"I doubt it's on your behalf, Vicar." Hector had evidently overheard, adding with a swift glance at Tom, "Oliver wouldn't have the consideration."

"Really, darling." Georgina's tone was admonishing.

"Well, he wouldn't! He tried to kill me this afternoon."

"Hector, don't be ridiculous!"

"Lord Morborne says it's to be a surprise." Gaunt's visage, pale and square, showed no emotion, but a nuance in his tone contained a world of disapproval.

"I've had quite sufficient ... surprises this week," Hector muttered darkly. "Well, where is he then? He's not on the terrace. Georgie and I were the last."

As if everyone shared the same thought, Oliver's name began to percolate through the room. "Olly!" Someone moved to the French doors and shouted onto the shadowy terrace.

"He's not b.l.o.o.d.y out there!" Hector countered.

"I'm right here, Hector. Keep your hair on." Oliver pushed through the second of two entrances from the corridor to the drawing room, mobile phone in hand, his pique melting into a grin as he crossed to the fireplace.

"What are you up to, Mad Morborne?" one of the guests joshed.

"Wait and find out." Oliver stopped next to the drinks trolley. "Gaunt, start on those bottles, there's a good man." He lifted one of the fluted gla.s.ses and pinged it with his mobile. "My lords," he began to little effect. "My lords," he roared to quell the noise. "Thank you." He smiled as silence descended. "My lords, ladies, and gentlemen ... Vicar," he added, in a faintly mocking tone, to Tom. "As you know, I've honed to a, well, somewhat different path than most of you, I would say, don't you think? No RAC Cirencester and a life as Farmer Olly for me or being a director of some merchant bank in the City."

"You were in the Paras, Olly," someone remarked. "You can't be all bad."

"A mere idyll, my boy. It pleased Papa, somehow, though we all know he was a wicked old man and not the cynosure of conventionality himself."

"Apples and trees, Olly," someone called.

"Possibly. I wouldn't know. I've always thought myself pure as the driven snow, spending my humble life dedicated to serving the needs of the Great British Public for wholesome entertainment and pleasant venues for conversation and light refreshment."

"You are mad!" called another.

" 'Though this be madness, yet there is method in't.' "

"Money in't more like, Olly," retorted the same voice. Laughter rippled through the room.

"A comment unworthy of you, unkind sir," Oliver said mockingly as Gaunt peeled the foil on the champagne bottle. "But I must wax serious: There comes a time in every man's life when one begins to take the long view. I thought as I was down in Devon with my family-my sister, my nephew, cousin Jamie, his charming wife ... my other kin." He bared his teeth at the word in the direction of Dominic and Lucinda, who received the apparent slight with cold stares. "And of course you, my friends ..." He made a sweeping gesture of the room. "... that I would make this very important announcement that I'm sure you will all greet with ... well, some emotion appropriate to the occasion, I'm sure. Especially if you've had enough to drink."

"You're finally having that b.l.o.o.d.y awful boy band you manage drowned in the Thames," one person suggested.

"You're to be the new judge on X Factor," said another.

"You're opening a new club."

"My lords, et cetera, all those may be true, particularly the last one, but unworthy-perhaps-of this toast. In truth, I come before you, to humbly announce that-wait for it; you will be delighted, I guarantee-that I am about to close a life of iniquity by an act of timely repentance, after which it will be as if I had led the most virtuous of lives."

"Oh, h.e.l.l!" came a voice. "You're not taking up the vicar's line of work?"

"No, you gormless twit. I am shortly to become a married man."

"About b.l.o.o.d.y time, Morborne!" Someone laughed, breaking the moment of stunned silence.

"And may we know whom you are marrying?" Georgina wore a worried frown.

"Serena Knowlton."

"Serena ...? Lord Knowlton's daughter! Olly, she's half your age!"

"And your point would be, Georgie dear?"

"Where did you ...?"

"Happened across her at Icarus. Couldn't keep my eyes off. She's been my PA for the last six months."

"Your personal a.s.sistant?" Roberto sounded disbelieving.

"Yes, what of it?" Oliver snapped.

"Does Frank Knowlton know?" Georgina asked.

"That she's my PA?"

"No, you pillock," Hector intruded, "does he know that you're intending to marry his daughter?"

"He will." Oliver blasted Hector with his ice-blue eyes. "I thought you at least would be pleased, Georgie."

"I'm not displeased. I'm ... startled, that's all. When-"

"Yes, when are the nuptials, Olly?" A male voice crushed Georgina's. "Do tell."

"Soon. Very soon. We are expecting, Serena and I-"

"What, Olly? An appointment from the prime minister."

"No, you young idiot, our first child-"

"Not your first child, Olly!" someone said to a chorus of laddish chortles.

"Yes, well"-Oliver's humour appeared to be growing thin-"that's all in the past. More significantly, Serena has had one those test thingies-I can't think what they're called-and I'm very pleased to say-" He paused and turned his head with great deliberation towards Dominic and Lucinda, whose strained smiles, Tom noted, appeared the product of intense effort, then turned back to frown at Gaunt's slow, methodical untwisting of the wire cage around the champagne bottle cork. "-that we're having a male child."

"Excellent news!" a shout came from the back.

"Yes ... Give me that, Gaunt." Oliver tried without success to s.n.a.t.c.h the bottle from the butler's hands. "A son and heir."

But the moment brought no further encomiums, for a rich and frothy explosion suddenly ricocheted around the drawing room's gilded paneling. Tom's eyes had travelled helplessly back to Lucinda but it was Dominic, a head above and behind her, who commanded his attention now. The fixed smile had vanished: His lips were pinched to a small mean moue; his eyes were flecked with loathing. But before Tom could give this transformation a moment's thought, a new sound diverted him, a roar of rage intense as a lanced bull's, attended by a barrage of cursing so vile he could only thank G.o.d for his daughter's absence. The flying cork had found its target in Oliver's face.

CHAPTER SIX.

Tom prepared to slip between the cool sheets. Someone, Gaunt most likely, had placed on the bed a pair of crisply pressed and folded pajamas as white as a bride's gown, but they weren't his. Tom's own sleepwear was informal-a T-shirt and cotton lounge pants most times-and almost always mismatched, frayed, and inelegant, and he guessed Gaunt had thought him lacking proper sleepwear-or any sleepwear at all-when he had unpacked his bags. The evening held its warmth, the room, too, so he hopped across the room to a daybed and set the pajamas down unmolested, returning to plunk his naked self down on the edge of the bed, an exotic four-poster with scarlet hangings, a j.a.panned and gilded frame, surmounted by a paG.o.da roof with winged golden dragons at each cornice. His eyes travelled from the dragon's lewdly curling tongue down to the lacquered lattice-backed chairs to the ornate mirror frame over the fireplace to the delicate cream silk wallpaper with foliate motifs. Tom supposed it was all very lovely, if out of character with the rest of the house's Jacobean gloom, but somehow it reminded him more of a high-cla.s.s tart's boudoir, not that he had ever been in such a place. He eyes fell to the carpet-unadorned and green, like a lawn-and to the terminus of his right leg. Oh, my poor little foot. Alice contemplating hers when she'd grown nine feet tall came to his mind. Will I be able to put a sock and shoe on you tomorrow?

Not b.l.o.o.d.y likely.

If his wife were alive, she would be a helpmeet, though it would be a day or two at least before the compression wrap could come off and she could fit him into a shoe. But Lisbeth was gone, lo these several years, he thought wistfully, and a little sleepily. Perhaps this was why he was thinking of Alice: She had ingested something-Was it a piece of cake? A pill? He couldn't remember-that had made her open out like a telescope. He had ingested a sleeping tablet, which was making him shut down like the same instrument. Lady Fairhaven had suggested it for the discomfort he was sure to have sleeping. She herself took fifteen milligrams of zopiclone to sleep. By her tone, it sounded like the done thing at Egges...o...b... And as she had taken the trouble to come to his room with it and remained while he fumbled on the bedside table with the water carafe, refusing had seemed impolite. Lady Fairhaven's mother-in-law, the dowager countess, had been the one to lead him to his room earlier, and she had said sweetly, echoing Alice, "You must manage as best you can, but you must be kind to it."

His foot, that is.

So the pill was a kind of kindness, he supposed, though he had managed surrept.i.tiously with his fingernail to break it in half before swallowing. Fifteen milligrams sounded much too much.

Perhaps he might favour his foot with new and unique footwear, like Alice. Sent by carrier. And how odd the directions will look!

TOM'S RIGHT FOOT, ESQ.

HEARTHRUG,.

NEAR THE FENDER,.

(WITH TOM'S LOVE).

He yawned deeply. The Opium Bedroom contained no hearthrug. His watering eyes roamed up his legs, past his thoroughly bored p.e.n.i.s, to the accordion crinkle of his stomach. He absently pinched an inch of flesh. Two inches. More. How dismaying. In less than an hour it would be Christmas Eve, his family members' jokey private name for the day before their birthdays-this year, for him, a milestone birthday that he had been approaching in slithering trepidation with little prayerful increments, like someone sidling up to a woman in a wine bar. Really, another birthday shouldn't matter. He'd given the previous ones little mind. And he did indeed thank the Lord for the gift of life, for the gift of his daughter, his mothers, his friends, for the precious years he'd had with Lisbeth, for all the good things about life in a first-world country. But at forty he was midway through his earthly journey or, if one wanted to come over all peevish about it, he was suddenly, irrevocably, half dead. Being peevish about one's age was not an attractive quality, though he had said nothing to his parishioners about his forthcoming birthday and had laid down the law to Madrun to keep schtum on the subject, which was in truth rather peevish of him. "Perhaps a small party when Miranda and I return from Gravesend," he'd allowed, frowning over a much-too-early card from an old friend in London featuring a dinosaur, ha ha, how very droll.

If he hadn't been theologically trained, it might matter less. But he couldn't help but be reminded of the appearances of the number in the Bible. G.o.d, the G.o.d of order and purpose, had a penchant for things forty: forty days of rain for Noah, forty days of fasting and temptation for Jesus; forty years of exile in the desert of Midian for Moses, forty years of wandering the wilderness for the Israelites. The common theme: tribulation, testing, and trial.

Oh, dear.

He yawned again, so hard this time his jaw ached. He wasn't sure he was quite ready for a bout of tribulation, testing, and trial. Perhaps tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow will be the day of tribulation, testing, and ... that other thing. He pinched his pudge again. Jesus lived to only thirty-three and odds were He didn't have time to get a pudge. Lot of walking in His ministry, of course-good exercise!-and He didn't have a housekeeper who'd trained at a very good catering college. I wonder how they managed all those meals, he wondered as he pulled the sheets down and slipped into the bed, vaguely aware his thoughts were growing gabbled and silly. All that cooking for the Twelve, plus Jesus, and who knew who else. Couldn't do the loaves-and-fishes bit every day!

Must have hired a team of excellent women.

Funny the Bible never mentioned them.

But then men's doings got all the attention, didn't they?

Patriarchy! Lisbeth would have said.

Ha ha. I love you.

He would have laughed.

And she came to him as an angel As the waters of Lethe poured over him.

Some time later-not long he thought, though in his woolly state he couldn't be certain-he was jolted to wakefulness, not by some nightmare's trident, he considered after a dull moment, but by light, an unrelenting stream of it training against his eyelids. He had been dreaming a falling dream, the ragged edges of which flittered away in the soft safe certainty he was home in Thornford in bed. But the bed felt oddly out of place. And the furniture, shadowy forms, appeared newly arranged. The window loomed high and strange, a glowing frame pulling his eyes to a full moon suspended in the black, black sky like a mammoth crystal, from which cool rays, like those from a dying sun, streamed into the room, seeking out its remote corners, pooling along the floor, and pouring over the bedclothes. Tom widened his eyes to the transfixing loveliness and in his trance felt himself set on a silver barque on a silver sea. But the trance lasted little time. The fairy dust of moonlight soon settled dim and cold along the room's alien shapes as his night mind sharpened to his surroundings. He knew where he was now. And he knew, too, that it wasn't simply moonlight that had disturbed his sleep. Someone had entered his room.

Egges...o...b.. Hall 7 AUGUST.

Dear Mum, Lovely stationaryery, don't you think? I am ensconed ensc at Egges...o...b.. at last. All the years I've lived in Devon and never thought to visit even though it's open-to-view most weeks. Remember Hazel Turriff, Mum? Of course you do. Dad's cousin (third?) who I boarded with when I went to Leiths. She'd lived near 50 years in Shepherd's Bush and hadn't seen the Tower of London or the V&A. One day, she said. But she never seemed much wont to leave Tunis Road and I'll wager she never did see them before she died. I expect this happens when you live not far from something so well known. I'm rectu rectifying that! I can now tick Egges...o...b.. off my list! I drove here with Miranda yesterday morning in Mr. Christmas's car, as he went off to the airfield. I could tell he was skittish of jumping from an airplane. He hardly had a bite of my very good breakfast and kept looking at the clock over the Aga. You'll do yourself an injury, I said to him, and began to think again that perhaps Karla was right, that the traditional ways to raise money for the church are best. And see if she wasn't right! Mr. C. went and sprained his ankle when he landed-not badly, but enough to scotch his plans to drive to London last evening. He and Miranda are staying over at Egges...o...b.., I'm not sure for how long, which makes me wonder if I should mention his birthday (tomorrow!) to someone, as it seems wretched not to have at least a cake at the ready, but he was quite insistent I "hone to discretion" as he put it. Anyway, Mum, there was much worse than Mr. C.'s spill! Lord Fairhaven's parachute didn't open properly when the lords were jumping. We were watching it all on CCTV as it was happening and everyone was horrified, staring at the TV screen then looking into the sky expecting this poor man to come tearing out of it. What luck he had an emergency parachute, and all was well in the end, but I think something funny was going on. When I was helping serve last evening I overheard someone say Lord Fairhaven's parachute must have been fiddled with! Anyway, Mum, I'm getting ahead of myself! Yesterday Ellen met Miranda and me at the Gatehouse, where she and Mick are staying instead of the Big House, which I thought a bit odd at first. The Gatehouse is quite splendid! A bit like a little castle all by itself, though longer than wide, three storeys high, with those crennel cre b.u.mpy bits along the roofline and a tower at each end. Apparently Egges...o...b..'s senior managers live in apartments one on each side of the big gate, which they vacate with most of the other estate staff for an August holiday while Lord and Lady Fairhaven are in residence. Ellen and Mick are living in the north apartment, which is very cosy. My bedroom's at the top of the tower-it has eight sides! With wonderful views one way down the road towards Abbotswick and the other towards Egges...o...b.. Hall and all its chimneys. (No wonder it "played" Chimneys in the TV version of The Seven Dials Mystery!) I shall be queen of all I survey, as Miranda said when she helped with my bag. Ellen looks just the same as perhaps a little plumper than when I saw her last all those years ago. Do you remember me bringing her home to visit one weekend when we were at school? Lively thing, she was. I remember her saying then that the old shack down by the quay at Thornford could be a super little restaurant if someone put his mind to it, and now of course it is and she was right! But I must say she SEEMS different somehow. Well, you would be, after all these years, I suppose, but there's something gone a bit severe about her, I'm sorry to say. I don't think she cares much for her employers, for one thing. Apparently Lady Fairhaven is a bit of a trial, really doesn't lift a hand, and you have to these days, don't you? It's not like when Great-Grannie Prowse was parlourmaid for the Northmores at Thornridge House and there was nearly a dozen staff. There's only Ellen and Mick doing everything. Lady Fairhaven is p.r.o.ne to migraines, Ellen says, though her tone suggested Her Ladyship finds migraines rather CONVENIENT, and says they live much too informally given their position and such. She seemed to prefer her last employers, the Arouzis. Do you know them, Mum? Sometimes Mr. Arouzi is on telly talking about banking or stocks or the like. He always looks very dignified, like some Arab prince, but they're not Arabs, they're Persi Iranians, and not Muslims, but something else, which I've forgotten. I shall have to ask Mr. Christmas if he knows what it's about. Ellen said they were lovely to work for and had a household staff of seven-very grand, like the old days!-which she and Mick managed, and that the Arouzis had houses in Los Angeles and Switzerland, too, and they would travel there with them sometimes, and it all sounded very posh, so I couldn't help asking why they had left, and she said Mick wanted it. He saw an advert looking for a butler-valet and cook-housekeeper for the Earl and Countess of Fairhaven and thought a change would do them good and they were getting on a bit and maybe should take it easier with a smaller household and suchlike, but as Ellen pointed out, with no other staff, they're working harder than ever before. By the way, Mum, Lord Fairhaven's last butler was that big winner last summer in the National Lottery, the biggest ever, I think, 43 million! Ellen says he and his wife didn't even give Lord Fairhaven notice! Just packed their things and flew to Malta. Haven't been heard of since-well except for the stories in the tabs. Does make you wonder though what Lord and Lady Fairhaven are like to work for, if their staff can't wait to get shot of them?! Ellen hinted she would like to find a new situation, but they are fond of Maximilian, L & L Fairhaven's son. Viscount Boothby, he is, with his courtesy t.i.tle. He's a funny little boy, but Miranda, I can tell, has taken a shine to him. We met him walking up from the Gatehouse and I thought for a second he was a midget got up for some entertainment at the Fund-raiser or some little chap wandered away from a wedding in the village. He was wearing a grey morning coat, if you please, waistcoat, stripey trousers, all of it. Lovely tailoring, I could tell, and I did wonder how any mum and dad would afford to keep a growing boy in such finery, until I was introduced. In the evening, he changed to full evening dress! Quite the best-dressed "man" there by a long chalk, I must say! Really, Mum, most of the Leaping Lords dressed no better than half the men in the village at the weekend. How standards have fallen! Still, there wasn't much to dress for. I thought Lady Fairhaven might have had a glittering dinner party-but of course there's not the staff, and I even filled in helping Ellen serve. I gather Lady Fairhaven doesn't think much of her husband jumping out of airplanes, and perhaps she really is a migraine sufferer as she did look very drawn. None of the other wives were present, either, except for Lady Kirkbride whose husband organised the event for Mr. Christmas. She's very sweet, Lady Kirkbride. She asked me all sorts about Thornford R, but of course, she's still worried about her brother-in-law, our former verger, who went missing more than a year ago. I AM rambling. I was going to say that Maximilian has lovely manners, too, which is nice for Miranda. The boys in the village her age seem only to want to tease the girls, if they pay any attention at all. I even had a moment's fancy of one day Miranda becoming Lady Boothby, then, in time, Lady Fairhaven, though I am being a bit previous, aren't I? Anyway, Mum, I was going to tell you a bit about Mick. For one thing, he's younger than Ellen, by a few years at least. Ellen Madd.i.c.k, you old cradles.n.a.t.c.her, I thought! Quite like something the Ellen of the old days would do! Though I wouldn't say it to her face, of course. Anyway, Mick's name suits him. He is a bit gaunt, a little bit grim, even in private, though he and Ellen seem to rub along together well enough. We had a natter before bedtime and he did unwind a bit, telling us about a proper row between Lord Morborne, another of the Leaping Lords, and his half sister, Lady Lucinda fforde-Beckett. His Lordship is refusing to let Her Ladyship back into Morborne House in Eaton Square, rendering her homeless-well, as homeless as a marquess's daughter is ever likely to get! There was a thrown crystal gla.s.s and everything. Shocking bad behaviour, I thought, but I could tell Mick was only sorry that Lord Morborne ducked in time. His eyes fairly glittered when he told the story and he laughed out loud because later a champagne cork flew into Lord Morborne's face-all of which Ellen and I missed as we were in the kitchens loading the dishwashers. Busman's holiday for me, Mum! Mick says Lord Fairhaven thinks his wife Georgina's family-the fforde-Becketts-is a cross to be borne bare bear and here they are all at Egges...o...b.. for the weekend! Oliver, Lord Morborne, Lady Lucinda, and Dominic (no t.i.tle!) whose brother-sister-cousin connections are enough to make you cross-eyed. (I won't try!) Anyway, Lady Lucinda is very attractive in a c.o.c.kett c.o.kettish flirty sort of way. Have you read about her in the papers, Mum? I think she ran off and married the stable boy (or something like) when she was 19, then turned around and married some aging Italian count, though that's ended, too. She seems very close to her unt.i.tled half brother (and cousin?) Dominic. I overheard them in the drawing room last night making a very peculiar wager with each other that I can't bring myself to write down. Anyway, she cut quite a figure last evening and I could see she was getting on VERY WELL with some of their lordships who ought to know better as they have wives the other guests. I could tell Mr. Christmas found her attractive, too. They're all so predictable, men, aren't they, Mum? Even good priests. I am glad Mairi White is out of the picture. Did I tell you she's gone to Exeter for proper police training? Perhaps I did. At any rate, I did worry that something might happen there, and bring scandal upon us. A priest of Mr. Christmas's education and the village bobby? I think not! And no one can accuse me of being a sn.o.b. Anyway, Mum, I best crack on, even though I don't have to, do I? I'm on holiday! Ellen says I'm not to try and lend a hand, though I can't help myself. It's my training, I expect. I shall walk into Abbotswick to post this letter a little later and look at the ruins of Holne Abbey, and I'll do the famous Labyrinth, though Ellen thinks it's mostly a bother. I'm tempted to try and get my head down for another hour or two. I didn't sleep well. A strange bed perhaps, though I always sleep well on holiday in Tenerife. I'm certain I woke to thunder and lightening in the night, but I can't see any evidence of rain, and then, around dawn, someone was whistling quite loudly in the forecourt. I did get back to sleep, but not for long. Anyway, I can hear them shifting themselves the floor below, so perhaps I'll let them get on their way to the Big House before I go downstairs for some tea and toast. I'd tell you the cats are well, but I don't know, as they have to fend for themselves for the few days I'm here. Plenty of mice in the garden! The Swans have elected their Daniel to look in on b.u.mble and take him for walks. Hope he does better with dog care than delivering newspapers. Love to Aunt Gwen.

Much love, Madrun P.S. Roger did jump! His mother didn't stop him after all. He was quite the sight in a jumpsuit!

CHAPTER SEVEN.

Tom's eyes opened to the shadowy underside of a canopy-a paG.o.da, his synapses crackled fuzzily-brushed by the grainy gleams of first light atop the curtains, which-he shifted his gaze-were now closed, billowing faintly in a breeze. Had he risen in the night to draw them? He pulled one hand from under the bedclothes and flicked grit from the corner of his eye. The moon! Yes, of course, the staring moon had pulled him from some gabble of dreams. He must have struggled from the bed to shut out the abrasive light and return to luscious sleep.

And then his memory fused: He had never left the bed nor been awakened by the moon. Soft footfalls had sounded through the darkness and at first, in consternation, he thought the source an anxious, troubled Miranda, because who else interrupted his monkish slumbers these days? But before he could reach out, whisper his child's name, a silhouette slipped into the window's spill of silver light, no child's, but a woman's. A swift swishing tickled his ears; gossamer tissue floated past his straining eyes to pool on the floor; his heart drummed as, in a trance, he watched the figure glide towards him, moonlight limning the a.s.sembly of curves, suppressing a gasp as her hair and eyes and mouth resolved into familiarity. His nose drank in a heated perfume pouring off her as she curled the coverlet back; his skin tensed to a near-forgotten sensation as hers glanced his, pressed his, claimed his. Their lips met.

He was lost in an instant.

He looked now from the sealed curtains to the tangle of bedclothes beside him, grey lumps in the greyer gloom. The scent of Lucinda's hair still clung to the pillow, but the sheets to his probing fingers felt cool. She had vanished as she had arrived, unbidden, as he slept, drawing the curtains on her journey back to her own room. They had exchanged no endearments as lovers would, only grunts and commands, the purest invocations of-he squirmed as the unholy word formed in his mind-l.u.s.t, as they tangled and arched, united in an urgency of animal need until finally, spent, they had collapsed panting onto the dampened bedclothes, followed swiftly by sleep. Thoughts of those moments came now, w.i.l.l.y-nilly, and he felt his body tightening, flouting his censorious superego, unable to deny the elation, the reminder, nearly four years from his wife's death, that his body could be the cause of happiness, to himself, and to another. He felt affirmed: He had not lost it in the vale of widowhood. And yet, and yet, as the zopiclone cobwebs faded and his ankle throbbed anew, he felt the batterings of his conscience. Irrational the first thought-and it was irrational: It hit him that he had betrayed Lisbeth, opening, brazenly, nakedly, as if he had been bent on punishing her in some fashion, for some inexplicable reason. He pressed his palm against his forehead.

What have I done?

"Now the body is not for fornication, but for the Lord." St. Paul's strong words from Corinthians came to him with all the authority of Scripture, and though he hated the selecting of random verses to distort larger truths and justify hurt and hate, still the words were piercing darts. He had not felt quite this way before. Before he had discerned a call to ministry, in college, in the days when he had entertained as a magician in clubs, on cruise ships, and such, he had been no tyro in the arts of love, refusing few opportunities to make a fool of himself in one fashion or another in that male eagerness to bed a woman no matter what the circ.u.mstance. There had been girlfriends, yes, one with whom he had vaguely entertained the notion of formal commitment, but he had been too restless, too searching, until he b.u.mped into the Lord. As an ordinand, he had made a volte-face, priding himself on his continence, until he had b.u.mped into Lisbeth or, rather, she had b.u.mped into him, saving him from sinking like a b.l.o.o.d.y fool into the Cam in a punting mishap. His trip from a figure soaking wet on the lawn of the Cambridge Backs to her bed had been swift, ridiculously swift, should have been shamefully swift, if he hadn't known deep within his heart that he would be with her all the days of his life-or, as was cruelly the case, all the days of her life, her sweet, short life.

And then, until this night, a dry spell. First poleaxed by grief, then hedged by the conventions and obligations of widowhood, single-fatherhood, priesthood, an outsider in a village of a thousand curious eyes and clacking tongues, less interested in his churchmanship than in his personal affairs (for what is a presentable, unwed man of a certain age but someone's project?), he fought shy of romantic entanglement. There were some attractive women in the village, and he could feel their eyes upon him in a speculative way in the pulpit, in the street, in the pub, but only one, Mairi White, the village bobby, held an allure, possibly because her flirtation was so bold, so cheerful, so nonchalant. She made him laugh. Once, last January, he had nearly succ.u.mbed to temptation-or at least the temptation to temptation-but he had been deflected by a h.e.l.lish tragedy, and the moment pa.s.sed. Mairi was too young anyway, on a career trajectory that would take her to who knew where, evincing little interest in becoming a wife, much less a vicar's wife. Tom flexed his ankle and groaned. Perhaps, he thought, he underestimated the perspicacity of Thornford's village pump: Mairi didn't share his direction, his education, his faith. But, my, she was easy on the eyes.

Tom shunted the coverlet and sheets aside, exposing his naked self, feeling the cool air on his flesh, forcing his attention to his ankle, the bruising a darker shade of shadow in the dark room. However, even the injury returned his mind to Lucinda, as it had proved such little impediment to their love-making, and astonishingly so. But he had been eager, she had been adept, wordlessly, tenderly conscious of his deficiency. He could feel his face burn as images of their entwined limbs rioted through his head. An unwelcome twitch turned to arousal. Hastily, he pulled the bedclothes to his neck.

Why had Lady Lucinda come to his bed? What secret trove of need drove her to seek comfort from a virtual stranger? Or had it all been but some nocturnal amus.e.m.e.nt, as you might find in a novel of manners about the English upper cla.s.ses disporting themselves carelessly at a country house weekend party? Had Egges...o...b.. witnessed other nocturnal peregrinations upstairs and down? He groaned again.

A remembered image slipped into his mind. The milky, silky underside of her forearms, stretching forth as she steadied herself on his hips, caught the moonlight, revealing random striae like threads of white ribbed silk. What affliction, he wondered, had driven her to cutting, that strange, awful release of troubled teenage girls? He knew almost nothing of the woman he had a short time earlier had in his embrace. He felt suddenly like doing a flit, s.n.a.t.c.hing Miranda, finding the car, and tearing back to Thornford, left foot on the pedal, if necessary. It was all very thoughtful of Lady Fairhaven-both Ladies Fairhaven-to have him to stay, to convalesce, but he felt more than ever out of his depth, landed in something treacherous. Suddenly the breakfast table loomed. Conversation over the Weetabix seemed an impossible embarra.s.sment. Flight was the fix.

But it wasn't. It was the Sunday-morning impulse of a thousand craven blokes who had bedded a girl on a Sat.u.r.day night. He was no better than his own self in his own spotty youth.

He struggled with pillows behind his head and pushed himself up against the headboard. Though it was August and avian courting season well over, a few birds outside his window heralded the coming dawn, a little more light crept over the tops of the curtains. He had an idea. He would do the decent thing, join the other guests for breakfast, then depart by noon with many thanks for their kindness. Madrun could drive Miranda and him to the train station at Totnes-it wasn't far-then in London they could get a cab from Paddington to Charing Cross to catch the Gravesend train. He could return the crutches to Lady Fairhaven at some later time. If Lady Lucy chose to speak of their midnight dalliance, it would be well out of his earshot. With any luck he would never see these people again!

But breakfast was some little time off, and vacating this sweating, swinking, fusty, musty chamber of sin and corruption took on a certain urgency. He shifted to the edge of the bed and gingerly tested his bandaged foot on the floor. Pain bloomed, but did not explode. He would dress and hobble outdoors. There was a feature of Egges...o...b.. Park he very much wanted to see before he made a hasty exit. It would be a good place to say his Morning Office. And it would be at a good time, at dawn, when the world was renewed. The hymn came to mind: Lord, I my vows to Thee renew; disperse my sins as morning dew; guard my first springs of thought and will, and with Thyself my spirit fill.

Access to the Labyrinth began with a pitch-roofed, wood-and-red-brick porch. Tom glanced at the benches on either side, each fit to seat ten pilgrims or more, while framed posters on the walls explained the provenance of labyrinths and the history and construction of the Egges...o...b.. version, the largest hedge labyrinth in England. He hobbled past the sign-age with little regard. He knew something of labyrinths and mazes, their origins and their meaning, the more outlandish New Age spiritual claims to which he was immune. He had visited the ur-labyrinth at Chartres Cathedral on a trip to France with Dosh and Kate when he was eight and had, his mothers reminded him (though he had forgotten), raced impiously around its sinuous trail until stopped by a kindly priest. Though he was getting the hang of walking aided by his little crutchy friend, there would be no racing this morning, he considered, as he pa.s.sed through the unlatched gate and on to the pebble ap.r.o.n heralding the single opening in the topiary hedge, the Labyrinth's true starting point.

He lifted his eyes to the vast arrangement of bushes, a grey silhouette against the dawn's vague paling. Only a G.o.d's-eye view, he realised-his view from the heavens yesterday-made sense of the Labyrinth's cunning geometry. Here, on the ground, at the entrance, the curving seams of foliage, chest-high, appeared baffling, vaguely threatening. The arrangement was reminiscent of some mythical animal, alive but slumbering. He had a moment's irrational panic, a throb along his veins (had Theseus felt thus on his venture to the heart of Daedalus's labyrinth?), which he quickly suppressed. Bowing his head, he awkwardly clasped his hands through the crutch's frame.

Lord, my heart and mind are open to you.

May your gentle presence calm the storms around me, And lead me to a place of inner peace Forgive my foolish ways Reclothe me in my rightful mind Breathe through the heat of my desire Thy coolness and Thy balm, And let flesh retire (Well, at least for a goodly interval, he amended.) Amen Raising his head, he began his journey, shuffling along a straight path for a few feet. The first bend was a veering left, and he was about to turn when some quick movement, a blur at the corner of his eye, drew his attention to the heart of the Labyrinth. "h.e.l.lo?" he called out unthinkingly, realising at once that he was violating the Labyrinth's norms of quiet and contemplation, but too surprised that someone else would share his notion for a pilgrimage so early in the morning. And yet he could see nothing, no movement. A head, perhaps? A woman's head, peeking above the hedge wall? But no. As he strained his eyes farther into the thin rays of the new sun, he did indeed discern a shadowy shape, rounded, head-like, and he remembered the previous evening's discussion of a new artwork for the Labyrinth.