Dominic leaned forward and poked the fire, sending sparks up the chimney. Clarice was right-it was a lovely house. There was almost a familiarity about it, as if at some far distant time he had lived here before and he would know instinctively where everything was. It was like coming home to some origin so far back, he had forgotten he belonged here.
The third morning it was even colder. Clarice could see the village pond from the front door when Dominic went out to begin his visiting. The surface was icing over, and a dusting of white snow made most of it indistinguishable from the banks. Harry went charging out into it and had to be brought back, his chest and tummy caked with snow, and then dried off in front of the kitchen stove, loving the attention.
Clarice did not expect Mrs. Wellbeloved today. After feeding Harry and Etta she set about the sweeping and dusting straightaway, as much to keep warm and busy as from any need for it to be done. The sitting room fire would have to be cleaned out and relit, of course, but since the ashes were still warm, it would be foolish to remove them before time. It was a waste of coal to light it simply for herself, when she could perfectly easily sit in the kitchen.
One day soon she would have to clean out the kitchen stove completely, polish the steels with emery paper, bath brick, and paraffin, black-lead the iron parts and then polish them, then wash and whiten the hearthstone. But it did not have to be today. Such a job should really be begun at six in the morning, so she could get it set and relit in time for breakfast.
She was still thinking about it with dislike when the doorbell jangled and she went out into the hall to answer it.
A woman was standing on the step. She was muffled in a heavy, well-cut cloak and had a shawl over her head, but from what Clarice could see of her, she was about forty. She had a handsome face with wide brown eyes, a short upper lip, and a round, rather heavy chin.
“Mrs. Corde?” she inquired. She had a pleasant voice, but not the local accent.
“Yes. May I help you?”
“I rather thought I might help you,” the woman replied. “My name is Mrs. Paget. I know the Reverend Wynter, and I know the village quite well. I imagine many people are willing to do all they can, especially at Christmas, but you might not know who is good at which things-flowers, baking, and so on.”
“Oh, thank you,” Clarice said gratefully. “Please come in. I would be most obliged for any advice at all.” She held the door open wide.
Mrs. Paget stepped in as if it was all very familiar, and Clarice had the sudden feeling that perhaps she had been here many times. Possibly since John Boscombe had withdrawn from his church duties, she had in some practical ways taken over.
Clarice led the way to the kitchen, explaining that she had not lit the sitting room fire yet, and offered a cup of tea. Etta bristled at the intrusion and shot past Clarice and up the stairs. Mrs. Paget gave a little cry of surprise.
“I’m sorry,” Clarice apologized. “She’s a very odd cat. I think both animals miss the Reverend Wynter. The dog is in and out like a fiddler’s elbow, and nothing seems to satisfy the cat. I’ve fed her, given her milk, set up a warm place to lie, but she just sits there like an owl.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know animals very well.” Mrs. Paget took off her cloak and shawl and arranged herself on one of the hard-backed chairs by the table, adjusting her skirts. “I can’t offer any advice. I expect you are correct and they are missing the Reverend Wynter. He is a wonderful man, very charming and utterly trustworthy. He knows everybody’s secrets, all their private doubts and griefs, and never whispered a word to anyone. I was happy to help him in any way I could, but even to me he never gave so much as a hint of what needed to remain unsaid.”
“Admirable,” Clarice agreed, filling the kettle and setting it on the hob. “And absolutely necessary. All I really would like to know is who is gifted at what practical skill-and of course who is not!” She gave Mrs. Paget a quick smile.
“Oh, quite!” Mrs. Paget eased quickly, smiling back with a flash of understanding. “That can be every bit as much a disaster. At all costs avoid Mrs. Lampeter’s baking and Mrs. Porter’s soup! Never give Mrs. Unsworth the flowers. She only has to touch lilies and they go brown.”
They both laughed, then settled in to discuss matters of skill, tact, need, and general usefulness.
“I imagine you’ll want to have a celebration for the whole village ’round about Christmas itself, Boxing Day perhaps?” Mrs. Paget said firmly.
Clarice understood immediately. “Of course,” she agreed. “It would be the best possible thing. I would appreciate your guidance as to how it has been done here in the past, and what people like. Not every place is the same.”
Mrs. Paget smiled with satisfaction. “I’d be delighted. Mince pies, naturally, with plenty of raisins, sultanas, and candied peel, plum pudding and cream, best be discreet with the brandy, but a bit is always nice, gives a good flame when you light it. And cake, naturally.”
Clarice’s heart sank at the prospect of so much cooking. In the home she had grown up in, her mother had enjoyed a full kitchen staff to attend to such things.
Mrs. Paget’s brown eyes were watching her intently. “If you would allow me to, I’d be happy to help,” she offered. “It’s a lot for one person, and I enjoy cooking.”
Clarice felt a weight of anxiety slip from her. “Thank you,” she said sincerely.
Harry remained sulking in the corner, and Etta never reappeared.
Dominic returned for luncheon, then went out again. Clarice spent the afternoon going through various cupboards seeing what polishes, brushes, and so on she could find, and if she could repack them a little more tidily so as to make more room. It was annoying to open a cupboard door and have the contents slide out around your feet or, worse, fall on top of you from the shelf above.
In the middle of the afternoon she cleaned out and lit the fire in the sitting room to warm it for Dominic’s return; he was bound to be frozen. Earlier she had made hot soup-better, she hoped, than Mrs. Porter’s!
She was tidying the bookshelves behind the sofa in the sitting room when she came across a leather-bound Bible. Its pages were gold-edged, but very well used, as if it was someone’s personal possession, rather than one for general reference. She opened it and saw the vicar’s name on the front page, dated some fifty years ago. She ruffled the pages and saw tiny handwritten notes in the margins, particularly in the book of Isaiah and the four Gospels of the New Testament. She had to carry them to the window for enough light to read them. They were very personal. There was a passion and an honesty in them that made her stop reading. They were too intimate; a man’s reminder to himself, not to others.
She stood in the fading winter sun, the light graying outside, the fire burning up behind her. Why had he not taken this with him? An accidental omission, surely? It did not belong in this room: in his bedroom, if not with him. He must have left it out to pack, and somehow overlooked it.
She should find his address and send it on to him. The postal service was good; it would get to him in a day or two at the outside. Her mind made up, she went into the study and looked for the address of the Reverend Wynter’s holiday dwelling. It took her only ten minutes. She was surprised: it was an area of Norfolk she knew quite well, with beautiful wide skies and open beaches facing the North Sea. It would be a wonderful place for him to create more of his pictures. It was famous for its artists. She smiled, imagining him drinking in its splendor, and then striving to capture it on paper.