Wild Bells: The Shade on a Fine Day & The Angel in the Window, page 16
Wild Bells
Two stories by Charlie Cochrane
The Shade on a Fine Day © Charlie Cochrane, 2009 and 2016
The Angel in the Window © Charlie Cochrane, 2012 and 2016
Cover art by Alex Beecroft
These are works of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or establishments, events or locales is coincidental. All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
The Shade on a Fine Day
Chapter One
The church bells rang out into the December night—they’d been pealing for an hour now, working through one of the intricate set of changes so beloved of the curate. William Church may have only come to St. Archibald’s at midsummer, but he’d already inspired his flock with his love of campanology, so much so that the dormant art of change ringing had been reintroduced and the old set of bells had sprung into new and glorious life. They quivered with joy and sent a sweet sound into the frosty air that said ‘Come and worship.’ His intention was for God to be venerated, but the ladies of Blaydon, tucked away in the recesses of Hampshire, had other ideas in mind when it came to the object of adoration.
It was just as well that the incumbent, Canon Newington, wasn’t a jealous man, or else he might have been envious of the number of enraptured faces filling the congregation when his young curate preached at evensong. The rector was pragmatic about the favourable ambience a late summer’s evening could produce, and amused that many of the congregation, the ones who showed most delight, were the spinsters among his flock. Girls of no more than fifteen through to old maids of seventy who should have known better went all of a flutter at William’s voice. He supposed it was the effect of the setting sun on the curate’s golden locks, or the mellifluous sound of his voice against a background of birdsong and the lowing of the cattle in the water meadows, which enhanced the man’s already numerous attractions.
“Just you wait until the days shorten, my dear,” he told his wife after one particular sermon had been punctuated with sighs and simpering from the pews. “The cattle will all be milked by the time comes for evensong, there’ll be no rooks cawing in the elms, then the audience for Mr. Church’s monthly homily will diminish.”
“If I were the sort of woman who lays bets, I’d wager you that you’re wrong. Hopelessly so.” Mrs. Newington produced her wide, handsome grin. “His attraction for the ladies of your parish won’t wane with the daylight. The same string of eligible young women will continue to tread a path, deep and wide, to the door of Mr. Church’s lodgings.”
As it turned out, had she stooped low enough to be a betting woman, she’d have won her wager fair and square. The hay was gathered in, the equinox passed and young women still arrived bearing cakes and comforters and other delights for the curate’s delectation. It had become the norm for all the spinsters of a marrying age to be vying with each other to impress William Church with their acts of charity or piety. It was the sort of burden that any passably good-looking, unmarried priest had to endure but at least it meant, by roundabout means, that the poor of St. Archibald’s were better looked after than usual.
The curate was handsome, well bred and unattached, any of which would have made him a target for the matchmakers of the parish and which, in combination, made his stock almost as valuable as Mr. Swann’s, the previous holder of the title ‘most eligible bachelor in the parish’.
Some of the ladies in the congregation at St. Archibald’s found it hard to decide whether to rest their gaze on the man in the pulpit—when the curate was preaching—or the equally lovely one in the third pew from the front. Benjamin Swann scored equally highly in the matter of looks, breeding and availability, although his hair was a shade darker than Mr. Church’s and he smiled less readily. But when his pleasing baritone rang through the air at matins it was enough to make any young woman of sensibility swoon. Except Benjamin’s sister, of course, who only had eyes for the spinsters’ delight as he delivered the sermon or read the lesson.
The curate’s voice was magnificent orating from the pulpit. What must it be like murmuring words of love in a bower or a bedroom?
***
“Did you hear the bells last night?” Madeleine Ardleigh sipped her tea, eyes shining in remembrance of the previous evening’s peal.
“I did. The tenor was particularly lovely.” Beatrice Swann smiled as though she had some secret knowledge of what had gone on in the bell tower to make the sound so heavenly.
“Was that Mr. Church’s bell?” Madeleine always listened to a peal with pleasure, not least because the sound made her think of the curate’s strong hands caressing the sallie.
“I believe so. My brother says it takes a deft hand to make it sound so sweet.”
“Is your brother to join us?” Madeleine felt the flush rise on her cheeks and wished she could restrain it. When she came for tea up at the big house, which was as frequently as she dared, it was with the hope that Mr. Swann might be there to favour her with a smile.
“He said he intended to. I have no idea what could have kept him. Too fond of…ah.”
The door of the drawing room opened, Benjamin Swann appearing round it full of apologies. “I’m sorry, Beatrice. Miss Ardleigh, forgive me, but my favourite hound decided to pup at the most inopportune of moments.”
“Can’t you leave that to the gamekeeper to attend to?” Beatrice rolled her eyes in an eloquent gesture signifying Brothers, what can you do with them? Madeleine, who had no siblings, tried to return the look knowingly.
“I have now, but I wanted to be present. I’ve had her a long time.” He took the cup which his sister offered.
“We were discussing the church bells.” Beatrice turned the talk away from such mundane matters as hounds.
“Did you hear them last evening, Miss Ardleigh?” Benjamin enquired. “They seem to be getting better and better.”
“Mr. Church has certainly enthused the verger and his team.” Beatrice offered her brother a small, sugary biscuit.
Benjamin nodded. “They excelled themselves last night. Wild and dangerous I’d have called it if I were a poetic man.”
“I don’t follow you, Mr. Swann.” Madeleine felt herself flushing once more, at the brief association of the word ‘wild’ with the handsome curate.
“Don’t you find there’s something unconstrained about the tolling of the different bells? I have a fancy they might leap out from their well ordered courses, break the pattern and infect the English night with anarchy.” Benjamin’s eyes shone. “A glorious chaos.”
“Nonsense, dear.” Beatrice rolled her eyes again.
“I must agree with Miss Swann.” Madeleine hated to gainsay her host, but it was safer than crossing his sister. “They’re the least chaotic things I can think of.” The bells spoke to her strength restrained and controlled, just as Mr. Church’s bulging black jacket did.
“Quite right, my dear. Now, have you been invited to the Newington’s for dinner?” Beatrice pointed vaguely in the direction of the mantelpiece, where invitations, old or new, sat in a neat row.
“Oh yes.” Madeleine almost squealed with delight. It may not have been an invitation from the curate himself but the next best thing.
Canon and Mrs. Newington request the pleasure of your company at dinner, Friday next.
The Ardleigh and Swann households were awash with excitement, much more than should have been warranted by just a summons from the manse to take a meal with the rector and his wife. Ever since the invitations had arrived, dresses had been fetched out, put away, fussed and fretted over, swatches of material looked at and colours compared.
Madeleine had heard the curate was said to favour blue as a colour appropriate to pretty girls with blonde hair but whether he would approve of the same on a rather plain brunette was a moot point. She was veering towards wearing green as it suited her eyes but had decided not to make a decision until the last moment. Rumour had it Beatrice had been seen with yards of sprigged muslin and some rather overstated ribbons, all of a rather bold hue, although one which remained unspecified by the informant. Madeleine had been trying to drop subtle hints on the subject but had met a stone wall, much to her annoyance. No decision could be made on an outfit until one knew the colours the enemy would be decked in.
“I did find the invitation rather puzzling. The canon has a rather unusual way of putting things.” Madeleine stuck out her bottom lip in what she hoped was an attractive pout, although she regretted wasting time on such fripperies when she needed to execute her plan of campaign in terms of dresses.
“That’ll be his wife. Benjamin, oh…” If Beatrice was about to ask her brother to fetch the invitation, he’d pre-empted her.
“The Canon merely has an impish sense of humour, my dear, as appropriate for someone who spent four years as a missionary on the Pacific islands.” Benjamin pointed to the elegantly sloped handwriting. “It will be an interesting evening. Is that the part you refer to, Miss Ardleigh?”
“Yes.” It was going to be interesting irrespective of anything else. Madeline’s parents were perplexed at what all the fuss was about, why she’d not expended half the effort on her clothes for the midsummer ball up at the Swann’s house. If they’d bothered to ask in
“Apart from my sister making eyes at the curate? I can’t guess.” Benjamin’s words were greeted with howls of feminine protest.
Chapter two
William Church walked down the Hatton’s path, stopped a moment to admire an early hellebore, then made his way to the church. There were worse places he could lodge until he found a suitable place of his own, Mrs. Hatton coming from impeccable stock and with only one thing which could be held to her discredit, the fact of having married slightly below her station. It was a lodging convenient for visiting the heart of the parish and had stabling for his horse, so he could easily reach the more far flung parts. It would be no more than a gentle stroll over to the rectory for dinner tomorrow evening so even if the threatened snow arrived he would still get his entertainment. He’d been careful which invitations he’d accepted these last few months, well aware of the machinations of mothers with eligible daughters and the Newingtons, luckily, weren’t in possession of any of those, even if there’d be some invited to their table.
He swung open the lych gate then set it lightly on its latch.
“Mr. Church!” The verger struggled up the path, laden with greenery.
“Let me help you with that, Mr. Hawthorne.” The curate took some of the burden. “Are we creating booths for the feast of Tabernacles?”
“We’ll have none of that nonsense here, sir. This is for Lady O’Neill.” It needed no further explanation. Sir Roger O’Neill had been very fond of evergreens and the anniversary of his death was always marked by a simple, moving service of remembrance, the church decked out like a woodland glade. It was possibly the only thing her ladyship did which had subtlety and good taste about it. “Mr. Swann was looking for you, sir.”
“Was he?” William struggled to manoeuvre a large piece of holly into the porch without impaling himself.
“Aye. Makes a change from Miss Swann looking for you. With an apple pudding or something.”
“It does indeed. At least I don’t have to hide in the bell tower this time. I wonder what he can want.” Church deposited his load of greenery at the feet of Mrs. Hawthorne for her to work marvels with, then sauntered into the graveyard. He spotted a familiar shape lurking by the imposing memorial which dominated the east side of the churchyard. “Mr. Swann! I believe you were…oh, I’m sorry.” There was more than a hint of sadness on Benjamin’s face as he lifted it. “I had quite forgotten. Unforgivable, I know.”
“Please don’t worry. They’ve been gone so long now that I don’t feel any pain of grief. But I can’t help miss them.” Benjamin stood with head bowed by his parents’ memorial, lips tightly pressed as though preventing himself speaking his thoughts aloud.
“I can appreciate that.” They stood for a moment, looking over the impressive, well maintained plot; the last two generations of the Swann family lay here and the next few would join them when their time came. “You wished to see me?”
Benjamin nodded. “I wanted to enquire whether I had in some way offended you.” He kept his eyes fixed on the graves. A robin sang from the yew hedge, the faint sound of organ music came from the church, and the answer seemed to take forever to come.
“Mr. Swann, if I have in any way given you that impression, then I apologise unreservedly. I’m racking my brains to think of what I could have done…”
“My father’s walking stick. I was in Harmington yesterday, visiting a friend near the almshouses by St. Benedict’s. One of the residents was out in the lane, using that stick. It is quite unmistakable.”
William took a long appraisal of the man beside him. Benjamin had a fine profile, featuring an elegant nose which was clearly a family trait. On his sister it looked too forceful—on him it gave an air of gravitas. “I didn’t realise it was your father’s. If I’d been aware of what it meant I wouldn’t have been so insensitive. I’m sorry if your sister was offended.”
“My sister? I’m not sure she even knows it’s gone.”
“But she gave it to me, last Saturday, or I thought she did.” William ran his hands through his fair hair, leaving a trail of little, green leaf fragments. “I’ve made an awful mistake somewhere, but I can’t work out what.”
“How did this man end up with my father’s cane?” Benjamin turned his gaze on the curate for the first time. His grey eyes were awash with pain, the grief of bereavement remembered combining with a sense of betrayal.
“Come, it’s cold standing here. Let’s walk awhile and I’ll explain.” William indicated the path down to the village green. “Mr. Swann, I’m not sure how it is for you up at the big house, but for a bachelor in holy orders although out of wedlock, life can be difficult. I find myself having continually to walk a thin line. Hardly a day goes by when I don’t receive a basket of cakes, a jar of jam or a scarf. If I kept them all, it would be the height of greed.”
“So you give them away?”
“I do. Every one of them, although I’m not stupid enough to do it in this parish. And I wouldn’t have done it in this instance, had I known.” William cast a sidelong glance at his companion—a slight thawing was evident. “The only thing that stops me becoming obese or overwrapped is the reciprocal arrangement I have Mr. Regan. He’s the curate of St Benedict’s in Harmington.”
“Is he regarded as highly eligible, too?” There was a sudden release of tension, and an unexpected hint of amusement, in Benjamin’s voice.
“Exasperatingly so, at least that’s what he tells me. I think he might have an even harder time of it. There’s a greater concentration of young ladies within the town. This way, our respective parishioners can fill their stomachs, clothe their necks, and be duly grateful to benefactors unknown.”
“You don’t tell them where the gifts come from?”
“Not specifically. The poor of the country are grateful for the generosity of the young ladies of the town and vice versa. No-one is any the wiser.”
“Does the Canon approve? Doesn’t he shudder at his curate flying false colours?”
William took another glance at the man beside him. There’d been a certain inflexion in the last remark he couldn’t quite put his finger on. “It was Canon Newington’s idea in the first place. He doesn’t want any unpleasantness among the ladies of his flock—no favouritism to be shown. That’s why I don’t retain anything I’m sent. That’s why I passed on that excellent cane, much as I would have liked to keep it.”
“You’d mentioned your need of one, just the Sunday before, when my sister and I met you out by the lych gate.”
“I remember.” William smiled. “I’d been admiring your silver topped walking stick.” He stopped, suddenly distressed. “You didn’t think I was hinting, did you? I mean to go up to London and get one of my own in a fortnight. I didn’t want charity.”
“It wasn’t charity. I wanted it to have a good home.”
“I’m sorry, I really did think it came from your sister—I couldn’t have kept it.” William gently touched his companion’s sleeve. “I can’t have favourites among the ladies, you see.”
“Why on earth did you think my sister had sent it?” Benjamin didn’t pull his arm out of the contact.
“Because it arrived with a pot of bramble jelly, borne by your footman, and a note in her hand. It never occurred to me the two items had different provenances.” William took his hand away. “I wish I could get it back. If I had known, I wouldn’t have been so callous.”
“Too late now.” Benjamin clapped William’s back. “Your intentions were honourable, that’s all I needed to be assured of. And my father would have been pleased to see some poor old codger getting the benefit of it, rather than a healthy young man.”
“Then I’m pleased, too. Only, promise me you won’t tell your sister about my ‘arrangement’. If it became common knowledge I’m not sure the scandal could be borne, not in either parish.”
“I won’t tell a word. But only if you promise in return that you’ll let me give you another silver topped cane. There are far too many in the house for me to make good use of, as my father had a passion for collecting the things and I keep finding them stashed away.” Benjamin smiled, his handsome face even more striking in its animation.
