flickered downward, and I saw that what I had taken for a clerical collar was but a white polo neck worn under the grey cardigan. Futile to blame the vicar for wearing civvies.
Good heavens! This was akin to being pushed onto a darkened stage and finding oneself an actor in a Victorian melodrama. From the audience—I mean, the other members of the Hearthside Guild—came chortles at my bumble. But who in this quiet hamlet could have suspected? A female clergyman! St. Paul would turn in his grave. The congregation would go on strike over this, even if they did not take up their picket signs on Miss Thorn’s behalf. My brain stopped whirling and took a couple of steps forward and three back. Miss Thorn! Was she the woman from The Past? Was the vicar’s husband another notch on Miss Thorn’s black lace garter belt? Were old secrets and old sins about to take up residence in this house which heretofore had known no worse than an occasional puff of tobacco smoke and discreet glass of sherry? And which of them—the vicar or her husband—had dismissed the church organist on the trumped-up charge of being a back-door Methodist?
“I am afraid I have been teasing you,” the reverend lady smiled. “I am not a fully fledged vicar. I’m a lowly deacon sent here until a permanent male replacement can be found for Reverend Foxworth.”
“You don’t know St. Anselm’s,” I replied. “To us you will be the vicar in thought and probably name.”
“Something to drink?” asked Mr. Gladstone Spike.
Suspicion reared its serpent head. Rowland had not frowned on the occasional glass of Oh Be Joyful, but the new incumbent might have more exacting standards of sobriety. The Melroses gave nothing away. Neither was partaking of liquid refreshment. They stood by the harvest table holding hands—or, I should say, Mrs. Melrose, tonight wearing a sack dress that made her look more than ever like a female Friar Tuck, was holding the doctor’s hand. Hmmmm! What had we here? Far from appearing his usual sanguine self, Dr. M’s expression was reminiscent of mine when greeting him from a supine position with my feet in the stirrups. Neither of the Bludgetts was holding a glass. They were standing so close it was hard to tell which was wearing the Charlie Chaplin moustache. While I stood gawking, Ben asked for a glass of wine.
“Whatever you have in the cellar.” He exuded affability until I spoke up, having determined better safe than sorry.
“Have you forgotten, Bentley, that we’ve given it up except at Communion?”
He kept a grip on his smile.
“We’ll take tea,” I informed our hosts.
“Milk, no sugar, if you please.” My husband measured out the words as if they were ground glass to be stirred into my cup.
As for the vicar, I had no idea whether I had scored points with her or not. Her smile was as neutralas her mode of dress. Would even the advent of a rival for her husband’s affections ruffle her finger-waved hair?
“Mind doing the honours, dear?” she said, addressing her spouse. “And how about the cake? Our new brethren will find they haven’t lived before sampling your chocolate madeira.”
See the nice man blush.
“Gladstone’s cakes always took First Place at the summer fête when we were at St. Peter’s in the Wode. Let St. Anselm’s cooks beware.” Now the vicar’s smile embraced all present, especially, it seemed to me, the Bludgetts, who bashfully emerged from their own little world. Even so, my Aunt Astrid would have ordered their immediate excommunication, public flogging having been abolished.
Woe to he who lusts after another man’s culinary success. With elaborate indifference, Ben prowled over to the table where Gladstone Spike now had the silver teapot well in hand. Black brows fused, my husband subtly sized up the competition posed by the chocolate madeira cake. Joined by Dr. Melrose, he accepted a floral cup and saucer and stood watching the wistful drift of steam go spiralling
Good heavens! This was akin to being pushed onto a darkened stage and finding oneself an actor in a Victorian melodrama. From the audience—I mean, the other members of the Hearthside Guild—came chortles at my bumble. But who in this quiet hamlet could have suspected? A female clergyman! St. Paul would turn in his grave. The congregation would go on strike over this, even if they did not take up their picket signs on Miss Thorn’s behalf. My brain stopped whirling and took a couple of steps forward and three back. Miss Thorn! Was she the woman from The Past? Was the vicar’s husband another notch on Miss Thorn’s black lace garter belt? Were old secrets and old sins about to take up residence in this house which heretofore had known no worse than an occasional puff of tobacco smoke and discreet glass of sherry? And which of them—the vicar or her husband—had dismissed the church organist on the trumped-up charge of being a back-door Methodist?
“I am afraid I have been teasing you,” the reverend lady smiled. “I am not a fully fledged vicar. I’m a lowly deacon sent here until a permanent male replacement can be found for Reverend Foxworth.”
“You don’t know St. Anselm’s,” I replied. “To us you will be the vicar in thought and probably name.”
“Something to drink?” asked Mr. Gladstone Spike.
Suspicion reared its serpent head. Rowland had not frowned on the occasional glass of Oh Be Joyful, but the new incumbent might have more exacting standards of sobriety. The Melroses gave nothing away. Neither was partaking of liquid refreshment. They stood by the harvest table holding hands—or, I should say, Mrs. Melrose, tonight wearing a sack dress that made her look more than ever like a female Friar Tuck, was holding the doctor’s hand. Hmmmm! What had we here? Far from appearing his usual sanguine self, Dr. M’s expression was reminiscent of mine when greeting him from a supine position with my feet in the stirrups. Neither of the Bludgetts was holding a glass. They were standing so close it was hard to tell which was wearing the Charlie Chaplin moustache. While I stood gawking, Ben asked for a glass of wine.
“Whatever you have in the cellar.” He exuded affability until I spoke up, having determined better safe than sorry.
“Have you forgotten, Bentley, that we’ve given it up except at Communion?”
He kept a grip on his smile.
“We’ll take tea,” I informed our hosts.
“Milk, no sugar, if you please.” My husband measured out the words as if they were ground glass to be stirred into my cup.
As for the vicar, I had no idea whether I had scored points with her or not. Her smile was as neutralas her mode of dress. Would even the advent of a rival for her husband’s affections ruffle her finger-waved hair?
“Mind doing the honours, dear?” she said, addressing her spouse. “And how about the cake? Our new brethren will find they haven’t lived before sampling your chocolate madeira.”
See the nice man blush.
“Gladstone’s cakes always took First Place at the summer fête when we were at St. Peter’s in the Wode. Let St. Anselm’s cooks beware.” Now the vicar’s smile embraced all present, especially, it seemed to me, the Bludgetts, who bashfully emerged from their own little world. Even so, my Aunt Astrid would have ordered their immediate excommunication, public flogging having been abolished.
Woe to he who lusts after another man’s culinary success. With elaborate indifference, Ben prowled over to the table where Gladstone Spike now had the silver teapot well in hand. Black brows fused, my husband subtly sized up the competition posed by the chocolate madeira cake. Joined by Dr. Melrose, he accepted a floral cup and saucer and stood watching the wistful drift of steam go spiralling
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