Southampton Row

CHAPTER

EIGHT

Bishop Underhill did not spend a great deal of time in speaking with individual parishioners. When he did it was largely on formal occasions, weddings, confirmations, now and then baptisms. However, it was part of his calling to be available to counsel the clergy within the boundaries of his see, and when they had spiritual burdens of any sort it was right that it was to him they came for help and comfort.

Isadora was used to seeing anxious men of all ages, from curates overwhelmed by their responsibilities or their ambitions to acquire more, to senior clergy who found administration and the care of those in their charge sometimes more than they felt equipped to handle.

The ones she dreaded most were the bereaved, those who had lost a wife or child and came seeking a greater comfort and strength to their faith than their daily rituals could offer them. They could give so much support to others, and yet their own grief sometimes overwhelmed them.

Today it was the Reverend Patterson, who had lost his daughter in childbirth. He sat in the Bishop’s study, an elderly man with gaunt body, his head bent, his face half covered by his hands.

Isadora brought in the tray of tea and set it on the small table. She did not speak to either of them, but silently filled both cups. She knew Patterson well enough not to need to ask him if he wished for milk or sugar.

“I thought I would understand,” Patterson said desperately. “I’ve been a minister in the church for almost forty years! God knows how many people I’ve comforted in their loss, and now all those words I’ve said so carefully mean nothing to me.” He peered up at the Bishop. “Why? Why don’t I believe them when I say them to myself?”

Isadora waited for the Bishop to reply that it was shock, anger at pain, and he must give himself time to heal. Even expected death is a huge and strange thing and takes courage to face, no less by a man dedicated to God’s service than by any other. Faith is not certainty, and belief does not take away the hurt.

The Bishop seemed to be floundering for words. He drew in his breath, and then let it out again in a sigh. “My dear man, we will all experience great trials of faith during our lives. I am sure you will rise to this with all your usual fortitude. You are a good man, rest in the knowledge of that.”

Patterson stared up at him, the agony in his face as naked as if he were oblivious of Isadora’s presence. “If I am a good man, why has this happened to me?” he begged. “And why do I feel nothing but confusion and pain? Why can I see no hand of God in it, no whisper of the divine anywhere?”

“The divine is an infinite mystery,” the Bishop answered, staring across Patterson’s head at the far wall, his face intensely troubled, his eyes fixed. He looked as if he saw no more comfort than Patterson did himself. “It is beyond us to comprehend. Perhaps we are not meant to.”

Anguish contorted Patterson’s features, and it seemed to Isadora, afraid to move in case she drew attention to herself, that he was on the edge of screaming with the sheer frustration that boiled up inside him, unanswered by anything he could ever reach towards.

“There’s no sense in it all!” he cried out, his voice strangled in his throat. “One day she was alive, so alive, her child within her. She glowed with the joy of her time coming . . . and then nothing but suffering and death. How could it be? How? It’s senseless! It’s cruel and wasteful, and stupid, as if there is no meaning in the universe.” He drew in a great sob. “Why have I spent my life telling people there is a just and loving God, that it all makes a perfect pattern that we will see one day, and then when I need to know that myself . . . there’s nothing but darkness . . . and silence? Why?” His voice grew more demanding, angrier. “Why? Was my whole life a farce? Tell me!”

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-garde. 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.”

“Would an eight-hour day help or hurt that?” Isadora asked, willing herself not to take offense at things which were, after all, irrelevant to the real issue.

Rose’s arched eyebrows rose. “How could it possibly make it worse? Every laborer, man or woman, should be protected against exploitation!” The anger flared up in her face, pink color across her white skin.

Isadora was intending to ask Rose’s opinion rather than express any of her own, but was prevented in either by their being joined by a friend of Rose who greeted her with affection. She was introduced to Isadora as Mrs. Swann, and in return presented her companion, a woman of perhaps forty, with the confidence of maturity and still sufficient of the bloom of youth to attract the eye of most men. There was a grace in the way she held her dark head, and her deportment was that of someone who is quite certain of herself, yet interested in others.

“Mrs. Octavia Cavendish,” Mrs. Swann said with a touch of pride.

Isadora realized only just before speaking that the newcomer must be a widow to be so addressed. “Are you interested in politics, Mrs. Cavendish?” she asked. Since the evening was to that end it was a natural assumption.

“Only so far as it changes laws, I hope to the benefit of all,” Mrs. Cavendish replied. “It takes great wisdom to see ahead what will be the results of our actions. Sometimes the most nobly inspired paths are disastrous in their unforeseen ends.”

Rose opened her remarkable eyes very wide. “Mrs. Underhill was about to tell us how the eight-hour day could be ill,” she said, staring at Mrs. Cavendish. “I fear perhaps she is a Conservative at heart!”

“Really, Rose,” Mrs. Swann cautioned her with a quick glance of apology towards Isadora.

“No!” Rose said impatiently. “It is time we were less mealymouthed and said what we really mean. Is honesty too much to ask—indeed, to demand? Have we not the duty to pose questions and challenge the answers?”

“Rose, eccentricity is one thing, but you risk going too far!” Mrs. Swann said with a nervous hiccup. She placed a hand on Rose’s arm but it was impatiently shaken off. “Mrs. Underhill may not—”

“Don’t you?” Rose asked, her flashing smile returning briefly.

Before Isadora could answer, Mrs. Cavendish stepped in. “It is very hard to be overworked, and quite unjust,” she said smoothly. “But it is still better than having no work at all . . .”

“That is extortion!” Rose said with a wild anger cutting in her voice.

Mrs. Cavendish kept her temper admirably. “If it is done deliberately, then of course it is. But if an employer is facing falling profits and more intense competition, then he cannot afford to increase his costs. And if he does, then he will lose his business altogether and his employees will lose their places. We need to keep an Empire, now that we have one, whether we want it or not.” She smiled to rid her words of sting but none of their power of conviction. “Politics is what is possible, not always what we wish,” she added. “I think that is part of the responsibility.”

Isadora looked from Mrs. Cavendish to Rose, and saw the sudden amazement in Rose. She had encountered someone of equal and opposite conviction, and her own power could not override the logic of the argument. In spite of herself, she was temporarily beaten. It was a new experience.

Isadora looked at Aubrey Serracold and saw the tenderness in his eyes, and a kind of sadness, a knowledge that precious things can be broken.

Isadora might have felt like that about John Cornwallis. There was a heart and mind in him, a hunger for honor, a revulsion from the tawdry, that she would have suffered any wound to protect. It was of infinite value, not just to her, but in and of itself. There was nothing in Reginald Underhill which awoke that fierce ache in her that was half pain, half joy.

The moment was broken by the arrival of another man, the familiarity of his glance at Mrs. Cavendish making it apparent that he was with her. Isadora was not surprised that she should have at least one admirer. She was a remarkable woman in far more than mere physical beauty. There was character, intelligence, and a clarity of mind in her which was most unusual.

“May I introduce my brother,” Mrs. Cavendish said quickly. “Sir Charles Voisey. Mrs. Underhill, Mr. and Mrs. Serracold.” She added the last two with a slight grimace, and Isadora remembered with a jolt that of course Voisey and Serracold were contesting the same seat for Parliament. One of them had to lose. She looked at Voisey with quickened interest. He did not resemble his sister that she could see. His coloring was slightly auburn, while her skin was clear and her hair dark, shining brown. His face was long, his nose a little crooked as if at some time it had been broken and badly set. The only thing they had in common was their agile intelligence and a sense of inner power. In him it was so intense she almost expected to feel a heat in the air.

She murmured something polite and sensible. She was acutely aware that Aubrey Serracold was now hiding his feelings, the knowledge that his opponent was a different kind of man, that there could be no holds or blows barred in the battle. This courteous exchange now was a matter of form, and not intended to deceive anyone.

There was anger in Rose’s stiff, elegant body with her long back and slender hips encased in bright taffeta, her fingers glittering as she moved her hands. The skin of her neck and throat looked almost blue-white in the light from the chandeliers above them, as if peering a little closer one might see the veins. There was also fear of something. Isadora could sense it as if it were a perfume in the air amongst the lavender, jasmine and the numerous scents from the bowls of lilies on the tables. Did it matter to her so much to win? Or was it something else?

They were shown in to dinner, all in the correct order of precedence. As a bishop’s wife, Isadora went in early, after the most senior of the nobility, long before such ordinary men as mere parliamentary candidates. The tables were laden with crystal and porcelain. Ranks of knives, forks and spoons gleamed by every setting.

The ladies took their seats, and then the gentlemen. The first course was served immediately and the business of the evening continued, the conversation, the weighing and judging, the bright chatter disguising the bargains made, the weaknesses tested and, when found, exploited. This was where future alliances were born, and future enmities.

Isadora only half listened. She had heard most of the arguments before: the economics, the moral issues, the finances, the religious difficulties and justifications, the political necessities.

She was startled and her attention was drawn, her mind suddenly clear, when she heard the Bishop mention Voisey’s name and his tone altered to one of enthusiasm. “Innocence does not protect us from the errors of well-meaning men whose knowledge of human nature is far less than their desire to do good,” he said earnestly. He did not look at Aubrey Serracold, but Isadora saw at least three others around the table who did. Rose stiffened, her hand on her wineglass motionless.

“I have begun to appreciate lately what a complex study it is to govern wisely,” the Bishop went on, his face set as if determined to follow his train of thought to the end. “It is not a job for the amateur gentleman, no matter how noble his intent. We simply cannot afford the cost of error. One unfortunate experiment with the forces of trade and finance, the abandonment of laws we have obeyed for centuries, and thousands will suffer before we can reverse the moment and regain the balance we have lost.” He shook his head sagely. “This is a far deeper issue than ever before in our history. For the sake of those we lead and serve, we cannot afford to be self-indulgent or sentimental.” His eyes flickered, and he glanced at Aubrey and away again. “That is our duty above all, or else we have nothing.”

Aubrey Serracold looked pale, his eyes glittering. He didn’t bother to argue. He realized the folly of it and remained silent, his hands clenched on his knife and fork.

For a moment no one answered, then half a dozen people spoke at once, apologized, and then started again. But looking at them one by one, Isadora could see that what Reginald had said had made a mark on them. Suddenly charm and ideals were less bright, less effective.

“A very unselfish vision, my lord,” Voisey said, turning to look at the Bishop. “If all spiritual leaders had your courage we should know where to turn for our moral leadership.”

The Bishop glanced at him, his face white, his chest rising and falling as if he found breathing unaccountably difficult.

He has indigestion again, Isadora thought. He has taken too much of the celery soup. He should have left it; he knows it does not agree with him. One would think from his speech it had been laced with wine!

The evening dragged on, promises were made, others abandoned. Shortly after midnight the first guests left. The Bishop and Isadora were among them.

Outside, as they stepped up into their carriage and drew away, she turned to him. “What on earth possessed you to speak against Mr. Serracold like that? And in front of the poor man! If his ideas are extreme, no one will accept them into law.”

“Are you suggesting I should wait until they are presented in Parliament before I speak against them?” he asked with a touch of asperity. “Perhaps you would like me to wait until the Commons have passed them and they are before the Lords, where I can debate the issue? I have no doubt the Lords Temporal will override most of them, but I have no such faith in my brother Lords Spiritual. They confuse the ideal with the practical.” He coughed. “Time is short, Isadora. No one can afford to put off the day of his actions. Tomorrow may not be given him in which to make amends.”

She was taken aback. It was a completely uncharacteristic remark. She had never known him so driven to leap to words, to committing himself to anything at all without leaving a way to extricate himself if circumstances should change.

“Are you feeling quite well, Reginald?” she asked, then instantly wished she had not. She did not want to hear a catalog of what was wrong with the dinner, the service, other people’s opinions or expressions of them. She wished she had bitten her tongue and simply made some unemotional murmur of agreement. Now it was too late.

“No,” he said rather loudly, his voice rising to a note of distress. “I do not feel well at all. They must have put me in a draft. My rheumatism is most powerful, and I have severe pain in my chest.”

“I think the celery soup was not a wise choice,” she said, trying to sound sympathetic and knowing she was failing. She heard the indifference in her own voice.

“I fear it is more serious than that.” Now there was definite panic in him, barely concealed. If she could have seen him in the darkness inside the carriage she was certain his face would have betrayed a real fear running close to losing control. She was glad she could not. She did not want to be drawn into his emotions. That had happened too many times before.

“Indigestion can be very unpleasant,” she said quietly. “Anyone who makes light of it has never suffered. But it does pass and leaves no harm behind but the tiredness of being unable to sleep. Please don’t worry.”

“Do you think so?” he asked. He did not turn his head towards her, but she heard the eagerness in him.

“Of course,” she responded soothingly.

They rode in silence the rest of the way home, but she was acutely aware of his discomfort. It sat like a third entity between them.

She woke in the night to find him sitting on the edge of the bed, his face ashen, his body bent forward, his left arm hanging loose as if he had no power in it. She closed her eyes again, willing herself to sink back into the dream. It had been something to do with wide seas and the gentle rush of water past the hull of a boat. She pictured John Cornwallis there, his face set towards the wind, a smile of pleasure on his lips. Every now and then he would turn to her and meet her eyes. Perhaps he would say something, but probably not. The silence between them was one of total peace, a joy shared too deeply to need the intrusion of words.

But her conscience would not allow her to remain with the sea and sky. She knew Reginald was sitting a few feet from her in pain. She opened her eyes again and sat up slowly. “I’ll get you a little boiled water,” she said, pushing back the covers and getting out of bed. Her fine linen nightgown came to the floor and in the summer night she needed no more for warmth, or for modesty. There would be no servants about at this hour.

“No!” The cry was almost strangled in his throat. “Don’t leave me!”

“If you sip the water it will help,” she said, sorry for him in spite of herself. He looked wretched, his skin pallid and beaded with sweat, his body locked in a huddle of pain. She knelt down in front of him. “Do you feel sick? Perhaps something in the meal was not fresh, or not well cooked.”

He said nothing, staring at the floor.

“It will pass, you know,” she said gently. “It is fearful for a while, but it always goes. Perhaps in future you should think less of your hostess’s feelings and decline all but the simplest dishes. Some people don’t realize how often you are obliged to eat as others’ guest, and it can become excessive after a while.”

He raised dark, frightened eyes to hers, pleading without words for some kind of help.

“Would you like me to send Harold for the doctor?” It was an offer simply for something to say. All the doctor would give him would be peppermint water, as he had in the past. It would be an indignity to send for him for a case of wind, no matter how fierce. The Bishop had always refused before, feeling it robbed him of the gravity of his high office. How can one look with awe up to a man who cannot control his digestive organs?

“I don’t want him!” he said with desperation. Then he caught his breath in a sob. “Do you think it is something in the dinner?” There was a wild note of hope in him, as if he were begging her to assure him that it was.

She realized he was terrified that it was not merely indigestion, that after all the years of petty complaints at last he really was ill. Was it pain he was so deeply frightened of? Or distress and the embarrassment of vomiting, losing control of his bodily functions and having to be cared for, cleaned up after? Suddenly she was truly sorry for him. Surely that was a secret dread of everyone, but especially a man to whom power and self-importance were everything. In his heart he must suspect how desperately fragile was his hold on respect. He did not really imagine she loved him, not with the passion and tenderness that would bind her to him through such a time. Duty would hold her, but that would almost be worse than the ministration of strangers, except to the outside world, who would see only a wife at her husband’s side, where she should be. What really passed between them, anything or nothing at all, would never be known to anyone else.

He was still staring at her, waiting for her to assure him that his fear was unnecessary, that it would all go away. She could not. Even had he been a child, not a man older than herself, she could not have given him that. Illness was real. It could not always be warded off.

“I’ll do all I can to help,” she whispered. Tentatively, she reached out her hand and put it over his where it lay gripping his knee. She felt the terror in him as if it had flooded through his skin and into hers. Then like fire she recognized what it was: he was afraid of dying. He had spent his life preaching the love of God, the obedience to commands that permitted no question or explanation, the acceptance of affliction on earth with the absolute trust in an eternity of heaven . . . and his own belief in it was only word deep. When he faced the abyss of death there was no light, no God at the end of it for him. He was as alone as a child in the night.

She heard herself with amazement, letting go of her own dreams. “I’ll be with you. Don’t worry.” Her grip tightened on his hand and she took hold of his other arm. “There is nothing to fear. It is the path of all mankind, only a gateway. This is the time for faith. You are not alone, Reginald. Every living thing is with you. This is just one step in eternity. You’ve seen so many people do it well, with courage and grace. You can too . . . you will.”

He remained sitting on the edge of the bed, but gradually his body eased. The pain must have subsided, because at last he allowed her to help him back into bed and within moments he fell asleep, leaving her to get up and go around to her own side and climb in also.

She was tired, but the blessing of oblivion escaped her until it was almost morning.

He rose as usual. He was a little pale, but otherwise apparently quite normal. He made no reference to the episode. He did not actually meet her eyes.

She was overwhelmingly angry with him. It was a meanness of heart not at least to have thanked her, acknowledged her, even if only by a smile. She did not have to have words. But he was furious that she had seen his abandonment of dignity, his naked fear. She understood that, but she still despised him for his poverty of spirit.

He was ill. She accepted that now. Even if he chose to forget it today, it was the reality. He needed her; whether it was affection, pity, respect, or simply duty that held her, she was imprisoned with him for as long as it lasted. And that might be years. She could see it like a road stretching to the horizon across a flat, gray plain. She would have to paint her own dreams on it, but never reach for them.

Perhaps they had never been more than dreams anyway. Nothing had changed except in her knowledge.