the flesh, preferring to wield power; it was inconceivable that she should take a lover, for when it came to gossip Gillanbone was as receptive as a wire to an electrical current. To prove herself human and weak was not a part of her obsession.
But now she was old enough to be officially beyond the drives of the body. If the new young priest was assiduous in his duties to her and she rewarded him with little gifts like a car, it was not at all incongruous. A staunch pillar of the Church all her life, she had supported her parish and its spiritual leader in fitting fashion even when Father Kelly had hiccuped his way through the Mass. She was not alone in feeling charitably inclined toward Father Kelly’s successor; Father Ralph de Bricassart was deservedly popular with every member of his flock, rich or poor. If his more remote parishioners could not get into Gilly to see him, he went to them, and until Mary Carson had given him his car he had gone on horseback. His patience and kindness had brought him liking from all and sincere love from some: Martin King of Bugela had expensively refurnished the presbytery, Dominic O’Rourke of Dibban-Dibban paid the salary of a good housekeeper.
So from the pedestal of her age and her position Mary Carson felt quite safe in enjoying Father Ralph; she liked matching her wits against a brain as intelligent as her own, she liked outguessing him because she was never sure she actually did outguess him.
‘Getting back to what you were saying about Gilly not being the epicenter of the Archbishop Papal Legate’s map,’ she said, settling deeply into her chair, ‘what do you think would shake that reverend gentleman sufficiently to make Gilly the pivot of his world?’
The priest smiled ruefully, ‘Impossible to say. A coup of some sort? The sudden saving of a thousand souls, a sudden capacity to heal the lame and the blind ... But the age of miracles is past.’
‘Oh, come now, I doubt that! It’s just that He’s altered His technique. These days He uses money.’
‘What a cynic you are! Maybe that’s why I like you so much, Mrs Carson.
‘My name is Mary. Please call me Mary.’
Minnie came in wheeling the tea trolley as Father de Bricassart said, ‘Thank you, Mary.’
Over fresh bannocks and anchovies on toast, Mary Carson sighed. ‘Dear Father, I want you to pray especially hard for me this morning.’
‘Call me Ralph,’ he said, then went on mischievously, ‘I doubt it’s possible for me to pray any harder for you than I normally do, but I’ll try.’
‘Oh, you’re a charmer! Or was that remark innuendo? I don’t usually care for obviousness, but with you I’m never sure if the obviousness isn’t actually a cloak for something deeper. Like a carrot before a donkey. Just what do you really think of me, Father de Bricassart? I’ll never know, because you’ll never be tactless enough to tell me, will you? Fascinating, fascinating ... But you must pray for me. I’m old, and I’ve sinned much.’
‘Age creeps on us all, and I, too, have sinned.’
A dry chuckle escaped her. ‘I’d give a lot to know how you’ve sinned! Indeed, indeed I would.’ She was silent for a moment, then changed the subject. ‘At this minute I’m minus a head stockman.’
‘Again?’
‘Five in the past year. It’s getting hard to find a decent man.’
‘Well, rumor hath it you’re not exactly a generous or a considerate employer.’
‘Oh, impudent!’ she gasped, laughing. ‘Who bought you a brand-new Daimler so you wouldn’t have to ride?’
‘Ah, but look how hard I pray for you!’
‘If Michael had only had half your wit and character, I might have loved him,’ she said abruptly. Her face changed, became spiteful. ‘Do you think I’m without a relative in the world, and must leave my money and my land to Mother Church, is that it?’
‘I have no idea,’ he said tranquilly, pouring himself more tea.
‘As a matter of fact, I have a brother with a large
But now she was old enough to be officially beyond the drives of the body. If the new young priest was assiduous in his duties to her and she rewarded him with little gifts like a car, it was not at all incongruous. A staunch pillar of the Church all her life, she had supported her parish and its spiritual leader in fitting fashion even when Father Kelly had hiccuped his way through the Mass. She was not alone in feeling charitably inclined toward Father Kelly’s successor; Father Ralph de Bricassart was deservedly popular with every member of his flock, rich or poor. If his more remote parishioners could not get into Gilly to see him, he went to them, and until Mary Carson had given him his car he had gone on horseback. His patience and kindness had brought him liking from all and sincere love from some: Martin King of Bugela had expensively refurnished the presbytery, Dominic O’Rourke of Dibban-Dibban paid the salary of a good housekeeper.
So from the pedestal of her age and her position Mary Carson felt quite safe in enjoying Father Ralph; she liked matching her wits against a brain as intelligent as her own, she liked outguessing him because she was never sure she actually did outguess him.
‘Getting back to what you were saying about Gilly not being the epicenter of the Archbishop Papal Legate’s map,’ she said, settling deeply into her chair, ‘what do you think would shake that reverend gentleman sufficiently to make Gilly the pivot of his world?’
The priest smiled ruefully, ‘Impossible to say. A coup of some sort? The sudden saving of a thousand souls, a sudden capacity to heal the lame and the blind ... But the age of miracles is past.’
‘Oh, come now, I doubt that! It’s just that He’s altered His technique. These days He uses money.’
‘What a cynic you are! Maybe that’s why I like you so much, Mrs Carson.
‘My name is Mary. Please call me Mary.’
Minnie came in wheeling the tea trolley as Father de Bricassart said, ‘Thank you, Mary.’
Over fresh bannocks and anchovies on toast, Mary Carson sighed. ‘Dear Father, I want you to pray especially hard for me this morning.’
‘Call me Ralph,’ he said, then went on mischievously, ‘I doubt it’s possible for me to pray any harder for you than I normally do, but I’ll try.’
‘Oh, you’re a charmer! Or was that remark innuendo? I don’t usually care for obviousness, but with you I’m never sure if the obviousness isn’t actually a cloak for something deeper. Like a carrot before a donkey. Just what do you really think of me, Father de Bricassart? I’ll never know, because you’ll never be tactless enough to tell me, will you? Fascinating, fascinating ... But you must pray for me. I’m old, and I’ve sinned much.’
‘Age creeps on us all, and I, too, have sinned.’
A dry chuckle escaped her. ‘I’d give a lot to know how you’ve sinned! Indeed, indeed I would.’ She was silent for a moment, then changed the subject. ‘At this minute I’m minus a head stockman.’
‘Again?’
‘Five in the past year. It’s getting hard to find a decent man.’
‘Well, rumor hath it you’re not exactly a generous or a considerate employer.’
‘Oh, impudent!’ she gasped, laughing. ‘Who bought you a brand-new Daimler so you wouldn’t have to ride?’
‘Ah, but look how hard I pray for you!’
‘If Michael had only had half your wit and character, I might have loved him,’ she said abruptly. Her face changed, became spiteful. ‘Do you think I’m without a relative in the world, and must leave my money and my land to Mother Church, is that it?’
‘I have no idea,’ he said tranquilly, pouring himself more tea.
‘As a matter of fact, I have a brother with a large
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