Chapter 45
Edmund glanced around the train station.
He’d taken all the appropriate precautions, since he was walking into that hotbed of gossip known as the local parish.
Pen’s grandfather’s parish, to be specific, for his first meeting with Pen’s family.
That involved both a certain amount of deception and a great deal of careful attention to his mode of dress. More than usual, that was.
The train itself had been less of a bother than he’d expected.
The problem was that he needed to be seen descending from a reasonable train, and to board one again later in the day.
Along with being on the train the whole way to and from London, rather than taking the much less roundabout portal either direction.
This was exactly the sort of place where there would be casual conversation with the train conductor or others who normally took that train about Pen’s young man.
The details needed to match up properly.
So, he’d do it the long way round, and the train was at least a place he could do some of his ever-present reading.
Slacking or letting the details slip would cause a problem for Pen, and he wouldn’t have that.
It was only his third train trip since the nationalisation of the trains at the beginning of the year, but everything had run smoothly enough. There was someone on the platform, who gave him a nod, then came over. “Can I help you, sir?”
“I’m visiting the vicarage. One of the family was expecting to meet me, but it’s possible something’s come up.” Edmund kept his voice light. His accent would tell a great deal here. Posh and well-educated young man, well-attired, but polite and cordial.
“Ah, that’d be likely.” The man twisted over his shoulder. “There’s Miss Agnes Fenweather, now. The vicar’s daughter.” Pen’s aunt, then.
Edmund smiled, slipping the man a suitably sized coin. “I’ll be taking the train home this evening, thank you.” He then straightened, taking several steps toward the end of the platform and the stairs. “Miss Fenweather?”
“You’d be Edmund Carillon, then. And yes, I’m Agnes. A pleasure to meet you. Welcome, welcome. Pen was just helping her mother with the last of the roast or she’d have come herself. Is that all you have with you?”
Edmund nodded. He trotted along as Agnes Fenweather took long strides down the road, then into the vicarage.
She didn’t say much at all. She had the brisk walk he’d expected, that school teachers often did, needing to pretend to be eight places at once and often managing at least four.
By the time they turned to go through a garden gate, he had seen glimpses of the village, and a few curious heads.
Then he was shown through into the front hall, where he divested himself of hat, gloves, and satchel, taking out the two things he’d brought as gifts. She eyed them. “One for Father?”
“And one for Mrs Stirling and the household,” Edmund said agreeably.
“Come through. We’ll all be in the dining room.
The curate as well.” That was the warning Edmund had not been sure about.
The curate was apparently not magical, though also largely oblivious to such things as the household boiler behaving better than it ought.
Pen had thought that either her grandfather would talk to Edmund in his study after the meal, or they’d go upstairs, and magic was on topic in either place.
Now, Edmund came through to find everyone arrayed at table, with the food set out on the sideboard, waiting. Agnes brought him around to the end to the elderly man seated there. “Father, this is Edmund Carillon. Mister Carillon, my father, the Reverend Augustus Fenweather.”
“A pleasure to meet you, sir,” Edmund said, offering his hand and a firm handshake.
He presented the tin of pipe tobacco. “Pen suggested this might be to your preference, sir. And my father asked me to inquire about a map in your collection, if there’s a chance to speak after the meal. An early unpublished map, I gather?”
“Hmm? Oh.” Pen’s grandfather sized him up, whisking the tin out of the way deftly. “Yes, yes. Geoffrey, yes. A good eye for early manuscripts, I gather. You’re an Exeter College man.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yes, sir. Like my father before me.” It was the traditional and expected comment here.
“Well.” The older man waved him to a seat, and Agnes took over the introductions again.
“My sister, Constance Stirling. My brother-in-law, William Stirling.” Edmund made his greetings, then offered Pen’s mother a jar of honey.
“From our hives on the home farm.” That was received with pleasure, as Edmund had expected it would be.
With the sugar rationing, a bit of honey was always useful, and it was the sort of thing that didn’t fling his money around either.
Agnes was smiling slightly. “Constance has a sweet tooth.” She then went on with the last introduction, gesturing at her niece before going on to the last man at the table. “Pen, of course, you know. And our curate here, Gerald Franks. Here, sit down. Pen, will you help me serve?”
Edmund had the seat of honour, at the right hand of Pen’s mother.
She stayed put as he took his chair and the younger women set out the serving dishes.
It was a rabbit, with potatoes and carrots and a handful of other vegetables, in keeping with the challenges of rationing.
“Not as it was in the old days. Now, my wife, she made an excellent roast.”
Edmund nodded. “It is a challenge, sir. And food anchors so many traditions, doesn’t it?
Feasting and fasting both.” They were not in the midst of the latter right now, it being a Sunday in Trinity.
While it had been the feast of Thomas the Apostle yesterday, that did not particularly dictate anything about the meal.
As Edmund hoped, it got Pen’s grandfather on a digression about the proper traditions around food and the season.
They were a good halfway through the meal before Edmund felt the focus on him. “What do you intend to do after Oxford, young man?”
“We’ve a substantial estate in the New Forest, and my father— with his head of stables, of course— breeds horses.
He draws on the strength and sturdiness of the local ponies.
But these days he breeds for riding, with an eye to horses that will do well with a cart in the places the roads aren’t much.
Our head of stables is training up a son, a bit older than I am, to take it over eventually.
But there’s also a need for someone to put on the right show for the business.
As for the rest of it,” Edmund hesitated.
“I’ve been reading Greats, but I’ve several modern languages too, so I might go into something related to linguistics. ”
“Seems like a slender thread to hang a life on.” Pen’s grandfather poked at the last bit of his meat, then chewed it. “In my day, an Oxford man went into the church if he was a decent sort.”
“In my case, sir, I expect the estate and its needs to be an ongoing part of my work, day in and day out. We make a point of seeing our tenants are well, supporting those younger who want an education or apprenticeship in something. But getting to London’s not such a bother as it could be, and my work during the war provides some connections.
I’ve another two years, there is still time yet to arrange the details. ”
“You said you were going away for some weeks this summer?” That was Pen’s mother. Constance Stirling looked very much like her daughter, with the same dark hair, crinkles by her eyes, though with a slight perpetually harried look related to her father’s behaviour.
“Yes, Mrs Stirling. An abbreviated Grand Tour compared to my father’s.
Six weeks in Greece and Italy, with an eye to classical art and architecture along with historical sites.
Leaving the beginning of July, back near the end of August.” That carried the conversation along a bit, until Edmund could inquire about the history of the parish, the church, and the vicarage.
Those topics more than lasted through the fruit bowl.
“Come along and chat in my study, Mister Carillon, if you would. I won’t keep you all afternoon.
” That was promising. Edmund stood, nodding politely to the ladies, and taking in Constance’s little wave of a gesture for him to follow her father.
The study wasn’t far, and as soon as Edmund closed the door, he could feel respectably done warding close like a curtain.
“Quite private now, young man, even if someone tries listening outside the windows.”
“Village gossip is eternal, I gather, sir,” Edmund agreed.
“We’re a mile or so from True Eyeworth at home.
It makes it a tad more awkward for them to try.
” He took the chair indicated, a well-worn oxblood leather seat on the other side of a massive desk.
“You want the best for your granddaughter, of course.”
The eyes peering at him narrowed. “Yes. How will you convince me that you are the proper choice? Are you a Christian, young man?”
That would be why he had not arranged to come for the services.
And why Pen’s parents had not suggested it.
On the other hand, Edmund had known the question would come up.
“No, sir. I am glad to respect your traditions and beliefs and Pen’s own, of course.
My parents made sure I was familiar with the Bible as a text and as a theological foundation, but our family traditions are Romano-British. ”
The eyes narrowed further. “In what form?” It was not quite an order, but it was quite near one.