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for promotion in the Church of England.’
    Only Marcus laughed.
    â€˜The thing is,’ explained Nancy Weston, ‘that he’s celibate on principle. That’s what nobody quite likes.’
    â€˜Do you mean that nobody would object if he were merely celibate in practice?’
    â€˜Well, it would make it a damn sight more difficult to have a fight over it,’ said Franchita, with that genial honesty that often endeared her to me.
    â€˜What I thought,’ said Marcus, in his slow, country way, ‘was that I would suggest to the Bishop that he send Father Battersby over to pay us a visit.’
    There was an immediate pricking up of ears. Thus must the Bacchae have pricked up their ears when they heard that Pentheus was in the vicinity.
    â€˜I thought that if he came here,’ went on Marcus comfortably, ‘and people could see he wasn’t such a rara avis , and he could get to know us—well, then half the battle would be over.’
    Dear, optimistic Marcus! But he had successfully defused the situation, I had to give him that—the situation, I mean, in Franchita Culpepper’s drawing-room. The trouble with Marcus was that he believed that his defusings were longer-term than they really were, and that he had made the problem go away for good, when in reality it was merely quiescent, and waiting to erupt again with redoubled fury. For the moment, though, the combatants were silent, to consider their future conduct, and the men actually got in a few words together about the problems of the Yorkshire Cricket Club.
    As a matter of fact, we drove over to Ripon on Easter Sunday, and after the service in the Cathedral Marcus went and had a word with the Bishop. I had taught ancient languages at a girls’ school in Ripon, and I found plenty of friends to chat to after the service. So it was only that evening, after a substantial high tea, that I remembered why we had gone.
    â€˜What did the Bishop say about Father Battersby?’ I asked.
    â€˜ Chariots of Fire on television tonight,’ said Marcus, leafing through the Radio Times.
    â€˜Oh God—high-minded athletes. Don’t change the subject. What did the Bishop say about Battersby?’
    â€˜He said he’d heard that feeling among our ladies was running high . . . The Bishop knows our ladies.’
    â€˜Who doesn’t?’
    â€˜He said he’d be happy to organize a visit to us by him . . . and he said he’d rely on me to see Battersby suffered no discourtesy while he was here. He said I was to make sure he wasn’t victimized.’
    â€˜Ha! And how do you propose to do that?’
    â€˜I said if necessary I’d form a human phalanx round him of the churchwardens and sidesmen.’
    â€˜Ho-ho. A lot of chance you men would have if Mary and Franchita wanted to get at him. If they take against him, there’s nothing on earth the Hexton males can do about it. They’ll murder him.’
    Later that evening, in bed, and on the verge of sleep, I drowsily said to Marcus:
    â€˜What was that book . . . by Ira Levin . . . about the community where the men had all their wives wiped out and lifelike dummies put in their places, who never contradicted, or made demands, or anything?’
    â€˜The Stepford Wives. I didn’t think you liked the book at the time. Why?’
    â€˜It seems to me that what we have here is the Stepford husbands,’ I said, going off to sleep.

CHAPTER 3
FATHER BATTERSBY
    It was three weeks before Father Battersby could get away from his parish duties in Sheffield to pay us a visit. Marcus said that that would give us time to organize his reception, to make sure it was civil and accommodating. Ever the optimist, Marcus ignored the fact that it would give the ladies of Hexton time to organize as well, and that, good as he was at relaxing tensions, they were even better at screwing them up again—especially