Chapter 3

She fled! She left him standing there, besides the grave of his wife – she just could not cope with the situation, and did not know what to say, so she thought escape was her best move. She did not look back, just hurried to her horse and cantered off.

Her face looked so drawn and closed when she arrived at the post office no one dared to ask her any question. She shut herself away in her private rooms, and refused the offer of supper proffered timidly by Minnie through the closed door. After a sleepless night, she had no more ideas of what to do than before – she needed help, she needed to talk to someone, but to whom could she turn to?

Laura was too young, Minnie was – well, young and a servant, Ruby Pratt was too spinsterish. Margaret was a lovely woman, but …That was the trouble with her – she was too good, too Bible-imbibed – how could she understand passion and romance? In those moments, she missed having had a mother terribly. She had had no one to talk to about love when she was a girl – Zillah raised her as best as she could, but she was no intellectual and her father …Well, she often thought that her father believed she was a boy! She was allowed to help him at the forge, at the post-office, to ride in the fields …Although he changed his mind when she was about twelve, and began to have more feminine forms. He sent her away to boarding-school, to the nuns, and although she was miserable there, she was only allowed home twice a year, for Christmas, and during the summer.

It was no wonder she did not know how to express her feelings – no one had ever taught her how! Her father had been a great talker, but an impatient listener, and preferred lecturing her on the great Darwin than listening to her girlish woes. The nuns at school had been no better – sentimentality was strictly frowned upon, even often disciplined. And so she had learnt to keep it all inside, and to make her own opinions on how one had to behave with men. Her father had made her "Dorcas Lane, postmistress" – an employer, a woman of business, and it did not help her relationships with men. She had developed her wit, a formidable weapon against improprieties and over-zealous suitors, but she had not learnt how to tone it done when necessary.

Moreover, as she said herself, Dorcas was hopelessly sentimental, and when love struck, it overwhelmed her, and she tended to act in two opposite ways. Either she attacked the man with her barbed remarks or she acted like a helpless little girl, fluttering her eyelashes, dropping things and fingering her hair.

After a sleepless night, she felt her senses all out of kilter. She did know what she could do about Timothy, nor what she wanted to do. Dorcas usually tried to be logical and sensible, and to rely on science, but she felt so uneasy she decided a little occult could not hurt.

She therefore left for her early morning ride with the firm intention of having a cup of tea with her cousin Emma, and maybe, just maybe, if Queenie was around, she might ask her if the leaves spoke to her …She did not want to bother Emma with her troubles – her latest pregnancy was proving troublesome, and although one could not speak about those matters, Dorcas sensed that her cousin was more tired and unwell than usual. This sixth baby had not been expected, and another mouth to feed would be a burden to the family. When Dorcas arrived at the cottage, Emma made her feel welcome, but she could sense she was crankier than usual, and sharper with the children. It was certainly not the time to bring about her mawkish stories of pre-pubescent love.

However, politeness prevailed, and Dorcas was indeed invited to have a cup of tea, during the making of which Queenie happened to visit Emma with a pot of honey from her bees. After the salutations, Dorcas managed, quite diffidently to ask Queenie if she would read the tea leaves for her. She did not give her a reason for her demand, but she felt the weight of the older woman's gaze on her, and wondered, not for the first time, if there was any secret one could keep from Queenie's uncanny gift.

"Well, my dear, the leaves are a bit unclear, but they do give me some signs – nothing very happy, I'm afraid – I can see a vase …Someone is keeping something from you; and a wheel, here – broken – your life is going to change, but expect to be disappointed; someone is coming – a man – I don't know who…"

Dorcas did not know exactly what she had expected, but she could see that the reading was mostly negative, and did not give her any answer to her current dilemma. If anything, she was even more muddled up than before! She thanked both women, and took her leave. She felt somehow safer in the post office – safer from what, she did not know.

A God-given mission

Meanwhile, Sir Timothy was also in torment – seeing Dorcas again had been more painful than he had thought. Somehow, he had hoped the years would have dimmed the relationship, but that had been a vain hope. Seeing Dorcas had reawaken so many memories, most of them painful, because they also evoked Adelaide.

He had not had the time – nor the courage – to tell her why, exactly, he was going away again. Afraid to hurt her, and afraid too of her sarcastic wit and biting tongue. He could hear her in his head "Running away to join the Church ? I'd heard of running away to sea, but that is even more twisted, Timothy. I'd never taken you for a bigot !"

And yet he would have to tell her – he was leaving Faith in good hands, with a nanny he trusted, but he hoped Dorcas could keep an eye on her too while he was staying in Oxford. He would need at least a year there before he could hope to become a curate, and then several more before he could be ordained. He had already studied theology at Oxford University in his youth, but he had thought then that his duty laid in becoming the squire of the Midwinter seat, being his father's eldest son. When he had inherited the manor, he had married and led a life which was, if not sinful, far from the asceticism one would associate with a rigorous religious practice.

Then had come the train wreck, and his sojourn in hospital. A few days after the accident and his amputation, he had been taken with a terrible fever, from which the physicians at the hospital doubted he would come out alive. The hospital chaplain had been called to give him the last rites, and this priest had been strongly moved by the fate of this man who had lost his wife, his leg, and had been left with a little daughter to raise without a mother. Therefore Reverend Ormond had come back to see the patient after that first time when the situation had seemed desperate. They had had long talks – forced to immobility, the squire was desperate for something to do which would keep him from reminiscing, and intellectual banter was a substitute to hunting or riding. The reverend belonged to the tractarian movement, and was in the process of being ordained in the Anglo-Catholic church at the time. He had strong arguments, and exposed them well – Timothy was drawn in. Moreover, he began to think that all along, God had had a plan for him, and that in marrying and following in his father's footsteps, he had not, as he had thought them, obeyed his destiny, but taken a byway. Maybe he should have followed his first feelings and gone into the Church after all. And maybe that accident was a warning from God not to ignore his calling any longer.

Those long hours lying down had taken a toll on his physical health, but he believed they had strengthened his moral sense and his spirit. He had always admired Thomas for his implicit, simple faith – one believed, there was no other way, no questions. His was not a given faith, it was one that had been tried and tested many times, but he felt ready now to embrace the cause and to serve God as a priest.

Dorcas would just have to understand …

A woman scorned …

While Timothy was wondering how he could make a life-long semi-atheist and science believer understand that he was going to dedicate his life to God, Dorcas was wondering was was wrong with her. She was not one to flee before confrontation – she usually relished it in some strange way. Why hadn't she just told Timothy what she thought ? And before she could once again relapse into the torments of indecision, she decided that she just had to see Timothy.

When she arrived at the manor, she all but threw the reins of her carriage into the hands of a passing stable lad, and hurried into the hall. She knew she would probably find Timothy in the library, his favorite haunt. And there she found him, deep in the process of reading a voluminous tome.

He startled almost guiltily at her appearance.

"Dorcas ! What …"

Once again, they both found themselves unable to put into words what they had to express. So, tentatively, she extended her hand, and touched Timothy's cheek, where a ragged and angry scar had been left after the accident.

He caught her hand, held it in his for a moment, and pulling her to him, kissed her fiercely on her lips. Then he pushed her away, and took his head in his hands: "I can't, I can't".

Why can't you ? Why ? Abigail is dead !

Timothy thought about a rhyme the village children used to sing when he was a lad: " Dare to be a Daniel, Dare to stand alone, Dare to have a purpose firm! Dare to make it known !"

It had never been more appropriate …

Dorcas – I cannot love a woman anymore. If I could engage my life to someone, you would be that someone. But I am already engaged – to God.

To God ? What on earth do you mean ?

I am going to serve God for the rest of my days – I am going to become a priest.

Dorcas fainted – later on, she would say it was the closeness of the day, the damp humidity that made the air swelter. She would never admit that this was a shock too many. When she came to, she was lying on a sofa, and Timothy was bent anxiously over her.

You ? A priest ? You, who had to be dragged to church when the hunt came to Candleford ? It is a joke, isn't it ? And a cruel one, Timothy !

No, Dorcas, it is not.

And he told her about Reverend Ormond, and about his hopes for his future. She listened because she had listened to his troubles all their lives, and because it was an art she had perfected over the years. She had not yet achieved the ideal – maybe utopian- state of utter understanding without judgment, however, but she had learnt that sometimes, sarcasm had to be kept at bay. And though she was undeniably shocked and distressed, she managed to hold her tongue. There was indeed nothing much to say, as she saw he was not to be moved or reasoned with. She promised to see to Faith if there was need to, and left. She did not manage to wish him good luck, that was too much to ask of her. She did not manage to get back immediately to the post-office either. She was so blinded by tears she had to stop her horse, dismount, and stagger to the nearest tree under which she crumpled and cried bitterly for nearly an hour.

[To be continued]