‘Yes, that’s right. He always tries to be at church in the hours before luncheon. It seems to be when parishioners are most at leisure to call in if they have need of him. And if he’s not there he’s ranging all over the parish, visiting…’
‘Tending to his flock, like a good shepherd ought,’ Robin Durrant suggests, raising one eyebrow slightly.
‘Yes, indeed.’ Hester says. ‘And you’re from Reading, I understand?’
‘I am. My mother and father still live there, in the house where I grew up, my brothers and I. Their work has moved them away from the area now, of course. Only I remain so close to the nest.’
‘Oh, I am sure your mother is most pleased to have you nearby,’ Hester says. ‘I understand it’s very hard, for a mother, when all her children finally fly away from her. Metaphorically speaking, of course. Tell me, what is it your brothers do, that takes them away from home?’
‘Well,’ Robin Durrant shifts in his chair, a peculiar expression flitting across his face, ‘my elder brother, William, is in the army. He’s carving himself a most distinguished career as an officer, and has recently been promoted to colonel.’
‘Goodness! He must be very brave! But how worrying for your family… has he been away at war?’
‘He has indeed. In fact, it was an act of the very bravery you mention in Southern Africa that led to him being promoted recently, and indeed to him being decorated for valour.’
Hester’s eyes widen appreciatively. ‘He sounds like a true hero,’ she says.
‘That he is, and quite bullet proof, it would seem. He has been shot three times already, in his career – twice by arrows and once by a rifle shot, and yet he always seems to bounces back, quite unperturbed!’ Robin smiles. ‘It’s become a family joke that he needs to keep his tail down more upon manoeuvres. It was the traditional poacher’s injury he received, on two of the occasions.’
Hester nods slightly, not really understanding him. ‘Shot by arrows! Good heavens, that the world is still populated with such savages!’ she breathes. ‘William must have the heart of a lion.’
‘My younger brother, John, came down from Oxford with a first-class degree in medicine not three years ago. He is currently in Newcastle, where he has perfected a new surgical technique for the removal of… now, let me see. Is it the spleen? It quite escapes me now. Some organ or other, anyway,’ he says, with a careless wave of his hand.
‘My word, what an accomplished family you come from!’ Hester exclaims, admiringly. ‘And is your father a very distinguished man?’
‘Oh, yes. He too was in the army for more than forty years, and was a Governor in India for many of them, until poor heath forced his return to more temperate climes. He is a great man, truly. He has never let any of his sons contemplate failure,’ Robin Durrant says, his expression darkening slightly.
‘Such a man might be hard to… live up to?’ Hester ventures.
Robin takes a deep breath, and seems to consider this; then he shakes his head. ‘Oh, no! He really is an old pussy cat. I only meant to say that he has always taught us to believe in ourselves, to expect the best from ourselves. Such an upbringing makes it easy for a child to excel,’ he says.
Hester colours slightly, embarrassed to have misread him.
‘Well, clearly you yourself are excelling at… theosophy.’ She smiles. ‘I know Albert was very impressed by the lecture you gave…’
‘I fear that my chosen sphere is not one that my father readily understands. And it is not one in which, I think, a person can be said to excel – dealing as it does with the creation of a brotherhood of man, a coming together of equals, and the sacrifice of pride and personal gain,’ Mr Durrant replies, quite solemnly.
‘Indeed, yes, of course.’ Hester nods. In the slight pause, the garden shears squeal and clack. ‘Oh! I think I hear Bertie’s bicycle!’ she cries, with some relief.
Albert smiles widely as he shakes hands with Robin Durrant, his face alight with excitement in a way Hester can’t recall seeing before. Certainly not on their wedding day, when he wore an expression of terrified concentration, as if in utter dread of doing or saying the wrong thing. She squeezes his hand fondly when he comes to stand beside her, glad to see him so animated.
‘You’ll want to see the site, of course. The hollow in the water meadow. I doubt whether we shall see any of the elementals themselves, of course, this late in the day and with the sun so high. It was early dawn when I first saw them, which was just as you mentioned in your lecture as being the best time by far,’ Albert says.
‘I should be very glad to see the place, indeed.’ Robin Durrant nods. ‘But I need not right this minute, if it will delay your lunch at all, Mrs Canning?’
‘Oh, no, lunch will not be delayed. You don’t mind, do you, Hetty? It needn’t take very long,’ Albert says, before Hester can reply. He does not take his eyes from Robin Durrant as he speaks, though he inclines his head towards his wife slightly, as if he knows he should.
‘No, of course. You must do whatever you see fit, gentlemen,’ Hester says. ‘I will let Mrs Bell know that we’ll sit down at two, instead of one. There’s a lovely leg of lamb in the oven, I believe.’
‘Perhaps… it’s rather awkward of me, I know, but perhaps you might also give fair notice to your cook that I do not consume meat, of any kind.’ Mr Durrant smiles, a touch diffidently.
‘No meat?’ Hester replies, before she can stop herself.
‘Indeed, no meat. Theosophy teaches us that something of the animal nature of the beast that is eaten physiologically enters and is incorporated into the man upon his eating of its flesh, thereby coarsening him, weighing down mind and body and greatly retarding the development of the inner intuition, the inner powers,’ the theosophist explains. All with a disarming smile.
Hester is dumbstruck for a moment. She glances at Albert, but he is shrugging on a lightweight coat, and patting the pockets to be sure he has a handkerchief.
‘Well, then. Well. I shall of course let the kitchen know,’ she murmurs, somewhat dreading Sophie Bell’s reaction to the news. The men bustle from the house, and in the sudden quiet Hester is left to shut the door behind them. She stands at the hall window to watch them go up the path and into the lane. Albert talks avidly all the while, his hands moving in quick gesticulations; Robin Durrant walks steadily, and with his head held high. Hester takes a deep breath, and releases it in a short sigh. She finds herself wishing she might have been asked to go along with them. Albert does not look back from the gate, nor wave, as is his custom.
At the window in the drawing room Cat sees the men leave, and turns her face to the sun for a moment. She longs to chase the grey tone from her skin, to burn all trace of it away with the sun’s glare. She has seen the farmer’s wives, and their children, with their faces bronze and gold, and freckles like brown sugar scattered over their noses. That is what she wants. When she is with George, she feels it ebb from her. The chill; the deathly, clinging taint. Memories of fear and pain. George and the sun, these two life-giving things, keeping her going by day and by night. She turns from the window and continues to dust, stroking the soft cloth slowly over the contours of a carved chair. She likes the satin feel of the wood beneath her hand. On the desk is the letter Hester was writing when Robin Durrant arrived. The letter that had her blushing over her pen. Cat walks idly to stand in front of it, and starts to read.
She reads that she might be checked upon in her room, to be sure that she sleeps. This makes her heart jump up into her throat, chokingly. Then it beats hard with rage. To be checked upon, kept watch over, kept captive. She is breathing hard, is too angry to enjoy Hester’s concern over her health, or her worries about hidden perversions. When she reads the final paragraph an incredulous smile breaks over her face. She almost laughs aloud – not cruelly – but to read of the vicar and a rutting stallion in the same sentence… Then she hears a noise outside the door and hurriedly steps back from the desk. The duster had been clamped under her arm, and she can’t quite get it to hand fast enough, can’t quite seem to have been dusting, blamelessly, as Hester enters the room. The vicar’s wife’s expression is one of troubled distraction, but when she sees Cat she smiles, hesitantly. Cat smiles too, quick and curt, and hurries from the room.