Lady of Lincoln (4 page)

‘Well, for my part, I am very glad to hear that you love your husband so sincerely,’ Emily replied. ‘Is there any news yet of when the dean will release him?’

‘Not yet,’ Nathalie replied, putting away her handkerchief. ‘But I have hopes that I may hear good news any day now.’

The next day brought more than good news: it brought Mr Fanshawe himself. The ladies were sitting at their small
dining-table
enjoying a light luncheon, when the door opened, and the young clergyman came in, his handsome face beaming with delight. Nathalie sprang up from the table and cast herself into his arms, quite regardless of Emily’s presence, and Mr Fanshawe pressed a firm kiss upon his wife’s pretty lips.

‘Nathalie, my dearest, how lovely and blooming you are,’ he
declared, his voice vibrating with sincerity. ‘The sea air has done you good, I see.’ He turned to Emily. ‘Miss Whittaker, your servant.’

Emily returned his greeting with a curtsy. ‘Welcome, Mr Fanshawe,’ she replied. ‘Yes, the air has done us both a lot of good, which is why I shall go now and enjoy a little more of it.’ So saying, she went out and left the young couple to their privacy.

As she walked down to the sea she was conscious of a stab of envy. No gentleman had ever taken her in his arms in that way. No gentleman had ever kissed her upon her lips. Doubtless Dr Boyle would be glad to oblige, but the very idea filled her with disgust. She would have to face the fact that romance had by now passed her by. No doubt she would have to be content either with imagining how the muscular gentleman in the novel that she would never write would perform such a salute, or with being glad at the happiness experienced by such as Mr and Mrs Fanshawe. If she was especially lucky, perhaps they would invite her to be a godmother. This thought should have comforted her; sadly, it only succeeded in making her feel rather desolate.

They made a companionable party for dinner that night, but Emily was very conscious of being not exactly an intruder, but a third person where a couple would have been quite sufficient.

The following morning, when Emily left in the carriage in which Mr Fanshawe had arrived, she went away with very mixed feelings. On the one hand, she had thoroughly enjoyed her visit to the sea, and the chance to share confidences with a female friend, an opportunity which had rarely come in her way; but on the other, she knew that Nathalie now only wanted her husband and she did not want to get in the way. Furthermore, she knew if she was honest with herself, that their friendship would never be one of true mutuality. For Nathalie, she would always be someone to depend upon.

Going back to Lincoln did have its bright side, after all. She had her various duties and interests which she had missed.
There was the little group of children that she met every week for reading practice, and the ladies with whom she sang sacred songs, not to mention the time that she spent each day reading to her grandfather and her prison visiting … my goodness, she thought to herself, is that really what my life amounts to? Suppose someone like the hero whom she had pictured so recently were to appear on the scene? In which of these settings would he ever feel at home?

The carriage brought her back to Lincoln during the middle of the afternoon, setting her down outside her house in Priorygate.

‘It’s good to have you home, miss,’ said Mary, as she opened the door.

‘Thank you, Mary. It’s good to be here,’ Emily replied, not entirely sure that she was speaking the truth. ‘Has anything exciting happened whilst I have been away?’

‘New family’s just moving into Canon Mitchell’s old house,’ the maid answered. ‘I saw Pickford’s men carrying things in only today.’

Emily went straight up to her room to take off her outdoor things, but later, she asked her father who the new arrivals might be.

‘It is Canon Trimmer and his wife,’ her father told her. ‘He has come here from Salisbury. His wife is the sister of a baronet, I understand. Emily, my dear, I am very pleased that you are home. The house has been strangely silent without you. I am sure that your grandfather will have missed you too.’

Emily thanked her father and went upstairs to supervise her unpacking. In truth, she was a little taken aback at the warmth of his welcome. Somehow, she had not supposed that he would miss her very much.

That evening, she went to sit with her grandfather, a duty which she had performed every day, until she had left for Mablethorpe. The elderly clergyman had had some kind of seizure some weeks before and since then had lain in bed
neither speaking nor moving. Only the fact that it was possible from time to time to coax him to swallow some thin gruel gave his family any hope that he might eventually recover; but it was a very small hope indeed.

Dr Whittaker was a distinguished scholar, with a number of books published under his name. He had not always lived with his son and granddaughter. Before his wife’s death five years ago, he had occupied a post at York Minster. After that sad occasion, however, all the heart had seemed to go out of him, and he had come to live in Lincoln, preaching occasionally and performing light duties in the cathedral.

His grief had made him withdraw, and so it was that apart from dining with them, conducting himself with quiet
politeness
at such times, he spent very little time with his family. Even after five years, Emily could not really say that she knew him well.

But if by chance he could hear, even though he gave no sign of it, he would surely have learned more about his
granddaughter
over the past few weeks than he had ever learned previously.

Before she had left for the seaside, she had visited him, telling him that she would be away, and promising to inform him about all that she had been doing. It was strange but now that he lay immobile in the bed, he seemed to have become the safe confidante that she had never had; the one to whom she could tell the secrets that she could never, ever bring to her father. Now, on her return, she entrusted him with just such a secret.

‘Would you like to know what I have been doing?’ she
whispered
to him, drawing a little closer. ‘I have been reading novels! Yes, I know it is very shocking, but you will never tell Papa, will you? And really, I cannot see that they are at all
harmful
. Mrs Fanshawe and I talk about all kinds of things, and she seems to feel just as she ought on important matters. Anyway, I was wondering whether you would like me to read you
something
from a novel? I promise that it will have a very good
moral tone, but I think that you must be as bored with Papa’s book of sermons as I am, and it will give you something else to think about.

‘Anyway, Grandpapa, we have new neighbours, so I shall go and see them soon, and of course I shall tell you all about them.’ 

I
n fact, she went to see the new neighbours and welcome them to Lincoln on the following day. Remembering Nathalie’s morning habits, and not wanting to discommode strangers, she left it until quite late in the morning before going. She found that her arrival coincided with that of another, for a gentleman was getting down from a splendid black horse at the very gate of the house that she was intending to visit.

‘Forgive me, madam,’ he began, taking off his hat, ‘but I wonder if I might ask whether you know if this is the residence of Canon and Mrs Trimmer?’

Emily, looking up at the gentleman, saw a strongly featured, good-looking man about ten years older than herself. She knew nothing of fashions, but even in her ignorance, she could tell that he was dressed expensively and with style. He was of medium height only, but of a powerful build, with dark hair flecked with grey.

All at once, she was suddenly transported to another world in which they were standing, not in the warm sunlight, but in the midst of a wild storm, with the wind howling around the cathedral, and the gentleman before her, instead of making a polite enquiry, swore at her for her clumsiness.

‘Ma’am?’ he questioned, his brow wrinkling a little. She continued to stare at him. He tilted his head, looking at her quizzically. His eyes were of a dark charcoal grey, and there was
a deep cleft in his chin. Slowly, he began to smile, an expression that indicated good humour and conjured up a rather
surprising
dimple in one cheek.

‘Oh!’ Emily exclaimed belatedly, blushing. For no reason that she could fathom, her heart had begun to beat rather quickly, and she felt breathless all of a sudden. ‘I beg your pardon! I was … was thinking of something else.’

‘Something else?’ echoed the stranger.

‘Something that I had read in a novel,’ she said hastily, anxious to avoid any more embarrassing silences. Then, fearing that he might gain a false impression about her, she added, ‘Not that I read novels, of course.’

One of the gentleman’s eyebrows went up. ‘So in fact, you were thinking of something that you had not read in a novel. How intriguing.’

To Emily’s great relief, at that moment an elegant-looking lady in a fashionable, high-waisted sapphire-blue gown hurried out of the house and down the path towards them. ‘Gareth, my dear, how wonderful to see you!’ she cried, embracing the gentleman. ‘But you should not bring your horse round here to the front of the house; it must go to the stables.’

‘That, my dear Aurelia, was my intention, but I had no idea of where to go. I was about to ask this young lady, when you came out and cast yourself upon my bosom.’

‘This young lady?’ murmured the one whom he had addressed as Aurelia.

‘Forgive me,’ said Emily, blushing and curtsying, for it was some time since anyone other than an octogenarian had referred to her as a young lady. ‘I am Emily Whittaker, and I live in the close. My father is one of the canons of the cathedral. I had come to bid you welcome, but I see that you have a visitor so I will leave you now, and call again another time.’

‘Oh, pray do not,’ replied the lady to whom she was
speaking
. She looked to be about Emily’s own age, or possibly a little older. ‘I am very much obliged to you for wishing to welcome
me. I am Aurelia Trimmer, and my husband Alan has come to serve in the cathedral. As for this gentleman, he is not really a visitor as such, but my own dear brother, so pray allow me to present him to you. Miss Whittaker, this is Sir Gareth Blades.’

‘Miss Whittaker, I am delighted to meet you,’ said Sir Gareth in his rather deep voice. ‘Have you lived in Lincoln for long?’

‘All my life,’ she admitted. ‘I was born in the house in which I now reside.’

‘Good heavens,’ murmured Mrs Trimmer.

‘That isn’t so strange,’ Sir Gareth replied reasonably. ‘I could say the same thing myself, and so could you have done, before you married.’

‘Pray come inside, Miss Whittaker. My husband will be delighted to meet you.’

Emily hesitated, partly because she did not want to intrude upon a family occasion, and partly because she had suddenly found herself feeling more dowdy than usual. Strangely enough, it was not the charming gown worn by Mrs Trimmer, but the elegance of that lady’s brother that gave her this feeling.

Seeing her hesitation, Sir Gareth said, ‘Please do join us, ma’am. If you refuse, my sister will be sure to say that you did not like the look of me.’

Emily glanced up at his face, and quickly looked away,
blushing
. ‘Well, perhaps just for a little while,’ she agreed.

‘Just as well you agreed, ma’am,’ he murmured in an
undertone
, as they followed his sister into the house, ‘Or I would have had to reveal your guilty secret’

Emily wrinkled her brow. ‘Sir?’

‘A canon’s daughter and novel reading? Oh fie, Miss Whittaker!’ he retorted archly.

They entered the house just as two boys, aged about ten and eight came clattering down the stairs. ‘Uncle Gareth! Uncle Gareth!’ the older one exclaimed. ‘There is an attic, and I think it might be haunted!’

‘Gareth, do be careful! Mind your shoulder!’ Mrs Trimmer
turned to Emily. ‘My brother suffered an injury a short time ago, and I don’t want him to have a set-back.’

Sir Gareth stepped forward laughing. ‘Nonsense, Aurelia!’ he declared. ‘I’m as fit as a fiddle.’ He bent, picked up and swung each boy round in turn. ‘Good grief, James!’ he exclaimed as he put down the younger one. ‘You have grown so much, I can scarce lift you!’

‘Feel my muscles,’ the boy demanded, stretching out his arm.

‘Very impressive,’ his uncle answered solemnly, as he did as instructed. ‘But what is this about the attic being haunted?’

‘I really ought to go,’ Emily said to her hostess. ‘I am
intruding
.’

‘By no means,’ declared Mrs Trimmer. ‘Come through into the drawing-room.’ Emily followed her in, and found that already the new occupant had put her own stamp upon the room with chairs covered with straw-coloured satin, and curtains which toned with them, and which were in marked contrast to the drab brown ones that had formerly hung in the windows.

Noticing her visitor looking round, Mrs Trimmer said, ‘Did you know this house before?’

‘Not well, but I have visited it on occasions.’

The boys, who had entered the room behind them, heard her words, and the older one came forward saying, ‘Do
you
know if the attic is haunted, ma’am?’

‘Oliver! I am surprised!’ exclaimed their mother in shocked tones. ‘You have not even been introduced.’

The lad coloured. ‘I beg your pardon, ma’am,’ he said, bowing.

‘That is quite all right,’ Emily replied. ‘It is sometimes hard to remember everything, isn’t it?’

‘Yes ma’am. I am Oliver Trimmer and this is my brother James. Please, ma’am,
is
the attic haunted?’

Emily looked at the face of the younger boy, who was
looking
a little anxious, and then at Mrs Trimmer, who shook her
head discreetly. She was also conscious of the figure of Sir Gareth entering the room, presumably after having given instructions as to the care of his horse. ‘My name is Emily Whittaker,’ she told the boys with a smile. ‘In answer to your question, I have never heard that it was haunted. Canon Mitchell, who lived in this house before you did, was here for many years, and I am sure that he would have said something, had he seen any ghosts.’

‘Did he die here?’ Oliver asked with relish. ‘Because if he did, his ghost might haunt the house.’

‘No, he did not die here,’ Emily answered. ‘He spent his last days with his daughter who lived in another part of the town.’

‘But he still might haunt it,’ Oliver persisted.

‘Well, if you ever do see a kindly old man with a smiling face, then I expect it will be him,’ Emily responded matter-of-factly. ‘He might have a bag of sweets with him, too,’ she went on. ‘He was always giving me sweets when I was a child.’

She saw that James looked relieved, as did his mother and she was content. Oliver was not satisfied, however, and he said, ‘But surely
something
around here must be haunted! What about the cathedral?’

‘Well I suppose it might be,’ Emily agreed. ‘After all, it is very old. You would have to ask the dean about that. All I can tell you is that I have been in there many times after dark and have never seen anything to frighten me.’ She thought for a moment, then added nonchalantly, ‘Not even when I have been up in the roof or on the tower, actually.’

‘You have been right up there?’ James asked, his eyes very round.

‘Yes, certainly, many times,’ Emily replied.

Oliver opened his mouth to speak but their mother held up her hand. ‘Boys, I really cannot believe that you have unpacked all your books and set them out properly on the shelves in the schoolroom. Please go and finish your task.’

Whilst Emily had been talking with the boys, their mother
had sent for refreshments, and after they had gone, having bade a polite farewell, Sir Gareth poured two glasses of ratafia and took one to each of the two ladies before pouring a glass of wine for himself.

‘Pray enlighten me, Miss Whittaker,’ he said to her after she had taken her glass from him. ‘
Was
Canon Mitchell really a kindly old dispenser of sweets?’ He was looking at her, a
quizzical
expression on his face.

‘No, I’m afraid he was a miserable old curmudgeon,’ she admitted. ‘When I was younger, I used to walk nearly all the way around the cathedral in order to avoid bumping into him.’

Sir Gareth burst out laughing. It was a full, rich sound, and Emily glanced at him, then at Mrs Trimmer in surprise. She could not remember anyone laughing out loud in her own house. It would have been considered quite improper. ‘You’ll be telling me next that he really did die here,’ he said, as soon as he was able.

She looked at him indignantly. ‘Certainly not,’ she answered with dignity. ‘If that were the case, then I must have lied to your nephews and I would never do such a thing.’

‘I am sure you would not,’ Mrs Trimmer agreed, looking reproachfully at her brother. Then she rather spoiled the effect by adding, ‘Children always find out if one has done so, and then it is very hard to convince them of the truth of anything that one says afterwards.’

There was a brief silence, then after a moment’s thought, Emily added, ‘His wife did, though.’

Sir Gareth, who was on the point of sipping his wine,
spluttered
and choked. ‘My God, Miss Whittaker, you’ll be the death of me,’ he declared, as soon as he was able. ‘How did it happen?’

‘She fell down the stairs,’ Emily answered shortly, half
regretting
that she had said anything at all.

‘Better and better,’ murmured the baronet. ‘Did she fall, or was she pushed?’

‘Gareth!’ exclaimed his sister in shocked tones.

‘I have sometimes wondered,’ said Emily quietly, ‘whether Canon Mitchell’s unfriendly disposition sprang partly from grief at the loss of his wife, whom he found at the foot of the stairs after he had returned from worship in the cathedral.’

There was a lengthy silence, after which the baronet walked over to Emily’s chair and stood in front of her. ‘You do right to reprove me,’ he said ruefully. ‘That was a crass thing to have said. You must lay the blame for my frivolity on my delight in the fact that I am reunited with my sister after quite a long absence. Am I forgiven?’ He was holding out his hand to her. It was a strong, square hand, devoid of rings, and as she looked at it, it seemed as if she could do no other than put her own out so that he could take it. His grip was warm and firm.

‘We all say things that we do not mean from time to time, sir,’ she replied frankly. ‘How many of us would want them to be held against us?’

‘You are very generous, ma’am,’ he told her, bowing over her hand before releasing it. Then, after a short silence, he said, ‘You show some skill with boys, Miss Whittaker. Do you have nephews of your own?’

‘No, I do not,’ she replied. ‘I had only one brother and he died childless some years ago. But I do teach a Bible study class each week.’

Whilst Mrs Trimmer asked Emily about the number of
children
and the content of the lessons that she took, Sir Gareth wandered over to the window and stood looking out at the cathedral. ‘It’s a fine building,’ he said, when the ladies fell silent.

‘It is indeed,’ Emily agreed. ‘Everyone believes their own cathedral to be the best, but I am of the opinion that Lincoln must be one of the finest to be found anywhere, and I love it dearly. It is like a second home to me.’ She coloured because she feared that she had sounded too effusive, put down her glass and stood up. ‘Thank you for your hospitality,’ she said. ‘I must
return home now, but I hope that you will call soon.’ She smiled at her hostess, then looked at Sir Gareth whose eyes were
twinkling
, and she suddenly wondered whether he supposed that she was trying to flirt with him in some way. She gave a little gasp of horror, stammered a final farewell and hurried from the room.

‘Oh Gareth!’ Mrs Trimmer declared, looking roguishly at her brother. ‘I fear you have slain her with your fine eyes.’

‘Slain her? What nonsense!’ he declared, pouring himself another glass of wine.

‘I dare say you are the only personable gentleman she has seen for a long time,’ his sister went on, as if he had not spoken. ‘You heard her say that she has lived here all her life. She
probably
seldom sees any male of the species who is not an elderly clergyman.’

‘I expect she is simply shy,’ answered Sir Gareth.

Mrs Trimmer nodded. ‘Perhaps. Mind you, she didn’t let you get away with that stupid remark about Canon Mitchell. Really, Gareth, how could you be so insensitive?’

‘Call it thoughtless, rather.’

‘She certainly knew how to talk to the boys, didn’t she?’

‘Perhaps she has been a governess,’ he answered. ‘And she did say that she taught a Bible class, remember.’ At that point, The Reverend Alan Trimmer came through the door that led into his study, and the recent visitor was forgotten, at least for the time being.