‘She must be a good-looking girl.’
‘Oh, she is,’ Marigold chimed in, generous in her praise. ‘She’s gorgeous-looking. Gorgeous figure, lovely face. She can really fetch the ducks off the water, I can tell you.’
‘Gorgeous, eh?’ Benjamin mused. ‘You must be quite proud of her, Algie.’
‘Not particularly.’
‘Oh? Why’s that?’
‘Because…’ Algie offered no further explanation.
‘Oh…one of those actresses, is she?’
‘Whatever she is or is not, she married some wealthy aristocrat,’ Aurelia informed him.
‘Aristocrat? I’m impressed. And I suppose Marigold told you that?’
‘Benjamin, I really don’t recall,’ was the scornful response.
‘A Lord something or other,’ Marigold interjected. ‘Done well for herself, she has. But with her looks she could have anybody she wanted.’
Benjamin looked at Algie. ‘So is that a valid reason for not being particularly proud of her? For being gorgeous, for marrying a lord and doing well for herself?’
Nobody offered to explain. After a few embarrassing seconds of silence, Benjamin said, ‘Well, if it’s a touchy subject…’
‘It is,’ Algie replied bluntly.
‘Anyway, Aurelia, you seem to know quite a lot about Algie’s sister as well,’ Benjamin said, addressing her directly this time. ‘You seem particularly well informed about Clarence Froggatt’s past love life.’
‘Yes, well, he’s worthy of a bit of gossip,’ Aurelia responded pointedly. ‘Don’t you think so, Marigold?’
‘I suppose so,’ Marigold replied. ‘Except there’s not much to gossip about, is there? Nor where Harriet’s concerned. She’s hardly the sort to do anything worth gossiping about. But Algie knows more about Harriet than anybody. He courted her for a couple of years. Didn’t you, Algie?’
‘In a half-hearted sort of way, yes.’
* * *
The curate of St Michael’s – whom Priss, Harriet’s older sister, had set her sights on from the day of his appointment to the parish – was in his late twenties, tall and rather gangly. His hair was floppy and already thinning, and neither could he be deemed handsome. However, as Priss had never possessed the wherewithal to trap a handsome beau, she felt she could make herself perfectly content with the curate’s unremarkable looks. She saw a liaison as a possible meeting of minds in any case, for Priss was intelligent, keenly religious, and she wallowed in the notion that she would thus make the curate an excellent wife, and able to offer incomparable support in his vocation.
So, avoiding even the polite attentions of the handsome Robert Sankey, whom she knew of old (and with whom she was well out of her depth), she set about another round of the guests. She made sure her tour took her to the curate, and to her delight and utmost surprise, he invited her to sit beside him for a minute or two.
Cuthbert Delacroix was famed in the parish for his ancestors, an aspect of him that particularly impressed Priss. Speculation about his forebears had been intensified and enhanced and, while he had never discussed them with Priss directly, some exaggerated tales had reached her ears, and she had mentally exalted these supposed forebears to the status of mythical ancient gods. In consequence, these imagined ancestors had overawed Priss and somewhat inhibited her self-confidence before him. The distinct lack of notables in her own family led her to believe that Mr Delacroix must perceive her as common. So to hide her inferiority she had duly kept her distance, comfortably yet disappointingly revering him from the relative lowliness of the family pew.
‘I understand you are a teacher, Miss Meese,’ he remarked, when they had done with small talk about the wedding.
‘Yes, I teach at the Dudley Proprietary School for Girls.’
‘I say! An excellent school for young ladies, I understand. What subjects do you teach?’
‘English and Divinity,’ Priss answered, with an emphasis on the latter.
‘How interesting. And do you enjoy your subjects?’
‘Oh, very much,’ Priss enthused. ‘Particularly Divinity,’ she felt bound to say to enhance her appeal. ‘I feel privileged to be in a position where I can disseminate the word of our Lord quite liberally, and in such a high-class educational establishment.’
The curate smiled enigmatically. ‘How very interesting. But you know, I would have thought English a vastly more interesting subject.’
‘Oh, but I love teaching English as well, Mr Delacroix. My girls are a delight to teach. Three of them are my sisters, you know.’
‘You have sisters who are pupils at the school?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘How fascinating. D’you find them attentive pupils, or does their familiarity breed a certain amount of contempt for you as a teacher?’
‘They treat me as they would any teacher, and I treat my sisters as I treat any other pupils, Mr Delacroix,’ Priss answered with a smile that put a sparkle in her eyes. ‘One wrong move and I’m down on them like a forge hammer.’
He smiled amiably. ‘No favouritism there, then?’
‘None at all. You can’t afford favourites if you want the respect of all your pupils.’
He raised his right hand and wagged his index finger. ‘I’m sure you are right, Miss Meese.’
Priss smiled demurely, and felt herself colour up at the curate’s sincere compliment. ‘I’m fascinated by your ancestors, Mr Delacroix,’ she remarked, hoping to eke some factual information about them, but also keen to divert emphasis from herself. ‘Is it true that you are a descendant of William the Conqueror?’
The curate roared. ‘Dear me, I doubt it. My ancestors were in fact Huguenots,’ he explained. ‘Somewhat later in history than the Conqueror, but hence the French-sounding name I’m saddled with.’
‘Huguenots!’ Priss sighed, as if it were a great relief. ‘I heard that you are a direct aristocratic descendant of William the Conqueror.’
‘Then I fear I must be a massive disappointment.’
‘Oh…au contraire, Mr Delacroix. They were persecuted then, your ancestors.’
He shrugged. ‘The persecution of the Huguenots of France is well documented.’
‘I understand they were such clever people. They brought brilliant talents with them when they arrived on these shores, to the detriment of France in the long run.’
‘Just so. But at the time, the French were more concerned with the Huguenots’ heretical religious beliefs.’
‘I trust you don’t follow in their footsteps yourself though, when it comes to heretical beliefs,’ Priss remarked, wide-eyed and gaining in self-confidence.
‘I’m afraid I do.’ He smiled enigmatically. ‘But that’s strictly between us, Miss Meese.’
‘Indeed? Well, there’s a turn-up!’
‘Does that shock you?’
‘I…I don’t know,’ she answered, half in admiration, half in disappointment. ‘I suppose it rather depends on the degree of heresy. I wonder if I would approve or disapprove.’
‘Then might I be so bold as to suggest that we meet sometime and perhaps discuss my heretical beliefs?’
‘Oh, Mr Delacroix!’ Priss exclaimed, feeling quite