The Elsingham Portrait

Seventeen


Quite unaware of the storm gathering in the village, Kathryn was pouring tea for the Vicar. They were seated in his pleasant parlor. The Reverend Percy beamed at the books so neatly arranged on the shelves, their white paper markers safely undisturbed. He eyed the flowers tastefully arranged and set out on dust-free tables, the fire burning cheerily in the fireplace, the curtains neatly drawn against the approaching night.

“It’s a miracle. This house has never appeared so spacious, so inviting, yet every one of my books is where I can find it! In my study, too! You have worked the miracle, Kathryn.”

“Thank the Dewey Decimal System,” said Kathryn, handing him his cup and offering the toasted scones.

“I really shouldn’t . . . but so good with cheese and jam.” He busied himself with his plate, while Kathryn smiled fondly at him and poured her own tea. Speaking of miracles, she had never felt so useful, so needed, so fulfilled as since she came to the home of this gentle old man. They spoke the same language, she and the Reverend Archibald Percy.

“We’re really misfits, you and I,” Kathryn heard herself saying aloud. He lifted his white eyebrows in enquiry. “Not so much born out of time,” she explained her comment, “as living outside the daily lives of our neighbors.”

The Vicar gave this the same calm and careful consideration he gave to everything she said. It was one of his greatest charms, she thought. He was completely aware of her; he listened completely. The Reverend Archibald Percy, Kathryn had discovered, was vague only about material things. In the realm of ideas he was remarkably acute—“awake on all suits,” as the current slang had it. His instant acceptance of her own amazing story had healed once and forever a festering wound of doubt in Kathryn’s mind: that perhaps she was insane. It had not seemed impossible to this little cleric that a woman’s soul might be transmitted from one century to another.

“The more we learn,” he had said quietly, when she finished her strange story that first night, “the more we see there is to learn. You have spoken about the science and technology which, commonplace in your time, are to us in 1775 dazzling, challenging mysteries. Yet we ourselves accept as ordinary knowledge facts and ideas which would have terrified our ancestors. One must keep an open mind, and beware of self-righteous complacence.”

Now again he was considering her words carefully.

“Yes, Kathryn, I am afraid I do live apart from the daily concerns of my parishioners, both gentry and farmers. The world of abstract thought is not as attractive to them as it is to me. And so many of them have to struggle, dawn to dark, to earn enough to keep body and soul together, that they are too tired to enjoy anything but food and drink and sleep.” He glanced at Kathryn. “And of course, sex.” He smiled at her responsive chuckle, highly pleased that he had made her laugh.

“But you, my dear,” he went on, “are far too young and beautiful to put yourself outside the stream of life. If you could only reconcile yourself to staying here—”

“To be exiled to a ruined castle in Ireland?” asked Kathryn. “In the power of a devilish woman who seems to have kept this body drugged and under her control? And who probably sent the soul of Nadine into the future for some evil purpose?”

The Reverend Percy stared at her, his mind busy. “But surely, with such beauty and knowledge as you possess, you could outwit some old peasant woman?”

“She has a power which frightens me,” confessed Kathryn. “There is something about her which turns my spirit cold.”

“From what I have heard you say of Lord John, he has behaved as a sensible and decent man. This agrees with my own limited personal experience with him. Perhaps together you and I might convince him that the wild, immature spirit of the Irish girl no longer inhabits this body—”

Kathryn stared at him, her face pale with shock. “Father Percy! Where is Nadine? If I am here in her body—”

His face brightened. “She must therefore be free of the dominance which might have destroyed her soul! You perceive, my dear child, that the workings of the Deity, while inscrutable, are benevolent! You have given that poor immature being a chance to live and develop outside the influence of Donner.”

“But if she is in my body . . . she’ll be terrified! The noise! The automobiles and subways—and jet planes . . .”

“We must commend her to God,” said the Reverend Percy serenely. “Perhaps in that noisy, brawling, active city you have described, she will be more at home than you ever were.”

“I hope she knows how to fight for what she wants,” said Kathryn grimly. “I never learned how to.” She winced as she recalled the scene on the bus and her feelings of humiliation. The Reverend Percy was watching her with surprisingly keen eyes. “I believe you will learn how now—when there is something you really want. I cannot believe your heart was set on that shallow and venial youth you described to me. Today we should call such a fellow an encroaching mushroom.”

He was rewarded by a full-throated laugh from Kathryn. It was their special game to use slang from their respective eras. The priest was acquiring a colorful twentieth century vocabulary which Kathryn was afraid he would use inadvertently some day to the confusion of his parishioners.

Diverted, Kathryn searched for the relevant expression. “In New York, we’d call his kind a sharpie—on the make—wheeling and dealing. I’m afraid Don was a social climber,” she concluded. Suddenly a smile touched her lip sand eyes. “Father Percy, I’m free! The thought of Don doesn’t hurt any more.”

The Vicar nodded encouragement. “That’s a sensible girl! The fellow obviously isn’t worth a thought!” He peered at her craftily. “And having made that decision, are you any closer to deciding to stay here and fight—”

He was interrupted by the hurried entrance of old Newton.” There’s a lady here, sir, says she has to see Mrs. Radcliffe, only she calls her Mrs. Bart, and says she’s her mother!”

Startled, Kathryn stared from Newton to his master.

“Who can this be?” she whispered. “I know no Mrs. Bart.”

“Oh, miss,” quavered Newton. “It’s the young man that’s named Bart. Your husband, he claims. The old lady is called Mistress Donner.”

Kathryn rose from her chair in a single convulsive movement.

“Donner! That’s the woman who was drugging Nadine,” she whispered in a panic. “She mustn’t get in—I can’t see her—”

The Vicar rose and moved to her side.

“Kathryn, my dear child, compose yourself! We’ll confront her together. You are safe here under my roof. She cannot harm you unless you give her the power to do so by showing fear and weakness. Be calm.”

Kathryn clung to his outstretched hand. “You don’t know her! She is evil.”

The Vicar took this calmly. “I have been aware of the existence of evil for many years. In fact you might say it has been my chief business to cope with it.” He patted her hand. “Newton, you may show Mrs. Donner and Mr. Bart in.”

“No!” protested Kathryn, and looked around her for a way of escape. How could this gentle, unworldly little man foresee the lengths to which a creature like Donner might go? “I won’t see her—”

“Now is that any way to greet your own dear Ma, childeen?” Donner’s voice came from the doorway. “¼Tis my heart you’ll be breakin’ entirely.” She came forward, her black dress and cape rustling. Kathryn had the image of a great bird of prey swooping. Donner hesitated, assessing the little white-haired man standing so quietly beside the girl. She seemed to dismiss the idea that he could be a threat to her, and advanced again toward Kathryn. Adrian Bart, all smiles, followed her into the room.

Kathryn caught at her courage with both hands. “Donner, you are not my mother. You know very well that I am not married to this artist—”

“Poor girleen!” sighed Donner, dabbing at her dry eyes with a grimy handkerchief. “Quite out of her mind again! It’s not the first time,” she confided to the Vicar. “She’s had delusions and run away before. Sometimes she claims to be the Lady Nadine Elsingham, and other times she says she’s a lost soul come here from the future. I hope I don’t have to put the poor troubled creature into Bedlam!” She gave Kathryn a threatening glance.

Kathryn shrank back, white-faced.

Donner was quick to follow up this advantage. “Of course, if she’s ready to come quietly with us who know and love her, we’ll see she comes to no harm. Her poor husband, a saint if ever there was one,” with a quick, admonitory glance at Bart, who was staring at Kathryn with a remarkably foolish expression on his face, “is more than willing to take her back and let me care for her quietly in our own home. Much pleasanter for the poor childeen than Bedlam, wouldn’t you say, Your Reverence?”

The Vicar spoke at last. There was no shock or protest in his tone, merely an acceptance of human frailty.

“You are an evil woman, Mistress Donner. Kathryn told me about you. I had thought that perhaps she exaggerated, but you really are utterly without conscience. I have never met a human being without compunction before.”

Donner stared at him, nonplussed. Her first quick scrutiny had classified him as a harmless old fool, frail and ineffectual, whom she could wheedle or bully as she pleased. Yet the words he had just spoken made her uneasy. He hadn’t raised his namby-pamby, finicking old voice, with the cultured accent she envied while she scorned it, but he’d managed to frighten her more than many a younger man had been able to do. Still, she assured herself, he was nothing but a doddering old nincompoop. Surely she could bamboozle him easily enough! She adopted the tone of wheedling truculence she had used successfully to get her way with the Irish gentry.

“Now, then, Your Reverence, there’s no need to be angry with old Donner! I’m sure we all want what’s best for this poor, disturbed girleen—”

“Silence, woman!” commanded the Vicar, without heat but firmly. “I know what you are. You want nothing good for anyone. I warn you to cease your persecution of this woman. The soul you sought to entrap and degrade has escaped you by the Grace of God, and this soul has resources you cannot comprehend. For your own sake, woman, I charge you: leave us; return to your own place. In Jesus’ name.”

He merely stretched out his arm, pointing to the door, but there was something in his voice and face which suggested an exorcism. The old man spoke as one commanding a demon.

Donner’s lip drew back from her teeth in a grimace, half smile, half snarl; she turned, with one furious glance at Kathryn, and walked so quickly from the room that she caught Adrian Bart unprepared. He hurried out after her, embarrassed and resentful.

Newton, who had been hovering in the hallway, shamelessly eavesdropping, got the front door open in time, and watched with satisfaction as the two conspirators went down the walk, quarreling furiously.

Within the room, Kathryn was staring at the Vicar with respect. “You routed her! It was like an exorcism!”

The vicar did not smile. “Kathryn, you did not exaggerate. That is a very evil spirit—arrogant and presumptuous. She hungers and thirsts for power—absolute power over other human beings. She dabbles in forbidden practices. There is the stink of witchcraft about her. And she is not defeated. She will return—reinforced. You must get away from this place at once.”

“But where can I go? I can’t return to Bennet Farm—”

“No, you must get completely out of her sphere of influence. She has controlled the body you now wear, so you will never be safe unless you can face her down yourself—”

“No, no!” Kathryn sobbed, and shook her head in fear.

“Then you must go where she cannot follow. Perhaps London—no! New York! She’d scarcely follow you there!”

While Kathryn was trying frantically to express her reluctance to go to the New York of 1775, Newton came spryly into the parlor, his eyes sparkling. Never in all his years with the Reverend Percy had so many interesting things happened.

“It’s Farmer Bennet here now, sir, to see you and Mistress Radcliffe. He says it’s urgent!”

“Show Mr. Bennet in at once, Newton. God grant it’s not more trouble,” the Vicar said to Kathryn.

As Richard entered the room, his eyes went at once to Kathryn’s face. “Good evening, Kathryn,” he said. “Thankee for seeing me, Father Percy,” he went on. “I’m afraid I’ve brought rather bad news. Elspeth Cameron’s gone daft. She came home from Crofton village full of some wild tale about meeting Kathryn’s mother and—husband,” he colored, then went on, quietly, “I felt I must warn you.”

“The creature has been here already, and I have sent her and her attendant empty away,” said the Vicar sternly. “However, I am convinced she will return. Kathryn must be gotten out of her reach at once. We were trying to think of a suitable place—”

“There’s the farm,” began Richard eagerly, and then shook his head. “Too close to hand. And Elspeth would never keep silent.” He frowned with the effort of concentration. “Wait! I’ve had a message from Maggie. Just before Elspeth came storming in, a groom from the Manor rode over to tell me my sister had come to Elsinghurst and was very anxious to see me. So I think I should take Kathryn there at once.”

“Yes, that would help. It won’t do as a permanent sanctuary, for servants will talk, but it will get Kathryn out of Donner’s ken for tonight. Your sister must help us to think of a safer place.”

Kathryn had regained her color and her composure as she listened. “If Bennet is at the Manor, and has sent for me, that means she has the portrait there also. Don’t you see it’s the perfect refuge for me? I’ll go back to my own time and place!”

The Vicar frowned. “My dear child, how can you hope to accomplish this? You were brought here, I truly believe, through some devilish sorcery of Donner’s. Can you return without having recourse to similar practices?”

Kathryn stared at him, sick with disappointment. “I had thought I might just—look at the picture . . . concentrate . . . and return,” she began miserably.

Richard, unable to bear the desolation on that beautiful face, came to stand beside her. “Let’s get you safe to the Manor. I’ll find a way to alert Maggie and we’ll smuggle you in. It’s such a great barn of a place there’ll be many a room you could hide in for a month, and no one ever discover you.”

Kathryn smiled up into his concerned face. “I’m lucky to have wonderful friends,” she said softly.” I do agree with Father Percy that I should leave soon—”

“You’re right about that, mistress,” said Newton from the doorway. “There’s a gaggle o’ villagers coming up the road—some with torches—and they don’t sound very friendly.” He was holding Kathryn’s cloak in his hands. With a smile and a word of thanks, Kathryn threw it over her shoulders and turned to the Vicar.

“We’ll go out the kitchen door, Father Percy. If you can stall them off long enough for us to get away—”

“Go with Richard Bennet at once, my dear child.” The Vicar was leading the way to the kitchen as he spoke. “Did you come by horseback, Richard?”

“He’s in your stables, and he’ll bear the extra weight gladly. There must be no horse missing to give them a clue.”

“Go with God,” said the Vicar fervently, and ran back into the house.

As Richard guided the great stallion down the narrow lane he and Kathryn could see the flicker of torchlight through the trees, and hear the threatening gabble of voices approaching the front of the vicarage.