Lady of Lincoln (2 page)

‘M
rs Fanshawe, whatever can be amiss?’ Emily exclaimed, recognizing the young woman immediately. ‘Is the baby coming? Surely it cannot be right for you to agitate
yourself
in such a way!’

‘No indeed,’ agreed the doctor, immediately becoming
practical
and decisive when confronted with a professional matter. ‘You must come and sit down at once, Mrs Fanshawe.’

The young lady’s eyes darted from one to the other, her expression one of great anxiety. She looked as if even now, she might still take flight. ‘Oh, but I was just going—’ Abruptly she halted, and her shoulders drooped. ‘But it is not as if I
can
go,’ she finished, then burst into tears.

‘Miss Whittaker, we must take her inside at once,’ the doctor said. ‘Mrs Fanshawe, can you walk?’ The lady did not speak, but nodded into her handkerchief. ‘Then pray, lean upon my arm, ma’am,’ he went on. ‘Miss Whittaker will go on ahead to make sure that your bed is prepared for you.’

‘I don’t want to go to bed,’ was the muffled response.

‘Perhaps not, but I would like to examine you, if I may, to make sure that all is well with the baby.’

Once Mrs Fanshawe was lying down on her bed, Emily began to make her farewells, but the younger woman protested. ‘Pray do not leave, Miss Whittaker. I would like to speak with you when the doctor has gone.’

Emily was shown into an adjoining pretty sitting-room, but she did not have long to wait. The doctor soon came in to see her, and he was smiling. ‘There’s nothing amiss,’ he told her. ‘Ladies in her delicate condition are sometimes subject to strange fancies and humours, and I fear that Mrs Fanshawe has allowed her spirits to become overset by some of them.’

‘Did she tell you what was concerning her in particular, Doctor?’ Emily asked. She could not dismiss from her mind that picture of the hunted expression on the younger woman’s face.

‘She did not confide in me,’ the doctor replied. ‘I am hoping that she might say something to you. Naturally if that matter is confidential then you must keep it to yourself. But I must urge you that whatever you do, you must attempt to give her thoughts a more cheerful direction. A lifting of the spirits will do her more good than anything.’

When Emily entered Mrs Fanshawe’s room, she was sitting up on the bed with a cup of tea in her hand.

‘That’s better,’ Emily said, smiling encouragingly. ‘You will soon feel more the thing.’ Seeing that there was a tray on a little table by the window on which someone had placed a teapot, milk, sugar and another cup, Emily poured herself some tea and sat down next to the bed. They were in a charming room, very pretty and feminine with wallpaper with a design of pink
flowers
and leaves, curtains at the window and at the corners of the bed that matched the exact shade of the flowers, and a thick carpet with a toning design. Everything in the room seemed light and delicate, and appeared to have been designed with its occupant in mind.

As if to echo Emily’s thoughts, Mrs Fanshawe said, ‘Ernest had this room decorated especially for me.’

‘That was kind of him,’ Emily observed, thinking briefly of her own room, clean, tidy, sensible and, in all honesty, rather dull.

‘Oh he is very kind,’ Mrs Fanshawe agreed eagerly. ‘I do believe that no husband on earth could be more kind and
generous 
and truly Christian! Which is why it is so ungrateful of me to feel unhappy at this time.’

‘But happiness has nothing to do with gratitude,’ Emily observed. ‘One can be conscious of all kind of benefits that fall to one’s lot and yet still not be happy.’

Mrs Fanshawe leaned forward, to the imminent danger of her cup of tea, and grasped hold of Emily’s hand. ‘You
do
understand,’ she exclaimed. ‘I thought that you might. You have always looked to me to be truly sympathetic.’

‘That is good of you to say so,’ Emily replied, taking hold of Mrs Fanshawe’s cup and setting it to rights. ‘Dr Boyle tells me that ladies in your condition often have strange and
unaccountable
humours. Might your present unhappiness be something to do with that?’

‘Yes, I dare say that it might,’ the other lady agreed. ‘But just because the reasons for my unhappiness can be explained away does not mean that I can just stop feeling unhappy. Anyway, there is something else.’

Emily simply nodded sympathetically. She had for some time been interested in the very pretty wife of the Reverend Ernest Fanshawe. Mr Fanshawe had not been in Lincoln for long, and he was one of the most junior clergymen attached to the
cathedral
. He had arrived with his young wife just a few months ago, and since Mrs Fanshawe was expecting their first child, and seemed to be inclined to be delicate, no one had seen a great deal of her. Mr Fanshawe, tall, blond and far more handsome than any clergyman had a right to be, might well have caused a flutter or two in the cathedral close had he not been so clearly devoted to his lovely wife. Indeed, this very devotion had given rise to some criticism. Emily had overheard the end of a
conversation
between Mr Fanshawe and the dean, in which the latter had been heard to say rather severely, ‘The cathedral comes first, my dear sir; always first. Your wife must wait her turn.’

Emily’s interest, however, did not mean that she had any intention of prying. Over ten years of sympathetic listening as a
clergyman’s daughter had taught her that when people were in a confiding mood, then sooner or later they spilt everything out.

Sure enough, moments later, Mrs Fanshawe said, ‘You do not ask me what it is.’

‘It is not my place to ask any questions about your private affairs, Mrs Fanshawe,’ Emily replied.

‘Pray call me Nathalie,’ begged the other. ‘And may I call you Emily? I still feel so strange here and I have few friends.’

‘Of course you may.’

‘The reason for my unhappiness is no secret,’ Nathalie said, after a few moments. ‘The fact of the matter is that Ernest has been promising to take me away to the sea, to build me up for my confinement.’

‘A very wise idea,’ Emily interpolated.

‘Yes, and Dr Boyle is of the same opinion,’ Nathalie answered eagerly. ‘So Ernest decided that the best thing would be to take me to Mablethorpe. It is only a little place on the coast, but he knows of a very respectable woman who would have been very glad to put us up, but now it is all come to nothing!’

With that, Mrs Fanshawe showed a remarkable inclination to burst into tears again, so Emily said quickly, ‘What is the
problem
? Does the woman have another booking? Surely another place can be found.’

‘No, no, it is nothing like that,’ Nathalie assured her. ‘It is just that Ernest has been told that he will not be permitted to go. He is needed for something in the cathedral. Oh Emily, you cannot imagine how I had been looking forward to that little visit. I know that you have lived here all your life, but I am a stranger here and just recently I have started to feel so hemmed in and trapped that I fear that I will lose my mind.’

‘Oh, surely not,’ Emily protested.

‘Well perhaps I am exaggerating a little, but I am conscious of a lowness of spirits and I had been so looking forward to getting away.’

‘Are there no relatives to whom you could go?’ Emily asked her.

‘No, nobody at all,’ Nathalie replied in a subdued voice.

At that moment, the door opened and the exceedingly
handsome
young clergyman about whom they had been speaking came hurrying into the room. ‘Nathalie, my darling!’ he exclaimed. ‘I have just chanced upon Dr Boyle in Bailgate and he told me that you were unwell.’ He sat on the edge of the bed and took his wife’s hand in his. ‘You must take care, dearest,’ he added fondly.

‘Oh, I shall, I promise you, and Dr Boyle and Miss Whittaker have been so kind.’

The clergyman stood up, came over to where Emily had risen to her feet, and took her hand, kissing it in quite the grand manner. ‘God bless you for that,’ he said fervently.

‘It was nothing, really,’ she told him, a little flustered, for gallant gestures such as his seldom came her way these days. ‘And now I must leave you. Nathalie, I do hope that you will be feeling better soon. May I call tomorrow and see how you do?’

‘Oh, yes please,’ Nathalie answered. ‘I should like it of all things. Thank you so much for your kindness to me.’

Emily went out, closing the door gently behind her. She left the Fanshawes’ house and looked round a little anxiously to see whether Dr Boyle had lingered. Then she recalled that Mr Fanshawe had said that he had met the doctor in Bailgate. She was conscious of a feeling of relief. She had steeled herself to receive a proposal of marriage from him. The moment had been put off and she could only be thankful. It felt like a reprieve.

Upon returning to her own home, she found that her father had gone to visit the dean about some matter, and she was glad to have a little time in which to decide how to tell him the story of the afternoon’s adventures. She was well aware that there were some in the close who were all too willing to condemn Mrs Fanshawe as being a little flighty. The image of the
clergyman’s
wife flinging herself out of her own front door and into
the street would do nothing to improve that image; Emily would find it hard to pursue a friendship with the younger woman without her father looking reproachful and making gentle remarks about the wrong company.

Emily could never decide whether it would have been better if her brother had lived. He had been some ten years older than herself, had attended Eton, and had by all accounts been a promising scholar, diligent in his work and quick of apprehension. It had always been intended that he should go into the church, but before he could begin his degree at Cambridge, he had drowned in an accident whilst on holiday with a friend. Because of the gap between their ages, Emily had not known him very well, and although she had grieved his loss sincerely, it had been more the grief that one would feel for a distant
relative
than for a brother.

She had often felt a degree of curiosity about the accident which had taken his life, for it sometimes seemed to her to be quite the most interesting and romantic thing about him, but her father would never speak of the matter. He did occasionally refer to his lost son as ‘dearest Patrick’, the name seldom being used without either that or some other sentimental adjective. On such occasions, he would bemoan the fact that he did not have a son who could also take his place among the staff at Lincoln Cathedral. At these times, Emily became aware that she was a very poor second. She privately owned that the idea of yet another man in clerical black hovering about the place and regarding her with gentle and kindly disapproval was almost enough to drive her to screaming point.

Even if Patrick had lived, therefore, he might very well have been just as disapproving of her friendship with Nathalie as her father would undoubtedly be. That was a pity; it was probably the most interesting thing that had happened to her in a very long time.

‘D
id you have an agreeable walk with Boyle, my dear?’ Emily’s father asked her at dinner. Their meal was simple but well cooked, for Canon Whittaker, whilst not being mean in his provision for the family, was very much averse to
extravagant
display.

‘It was agreeable, but quite brief,’ Emily replied, thankful that she had had time to think about what she might say about the day’s events. ‘Quite unexpectedly, Dr Boyle was called in to attend Mrs Fanshawe, so we were unable to complete it.’

‘That was unfortunate,’ her father answered. In appearance, Canon Whittaker was very like his dead son. He had the same sharp features and slim figure, and his hair, like his son’s, had also been fair, until the years had turned it to a rather drab shade of grey.

‘No doubt there will be other opportunities,’ said Emily calmly. ‘Are you preaching on Sunday, Papa? What is your text for the day?’ In this deft way, she managed to turn the subject, and Dr Boyle was not mentioned at all during the rest of the meal.

After Canon Whittaker had finished, he made his excuses and went to his study, leaving Emily on her own. She went upstairs to see her grandfather, but finding that he was asleep, she collected her sewing for the poor from the linen cupboard and went downstairs to occupy herself until the tea tray should be brought in.

Her father came in a little later and smiled approvingly at her occupation. ‘It is very pleasing to see you engaged so
unexceptionally
, my dear,’ he said. Fleetingly, she thought of all the other occasions when he had come in and seen her similarly occupied. Pleasing it might be; unusual, by no means. If he had found her with her feet up, reading a scurrilous novel now….

‘Shall I read you one of the sermons from this volume?’ her father asked, interrupting her musings.

Emily saw that in his hand he had a book from which she had heard him read on countless occasions. ‘Yes please, Papa,’ she answered. ‘Would you be so good as to read the one which concerns diligence?’

‘By all means,’ her father answered, beaming. He would have been less pleased had he realized that she had only chosen it because she knew it off by heart, and would be perfectly
capable
of answering any questions upon it, even if she allowed her mind to wander so much that she did not hear a single word he said. And so, while Canon Whittaker was reading about
diligence
, obedience and sobriety, and Emily was bending her neat head over a plain shirt and finishing it off with plain stitches, her mind was picturing that frivolous little bonnet in the milliner’s window.

‘I think I shall call upon Mrs Fanshawe today, Papa,’ Emily said, as they sat at breakfast the following morning.

‘Mrs Fanshawe?’ her father repeated, looking as if he did not entirely approve of such a course of action.

‘Yes, Papa. She is expecting a baby, you know.’

Her father looked as if he would have liked to reprove her for being indelicate, but all he said was, ‘Yes, indeed.’

‘She is becoming rather anxious and nervous,’ Emily went on, then added craftily, ‘The doctor thought that I might be able to raise her spirits.’

The canon’s face lightened. ‘Of course,’ he agreed. ‘You might lift her thoughts to a higher plane. She is a delicate young
thing, and might easily not survive the coming ordeal, but if you can turn her from worldly matters and prepare her mind for Heaven, you will have done some good.’

Emily was surprised at how annoyed she felt at the tenor of this speech, and was glad that the servant came in with the newspaper at that point, thus distracting her father with the news of Nelson’s latest exploits.

She did not make the mistake of thinking that her visit to Mrs Fanshawe would be welcomed early in the day, and busied herself with household tasks until eleven o’clock. Even so, she discovered on arrival at the young clergyman’s residence that his pretty wife was still abed, but would welcome a visit from her new friend in her chamber.

Emily entered Mrs Fanshawe’s room with a kind of envious longing, for the contrast between this feminine environment and her own rather plain accommodation seemed even more stark now that she had had the chance to view her room in the light of this very different one.

As she went in, Nathalie laid aside the book that she was reading with rather a guilty expression. ‘It is an … an
improving
book,’ she said hastily.

‘Really? What is it?’ Emily asked her, prompted by a spirit of pure mischief.

Mrs Fanshawe bit her lip. ‘It is a novel, but pray do not tell anyone,’ implored the younger woman. ‘It would be sure to get back to the dean or the bishop or some such person, and then Ernest would be in trouble and all on my account.’

‘I should not dream of telling anyone,’ Emily replied. Then after a moment she added curiously, ‘Is it very entertaining?’

‘Oh, extremely so,’ Nathalie replied, regaining her
complexion
as soon as she realized that her secret was safe. ‘Would you like to borrow it when I have finished it?’

‘I doubt whether I would ever get away with reading it,’ Emily replied regretfully.

‘But you are quite ol— that is to say, you are of age,’ Nathalie
said, correcting herself hastily. ‘Surely no one can tell you what you may or may not read?’

‘You wouldn’t think so, would you?’ Emily answered ruefully. ‘Well, perhaps they cannot do that, but sometimes, you know, the thought of disapproval can simply stop one from even trying.’

‘That sounds very sad,’ Nathalie commented. ‘Have you always lived in Lincoln, Emily?’

‘Yes, always. So you will have to tell me about London, for I have never been.’

‘What, never?’ Nathalie exclaimed, aghast.

‘No, never. What is it like? Is it very busy and noisy?’

Mrs Fanshawe rang for tea, and for some time, whilst they were waiting for it, and then after it had arrived, they were happily engaged in exchanging stories of London life on the one hand and existence in the provinces on the other.

‘Of course, we have a theatre now,’ said Emily eventually. ‘You must persuade your husband to take you when you are well.’

For the first time since Emily had entered the room, the anxious look reappeared on Nathalie’s face. ‘If I ever do get well,’ she murmured.

‘Of course you will,’ Emily answered encouragingly, very conscious of what the doctor had said concerning the need to raise the young woman’s spirits.

‘If only I could get away,’ she said wistfully. ‘But the dean will not hear of Ernest leaving at present, and I cannot go alone.’

They sat there in silence for a time and, as they did so, a thought came into Emily’s mind that seemed to be so daring that she could hardly imagine giving voice to it.

Just as she was about to speak, she looked at Nathalie and saw that the younger woman had been taken by the very same idea. ‘Oh, Emily, would
you
come with me?’ she asked.

Because Emily had had the same notion, she did not
immediately
say no, but answered slowly, ‘I wonder how it could be done?’

‘I am sure that Ernest would be very happy to send me to Mablethorpe in your care,’ Nathalie declared.

‘Yes, but what of my Papa?’ Emily asked. ‘I must persuade him to give his consent.’

‘Oh Emily, please try,’ Nathalie begged. ‘It would do me all the good in the world.’

Soon after this, Emily made her excuses and walked slowly down the stairs. She could see that Nathalie thought her a pathetic thing for needing, at the age of thirty, to get her father’s permission to go somewhere. She was not surprised. She thought it a little pathetic herself. She had a vague feeling that there had been a time when she might have stamped about in order to get her way. But then Patrick had died, all the
household
had been plunged into grief, with herself caught up in it although not fully understanding it, and she had begun to suppress any of her own feelings and desires so as to not upset anybody. This had become a habit, she freely acknowledged and she had never found a really powerful reason to change it. Now, for some strange reason, she found herself very much wanting to go to Mablethorpe. It was such a little thing; yet even Nathalie Fanshawe, with all the feminine wiles which even a blind man might detect that she possessed, had not been able to sway the issues in her direction. How then could she, dowdy spinster that she was, expect to achieve such an object?

She got to the gate, paused briefly, then instead of walking back to her own house, she turned and entered the cathedral. There was something about its lofty expansiveness that seemed to enable her mind to think more clearly. She wandered up the nave, pleased not to encounter anyone, and went into St Hugh’s choir, where her gaze lighted upon the dean’s seat. If the dean were to decide that Mrs Fanshawe should go away for her health and for the sake of her husband’s peace of mind, then it would happen she mused. She turned her head and glanced up at the Lincoln imp, who seemed to be grinning down at her from his position at the top of one of the pillars. Suddenly she
smiled as an idea came to her. She might not have any feminine wiles, but she could be cunning!

She left the cathedral more decisively than she had come. She walked in the direction of the dean’s house, where she was fortunate to find his wife at home. That august lady was pleased to receive Emily very graciously, and for a time they indulged in polite chit chat. Emily was just wondering how to bring up the subject of Mrs Fanshawe, when her hostess saved her the
trouble
. ‘The dean is very concerned about Mr Fanshawe,’ she remarked. ‘He is wondering whether the young man has his mind on his work.’

‘I can understand the dean’s anxiety,’ Emily agreed.

‘As can I,’ agreed the other lady. ‘But you know, I can see the matter from the other side too. How well I remember being a young mother! But you, as a single woman, would of course know nothing about such things, Miss Whittaker, and it is entirely right and proper that you should be ignorant about them.’

Emily glanced down, not wanting the dean’s wife to see the irritation in her eyes. She might never have been a mother herself, but she had visited many homes where a baby was expected, or had just been born. ‘As you say, I am comparatively uninformed about those delicate matters,’ Emily responded diplomatically, ‘but I have seen much of cathedral life, and I can understand how hard it must be for the dean to spare Mr Fanshawe.’

‘Yes of course,’ agreed the dean’s wife grudgingly. She had lived in Lincoln for far less time than had Emily. A fashionably dressed lady, she was accustomed to a much more varied
society
than that which was to be found in Lincoln.

‘It must be very worrying for the dean to see so conscientious a young man with worries that threaten to distract him.’

‘Naturally it is,’ the dean’s wife agreed again. ‘My husband knows the Fanshawe family which is why he has taken such a keen interest in his ministry.’

‘If only it were possible for some other person to take Mrs Fanshawe away for a short time – say, to the seaside,’ Emily observed.

‘Some other person?’

‘It would have to be a reliable person – a lady, of course – who had no official duties to carry out here, and no children of her own to care for, but who was old enough and sensible enough to be of help to Mrs Fanshawe. Then her husband could concentrate upon his work with his mind relieved of care.’

‘Indeed,’ responded the dean’s wife thoughtfully. ‘But where might such a person be found?’

‘We must think very hard,’ answered Emily. ‘I will tell you if anyone comes to mind. Well, you must excuse me now, ma’am, I really ought to return home. Not that Papa needs me very much, of course. I do declare, our Mrs Ashby is so efficient that I could simply disappear for weeks on end and no one in the house would feel the loss of me at all.’

That very evening, the dean came round to the Whittakers’ house to ask that, for the sake of Mr Fanshawe’s peace of mind in particular, and for the good of the cathedral as a whole, Miss Whittaker should be permitted to take Mrs Fanshawe to the seaside for her health.