by Anne Perry
The Bishop hesitated, shifting his weight to the other foot, his body awkward.
“Tell me!” Patterson shouted.
“My dear man . . .” the Bishop sputtered. “My dear . . . man, these are dark times . . . we all have them, times when it seems the world is monstrous. Fear covers everything like a descending night and no dawn is . . . is imaginable . . .”
Isadora could not bear it. “Mr. Patterson, of course your sense of loss is terrible,” she said urgently. “If you truly love anyone then their death has to hurt, but most especially if they are young.” She moved forward a step, ignoring the Bishop’s startled expression. “But to lose is part of our human experience, as God intended it to be. The fact that it hurts to the very limit of our ability to bear is the whole point. In the end it comes down to one question, do you trust God, or not? If you do, then you endure the pain until you can come through to the other side of it. If you don’t, then you had better begin to think exactly what you do believe, and exercise yourself to your very soul.” She lowered her voice very gently. “I think you will find that your life experience tells you that your faith is there . . . not all the time, but most of it. And most of it is enough.”
Patterson looked up at her in amazement. The anguish eased out of him as he began to consider what she had said.
The Bishop turned towards her, incredulity slackening his face until it held exactly the same expression he had when he was asleep, an uncanny vacancy waiting to be filled by thought.
“Really, Isadora . . .” he started, then stopped again. It was desperately apparent that he was at a loss to know how to deal with her or with Patterson, but above either was some emotion deep within himself which overpowered even his anger or his embarrassment. His usual complacency had vanished, the polished certainty in his own power to answer everything which she was so accustomed to, and its absence was like a raw wound.
She turned to Patterson. “People do not die because they are good or bad,” she said firmly. “And it is certainly not to punish anyone else. That thought is monstrous and would destroy all reality of good or evil. There are scores of reasons, but many of them are simply mischance. The only thing we know to cling to, all the time, is that God is in control of the greater destiny, and we do not need to know what that is. Indeed, we could not understand it if we were told. What we need to do is trust Him.”
Patterson blinked. “You make it sound as if it were simple, Mrs. Underhill.”
“Perhaps.” She smiled with a sudden bleakness at the force of the knowledge inside her of her own prayers unanswered, the loneliness which at times was almost unbearable. “But that is not the same thing as saying it is easy. That is what should be done; I do not say that I can do it, any more than you or anyone else.”
“You are very wise, Mrs. Underhill.” He looked up at her gravely, trying to read in her face what experience it was that had taught her such things.
She turned away. It was too vulnerable to share, and if he understood anything at all, it would betray Reginald completely. No woman who was happy in her marriage had such a desolation inside her. “Do drink your tea while it is still hot,” she advised. “It doesn’t solve problems, but it makes us better able to attempt them.” And without waiting for any response she left the room, closing the door softly behind her.
Out in the hall, she was overcome with a profound sense of having intruded. Never in all her married life had she usurped her husband’s role in such a way. Hers was to support, sustain, to be loyal and discreet. She had just violated almost every rule there was. She had made him look hopelessly inadequate in front of one of his own juniors.
No! That was unfair. He had been inadequate. She had not caused that. He had dithered when he should have been decisive, full of quiet confidence, an anchor when Patterson was tossed by storms, at least temporarily, beyond his control.
Why? What on earth was wrong with Reginald? Why could he not have stated with passion and certainty that God loved every man, woman and child, and when understanding failed then trust must take over? That is what faith means. Most of us can cling to our faith, or at least seem to cling to it, when we have all we want. Nothing is measured until faith is tested.
She walked back to the kitchen to speak to the cook about dinner the following day. Tonight she and the Bishop were going to another one of the interminable political receptions. Still, it was only days till the election now, and then at least this part of it would be over.
What lay ahead? Only variations of the same, stretching on into loneliness infinite.
She was in the sitting room again when she heard Patterson leave and knew that within minutes the Bishop would be through to face her for her intrusion, and she waited, wondering what she would say. Would it be simplest in the long run merely to apologize? Nothing would justify what she had done. She had undermined him by offering the comfort that he should have given.
She was still waiting a quarter of an hour later when at last he came into the room. He looked pale, and she expected the explosion of outrage any moment. But the apology still stuck in her throat.
“You look exhausted,” she observed with less sympathy than she knew she ought to feel, of which she was truly ashamed. She should have cared. In fact, he sank into a chair as if he felt really quite ill. “What have you done to your shoulder?” She tried to make up for her indifference, noticing that he winced and rubbed his arm as he shifted position a trifle.
“A touch of rheumatism,” he replied. “It’s most painful.” He smiled, a forced gesture which disappeared almost instantly. “You must speak to Cook. She has allowed her standards to slip lately. I have never had so much indigestion in my life.”
“Perhaps a little milk and arrowroot?” she suggested.
“I can’t live on milk and arrowroot for the rest of my days!” he snapped. “I need a household that is properly run with a kitchen that serves edible food! If you paid attention to your own duties instead of interfering in mine, then we would not have the problem. You are responsible for my health, and you should concern yourself with it, not attempting to console someone like poor Patterson, who is crumbling before the vicissitudes of life.”
“Death,” she corrected.
“What?” His hand jerked up and he glared at her. He really was very pale, and there was a sheen of sweat on his lip.
“It is death that he is finding impossible to accept,” she pointed out. “She was his daughter. It must be the most terrible thing to lose a child, although heaven knows it happens to enough people.” She buried the empty ache inside herself because it could never happen to her. She had dealt with most of that years ago; only now and then did it return, unexpectedly, and surprise her.
“She was not a child,” he replied. “She was twenty-three.”
“For heaven’s sake, Reginald, what on earth has her age got to do with it?” She was finding it more and more difficult to keep her temper. “Anyway, it really makes no difference what was the cause of his distress; it is our task to try to comfort him, or at least offer him the assurance of our support and remind him that in time faith will ease his grief.” She drew in her breath deeply. “Even if the time in question is beyond this life. Surely that is one of the main purposes of the church, to offer the strength for those losses and afflictions that the world cannot ease?”
He rose suddenly to his feet, coughing and putting his hand to his chest. “It is the church’s task, Isadora, to point the moral pathway so that those who are faithful may reach the . . .” He stopped.
“Reginald, are you ill?” she asked, now prepared to believe that he really was.
“No, of course I’m not ill!” he said angrily. “I am simply tired and have indigestion . . . and a spot of rheumatism. I wish you would keep the windows either open or closed, not this ajar manner which causes so many drafts!” His voice was sharp, and she caught something she thought with amazement was an edge of fear. Was it because he had so signally failed to help Patterson? Was
he afraid of a weakness in himself, of being seen to fall short?
She tried to think back to any other time when she had heard him comfort the bereaved, or indeed the dying. Surely he had been stronger than this; the words had come to him fluently, quotations from scriptures, past sermons, the words of other great churchmen. His voice was beautiful; it was the one physical characteristic that had never failed to please her, even now.
“Are you sure you are . . .” She was not certain what she meant to say. Was she about to press for an answer she did not want?
“What?” he demanded, turning in the doorway. “Ill? Why do you ask? I’ve already told you, it is indigestion and a touch of stiffness. Why? Do you think it is more, something worse?”
“No, of course not,” she said quickly. “You are quite right. I apologize for making a fuss. I shall see that Cook is more careful with spices and pastries. And goose—goose is very rich.”
“We haven’t had goose in years!” he said in disgust, and went out of the door.
“We had it last week,” she said to herself. “At the Randolphs’. It didn’t agree with you then!”
Isadora prepared for the reception with great care.
“Is it something special, ma’am?” her lady’s maid asked with interest and just an edge of curiosity as she wound Isadora’s hair up to show off the white streak from the brow just to the right of her widow’s peak. It was startling and she did not try to disguise it.
“I am not expecting it to be,” Isadora replied with a touch of self-mockery. “But I would dearly like something remarkable to happen. It promises to be unutterably tedious.”
Martha was not quite sure what to say, but she caught the idea very well. Isadora was not the first lady she had worked for who hid a deep restlessness under a mask of good behavior. “Yes, ma’am,” she said obediently, and proceeded to make the hairstyle a little more extreme, and really very flattering.
The Bishop made no comment upon Isadora’s appearance, either the dramatic hair or the ocean-green gown with its daringly swathed bodice crossed very low over the bosom and filled in with exquisite white lace, the same as that shown where the skirt was slashed so the silk fell to a point at the floor in front, and then in wide, sweeping folds all around the back. He looked at her, and then away again as he helped her up into the carriage and bade the coachman be on his way.
She sat beside him in the dim light and wondered what it would be like to dress for a man who looked at her with pleasure, enjoying the color, the line of what she wore, seeing how it flattered her, above all finding her beautiful. There is something of loveliness in most women, be it no more than a grace of moment, a tone of voice, but to find someone who delighted in it was like spreading your wings and feeling the sun on your face.
The fact that he never spoke with intimacy or joy shriveled her up inside so it was an effort to hold her head high, to smile, to walk as if she believed in herself.
Again she allowed herself to daydream. Would Cornwallis have liked this gown? Had it been he she was dressing for, would he have stood at the bottom of the stairs and watched her come down with amazement in his eyes, even a little awe at how beautiful a woman could look, at silks and lace and perfume, all things with which he was so unfamiliar?
Stop it! She must control her imagination. She blushed hot at her own thoughts, and deliberately turned towards the Bishop to say something, anything to break the spell.
But all through the journey he sat uncharacteristically silent, as if he were unaware of her beside him. Usually he would speak about who was to be present at a function and rehearse to her their virtues and their weaknesses and what might be expected of them in terms of their contribution to the welfare of the church in general, and his see in particular.
“What do you think we can do to help poor Mr. Patterson?” she said at last when they were almost at their destination. “He seems in very great distress.”
“Nothing,” he replied without turning. “The woman is dead, Isadora. There is nothing anyone can do about death. It is there, inescapable, before us and around us. Whatever we say in the light of day, come the night, we don’t know where we come from, and we have no idea where we go—if anywhere at all. Don’t condescend to Patterson by telling him otherwise. If he finds faith, he will do it himself. You cannot give him yours, assuming you have it and are not merely saying what you yourself wish to hear, like most people. Now, you had better prepare yourself, we are about to arrive.”
The carriage pulled up and they alighted and climbed the steps as the front door opened and they were welcomed. As usual they were formally announced. Once Isadora had been excited hearing Reginald spoken of as His Grace the Bishop. It had seemed a title with infinite possibilities, more worthy than a peerage because it was not inherited but rather bestowed by God. Now she stared at the sea of noise and color in front of her as she came into the room on his arm. It seemed no more than an accolade given by men to someone who had fitted most closely the pattern they desired, who had pleased the right people and avoided offending anyone. He was not the finest in a bold and courageous way, to change lives, but merely the least likely to endanger the existing way, the known and comfortable. He was the ultimate conserver of what was already here, good and bad.
They were introduced and she followed a step behind him, acknowledging people with a smile and a polite response. She tried to be interested in them.
“Mr. Aubrey Serracold,” she was told by Lady Warboys. “He is standing for the South Lambeth seat. Mrs. Underhill. Bishop Underhill.”
“How do you do, Mr. Serracold,” Isadora replied dutifully, then suddenly found that after all there was something in him that caught her attention. He responded to her with a smile and his eyes met hers with a secret amusement, as if they were both privy to the same rather absurd joke which honor obliged them to play out in front of this audience. The Bishop passed on to the next person, and she found herself smiling back at Aubrey Serracold. He had a long face and fair hair which flopped forward over one side of his brow. She remembered now that she had heard somewhere he was the second son of a marquis, or some such, and could have used a courtesy title of Lord, but preferred not to. She wondered what his political beliefs were. She hoped he had them, and was not merely looking for a new pastime to fill his boredom.
“Indeed, Mr. Serracold,” she said with interest she did not have to feign. “And which party are you representing?”
“I am not entirely sure that either is willing to take responsibility for me, Mrs. Underhill,” he replied with a slight grimace. “I have been candid enough to express a few of my own opinions, which have not been universally popular.”
In spite of herself she was interested, and it must have shown in her face, because he immediately elaborated in explanation. “For a start I have committed the unpardonable sin of preferring the Eight-Hour Bill in urgency before Home Rule for Ireland. I see no reason why we cannot commit to them both, and by so doing be far more likely to win the support of the greater mass of the people, and a base of power from which to accomplish other much-needed reform, beginning with yielding up the Empire to its natural citizens.”
“I am not certain about the Empire, but the rest sounds eminently reasonable,” she agreed. “Far too much so to become law.”
“You are a cynic,” he said with mock despair.
“My husband is a bishop,” she replied.
“Ah! Of course . . .” He was prevented from saying more by the need to acknowledge being joined by three further people, including Serracold’s wife, whom Isadora had not met, although she had heard her spoken of with both alarm and admiration.
“How do you do, Mrs. Underhill.” Rose returned the introduction with barely feigned interest. Isadora was not involved with politics, nor was she truly fashionable, in spite of the ocean-green gown. She was a woman of conservative grace and that kind of beauty which does not change.
Rose Serracold, on the other hand, was outrageously avant-gard
e. Her gown was a mixture of burgundy satin and guipure lace which, in combination with her startlingly fair coloring, was all the more dramatic, like blood and snow. Her brilliant aqua-colored eyes seemed to survey everyone in the room with something like hunger, as if looking for a particular person she did not find.
“Mr. Serracold has been telling me of the reforms he desires to effect,” Isadora said conversationally.
Rose flashed her a dazzling smile. “I am sure you must have your own knowledge of such needs,” she responded. “No doubt in your husband’s ministry he becomes painfully aware of the poverty and injustice there is which could be eased with more equitable laws?” She said it as a challenge, daring Isadora to claim ignorance and so brand herself a hypocrite in the Christianity which, through the Bishop, she professed.
Isadora responded without stopping to measure her words.
“Of course. It is not the changes I find trouble in imagining, but how we can effect them. For a law to be any good it must be enforceable, and there must be a punishment we are willing and able to inflict if it is broken, as it assuredly will be, even if only to test us.”
Rose was delighted. “You have actually thought about it!” Her surprise was palpable. “I apologize for slighting your sincerity.” She lowered her voice so it was audible only to those closest to them, and then went on speaking in spite of the sudden hush as others strained to hear what she was going to say. “We must talk together, Mrs. Underhill.” She put out an elegant hand, long-fingered, jeweled with rings, and drew Isadora away from the group in which they had found themselves more or less by chance. “Time is terribly short,” she went on. “We must go far beyond the core of the party if we are to do any real good. Abolishing fees for elementary schooling last year has already had wonderful effects, but it is only a beginning. We must do much more. Education for all is the only lasting answer to poverty.” She drew in her breath and then plunged on. “We must make a way for women to be able to restrict their families. Poverty and exhaustion, both physical and mental, are the unavoidable outcomes of having child after child whom you have not strength to care for nor money to feed and clothe.” She regarded Isadora with candid challenge in her eyes again. “And I am sorry if that is against your religious convictions, but being a bishop’s wife with a residence provided for you is a far cry from being in one or two rooms with no water and little fire and trying to keep a dozen children clean and fed.”