LITMIR.BIZ

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to attempt to justify the desire to do as well as I possibly could in my career – the desire which my critics would unhesitatingly label as an ambition quite unbecoming to a clergyman.

      Ambition, like everything else in one’s life, must be dedicated to the service of God. When I dreamed of preferment I had no wish merely to serve myself; I only wanted to get into a position where I could serve God to the very best of my God-given ability, and the truth was that my God-given ability was not for living on locusts and wild honey as a holy man in the wilderness. My talent was for administration. My archdeaconry ran like clockwork. My curates were trained, groomed and buffed to a high lustre. I had only to cast an eye on any diocesan department and bureaucratic slovenliness instantly evaporated. I could put the Bishop through his paces so painlessly that he ceased to be depressed by paperwork.

      Now, I’m willing enough to admit that this gift of mine is not spiritually exciting, but I submit, with all due respect, that not every clergyman is born to be a St Francis of Assisi or a St Ignatius Loyola. My duty was not to waste time bemoaning my limitations, but to dedicate my gift, modest as it was, to God’s service. Am I deceiving myself when I speculate that God was probably glad to receive it even though it was sadly lacking in spiritual glamour? I think not. After all, someone has to run the Church of England, that historic witness to the power of the Christian faith, and since in an imperfect world a Church can hardly thrive on a diet of undiluted holiness, first-class administrators must always be essential for its welfare.

      In short, I felt I could justify my ambition to travel upwards in the ecclesiastical hierarchy. What I could never justify was a desire to travel that road in the company of a woman who wasn’t my wife. That was utterly reprehensible and no good clergyman would ever allow himself to sink so low – a statement which was the equivalent of saying the thought had never occurred to me because I was such a good clergyman. Wiping it from my mind with shame I resolved to forego the pleasure of making love to my wife beneath an earl’s roof that night and instead spend time polishing my sermon.

      Alex had once advised me that a clergyman addressing the upper classes from the pulpit should never forget that they had received, no matter how unwillingly, a good education; he had recommended including at least one well-known quotation at the start of the sermon, as they would feel clever when they recognized the words and this self-satisfaction would put them in a benign, receptive mood. Accordingly when writing the sermon I had begun with a quotation from Browning (‘How very hard it is to be a Christian!’), glided into Tennyson (‘Ring out the darkness of the land; ring in the Christ that is to be’), brushed against T. S. Eliot (‘Each venture is a new beginning’), and bound all these lines together with one of my favourite biblical texts: ‘Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, yea and forever,’ – words which I always felt offered comfort, particularly in an unstable, war-torn world.

      Starmouth Court stood in the parish of Leatherhead, a pleasant country town not far from the outer reaches of the South London suburbs, and the fine Norman church overlooked the valley of the River Mole, so called for its habit of burrowing underground in unexpected places. I wondered if the vicar minded when his distinguished parishioners imposed guest-preachers on him, but when he greeted me with unflinching cordiality I deduced he was more than ready to welcome a holiday from homiletics. The service began. The moment for the sermon arrived, and without wishing to brag I must confess that I made the most of my golden opportunity.

      It was after lunch when I was cornered by Lady Starmouth. Having discovered that afternoon rests were permitted to guests, Grace had slipped away to our room in order to drum up some extra stamina and I had wandered outside for a stroll in the grounds. I wound up prowling aimlessly from terrace to terrace as I tried to pretend I had no desire to bump into Dido.

      ‘Archdeacon! Just the man I wanted to see,’ exclaimed my hostess, eventually ensnaring me as I loafed around the rose garden’s wishing-well. ‘Let’s sit down for a moment. I want to talk to you about Dido.’

      ‘Ah!’ I said. The monosyllable might have seemed unadventurous but at least it had the merit of being uncontroversial. I allowed myself to be steered to an elegant wrought-iron seat which overlooked a bed of oppressively feminine red roses.

      ‘I really must congratulate you, Mr Aysgarth,’ said Lady Starmouth, dark eyes very friendly, and bestowed upon me one of her most gracious smiles.

      ‘Oh?’ I said, dumb as any uncouth Yorkshire yokel. In panic I ordered myself to abandon these absurd monosyllables.

      ‘Come now, Archdeacon!’ said Lady Starmouth, effortlessly charming, subtly grand. ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about! Of course you’re well aware that Dido’s in love with you, and of course you realize that I’m congratulating you on your skill in dealing with her infatuation.’

      ‘Ah!’ I said again. No wonder Yorkshiremen had a dour reputation. All I needed to complete my imitation of the wooden-headed provincial northerner was a cloth cap. Furious with myself for being so crippled by shyness I cursed the entire English class system and tried to pretend my hostess was merely one of my middle-class parishioners.

      ‘I’m not sure I entirely agree with your diagnosis of Dido’s feelings, Lady Starmouth,’ I said, somehow producing a casual smile, the kind of smile a clever clergyman produces when he’s talking of worldly matters to a sophisticated older woman. ‘She’s not in love with me. She’s in love with what I represent.’

      ‘That’s a shrewd remark and confirms my opinion that you’re no fool. But Archdeacon, I think it’s time someone helped you by throwing a little extra light on what could prove to be an inflammable situation. The truth is, I’m afraid, that Dido’s a very naughty little girl. Oh, I concede there are extenuating circumstances – the father’s a rogue, the mother’s unpresentable, new money always produces vulgar consequences – but nevertheless one can’t escape the fact that the Tallent children were thrown into society with only hired old crones to chaperone them, and since those three girls had no education, no breeding, no proper childhood discipline and no real inkling of how they should conduct themselves, it’s hardly surprising that their social successes – based, I may say, entirely on their ability to flirt – should have resulted in scandal and tragedy. Dido’s told you the whole sad story, I presume?’

      ‘She did mention –’

      ‘Merry’s married to a compulsive gambler, Laura’s dead and Dido has a reputation for … shall we call it mischief? She makes fools of the decent men and chases the rakes. Has she talked to you about Rollo Carlton-Blake? He’s a confirmed bachelor with a penchant for loose women of the lower classes, as everyone told her years ago, but Dido took no notice of what everyone told her and I believe I know why. Au fond that girl doesn’t want to get married, Mr Aysgarth, and that’s why, consciously or unconsciously, she falls in love with men who are either impossible, like Carlton-Blake, or unavailable, like you. I once had an American friend who was like that. She too fell in love with a very promising young married clergyman and nearly ruined him – although I’m glad to say he survived and became a bishop. Such women are dangerous … But perhaps you’d already reached that conclusion and were wondering how to extricate yourself?’

      ‘I must be quite honest,’ I said, heart sinking as I realized I was being compelled to lie, ‘and say I’m anxious to extricate myself, but as a clergyman I can’t help but be mindful of the fact that I might be promoting a genuine spiritual awakening by writing to her. As the Bible says, one mustn’t quench the smouldering flax or break the bruised reed. Any new moral awareness should be carefully nurtured.’

      ‘Quite. That’s very conscientious of you, Mr Aysgarth, and indeed my husband said much the same thing when Dido resurrected her old friendship with Rosalind in order to cultivate our acquaintance on your behalf, but be warned and take care … And now,’ said Lady Starmouth, having completed her verbal disembowelling of my disciple, ‘let’s turn to pleasanter subjects. What a very charming and delightful wife you have! I do hope she’s enjoying herself.’

      Immediately I suspected that this was no new subject but merely a different aspect of a certain sinister theme. ‘We’re both enjoying

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