreed was a raging success. Everyone said that she was the kind of person who could turn her hand to anything and do it well. So it was no wonder that her husband’s career had blossomed, with her standing behind him.
‘So long as you remember,’ she muttered. Then her eyes began to glitter. ‘And the Minster will be ours, too,’ she added. ‘Right?’
‘That’s right,’ Arthur concurred quickly, his own eyes beginning to gleam. Whatever their troubles, they had always shared the same goals. And to see him ensconced in one of the most beautiful and iconic of Minsters in the land had always been their principal one.
Chloe nodded. ‘Be sure to butter up Archdeacon Pierrepont at this do next week,’ she reminded him sharply. ‘He’s great friends with Humphrey Crowe,’ she added.
Arthur’s face went blank. He had no idea who this Crowe person was, or why he might be important to get on their side, but he knew that Chloe must have a good reason for advising him to do so. ‘I’ll do that,’ he said meekly.
Chloe gave a sudden rich chuckle. Startled, her husband looked up at her.
‘That’ll put Celia Gordon’s nose out of joint,’ she laughed.
Again Arthur looked at her a shade blankly and his wife sighed wearily. ‘Celia Gordon – that upstart woman from Bath. I saw her name was on the guest list as well.’
So she’d already read the information pack Arthur thought, with no real sense of surprise. ‘Celia Gordon,’ he repeated. ‘I don’t think we know her, do we?’ he asked warily. Was she a good-looking woman?
‘No. But she’s been seriously canvassing for the chairmanship of the London conference lately. Or so I’ve heard on the grapevine.
Arthur shook his head. ‘Surely not? A woman wouldn’t have a hope of getting it.’
‘In the current climate,’ Chloe said witheringly, ‘don’t be so sure. Besides, the Gordon woman’s already been awarded that Deaconship that’s come up in Bath. Oh, don’t worry,’ she added softly, seeing her husband’s concerned frown. ‘She won’t stand a chance against you. And anyway, as you said, the chairmanship is yours already.’
And with that she gave him a final contemptuous look and left him alone in the kitchen.
It was only then that Arthur Bryce really began to worry.
CHAPTER 3
First Day of the Conference
The cars arrived steadily in Heyford Bassett throughout that warm Friday afternoon. Quite a few of the clerics travelling from farther afield had opted to go by rail, and these walked down into the village from the station carrying either light-weight bags or noisy suitcases on wheels, and gazing about them with pleasure.
A family of dippers industriously feeding their chicks on the riverbank, held the rapt attention of one young cleric, who stared at this avian marvel in wonder. It was a rare sight to see dippers nowadays, he told anyone willing to listen.
The staff at the Manor were busy preparing tea, coffee, cold drinks, white wine and canapés, in order to welcome their latest paying guests. Bags were carried to rooms, keys bearing absurdly long tabs were handed out, and the register checklist ticked off. The lawns, surrounded by rose beds and mixed borders, quickly became clogged with clerical personages all sipping and nibbling, and marvelling at the lovely day, the pleasant house, and their charming host who was still stationed in the foyer, greeting everyone personally with a smile and a handshake.
Bishop Dr David Carew arrived promptly at four o’clock. All around the slim, dark-haired man there was a low hubbub of voices as people either queued at the reception desk or picked up information sheets in the cool, marble foyer. As Sir Andrew spotted the local bishop and moved forward with a welcoming smile to greet him, a woman stepped into the hall from the bright sunlight outside.
‘Ah, Dr Carew how … nice … to see you again,’ Sir Andrew began, faltering in mid-sentence as his attention moved beyond the bishop’s shoulder and focussed on the woman making her way towards the desk.
David Carew felt himself shiver. Although his hand was still clasped in that of his host, he was instantly aware that Sir Andrew seemed to have totally forgotten his existence. The smile that had been on his face simply dropped from his features and into his narrowed brown eyes there appeared something infinitely dark. The bishop swivelled around quickly to see what could have caused such an instant and catastrophic change in the man.
But he saw only a blonde woman dressed in a smart, navy-blue suit. And, as she turned, the familiar and inevitable dog collar. David Carew didn’t recognize her, but as she moved away from the desk with a key in her hand, she happened to look across their way and her confident step faltered. Her bright-blue eyes flickered as Sir Andrew pulled free of the bishop and walked towards her.
‘Reverend Gordon,’ Sir Andrew said, somehow managing to give the first word a very ugly edge indeed. It made several of the clerics around them pause and look at him strangely. The blonde woman flushed painfully as David, watching with a curious feeling of helplessness, tried to place her. He was sure he’d never met her before, but he felt as if he should know who she was.
He felt, briefly, a moment of intense pity for her.
‘Sir Andrew,’ Celia Gordon managed to say stiffly, whilst forcing a polite smile onto her face. ‘I’m surprised to see you here,’ she added, looking clearly puzzled.
Sir Andrew smiled, or at any rate showed his teeth. ‘Rather hard for me to be anywhere else, seeing as I own this place,’ he responded in a hard, tight voice.
Celia flushed again. Of course! Heyford Bassett. Now she knew why it had sounded so familiar. A spark of very definite anger appeared in her eyes now. If only she’d known, she’d never have come here! Damn, why had they decided to hold the conference here of all places?
Archdeacon Sir Matthew Pierrepont, one of the earlier arrivals, now walked stiffly down the sweeping set of wide stairs and looked around. And his eyes were also drawn immediately to the two antagonists in the centre of the room. He recognized Celia Gordon at once, of course, and a malicious smile leapt to his lips. So she was already causing trouble, eh?
‘It’s a very nice house,’ Celia said, obviously struggling to make conversation.
‘Thank you,’ Sir Andrew said sardonically.
Then somebody whispered something to someone else and the little sound served to break everything up. Celia gave a brief nod and continued on her way to the stairs. There, Archdeacon Pierrepont stepped mockingly aside for her, giving a mock-courtly bow as he did so. Celia pointedly ignored his clowning, but her colour was high. As she walked up the stairs she was aware of the many eyes on her back, and cursed her memory for letting her down. Sir Andrew never took his eyes off her until she was quite out of sight. A small tic beat at the centre of his temple. Then he caught the bishop looking at him and visibly pulled himself together. ‘It’s a pity you’re not spending the nights here with us as well, Da
vid,’ he said easily, smiling and once more the perfect host. ‘But I suppose, living only a couple of miles away, it would be rather pointless.’
And instantly, everyone else broke out into embarrassed conversation.
He rejoined the bishop and asked if he’d seen the menus scheduled for the weekend and, if not, would he prefer to run his eye over them now? And David Carew, as willing as his host to gloss over the contretemps, agreed that it wasn’t necessary as he was sure that it would all be delicious.
Archdeacon Pierrepont stared rudely at Sir Andrew for a long few moments, as if puzzling over something. He knew there was something he’d heard about Sir Andrew Courtenay recently … something not quite nice… . Suddenly, his puzzled look cleared. And as it did, his eyes widened. He looked back to the stairs, where Celia had so recently disappeared and a curious expression flickered across his face. It was part glee, part pity, and part spiteful speculation.
And part something else far less easy to define.
An impromptu garden party was by then in full swing out on the lawns and as the church clock struck five, many of the guests were already sipping drinks and socializing, their unpacking completed. Some of the younger and more carefree clerics were actually lying on the grass, bare arms predominating. A group of ladies sat more decorously on chairs on the lawn that the well-trained staff had begun assembling and bringing out, whilst others were taking advantage of the shade provided by a pair of mature horse chestnut trees. The canapés trays were constantly being replenished. Dinner wasn’t for hours yet, after all.
The Reverend Jessica Taylor was one of those who’d chosen to sit on the grass itself, although she was sat with her legs tucked lady-like, beneath her. A married vicar from Birmingham with two young children, she was an advocate for mother-and-baby groups, which had won her friends in some quarters, and enemies in others. In her mid-thirties, slim and pale-complexioned, she regarded herself as neither plain nor pretty, and was not particularly ambitious when it came to climbing the ecclesiastical ladder. She was sipping orange juice and every now and then she rattled the ice in her glass, enjoying the cold sound on such a hot day. She was talking to a vicar’s wife from Bangor, who was herself a lay preacher.
