A Christmas Secret

Mrs. Wellbeloved arrived after luncheon, carrying a large bag of potatoes, which she set down on the kitchen table with a grunt of relief. “You’ll be needin’ ’em,” she said.

“Thank you,” Clarice accepted, telling herself that Mrs. Wellbeloved meant it kindly and it would be most ungracious to tell her that she would rather have gone to the village shop and bought them herself. Three weeks was such a short time to get to know people so she could help Dominic. “Thank you,” she repeated. “That was very thoughtful. We had a visitor this morning.” She carried the potatoes into the scullery, followed hopefully by the dog, who was ever optimistic about something new to eat.

“Come down here, did he?” Mrs. Wellbeloved said, her round eyes wide with interest, wispy eyebrows high. “Well, I never.” She picked up the long-handled broom and began to sweep the floor.

Clarice returned to the kitchen, Harry still on her heels.

“He said his family has been in the village for years,” she added, tidying one of the cupboards and setting jams, pickles, savory jellies in some sort of order.

“Years!” Mrs. Wellbeloved exclaimed. “I should say centuries, more like. Since the Normans came, the way he tells it.”

“The Normans! Really?”

“Yes. Ten sixty-six, you know?” Mrs. Wellbeloved looked at her skeptically. How could she be the lady she pretended if she did not know that?

Clarice was amazed. “That’s terribly impressive!”

“Oh, he’s impressed.” Mrs. Wellbeloved bent awkwardly and picked up the modicum of dust from the floor, carefully pushing it into the dustpan. “Come over with William the Conqueror, so he said, an’ bin in this village since the year twelve hundred. Everyone knows that.” She made an expression of disdain then concealed it quickly, reaching for the bucket, putting it in the low, stone sink, and turning on the tap.

“He didn’t tell me that.” Clarice felt a need to defend him, although she had no idea why.

“Well, there’s a surprise then.” Mrs. Wellbeloved turned off the tap and heaved the bucket out. She looked at the floor skeptically. “Don’t seem too bad.”

“It isn’t,” Clarice replied. “We haven’t been here a whole day yet. I really don’t think you need to do it.”

“P’raps you’re right. I’ll just do the table then. Got to keep the table clean.” She took the scrubbing brush off its rack, along with a large box of yellow kitchen soap. “Knew his father, Sir Thomas. He was a real gentleman, poor man.”

“Why? What happened to him?”

“Went abroad, he did.” Mrs. Wellbeloved began scrubbing energetically, slopping water all over the place, wetting the entire surface of the table at once. “Foreign parts somewhere out east. Don’t recall if he ever said where, exact. Fell in love and married.” She poked loose strands of hair back into their knot. “Then she died, when Sir Peter was only about five or six years old. Wonderful woman, she was, from all he says, an’ very beautiful. Sir Thomas were so cut up by it he came home and never went back there, ever. Raised Peter himself, teaching them all about his family, the land, all that. Very close, but never got over her death. I s’pose Sir Peter didn’t, either. He never married.”

“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.