to write, and no fortune, whatever its size, would change that.
The vicar shifted in his chair. "There is something more I wish to discuss with you, Kathryn. On her deathbed, your aunt spoke of a child."
"Jocelyn." Kate had thought much of this, over the past few days. While the doctor had denied the possibility and the vicar had refused to discuss it, she believed that there must be some truth hidden away. What had become of Aunt Sa-brina's daughter?
"Yes, Jocelyn." The vicar paused. "The truth is that he is Sabrina's son. Our son."
Kate stared at him. ' 'Your… son?'' The smaller surprise, that Jocelyn was a male, was lost in the larger astonishment of his patrimony.
"Yes, ours." The vicar's eyes met hers with candor and pain. "He was born nearly forty years ago. I will not go into the circumstances, which as you might guess are quite complicated. I will only say that Jocelyn's birth was kept secret from Sabrina's mother and father and from my wife. He was brought up in love and admonition by a man and a woman who cherished him as if he were their own son. I am pleased to say that he entered the church and has risen into a position of prominence." The light in his eyes brightened his entire face. ' 'He is widely respected, admired, loved. A man of considerable reputation and even greater promise."
"And Aunt Sabrina felt she needed to protect him," Kate said quietly.
"Yes. Unfortunately, Sabrina's sister discovered the secret. She threatened to reveal it to the world unless Sabrina allowed her certain… privileges." The vicar's leathery face darkened. "Perhaps her revelation would not have been the end of Jocelyn's career, but it would have made life more difficult for him. That is why Sabrina was willing to live in circumstances she would not have chosen. She bartered her freedom and comfort for Bernice's silence. She did it for… our son."
The quiet lengthened as Kate thought about the vast reservoir of pain and sadness out of which the vicar's words must come. How extraordinarily complex were people's lives! What depths there were of anguish, of despair and loss-and
of pride, dignity, joy. Yes, even joy. Within her welled up a deep respect, almost an awe, at the incredible richness of life. What she had heard here today, had witnessed in the last week, had experienced in her own life over the past months- all of it dazzled and dumbfounded her. But it humbled her, as well, for she knew that Beryl Bardwell's stories had not even begun to plumb the depths of the human spirit. How much, as a writer, she had to learn! She had not even yet begun!
The vicar stood and began to pace. "I was not sure I should tell you this, Kathryn, because the secret is not just mine. It is Jocelyn's too."
"He knows, then?"
"Yes. His adopted parents thought it best, when he became a man, to tell him the truth. I am proud to say that he bore it bravely, that he unburdened his heart to me and to his mother, and that he has from time to time been in touch with us. I have written to him of his mother's death, although not of the details." He paused and turned. "I tell you all this, Kathryn, because I believe your aunt wished you to know the whole truth, and because I am convinced that you will safeguard it. And because I think you should know that it is not quite true that you are the last Ardleigh, although you are indeed the last by that name."
Kate weighed her thoughts and spoke carefully. "Did my aunt provide for Jocelyn in her will? Or should I, as her heir, make some special provision?"
"No, she did not, nor should you. Jocelyn's adopted family are of considerable means. They have provided well for him." He pursed his lips. "And of course, we in the Church do not pursue personal wealth."
Kate was enormously moved by the old man's confidence. "Thank you for telling me," she said.
The vicar sat down again. The lines on his old face seemed somehow deeper, and his eyes were dark with pain. "There remains only one thing left to be said. I must tell you how deeply I regret that I involved your aunt in the Order of the Golden Dawn. I know that if I had not encouraged her to become a member, she would be alive today." His voice was
gruff. "It is a knowledge, my dear Kathryn, that breaks my heart."
Kate reached for his hand, longing to comfort him in his grief. "Please," she said urgently, "you must not. Aunt Sa-brina chose her own path. The knowledge she sought through the Order was important to her. You cannot blame yourself because the situation was other than you knew."
"Thank you, my dear." The vicar's voice revealed a heaviness of heart. "Your comfort is welcome, although I fear that nothing can truly comfort me for the loss of my oldest and dearest friend. If you do not object, I would like to ask you for the documents that belong to the Order. I will see that they are placed in the proper hands."
Kate nodded. "That was my aunt's last instruction. You shall have them. You do know, do you not, that Aunt Jaggers destroyed the original of the tarot cards? They were very valuable, I fear."
"Sabrina told me. At the moment, their loss does not trouble me deeply, but I am sure that others will think it a great tragedy. The deck was much prized for the quality of its occult symbolism." He pushed himself out of his chair with difficulty. "Reluctant as I am to go back out in this weather, I must be on my way. It has been a trying week and I am very tired."
There was a knock at the door and Amelia stepped in. "Lord an' Miss Marsden, miss," she said with a quick curtsy, "an' Sir Charles Sheridan."
Kate smiled. "Show them in, Amelia. And please bring another tray of cakes-some of those Nettie made would be nice-and a fresh pot of tea." To the vicar, she added, "I have asked Mrs. Pratt to assume Aunt Jaggers's housekeeping duties. We will likely hire another cook, but in the meantime, she is training our little kitchen maid. If Nettie likes the work and does well, it can become her trade. If she does not, perhaps we can find something else for her. It is a great pity for people to go through their lives doing work they do not enjoy."
' 'Your aunt would think well of your concern for the servants," the vicar said. "And I am glad to see that you have
made friends with the Marsdens. As the first family in the neighborhood, they will be able to introduce you into society." He smiled. "And if you need a friend, please call on me."
"Thank you," Kate said.
The vicar put his hands on Kate's shoulders and gently kissed her forehead. "It is good that you have come to Bishop's Keep, my dear. Had you not, the truth of Sabrina's death might not have been learned, nor the truth behind the falsehood of the Order. For that, you are to be thanked."
Kate would have sat still for a moment with those last words, meditating on the mystery of truths behind falsehoods, and falsehoods behind truths. But she heard Amelia's step outside the door, and voices, and rose to greet her guests.
54
"… and bring you rrom a wild Kate to a Kate Conrormahle, as other household Kates"
Charles took his seat by the fire as Kathryn Ardleigh set-tled herself on the sofa. He glanced at her, noticing that the fireglow brought out the golden lights in her russet hair. Since the episode at Mrs. Farnsworth's, he could not help thinking of her as Kathryn-indeed, as Kate. The name seemed made for her.
"Thank you," Kate said with a smile to the maid who
brought in the tea. 'You need not stay. I'll serve." Eleanor raised her eyebrows, and Kate seemed to take notice. ' 'I am sure that you think it heretical of me not to let the servants do everything, Ellie," she said lightly, "but I fear you will have to bear with me. I may be mistress of Bishop's Keep, but in my heart lurk a great many of my former habits-such as serving at tea-that I am willfully determined not to relinquish."