Anne Perry - A Christmas Secret

She stood in the fading winter sun, the light graying outside, the fire burning up behind her. Why had he not taken this with him? An accidental omission, surely? It did not belong in this room: in his bedroom, if not with him. He must have left it out to pack, and somehow overlooked it.

She should find his address and send it on to him. The postal service was good; it would get to him in a day or two at the outside. Her mind made up, she went into the study and looked for the address of the Reverend Wynter’s holiday dwelling. It took her only ten minutes. She was surprised: it was an area of Norfolk she knew quite well, with beautiful wide skies and open beaches facing the North Sea. It would be a wonderful place for him to create more of his pictures. It was famous for its artists. She smiled, imagining him drinking in its splendor, and then striving to capture it on paper.

Then she read the address again. It was a small hotel in one of the seaside villages. But she had been there herself two years ago—and the hotel was closed, turned into a private house. He could not be there. It must be a mistake, an address from a previous holiday—although she had seen no pictures in the house that could be from that region. She would have to put on her coat and boots and go and ask Mrs. Wellbeloved. No doubt she would have the correct address. She must send him his scriptures.

But Mrs. Wellbeloved had no idea where the vicar might be, if he was not at that hotel. She was very sorry, and not a little annoyed also to have been misled. Clarice should try Sir Peter. She could think of no one else.

The light was waning in the winter dusk, but to the northwest the clouds had cleared. As she approached the manor house, the sun burned low and spread a tide of scarlet across the snow. She came to the gates: formal wrought iron between magnificent gate quoins with heraldic gryphons on each. She tried them, and they opened easily. She walked up the curved gravel driveway until she came around the clipped trees and saw the magnificent façade of the early Tudor house with its mullioned windows and cloistered chimneys. The gardens were formal: herbs, flowers, and low hedges carefully nurtured into the complicated patterns of an Elizabethan knot garden. I bet there’s a maze somewhere to the back, she thought, beyond the old cedars at the side, and the oaks.

She felt a little presumptuous walking up and knocking on the front door uninvited, but her reason was compelling. The Reverend Wynter would need his Bible: his own copy, not something lent to him by a stranger—something with his passions, his dreams, and his understandings written in over the years.

She knocked and waited. The purple cloud banners were a pall over the embers of the setting sun. Nothing happened. Then in the fast-fading light she noticed a gryphon’s head to one side and realized it was an elaborate bellpull. She tried it, and a few moments later a butler appeared. He was an elderly gentleman with white hair and a thin, ascetic face with a surprising flash of humor in it. “Yes, ma’am? May I help you?”

She stood on the step shivering. “I am Clarice Corde, wife of the vicar who is taking the Reverend Wynter’s place this Christmas,” she began.

“Indeed, ma’am. Sir Peter spoke of you. Would you care to come in? It’s a distinctly chilly evening.”

“Distinctly,” she agreed through chattering teeth. “Yes. I need to ask Sir Peter’s advice, if I may?”

“Of course.” The butler stepped back, took her cloak and shawl, and conducted her into the withdrawing room, which was paneled in oak with a coffered ceiling. A magnificent arras hung on the wall, and the fire burning in the hearth was big enough to have roasted a pig on a spit above the flames. Sir Peter was sitting in a huge leather armchair by the blaze, and he stood up the moment she came in.

The butler offered her tea, which she accepted. She took the seat opposite Sir Peter.

“What may I do to help?” he asked her.

She told him of finding the Bible, and then the address that she knew could not be correct. “I wondered if you know where he had really gone,” she finished. “I think he will miss his own scriptures, and I would like to send them to him.”

“Indeed,” he said, frowning now. “How odd that he should forget to pack such a thing. No doubt it was an oversight. He will be searching for it already. But I am afraid I don’t know where he went. In fact I did not even know he was going. It was a surprise to me. I would have wished him a good journey. I am sorry I didn’t.” There was gentleness in his voice and a softness of genuine regret in his eyes.

Looking at him, Clarice was suddenly aware of how deeply fond of the Reverend Wynter he must have been, and that perhaps he was more hurt by the rift between them than he admitted.

“You have no idea where else he goes?” she pressed. “I could at least write a letter; if he writes back, I shall know where to send the Bible. I must not risk losing it.”

“No!” He leaned forward. “You must keep it safely. Please, don’t risk it unless you are absolutely certain where he is. Family Bibles matter intensely. So many memories. Could you not be mistaken about this hotel?”

“No.” She had no doubt about it. She had been sorry and inconvenienced to find it changed herself. She told him of her experience. She did not mention that it had been the vicar’s personal Bible, not a family one.

A shadow flickered across his face with its delicate lines.

“I see. No, there seems to be no room for error. I’m sorry; I really don’t know where else he might have gone. I wish I could offer help.”

The branch of the tree burning in the grate settled a little, and a shower of sparks flew up the vast chimney. She looked around the age and beauty of the room and wondered how many generations of Connaughts had sat here, hearing the stories of the village, helping, protecting, disciplining, governing, and probably using and taxing as well. Walls like these had seen England’s history unfolding since before the Spanish Armada had sailed in the time of Queen Elizabeth. Perhaps even Henry VIII had visited here with one of his six wives. Or Walsingham had sent out his spies. There would be a priest hole behind that fireplace for fugitive Catholics when they were hunted and burned. Which side had the Connaughts been on in the Civil War? Or the Bloodless Revolution?

Sir Peter was smiling at her, his eyes bright again in the firelight. “Would you like to see the house?” he asked. “It would be my pleasure to show you.”

“I’d love to,” she said sincerely.

He guided her through it all with a kind of gentle pride she found endearing. He did not boast except once, and then immediately apologized for it as though it had been a breach of good manners.

“You have a right to be proud,” she said honestly. “It is so beautiful, and obviously it has been loved over the centuries. Thank you for your generosity in showing me.”

He looked pleased, even a little self-conscious. “Are you sure you wish to walk home alone? It is now quite dark.”

“Oh, certainly,” she said with confidence. “It is only a mile or so.”

“Still, I would rather accompany you, at least as far as the village green. I would be happier.”

She did not argue. When she was within sight of the vicarage lights, which were already familiar to her, he bade her good night and turned back toward the manor. Clarice went another few yards, then saw the dark outline of a figure coming toward her, leaning into the wind and huddling a shawl around her. It was so small and walked with such tiny, hurried steps, it had to be a woman.

“Good evening,” Clarice said clearly, thinking the woman had not seen her and was in danger of bumping into her unless she moved off the path into the snow.