by Anne Perry
“You must be right, my dear.” His wife touched his arm with approval. “It seems obvious now. Of course that is what has happened.”
“It all seems to be quite unimportant.” Grandmama reasserted her influence on the conversation. “My acquaintance is with you, and has been since our youth. I should like to pay my respects at the funeral, and should be greatly indebted if you would inform me as to when it is.”
“Oh certainly,” the vicar answered before either of the Misses Worlingham had time. “How kind of you. Yes—it is to be held in St. Anne’s, next Thursday at two o’clock in the afternoon.”
“I am obliged.” Grandmama was suddenly very gracious.
The door opened again and the parlormaid announced Mr. and Mrs. Hatch, and was followed immediately by a woman of about the same height as Angeline, and with a considerable resemblance to her in feature. The nose was a trifle more pronounced, the eyes had not faded, nor the hair, and she was obviously a generation younger, yet there was much in the bearing that was like, and she too wore the total black of mourning.
Her husband, only a step behind her, was of medium height and extreme gravity. He reminded Charlotte quite strongly of pictures of Mr. Gladstone, the great Liberal prime minister, in his earlier years. There was the same dedicated purpose in his stare, the same look of total rectitude and certainty in his own convictions. His side whiskers were less bristling and his nose of less grand proportions; still, the impression was sharp.
“My dear Prudence.” Celeste greeted Mrs. Hatch with outstretched hands.
“Aunt Celeste.” Prudence went to her and they kissed each other lightly, then she moved to her Aunt Angeline, and was kissed more closely and held a moment longer.
Josiah was more formal, but his condolences seemed every bit as sincere. In fact he looked quite obviously distressed; his face was pale and there was a drawn appearance to the skin about his mouth. His emotions were apparently very deep and he kept them in control with some effort.
“The whole situation is quite dreadful,” he said fixedly, looking at no one in particular. “Everywhere there is moral decline and decay. Young people in confusion, not knowing whom or what to admire anymore, women unprotected—” His voice was thick with distress. “Look at this unspeakable business in Whitechapel. Bestial—quite bestial. A sign of the chaos of our times—rising anarchy, the Queen closed up in Osborne ignoring us all, the Prince of Wales squandering his time and money in gambling and loose living, the Duke of Clarence worse.” Still he looked at no one, his mind consumed with his inner vision. His body was motionless, but there was great strength in it, a feeling of waiting power. “The coarsest and most absurd ideas are being propagated and there is one tragedy after another. Everything has begun to slip ever since the dear bishop died. What a terrible loss that was.” For a moment a look of sheer anguish crossed his features as if he gazed upon the end of a golden age, and all that followed must be darker and lonelier. His hands clenched in front of him, large knuckled and powerful. “And no one remotely near his stature has arisen to carry God’s light for the rest of us.”
“Theophilus …” Angeline said tentatively, then stopped. His look of contempt froze the words before they were formed.
“He was a good man,” Prudence said loyally.
“Of course he was,” her husband agreed. “But not his father’s equal, not by a very long way. He was a pygmy in comparison.” A strange mixture of grief and contempt crossed his face, then a zeal that had a wild beauty, almost visionary. “The bishop was a saint! He had wisdom incomparable with any of us. He understood the order of things as they should be, he had the insight into God’s ways and how we should live His word.” He smiled briefly. “How often I have heard him give counsel to men—and to women. Always his advice was wise and of spiritual and moral upliftment.”
Angeline sighed gently and reached for her handkerchief, a wisp of cambric and lace.
“Men be upright,” he continued. “Be utterly honest in your dealings, preside over your families, instruct your wives and children in the teachings of God. Women be obedient and virtuous, be diligent in your labors and they shall be your crown in heaven.”
Charlotte shifted uncomfortably in her chair. The strength of his emotion was so obvious she could not dismiss it, but the sentiment was one she longed to quarrel with.
“Love your children and teach them by your example,” Hatch went on, unaware of her, or anyone else. “Be chaste—and above all, be dutiful and be loyal to your family; therein lies your happiness and the happiness of the world.”
“Amen,” Angeline said with a sweet smile, her eyes raised as if in thought she could feel her father somewhere above her. “Thank you, Josiah, you have again reminded one of the purpose and reason for life. I don’t know what we should do without you. I do not mean to speak slightly of Theophilus, but more than once I have thought you were Papa’s true spiritual heir.”
The color spread up his cheeks and for a moment there seemed to be tears in his eyes.
“Thank you, my dear Angeline. No man alive could wish for a finer compliment, and I swear to you, I shall endeavor to live worthily of it.”
She beamed at him.
“The window?” Celeste said quietly, her face also softer and an expression of pleasure filling her eyes. “How is it progressing?”
“Very well,” he answered after a sharp sniff and a shake of his head. “Very well indeed. It is most gratifying to see how everyone in Highgate, and far beyond, wishes to remember him and give all they can. I think they truly realize that these are dark times full of the doubts and misguided philosophies that these days pass as some kind of greater freedom. If we do not show very plainly what is the right way, God’s way, then many souls will perish, and drag the innocent down with them.”
“You are so very right, Josiah,” Celeste put in.
“Indeed,” Angeline nodded. “Indeed you are.”
“And this window will be a powerful influence.” He would not be cut off before he had spoken his mind, even by agreement. “People will look at it, and remember what a great man Bishop Worlingham was, and revere his teachings. It is one of the achievements of my life, if I may say so, to perpetuate his name and the good works that he performed in his mortal existence here.”
“I’m sure we are all indebted to you,” Angeline said heartily. “And Papa’s work will not die as long as you are alive.”
“Indeed we are most grateful,” Celeste agreed. “I’m sure Theophilus would say so too, were he alive to do so.”
“Such a loss,” Clitheridge said awkwardly, two spots of pink coloring his cheeks.
His wife put her hand on his arm and her grip was surprisingly firm; Charlotte could see the white of her knuckles.
A pinched expression crossed Josiah Hatch’s face, drawing tight the corners of his mouth, and he blinked several times. It seemed a mixture of sudden envy and disapproval.
“Ah—I—I would have expected Theophilus to initiate such a project himself,” he said with wide eyes. “I am sometimes tempted to think, indeed I cannot avoid it, that Theophilus did not truly appreciate what an outstanding man his father was. Perhaps he was too close to him to realize how far above that of others were his thoughts and his ideals, how profound his perception.”
It seemed no one had anything to add to this, and there were several moments of uncomfortable silence.
“Ahem!” The vicar cleared his throat. “I think, if you will excuse me, we will leave you, and go and visit Mrs. Hardy. Such a sad case, so difficult to know what to say to be of comfort. Good day, ladies.” He bowed rather generally in the visitors’ direction. “Good day to you, Josiah. Come, Eulalia.” And taking his wife by the arm he went rather hastily out into the hallway and they heard the front door open and close again.
“Such a kind man—so kind,” Angeline said almost as if she were pronouncing an incantation. “And so is dear Lally, of course. Such a strength to him—and to us all.”
&nbs
p; Charlotte thought that perhaps without her the vicar would collapse into incomprehensibility, but she forbore from saying so.
“He preaches a very good sermon,” Celeste said with faint surprise. “He is really very learned, you know. It doesn’t come through in his conversation, but perhaps that is as well. It doesn’t do to overwhelm people with more learning than they can understand. It offers neither comfort nor instruction.”
“How very true,” Prudence agreed. “In fact I admit at times I do not know what he is talking about. But Josiah assures me it is all extremely good sense, don’t you, my dear?”
“So it is,” he said decisively, nodding his head a little, but there was no warmth in his tone. “He is always up to date on what the learned doctors of theology have said, and frequently quotes their works; and he is always correct, because I have taken the liberty of checking.” He glanced briefly at the three visitors. “I have a considerable library, you know. And I have made it my business to take such periodicals as are enlightening and enlarging to the mind.”
“Very commendable.” Grandmama was frustrated with her enforced silence for so long. “I presume Theophilus inherited the bishop’s library?”
“He did not.” Celeste corrected her instantly. “I did.”
“Celeste wrote up all Papa’s sermons and notes for him,” Angeline explained. “And of course Theophilus was not interested in books,” she went on, looking with a nervous glance at Prudence. “He preferred paintings. He had a great many very fine paintings, mostly landscapes, you know? Lots of cows and water and trees and things. Very restful.”
“Charming,” Caroline said, simply for something to add to the conversation. “Are they oils or watercolors?”
“Watercolors, I believe. His taste was excellent, so I am told. His collection is worth a great deal.”
Charlotte was curious to know if Clemency had inherited it, or Prudence; but her family had already disgraced itself more than enough for one day. And she did not believe that the motive for Clemency’s murder, which they had all skirted delicately around mentioning, was money. Far more likely was the dangerous and radical reform she so passionately worked for—and apparently so secretly. Why had she not told even her aunts and her sister? Surely it was something to be proud of, most particularly with such a history of service as her grandfather’s?
Her speculation was cut short by the parlormaid arriving yet again to announce Dr. Stephen Shaw. And again, he was so hard on her heels that she almost bumped into him as she turned to leave. He was not above average height and of strong but not stocky build, but it was the vitality in his face that dominated everything else and made the others in the room seem composed of browns and grays. Even tragedy, which had left its mark on him in shadows around his eyes and more deeply scored lines around his mouth, did not drain from him the inner energy.
“ ’Afternoon, Aunt Celeste, Aunt Angeline.” His voice was excellent with a resonance and a diction full of character and yet in no way eccentric. “Josiah—Prudence.” He gave her a light kiss on the cheek, more a gesture than anything else, but a shadow of irritation crossed Hatch’s face. There was the bleakest flicker of amusement in Shaw’s eyes as he turned to look at Grandmama, Caroline and Charlotte.
“Mrs. Ellison,” Celeste explained, introducing Grandmama. “She was a friend of ours some forty years ago. She called to give us her condolences.”
“Indeed.” The shadow of a smile became more distinct around his mouth. “For the bishop, for Theophilus, or for Clemency?”
“Stephen—you should not speak flippantly of such matters,” Celeste said sharply. “It is most unseemly. You will allow people to take the wrong notion.”
Without waiting for invitation he sat down in the largest chair.
“My dear aunt, there is nothing in creation I can do to prevent people from taking the wrong notion, if that is what they wish to do.” He swung around to face Grandmama. “Most civil of you. You must have a great deal of news to catch up on—after such a space.”
Neither the implication nor his amusement were lost on Grandmama, but she refused to acknowledge them even by an excuse. “My daughter-in-law, Mrs. Caroline Ellison,” she said coldly. “And my granddaughter, Mrs. Pitt.”
“How do you do.” Shaw inclined his head courteously to Caroline. Then as he looked at Charlotte, a flash of interest crossed his features, as though he saw in her face something unusual.
“How do you do, Mrs. Pitt. Surely you are not acquainted with the Misses Worlingham also?”
Hatch opened his mouth to say something, but Charlotte cut across him.
“Not until today; but of course the bishop was much admired by repute.”
“How excellently you choose your words, Mrs. Pitt. I presume you did not know him personally either?”
“Of course she didn’t!” Hatch snapped. “He has been gone about ten years—to our misfortune.”
“Let us hope it was not to his.” Shaw smiled at Charlotte with his back to his brother-in-law.
“How dare you!” Hatch was furious, spots of color mottling his cheeks. He was still standing and he glared down at Shaw. “We are all more than tired of hearing your irreverent and critical remarks. You may imagine some twisted modicum of what you are pleased to call humor excuses anything at all—but it does not. You make a mock of too much. You encourage people to be light-minded and jeer at the things they should most value. That you could not appreciate the virtue of Bishop Worlingham says more about your own shallowness and triviality than it does about the magnitide of his character!”
“I think you are being a trifle harsh, Josiah,” his wife said soothingly. “I daresay Stephen did not mean anything by it.”
“Of course he did.” Hatch would not be placated. “He is always making derisory remarks which he imagines to be amusing.” His voice rose and he looked at Celeste. “He did not even wish to donate to the window. Can you imagine? And he supports that wretched man Lindsay in his revolutionary paper which questions the very foundations of decent society.”
“No it doesn’t,” Shaw said. “It merely puts out certain ideas on reform which would distribute wealth more equitably.”
“More equitably than what?” Hatch demanded. “Our present system? That amounts to overthrow of the government—in fact, revolution, as I said.”
“No it does not.” Shaw was overtly annoyed now and he swung around in his chair to face Hatch. “They believe in a gradual change, through legislation, to a system of collectivist state ownership of the means of producing wealth, with workers’ control—full employment and appropriation of unearned increment—”
“I don’t know what you are talking about, Stephen,” Angeline said with her face screwed up in concentration.
“Neither do I,” Celeste agreed. “Are you speaking about George Bernard Shaw and those fearful Webbs?”
“He is talking about anarchy and the total change or loss of everything you know!” Hatch replied with very real anger.
This was far deeper than the reopening of an old family quarrel. They were profound issues of morality. And turning from him to Shaw, Charlotte believed that in his eyes also she saw a fire of seriousness beneath the perception of a very surface absurdity. Humor was always with him, it was deep in all the lines of his face, but it was only the outer garment of a passionate mind.
“People can get away with anything these days,” Grandmama said unhelpfully. “In my youth, Bernard Shaw, Mr. Webb, and their like would have been put in prison before they were permitted to speak of such ideas—but today they are quite openly quoted. And of course Mrs. Webb is quite beyond the pale.”
“Be quiet,” Caroline said sharply. “You are making bad into worse.”
“It is already worse,” the old lady retorted in a stage whisper audible to everyone in the room.
“Oh dear.” Angeline wrung her hands nervously, looking from one to the other of her nephews-in-law.
Charlotte attempted to repair some of the da
mage.
“Mr. Hatch, do you not think that when people read the ideas proposed in these pamphlets they will consider them, and if they are truly evil or preposterous then they will see them for what they are, and reject them out of hand? After all, is it not better they should know what they stand for and so find them the more repellent and frightening, than merely by our recounting of them? Truth cannot but benefit from the comparison.”
Hatch stopped with his breath drawn in and his mouth open. Her premise was one he could not possibly deny, and yet to do so would rob him of his argument against Shaw.
For seconds the silence hung. A carriage rattled past the street going up Highgate Hill. A snatch of song came from somewhere upstairs and was hushed instantly, presumably some young housemaid disciplined for levity.
“You are very young, Mrs. Pitt,” Hatch said at last. “I fear you do not fully grasp the weakness of some people, how easily greed, ignorance and envy can draw them to espouse values that are quite obviously false to those of us who have had the advantage of a moral upbringing. Unfortunately there are an increasing number”— here he shot a bright, hard glance at Shaw—“who confuse freedom with license and thus behave completely irresponsibly. We have just such a person here, named John Dalgetty, who keeps a shop of sorts, selling books and pamphlets, some of which pander to the lowest possible tastes, some which excite flighty minds to dwell on subjects with which they are quite unable to deal, questions of philosophy disruptive both to the individual and to society.”
“Josiah would have a censor to tell everyone what they may read and what they may not.” Shaw turned to Charlotte, his arms wide, his eyebrows raised. “No one would have had a new idea, or questioned an old one, since Noah landed on Ararat. There would be no inventors, no explorations of the mind, nothing to challenge or excite, nothing to stretch the boundaries of thought. No one would do anything that hadn’t been done before. There would certainly be no Empire.”
“Balderdash,” Charlotte said frankly, then blanched at her temerity. Aunt Vespasia might be able to get away with such candor, but she had neither the social status nor the beauty for it. But it was too late to withdraw it. “I mean, you will never stop people from having radical thoughts, or from speaking them—”