The confusion of heaped books was hideous, but Kathryn surveyed it with some satisfaction.
“We’ll polish the shelves this afternoon, Polly, That’ll keep the dust from settling again.”
Polly agreed with all the fervor of her mother’s daughter. Mrs. Latchet came to call them to lunch and surveyed the clean shelves with approval. “That’s setting it to rights, ma’am! We’ll maybe get this place in order after all!”
The whole house was redolent of furniture wax, and the shelves in the library and parlor were shining, before Kathryn and Polly, exhausted, called it a day. Mrs. Latchet announced that dinner would be served in an hour, and that the Vicar had requested the pleasure of Mistress Radcliffe’s company at his board. Polly helped Kathryn wash, and took their dusty aprons with her to the kitchen. She was to have her meal there with Latchet and Newton.
Kathryn, whose whole arm and shoulder were one agonizing ache from the unaccustomed labor, was of two minds about going down to dinner. She looked longingly at the bed, so inviting with the crisp white sheets neatly turned back by Polly. Then she sighed. The Vicar obviously anticipated a pleasant evening, and she owed him that, at least, for the safe refuge he was giving her. She hadn’t covered her tracks too well, she thought wearily. She’d asked Polly not to mention her red hair, but everyone at the farm had seen it, and Elspeth would be sure to volunteer the fact and air all her suspicions if any enquiry were to be made. Well, I’ll just have to take my chances, Kathryn decided, and hope that no one comes looking for me. And then she wondered why she felt so depressed.
For the Vicar’s sake, she put her worries behind her at dinner. He held her chair for her in the small, charming dining room which looked out through wide windows onto the lawn at the back of the house. With really touching courtesy he had forborne bringing a book to the table, telling her that live conversation should be his treat this evening. Kathryn tried to match his courtesy gallantly.
“No, no, Vicar, I will not allow that a mere female can compete with Cicero and Vergil and Homer! Even Plato would only permit a few of them in his Republic.”
“But you are forgetting the prime motivator of all good talk, madam.” The Vicar’s eyes twinkled, and he paraphrased: “ ‘This was the face that launched a thousand ships!’ ” He bowed and raised his glass to her.
“You’ll not win me by flattery, sir,” Kathryn countered, racking her brain for a suitable rejoinder. And then she had it. “ ‘I fear the Greeks, even when bearing gifts!’ ”
The meal proceeded in a glow of mutual pleasure. Kathryn found her exhaustion giving way under the blandishments of good wine and food. Since arriving in this time, she had never felt so much at ease, so truly happy. The challenge, when it came, was therefore the more devastating.
“My dear,” said the Vicar gently, “I have not enjoyed such a dinner since I left the Commons at Magdalen College. But you have had an exhausting day, and I must let you retire to your room. May I say two things before you go?”
“Of course!” Kathryn smiled at him in the candle-glow.
“My house is blessed by the presence of such erudition and beauty combined—Venus and Minerva.”
Kathryn found herself unable to answer.
“But my dear child,” the Vicar went on gently, “there is no college in North America which admits both men and women. Who are you? If you are in trouble I shall count myself honored to be permitted to help you.”
Kathryn stared at him, the blood leaving her cheeks. He brought her a glass of sherry, forced her to sip it, begged her pardon, castigated himself for a foolish old man. “My dear, forgive me. I did not mean to cause you pain.”
“I shall tell you my story . . . but you will think me either mad—or—” She couldn’t say it to this kind old man.
“Not mad,” he said gently. “Never that.”
“Or possessed of a devil!”
He came to her, took her hand, stared long into her eyes. She met his searching stare bravely until her own eyes watered and the tears flowed down her cheeks.
“Poor child,” the old man said. “Who has hurt you so?” And he kissed her forehead gently. “Now tell me what is wrong.”
Fourteen
Mr. Randall Towne was kicking his elegantly-shod heels in Lord Elsingham’s library one evening when