by Liz Trenow
Louisa was on her feet in an instant, but became ensnared in the rush of others running forward to help. The church warden took her arm, holding her back. ‘Let us see to him, Mrs Fairchild. I’m sure he will recover in a few moments.’
The usual calm solemnity of the building became pandemonium as everyone dashed about talking all at once, calling for the doctor, making suggestions, shouting for this and that: water, blankets, air. Shortly it became clear that Ambrose could not get to his feet. Struggling to manoeuvre in the confined space and with much grunting and arguing, three men managed to bring his heavy form down the narrow winding stair from the pulpit. Someone produced a door on which they laid him, and carried him away into the vestry, out of sight.
Louisa returned to the pew, her face ghostly pale, eyes darting wildly from side to side.
‘What can I do, dearest?’ I asked.
‘Go home, and look after Peter,’ she said. ‘I must go to my husband.’
An hour later a procession led by Louisa appeared carrying Ambrose’s still prone form on the board, making their way along the path between the yew trees and into the house. They carried him upstairs into his chamber, with the doctor following close behind.
I hid in the kitchen, listening behind the door when he returned downstairs to the parlour. ‘I fear it is not good news, Mrs Fairchild,’ he said.
Her anguished howl chilled me to the bone. ‘Oh please God, not again.’
‘Do not despair, I beg you. God may send mercy to our brother in the same way as he has done to your son.’
She ran into the kitchen and collapsed into my arms. ‘What if he dies, Agnes? Whatever will I do without him?’ she wailed.
You would be happier and stronger and not in so much danger, I wanted to say. The three of us could live together in peace without his constant threats. But at this moment she needed reassurance: ‘He is strong, sister, he will survive,’ I said.
‘It’s typhus, Agnes. Typhus.’
‘Peter has beaten the disease.’
‘But Peter has youth on his side. Oh God, please, please don’t let him die.’ Sobs racked her thin shoulders, wet tears staining her Sunday best gown. ‘He is everything to us.’
We sat her by the fire, and Maggie brought tea.
‘It ain’t right, madam,’ she sighed, shaking her head. ‘The reverend has worked hisself to the bone to help others. Is this how God repays him?’
We kept the news from Peter for as long as we could, fearing that the shock might send him into a relapse, but he was now much more aware of what was happening in the house around him, and it became impossible to conceal.
‘I heard the doctor, but he didn’t come to see me,’ he said. ‘Tell me the truth. It’s Father, isn’t it?’
‘I’m afraid so, my darling. But he is strong and I am sure that like you he will beat it. In a few weeks’ time the pair of you will be up to your usual tricks, of that I’m certain.’
His darling face crumpled. ‘I don’t want him to die, Mama,’ he cried pitifully. ‘Whatever would happen to us?’
But there was little time for such speculation. Over the next couple of days, Ambrose’s condition declined pitifully. The fevers were as violent and terrifying as anything we had seen. Louisa, Maggie and myself took turns keeping vigil. There was endless soiled bedlinen to wash and hang out to dry, visits of the doctor to supervise and meals to prepare, especially since we were trying to encourage Peter to make up for those days of starvation.
The doorbell rang almost constantly with a stream of well-wishers bringing notes of condolence, posies of flowers, fresh-baked loaves of bread, boxes of eggs and other kindnesses. Everyone spoke, without exception, of their deep love and respect for their vicar, and it left me wondering how such a good man – to whom people regularly referred as a saint – could have such a dark, violent side to his nature. However well we believe we understand someone, we can never truly know them or the demons that haunt their innermost thoughts.
A large bunch of roses arrived from the squire and his family, along with a box of luxury foodstuffs: a joint of venison – ‘shot on the estate, I’ll be bound’, Maggie remarked – a small side of bacon, a sizeable cube of chocolate, a pound of butter, two loaves of soft white bread, a hefty round of Cheddar cheese and three bottles of blackberry wine. Louisa bade the messenger wait while she penned a thank you note.
On the second day of Ambrose’s illness Peter declared that he was going to see his father. We tried to dissuade him, fearing he could be reinfected by the disease, and pointing out that he was still too weak to walk unaided, for his muscles were so withered that he might stumble and fall. But he refused all help and with jaw set in grim determination, raised himself from his bed and took his first slow and tentative steps along the landing. Once he reached the chamber where Ambrose lay, only half-conscious of his surroundings, he took a seat by the bed and took his father’s hand.
‘Can he hear me?’
‘Of course, darling,’ Louisa said. ‘Although he may not reply.’
‘I love you, Father.’ The boy’s voice trembled, and I could see my sister fighting her own tears. ‘You must get well. I did, so you can too.’
Louisa and I were so utterly exhausted that we frequently fell asleep in our chairs. Even during Anna’s trials I had never felt so tired, nor could I remember a period when I had not lain flat in my bed for so many nights. But nothing, not even the doctor’s purging, leeching or cooling him with damp towels – to which Louisa acceded reluctantly – seemed able to abate the course of Ambrose’s illness.
Late one evening he began to call out in his delirium, much as Peter had done. His words were clear. ‘Get my curate.’
‘He will be abed, my dearest,’ Louisa said. ‘We will call for him in the morning.’
‘No!’ he bellowed. ‘Now. Get my curate. Go now.’
Dull-faced, she went for her cloak. ‘He’s going, Agnes, and he knows it. Why else would he call for the curate in the middle of the night?’
Ambrose was right. We gathered to witness the prayers the curate spoke with great tenderness, blessing the now silent form of his revered vicar. Afterwards, we sat at the bedside to watch and wait. In the early hours of the morning, his heart stopped and the breath stilled in his chest.
This man, larger than life, filled with such powerful faith and selfless duty towards his fellows; this man who had saved my sister from the gutter and helped rescue me from servitude, and yet who harboured beneath this apparently beneficent exterior a contradictory character of terrifying violence and cruelty, was no more.
I was so tired I barely knew what to think or to feel. Louisa and Peter were distraught, of course, and I did my best to comfort them, but with his passing a great weight seemed to be lifted from my shoulders. The atmosphere in the house, too, seemed calmer, easier, more straightforward. We spoke openly and without fear, we came and went as we wished, within the constraints of mourning, of course. We ate when we chose, and what we chose, and rested when we felt like it.
In a curious way our family bonds felt stronger without him.
30
Crepe (also spelled crape): a silk or wool fabric with a distinctively crisp, crimped appearance, usually woven in black and used for mourning wear.
I have often looked back on that time, those days following Ambrose’s death, wondering whether in the grief and turmoil that such a tragedy brings I could ever have imagined the astonishing turn of events that took place so shortly afterwards.
The village was thrown into mourning, of course. Louisa took to her bed and sobbed for a full night and day, and there was little that Maggie or I could do to comfort her. I feared for Peter, too, his body still weak from his own trials. Although he had previously recovered at least some of his appetite, he began to refuse food once more. He rose and dressed each day but would soon run out of energy, burning out quickly like a fire lit with fine twigs.
Several times I found him weeping. ‘I miss him, Auntie. He wa
s always there, you know.’ Even through his tears, he managed a damp smile. ‘I didn’t always agree with him, especially all that hellfire stuff he used to preach, and I was sometimes afraid of him, but whatever will we do, now that he’s not here?’
‘He loved you very much,’ I said. It was true, I supposed, although my heart blenched at the thought that Peter might also have been on the receiving end of Ambrose’s peculiar kind of love. How many times had he too felt the hard edge of the man’s fist? I was surprised that he’d shown no curiosity at all about my bruise, nor even given it a second glance, until I began to understand that perhaps in this household such things were just too commonplace for remark.
Yes, their lives would change, with that I had to agree, but I tried to reassure him that his father would have made a will providing for the two of them. Even though they would probably have to leave the vicarage at some point, it would not be at once, and I would make sure that they were never without a home. Already in my head I was planning, working out how to rearrange the attic rooms in my shop to create a second bedroom.
The funeral took place on the third day. The bishop came from Chelmsford to take the service and so many travelled from far around to attend that there was standing room only in the church, crowds spilling out beyond the porch and into the churchyard. My sister followed the coffin, pale and dignified in her widow’s weeds, and Maggie lent me a veil and a black crepe gown that I hastily altered to fit my slighter form. Another family brought a black silk jacket for Peter that had been worn by their son after his father’s demise.
Death had stalked this village for so long that they were well provisioned for mourning.
Throughout the previous tumultuous days I had been in regular correspondence with Mrs T. and although she continued to reassure me that everything at the shop was ‘perfectly under control’ and exhorted me not to ‘fret yourself’, I would have to return to London before long or the business might start to suffer from my absence.
But abandoning Louisa and Peter in the rawness of their grief was out of the question, at least for the moment. There were numerous official meetings to be had. The day after the funeral, Ambrose’s solicitor called in to read the will. The three of us, with the curate acting as witness, were invited into the drawing room, nervously awaiting the pronouncement which would determine how they might live the rest of their lives.
The first revelation was that despite his meagre stipend, Ambrose’s frugal habits had enabled him to save the extraordinary sum of just over a thousand pounds. But what followed was less encouraging: the list of those to whom in his munificence he bequeathed sums of money and small items of property was lengthy, and I began to wonder whether anything would remain for his family. The church was to receive fifty pounds, his curate twenty, Maggie a further ten, and numerous other people and organisations with whom I was not familiar.
My name did not appear on the list, nor had I expected it. In fact it was only afterwards, when my sister mentioned it, that I even noticed. ‘I’m so sorry, darling Agnes, but I am sure he loved you even so. We shall find something for you anyway, to remember him by.’
In truth, I had no desire to be reminded. The omission only served to confirm what I have always known; that Ambrose only tolerated my existence in their lives out of commitment to my sister, and because I had provided him with the son he had always so desired.
The solicitor came to the end of his reading, and looked up with a smile. ‘Your husband was the most generous man, Mrs Fairchild,’ he said. ‘Many of these benefactors are poor people, with little else to their names. These bequests will make a great difference to their lives. But fear not, there is still the sum of eight hundred pounds, which should provide amply for yourself and your son so long as you are prepared to live modestly. If you would like any help with how to invest it to the best advantage I shall be happy to put you in contact with my advisor.’
Next day we received news that threw the household into a further fluster. The bishop had invited himself to tea.
‘However shall we manage without cook to make her famous sponge cake for him?’ Louisa cried.
‘I can produce a passable fruit scone.’
‘He hates any dried fruit, it gives him heartburn. Whatever else can we provide?’
In the end, Maggie produced a surprisingly good honey and cinnamon cake and I made scones without the fruit, served with quince jelly and clotted cream, which the bishop pronounced to be delicious. After tea he asked for ‘a few words alone with Mrs Fairchild’.
‘Whatever is he telling her?’ Peter said, once we had withdrawn to the kitchen. ‘Why aren’t I allowed to hear it?’
The darling boy! I could have wept for him. Even in his tender years he was already developing a sense of manly protectiveness, a feeling of responsibility for their future now that Ambrose was gone. His childhood was at an end.
Louisa emerged looking drawn and anxious.
‘Come, let us sit at the table and you must tell us everything,’ I said. She glanced at Peter, then at me. ‘We all need to know, Louisa. You must not hide anything from us, so that we can deal with this all together, as a family.’
And so it transpired that as I suspected they would soon have to leave the vicarage, the only home Peter had ever known, once a new vicar was appointed.
‘It’s so unfair,’ he said. ‘Why do we have to?’
‘Just think about it, dearest,’ she said. ‘If every family was allowed to stay in the vicarages around the country, the church would just have to build more and more of them, and they have no money for that sort of thing. It makes sense if you think about it.’
‘I suppose so.’ He scowled. ‘How soon do we have to leave?’
‘He cannot tell us exactly. Gabriel’s father will stand in for general services in the meantime and there will be a locum to take communion, but as the bishop says, the village deserves not to wait too long without a vicar. It may be a few weeks, two months at the most.’
‘A few weeks?’ He was trying to be strong but I could see his chin tremble. ‘What then? Where shall we live?’
‘You will never be without somewhere to live, that I promise,’ I said. ‘Perhaps you could come to London?’
‘London?’ His eyes widened, and then a shadow fell over his face. ‘But how can I leave Gabriel?’
‘That is a topic for another day, dearest,’ Louisa said. ‘Now, let us eat some more of your auntie’s delicious scones, for they will not be so good tomorrow.’
The bishop’s visit stirred my sister into a frenzy of activity. The following day I woke to hear her moving furniture. ‘Whatever are you up to, Louisa?’ I called.
‘It has to be done soon enough, if we’re to move out within a few weeks.’
Pulling on my bed gown and slippers, I followed her voice to Ambrose’s study. I had never before crossed the threshold into this formerly forbidden territory, and even now felt a small tremor of fear as I opened the door. It was a small dark room lined with shelves bowed under the weight of many heavy tomes. In the centre was a large mahogany desk almost entirely covered with books and papers. It reminded me of the merchant’s chaotic showroom.
Louisa was crouched on the floor beside a heavy wooden chest that she had pulled away from the wall – the noise I’d heard – so she could raise its lid.
‘Goodness, this is going to be a marathon task,’ I said, looking around. ‘Why don’t we wait until after breakfast, dearest, and I will help you?’
She sat back on her heels, pushing a stray strand of hair beneath her cap. ‘The bishop says I must sort through my husband’s papers immediately and send him any that I consider to be confidential, or of special interest to the diocese.’
‘Whatever can he mean?’ I asked, gesturing around the cluttered room. ‘Surely these are just Ambrose’s books and writings?’
She shrugged. ‘Who knows? My husband never spoke of his work to me. I just hope there aren’t any hidden surprises.’
‘We could just send all of it to the diocesan office, perhaps? That’d save a lot of work.’
‘And risk allowing them to see something Ambrose wanted kept private? No, I owe it to him to sort things out first.’
‘Then let me help you, dearest,’ I said. ‘For a start we could sell some of those books. I’d imagine they’re worth a few pounds.’
After breakfast, we began. While she went through the voluminous boxes of papers and notebooks, I sorted the books into three stacks: a large one for ‘sell’, a second for ‘diocese’ and a third, much smaller, for ‘keep’. Each time I consulted her she dithered, saying ‘keep’ more times than most until I reminded her that wherever she lived next might not have space for a library. After a while she simply delegated the decisions to me, which speeded up the process greatly.
We laboured for several hours. It was dusty work. ‘Let us take a break, sister, I need some fresh air,’ I said, pulling spider filaments from my sleeve.
‘Good idea. If you get the kettle on I’ll come once I’ve finished this drawer,’ she said.
After fifteen minutes she had still not emerged. I returned to find her sitting in Ambrose’s favourite chair, with a small brown cardboard-bound notebook in her hands. Tears were falling onto the pages, smudging the ink.
‘Louisa, whatever is it?’
She handed the notebook to me. Ambrose’s handwriting was scrawly and hard to decipher, but after a few moments my eyes became accustomed and I began to see that it was a kind of diary. I skipped over several short entries of little import – ‘call on Mrs Berrisford’, ‘order prayer books’, ‘write to the bishop’ – until I reached the longer one.
Dear God, it has happened again. I love her dearly but she does irritate me so with her wittering and her feminine concerns that there comes a point when I cannot help myself. An evil demon seems to take over, controlling my voice and uttering such cruel words that my beloved cowers and cries.
