chapter Nine
"Used to come here often," Mrs. Wellbeloved replied, wringing out a cloth with powerful, red-knuckled hands. "Twice a week, most months. Played chess with the vicar reg'lar. Loved their game, they did. Then he stopped all of a sudden, about two years ago. Never came here since, except it were business, or with other folk. Vicar never said why, but then he wouldn't. Could keep other folks' secrets better than the grave, he could."
"You mean they quarreled?" Clarice felt a stab of disappointment. It seemed such a sad and stupid thing to do. "What quarrel could be so bad, and last so long?"
Mrs. Wellbeloved jerked upright, banging her elbow on the bucket, which was still on the table. She winced. "Well, it wouldn't be the Reverend Wynter's fault, an' that's for certain. He was the best man that ever lived in the village, whether his family went back to the manor or the workhouse! Forgive anybody anything, he would, if it were against himself. Tried over and over to make it up with Sir Peter, and Sir Peter weren't having any of it." She grunted fiercely. "But the vicar would never say a thing were right if it weren't. Fear o' God's in him like a great light, it is. Mr. Corde's a very lucky man to be allowed to step in for him over Christmas." She nodded several times. "Walk a few miles in the reverend's footsteps an' he'll be the better man for it, mark my words." She savagely wiped half the table dry, lifted the bucket onto the floor, and wiped the other half, wringing the cloth out several times.
Clarice felt defensive of Dominic, but bit her tongue rather than say anything; she needed Mrs. Wellbeloved on their side. She took a deep breath. "He seems to be a very remarkable man, even for a vicar," she said with as much humility as she could manage.
Mrs. Wellbeloved's face softened. "That he is," she agreed more gently. "Man o' God, I say. He deserves a holiday. Go off an' do more of his paintings an' drawings, that's what he needs." She looked Clarice up and down, and then turned away so her face was out of sight. "Obliged you could come." She sniffed, choking off the emotion in her voice. She picked up the bucket and threw the dirty water into the sink so hard it splashed up and a good deal of it went out again on either side, waking the cat. Etta shook herself angrily and then curled up again, nose in her tail.
Clarice considered whether to wipe the water up for Mrs. Wellbeloved, and decided against it. Better to pretend she hadn't noticed. Instead she fetched Etta a dry towel for her bed and put the kettle on for another cup of tea, and then went to dust the hall, not that it needed it.
***
There was a sharp drop in the temperature that evening and another heavy fall of snow. Dominic banked the fires high, hoping they would stay burning most of the night, so there would be at least some warmth left in the air by morning.
At dawn he looked out of his study window and saw the bleak beauty of the pale light, but he knew it meant that no one could plow through the deep drifts to leave the village-and some would find it hard even to leave their home to fetch food. This was where his ministry could begin. He had no knowledge yet at which houses he would be welcome, however, and he could not afford even one mistake. He was an outsider, temporarily taking the place of a man he realized was deeply loved.
So far he had only one source of information, Mrs. Wellbeloved. Clarice's exact words had been: "She has opinions about everything, which she'll share at the drop of a hat. Be busy about something else, and even if she's talking complete nonsense, for heaven's sake don't argue with her. Local knowledge is her great achievement."
Clarice was probably right. Dominic had not had to deal with maids before; he'd never even considered them.
It was time he did so. He rose and went to find Clarice, who was busy in the kitchen warming two flatirons on the top of the range, ready to iron his shirts, which she had washed the day before. Cat and dog were squashed into one basket together by the stove. Dominic looked at Clarice with a deep stab of guilt. She was not beautiful in the traditional sense, except for her eyes, which were wide, clear gray with dark lashes. There was far too much character in her face, too much readiness to laugh or lose her temper. She was quick with her opinions and far too candid for a vicar's wife, and much too perceptive of the truth. He could no longer count the times she had embarrassed him. But she was also generous and swift to forgive. She was without arrogance, and he had never known her to make a promise and fail to keep it.
She could have married a man able to give her a large house and maids to look after her every need. She could have had a carriage, fashionable clothes, and invitations in society. Could she really be as happy as she seemed, face flushed, apron around her waist, testing the flatirons for temperature?
She looked up at him and smiled.
"I'm going to see Mrs. Wellbeloved," he told her. "I need her advice as to whom I should call on in this weather. She'll know."
"Excellent idea," she said approvingly. Then she frowned. "Do be tactful with her, won't you? She's a funny creature."
He bit his lip to keep from laughing. "I had noticed that, my dear."
"Wrap up well," she advised. "It's bitter outside."
"I'd noticed that, too." He kissed her quickly on the cheek, and before she could catch his arm he turned and went into the hall.
He put on his heavy boots, a thick, woolen scarf around his neck, then his overcoat, gloves, and a hat. Even so he was unprepared for the blast of cold as he opened the front door. Instead of yesterday's chill in the air, there was a slicing wind with the cruel edge of ice on it, and the glare of light off the snow caused him to narrow his eyes. He stepped out and heard the crunch of his own footsteps. It would be very nice to change his mind and go back inside, but he could not afford to. Part of being a vicar was not listening to the tempting little voice that told you another day would do, or that there was somebody else to perform the task. He was the man people looked to here to do the work of God, and he must not fail.
He crossed the village green, seeing only a few other footprints in the snow. The pond was partially iced over, the bench beside it deserted. The air was gray. The houses seemed to huddle down, roofs pale; thin trails of smoke smeared up against the sky. Only the blacksmith's glowing forge looked inviting. Beyond the village, the woods were tangled branches of black, here and there denser where the evergreens clustered, pale-patched where the snow clung.
He passed an old woman with a bundle of sticks and called "good morning" to her, but her reply was mumbled and he could not make out her words. He increased his pace and finally felt the warmth return to his body.
Ten minutes later he was knocking on Mrs. Wellbeloved's door, and was relieved when she opened it and invited him in. He stepped over the threshold into a dark, warm hallway smelling of floor polish and smoke.
"Well, now, Mr. Corde," she said briskly. She refused to call him vicar. "What can I do for you? 'Fraid you'll have to manage the housework yourselves today. Got company coming, like I said."
"I need your advice, Mrs. Wellbeloved," he replied, watching her expression change immediately and guarding himself from smiling.
"Ah, well, that I can do, Mr. Corde. What is it you need to know? Come in an' sit a moment; it's my duty to spare you that long." She led the way into a neat front parlor where a fire was just beginning to burn up. Mr. Wellbeloved, a sturdy man with a weathered face and a shock of gray hair, was sitting whittling a piece of wood into a whistle. There was a pile of shavings on a piece of brown paper on the floor in front of him. Painted blocks were neatly stacked beside him.
When introductions were made, and he had explained that he was carving Christmas presents for the grandchildren, Dominic asked Mrs. Wellbeloved for advice about whom he should visit. He wrote down her answers, with addresses, in the notebook he had brought with him.
"An' you'd best ask Mr. Boscombe to add to that," her husband put in helpfully. "Lives at the end o' the lane as you come in from the south. A big house with three gables. He was vicar's right hand till about six months ago. Knew everything there was, he did."
Mrs. Wellbeloved nodded her agreement. "That he did, an' all. Good man, Mr. Boscombe. He'll see you right."
"Until about six months ago?" Dominic questioned.
Mr. Wellbeloved glared at his wife, then back at Dominic, his knife stopped in midair. "That's right."
"What happened then?"
Again they looked at each other.
"Don't know," Mrs. Wellbeloved answered. "That'd be between Mr. Boscombe and the vicar. Give up all his church duties, he did. But still a good man, an' very friendly. Nothing whatever you could take against. You go ask him. He'll tell you all as I can't."
And Dominic had to be content with that. He thanked them and made his way reluctantly out into the bitter air again. With the directions they had given him he walked briskly the half mile against the wind to the large, thatched house where John and Genevieve Boscombe lived with their four children.
He was welcomed in shyly, but with a gentle warmth that made him immediately comfortable. John Boscombe was a lean, quietly spoken man with fair hair, which was thinning a little. His wife was unusually pretty. Her skin was without blemish, her smile quick, and the fact that she was a little plump and her hair was definitely untidy seemed only to add to a sense of warmth.
Dominic heard happy laughter from upstairs, and at least three sets of feet running around. A large dog of indeterminate breed was lying on the floor in the kitchen in front of the range, and the whole room smelled of baking bread and clean linen. There was a pile of sewing in a basket, the bodice of which was obviously a doll's dress.
"What can we do for you, Vicar?" Boscombe asked. "A cup of tea for a start? It's turned cold enough to freeze the-" He stopped, coloring faintly at a sharp look from his wife. "Tea?" he repeated, his blue eyes wide.
"Thank you very much," Dominic replied.
Genevieve hastily moved a pile of folded laundry from one of the chairs and invited him to sit down at the kitchen table. He did not need the explanation that this was the only warm room in the house. People careful with money did not burn more fires than they had to. He knew that with sharp familiarity.
There was the sound of a shriek and then giggles from upstairs.
"I need your advice," he said. "Mrs. Wellbeloved tells me you were very close to the vicar and could advise me as to all the people I should keep a special care for: those alone, unwell, in hard or unhappy circumstances of any kind. I'm not asking for any confidences," he added quickly, seeing the look of anxiety in Boscombe's face. "Only where I should begin, and whom I must not overlook."
Boscombe frowned. "Did the vicar not tell you those things?"
At the range, Genevieve turned to look at him, the kettle still in her hand.
"No," Dominic said regretfully. "I never actually met him. The bishop directed me here. I assume the Reverend Wynter advised him rather late. Perhaps his need to take a holiday arose very suddenly-a relative ill or in need? I was given no details. I was happy to come."
"Oh!" Boscombe looked surprised, and oddly relieved. "That was very good of you," he added hastily. "Yes, of course we'll both do anything we can to help."
"Thank you. I'd like to talk to you a little about the vicar's sermons, particularly past Christmases. I don't want to repeat his words, or his exact message, but I'd like to be..." Suddenly he was uncertain exactly what he meant. Familiar, but original? Encouraging and new, but not disturbing? That was nonsense. He needed to make up his mind, decide between the safe and the daring. Was Christmas supposed to be safe, comfortable? Nothing more than the restating of old beliefs?
"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.
***
The 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 cream, 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.