She was a striking brunette with a creamy skin, and he fancied her mightily. Suddenly she opened her eyes and gazed into his.
‘What you looking at, Carson?’
‘You,’ he said.
An amorous look came into her eyes and he put his hand inside her thighs and kissed her lingeringly on the mouth. Then he jumped out of bed and drew on his shirt which lay, along with Prudence’s clothes, on the floor.
‘If Mrs Sadler finds me here I’ll get the sack, and so will you.’
‘Why should she find you here?’ Prudence asked petulantly. She was a lascivious girl and his caress had given her ideas.
‘Because it is time we both got back to work.’ Impulsively, he bent over her and put his arm round her. ‘You know that we have to sell where I live?’
‘So’m you said.’
‘I may buy a little farm of my own. I shall have some money then. Or I may farm one on my uncle’s estate. At any rate, I may want to settle down.’
‘You proposin’?’ Her eyes widened hopefully.
‘Not yet.’ He patted her face and straightened up. ‘Just putting it in your mind. I may not have any money, but one day I’ll be a baronet and you would be called “lady”. Lady Woodville. What do you think about that?’
‘Lady Woodville!’ Prudence gasped and then started to laugh raucously. ‘Just wait until I tell my pa.’
‘Well, don’t tell him yet,’ Carson said anxiously. ‘I don’t want him after me with a gun.’
Carson rode home in good humour. He would wait, of course, until the house was sold and all the formalities were completed, his father settled in Baden-Baden or wherever he was going. Then he could do what he liked. With no Pelham’s Oak to consider, there would be no problems about having a milkmaid as the chatelaine, no fuss from the family. There would still be the baronetcy, but the home of the Woodvilles would be gone.
Carson had never had the affection for his family home that his father had. In many ways it had been an embarrassment. He might have been born a gentleman, but he had never felt like one. He enjoyed the company of working men, and the beds of working women. He thought of himself, really, as an unpretentious man. Many people said he was like his Uncle Ryder whom he could scarcely remember.
He spurred his horse across the fields, clearing hedges and jumping ditches until at last he came to the house and, vaulting over the final fence, cantered up to the stable.
He was in a good humour, replete and hungry. He had made love and done a good day’s sheep-dipping. This was what his life as a farmer with a smallholding of his own would be like, and a buxom woman like Prudence to keep him warm in bed, to provide him with healthy children who would have none of the airs and graces that his family had had in the past. His father and elder brother had been educated at university, but he hadn’t, and if he had his way, nor would his sons. They would be honest, unpretentious working men; and the girls would be simple and straightforward like their mother.
Reaching the stable, Carson flung the reins to the stable lad and clapped him on the shoulder.
‘What then, Andy.’
‘What then, Carson,’ Andy said, as always treating the son of the master of the house as a familiar. They went drinking together, and in past days had even shared women. But Andy was engaged to be married and soon, Carson thought, he would be too.
His thoughts turned to Prudence. Whether it was love or not, he wasn’t sure. He hadn’t known her long enough; but once the home was broken up he knew it would seem strange, and he would feel like putting down new roots.
It would be a good time to make a fresh start, and he was pretty sure that basic, solid, down-to-earth but beautiful Prudence was the one for him. Carson went in by the back door, through the kitchen where cook was preparing the evening meal.
‘So here I am again, cook,’ he said, plonking a kiss on her rosy cheek.
‘Now then, Master Carson!’ She was of the old school, and disapproved of his freedom with the lower orders of his father’s house. ‘Your father has asked for a special dinner this evening.’
‘Oh?’ Carson’s eyes widened.
‘Roast beef and salmon-trout, champagne ...’
‘What’s the occasion?’
Cook shrugged. ‘Maybe he’s feeling in a happier frame of mind now the worry about the house has been taken from his shoulders.’
‘Oh?’ Carson took a small roast potato from the pan and popped it into his mouth. ‘Has something happened?’
‘I believe it might have done, sir.’ Cook finished basting the beef before putting it back in the oven. She hoped Carson had burnt his mouth, but he wouldn’t let on if he had. ‘But I don’t know what. Whatever it is, I believe it’s good, and means we shall all stay on at Pelham’s Oak.’
‘Well, in that case I’d better find out.’
But when Carson got upstairs there was no one about. No sign of his father, nor of Sophie.
Asking Arthur, who was hovering in the hall, where they were, he was told they were changing for dinner and the same was expected of him.
‘Changing for dinner!’ Carson groaned with dismay. ‘I can’t remember when we last changed for dinner.’
‘I have put out your dress-suit, sir,’ Arthur said loftily. ‘I gave it a good brushing and airing. I also ironed your dress shirt.’
‘Well, well, something good must have happened.’ Carson began to run upstairs, then he paused. ‘Have you any idea what it is, Arthur?’
‘I believe all will be revealed in time,’ Arthur replied and, turning his back on Carson, made for the green baize door off the hall.
Carson continued up the stairs, this time more slowly. If his father were staying on at Pelham’s Oak he was certainly pleased for him; but he had no intention of allowing it to spoil his plans.
When Carson, having shaved and changed into evening-dress, reached the drawing-room, his father and Sophie were already there, talking to an additional guest.
‘Aunt Eliza.’ Carson greeted her with pleasure and went up to kiss her. ‘No one told me you were coming.’
‘It was to be a special surprise,’ she said, giving him a decidedly knowing look.
‘Is that the special surprise? Is that why we’re all dressing up?’ He looked from one to the other as Arthur handed him a glass of sherry.
‘Dry as usual, Mr Carson?’
‘Thank you, Arthur.’
Carson lifted the glass and looked round.
‘Well, here’s to you all, and the surprise.’ He drank from the glass and then scratched his head. ‘I’m at a loss to know ... but I understand the house has been saved.’
‘How do you know?’ Guy appeared not only irritated but also nervous. He looked ill at ease in his dinner jacket, rather as Carson himself felt.
‘Cook made a remark to that effect as I passed through the kitchen on my way to the house. Do tell, Father.’
‘All will be revealed,’ Guy said mysteriously, ‘in due course. It is a complex matter. Very complex.’
A few minutes later Arthur announced dinner, and they went into the grand dining-room which was only used for special occasions.
The table, set for four, was covered with a cloth of Brussels lace that had been part of Margaret’s dowry, as had the solid silver cutlery, the cut glass winking in the lights of the candles glowing from an ornate candelabra in the centre of the table.
It was a very large table for four people. Guy sat at one end, Sophie at the other, Eliza and Carson faced each other across the centre.
‘I can’t remember eating here for years,’ Carson said, smiling at his aunt. ‘I am all agog to know what the news is and why it is so mysterious. Can it be that you are the new purchaser of the family home, Aunt Eliza? Don’t tell me that mean old Uncle Julius has been prevailed upon to open the money-bags?’
Eliza averted her eyes and Carson thought that, yet again, he had gone too far and offended her. He was about to apologise when Arthur entered to direct the proceedings.
There were no footmen left at Pelham’s Oak. The staff had been reduced to Arthur, cook, a couple of maids, a groom and two gardeners. But, with great pomp, Arthur supervised the maids as they served first the soup, which was followed by fish and then the roast sirloin which Carson had seen cook preparing. With this Arthur poured a fine burgundy which he had decanted some hours before.
‘One of the last great bottles in Sir Guy’s cellars,’ he murmured with a scarcely audible sigh.
‘All that will change,’ Guy said with satisfaction. ‘We shall stock up the cellar again with the finest vintages. Now, would you leave us alone, Arthur?’
‘Certainly, Sir Guy.’ Arthur’s eyes roamed over the table to make sure that everything was correct and then, bowing deeply, he withdrew.
‘Now, Father.’ Carson leaned over the table, projecting his voice so that his father at the other end could hear. ‘What have you to tell us?’
‘I have to tell you that we have a chance to save Pelham’s Oak.’ Guy’s voice was solemn, almost sepulchral. ‘We have the chance to remain in it as we are, in the comfort and style which we were used to in the days of your dear mother. How heartbroken she would be to see us reduced to this state of near poverty. I can hardly ever remember so few servants, even when Father was alive and, God knows, we were hard up enough then.’
‘So what has happened to change this sad state of affairs?’ Carson put a piece of succulent beef into his mouth, his eyes on his father.
Guy hesitated and looked at Eliza, who seemed equally uncomfortable and eyed Sophie – who was assiduously applying herself to the food. Carson now felt he knew what was happening: Uncle Julius was the new purchaser of Pelham’s Oak, and he and his father did not get on. No wonder there was tension.
‘Well, we have had a proposal,’ Guy said at last.
‘Proposal? Carson looked up. ‘What kind of proposal? Why are you being so mysterious, Father?’
‘Because the proposal, as a matter of fact, concerns you,’ Eliza said, coming at last to her brother’s rescue.
‘It’s a proposal of marriage,’ Guy went on, almost stumbling over his words. ‘With it goes a considerable sum of money.
‘And who is the fortunate lady?’ Carson’s tone was acid.
‘Connie Yetman.’
‘Who?’
‘You heard, Carson.’
‘I think my ears are deceiving me.’
‘No, they are not.’ Once more Eliza entered the fray on the side of her brother.
‘Someone expects me to marry Connie Yetman!’ Carson cried, his face scarlet with rage. ‘That frumpish old maid? Can someone please tell me why?’
‘Because she is very wealthy.’ Eliza sensed that Guy was unable to proceed. ‘Quite how wealthy we did not know until Miss Fairchild came to see your father ...’
‘Miss Fairchild is behind all this?’ Carson spluttered. ‘Poor Connie, doubtless the sacrificial lamb, probably knows nothing about it. Well, thank heaven for that. She will reject me.’
‘We have reason to think she will not.’ Guy’s courage, aided by Eliza, seemed to be returning. ‘It appears she is very fond of you, and Miss Fairchild is of the opinion that you are fond of her. She was at pains to emphasise it was not solely a commercial proposition.’
‘But she realised it might not quite be love,’ Eliza said delicately. ‘So ...’ She paused.
‘Miss Fairchild is a millionairess.’ Guy took over from his sister. ‘Connie is wealthy too, and she is Miss Fairchild’s sole heir. Miss Fairchild is seventy-seven,’ he explained as an afterthought.
‘How despicable. How simply disgusting.’ Carson put down his knife and fork with a bang and drained the wine in his glass. ‘And you, Aunt Eliza, and you, Sophie,’ he looked at each in turn, ‘to be a party to this ... this ...’
‘Miss Fairchild thought you were so fond of Connie because you have been very kind to her.’ Sophie spoke at last, knowing it sounded rather limp.
‘Of course I’m kind to her, as one is kind to children and dumb animals. Connie is not a woman, she is a girl. How can I be expected to marry someone who is an object of pity? No, no, no, a thousand times no.’ Carson banged the table and stood up. ‘I’m revolted and disgusted.’
‘Please.’ Guy flapped his hand towards his son. ‘Sit down, Carson, and let us discuss this rationally.’
‘There is nothing to discuss. Absolutely nothing.’
Guy’s voice changed into a whine. ‘Not to save Pelham’s Oak for yourself, your children?’
‘No, I don’t want the house. It means nothing to me ...’
‘How can you say it means nothing to you?’ Guy spluttered. ‘It has been in our family for three centuries.’
‘It meant a lot to George,’ Sophie said. ‘And to your mother.’
‘I’m amazed at you, Sophie; that you, a deeply religious woman, should connive at selling a man and a woman. Did not Christ drive people out of the temple for attitudes like this?’
‘Please.’ Sophie looked distinctly uneasy. ‘It is not as you think, Carson. Well, not quite. I do see your father’s point of view, and we all feel ... We know Constance is a very amiable person. She is talented and clever; married to the right man, she might blossom.’
‘I am not the right man,’ Carson thundered. ‘What about the weedy Mr Turner?’
‘He is not weedy,’ Sophie said indignantly. ‘In fact, the very reverse.’
‘I’m sorry if I offended you, Sophie,’ Carson’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. ‘Maybe you had your eyes on him yourself?’
‘There is no need to be rude and hurtful, Carson,’ Sophie replied quietly. ‘In fact Mr Turner has offered for me, and I have declined, twice.’
‘Oh really?’
‘Yes, really.’
‘Then you would not sell yourself? Because, God knows, you need money.’
‘Certainly not.’
‘Then why should I? Can you tell me that?’
‘More is at stake.’ Sophie’s voice was faltering. ‘This is a great house, a great institution; but I am sure that your father would not wish you to marry anyone you felt was loathsome.’
‘I don’t find her loathsome. I just don’t want to marry her.’
‘Then you disappoint me, Carson,’ Guy said reproachfully.
‘And you disappoint me, Father,’ Carson roared, pushing back his chair and jumping up again. ‘I know you married for money. I know very well you did. You married for money and then you treated my mother in a disgusting way, and you want me to do the same. No one in his senses would be faithful to poor Connie. But I like her too much to hurt her that way. I respect her. And I won’t do it. I say shame on you, Father, shame on the three of you.’
Carson pushed back his chair even further so that it toppled onto the floor and then, flinging his napkin on the table, he rushed out of the room, slamming the door violently after him.
For a few moments there was complete silence round the table, then Guy spoke in a voice that trembled.
‘What a disgraceful exhibition.’
‘It was the way we did it,’ Eliza was also shaken. ‘We were wrong. The whole approach was wrong. You should have talked to him yourself, Guy, intimately, without all this,’ She gestured round the table. ‘We were cowards.’
‘I thought he would be pleased,’ Guy replied defensively. ‘He told me he wanted to settle. Far better, then, to settle in his own home; but the way he spoke to me was unforgivable.’
‘Guy,’ Eliza said softly, ‘it is common knowledge that, although you may have loved her very much by the time she died, you married Margaret for her money. Everyone knows that, including Carson. He sees that he is repeating your life and he doesn’t want to.’
‘At least he knows Connie. I had never even met Margaret when I agreed to marry her.’
‘I didn’t know you could be so cynical,’ Sophie murmured.
‘It was not cynicism but practicality,’ Guy snapped back. ‘And family honour. Don’t f
orget that. Very important to an Englishman.’
‘Well, what will we do now?’ Guy went on. ‘I have mishandled the whole affair.’
‘Perhaps I can do something?’ Sophie drew back her chair and rose from the table. ‘Carson and I have been good friends. I will go to him and have a little talk. Unless you prefer to, Eliza?’
‘No, you certainly are the one to do it,’ Eliza said. ‘He thinks I am much too much in league with Guy.’
Sophie found Carson in the drawing-room, his hand on the whisky decanter. Like father, like son, she thought. The Woodvilles when in trouble always seemed to reach for the decanter. Not George, though; George would have prayed. What a singular Woodville dearest George had been.
Carson glared at her and, pouring a stiff measure of whisky into his glass, put it to his lips and drained it. He then began to refill the glass, behaving as though Sophie were not there.
‘It won’t help, you know, Carson,’ she said. ‘Drink never solved anything.’
‘Spare me your sermons, Sophie,’ Carson replied rudely. However, he did not refill his glass but put the top on the decanter instead. Instantly Sophie felt rewarded.
She liked Carson, but she was also a little afraid of him. He was a violent man, and he reminded her a little of Bart Sadler. Maybe that was why she liked them both – because she was, in some way she couldn’t fathom, attracted to violence.
‘I apologise,’ Carson turned abruptly to her. ‘That was rude.’
‘I understand your feelings.’ Sophie indicated a chair and they sat opposite each other. ‘Believe me, I do.’
‘But you side with Father. As for Aunt Eliza, I thought she was one of my best friends.’
‘She is, and so am I, and so is your father. I don’t think any of us thought you would be so offended, although, with hindsight, maybe your father should have talked to you privately and alone, not in front of two women.’
‘I might have killed him if he had. It was the length of the table between us that saved him.’
‘But is it really so bad, Carson? In days not so long ago parents played a great part in arranging marriages for their children. If there’s affection and respect ...’ She leaned her elbow on the arm of her chair and gazed earnestly at him. ‘Do you not have the slightest shred of affection for Connie? I don’t think any of us would have entertained the idea if we thought you disliked her so much.’
The Rector's Daughter (Part Two of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 29
