After lunch Richard Attison suggested the individual group members go off on their own and write down any and all thoughts, ideas and questions they might have about issues and challenges facing church leadership today. They could also go out for a walk and a bit of fresh air or, if they were so inclined, do both. The plan was to reconvene later in the afternoon for tea or sherry and discuss their ideas.
Olympia’s first thought was to head straight for the sherry, but wisdom and overwhelming fatigue prevailed, and upon returning to their room, she crashed into her bed. Frederick tucked the duvet around her shoulders, picked up his latest book and crossword and took himself down to the sitting room. There he planned to spend a quiet hour or two reading or sleeping, or possibly a little of both, before walking down to the pub well in advance of Robert Mosely.
By midafternoon Celia was sitting up in bed and cautiously taking nourishment. More importantly, she was keeping it down. After the terrors, tremors and spasms of the previous night had finally ceased, she’d slept like the dead for almost five hours straight and was feeling much improved. When the first cup of tea and slice of dry toast stayed down, she spread orange marmalade on a second piece of toast, set it on the plate on the bed beside her and reached for her laptop. She knew it was best not to let the growing list of e-mails go unanswered, especially now with work being so difficult. She winced. The very thought of work produced a stomach spasm. She waited, and when nothing more happened she pushed the on-button, pulled up her mail and scrolled down to the message from the accountant. But before she could open it, the telephone rang; it was her husband inquiring after her health.
“I’m much better, Richard. I’ll be really careful of what I eat, go to bed early tonight, and I should be back at my desk tomorrow. In fact, why don’t I come in early so we can have breakfast together, and you can tell me how the conference is going? ”
Richard agreed to the breakfast plan and related the events of the past twenty hours, including the facts that Olympia Brown had a nasty cold and Frederick had spent the morning with Robert Mosely, fixing the gate to the pasture. Then he asked what her plans were for the rest of the day.
“Not much. I’m just getting on to my e-mail,” said Celia.
“Don’t tire yourself now. Can’t it wait until tomorrow when you get in?”
“I suppose it could, but I’ll sleep better tonight if I can get some it out of the way today.”
Richard agreed and thus assured, he wished her well and rang off.
Celia resettled herself against the pillows she’d piled against the headboard and opened the message. It was from Daniel Kaiser, ACA, an accountant she’d consulted the previous week without the board’s knowledge or permission. She was not surprised to read that upon his initial examination of the financial records of the last five years, he’d discovered a number of perplexing irregularities and discrepancies. He offered nothing more but asked if there might be a time they could meet and discuss his findings.
Celia wrote back with thanks, saying she would check her calendar when she returned to work tomorrow and get back to him. Then she leaned back and stretched. There was no doubt she was feeling better internally, but the e-mail from the accountant left her with another kind of distress. It was becoming increasingly clear that her suspicions about financial irregularities were well founded, and she alone would be the one who could or would do anything about it. That was probably the most difficult part of this whole mess, feeling so alone while she tried to hold back the tide of something, but what was it? That’s what she needed to find out. She wasn’t sure if anyone on the board of directors would support her if she called for a full financial audit. She really needed someone on the inside she could trust, but did such a person exist? On the other hand, if she told no one and simply went ahead with this on her own and then presented the hard evidence, if there was any, to the governing board, then what? Go slowly, she told herself.
By now she was quite clear about who on the staff was on her side—probably no one other than Annette Darcie and maybe Bud Loring. There was no mistaking Margery Mosely’s feeling for her. It was a clear case of the old queen, new queen syndrome. Margery had been in charge of all record-keeping for thirty years, and newcomer Celia had been there for just under six months. The keeper of the purse strings in any organization was in a powerful position, and people in power with longevity of tenure to support them were formidable opponents. But just how powerful was this woman? Certainly Celia could not have been the first person to want to review the record-keeping. She could feel her stomach twisting and forced herself to stop obsessing over something that was still in the early stages of inquiry. She would know a lot more when she met with Daniel Kaiser. Until then her best, and really her only, plan of action was to try and relax and get fully over whatever was ailing her.
With that decided, she was faced with another major decision, whether to shift her mind into neutral and play a game or five of solitaire or grit her teeth and open a few more e-mails. In the end she made a deal with herself: three rounds of solitaire, ten e-mails, and then get out of bed and find something a bit more substantial to eat.
In her own bed at The Moorlands, Olympia Brown was also feeling better. She rolled over, squinted at her watch and gave some thought to finding herself a cup of tea. It was a little after three in the afternoon, not quite tea or sherry time. She could wait.
“When in doubt, have a bath.” It was one of her mother’s many aphorisms which she heeded when it was convenient and ignored when it wasn’t. She’d quickly learned that the English as a nation love their baths and therefore their bathtubs, particularly old ones with feet. The Moorlands had a spectacular bathtub. It was a great cast iron thing from another century that came all the way up to her armpits when she sat in it. Just the thing!
She looked around the room for something to read while in the tub and caught the light on her laptop winking at her from the desk in the corner. Olympia was almost powerless to resist its silent siren call but decided that a long hot bath, freshly washed hair and a change into clean clothes would make even the best of messages better … maybe.
Almost an hour later, back in her room and wearing clean clothes, Olympia was much improved. Her toes and fingertips were still pink and wrinkled from their extended submersion, but it was clear she’d definitely turned some kind of a corner, thank heaven. All of this was compounded when she found messages from both Jim Sawicki and her daughter, Laura Wiltstrom, in her inbox. ”Oh joy, oh rapture!”
Father Jim, best friend and colleague of long standing, was writing to say he had been officially received into the Episcopal Church. He went on to ask how she and Frederick were doing in the motherland, and was there a time they could have a Skype call and catch up in person, so to speak.
Laura’s note was much the same as her last one. She was still settling in to a new locale, slowly making friends at work and finally feeling less lonely. Little Erica was increasing her vocabulary daily, and if Olympia knew how to do it, could they Skype sometime soon so she could see and hear for herself?
Olympia had to laugh. Two messages both with the same ending. Was this a cyberspace version of the handwriting on the wall? Well, she’d never Skyped before, but she was determined it was high time she mastered the skill—just not right now. Her brain was still mildly befogged by the retreating head cold. New computer learning required a good night’s sleep, a fresh cup of coffee and a handy teenager. Surely there would be someone in the vicinity. Olympia stood, smoothed out her bed and started for the door.
Maybe I should go and ask Mrs. Mosely, she thought. She’s been here since time began, and it’s clear she’s the go-to person around here. She might not be the nicest apple in the basket, but even cranky old apples benefitted from a little polishing. By way of response to her internal question, the clock on the bedside table chirped out a double chime, taking Olympia completely by surprise.
“What’s that supposed to mean? Yes, go ask Mrs. Mosely, or yes, the sour-faced woman could do with a little flattery … or both?”
The clock had no further comment.
“Am I take that to mean I should pay attention, and this will be continued?”
Once again, the clock said nothing.
November 24, 1862
There is a cold rain falling, and by the look and feel it will likely turn to snow. Today at about mid-day there was a knock at the door, and a gentleman delivered a parcel addressed to me. When I opened the box I knew at once from whence it came. The box contained a clock, a small wooden clock I remember seeing on a shelf in Jared’s office. When I commented upon it, he told me how much he valued that clock and the care he took when winding it. He told me he especially liked the clear tone of the chime when it sounded. It had been a gift from his father when he took up his call to ministry. He said it was to be a constant reminder to cherish each and every minute God has seen fit to give him.
I confess that in the floods of tears I did not see the letter until later in the day when I had somewhat collected myself. Half hidden in the wrappings I discovered a short letter saying that this had been willed to me by the late Rev. Jared Mather, and it was to be given to Jonathan Mather Winslow. It was signed by an attorney whose name I have come to know.
I find it so very hard to look at, but little Jonathan is so enchanted by the sound of the chimes that I cannot hide it away. I did place it on a high shelf well out of his reach. There is so much that I will tell my little fellow when the time is right, but I do believe I see Richard coming to the kitchen door. I shall ask him to stay to dinner. It is dark outside, and no one will have seen him approach.
More anon. LFW
November 25, 1862
It is after midnight, and all is quiet. Richard did agree to stay for dinner. When Jonathan was safely in bed and Aunt Louisa was nodding over her knitting, we sat by the fire and talked. I should be abed myself, but sleep simply will not bless me so I turn again to pen and paper, my steady secret silent friend. I showed Richard the clock and told him how it came into my possession. He knows about Jonathan’s father, and when I first learned of his passing from this life, Richard was a great comfort to me. He is such a good man and asks no more of me than to be his friend. This I can freely give and one day perhaps more, who can say. More than one unmarried lady in town has tried to catch his eye, and more than one well-intentioned neighbor has offered to introduce me to a bachelor friend. It can be both tiresome and awkward, but neither of us wishes to offend, and thus we smile and decline as gracefully as we are able.
More anon, LFW