The Victory Garden(75)
“Of course.” Emily gave her a friendly smile.
The vicar’s wife drew her aside. “I happen to know that you are not what you seem,” she said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’ve been watching you ingratiating yourself with all and sundry. I wonder how they would feel if they knew the truth. You are not a war widow, at all. You are an unmarried girl who has got herself into unfortunate circumstances and has fled to hide her shame.”
Mrs Trelawney, Emily thought. She had been eavesdropping, and had been delighted to spread the news. She fought back rising anger. “For your information, Mrs Bingley, under normal circumstances, I would have been married by now. My fiancé was sent back to the front and died a hero.”
“All the same, you are still a sinner in the eyes of the church.”
“Are we not all sinners, Mrs Bingley? I believe my nanny taught me something about the one without sin who may cast the first stone.”
“Jesus also had plenty to say about hypocrites,” Mrs Bingley snapped, “about those who claim to be what they are not.”
“It was suggested to me that it would be simpler if I claimed to be a war widow,” Emily said. “But I really don’t mind if you spread the news around the village. I think you’ll find that everyone else appreciates my plight and the difficult situation in which I find myself. And if they don’t, then I have enough friends here and enough places where I am welcome.”
“I trust you will not dare to show your face at the church, or anything that I am running.”
“Doesn’t Jesus welcome the repentant sinner?” Emily asked. “Only actually, I’m not repentant. I’m very glad that my young man went back to the front, and ultimately to his death, knowing how much he was loved.” It was Emily’s turn to look triumphant.
“And what about Lady Charlton? What if she knows?” Mrs Bingley asked.
“She does know. I couldn’t accept her hospitality under false pretences,” Emily said. “And I can see now why she is not keen to attend any function at the church. Now please excuse me. I must return to my friends.” She gave a polite little bow and went back to Alice.
“What was that all about? Was she asking you to join her altar guild or teach Sunday school?” Alice asked.
“No, quite the opposite. She was telling me I wasn’t welcome at her church because she’s found out the truth about me.”
“Spiteful old biddy,” Alice said. “Don’t mind her, love. You’ve already got enough friends here. I think you’ll do just fine.”
Yes, Emily thought as she walked home. I think I will do just fine here.
CHAPTER THIRTY
In a way, Emily wished she had turned down Mr Patterson’s invitation to parsnip wine. She was now keen to decipher the herbal remedies and see if she could make any of them. From the little she had read of Susan Olgilvy’s diary, Emily had learned that she had thrown herself into the role with enthusiasm and had commented on the success or failure of each recipe. But it would have been unforgivably rude to cancel on Mr Patterson, especially when she had heard what a recluse he was.
All the same, she hesitated as she went through the school playground to his front door. If Mrs Bingley had already told him the truth, then perhaps he would no longer wish to be associated with her. His face, when he opened the door, showed that he was indeed pleased to see her. His tiny sitting room was meticulously neat. A white-lace-trimmed tray held a crystal decanter and two glasses. A fire blazed in the hearth, and two leather armchairs faced each other. The walls were lined with books.
“Do take a seat, Mrs Kerr,” he said. “The evenings are already getting chilly, don’t you think?”
Emily agreed that they were.
“And I have found some reading material that might be suitable for your friends,” he said, handing her a pile of books. “Are they able to read at all?”
“One has rudimentary reading skills but could benefit from practice,” Emily said. “But the other never learned to read at all. However, I think she is bright and willing.”
Mr Patterson nodded. “If you feel that this task is not agreeable to you, then I would volunteer to teach the young lady myself in the evenings.”
“That’s very kind of you, but I think she may feel intimidated by a strange man. She is embarrassed that she has never learned to read.”
Conversation proceeded along conventional lines. The weather. The hopefully swift ending to hostilities. Emily admired his books, and they discussed favourite authors. The parsnip wine was surprisingly potent, and Emily gave a little gasp as she took a sip.
“Yes, it does have a kick to it, doesn’t it?” Mr Patterson looked pleased. “My nettle wine was, alas, rather a failure this year. The elderberry wine was not bad at all, but the parsnip is my pièce de résistance, as they say.”
He did not ask any personal questions, and Emily hesitated to do so, as if this might be crossing a line. But when she asked how long he had been in the village, he replied, “Twenty years.”
“You have not grown tired of it?”
He shook his head. “I came here as a young man after I managed to survive a bout of consumption. I was given up for lost many times, but I recovered. And it was suggested that I should live far from the smoke of the city because of my damaged lungs. I had inherited a small amount from my father, and at that time I had the deluded notion that I should write a great novel. So I came here. The teaching is not exacting. I enjoy the fresh innocence of my pupils, but alas the great novel has not materialized. I have had a couple of pieces of poetry published, but that is the extent of my literary success.”