‘It’s still steeping,’ said Anna.
‘So it is,’ said Lydia Wells, without glancing at the tray. ‘Well, in that case, my arrival has been fortuitously timed! Anna, run and fetch another cup. I’ll join you. I have a great fondness for theological debate.’
With a desperate look at Devlin, Anna nodded, ducked her head, and slipped out of the room.
‘Mrs. Wells,’ whispered Devlin quickly, as Anna’s footsteps receded down the hallway, ‘may I ask you a very odd question, while we are alone?’
Lydia Wells smiled at him. ‘I make my living answering odd questions,’ she said, ‘and you of all people should know that we are hardly alone.’
‘Well, yes,’ said Devlin, feeling uncomfortable. ‘But here’s the question. Does Miss Wetherell know how to read?’
Lydia Wells raised her eyebrows. ‘That is a very odd question,’ she replied, ‘though not because of its answer. I wonder what prompted the asking.’
Anna returned with a cup and saucer, and set it beside the others on the tray.
‘What is the answer?’ Devlin said quietly.
‘You play mother, Anna,’ said Lydia Wells, her voice ringing out. ‘Reverend: be seated, please. There you are. How nice, to have a clergyman to tea! It makes one feel quite civilised. I will have a biscuit, I think, and sugar too.’
Devlin sat.
‘The answer, to the best of my knowledge, is no,’ the widow said, sitting down herself also. ‘And now I have an odd question of my own. Is it a different class of falsehood, when a minister of God tells a lie?’
He balked. ‘I do not see the pertinence of your question.’
‘But Reverend, you are not playing fair,’ the widow said. ‘I answered your question without begging to know the reason why; will you not now do the same for me?’
‘What was his question?’ said Anna, looking around—but she was ignored.
‘Is it a different class of falsehood, I ask,’ the widow went on, ‘when the liar is a minister of God?’
Devlin sighed. ‘It would be a different class of falsehood,’ he said, ‘only if the minister was using the authority of his office for ill. So long as the falsehood did not pertain to his office, there would be no difference. We are equal in the eyes of God.’
‘Ah,’ said the widow. ‘Thank you. Now. You said just now that you were talking of theology, Reverend. Would you care to count me in to the debate?’
Devlin flushed. He opened his mouth—and faltered: he did not have an alibi prepared.
Anna came to his rescue. ‘When I woke up in gaol,’ she said, ‘the Reverend Devlin was there. He prayed for me, and he has been praying ever since.’
‘Then you have been talking about prayer?’ the widow said, still addressing Devlin.
The chaplain recovered his composure. ‘Among other things,’ he said. ‘We have also been discussing acts of great providence, and unexpected gifts.’
‘Fascinating,’ said Lydia Wells. ‘And do you make it your habit, Reverend, to drop in on young women when their guardians are otherwise engaged, in order to discuss, without a chaperone, matters of theology?’
Devlin was offended by the accusation. ‘You are hardly Miss Wetherell’s guardian,’ he said. ‘She lived alone for months until you arrived in Hokitika; what sudden need has she of a guardian?’
‘A very great one, I should judge,’ said Lydia Wells, ‘given the degree to which she has been formerly exploited in this town.’
‘I wonder at your adverb, Mrs. Wells! You mean to say that she is exploited no longer?’
Lydia Wells seemed to stiffen. ‘Perhaps you do not think it a gladness,’ she said coldly, ‘that this young woman is no longer prostituting her body every night, and risking every kind of violence, and concussing herself daily with a contemptible drug. Perhaps you wish that she had her former life back again.’
‘Don’t perhaps me,’ Devlin said, flaring up. ‘That’s cheap rhetoric. It’s nothing better than bullying, and I won’t stand for a bully; I won’t.’
‘I am astonished by your accusation,’ said Lydia Wells. ‘In what way am I a bully?’
‘The girl has no freedoms, for heaven’s sake! She was brought here against her will, and you keep her on the shortest leash imaginable!’
‘Anna,’ said Lydia Wells, still addressing Devlin. ‘Did you come to the Wayfarer’s Fortune against your will?’
‘No, ma’am,’ Anna said.
‘Why did you come and take up lodgings here?’
‘Because you made me an offer, and I accepted it.’
‘What was my offer?’
‘You offered to pay my debt to Mr. Clinch up front, and you said that I could come and live with you as your companion, so long as I helped you on the business end.’
‘Did I keep my end of the bargain?’
‘Yes,’ Anna said, miserably.
‘Thank you,’ the widow said. She had not taken her eyes from Devlin’s, and nor had she touched her cup of tea. ‘As for the length of the girl’s leash, I find it very wonderful that you should protest a life of virtue and austerity, in favour of—what did you call them—“freedoms”? Freedoms to do what, exactly? Freedom to fraternise with those very men who once defiled and abused her? Freedom to smoke herself senseless in a Chinaman’s saloon?’
Devlin could not resist countering this. ‘But why did you make your offer, Mrs. Wells? Why did you offer to repay Miss Wetherell’s debts?’
‘Out of concern for the girl, naturally.’
‘Moonshine,’ said Devlin.
‘Pardon me,’ said Lydia Wells. ‘I have ample concern for Anna’s welfare.’
‘Look at her! The poor girl’s half the size she was a month ago; you can’t deny that. She’s starving. You’re starving her.’
‘Anna,’ said Lydia Wells, spitting out the girl’s name. ‘Do I starve you?’
‘No,’ said Anna.
‘Are you, in your own opinion, starving?’
‘No,’ Anna said again.
‘You can spare me the pantomime,’ said Devlin, who was becoming angry. ‘You don’t care two straws for that girl. You’ve no more concern for her than you do for anyone—and from what I have heard about you, that’s a paltry kind of concern indeed.’
‘Another terrible accusation,’ said Lydia Wells. ‘And from the chaplain of a prison, no less! I suppose I ought to try to clear my name. Anna, tell the good Reverend what you did while you were in Dunedin.’
There was a pause. Devlin glanced at Anna, his confidence faltering.
‘Tell him what you did,’ said Lydia Wells again.
‘I played the serpent in your household,’ said Anna.
‘Meaning what, precisely? Tell him exactly what it was you did.’
‘I lay down with your husband.’
‘Yes,’ said Lydia Wells. ‘You seduced my husband, Mr. Wells. Now tell the good Reverend this. What did I do, in retaliation?’
‘You sent me away,’ Anna said. ‘To Hokitika.’
‘In what condition?’
‘With child.’
‘With whose child, please?’
‘With your husband’s child,’ Anna whispered. ‘Crosbie’s child.’
Devlin was astonished.
‘So I sent you away,’ the widow said, nodding. ‘Do I still maintain that my reaction was the right one?’
‘No,’ Anna said. ‘You have repented. You have begged for my forgiveness. More than once.’
‘Are you quite sure?’ said Mrs. Wells, feigning astonishment. ‘According to our good Reverend here, I have no concern at all for the welfare of others, and presumably still less for those who have played temptress beneath my roof! Are you quite sure that I am even capable of begging your forgiveness?’