by Anne Perry
“Yes?” Boscombe prompted.
Dominic smiled self-consciously. “Appropriate.” This short time in Cottisham mattered so much, and he was making a mess of it, being trite.
Boscombe seemed to relax. “Of course. Anything I can tell you. But I haven’t been…in the vicar’s confidence for the last few months. At least, not as closely as I used to be. But I’m sure I can help. What advice did Mrs. Wellbeloved give you? I’ll see what I can add. I’ve been here awhile, and Genevieve was born here.”
And indeed he did, giving Dominic the color and flavor of the village life, and in particular those who might have a need—or the reverse: be willing and able to help. He spoke of them all with kindness, but a clear-eyed view of their vulnerabilities. He also summarized several of the vicar’s more notable sermons.
But when Dominic sat beside his own fire with Clarice that evening, hearing the wind moan in the eaves, rising shrill and more insistent, and Harry snoring gently next to the hearth, it was Boscombe’s anxiety that came to his mind. He tried to explain it to her, but put into words it sounded so insubstantial—a matter of hesitations that could as easily have been shyness, or even a matter of discretion—that he felt foolish to have remembered it at all.
He asked after her day: how she was finding the house, and if the work was onerous. He knew she would say it was not, whatever the truth of it. He admired her for that, and was grateful, but it only increased his sense of guilt that he could not give her the standard of comfort she had been used to before they were married.
“Oh, very good,” she said wearily. “It’s a lovely house.” She drew in her breath to add something, then changed her mind. He knew what she had been going to say—that she wished they could stay there. It was far nicer than the grim accommodation they had in London. Of course Spindlewood and his wife had the vicarage. In the back of Dominic’s mind he was always aware of how callous he had been to his first wife in the long past. He had not thought of it as a betrayal at the time, but it had been, deeply and bitterly so. Perhaps if he had been loyal to her, with or without love, she would not have been murdered.
He did not deserve such a second chance. Looking at Clarice sitting in the chair opposite him, the cat in her lap, her face grave, he was overwhelmed with gratitude.
“Except for Harry,” she said, still answering his question. “He’s fine now, but he’s been sulking on the back doorstep half the day.”
“Perhaps he wanted to go out.” He started to rise to his feet.
“No, he didn’t! I know enough to let a dog out now and then,” she protested. “He’d only just come in. He sat there most of the time, or wandered around the kitchen pawing at the doors, all of them, even cupboards.”
“Could he have been hungry?” he suggested.
“Dominic! I fed him. He tries the hall cupboard and the cellar, not just the cupboards with food in. I think he really misses the vicar.”
He sat back in his chair again. “I suppose so. I expect he’ll settle. The cat’s certainly happy.”
She gave him a quick smile, stroking Etta, who needled her lap happily with her claws then went back to sleep.
Dominic leaned forward and poked the fire, sending sparks up the chimney. Clarice was right—it was a lovely house. There was almost a familiarity about it, as if at some far distant time he had lived here before and he would know instinctively where everything was. It was like coming home to some origin so far back, he had forgotten he belonged here.
T he third morning it was even colder. Clarice could see the village pond from the front door when Dominic went out to begin his visiting. The surface was icing over, and a dusting of white snow made most of it indistinguishable from the banks. Harry went charging out into it and had to be brought back, his chest and tummy caked with snow, and then dried off in front of the kitchen stove, loving the attention.
Clarice did not expect Mrs. Wellbeloved today. After feeding Harry and Etta she set about the sweeping and dusting straightaway, as much to keep warm and busy as from any need for it to be done. The sitting room fire would have to be cleaned out and relit, of course, but since the ashes were still warm, it would be foolish to remove them before time. It was a waste of coal to light it simply for herself, when she could perfectly easily sit in the kitchen.
One day soon she would have to clean out the kitchen stove completely, polish the steels with emery paper, bath brick, and paraffin, black-lead the iron parts and then polish them, then wash and whiten the hearthstone. But it did not have to be today. Such a job should really be begun at six in the morning, so she could get it set and relit in time for breakfast.
She was still thinking about it with dislike when the doorbell jangled and she went out into the hall to answer it.
A woman was standing on the step. She was muffled in a heavy, well-cut cloak and had a shawl over her head, but from what Clarice could see of her, she was about forty. She had a handsome face with wide brown eyes, a short upper lip, and a round, rather heavy chin.
“Mrs. Corde?” she inquired. She had a pleasant voice, but not the local accent.
“Yes. May I help you?”
“I rather thought I might help you,” the woman replied. “My name is Mrs. Paget. I know the Reverend Wynter, and I know the village quite well. I imagine many people are willing to do all they can, especially at Christmas, but you might not know who is good at which things—flowers, baking, and so on.”
“Oh, thank you,” Clarice said gratefully. “Please come in. I would be most obliged for any advice at all.” She held the door open wide.
Mrs. Paget stepped in as if it was all very familiar, and Clarice had the sudden feeling that perhaps she had been here many times. Possibly since John Boscombe had withdrawn from his church duties, she had in some practical ways taken over.
Clarice led the way to the kitchen, explaining that she had not lit the sitting room fire yet, and offered a cup of tea. Etta bristled at the intrusion and shot past Clarice and up the stairs. Mrs. Paget gave a little cry of surprise.
“I’m sorry,” Clarice apologized. “She’s a very odd cat. I think both animals miss the Reverend Wynter. The dog is in and out like a fiddler’s elbow, and nothing seems to satisfy the cat. I’ve fed her, given her milk, set up a warm place to lie, but she just sits there like an owl.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know animals very well.” Mrs. Paget took off her cloak and shawl and arranged herself on one of the hard-backed chairs by the table, adjusting her skirts. “I can’t offer any advice. I expect you are correct and they are missing the Reverend Wynter. He is a wonderful man, very charming and utterly trustworthy. He knows everybody’s secrets, all their private doubts and griefs, and never whispered a word to anyone. I was happy to help him in any way I could, but even to me he never gave so much as a hint of what needed to remain unsaid.”
“Admirable,” Clarice agreed, filling the kettle and setting it on the hob. “And absolutely necessary. All I really would like to know is who is gifted at what practical skill—and of course who is not!” She gave Mrs. Paget a quick smile.
“Oh, quite!” Mrs. Paget eased quickly, smiling back with a flash of understanding. “That can be every bit as much a disaster. At all costs avoid Mrs. Lampeter’s baking and Mrs. Porter’s soup! Never give Mrs. Unsworth the flowers. She only has to touch lilies and they go brown.”
They both laughed, then settled in to discuss matters of skill, tact, need, and general usefulness.
“I imagine you’ll want to have a celebration for the whole village ’round about Christmas itself, Boxing Day perhaps?” Mrs. Paget said firmly.
Clarice understood immediately. “Of course,” she agreed. “It would be the best possible thing. I would appreciate your guidance as to how it has been done here in the past, and what people like. Not every place is the same.”
Mrs. Paget smiled with satisfaction. “I’d be delighted. Mince pies, naturally, with plenty of raisins, sultanas, and candied peel, plum pudding and cr
eam, best be discreet with the brandy, but a bit is always nice, gives a good flame when you light it. And cake, naturally.”
Clarice’s heart sank at the prospect of so much cooking. In the home she had grown up in, her mother had enjoyed a full kitchen staff to attend to such things.
Mrs. Paget’s brown eyes were watching her intently. “If you would allow me to, I’d be happy to help,” she offered. “It’s a lot for one person, and I enjoy cooking.”
Clarice felt a weight of anxiety slip from her. “Thank you,” she said sincerely.
Harry remained sulking in the corner, and Etta never reappeared.
Dominic returned for luncheon, then went out again. Clarice spent the afternoon going through various cupboards seeing what polishes, brushes, and so on she could find, and if she could repack them a little more tidily so as to make more room. It was annoying to open a cupboard door and have the contents slide out around your feet or, worse, fall on top of you from the shelf above.
In the middle of the afternoon she cleaned out and lit the fire in the sitting room to warm it for Dominic’s return; he was bound to be frozen. Earlier she had made hot soup—better, she hoped, than Mrs. Porter’s!
She was tidying the bookshelves behind the sofa in the sitting room when she came across a leather-bound Bible. Its pages were gold-edged, but very well used, as if it was someone’s personal possession, rather than one for general reference. She opened it and saw the vicar’s name on the front page, dated some fifty years ago. She ruffled the pages and saw tiny handwritten notes in the margins, particularly in the book of Isaiah and the four Gospels of the New Testament. She had to carry them to the window for enough light to read them. They were very personal. There was a passion and an honesty in them that made her stop reading. They were too intimate; a man’s reminder to himself, not to others.
She stood in the fading winter sun, the light graying outside, the fire burning up behind her. Why had he not taken this with him? An accidental omission, surely? It did not belong in this room: in his bedroom, if not with him. He must have left it out to pack, and somehow overlooked it.
She should find his address and send it on to him. The postal service was good; it would get to him in a day or two at the outside. Her mind made up, she went into the study and looked for the address of the Reverend Wynter’s holiday dwelling. It took her only ten minutes. She was surprised: it was an area of Norfolk she knew quite well, with beautiful wide skies and open beaches facing the North Sea. It would be a wonderful place for him to create more of his pictures. It was famous for its artists. She smiled, imagining him drinking in its splendor, and then striving to capture it on paper.
Then she read the address again. It was a small hotel in one of the seaside villages. But she had been there herself two years ago—and the hotel was closed, turned into a private house. He could not be there. It must be a mistake, an address from a previous holiday—although she had seen no pictures in the house that could be from that region. She would have to put on her coat and boots and go and ask Mrs. Wellbeloved. No doubt she would have the correct address. She must send him his scriptures.
But Mrs. Wellbeloved had no idea where the vicar might be, if he was not at that hotel. She was very sorry, and not a little annoyed also to have been misled. Clarice should try Sir Peter. She could think of no one else.
The light was waning in the winter dusk, but to the northwest the clouds had cleared. As she approached the manor house, the sun burned low and spread a tide of scarlet across the snow. She came to the gates: formal wrought iron between magnificent gate quoins with heraldic gryphons on each. She tried them, and they opened easily. She walked up the curved gravel driveway until she came around the clipped trees and saw the magnificent façade of the early Tudor house with its mullioned windows and cloistered chimneys. The gardens were formal: herbs, flowers, and low hedges carefully nurtured into the complicated patterns of an Elizabethan knot garden. I bet there’s a maze somewhere to the back, she thought, beyond the old cedars at the side, and the oaks.
She felt a little presumptuous walking up and knocking on the front door uninvited, but her reason was compelling. The Reverend Wynter would need his Bible: his own copy, not something lent to him by a stranger—something with his passions, his dreams, and his understandings written in over the years.
She knocked and waited. The purple cloud banners were a pall over the embers of the setting sun. Nothing happened. Then in the fast-fading light she noticed a gryphon’s head to one side and realized it was an elaborate bellpull. She tried it, and a few moments later a butler appeared. He was an elderly gentleman with white hair and a thin, ascetic face with a surprising flash of humor in it. “Yes, ma’am? May I help you?”
She stood on the step shivering. “I am Clarice Corde, wife of the vicar who is taking the Reverend Wynter’s place this Christmas,” she began.
“Indeed, ma’am. Sir Peter spoke of you. Would you care to come in? It’s a distinctly chilly evening.”
“Distinctly,” she agreed through chattering teeth. “Yes. I need to ask Sir Peter’s advice, if I may?”
“Of course.” The butler stepped back, took her cloak and shawl, and conducted her into the withdrawing room, which was paneled in oak with a coffered ceiling. A magnificent arras hung on the wall, and the fire burning in the hearth was big enough to have roasted a pig on a spit above the flames. Sir Peter was sitting in a huge leather armchair by the blaze, and he stood up the moment she came in.
The butler offered her tea, which she accepted. She took the seat opposite Sir Peter.
“What may I do to help?” he asked her.
She told him of finding the Bible, and then the address that she knew could not be correct. “I wondered if you know where he had really gone,” she finished. “I think he will miss his own scriptures, and I would like to send them to him.”
“Indeed,” he said, frowning now. “How odd that he should forget to pack such a thing. No doubt it was an oversight. He will be searching for it already. But I am afraid I don’t know where he went. In fact I did not even know he was going. It was a surprise to me. I would have wished him a good journey. I am sorry I didn’t.” There was gentleness in his voice and a softness of genuine regret in his eyes.
Looking at him, Clarice was suddenly aware of how deeply fond of the Reverend Wynter he must have been, and that perhaps he was more hurt by the rift between them than he admitted.
“You have no idea where else he goes?” she pressed. “I could at least write a letter; if he writes back, I shall know where to send the Bible. I must not risk losing it.”
“No!” He leaned forward. “You must keep it safely. Please, don’t risk it unless you are absolutely certain where he is. Family Bibles matter intensely. So many memories. Could you not be mistaken about this hotel?”
“No.” She had no doubt about it. She had been sorry and inconvenienced to find it changed herself. She told him of her experience. She did not mention that it had been the vicar’s personal Bible, not a family one.
A shadow flickered across his face with its delicate lines.
“I see. No, there seems to be no room for error. I’m sorry; I really don’t know where else he might have gone. I wish I could offer help.”
The branch of the tree burning in the grate settled a little, and a shower of sparks flew up the vast chimney. She looked around the age and beauty of the room and wondered how many generations of Connaughts had sat here, hearing the stories of the village, helping, protecting, disciplining, governing, and probably using and taxing as well. Walls like these had seen England’s history unfolding since before the Spanish Armada had sailed in the time of Queen Elizabeth. Perhaps even Henry VIII had visited here with one of his six wives. Or Walsingham had sent out his spies. There would be a priest hole behind that fireplace for fugitive Catholics when they were hunted and burned. Which side had the Connaughts been on in the Civil War? Or the Bloodless Revolution?
Sir Peter was smiling a
t her, his eyes bright again in the firelight. “Would you like to see the house?” he asked. “It would be my pleasure to show you.”
“I’d love to,” she said sincerely.
He guided her through it all with a kind of gentle pride she found endearing. He did not boast except once, and then immediately apologized for it as though it had been a breach of good manners.
“You have a right to be proud,” she said honestly. “It is so beautiful, and obviously it has been loved over the centuries. Thank you for your generosity in showing me.”
He looked pleased, even a little self-conscious. “Are you sure you wish to walk home alone? It is now quite dark.”
“Oh, certainly,” she said with confidence. “It is only a mile or so.”
“Still, I would rather accompany you, at least as far as the village green. I would be happier.”
She did not argue. When she was within sight of the vicarage lights, which were already familiar to her, he bade her good night and turned back toward the manor. Clarice went another few yards, then saw the dark outline of a figure coming toward her, leaning into the wind and huddling a shawl around her. It was so small and walked with such tiny, hurried steps, it had to be a woman.
“Good evening,” Clarice said clearly, thinking the woman had not seen her and was in danger of bumping into her unless she moved off the path into the snow.
“Oh! My dear, you gave me a fright!” the woman exclaimed. “I was quite lost in my own thoughts. Since I don’t know you, you must be the new vicar’s wife.”
“Yes, I am. Clarice Corde.” Clarice held out her hand.
“How do you do,” the woman responded. Her voice was husky and a little cracked, but it must have been rich in her youth. “My name is Sybil Towers,” she went on, holding out a small hand in a woolen mitten. “Welcome to Cottisham. I am sure you will be happy here. We all love the Reverend Wynter, and we will make you comfortable, too.”
