“There’s time yet,” Clarice said quickly. “He looks no more than in his forties. He’ll want to keep the line going, the family, surely?”

Mrs. Wellbeloved put her weight into the scrubbing, her lips tight, soapsuds flying. She stepped sideways and nearly fell over the dog. “It’s his duty,” she agreed. “But he isn’t doing it, for all that. Maybe that’s what it was all about.”

“What what was all about?” Clarice asked unashamedly.

“Used to come here often,” Mrs. Wellbeloved replied, wringing out a cloth with powerful, red-knuckled hands. “Twice a week, most months. Played chess with the vicar reg’lar. Loved their game, they did. Then he stopped all of a sudden, about two years ago. Never came here since, except it were business, or with other folk. Vicar never said why, but then he wouldn’t. Could keep other folks’ secrets better than the grave, he could.”

“You mean they quarreled?” Clarice felt a stab of disappointment. It seemed such a sad and stupid thing to do. “What quarrel could be so bad, and last so long?”

Mrs. Wellbeloved jerked upright, banging her elbow on the bucket, which was still on the table. She winced. “Well, it wouldn’t be the Reverend Wynter’s fault, an’ that’s for certain. He was the best man that ever lived in the village, whether his family went back to the manor or the workhouse! Forgive anybody anything, he would, if it were against himself. Tried over and over to make it up with Sir Peter, and Sir Peter weren’t having any of it.” She grunted fiercely. “But the vicar would never say a thing were right if it weren’t. Fear o’ God’s in him like a great light, it is. Mr. Corde’s a very lucky man to be allowed to step in for him over Christmas.” She nodded several times. “Walk a few miles in the reverend’s footsteps an’ he’ll be the better man for it, mark my words.” She savagely wiped half the table dry, lifted the bucket onto the floor, and wiped the other half, wringing the cloth out several times.

Clarice felt defensive of Dominic, but bit her tongue rather than say anything; she needed Mrs. Wellbeloved on their side. She took a deep breath. “He seems to be a very remarkable man, even for a vicar,” she said with as much humility as she could manage.

Mrs. Wellbeloved’s face softened. “That he is,” she agreed more gently. “Man o’ God, I say. He deserves a holiday. Go off an’ do more of his paintings an’ drawings, that’s what he needs.” She looked Clarice up and down, and then turned away so her face was out of sight. “Obliged you could come.” She sniffed, choking off the emotion in her voice. She picked up the bucket and threw the dirty water into the sink so hard it splashed up and a good deal of it went out again on either side, waking the cat. Etta shook herself angrily and then curled up again, nose in her tail.

Clarice considered whether to wipe the water up for Mrs. Wellbeloved, and decided against it. Better to pretend she hadn’t noticed. Instead she fetched Etta a dry towel for her bed and put the kettle on for another cup of tea, and then went to dust the hall, not that it needed it.

There was a sharp drop in the temperature that evening and another heavy fall of snow. Dominic banked the fires high, hoping they would stay burning most of the night, so there would be at least some warmth left in the air by morning.

At dawn he looked out of his study window and saw the bleak beauty of the pale light, but he knew it meant that no one could plow through the deep drifts to leave the village-and some would find it hard even to leave their home to fetch food. This was where his ministry could begin. He had no knowledge yet at which houses he would be welcome, however, and he could not afford even one mistake. He was an outsider, temporarily taking the place of a man he realized was deeply loved.

So far he had only one source of information, Mrs. Wellbeloved. Clarice’s exact words had been: “She has opinions about everything, which she’ll share at the drop of a hat. Be busy about something else, and even if she’s talking complete nonsense, for heaven’s sake don’t argue with her. Local knowledge is her great achievement.”

Clarice was probably right. Dominic had not had to deal with maids before; he’d never even considered them.

It was time he did so. He rose and went to find Clarice, who was busy in the kitchen warming two flatirons on the top of the range, ready to iron his shirts, which she had washed the day before. Cat and dog were squashed into one basket together by the stove. Dominic looked at Clarice with a deep stab of guilt. She was not beautiful in the traditional sense, except for her eyes, which were wide, clear gray with dark lashes. There was far too much character in her face, too much readiness to laugh or lose her temper. She was quick with her opinions and far too candid for a vicar’s wife, and much too perceptive of the truth. He could no longer count the times she had embarrassed him. But she was also generous and swift to forgive. She was without arrogance, and he had never known her to make a promise and fail to keep it.

She could have married a man able to give her a large house and maids to look after her every need. She could have had a carriage, fashionable clothes, and invitations in society. Could she really be as happy as she seemed, face flushed, apron around her waist, testing the flatirons for temperature?

She looked up at him and smiled.

“I’m going to see Mrs. Wellbeloved,” he told her. “I need her advice as to whom I should call on in this weather. She’ll know.”

“Excellent idea,” she said approvingly. Then she frowned. “Do be tactful with her, won’t you? She’s a funny creature.”

He bit his lip to keep from laughing. “I had noticed that, my dear.”

“Wrap up well,” she advised. “It’s bitter outside.”

“I’d noticed that, too.” He kissed her quickly on the cheek, and before she could catch his arm he turned and went into the hall.

He put on his heavy boots, a thick, woolen scarf around his neck, then his overcoat, gloves, and a hat. Even so he was unprepared for the blast of cold as he opened the front door. Instead of yesterday’s chill in the air, there was a slicing wind with the cruel edge of ice on it, and the glare of light off the snow caused him to narrow his eyes. He stepped out and heard the crunch of his own footsteps. It would be very nice to change his mind and go back inside, but he could not afford to. Part of being a vicar was not listening to the tempting little voice that told you another day would do, or that there was somebody else to perform the task. He was the man people looked to here to do the work of God, and he must not fail.

He crossed the village green, seeing only a few other footprints in the snow. The pond was partially iced over, the bench beside it deserted. The air was gray. The houses seemed to huddle down, roofs pale; thin trails of smoke smeared up against the sky. Only the blacksmith’s glowing forge looked inviting. Beyond the village, the woods were tangled branches of black, here and there denser where the evergreens clustered, pale-patched where the snow clung.

He passed an old woman with a bundle of sticks and called “good morning” to her, but her reply was mumbled and he could not make out her words. He increased his pace and finally felt the warmth return to his body.

Ten minutes later he was knocking on Mrs. Wellbeloved’s door, and was relieved when she opened it and invited him in. He stepped over the threshold into a dark, warm hallway smelling of floor polish and smoke.

“Well, now, Mr. Corde,” she said briskly. She refused to call him vicar. “What can I do for you? ’Fraid you’ll have to manage the housework yourselves today. Got company coming, like I said.”

“I need your advice, Mrs. Wellbeloved,” he replied, watching her expression change immediately and guarding himself from smiling.