Anne Perry - A Christmas Visitor

“Only if Gower is not guilty,” Ephraim said, but now there was no hope in his eyes. It was as if within himself he knew, he was simply finding the strength to face it. All his passion and dreams were crumbling, towers that had shone in the air only an hour before. If ever he needed courage it was now.

No one bothered to argue with him.

“The Reverend Findheart,” Antonia said, looking at Henry. “That must have been where he was going. It makes sense now.”

“Then I will go and see him in the morning,” Henry answered. “Unless you prefer to go?” he looked at Benjamin, then at Ephraim.

“No. Thank you.” Benjamin looked bruised, as if the emotional shock had hurt him physically. “I had better look at the estate papers, and see what can be saved of ours. If there is anything. Ephraim, will you help?”

Ephraim nodded and reached out his hand to rest it on Benjamin’s.

Henry rose to his feet and excused himself. They should be allowed time alone together. There was too much to face for it to be done easily, or quickly. He bade them good night, even though it could not possibly be so, and went upstairs to his room.

T he morning was cold with flurries of snow. It was two days until Christmas. Henry had tea and toast alone in the dining room, then put on his greatcoat, hat, scarf and gloves, and set out to walk to the lower crossing of the stream, and the climb beyond.

He would have given anything he could think of not to be bound on this errand. The land was beautiful, great sweeping hills mantled in snow, black rocks making patterns through the white, steep sides plunging to the water. Wind-riven, the ragged skies were scattered with clouds and light, casting swift-moving shadows over the earth. Trees were stark, soft flakes blurring the edges even as he looked.

The estate itself had a wealth and a beauty it would tear the heart to leave behind. The Dreghorns had been good husbanders of its wealth. They would leave it far richer than Geoffrey Gower had. But Henry had no doubt for even a second, a passing instant, that this is what Judah had begun, and would have finished had not Colgrave killed him. He had a wrong to undo, whatever the cost. He would have made no excuse.

He reached the stream, swift-flowing under the flat stones that stretched across, like planks. He could never forget that this was where Judah had died.

He set out across the narrow way, taking small steps, balancing with his arms out a little. He did not care if he looked foolish.

The stone church with its squared tower was visible as soon as he rounded the corner of the hill, with the large vicarage beyond it, the orchard trees bare now, coated only with a dusting of snow. The lake water shimmered in gray and silver, always moving.

Henry trudged through the unbroken white, leaving his footprints to mark his way. At the gate he stopped, fumbling for the latch. It was indecently early to visit an elderly man. Perhaps he had been precipitate? He was still standing uncertainly when the front door opened and he saw the vicar regarding him with interest. He was thin and bent with white hair blowing in the gusts of wind.

“Good morning,” Henry said, a trifle embarrassed at being caught staring.

“Good morning, sir,” Findheart answered with a smile. “Would you like a cup of tea? Or even breakfast?”

Henry undid the gate latch and went in, closing it carefully behind him.

“Thank you,” he accepted.

He was inside with his wet shoes and coat taken by an ancient housekeeper, and sitting by the fire in the dining room in his stocking feet with hot tea, toast, and honey, before he approached the subject for which he had come.

“Reverend Findheart, I was a close friend of Judah Dreghorn’s …”

“I know,” Findheart said mildly. “The night he was here, he spoke of you, just before he died.”

Henry was grateful to be helped; it would be hard enough. “I went to Kendal and spoke to Mr. Overton. I know now what Judah learned. Is that what he said to you that evening?”

“Yes.” Findheart added nothing, but he kept smiling, his blue eyes infinitely gentle. It was a confidence he was still not going to break. Henry would have to spell it out.

Henry sighed. “He learned that Ashton Gower was innocent, and the estate really did belong to him. Judah was going to give it back, wasn’t he?”

“Yes. It was the only honorable thing to do,” Findheart agreed. “Do have some more tea. You must be cold.”

Henry accepted. “Did he ask you to care for Antonia, and her son, if he should be unable to?”

“He did. But of course that will only be necessary should they carry through Judah’s wishes.” He did not make it a question, but in effect, it was.

“Yes, they will,” Henry said softly. “They are Dreghorns, too. But it will leave them all without means. Benjamin will have to give up his archaeology in the Holy Land. Ephraim will not be able to go back to Africa, and Naomi too will have to remain here in England. I am not aware if Nathaniel left her with anything, but I imagine it would be only what income he had from the estate. And of course there are Antonia and Joshua. They will be without a home or means of any sort.”

“I know,” Findheart said. “I have given it much thought. The answer seems to me quite clear. I have served in this church for thirty years, and loved it dearly, but it is time for me to retire. I am getting old.” He smiled ruefully. He must have been long past eighty. His eyes were bright but his skin was withered and his hands were veined in blue. “I have not the strength for the pastoral work that I used to have,” he went on. “The people need and deserve a younger man, one better able to ride to the sick in the outlying farms and dales, one who can answer their call for the frightened, the sick and the lonely, the grieving and the troubled, at any hour. Benjamin Dreghorn is ordained to that office. He may take my place, and serve God here.”

He lifted his hand in a small gesture. “The vicarage is large and warm, well suited for a family. There would be room for Antonia and Joshua, and for Ephraim, too, if he wishes, and for Naomi. It would shelter them all. There are vegetables in the garden and fruit in the orchard, if anyone will labor to make it yield.” He smiled apologetically. “It is not the new and exciting botany of Africa, but it will feed the people, and to spare. And there is honey in the hives, and fish in the stream and in the lake.”

Henry was grateful, and amazed at the simplicity of it. In a bolt of memory like a physical shock he heard again Naomi’s words that the garden where Mary Magdalene recognized the risen Christ was not a physical place, but one of the mind, and of the spirit.

“Thank you,” he said aloud. “I will tell them.” He was unsure how to say to this gentle, generous-hearted man that they may find the loss too profound to be graceful about it for some time yet.

Findheart nodded. “Of course,” he agreed. “Of course. But I shall make it all ready for them, at least for Antonia, if that is what she chooses. You are a good friend, Mr. Rathbone. Your presence will make it less difficult for them than it might have been. Judah Dreghorn was a man of the utmost integrity of heart. No other course is open to those who would be his heirs.”

Henry found his throat suddenly constricted and his eyes prickled with tears. Sitting in this quiet vicarage with the fire burning gently in the hearth and the snow drifting pale flurries outside, he was more truly aware of how much he missed Judah, not just his company, his laughter, but the certainty of honor in him, that truth inside which was never tainted.