NEWFANE — We arrived that afternoon to a grey drizzle and foot-numbing chill. No one had prepared Mrs. Hudson's cousin's flat for us. The heat was metered. We didn't know how to turn it on.
“Can all of England be this cold and wet in May?” asked Mrs. Hudson, a Southern lady of 82, who had asked me to come as her companion to England.
According to the guidebook, a restaurant described as “in the wall of the cathedral” was within walking distance for an early dinner or late tea. We hoped that it would also provide a place to get warm.
In the narrow street between tall brick houses and shops, the light was dim, the fog heavy and wet. Mrs. Hudson and I shared an umbrella, which was useless against the damp.
A modest sign pointed us to the restaurant, which lay at the top of a short flight of stairs.
Inside the shadowy room, we were greeted by a man dressed in dark clothes. He bowed.
“It's a raw evening to be out and about,” he offered.
* * *
The room was very much like some part of a cathedral with a vaulted ceiling. The table was elegantly laid with a white linen cloth. China and silver shone in the candlelight. Mrs. Hudson and I were grateful for a warming cup of strong tea as we waited for our fish.
After the meal, when the waiter brought the check, Mrs. Hudson inquired about the lady who had been sitting behind me but in front and slightly to the side of her in a part of the room that was raised by three steps, as if it were a stage or had been part of another room. “I didn't see her leave,” she said to the waiter.
“Madam, only you two ladies have been here this evening.”
“But I nodded my greetings to her, and she returned the gesture.”
Mrs. Hudson described her clothing and her hair style, noting that she was about my age.
The waiter excused himself.
* * *
Our waiter returned with the man who had met us at the door.
“Tell me about the lady you saw,” he asked Mrs. Hudson, who retold her story, pointing to the table at which she had seen her sitting. The place settings were not disturbed.
“She was reading a small book,” Mrs. Hudson added.
“Ah. You have seen John Keat's friend, Mrs. Mary Lacy. She visits us occasionally.”
The host pointed toward a low door on the side wall. “Keats used to slip through that door to come to play cards with her and other dowagers now and then.”
I was concerned that Mrs. Hudson would be frightened on the walk back to the flat, but she was joyful. “Imagine - that lady let me see her! What an honor.”
The next morning we went to the library and found a book on Chichester's former notable residents.
As I turned the pages looking for references to Keats, we saw an image of a handsome older lady. Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, “Stop. Stop. There she is.”
And so she was.