‘Another Methodist, despite being a canon of the cathedral.’
‘They have asked me to be in charge, and I’m no Methodist.’
‘In charge! You’re very young for that.’
‘I’m twenty, and sufficiently well educated to teach children to read.’
‘I don’t like it,’ the bishop said decisively.
Elsie was not surprised, though his definite tone dismayed her. She had expected him to disapprove, and she had a plan for winning him around. But now she said: ‘Why on earth don’t you like it?’
‘You see, my dear, it’s not good for the labouring classes to learn to read and write,’ he said, shifting into paternal mode, the older man dispensing wisdom to utopian youth. ‘Books and newspapers fill their heads with half-understood ideas. It makes them discontented with the station in life that God has ordained for them. They get foolish notions about equality and democracy.’
‘But they ought to read the Bible.’
‘Even worse! They misunderstand the scriptures and accuse theEstablished Church of false doctrine. They turn into dissenters and nonconformists, and then they want to set up their own churches, like the Presbyterians and the Congregationalists. And the Methodists.’
‘Methodists don’t have their own churches.’
‘Give them time.’
Her father was good at the cut and thrust of argument: he had learned at Oxford. Elsie enjoyed the challenge normally, but this project was too important to be defeated by debating points. However, she had arranged a second visitor, one who might be able to talk her father around, and she had to continue the discussion until he showed up. She said: ‘Don’t you think reading the Bible would help labouring people to resist false prophets?’
‘Much better that they should listen to the clergy.’
‘But they don’t, so that’s a counsel of perfection.’
Arabella laughed. ‘You two,’ she said. ‘You argue like a Whig and a Tory. We’re not talking about the French revolution! It’s a Sunday school, children sitting on the floor scratching their names on slates and singing “We’re Marching to Zion”.’
The maid put her head around the door and said: ‘Mr Shoveller is here, my lord bishop.’
‘Shoveller?’
Elsie said: ‘The weaver. They call him Spade. He’s brought a length of cloth for me and Mother to look at.’ She turned to the maid. ‘Show him in, Mason, and give him a cup of tea.’
A weaver was several steps down the social ladder from the bishop’s family, but Spade was charming and well mannered: he had taught himself drawing-room etiquette in order to sell to the upper crust. He came in carrying a bolt of cloth. Attractive in a craggy sort of way, with unruly hair and an appealing grin, he was always well dressed in clothes made from his own fabrics.
He bowed and said: ‘I didn’t intend to interrupt you at breakfast, my lord bishop.’
Father was not very pleased, Elsie could tell, but he pretended not to mind. ‘Come in, Mr Shoveller, do.’
‘You’re very kind, sir.’ Spade stood where they could all see him and unwound a length of cloth. ‘This is what Miss Latimer was keen to look at.’
Elsie was not very interested in clothes – like Mother’s roses, they were too frivolous to hold her attention – but even she was struck by the gorgeous colours of the cloth, earthy red and a dark mustard yellow in a subtle check pattern. Spade walked around the table and held it in front of Arabella, being careful not to touch her. ‘Not everyone can wear these colours, but they’re perfect for you, Mrs Latimer,’ he said.
She stood up and looked at herself in the glass over the fireplace. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘They seem to suit me.’
‘The fabric is a mixture of silk and merino wool,’ Spade said. ‘Very soft – feel it.’ Arabella obediently stroked the cloth. ‘It’s warm, but light,’ Spade added. ‘Perfect for a spring coat or cape.’
It would be expensive, too, Elsie thought; but the bishop was rich and he never seemed to mind Arabella spending his money.
Spade stood behind Arabella and draped the cloth around her shoulders. She gathered the material at her neck and half-turned right, then left, to see herself from different angles.
Mason handed Spade a cup of tea. He put the bolt of cloth on a chair so that Arabella could continue to pose in it, then sat at the table to drink his tea. Elsie said: ‘We were discussing the idea of a free Sunday school for the children of the poor.’
‘I’m sorry I interrupted you.’
‘Not at all. I’d be interested in your opinion.’
