Reluctantly, Hecate nodded. “Very well. As soon as I return from my picnic with John. But, Father, promise me you will permit me to go with you to Brockhampton.”
“I hardly think it necessary, nor advisable.”
“You will, once we have spoken. Please, Papa.”
He hesitated and then, seeing the earnest look on his daughter’s face, said, “Tomorrow, you can convince me.”
“Tomorrow,” Hecate confirmed, reaching up and kissing him quickly before returning to her room. Though it was very late she knew she would not sleep easily. She had notes to write and plans to make.
At ten o’clock, John arrived in the cathedral gig. From her bedroom window, Hecate saw him draw up. She grabbed her hat and ran down the stairs, not wishing to involve her family in lengthy exchanges of pleasantries. Fortunately, they were all still in their rooms, none of them having got to their beds much before two, the events of the ball no doubt keeping them awake for sometime after. She trotted out through the front door. John smiled at her and reached out a hand to help her up onto the seat beside him.
“A lovely day for our picnic,” he said, smiling. “Of course I arranged it so.”
“I would expect nothing less from you, knowing you have such a connection with the Almighty,” she teased, having earlier decided she would keep the mood of the outing light. The information she was planning to share with him was dark enough, and she did not want him frightened for her safety. It was sufficient to have her mother fussing over her. She needed John as an ally, not a protector. And besides, despite the shock of what had happened at the ball, she was excited. If her theory was correct, she knew where to find an Embodied Spirit. At last she had the chance to confront one, to challenge him, if necessary. She was not so foolish to think that she could do such a thing without help. John was a part of that. So was her father. She glanced back at the house. As soon as she returned she would speak to him about the viscount. “Let us be on our way. I have no wish to wake Mother.”
He picked up the reins and the skittish horse lunged forward, tipping Hecate back in her seat and forcing her to hang on to her hat. As Bucephalus trotted along the Mordiford road and away from the city, she felt her fatigue of the night before begin to lift. It was refreshing to have the cool air of the morning in her face, the pretty countryside around her, and John’s reassuring presence.
He adjusted his broad-brimmed black hat the better to shade his eyes from the morning sun, and inquired about the ball.
“Was it, after all, an enjoyable evening?” he asked, unaware of the drama that had taken place, referring rather to Hecate’s own professed dislike of such events.
“For the most part it was a ball like any other. There was dancing. Clementine looked exquisite. People enjoyed Lady Twyford-Harris’s excellent wine and food. But…”
“But? Do I sense a scandal waiting to be told?”
“Not quite, but certainly the occasion could not be called dull,” she replied. “Lord Brocket’s cousin caused a scene.”
“Oh? I do not know the man. A scene, you say. A little too much champagne, perhaps?”
Hecate paused before giving her answer.
John glanced at her, sensing her hesitation.
“There was more to it than that,” she said. “But to explain now would be to tell the story backward. There is a great deal I have to share with you, John. Things of importance…”
“And these have to do with the lost souls you spoke of?”
“Yes and no. Let us wait until we have reached our picnic spot. I have forgone my breakfast to be out with you.…”
“A true test of friendship.”
“Is it not?” She smiled at him. “I will be far more eloquent when I have eaten something.” She turned and lifted the lid of the picnic hamper that was secured to the back of the gig. “Goodness! Did you leave anything in the kitchen for your fellow vicars?”
“One or two of them could feel the benefit of missing a meal,” he said with a shrug.
They continued in comfortable silence. After another half mile or so, John slowed the horse to a walk and steered off the path and across an opening between the trees. He found a shady spot, jumped down, and tied the horse to a young oak.
Hecate sprang down from her seat without waiting to be helped.
“What a charming place,” she said. “Reverend Forsyth, if I did not know you better, I might think this is where you regularly bring young women in order to impress them.” She turned about, waving an arm to indicate the loveliness of the glade. There was just enough of a space between the trees to allow sunlight to reach the ground where soft grass grew, free of brambles. On three sides the woodland deepened. In front of them, the opening expanded, giving the view of a low hedgerow and beyond it gently sloping meadows. Sheep grazed, their lambs gambolling and playing in little gangs, running up banks or leaping off a fallen tree. A robin sang from a nearby bough. “Everything is … perfection,” she said.
“You don’t think the lambs too much?”
“They are a distraction. I might prefer watching them to talking with you.”
John lifted down the hamper. “Then I shall win you back with vicarage pie and ginger beer.”
She helped him spread out the tartan rug and they sat down. Hecate felt at ease with him, despite their young acquaintance. For her, this was of more importance than he could know. More than his blue eyes or nimble wit. To be herself in another’s company, the absence of pretense or effort, was no small thing. He set the food down and she helped herself to a plate and a slice of the pie. It was a mix of pressed cold meats beneath a topping of pasty, and was named after country vicars who had little money to spare. The pie would have been made of leftovers from a more lavish roast earlier in the week, perhaps, or donations from parishioners.
“This is very good,” she said, taking another bite while he pulled the rubber stopper from the ginger beer and poured two cups.
“The vicars choral used to have their own cook, but economies had to be made. When she retired she was not replaced. Fortunately, two of our number took to the tasks of baking and preparing meals splendidly. They manage very well with the assistance of a scullery maid, and our fare has improved considerably. The ginger beer is particularly sweet,” he said, passing some to her.
She drank, nodding, feeling further revived. They ate on in silence until she had cleared her plate and licked her fingers clean.
John smiled at her.
She caught the look. “You think me unladylike?”
“I think you … singular.”
Hecate removed her hat, dropping it onto the grass, and leaned back on her elbows.
“Are you ready to tell me now?” he asked.
“Are you ready to listen?”
“To you? Always.”
