How stupid of me. I bowed. ‘Another day, perhaps?’
‘Another, warmer day,’ she agreed, with a smile.
If I had been charmed by what I imagined she was, how much more was I attracted by the real lady. With a tact surely showing an elegance of mind, she turned to the body of the church, stopping before the altar steps and pausing for several moments, head reverently lowered. I did not interrupt her prayers, and occupied myself pointing out to her brother and sister-in-law a couple of the older monuments. At last, as she raised her head and looked about her, I joined her. With an impish smile, she surrendered the comfort of her muff long enough to trace the diapered incisions on one of the older family tombs. I allowed myself to point out the squint, and the remains of what seemed to be wall-paintings, crude daubs perhaps but of interest to those who considered themselves connoisseurs. I know that when I had suggested whitewashing them, Dr Hansard showed an anger that surprised me, threatening – in jest, I trust – to box my ears if I ever mentioned the idea again, and promising to bring a friend with antiquarian interests to see them.
Having shown the party the Lady Chapel and the crypt, I returned by way of the font.
‘Dr Hansard believes this pre-dates the present church, old as it is,’ I murmured, fingering with reverence the huge granite basin and its heavy oak lid, its fantastical carving rising to a pinnacle like a cathedral spire. ‘The cover is a fifteenth century addition,’ I added.
‘It must indeed inspire great solemnity, to baptise an infant using a receptacle so ancient.’
I smiled. ‘Indeed, Lady Dorothea. But I fear that the recipients of the holy water do not always appreciate it – not if their cries are to be believed.’
She was gracious enough to laugh at my weak joke, and, heaven help me, all I could do was admire her beautiful white teeth.
Again it occurred to me that I was host not merely to her but to her brother and his wife, whom I was somewhat neglecting. One would be pleased, the other markedly less so. I was anxious, too, to prolong the visit. ‘Might I offer you all refreshment at the rectory?’ I asked.
Pulling a flashy timepiece from his pocket, Sir Marcus shook his head in a decided negative. ‘I fear not, not today. We have promised to call on Sir Josiah Benton over in Leamington, but my sister would insist on seeing the church since we had to pass it.’
‘Then you do me extra honour, to spend so much time here.’ I opened the door for them, the ghastly squeal of the hinges reminding me to ask Simon yet again to oil them.
Lady Dorothea shivered. ‘What a dreadful wail.’
Lady Bramhall caught her arm. ‘Tell me, Mr Campion, do you have ghosts in your churchyard?’
Sir Marcus spun round as if the gargoyles had spoken. ‘What foolishness is this?’
Quickly, to cover the moment of tension, I said, ‘To the best of my knowledge, we are blessed with a quiet graveyard, all the souls at rest till the Day when we shall all be judged.’ Curiosity, however, overcame me. ‘Why, ladies, do you ask?’
‘Foolishness, sheer foolishness,’ Sir Marcus said.
To my surprise, Lady Dorothea persisted, but as if to deflect attention from her sister-in-law. ‘My dresser said that she had heard noises. Moans – moans and sobs and—’
I thought of the nocturnal sounds that had so disturbed my journey. ‘When did—?’
Sir Marcus interrupted me. ‘She probably heard a cow or some other creature. Now, it is far too wet to stand here talking such folly. Into the carriage, for goodness’ sake, wife. And you, Dorothea. We have left these horses standing overlong already.’
It fell to me to hand in Lady Bramhall. I pressed her fingers reassuringly. ‘I’m sure Sir Marcus is right. Pray, do not worry.’
It was easier to offer such advice than to take it myself, however. Following Dr Hansard’s bracing words, I was perhaps more inclined to attribute the unearthly sounds to an earthly cause. I must nonetheless make inquiries myself: sometimes people would admit fears to a foolish young man like myself that they would conceal from the wise physician who could have helped them.
Simon Clark, the verger, was inclined to dismiss Lady Bramhall’s fears as her husband had done, but agreed to question his fellow villagers.
‘Should we do more than that, Simon?’ I pulled my scarf more tightly as we huddled under the lych-gate. Despite the Hansards’ bracing words, I still had a remnant of foolish anxiety. ‘Should not you and I perhaps go and see if there’s—’
Simon sighed as if personally affronted, his whole thin frame shaken by the effort. His wife had died earlier in the year, and though no stranger would have detected other signs of grief, this deep, racking exhalation had become habitual. ‘In all this rain, Parson? When you and the good doctor are telling us all we should keep warm and dry?’
‘All the more need if someone is lying out there in distress.’ But I would not press him. Who could have lived after three or four days and nights of weather like this?
He clearly saw that I was weakening. ‘Poor Mrs Kemp, God rest her soul,’ he continued. ‘About her funeral—’
‘What about it, Simon?’
He sighed again. ‘It’ll be right hard, burying her, that is. The ground’s so wet the grave’ll likely flood. She can’t lie where she is any longer, poor lady. What are your wishes?’
I knew my place. ‘What do you usually do in circumstances like this?’
‘Line the grave with planks so the sides don’t fall in. Takes a lot longer, that’s your problem.’ He looked expressively at the sky.
‘Then you must start straight away. Secure a couple of stout men to help you, Simon, so that no time is lost.’ I wondered why he had needed to raise the problem, one he must have dealt with times without number. But his confidence had gone into the grave he’d dug for his wife. ‘Now, remember, Simon, there must be braziers in the church on Saturday night.’
‘What about other nights too? Those old pictures Dr Hansard’s so taken with – they’ll be peeling off the wall if we’re not careful.’
I nodded. Perhaps as Hansard always insisted, we had a duty not just to our own generations but to others in the future. ‘Could you undertake to keep them lit all the time?’
‘I may have to if the brook bursts its banks, as they say ’tis like to do. Because that’d take out all Marsh Bottom, and where would the poor folk live then but here?’
‘You know Lady Chase is expecting to accommodate people rendered homeless in her barns and even the Hall?’
‘No one would want the Marsh Bottom type in their byre, let alone their barn. And as for the Hall, I reckon his lordship’s death must have turned her head. Isn’t natural, folk like that living same as decent gentry. Old vicar, he always used to say people should be put in the workhouse, but they say the ground floor’s under three inches of water already.’
‘The church it is, then,’ I said mildly, worrying all the same about the fabric of a building, the heart of my first cure of souls, I loved dearly. ‘And most important, Simon! – whoever asks for alms, none shall be turned away. Lady Chase will provide whatever I cannot.’
‘As long as she’s the Duchess,’ he hissed, ‘not the Dowager Duchess. That there Sir Marcus won’t be so free with his brass. You mark my words. He’ll be too busy spending it on himself.’
‘Come, man – where is your Christian charity?’
He hawked and spat. ‘Christian is as Christian does. You can tell a man like that. Just by looking at him. And,’ he conceded, ‘by talking to his servants. Anyway, braziers I suppose you shall have. I’ll get on to it now…’
Lady Chase’s open-handedness to the village was matched only by the anxiety of her steward, Furnival, who could not have been more careful if it had been his own money he was trying to save. In her personal life, too, her ladyship was generous, overcoming her reluctance to pass her time with Sir Marcus, and regularly joining his family for dinner – though mercifully without the freezing preamble in the hall. I too was frequently invited, and was de
lighted if my parish duties permitted me to accept.
Lady Bramhall would play the harp, and Lady Dorothea sometimes sang to my all too inadequate accompaniment. Much as I would have loved to prove her wrong, Lady Dorothea was accurate in her estimation of her talent. She knew much about the works she sang, and was a mine of biographical information about their composers. Nor was there any doubt that she loved her music. Her voice, however, was very uneven: her head and chest notes alike were sound, but there was very little in between. If only she had had the benefit of the sort of master who had taught my sisters.
‘But you, Mr Campion,’ she was pleased to say, ‘are a wonderful accompanist, knowing when to play pianissimo to support my voice and when to play fortissimo to drown my weaknesses. I would sing with you every evening of my life.’ Realising the implications of what she had said, she covered her mouth with her hand, retired to the sofa nearest the nursery party and understandably refused to converse with me alone for the rest of the evening – not, of course, that I would have said anything to put her to the blush.
At a click of Sir Marcus’s fingers the governess slid silently on to the piano stool, flexing and chafing her fingers either with nervousness or to restore the feeling after sitting so long in the circle further from the fire. If my word to Mrs Sandys had improved her comfort in the house, I had done nothing to ameliorate her life with the family. By now at least I knew her name to be Anne Southey; I judged her to be in her mid-twenties. The modest black gown she wore was not kind to her colouring or complexion, and her eyes, which I suspected were her best features, were always kept demurely lowered. Politeness rather than personal interest made me offer to turn her pages, a suggestion she accepted without any prevarication that might draw attention to her.
I expected the humdrum music so often provided simply as an accompaniment to vacuous chatter; instead I found myself listening to music by that vehement German, Herr Beethoven. By disregarding all the fortissimo and other markings to show the composer’s passionate intention, Miss Southey turned the music into social nothingness. But I never doubted for one moment that – had she dared – she could have unleashed every scrap of the music’s power.
At the end of the sonata, I earnestly wished to speak to the musician, but she turned swiftly away, returning, under cover of the shouts of the schoolroom party demanding a game of speculation, to the shadows whence she had come.
Lady Dorothea joined in with a will, a tiny glance at me suggesting that she might not find me an unwelcome addition to the group. At first I was too conscious of her presence to play well, and perhaps she felt a similar constraint. However, as the game progressed, so she relaxed, her laughter ringing out like the clearest bell as she lost heavily or recouped her losses. Her eyes, blue as the silk of her gown, flashed; her teeth gleamed like the pearls round her long, slender neck; and I caught myself in a selfish prayer that the weather might stay so vile even longer, constraining her to stay at the Hall, if not in perpetuity, at least for a further week.
A deathbed and the need to baptise an ailing babe prevented my returning to the Hall for several days. By this time, Lady Dorothea had possibly put her embarrassing slip of the tongue from her mind, consenting readily to join me at the fortepiano for a duet. We played two or three pieces only, before retiring to listen to Lady Bramhall.
Lady Dorothea made no reference to her own performance, which in truth, was, as before, competent rather than excellent. My own was inexcusably bad, attributable perhaps to her proximity to me. I need not add that I would rather have sat beside her and played duets badly than played a great cathedral organ well.
When Miss Southey was summoned to the piano, I felt obliged to offer to turn her pages – she was playing Mozart, this time. I almost exclaimed aloud at the sight of her arms. They were empurpled with bruises. Had she suffered some terrible accident? Before I could speak, she said, ‘I believe Lady Chase wishes to speak to you – no doubt about further provision for the poor.’
Thus dismissed, and with such venomous resentment, I did indeed retreat to her ladyship’s side, if not to converse – we were both too well mannered to insult the musician in that way – but to wonder about the manner of my dismissal. I had always assumed her to be a victim of the family, suppressing all her emotions. Now I had seen another side, which disconcerted me.
Miss Southey herself remained at the instrument. Lady Dorothea made no remark as she unobtrusively – and to my silent applause – obliged the musician as a page-turner. Since the fortepiano never rose above a delicate murmur, I assume the composer’s instructions were disregarded in this case, also. At the end the two young ladies exchanged a few inaudible words. The short conversation over, Lady Dorothea looked in my direction and offered a hesitant smile, which I returned, much, I suspect, to Lady Chase’s private amusement. But she did nothing so crass as to make the least remark. Lady Dorothea returned to her sister-in-law’s side, and soon the tea-tray arrived.
Under cover of passing the cups, I spoke to her in a low voice, ‘It is good of you to be kind to poor Miss Southey. I fear hers is not an easy life, and she needs the friendship of…of someone like you.’
She said lightly, ‘I cannot imagine any governess having a pleasant existence, poor thing. Miss Southey is a notable musician, is she not?’
Honouring her for turning my clumsy compliment, I agreed, but we were unable to pursue our conversation. Just as I prepared to sit beside her, a footman tiptoed over to me. I was needed at another deathbed.
CHAPTER FOUR
At long last the rain stopped. To my eyes it was a sudden event. My parishioners, however, nodded and sucked their teeth and said they’d seen how it would be, all along.
‘They are able to predict the weather?’ Lady Dorothea asked, round-eyed but also amused.
We were in the church porch after matins. Most of my flock, including Lady Chase and her nephew and his wife, had long since gone home, but Miss Southey and her charges were dawdling round the graveyard. They and Lady Dorothea were no doubt determined to enjoy a bracing walk in the brief burst of sunshine.
‘Their livelihoods – indeed, their lives – depend so much upon the weather that they are certainly skilled in reading the signs. Much as you or I can read music, which would perplex them.’
‘So your church musicians played all by ear?’
‘They may have had some knowledge of notation. At Christmastide they reform their band and will come with the carol-singers to the Hall to serenade you. You will have mummers, too,’ I added, hoping that she would still be present to enjoy them.
She might have read my mind. ‘There is talk of our returning to London. But only talk, and once my brother is settled anywhere, it is hard to move him.’
I could not argue, more than conscious of her ladyship’s feelings about the situation. ‘There is nothing like a country Christmas,’ I declared, ‘when all the villagers are gathered together to celebrate, regardless of rank. Lady Chase is said to be more than generous – she does not limit her hospitality to her tenants, but opens her doors to all.’
‘You used the same phrase in your sermon,’ she observed.
‘Then I was speaking of the Almighty.’
‘And urging us to follow His example.’ She nibbled an elegantly gloved finger, as if unsure whether to put her next question. At last she responded to my encouraging smile. ‘What made you take up religion, Mr Campion?’
Take up? She made it sound like an interesting hobby. I bit my lip.
‘Was it the typical last refuge of the youngest son?’ she continued blithely. ‘Would not the army or the law have suited you better?’
‘The army, never.’ Now was not the time to tell her how my cowardice had once paralysed me. ‘And I have no interest in the law. But do not misinterpret what I am saying. The Church was an active choice. A calling. It was not a matter of what suited me. It was a matter of what suited my Master.’
‘Your Master would not have thought you suited to a mor
e fashionable parish?’
‘It did not appear so. I can only respond to His Will, Lady Dorothea. Did we not say together this morning, using the prayer His Son taught us – Thy Will be done?’
‘Of course. But they are only words, are they not?’
‘Not in my experience.’
She glanced over her shoulder. ‘I see my nieces and poor Miss Southey are waiting. Will you excuse me, Mr Campion?’
Suddenly the day did not seem so bright. I returned to my church, and repeated the solemn prayer.
During the next few days the pale winter sun did its feeble best to dry the sodden land. To my amazement, if not that of my parishioners, we had been spared serious life-threatening floods, though many suffered the inconvenience of having water in their sculleries and kitchens. Most sufferers had phlegmatically endured their lot, moving their sticks of furniture to the upper storeys and relying on their employers for soup and bread.
The Marsh Bottom hovels had indeed collapsed, but by then their inhabitants were safe in one of the Chase estate barns; they did no more harm than let their urchins of children chase a few chickens foolhardy enough to venture within. Lady Chase’s sour-faced steward, Furnival, was under instructions to build some modern new cottages for them – on higher ground. In the village there was considerable grumbling, since it was felt that ne’er-do-wells should not benefit from their total lack of thrift. In fact, since the families were actually in the employ of another landlord, the plans came to naught, until Lady Chase cut the Gordian knot and insisted the menfolk would be employed as labourers on her own land. Eventually they would be rehoused in cottages left vacant as the most loyal employees were promoted to her new model site, still currently no more than the plans on much folded paper, to be realised when the ground became dry enough to lay foundations. All this was, as one may imagine, the product of long discussions in her ladyship’s unofficial little committee, comprising herself, the Hansards and myself, which met privately in her ladyship’s sitting room.
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