Blindingham Hall April 5 1862

Lord in his mercy – when will the local folk come to accept that their lives are of little interest to me!

This afternoon I took tea in my parlour with the Reverend Dibleigh, a man whose capacity for conversation is boundless and whose high opinion of himself is sorely misplaced. Villiers showed him in, with an announcement and flourish rarely seen outside of a Playhouse:

‘Ma’am!’ He shouted, as he entered the room with the vicar swept up in his wake. ‘I have great pleasure in showing his Reverence to your private quarters. How lucky we are that he has time to call! ‘

Villiers’ excitement was further indicated by a series of tiny skips between the door and my chaise, where he directed with a broad spread of his arms that the vicar was to sit. I was given to understand that he wished to speak to me about his accommodation, which he seems to feel is in need of some refurbishment. I am at a loss to know what he expects me to do about his window catches or his roof, but I have had few visitors thus far this year and wanted to be entertained.

I offered him tea, of course, and small cakes – I had requested unbuttered buns for this visit, because I believe a man of higher calling should not be indulged with sugar and fat. Indeed I worry that his powers of celestial reception can be hindered by the pastries he is plied with by parishioners. His power should simply be fuelled with a salted oat slice, I feel, but I wanted some cake myself. I pray I will be forgiven for noting that the body of Christ is of course fulfilling, but hardly in a corporeal sense.

The Reverend spoke with much animation and little pause. Crumbs from his second bun fell onto his collar as he became more exercised. I was reminded of the salmon flake he retrieved from his lip during his last domestic visit and was glad I had not asked Cook for the jam.

‘How gratified I am for your attention, my Lady’ he beamed ‘I hold your opinion in the highest regard, as I hope you know. Your consideration of my circumstances is an honour.’

I care nothing for thatch or slate, and if the vicar is colder in the mornings than he likes to be I think he should consider the privations of our Lord rather than ask for his casements to be refitted. But I am flattered by his insistence that I am a woman of taste. He is right in that regard. Whilst I find his interest in cushions a trifle strange, I do love a chance to discuss my eye for elegance.

After more than forty minutes of listening to him I was exhausted – his florid mannerisms should keep him warm, even if his windows won’t – so in order to bring an end to the visit, I told him I would send my building manager to the vicarage to see what could be done.

‘Goodness me, Lady Hatherwick, what a welcome but surprising offer! I shall of course accept and will look forward to whatever your estate staff suggest. I can hardly believe that I am to be the recipient of such generosity!’

Some more chatter took place and then, mercifully, he left.

Staff and plans cost nothing, so I am content to fulfil my promise. Funds for materials and labour he must source from another parishioner, perhaps from one who also provides the services of a pastry cook.