She burst into tears and threw her arms around me, then flew out of the door and upstairs. I returned to the doges and was on page ninety-two (I found the archaic Italian slow going) when the door opened again. I rose, placed the book back on the shelf, and joined a happier Veronica Beaconsfield than I had seen since Oxford, with colour in her cheeks. I considered a warning, decided against it, and allowed Marshall to help me with my coat.
“I shouldn’t be so happy,” she said on the street. “Iris is dead, and I know that this hope for Miles is only a faint one, but I can’t help it, I feel so very grateful to God that I happened to spot you that morning. Do you want to walk for a while, or take a cab to a restaurant?”
“Let’s walk and see what we find on the way.”
What we found was a corner stall run by a Sicilian that specialised in curry, flavoured buns and sweet spiced coffee. The food was odd, but eatable, and on the way to the Temple we found as well a deeper level of companionship than we had yet come to. Despite the cold and the knowledge that the Temple service was beginning, we continued to walk slowly, arm in arm, talking about our futures.
“And what of you, Mary? Will you become an archetypical Oxford don, or will you marry and have fourteen horrid and brilliant little brats?”
“I cannot envisage the latter, somehow.” I laughed.
“It is stretching the imagination,” she agreed, “although I can imagine you in almost any other situation.”
“Thank you very much,” I said primly.
“Oh, you know what I mean. None of the traditional choices really apply now, do they? Not for people like us, anyway. What about your Mr Holmes?”
“My Mr Holmes is nearly sixty. Rather late to break up bachelorhood.” I kept my voice natural, humorous, mildly regretful.
“I suppose you’re right. It’s too bad, really—he’s dreamy, in an impossible sort of a way.”
I was startled. “You mean you find Holmes attractive?”
“Oh, yes, heaps of s.a. Why, don’t you?”
“Well, yes, I suppose.” Although I shouldn’t have called it ‘sex appeal,’ exactly.
“But you sound surprised.”
“I wouldn’t have thought you—Why does he appeal to you?”
“Oh, he doesn’t, not really. I mean, I’m sure he’d turn out to be totally maddening, in reality. It’s because he’s so unavailable.” She thought for a few steps, and I waited, intrigued. “You know, when I was fifteen—this was just before the War—someone at school had the bright idea of sending the top members of our form to Italy for the spring term. One of the girls had an uncle there, with a huge, dusty villa in the countryside not far from Florence, and the idea was that we hire a charabanc to transport us in every day to view the treasures. Of course, the thing broke down continuously, or the driver was on a drunk, or we rebelled, so in the end I think we spent two days in the city and the rest in the small town three miles from the villa.
“There was a priest in the village—there were several, of course, but one in particular—I don’t know if it was the Mediterranean sun or our glands or just sheer deviltry, but all of us developed a Grand Passion for the priest. Poor man, it must have been so painful to have ten English misses on his heels, mooning about and bringing him fruit and sweets. He was good-looking, in a bony kind of way, very elegant in his black robe, but it was his air of unreachability that was so utterly electrifying. A challenge, I suppose, to break through that ascetic shell and set loose the passion beneath. Because one could feel the passion. My God, you couldn’t miss it, in his eyes and his mouth, but it was under iron control. He kept it directed no doubt to his prayer, but you couldn’t help but want to break his control and see what lay beneath.” She reviewed what she’d said, then laughed in self-deprecation. “At least it seemed that way. He was probably terrifically repressed and scared to death of us, and no doubt he had all sorts of boring habits, as I suppose your Sherlock Holmes would prove to have. Repressed and cerebral, a deadly combination. Still,” she said, blithely unaware of the shattering effect her words were having on me, “there must be plenty of unrepressed and agreeable older men around, the sort who mightn’t normally expect to marry again but would allow themselves to be convinced. Doing their part for England’s ‘surplus women’.”
“For heaven’s sake, Ronnie, listen to yourself. What would Margery Childe say?”
“I know, it’s terrible. But honestly, it’s not nice to be alone… not forever.
“Some of the women what?”
“Oh, you know, they say that the only true and equal love is Sapphism… marriage between women.”
“Is Margery Childe a lesbian?” I wondered.
“No, I’m sure she isn’t.”
“How do you know? Is she married?”
“No. Although she may have been. Someone told me she’d lost her husband in the Somme.”
“Who?”
“Who told me, you mean? Let me think. One of the early members, it must have been, who knew her before the war. Ivy? No—I know. It was Delia Laird. She was with Margery from the early days, when they used to hire village halls to preach in. Yes, that’s right, Ivy’s the one who told me she’d seen Margery with a gorgeous man in France a year or two back, all dark and Mediterranean and gangster-like. No, Margery’s no lesbian.”
“I didn’t meet Delia Laird, did I? You said she
“She died, back in August. Drowned in her bath.”
I stopped. “Good heavens.”
“It was suicide. That is, the verdict at the inquest was accidental death, but we all knew she’d killed herself. Tablets and gin, in the bath; what else could it be?”
“But why?” I allowed her to pull me back into motion.
“Margery. Delia was one of those women who might have been a lesbian if she’d come from a less repressed background, or if she’d received any encouragement. As it was, she devoted her life to Margery. An unfortunate woman, from a good family but there was something indefinably wrong with her. Not to speak ill of the dead, but frankly, she was rather stupid. When the Temple began to take off a couple of years ago, well, Margery just sort of left her behind. She needed people who could run an organisation, not just hire halls and carry bags. Plus, she just didn’t have the time to baby Delia any more. So Delia killed herself.”
“Does Margery know it was suicide?”
“Oh no. I’m sure she doesn’t. She was devastated.”
“How sad.”
“It was. Mostly it’s sad Delia couldn’t have made a match. She would have made someone an utterly devoted wife.”
“Even if that someone was another woman.”
“Well, yes.”
“Would Margery have approved?”
“There are several woman couples in the Temple, she certainly doesn’t seem to mind them. She seems to feel it depends on the people, that the love is the important thing.”
We walked a few steps before I passed judgement.
“Strikes me as dead boring,” I said flatly, and she started to giggle.
“I’d have to agree,” she said finally, and then: “Are you a virgin, Mary? Oh dear, that sounds blasphemous,” and she giggled again.
“Yes, I am,” I replied. She looked sharply over at me.
“But only just?” she asked shrewdly.
“But only just,” I confirmed. “And you?”
“No. We were engaged, after all.”
“Don’t apologise, for heaven’s sake.”
“Oh, I don’t regret it, not at all. To tell you the truth, I’ve missed Miles terribly. Not having him at all is almost worse than having him drugged. I hope to God…”
She didn’t need to say what she hoped. I put my arm across her shoulder and hugged her, thickly through all
