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for gallant gestures such as his seldom came her way these days. ‘And now I must leave you. Nathalie, I do hope that you will be feeling better soon. May I call tomorrow and see how you do?’
    ‘Oh, yes please,’ Nathalie answered. ‘I should like it of all things. Thank you so much for your kindness to me.’
    Emily went out, closing the door gently behind her. She left the Fanshawes’ house and looked round a little anxiously to see whether Dr Boyle had lingered. Then she recalled that Mr Fanshawe had said that he had met the doctor in Bailgate. She was conscious of a feeling of relief. She had steeled herself to receive a proposal of marriage from him. The moment had been put off and she could only be thankful. It felt like a reprieve.
    Upon returning to her own home, she found that her father had gone to visit the dean about some matter, and she was glad to have a little time in which to decide how to tell him the story of the afternoon’s adventures. She was well aware that there were some in the close who were all too willing to condemn Mrs Fanshawe as being a little flighty. The image of the clergyman’s wife flinging herself out of her own front door and intothe street would do nothing to improve that image; Emily would find it hard to pursue a friendship with the younger woman without her father looking reproachful and making gentle remarks about the wrong company.
    Emily could never decide whether it would have been better if her brother had lived. He had been some ten years older than herself, had attended Eton, and had by all accounts been a promising scholar, diligent in his work and quick of apprehension. It had always been intended that he should go into the church, but before he could begin his degree at Cambridge, he had drowned in an accident whilst on holiday with a friend. Because of the gap between their ages, Emily had not known him very well, and although she had grieved his loss sincerely, it had been more the grief that one would feel for a distant relative than for a brother.
    She had often felt a degree of curiosity about the accident which had taken his life, for it sometimes seemed to her to be quite the most interesting and romantic thing about him, but her father would never speak of the matter. He did occasionally refer to his lost son as ‘dearest Patrick’, the name seldom being used without either that or some other sentimental adjective. On such occasions, he would bemoan the fact that he did not have a son who could also take his place among the staff at Lincoln Cathedral. At these times, Emily became aware that she was a very poor second. She privately owned that the idea of yet another man in clerical black hovering about the place and regarding her with gentle and kindly disapproval was almost enough to drive her to screaming point.
    Even if Patrick had lived, therefore, he might very well have been just as disapproving of her friendship with Nathalie as her father would undoubtedly be. That was a pity; it was probably the most interesting thing that had happened to her in a very long time.

CHAPTER THREE
    ‘D id you have an agreeable walk with Boyle, my dear?’ Emily’s father asked her at dinner. Their meal was simple but well cooked, for Canon Whittaker, whilst not being mean in his provision for the family, was very much averse to extravagant display.
    ‘It was agreeable, but quite brief,’ Emily replied, thankful that she had had time to think about what she might say about the day’s events. ‘Quite unexpectedly, Dr Boyle was called in to attend Mrs Fanshawe, so we were unable to complete it.’
    ‘That was unfortunate,’ her father answered. In appearance, Canon Whittaker was very like his dead son. He had the same sharp features and slim figure, and his hair, like his son’s, had also been fair, until the years had turned it to a rather drab shade of grey.
    ‘No doubt there will be other opportunities,’ said Emily calmly. ‘Are you preaching on Sunday,