The Elsingham Portrait - By Elizabeth Chater Page 0,53

have been forever telling you.” Elspeth clung stoutly to her anger. “She’s a married woman run off from her husband. I told them where to find her—”

“You meddler!” Richard’s attack shocked Elspeth into momentary silence. “You had no business tattling! My sister trusted us to shelter the girl—”

“From her lawful husband?” snapped Elspeth, recovering her countenance.

“And who says he is her husband?” Richard challenged, his face unyielding.

At this evidence of male stupidity and bias, Elspeth’s fragile control snapped. “Whoever he is, she’s mixed up with him and that queer old woman. They’re a precious pair of rascals. Birds of a feather flock together, as you ought to know. Decent folk are well rid of the lot of them. I couldn’t find it in my conscience to remain under any roof where such persons were welcome,” she concluded self-righteously.

“This is still my home, Elspeth Cameron,” said Richard in a voice she had never heard him use, “and my orders must be obeyed. If you cannot find it in your conscience to accept my decisions, you must leave at once.”

The woman stared into his face, unable to believe what she had heard. “You are telling me to go away from this farm, Richard? After the years I have worked here, faithfully, for you and your sister? After we have worked together—known each other?”

Richard considered her gravely. “It seems to me I have never really known you until now.” He turned away. “I’ll saddle a horse and ride to the vicarage. If this is some trick, Kathryn may need help, and the Vicar is of no use in an emergency. Get the guest room ready for Mistress Radcliffe and Poll.”

“You fool!” shrilled Elspeth. “You’re besotted by her devil’s face—!” but Richard had already left her.

Elspeth had never admitted to herself the depth and nature of her feeling for her employer, nor did she do so now. Instead she got into the trap again, and, seizing the whip, lashed the astonished cob into a reluctant trot. Her face was twisted in a scowl and she muttered to herself, “I’ll save him from that witch . . . I’ll tell the villagers what sort of a viper they have nourished . . . contaminating their children . . . deceiving a besotted old man . . .”

She was well on the way to Elsinghurst before Richard had saddled his horse. Unaware that Elspeth was launched on a mission of vengeance, he did not force the pace, but held his mount to a canter along the lane that was a short cut to Elsinghurst Village.

*****

And at this very moment, Donner and Adrian were already at the Elsingham Arms in Elsinghurst, asking the way to the vicarage, and telling their story of the return from the dead of “the widow’s” husband.

Seventeen

Quite unaware of the storm gathering in the village, Kathryn was pouring tea for the Vicar. They were seated in his pleasant parlor. The Reverend Percy beamed at the books so neatly arranged on the shelves, their white paper markers safely undisturbed. He eyed the flowers tastefully arranged and set out on dust-free tables, the fire burning cheerily in the fireplace, the curtains neatly drawn against the approaching night.

“It’s a miracle. This house has never appeared so spacious, so inviting, yet every one of my books is where I can find it! In my study, too! You have worked the miracle, Kathryn.”

“Thank the Dewey Decimal System,” said Kathryn, handing him his cup and offering the toasted scones.

“I really shouldn’t . . . but so good with cheese and jam.” He busied himself with his plate, while Kathryn smiled fondly at him and poured her own tea. Speaking of miracles, she had never felt so useful, so needed, so fulfilled as since she came to the home of this gentle old man. They spoke the same language, she and the Reverend Archibald Percy.

“We’re really misfits, you and I,” Kathryn heard herself saying aloud. He lifted his white eyebrows in enquiry. “Not so much born out of time,” she explained her comment, “as living outside the daily lives of our neighbors.”

The Vicar gave this the same calm and careful consideration he gave to everything she said. It was one of his greatest charms, she thought. He was completely aware of her; he listened completely. The Reverend Archibald Percy, Kathryn had discovered, was vague only about material things. In the realm of ideas he was remarkably acute—“awake on all suits,” as the current slang had it. His instant acceptance of