‘Less now than ever, though something has changed.’ They’d entered the fringes of a wood; the track narrowed; jackdaws convened in the oaks, and brambles tugged at their clothes. Berries had been left to rot on the branch, since all through the months of the Trouble no-one had felt much like going out alone with their baskets. ‘Something has changed, and they told me it would, but I never expected this. She had faith of course, or I couldn’t have married her – you are horrified! But how could I ask a woman to spare me every Sunday and half the week between if she didn’t serve the same God? – yes: she had a faith, but not like this. It was’ – he cast about for the right phrase – ‘it was polite. Do you understand? This – it’s different – I find myself embarrassed by it. She sings. I wake in the night and I hear her singing from along the hall. I think she has the Essex Serpent muddled up with Bible stories, and doesn’t really believe it has gone.’
‘You sound more of a civil servant than a minister! Don’t you think those women who went to the tomb – I forget their names – might’ve been a little like that – blinded by glory, already half-dead, wanting this short time over as soon as possible – no: I’m not mocking you and God knows I’d never mock her – but if you insist on your faith you ought at least to concede it’s a strange business and very little to do with well-ironed cassocks and the order of service.’ She felt her temper rise slightly – she’d forgotten how readily they exasperated each other, and considered letting the conversation reach unstable ground; but it was too soon for all that. ‘But I do see,’ she said, growing conciliatory: ‘Of course I do: nothing’s more troubling than change in those we love. It’s a nightmare I have – I’ve told you about it often! – that one day I come home and there’s Martha and there’s Francis and they put their hands to their faces and lift them clear away like masks and underneath there’s loathing …’ She shuddered. ‘But she’s still your Stella, your star of the sea: love is not love which alters when it alteration finds! What will you do? What treatment can she have?’
He told her of that anxious afternoon in the hospital, with Dr Butler polite on one side and Luke sardonic on the other; of how she’d given her own diagnosis and coolly taken in their prescriptions. ‘Dr Butler is cautious – he wants to see her again – wants to give her tuberculin, which is the fashion these days. Charles Ambrose says he’ll pay, and how can I refuse? I’ve not been able to afford my pride for a long time.’
‘And Luke?’ Still she could not quite say the name without a rise of shame that stained her cheek.
Will might, with effort, have forgiven the Imp, but since his creed made no mention of actually developing affection for those who’d wronged him he said, ‘Forgive me, but I’m glad he’s prevented from operating – he wanted to collapse her lungs, one at a time, to let the other heal! Don’t misunderstand me – I regret very deeply his injury – but really I cannot think past Stella, and her wellbeing: it’s all that matters now.’ Then he flushed, as if caught out in a lie – all that matters, he’d said – and it ought to be! It ought to be!
‘What does Stella say?’ Cora was conscious of a sensation very like envy: what must it be, to be loved so entirely?
‘She tells me Christ is coming to gather up his jewels, and that she’s ready,’ said Will. ‘I don’t believe she much cares one way or the other. Sometimes she speaks as if this time next year she’ll be climbing Traitor’s Oak with James, and sometimes I find her lying with her hands crossed over her breast as if she’s already in her coffin. And the blue – the incessant blue – she sends me out for violets and I tell her it’s not the season and she almost weeps with rage!’
Then he told her – shyly, because he was ashamed – of his bargain with God, and how he’d been prepared to loose his wife into Luke’s hands, his needles and blades, if the signs had seemed auspicious. ‘News came of Garrett’s injury and if I didn’t exactly think it a sign, certainly Stella did – she looked relieved; she told me she’d’ve had the operation if I’d thought it best, but preferred to give herself over to God – sometimes I think she wants to leave us – that she wants to go away from me!’
Cora concealed a look at her friend, who so rarely seemed less than in command that it threw her – she said: ‘I remember when Michael was first taken ill. We were having breakfast and he couldn’t swallow – he went rigid and red and pulled at the tablecloth, then flapped at his throat – and since he never panicked or let down his guard, not ever, we knew something was wrong. Just then a bird flew in and God knows I’ve never been superstitious but for a moment I thought of that old wives’ tale that a bird indoors foretells a death and my heart lifted, and I sat and watched him choke … then of course I came to my senses and we gave him water, and he vomited, and later that month he passed blood and Luke came – it was the first time I ever saw him and I was a little afraid of him, to speak the truth: isn’t it odd, how strangers come over the threshold and you never know what they might become … Oh!’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know what point I’m making – how can I compare him to Stella: they might be different species! – only that it takes us strangely, all this.’ She flung out her arms, and he was grateful: what a strange habit she had, of offering up understanding out of her thorough disagreement with almost everything he knew and prized.
Evening had come quickly, and the rosy sun was caught below a black bank of cloud. Light struck only the lower part of the beech and chestnut trees and left the rest in darkness; it gave the appearance of ranks of bronze pillars bearing up a thick black canopy. They’d come to a slight rise, and the path was traversed at regular intervals by forest roots that formed a broad and shallow flight of stairs. Everywhere was thickly mossed, and it laid down a carpet of vivid green.
For all their talking and delight there’d been little of the intimacy of their letters, which spoke so readily of ‘I’ and ‘you’; but as the wood closed around them it seemed possible to approach the heart of the matter – though tentatively, and by small degrees.
‘I was glad when you wrote,’ he said, diffidently: ‘I’d had a bad day of it and then there you were, on the doormat.’
‘I am glad I swallowed my pride.’ She put her foot on the green stair, and paused, and said: ‘You were so angry with me after Luke tried out his tricks on Jo – and I’ve never minded anyone being angry with me if I deserved it, but I didn’t think I did – it was only an offer of help! If you’d seen what I saw – those laughing girls – how they laughed and snapped their heads back and forth …’
He shook his head, impatient. ‘It doesn’t matter now – what use would it be to go over it?’ Then he laughed, and said: ‘I always did enjoy fighting with you, but not over anything that mattered.’
‘Only matters of good and evil …’
‘Exactly – look, we are in a cathedral.’ High overhead the trees stooped and made a chancel arch; a branch had sheared off a nearby oak and left behind a peaked cavity above a deep shelf. ‘It looks as though Cromwell’s taken hammer and chisel to a saint.’
‘I see you’ve despatched the serpent in your church, at least,’ said Cora. ‘I went in the day I came back and there’s nothing but a few scales left: what made you lose your patience?’
Thinking of that shameful moment on the midsummer marsh after he’d left them all behind, Will coughed and said: ‘Joanna would’ve boxed my ears if news of Cracknell hadn’t come in time – look: all these conkers lying about, and no children taking them home.’ He bent to pick up a handful and passed one to her, snug in its green casing. With a fingertip in the split she prised it open, and found the nut in its white silk bed. ‘I was angry,’ he said: ‘That’s all. Now the Trouble has gone I hardly remember how it was – how folk kept indoors and we never heard the children playing, and how nothing I could say would convince them there was nothing to fear they didn’t summon up themselves.’
‘I felt it in the village as soon as I came,’ she said. ‘A change of air. I heard the school choir singing and not until I was home did I remember the day they’d laughed and laughed and something went badly wrong. To think when I first came there was rarely anyone on the common, and I thought I’d see people look at me mistrustfully – as if it were all my fault! As if it had anything to do with me!’