Eleven Pipers Piping (9 page)

Judith’s shoulders sagged. “Well …” Her voice trailed off as she cast her eyes around the warm, comfortable room.

“I have an idea,” Tom found himself saying. “I know we’ve barely been introduced, but you would be welcome to come and stay at the vicarage, if you like. We have extra bedrooms, and there’s only my daughter and I … and the housekeeper.”

Saying that, a panicked thought crossed his mind: How would Mrs. Prowse take to an unexpected guest? Were the extra beds made up? Would she have wanted to run a duster over the place? Or put in fresh flowers? God knew, there was enough food in that monstrous refrigerator to feed another mouth.

“I was a stranger and you took me in.”
She beamed at him.

Tom smiled back. “Then, in keeping with Matthew, have you eaten?”

“I had a little something at Newton Abbot.”

“We’re about to have pudding, aren’t we?” He glanced at Will for agreement and decided to ignore the faint irritation ghosting his features. “Would you care to join us?”

“Are you sure?”

“If you don’t mind being the only woman present as a guest.”

“Oh!” Judith tilted her head in a way that was almost coquettish. “I shouldn’t want to put you out of your fun. My husband once belonged to the Stafford Rotary and often attended such dinners.”

“Your husband isn’t with you on this adventure?” Tom asked as they passed into the brightness of the lobby. Judith removed her coat and added it, a burst of pink, to the crowded tree of green Barbours.

“I’m afraid my husband passed away, in November.”

“I’m very sorry.”

“May I join you in a few moments? If you’ll tell me …”

“The ladies’ is just there.” Will gestured down the hall to the right of the desk.

“And we’re off to the left,” Tom added. “First door. Just follow the voices. I hope I haven’t been presumptuous,” he murmured to Will when she’d passed from earshot.

“No, it’s … fine.” But Tom could hear the lie in the hesitation. “Anyway, thanks for taking her in. Staying here wouldn’t be …” He seemed to grope for the word. “… wise.”

“Bless,” said Roger, grinning at Tom after Judith had been introduced to the assembled. “I do believe, Mrs. Ingley, that you’re the thirteenth at table.”

“Oh, am I? Oh.” Judith’s expression turned to one of faint discomfit, though her appearance had undergone a recent refurbishment, the lipstick newly bright, the silver hair freshly combed. “Then I mustn’t be the first to rise. It’s bad luck to be the first when there’s thirteen, isn’t that right? Where shall I sit?”

“We’ve had a place set here.” Roger pointed to the end of the table next to Will. “We wouldn’t want you to have to suffer the company of the rabble down that end.”

Laughter followed Judith to her seat. “I’m sure I’ve suffered worse. This looks lovely,” she added, settling into the chair pulled out for her, indicating the tall fluted crystal glass with contents layered white, red, and gold, set on a crested china plate arranged with a plump berry pastry. “And you had an extra. What luck!”

“Bless, it’s not luck, Mrs. Ingley,” Roger said. “We have cranachan for twenty-two, but the snow put a stop to half the band.
Which reminds me—Lads!” He raised his voice. “There’s seconds of this, if anyone wants.”

“You’ve got more pluck than some of our lot,” John said to her.

“I think it was more fright that kept me going.” Judith plucked a raspberry from the top of the cream-and-oatmeal concoction. “When I left Newton Abbot, the snow had become quite startling. I simply clung to the steering wheel for dear life and didn’t stop the car until I saw the Thorn Court sign. I passed quite a few drivers who had skidded off the road.”

“Did you manage to find anywhere to park?” John asked.

“Oh, yes.” She gestured with her spoon as she surveyed his face. “In the converted stables.”

“Then you’ve stayed at Thorn Court before?” Will asked.

“I grew up in Thornford.”

“Bless, did you now?” Roger rested his spoon on his plate. “But Ingley is your married name …”

“I’m Judith Frost that was.”

“Oh.”

Roger’s slightly surprised tone made Tom glance up. Both Roger’s and Jago’s heads tilted as if they were searching for some memory.

“I’m older than you both.” She laughed lightly. “You wouldn’t remember me. And I left to take up training for nursing at St. James’s Infirmary in Leeds when I was eighteen—many years ago—and I’ve never been back. Until now.”

“Mmm, these are splendid,” Roger interrupted, biting into the tartlet. The berries left a red stain on his lips. “These must be the baking Madrun sent along with you, Tom. You’re not eating yours, Will.”

“You have no family in the area?” Will’s fingers hesitated over the pastry.

“I was an only child. Both my parents died when I was young.”

“Bless! Not at the same time, I hope.”

“No, not at the same time.” Judith turned to Will. “You’re Australian, of course. Yes, the accent did give you away. How did you come to own a hotel deep in Devon?”

“I married into it.” Will contemplated the tartlet. “My wife’s father and grandfather had this place,” he added, taking a large bite. “This is very good. Are there nuts in these?”

“Your wife is …?”

“Caroline. Stanhope before she married me.”

“Oh, then she must be Arthur Stanhope’s … granddaughter. He was one of the bigger landowners in the village, wasn’t he?” She frowned in thought. “Then your wife’s father has to be Clive Stanhope. Where has—”

“He snuffed it.” Nick interjected loudly, pouring himself another whisky. “About five years ago, six.”

Tom studied Judith as she jerked her head in the speaker’s direction. She looked startled, yes—at Nick’s crudity—but he was intrigued to see another, cooler, emotion—a scrutinising intelligence—glittering behind her lenses.

“He was my father, too,” Nick added.

“Oh, I see. I’m sorry. So many names when I was introduced. I guess I didn’t catch yours.”

“Different mothers, though,” Nick muttered thickly. “Excuse my fingers.” He leaned past Roger and handed his tartlet to Will. Flakes scattered to the tablecloth. “You eat this, Will. I’m bloody stuffed.”

“I expect you knew Clive Stanhope,” Tom said to Judith. Will was frowning at Nick’s offering. He looked to the tartlet on his own plate and wondered if he had a cranny left for anything more.

“Everyone knew everyone then,” Judith replied. “But—”

Will pushed his chair back, stopping her. He rose unsteadily and gripped the edge of the table. The flickering candlelight cast his features into sharp relief and shadow. “Gentlemen …” His voice slurred. “… lady …” He nodded to Judith. “I think a short break is in order here before we get on to tonight’s entertainments. I think
you all know what you probably need to do, so,” he continued over the laughter, “shall we reconvene in about fifteen minutes?”

Will popped the tartlet into his mouth. Tom popped his into his. He had done what needed to be done a little earlier.

“Have you been in Thornford long?”

Tom let the front window drapery fall back into place. He had pulled the heavy fabric aside to look at the deepening cradle of snow visible in the porch light and worried if, in the morning, his route to the second church in his benefice, St. Paul’s, in Pennycross St. Paul, a little over two miles north of Thornford, would be cut off. In fair weather, the drive took about seven minutes. But what about foul? He could walk, he supposed. That would take about forty-five minutes. But how long would the journey be in deep snow?

“Less than a year.” He turned to Judith. “I was in Bristol for several years before that.”

“And how are you finding it?”

“Quite different and oddly very much the same. A rural parish has its peculiar challenges, and yet the problems of people are usually a slightly different edition of a universal fact—suffering of some nature.”

“All the world in a snow globe, I would say on an evening like this.” Judith lifted the curtain herself and peered out. “You’re quite sure you don’t mind having me to stay?”

“Not at all. The vicarage was built for a nineteenth-century priest with a wife, six children, and scattering of servants.”

“Do you mean the vicarage is still the Georgian pile between the churchyard and the Old Orchard? I thought the Church was dedicated to selling off such properties.”

“It is. But the arrangement here is unusual. A previous incumbent—Giles James-Douglas—did you know him—?”

Judith shook her head. “I have been gone a long time.”

“—had considerable private resources, so he bought the property and returned it to the Church in his will as a gift of sorts with sufficient moneys for its upkeep and so forth. Our housekeeper has a flat on the top floor and Miranda—that’s my daughter—and I have the run of the other two.”

“I hope you don’t think me over-inquisitive, but is there no Mrs. Christmas? That
is
a wedding band, is it not?”

Tom glanced at the circlet of gold on his ring finger. “Technically, there never was a Mrs. Christmas. My wife was a pediatrician and kept her maiden name, Rose. But in any case, there is no Mrs. Christmas. Lisbeth died two years ago.”

“Oh! I’m so sorry.”

Tom smiled tightly. He could feel the force of a lively curiosity: The wives of men not yet forty, the mothers of young children, do not die in any way that is not tragic. And yet he was loath to offer details freely. Lisbeth had lost her life to a stranger, some madman—yet to be run to ground—who stabbed her beating heart with a knife as she passed through the south porch of St. Dunstan’s, his church in Bristol. That dreary autumn afternoon, she had borne a gift, a doll, that was to be Miranda’s birthday present, better concealed from their precocious daughter’s eyes in the church office than in a cupboard at home. The horrible concatenation of events haunted him still, troubled his sleep and pierced his waking hours. Anytime he relived the details for strangers, he felt as though he were somehow reburying them. And, of course, he often found the pity unbearable.

“You must have loved her very, very much,” Judith continued. “The ring has remained.”

“I’ve never taken it off.”

Judith studied her own rings, heavy old gold, one set with small diamonds. “I doubt I shall ever remove mine. At my age I don’t expect to marry again.” She looked up at him and cocked her head.
“But you’re a young man …” She didn’t need to say more. The implication was clear:
You could marry again
.

“Odd,” he said. “You’re the first person to remark on this. At least in my hearing.”

“I don’t mean to offend.”

“Don’t apologize. I have wondered from time to time what I should do with it … the ring. I expect in some way, I’m not really quite ready …”
To let go, to move on
, he thought, which removing the ring would imply. “I wonder for instance what my daughter will think …”

“You do have your own life.”

“Yes … yes, of course.”

“Don’t mind me. I’m being intrusive.” Judith laughed lightly. “You have other family, I’m sure.”

“Yes, at Gravesend. Shall we?” He gestured in the vicinity of the private dining room. “They were all down at Christmas,” he continued, hoping to abandon the topic of rings. “My wife’s parents live in London and dote on their granddaughter. And then there’s my wife’s sister—she used to live here in the village, but she moved to Exeter in the summer, which is a shame, but, still, she’s near enough. So on the whole, I’m not … ill commoded when it comes to rellies.

“And you?” he added conversationally. “Do you have children?”

“I have a son,” she answered as they passed into the dining room where Kerra was finishing setting out the coffee service.

“And where does he live?”

“My son? Oh! In Shanghai.”

“So far away. That’s a pity. What does he do?”

“Oh, what do they call it? IT?”

“Ah, computers.”

“I’m afraid he’s not able to come home very often.” Judith resumed her seat.

Tom glanced around the table as the other guests returned to the room, now chilled slightly in the absence of human bodies and the
weak flame in the fireplace. Nick trailed after the others—a little drunkenly, Tom thought—and threw a couple of slender logs onto the glowing embers, which received them with a sudden crackle and flare.