by Joyce Cato
Chloe sighed heavily. ‘No. And don’t get maudlin. I wonder what all that fuss was about outside?’
‘What, old Sir Matthew? You know how he feels about women. No doubt Celia has said something to upset him,’ Arthur said vaguely.
Phyllis, who’d overheard the conversation through the open door, sniffed loudly. It was her opinion that it was men, and not women, who ought to know their places. ‘If you ask me,’ Phyllis said, startling the Bryces, neither of whom had asked her a thing, ‘that woman vicar had it right. Why shouldn’t Deirdre work part-time?’
Chloe and Arthur, not surprisingly, looked at one another blankly.
‘Well, well,’ Arthur said, rather helplessly.
Chloe, who’d seen from the itinerary that Jessica Taylor was down to lecture about working mothers in a Christian environment, shrugged. ‘Personally, I’m glad that I never had to work when my son was growing up but no doubt she knows what she’s talking about.’
Arthur, sensing friction, made a grab for a paper. ‘We’ll take this please,’ he said hastily, reaching into his pocket for some change. ‘All the same,’ he said, thinking of all the trouble that Celia Gordon had caused so far, ‘I do wish she would be more discreet. If she wants to go far, she really should learn to be more … well … accommodating. Only this morning she was making a fuss about her breakfast, changing her order around because she’s allergic to nuts. Even though there was nothing wrong with the cereal she’d ordered.’
Chloe’s head shot up, and she gave him a strange look. ‘Well, that sounds reasonable to me, Arthur,’ she pointed out crisply. ‘People with allergies have to be careful.’
Arthur drew in a quick, angry breath. ‘Oh, of course I agree. But it was the way she did it. With so little grace.’
‘Perhaps we’ll have some of those dried apricots,’ Chloe interrupted him firmly.
Arthur promptly shut up. He’d become very good at knowing when to do so.
Phyllis nodded her head and smiled approvingly at Chloe. Now that was a well-trained man, if ever she saw one.
‘What a charming place,’ Jessica said, stepping into the living room at the Nobles’ flat. ‘I envy you living all on one floor. A house is all right, but vacuuming the staircase is a nightmare.’
‘Yes, I prefer it too,’ Monica agreed. ‘I hope instant coffee’s all right? It’s all we have, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh that’s fine,’ Jessica said, trailing her hostess into the kitchen, where she sat comfortably at the table. Monica opened a tin of biscuits. ‘So, how’s the conference going?’ she asked. Jessica screwed her face up expressively and Monica laughed. ‘Ah. Like that, hmm?’
‘Well… .’ Jessica sighed. ‘It’s all right I suppose. I just wish … Oh never mind,’ she said. ‘Have you booked a holiday yet?’ she rather abruptly changed the subject.
Monica put the mugs of coffee on the table along with the creamer and sugar bowl. ‘No, but it’ll probably be somewhere really affordable again,’ she admitted with a smile.
‘I know what you mean,’ Jessica sympathised, ‘but I’m determined to go Portugal this year,’ she added. ‘I’ve a friend there I need to track down.’
‘Oh that’ll be nice,’ Monica said. ‘Here, let me give you my postal and email addresses before I forget. And don’t let all those narrow-minded men get you down,’ she warned as she reached across for the notepad she kept handy for grocery lists. Quickly, she jotted down her details and handed them over.
‘Oh, I try not to. It’s just – you know what it’s like. Out of fifty or so of us, there are about four or five women clerics, all told.’
Monica shook her head in sympathy. ‘Still, most people are on your side surely? They’re the ones who voted women vicars and now women bishops into the church, after all.’
‘Yes. I suppose so,’ Jessica agreed, but didn’t sound all that convinced.
‘I noticed Bishop Bryce was on the guest list,’ Monica said. ‘He’s a very firm ally for women clerics, surely?’ Monica found it prudent to keep up with church politics. Not that Graham ever intended to dip a toe into those particular waters. He was quite happy where he was.
Jessica gave a surprisingly harsh bark of laughter. ‘Oh yes. Arthur’s a fan of women all right,’ she agreed tightly.
Monica, catching the undertone, decided that it might be prudent to change the subject again. ‘You know, this working-mother group sounds like a good idea. What does it entail, exactly?’
The next half-hour passed pleasantly as Jessica talked about her favourite topic.
Lunch once again brought all the conference-goers together. Graham, invited to Saturday lunch since he was due to lecture right afterwards, walked into the lobby and looked around with real pleasure. He’d always thought the Manor House a very fine example of its type and Sir Andrew hadn’t butchered it at all (well hardly at all) in its makeover into a working enterprise.
As he passed through the spacious entrance hall he watched two men carrying in a large wood-and-glass showcase, and realized with a quickening of interest that this must be the controversial St Bede’s manuscript.
A dapper man in a smart black suit darted about like a distressed jackdaw, giving instructions in a slightly high pitched and nervous voice, as to its disposition, and admonishing one of the men to lift his end a fraction higher. Correctly supposing that they could do without any bystanders to jinx the operation, Graham walked on quickly into the dining room, and straight into a dim and unpretentious corner.
There he found an empty spot beside a young cleric and a very old one, who were animatedly discussing the mating habits of grey wagtails. Across from him, a Welsh couple were talking about Ecuador, their lilting voices delightful on his ear. In his working life, Graham hadn’t attended all that many conferences so this was quite a new and interesting experience for him.
Halfway through his choice of a very light meal indeed, Graham thought he recognized Archdeacon Sir Matthew Pierrepont, who left the table after his soup and was gone for quite a long time. His waiter, he noticed came to the table and then retreated without depositing his main course.
Graham’s own lunch was superb and he silently admitted that Sir Andrew’s fancy chef really deserved his accolades. He’d opted for the carrot and coriander soup (exquisitely flavoured) and the white bait with tangy sauce. During this course he noticed, with gentle amusement, how everyone watched the progress of a very chic, dark-haired lady, who left her table presumably to go to the powder room. A few minutes later, the man that she’d been seated next to – a handsome rather short man with striking blond hair – also rose and left. Within a few minutes, however, they’d both returned, and Graham wondered if the man realized how admired his wife was.
Probably, Graham thought with sympathy. As the husband of a very lovely woman himself, he knew only too well how sensitive he was to the looks other men gave her.
He wasn’t going to have a dessert until the waiter pointed out the oriental fruit kebabs with mango sauce. As he ate and learned a lot about the mating habits of various British birds from his two companions, he thought guiltily about Monica at home making do with ham sandwiches.
That he could eat at all was a tribute to the chef, for his stomach was still fluttering with butterflies.
Jessica Taylor finished early and left early. As she crossed the hall, she noticed Celia Gordon bent almost double as she scrutinized something in a glass case. She seemed to be speaking animatedly to a man dressed in black, who was watching her anxiously.
As the lunch hour drew to a close, Graham wandered into the hall and noticed that several people were now gathered around the case, and Dr Simon Grade’s voice, now low and commanding, was expounding knowledgeably. Intrigued, Graham moved closer.
‘As you know, St Bede, or Baeda, is better known as the Venerable Bede,’ the museum curator was saying, his eyes flicking over his audience and effortlessly picking out the most important members. ‘He was born circa 673, and died in 735. His feas
t day, actually, is not far away, being on the 27th of May.’
There was a small appreciative murmur. The services of Dr Grade had not been accredited on the agenda, but nobody doubted his expertise, such was the man’s confident and erudite manner.
‘As you probably also know, the entire world relies on his manuscript, the Ecclesiastica Gentis Anglorum, or the Ecclesiastical History of the English People, as the source of almost ALL our information on the history of England before the year 731.’
This piece of information was indeed impressive, and many eyes returned to the ancient, illuminated manuscript. It was, of course, almost impossible for anyone but an expert to read or understand it.
‘Of course, the Venerable Bede wrote other works, mainly homilies, hymns, epigrams and works on chronology and grammar, as well as the lives of certain saints, but this is by far his greatest work.’ As he spoke, voice ringing with pride, Dr Grade patted the top of the wooden and glass showcase affectionately.
Graham, perhaps more sensitive than most, was almost sure that he detected a certain amount of concealed distress in the museum-owner’s manner. And, yes, wasn’t he sweating? And yet the hall was remarkably cool.
‘This, of course, is not the original,’ Dr Grade glossed this piece of information over very quickly, ‘but a superb sixteenth-century copy, done by Benedictine monks before Henry the Eighth caused so much trouble.’
There were a few polite laughs.
‘This is most appropriate since, of course, St Bede himself studied at a Benedictine Monastery. He was born near Monkwearmouth, Durham and later transferred to Jarrow, where he was later buried. However, sometime in the eleventh century his bones were removed to Durham.’
Graham glanced at his watch. Only a quarter of an hour to go! In spite of his nearly full stomach, he nervously opened his bag of peanuts and began to nibble. Fascinating though Dr Grade’s impromptu lecture was, Graham found it almost impossible to concentrate. He knew in his own mind that his lecture was sufficiently insightful, helpful and well written, but he wasn’t sure of his ability to deliver it with any real panache.
Graham offered the bag of nuts to several of the people most immediately around him, most refused, but some smiled and took a few.
‘What’s going on?’ a soft voice asked in his ear and Graham turned with relief to smile down at his wife.
‘A lecture on the manuscript,’ he whispered back. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Offering you some moral support. I thought I’d say hello before your lecture. Have your knees gone all wibbly wobbly?’ she teased.
‘Yes. Have a peanut,’ he offered her the bag and she took one, chewing thoughtfully.
The lecture over, the clerics began to separate, with rather a lot of them, Graham noticed with alarm, heading for the small theatre/lecture room off to the right.
‘Well, good luck,’ Monica said, squeezing his arm encouragingly.
As she spoke, a blonde woman dressed in a very well tailored and severe suit, came down the main stairs and turned as if towards the lecture hall. Monica noticed that the dapper little man who’d been giving the lecture had also noticed the new arrival and had quickly turned away. He then bent down, as if to tie his shoelaces, his face carefully averted. It took Monica only a second to realize that the museum director was actually wearing slip-ons. Obviously, the man was trying to avoid catching the newcomer’s attention.
As she glanced around the hall, Celia Gordon’s head did a swift double take as it took in the tall, elegant, very handsome figure of Graham Noble. And instantly, a huge smile spread across her face. Several conference-goers, who’d become accustomed to her rather aloof and opinionated manner, stared at her in open amazement.
‘Graham!’ she said loudly and with obvious delight, and turned towards them.
Graham started and looked up.
Then he saw the Reverend Celia Gordon and went pale.
Very pale.
CHAPTER 5
‘Graham, how lovely to see you again,’ Celia said, smiling widely and reaching out to take his free hand in both of hers. Instead of shaking it, however, Monica noticed that the other woman simply kept hold of it. ‘I did see your name on the list, but I wasn’t sure that it would be you. How marvellous that it is.’
‘Celia,’ Graham said blankly. ‘I didn’t know that you were coming here,’ he admitted, and wished whole-heartedly that he’d paid more attention to the guest list.
Celia laughed, her eyes sweeping over him, taking in the still-flat stomach, the dark hair and the undeniably still handsome face. ‘You haven’t changed a bit,’ she said, and there was a definite throaty suggestive quality in her voice that set Graham blushing. Around them the hall began to fill up, but people seemed oddly reluctant to file into the lecture hall. Several were opening watching the by-play and looking fascinated.
‘Celia, this is Monica, my wife,’ Graham said loudly – rather too loudly – and took an instinctive step closer to Monica.
Monica saw the sparkle falter in the other woman’s eyes and felt her spine stiffening as the middle-aged blonde woman turned her way. As well as the striking suit she had on, her face was very artfully made up. She met Celia’s eyes with a smile and was pleased to note that the other woman’s blue eyes weren’t nearly as blue as her own. She held out her hand. ‘How do you do, Reverend…?’
‘Gordon,’ Graham supplied hastily.
‘How do you do,’ Celia said with a smile. Her eyes swept over Monica, assessing her age, looks, and clothes and narrowing slightly after the inventory. Then she turned back to Graham. ‘Well, you sly old thing, you’ve finally tied the knot. And I thought you said you were unlikely ever to get married …’ she trailed off, perhaps realizing that she’d been rather less than tactful. ‘But then, we were both so young. What did we know?’ she laughed, a shade harshly.
Her eyes became slightly glazed as the years fell away behind her. She’d been fresh out of college when she’d first met this man, her BA just behind her and a post-graduate course stretching ahead.
‘I did volunteer work for Graham’s first church, oh … too many years ago now to count, isn’t that so, Graham?’ she said, turning back to give Monica a more searching assessment. Monica had no doubt that she was wondering what it was about her that had tempted Graham to give up his single lifestyle, when he’d evidently been so determined to hang on to it back then. Because one thing was for certain – Monica would have bet her severance cheque that the Rev. Celia Gordon had tried, and failed, to persuade him to give it up all those years ago.
Instantly, Monica found herself wishing that she had chosen to wear something more prepossessing than the lightweight floral summer dress and sandals that she had on, and she found herself taking a closer step towards Graham. Instinctively their hands touched, and they clasped fingers, each seeking and offering trust and unity.
Celia, for her part, caught the gesture and turned back to Graham, her eyes harder now, her smile becoming more fixed in place. ‘Well, well, well,’ she drawled. ‘And have you any children?’
‘One daughter,’ Graham said promptly and made no effort to explain Carole Anne’s status as his stepdaughter. And Monica could have kissed him for that. It was around then that she began to notice the amount of covert speculation they were attracting, and decided it was time to set the record straight. Let them see there was nothing to gossip about here, and no mileage to be gained. She was not, after all, some jealous teenager bristling over being introduced to the ex.
‘So, Reverend Gordon, you knew my husband long ago,’ she said firmly. ‘That must have been when he was up north, yes?’
‘Yes, a depressing place,’ Celia confirmed, barely flicking her a glance. Her attention was fixed solely on her husband, a fact that was making Graham shift in a slightly uncomfortable way from foot to foot. ‘But Graham was determined to bring some light to the place. Did you ever manage it?’ she added, her question as barbed now as a thorn bush. She was clearly
beginning to feel angry and Monica felt herself become correspondingly antagonistic. She tried to damp it down. No good could come of raking over old coals and stirring up trouble.
Graham, looking distinctly unhappy, smiled bleakly. ‘No. I don’t think I did,’ he admitted humbly.
Celia started. She’d forgotten his disconcerting and heart-tugging habit of being so simple and honest. It was only one of many things that had attracted her to him so long ago. And was still attracting her now. In her rise to her current position, she’d become used to two-faced, so-called friends, both male and female, willing to stab her in the back. She’d forgotten that there were still men like this around.
Her eyes softened.
‘Celia was an eager volunteer in those days and fresh out of college with a degree,’ Graham said, shooting his wife a look full of hidden messages. ‘Medieval History, wasn’t it?’
‘And comparative theology,’ she acknowledged. ‘I then did a degree in medieval languages. Of course, as soon as the ordination of women was permitted, I joined up,’ she put in smoothly. ‘I now run St Jude’s in Bath.’
Monica blinked. Very swanky! No doubt about it, Reverend Gordon was doing well, and she couldn’t help but wonder, with a nasty little twinge of resentment, just how she’d managed it. She couldn’t see poor Jessica Taylor ever being transferred to such a powerful position. Then she told herself not to let her own feathers get too ruffled. After all, it would have been foolish to believe that Graham hadn’t had some kind of a relationship with women in his past. The thing to remember was that it was past. And that she had no reason at all to feel threatened now.
In fact, it was absurd to feel even mildly put out. Her fingers in his hand squeezed gently. She trusted him and the strength of their marriage implicitly.
‘That’s nice for you,’ Graham was responding to her news without a hint of envy. ‘This is my parish.’ He waved a hand in the general direction of the village. ‘Has been for over twenty years and I wouldn’t want to leave it now.’ As he spoke, he looked her long and levelly in the eye.
