She had not sat through her first Evensong in Advent before she resolved to get the better of those draughts. A fortnight later, the congregation found themselves sheltered, as though in some gigantic pious four-poster, by curtains of the best crimson baize, curtains hanging in abundant folds and lying on the floor in generous, draught-proof rumples. Gratefully sweltering, they looked forward to her next good idea. Their confidence was justified, for it was coconut matting along the aisle. After that came plump hassocks, in place of the old kneeling-boards; hymnbooks 234in bold type; and an oil heater for christenings. By the time Florence advanced on the chancel, the church council was hers to a man.

While in the nave, Florence had concentrated on the comfort of the congregation. In the chancel, after supplying a nice little Turkey carpet and a suitably Gothic chair for any visiting bishop (it was of oak, richly carved, with the words ‘Deus misereatur’ in bold relief where the bishop’s shoulders might be expected to seek support), she turned her mind to the glory of God, which, first and foremost, demanded a new reredos. The Ten Commandments, almost illegible in yellow lettering on black-painted deal panels, were not at all her notion of the beauty of holiness. She therefore proposed to supplant them by likenesses of the four Evangelists, which she would paint in oils herself.

‘Spider and Pawsey quite agree with me,’ she said, looking in on Geoffrey in his study to announce her project and borrow the Iconography. (Spider and Pawsey were the churchwardens, and until Florence’s advent they had never been in agreement about anything.) Geoffrey, coming halfway out of Saint Ambrose, murmured something about perhaps consulting the archdeacon, just as a matter of civility. Florence replied that of course she would consult the archdeacon—in any case she wanted him for dinner on the thirteenth.

By the close of dinner, the archdeacon was quite ready to assent to the four Evangelists, and to give his approval to some preliminary sketches, which were served with 235the coffee. He had no idea Mrs Larpent was such a gifted artist—really, most remarkable.

‘I have always painted,’ said Florence, with the calm of a fish remarking that it had always swum.

Geoffrey added that in the year ’81 Florence had exhibited two pictures in the Royal Academy. The archdeacon’s ‘Really, really! But it does not surprise me’ intervened before Geoffrey could state that both the exhibits had been portraits.

New brushes, oil paints and gold leaf were bought, the canvas was stretched, and Florence began on the left-hand side of the composition with a dash at Saint Matthew. She had devoted some thought to the essentials of her design and had settled that Matthew should be in green and crimson, Mark in brown and gold, Luke in grey with touches of purple, and John in shades of blue; that Matthew should be reading his book, John looking upward for inspiration, Mark and Luke meditating in post-creative calm; and that the evangelical beasts had better be kept small and unobtrusive, since Woodham Garnish was a country parish, where too much interest was taken in animals already. But it was not until she had laid on the first bold swathes of Matthew’s drapery that she began to consider the evangelical features. ‘Beards,’ she muttered. ‘How I hate beards! They always remind me of Professor Lothbury.’ Four beards, four full, flowing beards; it was really more than she felt equal to. And must all the beards be grey? A grey beard would ruin the effect of Saint Luke’s drapery. If Luke had a brown beard and Mark a black beard, then she could give Mark black eyes and a ruddy colouring, and 236Luke’s eyes could be blue. This would leave hazel eyes for John; and Matthew … Could Matthew have green eyes? The thought of a green-eyed Evangelist was rather startling and needed consideration. Perhaps a dark-green eye—and as he would be looking down at his book, not much of it would show.