The Painted Bridge A Novel

NINE





The great hall of the Bishop’s palace was lined with benches. The stone construction of the walls and the vaulted timber ceiling overhead gave the place an ecclesiastical atmosphere but the urgency of the muttered conversations underneath, the quick eyes of the clerk and the purposeful strides with which some men entered and departed, contradicted that holy air and gave the echoing hall the atmosphere of a marketplace.

Vincent Palmer sat on one of the benches, disliking equally the warmth from the bodies of the men pressed up on each side of him and the chill in his kidneys from the stone wall at his back. Worse than the physical discomfort was the fact of having to look at the other petitioners, at the assorted crowd of clerics, politicians, parishioners and paupers. He wondered again why the Bishop wished to see him.

The clerk emerged at intervals from behind the door to the private chambers, scanned the crowd and called people in according to a system of his own that had nothing to do with either rank or length of time served sitting on the bench. It was right, Vincent supposed, that as in Matthew, chapter 20, verse 16, the last shall be first, and the first last. Nonetheless, the fellow ought to acknowledge that some men had more pressing calls on their time than others. On top of which, he was hungry. He’d been there more than an hour already. He imagined himself walking through the Bishop’s door and allowed his mind to drift to thoughts of the hoped-for promotion.

“Morning, Palmer.”

Solomon Saville was standing in front of him.

“Morning, Saville.”

The clerk tapped Saville on the shoulder and hurried him away toward the door to the chamber. Saville disappeared through it. Vincent ran his little finger over the undulating stiffness that was the top of his moustache. The Canon had appointed Solomon Saville as Deputy Minor Canon—even though he had less experience than Vincent and no authority in the pulpit. The burning sensation in his guts intensified. Youth and an easy manner with the congregation were surely not the proper qualifications for advancement.

Vincent wondered whether it would appear ungodly to sample the pork pie he had in his pocket. He’d left the Vicarage early and, in too much of a hurry to stop in a coffee shop, had bought the pie from a boy at the gates of the palace. He rejected the idea of taking a bite. He would fast until he had an audience with the Bishop, whatever hour of the day that might be. Vincent shifted on the wooden seat and cast his mind over the events of the last few days that had brought him here.

On Monday, the Canon had called at the Vicarage. Some helpful soul had evidently alerted him to Anna’s absence.

“Where’s the missus, Palmer?” Rosebury said, standing on the step.

“Come in, Canon Rosebury,” Vincent replied, holding open the door. “Come in.” Rosebury raised both hands in front of him.

“Can’t stop,” he said. “I’m in a hurry. What have you done with her?”

“She has gone away. For a short stay. With friends,” Vincent said, in a tone meant to discourage further nosiness.

“Had enough of you already, has she?” Rosebury chuckled.

Vincent diverted him to the subject of the church roof and, despite some reluctance on the Canon’s part, took him into All Hallows to see for himself the deplorable state of the rafters. They said an affable enough good-bye, half an hour later; Rosebury hadn’t mentioned Anna again.

Several people had inquired after her. It irritated Vincent. She was at the Vicarage as his wife. If she wasn’t there—no matter. Women did go to the country. Make long visits. Mother used to. It could not be allowed to emerge that his wife was suffering from nerves. It would have serious repercussions for his career. Anyway, Anna had been prying. Concerning herself with matters that didn’t concern her.

He shifted on the bench. His palms were clammy, despite the deep frost outside and the chill at his back. The day after Rosebury’s call, he’d received a summons to the palace. There was no cause for worry. The Bishop was after all a blood relation although he had not pressed the point with the clerk when he presented himself, had simply mentioned it in passing. They had a great-grandfather in common, a connection tracked down by Mother while Vincent was still at university.

The Bishop was obviously alert to the significance of the bond. It was he who a year ago had urged, through the medium of the Canon, that Vincent marry. He’d even penned a note. A charitable woman could add a good deal to parish duties and minister to wives, et cetera. Anna had seemed a good candidate, with her concern for the seamen so passionately expressed, when he first encountered her. Not that there were undue numbers of seamen in the congregation of All Hallows; he couldn’t think of any, offhand. But no one could call Anna worldly, even if she wasn’t properly pious either. Her notion of religiousness had turned out to be very unorthodox.

A promotion might be the Bishop’s way of rewarding his prompt action in finding a suitable wife. The parish offered a poor living, only five hundred pounds a year, and his private means were limited and under pressure. Securing his familial tie with the Bishop, advancing their personal relationship, could only be advantageous.

Vincent banged the silver tip of his cane on the stone flags. The room fell quiet, the clerk raised his pale face from his ledger. Vincent had had an idea. He would issue a personal invitation. On behalf not only of himself but of all members of the parish, inviting the Bishop to matins at All Hallows. Spring might be best. He didn’t want him to witness a leak, however powerfully it upheld his case. If the Bishop cared to take the pulpit, the honor would be all theirs. If he preferred simply to share in their humble proceedings, listen to his own inadequate preaching, they would be equally thankful.

Vincent looked around him. The room had all but emptied. Only a handful of petitioners remained and most were elderly women. The clerk called his name and he got to his feet, stiff from the cold and feeling unprepared, despite the age he’d spent on the bench.

“Please, God,” he murmured as he made his way across the smoothed and hollowed stone flags, stooped through the small door cut into one of the pair of larger, ceremonial doors. “Help me.”

* * *

“Reverend,” said the Bishop, holding out his hand. Vincent took the hand in both his own, bowed his head, kissed the ring.

“Are you in health, Your Lordship?” he said, pushing the pie deeper into his pocket with a sudden, awful presentiment that the Bishop could smell it.

The ring-bearing hand appeared to wave away a fly. Vincent felt his hopes intensify. He decided to issue the invitation before the Bishop had a chance to state his business. He would take the initiative.

“I wanted to raise something with you, Bishop,” he said.

“If it’s funds I can’t help you, Palmer. You will have to make your own arrangements. And if it is spiritual direction you’re after, apply to the Canon. If you wish to pursue our family connection, tenuous as it is, I have to advise you that this is not the place to do so.”

“None of these, Lordship. I come as the bearer of an invitation. From my flock.”

The Bishop laughed. “Really?”

“They wish for you to attend a service of worship with us at All Hallows and partake of refreshments afterward.”

The Bishop seemed to sigh. It occurred to Vincent that he looked tired. The skin under his eyes drooped and the hem of his purple robe trailed on the stone floor in a way that made Vincent think of a too-large nightshirt he’d had as a boy.

“As you know,” the Bishop said, “I wanted to see you. Rosebury is of the opinion that your wife has disappeared. Has she?”

He had half expected it but the question caught Vincent off-guard.

“Disappeared? She is visiting friends in the countryside, as I told the Canon.”

“Well, bring her back from the countryside, Palmer. You need her.”

“My wife is indisposed, Your Lordship. Female troubles.”

“Look here, Palmer. You’ve been married less than a year. A clergyman is meant to set an example. Wife by his side, loyal helpmeet and all that. If you’ve made a mistake, my advice to you is to pack her off back to her family and make the fact public. If not, recall her from wherever she’s run away to. Expecting, is she?”

“We thought perhaps Easter. … I do hope I shall not have to disappoint the congregation?”

“If you disappoint the congregation, Palmer, it won’t be my doing. I might call on you and I might not. Either way, make haste and put your affairs in order. People are talking.”

The ringed hand gestured toward the door and Vincent walked backward out of the chamber, his eyes fixed on the dusty hem of the Bishop’s robe.