He looked at her differently then, so that Hecate felt herself studied like some unusual bird that had flown into the garden. She stood up, uncomfortable under such scrutiny, irritated with herself for saying so much.
“While my father might encourage my passion for books, my mother tells me that I am prone to talking more than is necessary or sensible in company. I fear I may just have proved her right.”
He, too, rose to his feet.
“Well, I for one am delighted that you have come to join us at the cathedral. I look forward to hearing of your adventures, of the mysteries you uncover up there in your aerie.”
She glanced at him to see if he was laughing at her but his expression remained open and kind rather than mocking. She heard the tower bell strike the quarter hour.
“Thank you for the pie,” she said, already backing away. “It was good of you.”
“Let me escort you.”
“No need,” she said, turning and walking briskly across the quadrangle. And then, concerned she had seemed rude, she spun around so that she continued stepping backward while she called to him. “Surely an adventurer can find her own way back to her desk?”
“Godspeed!” he called after her, and she saw that he was smiling again.
2
As Hecate descended the stairs from the library at the end of her first working day, the final, sustained notes of a sung psalm echoed throughout the cathedral. She was familiar with the sublime singing and glorious organ music of the cathedral from attending services, but knew she would never become inured to its power. The beauty of the voices, the sweetness of the high notes and the somber comfort of the low ones never failed to reach her. Despite her father’s inclination, she had been raised a practicing Christian so that the liturgy and rituals were part of her normal life. However, she was of the opinion that even a nonbeliever could not fail to be moved by such sounds as were to be found in Evensong. Now, thinking of John Forsyth and his devotion to the music of the cathedral, she had another reason to enjoy it.
She arrived home to find her father in the stables.
“Wonderfully punctual as ever, I see. How was your first day as an employed person?”
She laughed. “Fascinating! I have so much to tell you, and so many questions…”
“And I shall be delighted to hear all the details and answer whatever I am able, but first, we must attend to our mission for your brother.”
“We are to take him to Kynaston?”
“Indeed we are. Put your bicycle away, quick as you can. Then go and fetch Charlie,” he said, returning to the complicated business of getting the harness on Peggy. Hecate leaned her bicycle against the door of the stall.
“Are we in a particular hurry?”
“Yes and no. No, in as much as the days have lengthened nicely, so we have sunlight on our side. Yes, in that your mother is taking tea with the Benson sisters and may tire of their conversation and return home at any moment.”
The two exchanged conspiratorial grins.
She found her brother in the hallway lacing up his boots. Eight years her junior, he had still the gangly frame of a young man in the making. His hair was the same red as her own, but the rest of him was all their mother. When fully grown he would no doubt be quite substantial. Now, however, he was fragile. Hecate would never forget the agony of worry the family had endured when rheumatic fever had almost claimed him. Good nursing and good fortune had seen him win through, but the legacy of vulnerability was there for all to see. The doctor had assured them he would regain his strength and could live well, but he must guard against chills, fevers, and suchlike. Their mother had made it her mission to protect him. Their father saw it as his job to ensure the boy experienced life, even though it be at some risk.
On seeing his sister, Charlie grinned. “I knew you wouldn’t be late. Has Father got the cart ready?” He showed little sign of the head cold their mother had mentioned.
“Very nearly. Here, let me.” She bobbed down and took the laces from him, pulling tight, her movements quick and practiced.
“Hey, my poor feet!” Charlie laughed.
“Come along, no time for complaining,” she said, standing up and reaching past him to grab a boater and muffler.
Ten minutes later, the trio were installed in the small tub-cart, Peggy trotting smartly east along Hampton Park Road. The trap was plain but serviceable and adequate for the family’s everyday needs. When covered transport was required, perhaps to take them in their finery to a ball, Mr. Cavendish would summon a cab. It was a matter of disappointment to Mrs. Cavendish that they no longer kept a carriage of their own. The truth was, they could neither afford nor justify it. Their social engagements were mostly of the small variety and within a short cab ride. Their funds would be tested if they were to purchase and maintain such a carriage, and to buy and keep at least a pair of well-bred and trained horses to pull it would be beyond them. Hecate understood that her parents were not poor, as such. She also understood that, however much her mother might declare the humble income she earned from the library superfluous to requirements, it was helpful. The family money her father possessed, along with the small financial success his career as an archeologist had brought him, was sufficient for their modest lifestyle, but no more than that. She was perfectly content with things the way they were, but she knew that at times her mother struggled to keep up with their wealthier friends, and that invitations were sometimes turned down in order to limit expenses.
She tucked a rug over Charlie’s knees and slid her arm around his waist, pulling him a little closer. She could hear their mother’s admonishments in her ear and was determined to keep him safe, but she and her father were of one mind when it came to what was best for the boy. Already there was more color in his cheeks and his eyes were shining with the simple pleasure of being out of doors. The avenue of fine houses gave way to countryside as they left the city. The road was a good one, well maintained and reasonably free of ruts and holes. The lowland fields to the east of Hereford were lush and fertile, fed by the River Wye and its smaller cousin, the Lugg. The county was known for its produce, particularly its beef and hops, and increasingly its cider apples. On this fine spring afternoon the orchards were beginning to bud and some to blossom, lending a prettiness to the landscape that could not fail to lift the spirits. It took them a little under an hour to reach the village of Kynaston, by which time the pony was beginning to slow, her flanks damp with sweat, her tail swishing against bothersome flies. As the farmhouse came into view, Charlie twisted in his seat, craning for a better view of the fields and a possible glimpse of the Hereford cattle he so delighted in. Hecate experienced a similar delight at the idea of seeing their family friend again.
As if reading her thoughts, her father exclaimed, “And there he is! The man himself.”
Perhaps having heard the approaching cart, the owner of Kynaston Farm had come to stand at the end of the drive. And now she could see him, leaning on the gatepost, a hand raised in greeting, his habitual smile topped off by his fine waxed and twirled mustache, his broad shoulders filling out the tweed of his jacket and his ample chest straining the buttons of his yellow-checked waistcoat: the imposing figure of gentleman farmer, Phileas James Weatherby Sterling.
“A trio of Cavendishes!” he exclaimed. “Is there a compelling reason to flee the city, or am I to believe you make the journey purely for the pleasure of my company?” he asked, taking hold of Peggy’s bridle and rubbing the pony’s ears.
“I am sorry to deflate your pride, Phileas,” Hecate told him, opening the little door at the back of the cart and climbing out, “but it is your cattle we’ve come to see.”
Mr. Cavendish laughed. “You cannot compete with their charms, old boy. Pointless to try.”
He clutched at his heart dramatically. “I am wounded! Though inclined to agree.”
Hecate let him take her hand and kiss it.
“Charlie knows all their names,” she said, noting how he held her hand a little longer than was strictly necessary. She made sure not to react. “He’s come to check you are looking after them properly.”
Phileas turned his attention to the boy. “Ah, I sense a stockman in the making!”
Charlie beamed. “I would like nothing better.”
“I’m sure Mother would be delighted,” Hecate said, her face clearly stating the opposite.
“And why not?” Phileas wanted to know. “Farming is good honest work, you can’t argue against that. Close to God’s creations, and putting food in the mouths of the hungry.”
“I thought your main income was from beer hops,” Hecate teased.
