'Consort?' she repeated. 'That's a very pompous word. But if you're saying you'd rather I didn't have dinner with him again, then you needn't worry, because I haven't the least intention of doing so. Will that satisfy you? And your mother?'
She added coolly, 'Besides, inappropriate behaviour doesn't enter into it. Jago Marsh just isn't my type.'
'While I've been stupid and tactless and made you cross,' he said quietly. 'I'm sorry, Tavy. Why don't we draw a line under the whole business and go out for a drink tonight?'
For a moment, she was sorely tempted, even if he had ticked all the boxes he'd mentioned and more.
She tried to smile. 'Can we make it another time? Actually, I've promised myself a quiet night at home after Evensong.'
I feel as if I need it, she thought when she was alone. Which isn't me at all. In fact, I feel as if I'm starting to learn about myself all over again. And I don't like it.
* * *
It was clear when she reported for duty on Monday morning that her fall from grace had not been forgiven or forgotten.
Mrs Wilding was chilly to the nth degree.
'I have to say, Octavia, that I thought your father would share my concerns about this new addition to the neighbourhood. But I gather he seems prepared to accept him at face value, which in my opinion shows very poor judgement.'
Tavy remembered just in time that Mrs Wilding was a prominent member of the parochial church council, which her father chaired as Vicar, and bit her tongue hard.
Fortunately, she did not have to see very much of her employer who departed mid-morning on some unexplained errand, and returned late in the afternoon, tight-lipped and silent.
As soon as she'd signed her letters, she told Tavy she could go home after she'd taken them to catch the post.
Something's going on, Tavy thought as she cycled to the village. But she's hardly likely to confide in me, especially now.
As she was putting the letters into the mail box, June Jackson emerged from the post office.
'Afternoon, Miss Denison.' She lowered her voice, her smile sly. 'I hear you've got yourself an admirer up at the Manor.'
'Then you know more than I do, Mrs Jackson,' Tavy returned coolly. 'It's extraordinary how these silly stories get about,' she added for good measure.
'Just a story, is it?' The smile hardened. 'But there aren't any others with your shade of hair in the village, not that I can call to mind. And I also hear that he didn't waste any time calling at the Vicarage either.'
Tavy climbed back on her bicycle. 'My father has a lot of visitors, Mrs Jackson. It comes with the territory.'
And imagining that anyone could keep anything quiet in this village was too good to be true, Tavy thought as she pedalled home.
As she walked into the house, she could hear him talking on the phone in his study, sounding tired.
'Yes, I understand. I've been expecting something of the kind.' A pause. 'Tomorrow morning then. Thank you.'
For a moment, she hesitated, tempted to go into the study and ask what was going on.
Instead, she called, 'I'm home,' and went to the kitchen to put the kettle on.
She was pouring the tea when her father appeared, leaning a shoulder wearily against the door frame.
He said, 'Someone's coming from the diocesan surveyor's office to look at the church, and prepare a report.'
'But they did that before, surely. Isn't that why you launched the restoration fund?'
'I gather the surveyor's visit is to check what further deterioration there's been in the stonework of the tower, and to carry out a detailed examination of the roof. Apparently they've heard we have to put buckets in the chancel when it rains.'
'Then that must mean they're going to do the repairs,' Tavy said, handing him a mug of tea. 'Which is great news.'
'Well,' he said. 'We can always hope.' He made an effort to smile. 'And pray.' He turned away. 'Now, I'd better find the estimates we had last time.'
Tavy felt uneasy as she watched him go. Surely there wasn't too much to worry about. Holy Trinity's congregation might not be huge but it was loyal. And if the response to the original appeal had tapered off, the prospect of restoration work actually beginning might kick-start it all over again.
I'll talk to Patrick about it this evening, she thought. He'd texted her at lunchtime to suggest they met for a drink that evening at the Willow Tree, a fifteenth century pub on the outskirts of Market Tranton that was one of their favourite haunts.
And while she was glad that she was going to see him, because it was an opportunity to put things completely right between them again, it also meant she had to get there under her own steam, also known as the local bus which luckily stopped a few yards from the pub door.
But presumably, after Saturday evening's debacle, Patrick was even more wary about openly picking her up in his car in case his mother got to hear of it.
Oh, damn Jago Marsh, she muttered under her breath, taking an overly hasty slurp of tea and burning her tongue.
After all, if she hadn't been pushed into spending the evening with him, there would have been no trouble with Mrs Wilding and her relationship with Patrick might no longer have to be the best-kept secret in the universe.
To add to her woes, it also looked as if June Jackson had been right about the weather. Raindrops were already spattering the kitchen window, so the other new dress she planned to wear would now have to be covered by her waterproof, and her sandals exchanged for navy loafers. Same old, same old, she thought resignedly.
On the other hand, the price of petrol forbade her from asking Dad if she could borrow the Peugeot. That was one of the economies they had to make, and it was important to do so cheerfully.
Which was why it was going to be poached eggs on toast for the evening meal, as her father had finished off yesterday's steak and kidney pie for lunch, without a word about the pastry, which could easily have been used to mend one of the holes in the church roof.
But as her mother had always said, for pastry you needed a light hand and a tranquil heart. And at the moment, she possessed neither.
And said again, this time aloud and with feeling, 'Oh, damn Jago Marsh.'
CHAPTER FIVE
THE PUB WAS busy when Tavy walked in, but she immediately spotted Patrick standing at the bar, and slipped off her raincoat to display the full charm of the indigo dress as she went, smiling, to join him.
'What a hell of a day,' was his greeting. 'I've got you a Chardonnay. Hope that's all right.'
'Fine,' she said untruthfully, telling herself he must have forgotten she much preferred Sauvignon Blanc, and faintly piqued because he hadn't noticed the new dress. 'What's been the matter?'
He shrugged. 'Oh, just another bloody Monday, I suppose. Look, those people are going. Grab their table while I get another pint.'
Bad-tempered Mondays seemed to be a family trait, thought Tavy ruefully as she sat down. Something, perhaps, to bear in mind for the future. Or devise some way of omitting Monday altogether and starting the week on Tuesday instead.
When he joined her, she said, 'It seems to have been one of those days all round. The diocesan surveyor is going to take another look at the church. I think my father's worried about it.'
'I'm not surprised.'
Tavy bit her lip. 'I was hoping for some positive thinking,' she said quietly.
'Not much of that around where money's concerned, I'm afraid.' His tone was blunt. 'And Mother's always said Holy Trinity would cost a fortune to put right. It's been neglected for too long.'
'But not by Dad,' she protested. 'The problems started before he came, and he's done his utmost to get the diocese to take action. Your mother must know that.'
'At the moment, she has her own troubles,' he said stiffly. 'As you of all people must be aware.'
Tavy sighed under her breath and took an unenthusiastic sip of her wine. It was clear that getting back on terms with Patrick, currently staring moodily into his beer, wasn't going to be as simple as she'd first hoped. Because she could never explain how the thing with Jago Marsh had begun or why she'd been pressured into accepting his invitation to dinner.
On the whole, it was best to keep quiet and hope that Jago Marsh would do the same, if not for her sake, then out of what appeared to be genuine respect for her father.
She leaned back in her chair, listening to the ebb and flow of conversation around her, the buzz of people letting their hair down after a working day, the squeak of the door as customers came and went, and, underlying it all, the soft throb of music from the digital jukebox.
She began, almost in spite of herself, to feel soothed and waited to feel that special lift of the heart that being with Patrick usually produced.
The door hinges protested again, accompanied by a draught of cold, damp air, and then, as if a switch had suddenly been thrown, there was silence.