“Anglo-Catholic. There were a number of church leaders in Barsetshire in the nineteenth century who were keen followers of the Oxford Movement. They wanted to bring ritual and beauty back into the church. The precentor would have fit right in with them. He’s a true High Churchman.”
“Hey look,” said Bethany, walking up to the stone altar. “This looks just like the one at the cathedral.”
“George Gilbert Scott did some work at Barchester three years after he redecorated Plumstead. Apparently Bishop Gladwyn admired the Plumstead altar and asked Scott to do one just like it at the cathedral. The only difference is that the cathedral altar is exactly three times the size.”
“It’s so beautiful,” said Bethany, running her fingers across the bas-relief on the front of the altar.
“It could easily distract you from . . . searching for a lost manuscript, for example.”
“We will,” said Bethany, standing and looking around her. “Just give me a few minutes to take it in.”
Arthur smiled as he slipped into a pew near the front of the nave. He had hoped Bethany would enjoy this place. He had rarely been here when the church wasn’t crowded for the annual service and summer festival. To sit in such a stunning space, the quiet broken only by Bethany’s footsteps as she explored the corners of the church, was a treat for Arthur. He found his mind relaxing for the first time in days. He took a deep breath through his nose and behind the must and staleness of the air, he detected just a hint of incense. It had been burned so many times here it was part of the atmosphere—embedded, no doubt, in the very woodwork. He wondered if some of that incense had been lit by his grandfather.
—
Two hours later, Arthur, sweaty and dusty, collapsed back into a pew. “I think we can say with as much authority as anyone alive that there is no hidden manuscript in this church,” he said. They had crawled on the floor peering under pews; looked under, behind, and within the few furnishings; tapped on walls searching for secret compartments; and scoured every cabinet in the tiny sacristy, where they found nothing but a few candle stubs and some old hymnbooks. They had even looked inside the Easter sepulchre in the side of the altar. It would have been a perfect place to hide a book. But the sepulchre was empty.
“It’s a shame,” said Bethany. “It would have been exciting to find your lost Book of Ewolda.”
“I am inclined to look on the bright side,” said Arthur, who felt a little disappointed that their search had been fruitless.
“What is the bright side?” said Bethany, plopping down in the pew just in front of the pulpit. A sheen of sweat glistened on her forehead, and a smudge of dust outlined her left cheekbone. Instead of a single wisp of hair falling in front of her face, there were at least a half dozen.
“The bright side is that if we had found the lost Book of Ewolda, we would have had to start the guidebook all over again.”
“We? It’s not my guidebook, Arthur; it’s yours. And my job is to digitize manuscripts, so as far as I’m concerned, the more lost ones we dig up the better.”
“In that case, I suppose the bright side is that we spent a Sunday afternoon in a beautiful church, enjoying the best the Victorians had to offer.”
“It is beautiful,” said Bethany. “I might be distracted by all this amazing art if I actually went to a service here, but to sit here and just soak it up . . .”
“We’d better get going,” said Arthur, glancing at his watch. “They’re singing a Rutter anthem at Evensong and I’d hate to miss it.”
“You are a creature of habit, Arthur, aren’t you?”
“I am,” said Arthur as they walked down the aisle together. But he thought, as she passed through the door in front of him and into the late afternoon light, At least I was until I met you.
—
The morning sun sparkled on the dew in the water meadows, the birds sang with unusual gusto, and Arthur leaned against the gate waiting for Gwyn and reading a Penguin paperback of Right Ho, Jeeves. He hadn’t been so relaxed in . . . well, in years. He hadn’t realized what a weight the unfinished guidebook had been until he finished it. Add to that a lovely Sunday afternoon spent with Bethany and the fact that he was reading not for research or work but for sheer enjoyment, and Arthur felt as much a part of the joy of this morning as the birds and the sunshine. He had nearly sprinted out of Morning Prayer to the gate where he usually met Gwyn, precisely so he could have this moment. And what could be better—the medieval grandeur of the cathedral towering behind him, the fresh air with just a hint of dampness blowing through his hair, the view across the water meadows to a section of the winding river lined with beech trees, and an old friend to read. He hadn’t visited Jeeves in far too long, but he still couldn’t resist raising his eyes to the morning at every turn of the page. He hardly flinched when the gate opened, Mag and Nunc burst through, and one of them stopped to shake off the dew all over Arthur’s trousers.
“You’re positively beaming,” said Gwyn. “I’m glad someone is having a good morning.”
“I am having a good morning,” said Arthur enthusiastically. “And what about you? Trouble in the chapter?”
“No more than usual. But Daniel is sick and the nanny is sick and the back-up nanny is up in London visiting her aunt.”
“You don’t have to chaperone me around the field if you need to get back and look after Daniel. I’m quite capable of finding the way on my own.”
“Oh, Arthur, we both know your morning wouldn’t be complete without a good dousing from Mag and Nunc,” said Gwyn. “Besides, I need the escape. The precentor’s better half is sitting with Daniel for the morning and then I’ll take my work home after lunch.” Gwyn closed the gate and they headed out across the field where the dogs were already romping in the grass.
“The precentor has a wife?” said Arthur.
“Oh, God, no,” said Gwyn. “He has a twin sister. She’s as confirmed in her spinsterhood as he is in his bachelorhood. She spends the winters in what I gather is little more than a boardinghouse in Kent and the summers in a rented cottage in Scotland and every spring and autumn she stops off in Barchester for a couple of weeks when she’s on her migration.”
“The precentor has a twin,” said Arthur. “It’s nice to know, I suppose. He always seems so . . . alone in the world.”
“I suppose he is, in many ways,” said Gwyn. “I’ve never spoken to him much about his private life, but I gather he had his heart broken when he was a young man and he never quite got over the girl.”
“I’m sure it’s very unchristian of me to say it,” said Arthur, “but I find it hard to imagine anyone being in love with the precentor.”
“Confidentially, so do I. But his sister is a very kind woman, and infinitely patient when she’s in Barchester.”
“I’ve no doubt,” said Arthur.
“So, what has that smile plastered to your face this morning? Have you won the lottery, or are you just in love?”