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till the prayers of intercession to mention it. ‘The Lord be with you,’ he said, raising his hands.
    â€˜And also with you,’ responded the congregation. Gillian English studied the fair-haired young priest, solemn-faced and looking rather sombre in his purple Lenten chasuble. He had a sensitive mouth, she noted, and his grey eyes, behind gold-rimmed spectacles, seemed intelligent.
    That promise didn’t disappoint. His homily, just the right length, displayed a quick mind and an articulate way of expressing himself, and he celebrated the Eucharist with reverence and care. Gillian was used to the elaborate ritual of London Anglo-Catholicism; she found the service, with old Harry Gaze as the only server, to be refreshing in its sincere simplicity. And, beyond all expectations, the music was amazingly good: the small choir, conducted by a darkly handsome man, was of a London standard, the unaccompanied voices soaring and resonating through the magnificent building, and the organ was tuneful and rich. She was going to like St Michael’s, she decided. And Lou, who wasn’t particularly churchy but appreciated good music, would approve as well.
    Usually the women, at least, rushed off fairly quickly after the morning service, anxious to get back to their Sunday lunch preparations. But today there was a tendency to linger, possibly to observe or speak to the newcomer or to discuss the condition of Roger Staines and the ramifications of his misfortune.
    As soon as decency would allow after the Dismissal and the departure of Father Stephen, Enid got to her feet, crossed the aisle to where Becca Thorncroft still knelt, and waited for her to finish her prayers. Enid scrutinised the Rector’s wife with interest: there was something about the droop of her head over her clasped hands, about the dark circles under her closed eyes, that indicated to Enid that perhaps all was not well with the new Mrs Thorncroft. Maybe she was pregnant already, or perhaps Father Stephen wasn’t quite what he should be as a husband. Becca would bear closer watching in future, she decided. ‘There’s someone I want you to meet,’ Enid stated as Becca rose.
    Becca turned. ‘Yes?’
    â€˜My new neighbour, Gillian English. And her daughter, Bryony.’ She indicated them with a flourish of her arm. ‘They’ve just moved into Foxglove Cottage.’
    â€˜How nice to meet you.’ Becca’s smile was genuine as she greeted the newcomers: there was a dearth of young women in Walston, and instantly she recognised a potential friend.
    Gillian experienced a similar relief in discovering that there was at least one person near her own age in the village. She smiled up at Becca; the Rector’s wife was even taller than she, and very slender, with silvery blonde hair worn in a short bob, enormous eyes of cornflower blue, and a face that just missed being classically beautiful by virtue of the one feature that actually gave her much of her charm – a rather short, tip-tilted nose.
    â€˜Gillian is interested in joining the Mothers’ Union,’ Enid announced. ‘So there will be another young one to keep you company!’
    Becca’s smile faded. ‘I’m not really sure . . .’
    â€˜Oh, you have plenty of time to decide – the enrolment isn’t for a while yet. But I know you’ll want to join,’ said Enid brightly.
    â€˜Do you have any children?’ Bryony asked Becca.
    Thankful at being rescued from Enid’s probing, Becca turned to the little girl, smiling. ‘No, I’m afraid not. Not yet, anyway – I’ve only been married for about two months! So it will be a little while yet.’
    â€˜But you don’t have to be a mother to join the Mothers’ Union,’ Enid emphasised. ‘You only have to subscribe to its aims and objectives about the importance of marriage and family life.’
    Meanwhile Doris Wrightman, torn