The Rector's Daughter (Part Two of The People of this Parish Saga)

by Nicola Thorne

  Miss Fairchild’s dearest wish was that Connie should have opportunities in life she herself had not had; the gift of love, the joy of children. In her case, her blemish had made her feel like a pariah. When her parents had had a shop, she had worked in the back. How she wanted Connie’s life to be different, but in so many ways she knew Connie was like her: she lacked the ability to attract.

  They had spoken to the Martyns, the Heerings – there were so many. They had chatted to Laurence Yetman and Dora and Hugh. Dora was the antithesis of Connie. She was pretty, extrovert, tomboyish, and enjoyed nothing better than riding her horses and looking after them in the stables in her mother’s new home.

  Miss Fairchild remarked that people seemed to be drifting away and suggested to Connie that they should be going.

  ‘We don’t want to outstay our welcome,’ she said nervously. ‘Maybe we can offer Mrs Woodville a lift.’

  Sophie was alone again, looking awkward and out of place. Connie went over and gave her Miss Fairchild’s message. Sophie said something, shook her head and smiled gratefully across the room at Miss Fairchild. Connie began to weave her way back, not looking where she was going.

  Suddenly there was a mighty bump, her spectacles flew off and she felt herself clasped in the arms of a man. She peered at his face, an inch away from hers: Carson Woodville.

  ‘Oh dear!’ she cried fretfully.

  ‘Connie! I do beg your pardon.’

  ‘No, no, I beg yours ...’ Connie freed herself from Carson’s clasp and fell to her knees, groping blindly for her spectacles upon the floor.

  ‘Here, let me.’ Carson crouched down beside her and quickly produced the spectacles, which appeared undamaged.

  ‘There,’ he said, handing them to her. ‘No harm done, I think.’

  ‘Oh thank you, Carson.’ Connie nervously threaded the thin wire of the steel frames over her ears and adjusted the bridge across her nose. ‘Oh Carson, I am so sorry ...’

  ‘But Connie, it was my fault. I wasn’t looking ...’

  ‘No, Carson, about your mother.’

  ‘Oh!’ Carson’s eyes grew bright.

  ‘At least you knew your mother,’ Connie blurted out. ‘Mine died when I was born. You had all those years with her. I had none. That’s something to think about, to console you perhaps.’

  Carson suddenly clutched her hand. ‘It does console me,’ he said. ‘Here, let me take you back to Miss Fairchild.’

  Miss Fairchild had watched the encounter with some concern, and her relief was palpable as Carson steered Connie to the embrasure by the window.

  ‘How kind of you, Carson.’ Miss Fairchild stretched out her hand in a gesture of appreciation. ‘I hope neither of you were hurt.’

  ‘No harm done,’ Carson said again. ‘And Connie’s spectacles are in one piece.’

  ‘Can you see out of them, dear?’ Miss Fairchild enquired solicitously, and Connie fervently nodded her head, clearly wishing the incident were over.

  ‘It was entirely my fault,’ Carson insisted. ‘I ...’

  ‘I know.’ Miss Fairchild’s eyes brimmed with sympathy. ‘I saw you were preoccupied. You were doubtless thinking about your dear mother. My heart goes out to you, my poor Carson. Do please feel that if ever you wish to speak to anyone, an older person perhaps, you can come to me.’

  ‘Oh, how kind of you, Miss Fairchild.’ Carson sounded sincere.

  ‘Now.’ Miss Fairchild looked briskly at Connie. ‘Are we ready?’

  ‘Yes, Aunt Vicky.’

  ‘And is Mrs Woodville coming?’

  ‘She is accompanying her father and mother.’

  ‘Very well.’ Miss Fairchild began to put on her gloves, continuing to smile encouragingly at Carson. ‘Don’t forget what I said, Carson.’

  ‘I won’t, Miss Fairchild.’

  ‘Goodbye then.’

  ‘Goodbye. Goodbye Connie,’ he said with a smile and, as if acting on impulse, he bent and kissed her warmly on the cheek.

  It was after five. The guests were beginning to drift away. Out in the marquee and on the lawn, the estate workers seemed to have forgotten that they were at a funeral, not a wedding, and sounds of merriment startled the sombre atmosphere within.

  ‘Too much beer,’ someone murmured darkly.

  Sophie Woodville had already left with the Rector and Mrs Lamb and her children, and after Carson had seen Connie and Miss Fairchild to their carriage, he walked back into the house and crossed the hall, going up the stairs into the drawing-room.

  Lally and Prosper were chatting to Eliza and Julius Heering, Roger by their side. He stood with a hand in the pocket of his black trousers, listening with an air of deference to Julius, the senior partner of the business and someone to whom people instinctively deferred. Roger’s fair, wavy hair had a neat side-parting, and his intelligent, brilliant blue eyes gazed unwaveringly at Julius. Then, aware of Carson hovering, he turned casually, acknowledging him.

  ‘Good afternoon, Carson,’ he said as Julius stopped talking.

  ‘Good afternoon.’ Carson looked around. Lally kissed him and Prosper and Julius gravely shook hands, expressing formal condolences. Lally briefly dabbed her eyes with a corner of her handkerchief, but Carson knew she didn’t, couldn’t, really care two figs about his mother’s death.

  Julius, less hypocritical, resumed his conversation with Prosper about the shipment of some items of merchandise.

  Carson felt ill at ease, vividly reminded of his unjust dismissal, and began to slip away. To his surprise Roger, still with his hand in his pocket, turned to him and said casually:

  ‘Believe me, Carson, I really am sorry about the death of your mother.’

  ‘Are you really?’ Carson said. ‘That surprises me.’

  Roger looked taken aback.

  ‘No, seriously,’ he stammered. ‘I never had a mother, so to lose one must be hard.’

  ‘And I find your sympathy hard to swallow.’ Carson menacingly took a step nearer Roger. Lowering his voice, he said: ‘The more I think about that trumped-up charge against me made in London, the more I wonder who was responsible for it. Perhaps you know?’

  Roger took his hand out of his pocket.

  ‘I? Why should I know anything?’

  ‘I think you know.’

  ‘I think you’re drunk.’ Roger peered at him accusingly.

  ‘I am not drunk. But as the heir, you might well have wanted me out of the way.’

  ‘The heir?’ Roger retorted. ‘Heir to what?’

  ‘Heir to the business. You would want me out of the way. Well, it killed my mother. It upset her, and now she’s dead.’ Roger’s beautiful eyes, now a steely blue, gazed contemptuously at Carson.

  ‘I don’t think I ever imagined for one moment that I had a rival in you, Carson. You were no threat to me at all. Don’t flatter yourself to think that you were.’

  Carson moved closer and stuck a finger into Roger’s solar plexus.

  ‘Who else but you had the knowledge? Who else could have fiddled the books?’

  ‘Frankly, I think you’re mad,’ Roger said, turning his back dismissively on Carson.

  Prosper had been watching the two young men and, as Julius had now politely turned his attention to Lally, murmured to Roger, who was flushed and agitated.

  ‘What was that all about?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Roger said offhandedly.

  ‘It seemed to me more than “nothing”. You were quite upset.’

  ‘The fellow’s crazy. He’s wrong in the head.’ Roger touched his brow.

  ‘Was it something to do with the business in London?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, it was. He thinks I am the person responsible for his dismissal. Did you ever hear such rubbish?’

  ‘I suppose it is rubbish?’ Prosper looked at him shrewdly.

  Roger’s expression rapidly changed to one of indignation.

  ‘What an insulting observation.’

  ‘It’s a question that has often troubled me.
’

  ‘But why should I do it?’

  ‘You had no love for your cousin,’ Prosper whispered, so that his voice was inaudible to the others.

  ‘I had no fear of him either, and no respect for him. None at all. Such a gesture as you suggest would be beneath me. He was a thief, you can bank on that.’

  ‘What are you two whispering about?’ Lally casually turned to them.

  ‘Business, my dear.’ Prosper glanced at his watch. ‘I think we should be going.’

  ‘Is it all right to leave Guy?’ Julius asked his wife as he looked across the room.

  Guy was sitting talking to an old friend of the family, the Dowager Lady Mount. The windows were open but the air was oppressive. Outside, the merrymaking was getting louder.

  Guy had a glass of whisky in his hand and raised it morosely to his lips.

  ‘I think Guy’s all right,’ Prosper said. ‘Lady Mount is in control.’

  ‘I’d like to stay with Guy.’ Eliza put a hand on Julius’s arm. ‘Would you mind, dear?’

  ‘Not at all, my love,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘You do what you think is right.’

  ‘Dora will stay with me, but I think Hugh wants to go back with you.’

  ‘Will you stay until tomorrow?’

  ‘At least, or the next day. I want to make sure that Guy and Carson can cope before I leave.’

  It was good to have Aunt Eliza to rely on, but then one always had, Carson thought, watching her as she put the servants to clearing up as quickly as possible and getting the drawing room straight again. Then he left the room to try and find his father.

  Arthur had gone to the marquee to suggest to the revellers that it was time to leave and, obediently but sadly, they began to totter out, some of them still clasping glasses of ale in their hands.

  As Eliza stood at the window watching the remnants lurching down the drive, she saw that Dora had already changed and was jumping in the far paddock. Her thoughts flew back nostalgically to her own girlhood, to her horse Lady, and Lady’s daughter Cleopatra, both long dead.

  Dora saw her mother looking at her, and waved. Eliza waved back and then turned to look at the room, now nearly straight.

  This was her house, the house of her birth, her childhood, her youth. She had always loved it, and she missed it. It was the place to which she always returned with a feeling that it was home, and now, with Margaret gone, it began to seem like days past, before Guy and she had married.

  She wandered through the drawing-room, along to the corridor where she could hear the sound of men’s voices coming from the study. To her concern, a row seemed in progress, and she put an ear to the door before entering.

  ‘Of course you killed your mother,’ Guy was roaring. ‘Why deny it? But for you, she’d be here today. I tell you, you’re no good, Carson; you’re a wastrel, a womaniser, a liar, a thief ...’

  ‘And you, Father,’ Carson’s voice could be heard shouting back. ‘You’re a drunk ... You’re utterly unable to face the truth about anything. You wrecked the early years of your marriage with your own womanising. Everyone knows it. No one respects you.’

  Guy’s feeble attempts to reply were stalled by Carson, evidently in a high old rage.

  ‘Don’t think I don’t know. You talk about my reputation, Father. Yours was worse. I’ve heard you’ve fathered bastard children. I have never fathered any, to my knowledge. I’ve ...’

  Suddenly there was the sound of breaking glass, and Eliza threw open the door to find the two men, heads down like boxers, on the verge of a physical encounter. One of them had dashed his glass to the floor where it now lay in smithereens. Evidently both had been at the whisky bottle, which stood empty on the table between them. They were set to lunge at each other when she ran between them, forcing them apart.

  ‘This must stop,’ she cried, ‘stop this instant! Is this the way to behave the day Margaret is buried? I am ashamed of you, Carson ... to think of attacking your father.’

  ‘I ...’ he faltered, impetuous Carson, as usual not knowing what to say.

  ‘And I’m ashamed of you,’ she said, turning upon Guy. ‘I heard what you said to him and you know it is untrue. Margaret has been seriously ill for over a year. Her death had absolutely nothing to do with Carson, or you or anybody ...’

  ‘She got worse when he came home,’ Guy said, glowering at his son. Then, with a melodramatic gesture, he raised an arm as though he were going to hurl something at him, but instead he raised a trembling finger to heaven.

  ‘Get out of here. Get away. Sometimes I feel I can’t stand the sight of you, and God knows how I am ever going to live with you.’

  Then, with a sob, he collapsed into Eliza’s arms.

  8

  The Lady Frances Roper Home for Destitute Women and Girls had been founded in the early years of the nineteenth century by a high-minded woman who, left a fortune by the early demise of her husband, had devoted the rest of her life to charity and good works.

  Lady Frances, though herself childless, had a genuine compassion for more unfortunate women who had to bear unwanted children, and the object of her home was to provide refuge for those seeking somewhere to have a safe and discreet delivery.

  Ninety per cent of the babies were subsequently put up for adoption or sent to orphanages.

  The principles governing the home were in many ways in advance of the century. When Lady Frances was alive her homes were run on strict, but compassionate, lines where cleanliness and godliness were equated. Although the fallen women were expected to show, as well as to feel, repentance for their sins, they were also advised on practical steps to avoid such a mischance occurring again.

  There were also a few places in the home for elderly destitute women, those who had fallen on bad times, had committed no crimes or sins but had simply ceased to have a home, and roamed the streets with their entire possessions tied up in pathetic bundles. They were given home, shelter and food; some of the more kindly among them became substitute mothers to the luckless young women who found themselves expecting children neither they nor society wanted.

  Nelly Allen was such a one. When her situation became known she had immediately been expelled by her family. Particularly wrathful was her father, who bitterly reproached her for the shame she had brought on his humble, but honest and irreproachable, home.

  Nelly, with nowhere to go, lived for some time on the streets begging, but she was rescued by a woman who worked at the Lady Frances Roper Home, found a bed and given food.

  Nelly was destitute, but she was also proud. She would never have begged Carson for help, even had she known where to find him. Her only connection, had she wished to pursue it, was the house in Montagu Square where they had once unsuccessfully tried to spend the night.

  In the home Nelly found many young women in the same circumstances as herself. However, since the charitable founder had died in 1875, the home had been run by a board of God-fearing men and women whose views were neither as tolerant nor as compassionate as those of Lady Frances. Remote from the practical day-to-day running of the home, a certain Christian spirit of forgiveness and charity had been replaced by a harsh regime based on condemnation. The women had sinned, and sinners they were made to feel as the regime under which they lived correspondingly became stricter and more intolerant.

  After Nelly had had a few nights’ sleep in a clean bed, and eaten a couple of decent meals, she began to take stock of her situation. Her baby was due in two months, and she would have to decide what to do with her own life after that. There was no question, in anyone’s mind, about what to do with the baby. It would be taken away from her and sent to an orphanage, hopefully to be adopted.

  This was an aspect that Nelly preferred not to dwell on too much. She loved children and had always dreamed of babies of her own. How awful to have a baby and be compelled to give it away! How unfair. Supposing she never had one again? How cruel it was to have been promised a life of bliss by a man who had then deserted her.
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  Nelly had been in the home for only a few days when she became friendly with another inmate by the name of Massie, who had been in the institution several times before. The institution was the nearest thing Massie had to a real home, and she rather enjoyed it, as some people are said to enjoy repeatedly going back to prison.

  Massie – no one knew her real name – had led a much more deprived life than Nelly. Most of her childhood had been spent on the streets with a drunken mother and father, and assorted siblings who appeared and then disappeared.

  Massie had taken to prostitution when she was scarcely at the age of puberty. By nineteen she had already mothered three children, one of whom had died; the other two had been sent to the orphanage. This was Massie’s fourth pregnancy and she was the same age as Nelly. She knew no other life.

  As with many whores, there was a very good heart to Massie. She thought Nelly out of the ordinary. Nelly had fine, delicate features, beautiful hair, and had it not been for her Cockney accent Massie would have said Nelly had a touch of real class.

  The two girls struck up a friendship, and were together whenever they could be, although from the first light of dawn until dusk they were organised and put to work so that the institution was spotless; the floors, windows and furniture gleaming with polish. This was mainly to impress the members of the Board and other worthies, who came to visit and then went back to their comfortable homes convinced of their own remarkable Christian charity.

  The board of the Lady Frances Roper Home generally paid more attention to appearances than to the well-being of the women in their care, three-quarters of whom were very young expectant mothers. Almost as soon as the women were delivered they were asked to leave, as their place was wanted. It would have been considered quite strange to oversee their post-natal care or instruct them in methods of medical hygiene. In the event, some of them subsequently found themselves in hospital with septicaemia and, not infrequently, one or two of them died.

  Nelly was given the task of cleaning the lavatories, which, of course, had to be spotless. Massie was considered a good cook and her allotted place was the kitchen. The women slept in dormitories and gradually, by a process of elimination, Nelly and Massie were able to get beds next to each other.