The Elsingham Portrait - By Elizabeth Chater Page 0,44

with one or the other, or both!”

Kathryn joined his laughter. “Wall-to-wall books? I’ll feel right at home. And that reminds me. It’s time I found other lodging, closer to the vicarage. No,” she halted his protest, “I can’t be taking you away from your work, letting you drive me to the vicarage every day. You know that.”

“I’d not mind,” said the big man quietly. Alarm bells rang in Kathryn’s mind. She continued firmly.

“It would be very much easier on me if I lived close to my work. Do you think—could it be arranged—that I could stay at the vicarage?”

Richard gave it careful thought. “There’s enough bedrooms, surely—most of them full of boxes of books—,” he grinned. “Of course it might cause talk.”

“I couldn’t have that.”

“Perhaps if you took Poll with you?” Richard suggested. “She’s young but she’s steady. You might be glad of her strength, too. The place is a rat’s nest—no fault of Mrs. Latchet. I’ll swear the poor woman would be glad of a pair of young arms. ¼Tis a big house, the vicarage.”

Kathryn hesitated. “How much do you think the Vicar could afford to pay me? If I asked Polly to come with me, I’d need enough to pay her, too.?”

Richard grinned. “The Reverend Archibald Percy has enough to pay a dozen of you,” he said. “The living was a gift of the old master, Lord John’s father, and carries a generous stipend. Vicar gives most of it away, when he thinks about it at all. Mrs. Latchet pays the household accounts—otherwise the tradesmen would never get anything. Vicar has his mind on other matters.”

“He seems to need an accountant as well as a librarian.”

“The good man needs a manager,” smiled Richard. “I can hardly wait till you see the inside of the vicarage.”

When they entered the lovely old house a few minutes later, Kathryn decided she had never seen such an incredible confusion. The elderly manservant, Newton, ushered them past and around and through boxes of books, not yet opened, which usurped most of the spacious front hallway. With unruffled calm he led them to a sunny library at the rear of the house.

“Farmer Bennet and a lady,” he said, and walked away.

The Reverend Archibald Percy received them with gentle courtesy, had to be reminded who Richard was, thought he’d met Kathryn before, asked her if she were his cousin Sophia from Bath, then looked again and announced with a broad smile that she couldn’t be, because he’d just recollected that Sophia was his senior by ten years, and asked them to be seated.

While they were trying to discover chairs that had no covering of books, the Vicar seated himself, beamed at them, told Kathryn she was the most beautiful human being he remembered seeing, and asked them what he could do for them.

Patiently Richard reminded him that this was Mrs. Radcliffe, the widow who needed employment, and was a qualified librarian.

The Vicar stared at her, shook his head admiringly, and quoted, “ ‘Behold, the half was not told me!’ ”

Kathryn, who had decided that she liked the gentle, aristocratic, white-haired old man very much, smiled demurely and said, “I believe that is my line, O King,” and, indicating the huge piles of leather-and-gilt bound books which filled every niche and corner of the room, she finished quoting what the Queen of Sheba had said to King Solomon, “ ‘thy wisdom and prosperity exceed the fame which I heard.’ ”

The Vicar’s gaze sharpened on her face and a slow smile of pleasure tugged at his lips. “Can I believe my ears? To our rustic hamlet have you indeed brought ‘the feast and the flow of soul’? Art thou Minerva, Goddess of Wisdom?”

Kathryn laughed. “Thank you, Father Percy, but I am neither Sheba nor Minerva. Merely Kathryn—Radcliffe of New York.” Somehow it had been hard to give the wrong name to this good old man.

The Vicar focused on her lovely face. “You not only got my reference to Solomon, but you capped it! Refreshing! Very few, I may safely say almost none, of my parishioners could have done so. Well, well, so you are to be my librarian and set my books to rights.” He pulled the bell-rope; then, without waiting for his servant to arrive, called “Newton! Newton!”

The old servant must have been waiting outside the door. He entered slowly, bearing in trembling hands a large tray, much tarnished, and three glasses and a decanter.

“Newton, I see you have brought the sherry. Very well done! But