The Elsingham Portrait - By Elizabeth Chater Page 0,54
her own amazing story had healed once and forever a festering wound of doubt in Kathryn’s mind: that perhaps she was insane. It had not seemed impossible to this little cleric that a woman’s soul might be transmitted from one century to another.
“The more we learn,” he had said quietly, when she finished her strange story that first night, “the more we see there is to learn. You have spoken about the science and technology which, commonplace in your time, are to us in 1775 dazzling, challenging mysteries. Yet we ourselves accept as ordinary knowledge facts and ideas which would have terrified our ancestors. One must keep an open mind, and beware of self-righteous complacence.”
Now again he was considering her words carefully.
“Yes, Kathryn, I am afraid I do live apart from the daily concerns of my parishioners, both gentry and farmers. The world of abstract thought is not as attractive to them as it is to me. And so many of them have to struggle, dawn to dark, to earn enough to keep body and soul together, that they are too tired to enjoy anything but food and drink and sleep.” He glanced at Kathryn. “And of course, sex.” He smiled at her responsive chuckle, highly pleased that he had made her laugh.
“But you, my dear,” he went on, “are far too young and beautiful to put yourself outside the stream of life. If you could only reconcile yourself to staying here—”
“To be exiled to a ruined castle in Ireland?” asked Kathryn. “In the power of a devilish woman who seems to have kept this body drugged and under her control? And who probably sent the soul of Nadine into the future for some evil purpose?”
The Reverend Percy stared at her, his mind busy. “But surely, with such beauty and knowledge as you possess, you could outwit some old peasant woman?”
“She has a power which frightens me,” confessed Kathryn. “There is something about her which turns my spirit cold.”
“From what I have heard you say of Lord John, he has behaved as a sensible and decent man. This agrees with my own limited personal experience with him. Perhaps together you and I might convince him that the wild, immature spirit of the Irish girl no longer inhabits this body—”
Kathryn stared at him, her face pale with shock. “Father Percy! Where is Nadine? If I am here in her body—”
His face brightened. “She must therefore be free of the dominance which might have destroyed her soul! You perceive, my dear child, that the workings of the Deity, while inscrutable, are benevolent! You have given that poor immature being a chance to live and develop outside the influence of Donner.”
“But if she is in my body . . . she’ll be terrified! The noise! The automobiles and subways—and jet planes . . .”
“We must commend her to God,” said the Reverend Percy serenely. “Perhaps in that noisy, brawling, active city you have described, she will be more at home than you ever were.”
“I hope she knows how to fight for what she wants,” said Kathryn grimly. “I never learned how to.” She winced as she recalled the scene on the bus and her feelings of humiliation. The Reverend Percy was watching her with surprisingly keen eyes. “I believe you will learn how now—when there is something you really want. I cannot believe your heart was set on that shallow and venial youth you described to me. Today we should call such a fellow an encroaching mushroom.”
He was rewarded by a full-throated laugh from Kathryn. It was their special game to use slang from their respective eras. The priest was acquiring a colorful twentieth century vocabulary which Kathryn was afraid he would use inadvertently some day to the confusion of his parishioners.
Diverted, Kathryn searched for the relevant expression. “In New York, we’d call his kind a sharpie—on the make—wheeling and dealing. I’m afraid Don was a social climber,” she concluded. Suddenly a smile touched her lip sand eyes. “Father Percy, I’m free! The thought of Don doesn’t hurt any more.”
The Vicar nodded encouragement. “That’s a sensible girl! The fellow obviously isn’t worth a thought!” He peered at her craftily. “And having made that decision, are you any closer to deciding to stay here and fight—”
He was interrupted by the hurried entrance of old Newton.” There’s a lady here, sir, says she has to see Mrs. Radcliffe, only she calls her Mrs. Bart, and says she’s her mother!”
Startled, Kathryn stared from Newton to his