Clare smiled to herself. Who but Willard Aberforth talked like that?
“First, to tell you that the bishop has assigned you a new deacon.”
She cradled the warm mug between her hands. “I don’t need an assistant.”
“This will be a full-time position, salary paid for by the diocese.”
Clare looked closely at the old man. “St. Alban’s isn’t large enough or prosperous enough to warrant a full-time deacon.”
“Nevertheless.”
The penny dropped. “I’m getting a babysitter.”
“Consider her more of a guide. To keep you on the straight and narrow.”
“Emphasis on the straight.” It had been her celebration of a gay union the year before that originally brought her to the bishop’s-and Aberforth’s-attention. She had broken her vows of obedience and flouted the bishop’s policy toward homosexuals, both faults she had admitted but failed to repent of. She had been waiting for the bishop’s reaction since last November, but the flaming car crash that was her personal life had kept her distracted. Now she tweaked to something else Aberforth had said. “Her?”
“The Reverend Elizabeth de Groot. She was raised up from St. James in Schuylerville. Since you’ll be back tomorrow, I’ll let her know she can report for duty as of Tuesday.”
“Is she transitional?” That is, on the road to priesthood, which would give Clare some chance that the woman would be shuffled off to another parish within a year.
“Oh no. She’s a career deacon. She was ordained over a decade ago after helping build St. Stephen’s into the church it is today as a volunteer and a vestry member and a warden.”
Clare translated that to mean old enough to be your mother and has already seen it all twice. “What’s she like?”
“An elegant lady. Dignified. She has a lovely sense of tradition.”
Clare translated that to mean so high church she makes the archbishop of Canterbury look like a guitar-strumming folksinger. She sighed. It wasn’t as if there were anything she could do. As a response to her transgressions, it was fairly mild. “So that’s the one thing,” she said. “What’s the other?”