‘And it would help to have an Anglican too. As Amos said earlier, he doesn’t want to be just the Methodist candidate.’
Amos said: ‘What about Cecil Pressman, the builder? He’s against the war, I know, but he goes to St Luke’s.’
‘Good idea.’
Spade said: ‘I know Cecil. I’ll talk to him.’
And the campaign was on.
*
Elsie went to see her mother most afternoons. The house was spacious – quite large for two adults and a child, Elsie thought. When it had belonged to Will Riddick it had been all oak panelling and dark velvet, notorious for the number of whores who went in and the quantity of empty bottles that came out. Now it was quite different. Spade liked classical furniture – square-backed chairs, straight table legs – but with elaborately patterned fabrics. Arabella loved curves and cushions, fat upholstery, and curtains that hung in swags and festoons. Elsie had watched, over the years, as their different preferences had melded into a unique style, richly comfortable without being fussy. And in summer there were bowls of roses from the garden.
Arabella was still beautiful at fifty-eight. Spade thought so too: you only had to see them together to know that. Today she wore an olive-green silk dress with lace on the sleeves and hem. Spade liked her to be well dressed.
When Elsie visited it was usually just the two of them: Spade was at work and Abe at school. Alone, they talked intimately. Arabella knew that Elsie was still hopelessly in love with Amos, and Elsie knew that Abe was Spade’s son, not the bishop’s. Abe was a happy boy: the bishop’s curse had not worked.
They had tea in the drawing room, which faced west and was litnow by a pale October sun. Elsie said: ‘I ran into Belinda Goodnight on the way here.’
‘You and she were great chums as children,’ said Arabella.
‘I remember she had a toy theatre. We used to make up plays about girls who fell in love with Gypsy boys.’
‘You made me watch one. It was dire.’
Elsie laughed. Then she said: ‘Now Belinda’s a terrible gossip.’
‘I know. They call her the Kingsbridge Gazette.’
‘She told me something that bothered me. Apparently people are saying openly that Amos is the father of the young Viscount Northwood.’
Arabella shrugged. ‘It might be true, though nobody really knows. There were whispers when he was born, but they died down. I wonder why the rumour has started up again?’
‘Because of the election, obviously. Hornbeam’s supporters are pushing it.’
‘Do you think the gossip will stop people voting for Amos?’
‘It might.’
‘I’ll tell David about this.’ Arabella liked to call her husband David, not Spade.
There was a minute of silence, unusual between the two women, then Arabella said: ‘There’s something else on your mind.’
Elsie nodded. ‘Kenelm is packing to go to Spain.’
‘When does he leave?’
‘It depends. We’re sending reinforcements to Wellington in the New Year, and there will be a ship leaving from Combe to take officers and men who have joined the 107th Foot. Kenelm is waiting for notification.’
‘You’ll have to move out of the deanery. Where will you go?’
‘I’m not sure. I may rent a house.’
‘You look troubled. Tell me what’s on your mind.’
‘Oh, Mother,’ said Elsie, ‘I’d love to live here, with you.’
Arabella nodded, unsurprised. ‘And I’d like to have you, you know that.’
