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The man shook back the wide sleeves of his surplice, put a hand on either side of the pulpit, leaned forward, and continued. “Calling himself a soldier of Christ in this dream, Cuthbert told the king what he needed to do. Alfred must arise at dawn and sound his horn three times. Cuthbert promised that by the ninth hour the king would have assembled five hundred men. And within seven days Alfred would have gathered, through God’s gift and Cuthbert’s aid, an army to fight at his side and vanquish the Danes. And so it happened. The battle was won. And England wasnotconquered.”
Roger stifled an impulse to applaud. Cheeve might have been rousing a fighting troop rather than preaching. Far more entertaining than his customary platitudes. The vicar did circle back after this to relate his story to his listeners, urging them to put their trust in the lord. But the jolt of energy he’d provided remained in the air. Roger put a bit extra in the collection plate to show his appreciation. He also congratulated Cheeve on a fine sermon as he passed through the church door after the service.
Outside, Roger came face to face with Fenella Fairclough, for the first time since their invigorating reel at the Prouses. And he couldn’t help thinking that she looked particularly pretty this morning, curvaceous and assured in a deep blue gown that echoed the hue of her eyes, with a shawl falling artistically over her shoulders. Her face, half shaded by a chip straw bonnet, reminded Roger of an antique cameo. If such a piece of jewelry could shift expressions like wind passing over water, he amended.
The press of people leaving the church urged him on, and they moved away together. “This is my nephew John Symmes,” she said, indicating a dark-haired boy at her side. “Greta’s son. John, this is Lord Chatton, a neighbor of ours.”
“You live in the castle,” said the boy.
“I do.”
“John is spending his holiday with us,” Fenella added.
“Ah.” Seeing his mother and houseguest ahead, Roger moved toward them. “We have a visitor as well. Up from London. Lord Macklin may I present Miss Fairclough and…” But young Symmes had faded into the small crowd between one step and the next. He appeared to be gone.
Roger’s mother offered happy greetings, and Macklin acknowledged the introduction with his habitual composure. Roger was about to suggest that they depart when Harold Benson edged around Macklin, plump and furtive to the earl’s tall and distinguished. Indeed the self-appointed historian was half crouching, so that his rotund figure looked even more squat. “I’m avoiding Cheeve,” he informed them. “He thinks I can guarantee him the part of St. Cuthbert in the pageant, but I can’t. That decision is not up to me. He’s wasted his oratory.” Benson moved so that Roger was between him and the church door, where the vicar still lingered. “But I have been asked to speak to you again, Lord Chatton. And also to Miss Fairclough. I’m happy to find you together. There’s a scene in the pageant that is part of a Viking raid on the Lindisfarne manor, and the committee wondered, hoped, that you two might enact it. As a gesture of support for the enterprise. To help make the venture a success, you know. And reflect well on the neighborhood.”
Despite this blatant hint, Roger started to refuse, but Fenella spoke first. “What sort of scene?”
“A Saxon noblewoman repels the Viking attacker with a broom.”
“A broom?” asked Fenella.
“She bashes him on the side of the head,” replied Benson. “Naturally we would take care—”
“I could do that,” Fenella interrupted.
“I’m sure you could,” said Roger. “And enjoy it, too. I don’t intend to be bashed, however.”
“The Viking prevails in the end, of course,” said Benson. “He sweeps her up and carries her off and, well, there is another bit, but we could make adjustments.”
“Throws her in the midden?” Roger suggested. “Or the pig sty perhaps?”
“After she kicks him in the face, repeatedly?” said Fenella.
Benson looked taken aback. “Whatever the exact, er, outcome I’m glad to put you down as settled for the roles.” He whipped a small notebook from his coat pocket, pulled out a stub of pencil, and made checkmarks on a list inside.
“Wait,” said Roger. He noticed Macklin and his mother watching this exchange with interest. His mother leaned over to whisper to the earl, who would soon know all the history with Fenella that there was to know, from his mother’s point of view, Roger thought.
“Rehearsals begin day after tomorrow,” said Benson.
“Rehearsals!” repeated Roger and Fenella at the same moment.
“Just a moment,” said Fenella.
“Cheeve’s spotted me,” said Benson. “I must go.” He ducked sideways, scuttled along the path through the churchyard, and more or less ran away.
“Oh dear, I was going to ask him about taking a role myself,” said Roger’s mother.
“I suspect you’ll have your chance,” said Macklin.
Without meaning to, Roger met Fenella’s sparkling blue gaze. She was clearly irritated and amused and resigned. And why did he imagine he saw so much in a glance, Roger wondered. He couldn’t possibly. He was very bad at such perceptions. And yet hewascertain. Roger felt an odd inner tug of emotion. He couldn’t identify it. And when he had been so sure aboutherfeelings, too. That made no sense. And it was dashed uncomfortable. He turned away toward his waiting carriage.
On the other side of the churchyard, shielded by a tall monument, Sherrington Symmes, known at long last as John, was kicking pebbles onto the plinth when an older boy walked around the obelisk and joined him.
“Hullo,” he said.
John merely nodded. He wasn’t in the mood for conversation.
