Summer's End

by Amy Myers

  ‘I don’t want sandwiches,’ wailed Isabel again. ‘Or Grannie Overton’s gingerbread cake.’

  Elizabeth was racing through Mrs de Salis. ‘Shrimp canapés,’ she declared with relief at finding a solution. ‘Indian eggs.’

  ‘What on earth are they?’ Isabel demanded.

  ‘Curry flavoured.’

  ‘I don’t like curry.’

  Caroline gave a despairing glance at Mother, who ignored it and said firmly: ‘A few for those that do. And some lobster savoury creams. Lobster set in aspic, cream, tomato juice.’

  ‘It sounds terrible.’

  ‘We’ll try it first. I’ll ask Mr Barnes’ (the travelling fishman with the lugubrious face, known as the Hound of the Baskervilles to the Lilleys) ‘to bring me a nice lobster next week.’

  ‘Not in sandwiches, though.’

  ‘Raspberries will still be in season,’ Caroline said hastily. One more word about sandwiches and she’d crown Isabel with Mrs Beeton and Mrs de Salis.

  ‘Wine jellies,’ Elizabeth waxed enthusiastic. ‘And Grannie Overton’s cream cheesecakes.’

  ‘Not those terrible junkets.’

  Caroline happened to love junkets but she refrained from reminding Isabel of this. Lots of lovely things could whisk themselves out of the kitchens at the last moment.

  Vegetables proved an even knottier problem. By the time they had calculated the cost of four large Stiltons, three large Cheddars and six pounds of Gorgonzola, then had to recalculate it omitting the Gorgonzola, reducing four and three to three and two respectively, and adding plenty of goats’ cheese instead, they were all cross and irritable. The afternoon was punctuated by claps of thunder but remained close, and Caroline’s head was aching.

  ‘How much does that all come to, Caroline?’ her mother asked. ‘You’re good at figures.’

  Someone, anyone, Reggie, rescue me soon, she prayed. She counted the figures and counted again. It came to something different. She re-counted. ‘I make it £20 11s 6½d,’ she announced at last.

  ‘How much?’ cried Elizabeth. ‘It can’t possibly be as much.’

  ‘And that doesn’t include the champagne, or any other drink. Champagne will cost between two and four pounds for a dozen bottles.’

  ‘Your Aunt Tilly has kindly offered to pay for that.’

  Isabel pounced once more on her grievance. ‘So she jolly well should after she’s done her best to wreck my marriage.’

  Elizabeth did not mention that Tilly’s offer had been made solely to prevent the Swinford-Brownes from having any say in the day’s affairs and to give Elizabeth an excuse for declining any such offer from them.

  ‘Is Grandmother coming?’ Caroline asked curiously.

  ‘Yes. I want her invited,’ ordered Isabel.

  ‘Naturally we shall invite your grandmother.’ Elizabeth was surprised anyone should need to ask. ‘I doubt if she will attend, but we shall welcome her should she do so.’

  ‘Good evening, Mr Swinford-Browne. Do come in.’

  William had no time for even such basic familiarities as this. His attitude was that if the Rector hoped he’d have forgotten his grievance by today, he was much mistaken in his man.

  ‘I’ll come straight to the point.’ Keep it dignified. ‘Either you get rid of that woman or I get rid of her for you. She’s off her head.’

  The Rector looked at him coolly. ‘And by “that woman” you mean whom?’

  ‘Your sister, as you well know. The Honourable Matilda Lilley.’ An honourable, as Edith had been wailing at him for two days now. He couldn’t make out whether she was more upset that that old hag was an honourable or about her accusation. He hoped the former, but either way Miss Matilda had burned her boats – and if he wasn’t damned careful, his as well.

  ‘On what grounds do you wish to get rid of her, as you put it?’

  ‘For slanderous accusations for which she has no proof.’

  ‘You had no qualms about Ruth Horner’s accusations about Jamie Thorn, with again no proof.’

  ‘Not my concern. That young jackanapes is getting what’s due to him. He’s a young lad who’s been playing with too many lasses, and I’m a respectable married man.’

  ‘Do I take it you intend to sue my sister if she doesn’t leave the village forthwith?’

  ‘You do not. I wouldn’t waste my money on such a farrago of a case. Women like her ought to be locked up, and locked up she shall be. I’m not a nobody, Rector. One word from me to the Chief Constable and she’ll be back in Holloway Prison tomorrow.’

  ‘Then why not make this threat to her? Why come to me?’ He supposed it had been a vain hope that Tilly could find some period of calm at Ashden to recuperate physically and perhaps reconsider her views on militancy; it was inevitable that someone would recall her name, and discover her background. That it should be Swinford-Browne was, again, perhaps inevitable. Tilly had warned him she might prove a cuckoo in the nest here as well as at Dover. He had told her it was a risk he was prepared to take, and he was prepared to give battle.

  ‘Because my son is supposed to be marrying your daughter. Do you think I want him marrying into a family of felons? But I come to your house and get abused. Not a good start, is it? No dowry, I don’t mind that. What I do mind is if young Isabel might have inherited the family traits. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘I understand you perfectly, Mr Swinford-Browne. Now let us be clear that you understand me. Let us consider for a moment the hypothesis that my sister spoke the truth in what she said.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Truth is, as you know, an absolute defence in law.’

  ‘Not without proof.’

  ‘But we stand here before God, not before a court of law, and God does not need proof, as we know it. He sees directly into our hearts. I cannot claim that ability, but I would suggest that if as a direct result of your intervention – which could be proved – my sister were once again removed to Holloway goal, re-arrested under the Cat and Mouse Act, there to have tubes rammed up her nostrils and be held down, screaming in pain and her own vomit as three doctors, supposedly devoted to the saving of life, and two wardresses do their best to kill her by forcible feeding, my family, friends and a large proportion of Ashden from manor to meadow might wonder why you had taken such prompt action. Could it be, they might ask, that there was some truth in my sister’s accusations? As Rector, I, of course, must remain impartial, but village opinion is under no such obligation.’

  Swinford-Browne’s cheeks grew red with anger. ‘Are you threatening me?’

  ‘I state both sides of the case, that is all. If there is truth in the accusation, then it must be for your conscience to look after Ruth, and see Jamie Thorn is cleared. You may think it appropriate to find her a position suitable for her situation and a cottage of her own.’ Laurence paused. ‘Perhaps even the cottage you are so eager to persuade Mrs Leggatt to leave. Ruth after all claims to have pursued her courtship in the adjoining cottage, Mr Thorn’s.’

  Swinford-Browne eyed his adversary. As with the matter of the oak trees, he knew when he would get no further. The oak trees, however, were not and never had been that important. This was. ‘I’ll not forget this, Rector. You can say goodbye to the new cemetery for a start, you and your pious Anglican God.’ He thought rapidly. ‘The wedding goes ahead. You muzzle that sister of yours. I realise the woman was intoxicated with strong liquor and was joking. I can take a joke as well as the next man,’ he informed the Rector grimly, preparing to leave. Laurence stopped him.

  ‘Now I’m forgetting I’m a parson, and speaking to you as a husband. Don’t lay one finger on my wife, don’t shake hands, don’t dance with her, and never take advantage of what you imagine to be a future relationship with us by stepping across the boundaries of acceptable behaviour again.’

  Swinford-Browne marched out as if he had not heard, and from the study the Rector could hear his voice loudly flattering Harriet’s efficiency as he collected his stick and hat. The batt
le, however, he knew, was not over. Truth was still evading them and Ruth Horner still unwed. Would ‘unknown father’ or ‘Jamie Thorn’ appear on the birth certificate in – when was it? – September?

  By Tuesday the bee swarms appeared to have settled back to a reasonable hum. Aunt Tilly had not vanished from the house, and Isabel’s wedding did not appear to be under threat. In fact the only ripple in the Rectory was the matter of the guest list. It had been beyond Caroline’s powers to persuade even Isabel, let alone Felicia and Phoebe, to help her in writing out the cards, which required the best copperplate. George pleaded school, and Caroline wondered why her own plea of working at the Manor had elicited only: ‘I expect you’ll manage, dear.’ She had even asked why Mother thought she could manage, and the reply had astounded her. ‘Isabel is Isabel Felicia is in the clouds, Phoebe too much on the ground. You are the one I rely on, Caroline.’ Caroline was flattered and amused, but she was still going to dragoon help if she could. She couldn’t.

  There had been no sign of either Reggie or Lady Hunney at the Manor this morning, which was not unusual, save that she had not seen Reggie since Sunday or talked to him for three whole days. As soon as she had finished the letters, she was seized by Mother to support her in the battle of the budgets for the wedding with Mrs Dibble on the pretext she was known to be good at figures. She was also known to be effective as a punchbag between Mother and Mrs Dibble.

  ‘Fifteen lobsters. That’s what we need.’

  ‘We are already at over twenty pounds, Mrs Dibble,’ Elizabeth objected. More than they paid Agnes for a year, she despaired.

  ‘Spare the pence and waste the pound,’ Mrs Dibble announced mysteriously.

  ‘How about ten larger ones?’ Caroline suggested.

  ‘Mayhap.’ Grudging assent.

  ‘Two hundred and three people will never eat as much as one person two hundred and three times.’ Caroline could vouch for this rule of thumb from years of sandwich-making for parties.

  ‘I don’t want to run short of food,’ Elizabeth said doubtfully.

  ‘Have I ever let you go short in this house?’ Mrs Dibble drew herself up to her full five feet three inches.

  ‘No, no, of course not, Mrs Dibble. You are a marvellous organiser. We can always send any leftover dishes round to the almshouses.’

  ‘No one leaves my junkets.’

  Caroline was thankful for Isabel’s absence.

  Victory in this assured, Mrs Dibble regarded the list again with a professional eye. ‘You’ve too much butter and too little cheese.’

  ‘I always think cheese is something people never want unless it’s there.’

  ‘Mayhap. But there it’s got to be, even if we’re eating rarebits till Christmas.’

  ‘And what about help, Mrs Dibble? The girls won’t be able to assist as much as usual, on the day, that is. We can all help beforehand. Can you cope with just Agnes, Myrtle and Harriet? And Fred, of course,’ Elizabeth added hastily.

  ‘I could ask Rosie Trott up at the Manor if Lady Hunney would agree. She’s a nice girl, is Rosie.’

  ‘What a good idea,’ Elizabeth said warmly. ‘And perhaps one or two others from their staff to help with the wine.’

  ‘Percy can manage.’ Snap. Mrs Dibble had spoken.

  ‘We don’t want to ask the Swinford-Brownes for help, of course,’ Caroline observed brightly, seeing where Mother leading.

  Mrs Dibble stiffened. ‘I’m not having none of them Towers’ girls, or their smelly footmen.’

  ‘Then I’ll ask Lady Hunney,’ Elizabeth said conclusively. ‘I’m so glad that’s agreed.’ Afterwards in the drawing room, however, she sighed. ‘I’ll have to get something from the bonds.’

  When Caroline was a child she had assumed ‘the bonds’ were something provided by God rather like a poorbox, a manna of life to be called upon in dire emergencies. That it had to do with mundane matters of keeping your money in interest-bearing funds she had learned much later, too late to divest the word entirely of its magical properties.

  ‘You’re very restless, Caroline,’ her mother broke off.

  ‘I was expecting Reggie.’ It was a white lie. She was hoping to see Reggie. Where could he be? It occurred to her he might have gone to Tunbridge Wells or East Grinstead on business – he often did, in which case he might call in on the way home from the railway station. Unless he’d taken his beloved motor-car? No, he was far more likely to have taken a train. She would walk up Station Road a little way, not just to see him, she told herself, for she could call at the Manor after dinner, but because she needed some air. It had been quite cool all day, compared with recent temperatures, so it was a pity not to thank the sun for re-emerging.

  ‘I thought I’d take Ahab for a walk.’

  ‘Phoebe’s taken him. It’s her week.’

  ‘I’ll go anyway. I’ll catch her up.’

  Elizabeth said nothing more, and Caroline quickly found her sunbonnet and jacket, escaping quickly before a cry of ‘Caroline, do you think …?’ summoned her back.

  She did meet Reggie, though not in Station Road. She walked into Silly Lane, fragrant with elderflower and dog roses, and saw him coming towards her. He never used the path through the Sharpes’ farm, of course; he’d probably get pigswill thrown over him. Reggie saw her, and wavered, but he did not break into a run. Something was wrong, it must be. Terror stabbed at her. Was he regretting Saturday already and was afraid of breaking the news? Had it been the whim of a summer’s day? His grave face, as he came up to her, confirmed her worst suspicions. He put his arm round her in a way he’d never have dared before and which would certainly have earned even Mother’s disapproval if she had seen him doing it in public view in broad daylight, engaged or not.

  ‘Let’s go somewhere quiet, Caroline, and talk. Come into the park. We can walk over to the folly.’

  The folly, by a small ornamental lake, had been the whim of an eighteenth-century baronet and was built like a small Roman temple with the entire divine population of Mount Olympus crowded in as statuary. Rather poor statuary, but Caroline had always loved the place, even so. They looked a rather jolly group of gods. But today she could not bear the thought of it.

  ‘Tell me now,’ she asked abruptly.

  ‘No. I’ll tell you I love you, though. Do you still love me?’

  ‘Of course,’ torn between relief and even greater worry, and using levity to disguise it. ‘I never change fiancés more than once a month. And it’s only been three days.’ She faltered. ‘Oh, Reggie, tell me.’

  ‘It’s Mother.’ He pushed open the gate into the Manor park, hurrying her inside, then grabbing her hand.

  She knew at once what had happened. ‘Why?’ she burst out, meaning ‘Why should she influence what we do?’, but he took it another way and dumbfounded her. ‘She says I should marry someone more suitable.’

  ‘What does she mean?’ Caroline cried, shock overcoming her usual common sense. ‘Someone with more money, more looks and less ability to answer her back?’

  ‘She’s my mother.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Reggie.’

  ‘She doesn’t mean that. She likes you, she says, but how could she approve a marriage into a family that has your Aunt Tilly in it?’

  Oh, how the woman smiled and smiled and was a villain. She could carpe diem quicker than Scipio Africanus. Surely Reggie must be exaggerating, though. ‘Just because of her outburst against Swinford-Browne?’

  ‘It did naturally shock Mother,’ he agreed. ‘But it’s because she’s discovered – I’m sorry to have to break this to you – that your aunt is a prominent suffragette. Mother hadn’t connected it with your aunt before, since Lilley is not an uncommon name, but now she has. There’s no doubt about it, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I knew already about Aunt Tilly’s beliefs.’

  He exclaimed. ‘And your father knows? How can you go on sheltering her?’

  ‘How can we not? she retorted angrily, unable to believe that Reggie of all people
could be speaking thus. ‘She acts in accordance with what she believes. Surely you believe in women getting the vote? It’s only the means they use to achieve it that can be disputed by any rational person.’

  ‘You’re wrong. Mother, for instance, is a fervent anti-suffragist.’

  She began to laugh hysterically. ‘Not like Lady Bathurst who advocates suffragettes should be soundly birched, their hair shaved and then be deported to the Colonies as convicts?’

  ‘Yes. Mother belongs to the Anti-Suffrage League and wrote a letter to the Morning Post on that issue.’

  ‘And do you believe women like Aunt Tilly should be birched?’ She was appalled that Reggie spoke so matter-of-factly.

  ‘Of course not.’ He was indignant.

  ‘And that they should not have the same rights as men?’

  ‘I don’t believe in all women having the vote. Do you see Ruth Horner voting wisely?’

  ‘But do you believe in all men getting the vote?’

  ‘There is more of a case for it, because all men work. Women do not. I don’t believe the vote should be given just to property owners any more, but wage-earners as well. Women are not wage-earners.’

  ‘More and more are.’

  ‘Then there is a case for those who do.’

  ‘Are women not equal to men?’

  ‘In some things yes, in others no.’

  ‘You don’t think me equal?’

  He looked at her gravely. ‘I can’t answer that. I look at you and see the girl I love. I look at you and see the girl I’ve always loved, though I was too idiotic to realise it. I look at you and see the girl I’m going to marry.’

  ‘Oh, Reggie.’ She went to him, and he embraced her, his lips on her eyes, her hair, her cheeks and then urgently seeking her lips. It didn’t seem to matter where his hands were then, provided she could be with him, clinging to him, a rock in a tumultuous sea. He drew away, took off her jacket, then his own, and took her again into his arms. ‘I can get closer now.’ It seemed at some point a good idea to sit down on the grass bank above the lake and then at some point after that to lie down. What a wonderful – but strange – sensation to see his face above her, bending over her, then kissing her, almost lying on her, and then face and sun were blotted out. When she felt his hand inside her dress, she shifted slightly, puzzled, then embarrassed. ‘Reggie?’ She didn’t want him to stop, but he did, rolled away and sat up.