“Then let me walk you,” he suggested, following on.
“I would rather not discuss this further, not among other people.”
“I promise we will not touch upon the matter. Not until you raise it again. It is simply that I find myself reluctant to watch you go.”
She was about to refuse him but hesitated, realizing that she enjoyed the thought of spending a little longer in his company. Now that she had shared her secret with him she felt there was a new, almost conspiratorial bond between them.
“Come for tea, then,” she said, starting down the stairs. “Mother would be delighted to see you,” she told him, her voice floating back up the stairwell to him as she descended.
When they reached the cloister entrance, she stepped past him to fetch her bicycle. As she began to wheel it along he took hold of the handlebars.
“Let me do that,” he suggested. When she hesitated, about to say she could manage perfectly well, he added, “Please?”
She gave in, allowing him to be gallant, falling into step next to him as he pushed the bicycle across the Cathedral Green.
A gaggle of schoolchildren dashed past, giggling, chasing one another across the short grass, their pretty clothes and bright ribbons a blur of colors against the backdrop of the lawn. Hecate breathed deeply, forcing herself not to be irritated by the slow pace at which they were walking. Ordinarily she would have sped home in a matter of minutes. It was obvious John wished to make their journey last a little longer. He would have known he would not have her to himself once they reached the Cavendish family house. They walked on in companionable silence and she was grateful for the way they could be at ease with one another without the need for chatter. Even so, she suspected he must have a hundred questions for her regarding her revelations.
Number 24 Hafod Road was the sort of house where people seemed forever to be coming and going. As Hecate and John left the bicycle in the stable and walked through the walled garden, Edward Cavendish came out of the back door. He had on his golfing clothes and strode with great purpose.
“Ah, the little worker bee returned to the hive! And hail to you, Reverend Forsyth,” he said cheerily, waving his unlit pipe by way of salute.
“Mr. Cavendish.” John nodded.
Hecate was reminded, not for the first time, of the minute but important differences in the way that he interacted with her father compared to the way Phileas spoke with him. John was articulate and nimble minded, but he did not have Phileas’s ease, nor his status. He had not the background, the private means, the expensive school of a certain type, the social connections that Phileas shared with her father. The way he addressed him as “Mr. Cavendish” rather than simply “Cavendish” said more about the gulf between them than anything else could.
“John is joining us for tea, Father,” said Hecate.
“Capital! Sorry to miss your visit. Alas, I am promised to Lord Brocket for a game.”
“So late in the day?” she asked.
Her father strode on toward the stables. “We shall play a swift nine holes and be home before Stella has the table laid for dinner,” he called over his shoulder. “Your mother awaits within. I bid you adieu!”
John and Hecate exchanged smiles.
“Your father could have had a fine career on the stage, one feels.”
“He’d be delighted to hear you say that. Retirement bores him. Perhaps he’ll take up acting.”
“I’m sure Mrs. Cavendish would be delighted,” he said, holding open the door for her.
They found the rest of the family in the drawing room. A small fire burned in the hearth, no doubt lit for Charlie’s benefit. Her brother looked up from his book. Hecate felt a jolt of fear on seeing the dark circles beneath his eyes. She sought to hide it by making rather overenthusiastic greetings, even kissing her mother on the cheek as they all exchanged hellos and gentle inquiries about each other’s days. She did not see eye to eye with her mother on many things, but in the matter of their love for Charlie they were united. She knew that whatever fears she herself harbored, her mother would be similarly hiding her own cold, gnawing worry about the boy’s fragile health.
Soon they were all seated and Stella arrived with a tray of tea. Mrs. Cavendish waved her away, happy to serve their guest herself. Hecate was certain having John’s company would distract her mother from gloomy thoughts.
“Now then, Reverend”—Beatrice poured Indian tea into red-and-gold Spode china cups as she spoke—“how do you take your tea? Let me see if I can guess, a little milk but no sugar…?”
“You have seen right through me already, Mrs. Cavendish.” He smiled.
“… and will you be tempted by some of Cook’s fruitcake?”
“It’s very good,” Charlie put in, hurrying over to the table and helping himself to a slice. His mother frowned, but indulged the lack of restraint, happy to see him eat. Seeing her expression, he added, “It’s very good for building people up and keeping them strong.”
“How could I refuse after such an excellent endorsement?” John said.
Hecate could not resist teasing him. “Can’t have you too weak to lift a hymnal, can we?”
“I’ll have you know being a vicar can be physically demanding work. Only yesterday I was required to help Mr. Gould move a bookcase from the vestry to the sacristy.”
“Hecate”—her mother’s tone had a sharpness to it—“it is unbecoming to make such comments on a man’s profession. Here, Charles, pass this to Reverend Forsyth,” she said, handing him the tea and cake. If Hecate had hoped that would be the end of her mother’s thoughts on the matter of John’s vocation, she was to be disappointed. “Such rewarding work; not only to carry out the duties of a parish priest, but to sing in the cathedral. Such … uplifting music.”
“Indeed it is, Mrs. Cavendish.”
“And such an ancient and … prestigious position. To be one of the vicars choral carries a certain cachet. Do you not agree, Hecate?” She gave her daughter a look that dared her to declare otherwise.
Suppressing giggles, she replied, “That’s exactly the word I would use, Mother. Cachet.” She was sitting close enough to John to be aware that he, too, was having to mask his amusement.
Ignoring any possible ridicule, her mother went on. “I have heard,” she said while selecting cubes of sugar with silver tongs, “that the new rules now allow the wives of vicars at the cathedral to live with them in the recently refurbished houses in the cloisters. Is that the case?”
“It is,” John confirmed. “And they are a welcome addition to our community.”
Hecate bit into her fruitcake, determinedly refusing to be drawn into the conversation further.
Her mother was unstoppable. “Why yes, I imagine so. After all, so many figures dressed in black … how pleasant to have some colorfully attired ladies among you now. Pretty dresses, a charming smile, an elegant hat or two … these things can greatly enhance any company. Do you not agree, Hecate?”
“Oh, absolutely,” said Hecate through a mouthful of cake, brushing crumbs from her lap. “I never underestimate the importance of an elegant hat.”
John spluttered slightly into his tea.
