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

by Nicola Thorne

‘Carson, I have warned you!’ Guy roared, struggling to his feet. ‘I have forbidden you to say anything detrimental about my darling. Think what you like, but never, never put it into words, least of all to me. I am quite sure that Agnes has sufficient funds. You should just observe the style in which she lives. Her jewellery alone is worth a small fortune.’

  ‘Then I am happy for you, Father. Truly happy, and I apologise. I withdraw unreservedly my insinuation.’ Carson stood up and gazed gravely into his father’s eyes. ‘But I personally am not happy. The thought of marriage to Connie distresses me beyond words. I shall not be a good husband. I do not love or desire her at all. I shall make her unhappy as you made Mother unhappy.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Guy gnawed thoughtfully at his lip. ‘That is very unsettling news. Miss Fairchild has already put considerable funds into the repair of the fabric and the redecoration of the outside of the house.’

  ‘Then they will have to be returned to her, since Agnes has the means.’

  ‘But would not Connie be very upset?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Carson, hands in his pockets, strolled to the window, where he stood brooding for a second or two before returning to face Guy. ‘I think she does love me sincerely, poor little creature,, but someone as intelligent as she is must realise I don’t return her love. I don’t pretend to. I feel as indifferent to Connie as I did the day you asked me to marry her. I agreed for you, for the family; but now that the future of the house is secured I feel I am released from my obligation.’

  ‘Oh dear, the poor child ... And what will Miss Fairchild say? She had set her heart on it. This is a complication I hadn’t expected. The banns have been called, the trousseau, I understand, is ready; all the preparations are in hand. It will cause a great deal of bother.’

  ‘Father,’ Carson said patiently, ‘all these things can be undone. A bad marriage can be undone eventually, but it is not easy. I would rather not marry Connie in the first place than do so with the intention of one day divorcing her. Why condemn us both to a life of unhappiness? That would be wrong.'

  ‘Very wrong,’ Guy murmured. Then he reached impulsively for Carson’s hand. ‘Oh, my poor boy, what an agony of decision for you. Would that you could be as happy, as in love, as contented as my darling Agnes and I. Well.’ He let go Carson’s hand and sank back, his face thoughtful. ‘Do it gently, my dear boy, do it as kindly as you can; but do it soon, before more preparations are made. I’m sure the poor girl will be most dreadfully upset; besides which, I do not wish to jeopardise my own marriage by putting Agnes to vast expense in the repayment of funds before we are even wed.’

  The thought of what he had to tell Connie haunted Carson, made him deeply unhappy, and yet he knew he had to do it. He had been wrong to agree to marry her for mercenary reasons, and now he deserved his punishment of endless shame and remorse.

  As his father said, he must act quickly, the wedding had but three weeks to go. He toyed with the idea of seeing Miss Fairchild, but he thought that was the coward’s way out. He was also more frightened of her reaction than he was of Connie’s.

  The day following his talk with his father, Carson mounted his horse and rode as slowly as he could across the fields, lingering through the coppices and past the hedgerows, loitering by the stream for his horse to drink; but, delay as he might, he finally and inevitably arrived in Wenham and slowly climbed the hill to the church in the hope that he might catch Connie at her practice, where the influence of music might find her in a mellow mood.

  When he got to the church, however, he heard to his chagrin the sound of the choir lustily singing. There was no one about and, dismounting, he took his horse round the side of the church and tethered him to a tree. Then he stood with the horse and himself concealed behind the tree, waiting. The choir was practising and, perhaps, Connie was with them.

  Then something about the singing jolted him: they were rehearsing for his wedding! ‘My heart is igniting’ – glad, joyful hymns, sung with hearts full of hope, pealed forth from the church. Carson felt he could not go through with his task. He would simply disappear. He prepared to mount his horse. He would send a letter, have it delivered by hand and, coward that he was, leave Wenham for a few weeks, or even months. Maybe in that time his father would have the chance to comfort Connie, pacify Miss Fairchild and arrange his own marriage to Agnes. Eventually, in the course of time, everything would be forgotten ... Forgotten by the town, perhaps, but never forgotten by Connie ...

  The singing came to a glorious climax, and was followed by a silence in which he could hear the choirmaster addressing the choir, but not what he said. Then suddenly the west doors of the church burst open and the members of the choir tumbled out, men and women, chattering and laughing, their whole beings the embodiment of happiness and satisfaction in the anticipation of the exciting event that was to come.

  The very joy on their faces sickened him. No one looked behind, and Carson remained where he was, intent on not being seen. There had been no sign of Connie. The chance now was that she would be up at the house with Miss Fairchild, busy with her preparations.

  He was about to untie the reins of his horse when the sound of organ music stole upon his ears. But, unlike the music that had preceded it, it was a melancholy sound, almost a dirge; and as he listened it soared and seemed to engulf him, making his eyes unexpectedly fill with tears.

  He went round to the door of the church and entered, and the beautiful music continued to crescendo. Carson sank helplessly onto a pew, then onto his knees, and remained listening.

  ‘Oh God,’ he prayed fervently, ‘I wish I could love Connie. As I can’t, dear Lord, please find her someone else soon.’ Then, partly satisfied by this simple prayer, he sat back on the pew and gazed round the church, imagining how it would have been on his wedding-day: the white blossoms, the golden copes of the clergy, the virginal purity of the bride. It was an image that horrified him.

  He closed his eyes and the music stopped. Then he heard the sound that he dreaded; footsteps on the floor of the sanctuary, taking the two steps down and walking slowly along the aisle.

  He opened his eyes and saw that Connie, with an expression of delight on her face, had quickened her steps and was coming towards him. He stood up and moved along the pew, putting out his arm in greeting.

  ‘Carson!’ Connie cried, clasping his hand. ‘What a lovely surprise to see you! Did you come to listen to the music for the wedding rehearsal? If so, you just missed it.’

  Carson said nothing but, continuing to gaze at her, her hand still in his, drew her down beside him on the pew.

  ‘You look worried, Carson,’ she said, her smile fading. ‘Are you not well? Is something troubling you?’

  ‘Something is troubling me, Connie,’ he nodded. ‘It troubles me very much and I don’t know how to say it.’

  Connie’s features now assumed a look of horror, as though she had seen a ghost.

  ‘Is it that you don’t love me?’ she whispered at last. ‘If it is that, I know; I have always known. But I love you so much, Carson, that I hope in time you will come to love me. I have enough love for two of us.’

  ‘Oh Connie, stop, please.’ Carson grasped her hand so hard that he crushed her fingers and, to her amazement, tears began to trickle down his cheeks. ‘Connie, I love you too; but not in the way you want ...’

  ‘But in time, Carson ...’ Her voice petered out as he shook his head, avoiding her eyes.

  ‘You are the nicest, best person in the world, but I cannot marry you, Connie. I have wrestled with myself and I cannot do it, however much I want to ...’

  ‘But why now ...’ Suddenly her voice was close to tears.

  ‘Before it was too late,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think it fair to engage you in a loveless marriage.’

  ‘What will people say?’ Her voice trembled. ‘What will Aunt Vicky say?’

  ‘They will all blame me, Connie. They will blame me and they will be right. No blame at all attaches itself to you. T
hey will say I am a heartless cad, and I am.’

  ‘It was the dress,’ she said, her eyes staring in front of her.

  ‘The dress?’ Carson reached for a handkerchief to dry his eyes, and gazed curiously at her. ‘What dress?’

  ‘The pink satin I wore at the dinner-party last week. I knew it was all wrong, but Aunt Vicky insisted it suited me. It was too old-looking, and the colour was awful. I knew I shouldn’t have worn it, but I said “just once”. I felt a frump, and Agnes looked so beautiful, even though she’s a bit fat. Sophie and Eliza were so elegant, Dora looked charming. I was the ugliest person present.’

  ‘Connie, my dear.’ Tentatively Carson put his arm round her back. ‘It had nothing to do with the dress. To tell you the truth, I hardly noticed what you were wearing. I had my doubts about the wisdom of our marrying long before this, but lacked the courage to say anything.’

  ‘Then why,’ she said, turning to him, her eyes narrowing, ‘why did you ever ask me to marry you?’

  ‘Because I do love you,’ he stuttered. ‘I did it on an impulse. I love you very much. But like a sister, Connie. I can’t see myself as a husband, I’m sorry. Frankly, I can’t see myself getting married to anyone, and now that father is to marry Agnes, I shall be free.’

  ‘Free?’ she cried shrilly. ‘How do you mean, “free”? Free from what?’

  ‘Free of my obligations to my father,’ he stammered. ‘I felt that I should not leave Father, who does not enjoy the best of health. Now there will be someone to look after him.’

  ‘I suppose I was to be the nurse in that case.’ Connie suddenly stood up and gazed down at him, her lip curled with indignation. ‘You did not need to marry me if all you wanted was a nurse for your father.’

  He put out his hand and clutched hers, but she broke away and, turning her back on him, ran towards the door, her sheet music, which she had forgotten about, scattering in the aisle in her wake.

  Carson had a sudden feeling of nausea, and for a few seconds thought he would be physically sick. He sat with his head in his hands until it passed. He then rose, and slowly walked out of the church, mechanically picking up the fallen pages as he went.

  He had never in his life felt so terrible, felt such remorse. He felt so wicked, so unworthy; and yet he was troubled, too, about Connie. And so, despite his justifiable fear of her guardian, leaving his horse where it was, he walked past the church towards Miss Fairchild’s house, to make sure Connie was all right.

  Miss Fairchild sat in her sitting-room in front of the fire, putting some finishing stitches to a pillowcase she was embroidering for Connie’s trousseau. She had bought several sets made of the finest Irish linen from the haberdashers in Wenham, which was still called Samuel Fairchild and Co., even though it had been out of the family for many years. ‘Fairchild’s’ was a name for quality and reliability, and the people who had bought it from Miss Fairchild had never regretted their decision not to rename it. Quality and reliability was the keynote of the business, always had been and always would be. It was also the precept that had governed the life of the present holder of the name.

  The freehold of the building containing the shop still belonged to Miss Fairchild. It was part of the endowment that, together with the house, the gold shares and other profitable investments, she would leave to Connie, to make her one of the wealthiest women in Wenham – if not the wealthiest. If Victoria Fairchild would not be remembered in the parish by children of her own, her name would surely live as that of the woman who promoted the future Lady Woodville to her place of glory and esteem.

  Miss Fairchild was an accomplished needlewoman and had already embroidered two full sets of bed-linen in secret whenever Connie was out, or she could manage some hours alone in her room. These were to number among her wedding-gifts but to be a surprise. There was something about sheets that might alert the sensibilities of a reserved young woman and upset her. It rather upset Miss Fairchild, too, to think of the shock, pain and suffering her darling might endure between those sheets, but such was the lot of woman. Miss Fairchild sighed. Fortunately or unfortunately, as the case might be, it was a fate she had escaped, and in many ways she was grateful for it. One did not miss what one had merely glimpsed but never experienced.

  She would love to have gone to the rehearsal for the choir, but there was one more pillowcase to go and time was running out.

  For a moment she sat back and removed her glasses, rubbing her eyes. Then, to her horror, she heard the front door burst open, and before she had time to hide her sewing Connie rushed into the sitting-room and flung herself against Miss Fairchild, her thin body shaken by violent sobs.

  Not caring whether Connie saw the sheets or not, Miss Fairchild rose up in alarm and, enfolding her ward in her arms, drew her gently to the sofa and sat down beside her.

  ‘Constance, dear, what is this? What has happened? Was the choir-practice not to your satisfaction? Did something go wrong?’

  ‘Wrong?’ Connie stared at her wildly as though she had suddenly become unbalanced, and Miss Fairchild began to feel frightened. ‘Carson no longer wishes to marry me,’ Connie continued hysterically. ‘He said it was a mistake, but I know better, Aunt.’ Angrily Connie tried to brush the tears from her eyes. ‘It was that dress. That hateful pink satin. It was so unbecoming, so old, but I didn’t like to say anything. I wore it despite my better judgment. I didn’t wish to hurt you or Mrs Pond. But I could see Carson looking at it, the expression in his eyes. All the women there looked so nice, so suitably dressed, except me. Agnes, who is years older than me, and fat, was almost beautiful. Carson must have thought I was the ugliest woman ...’

  ‘My dear, calm yourself,’ Miss Fairchild commanded in tones of authority. ‘It was not the dress, not at all. You looked very charming in it...’

  ‘It was the colour ...’ Connie spat out. ‘Pink! So ugly, so unrefined.’

  ‘No, Connie, it was not the colour.’ Miss Fairchild was clearly on the verge of hysteria herself, despite her reputation for good sense and control, as well as for quality and reliability. ‘It was Agnes. When I realised that she had come into a fortune and Sir Guy had asked her to marry him, I feared something like this might happen. It has haunted me ever since.’

  ‘A fortune ... Agnes!’ Connie ran her hands across her tear-stained face, making it look ten times worse. ‘You don’t mean that Carson was marrying me for money, Aunt Vicky? Please say you don’t mean that!’

  ‘But I was sure he loved you. He was always so sweet with you, and you looked so good together. I ... Yes, as there was a little money I happened to mention it to Sir Guy.’

  ‘You mentioned it to Sir Guy?’ Connie shouted, now quite clearly out of control, and in a state which Miss Fairchild, so sure that Connie had self-discipline like herself, could never have imagined. ‘You went over and bargained with him, didn’t you, Aunt?’ Connie frantically stabbed the air with her forefinger. ‘You went over and offered him money for Carson to marry me. The house was up for sale and suddenly it was withdrawn. I never knew why ... And as for Carson,’ suddenly her voice broke completely, ‘how could he pretend? How could he?’

  ‘My dear.’ Miss Fairchild sought desperately for her reserves of inner strength and, to her relief, found them. ‘I only did it for the best, I assure you.’

  ‘You did it for the best! You dared to sell me in marriage ... and you expected it to work?’

  ‘Yes.’ Miss Fairchild raised her head and met Connie’s feverish eyes. ‘I did think it would work. It worked with Carson’s father very well. He married Margaret Heering for her money, and in the end he loved her and relied on her so much that her death nearly broke his heart.’

  ‘Yet now he is marrying someone else! Someone of whom he is enamoured like an old fool in his dotage.’

  ‘Connie, hush.’ Miss Fairchild was not used to such strong sentiments. ‘Lady Woodville died nearly two years ago. Sir Guy certainly mourned her. It is a decent passage of time for a man to decide to marry an
other. So please don’t lose control of yourself, Constance. Maybe, after all, you are better off. I have heard that Carson is not unlike his father when he was young. Sir Guy certainly had other women. Carson ...’

  ‘And yet you allowed this barter, this sale, to go ahead, knowing that he would be sure to deceive me?’ Connie was almost screaming now at her aunt. ‘Knowing what you knew, you did what you did. You’ve blighted my life, Aunt Vicky. I hope you realise it. I loved Carson so much that I thought I could make him love me. What you’ve done is to ruin my life and embitter me forever.’ Again she pointed an accusing finger at the ashen-faced woman who sat next to her. ‘I don’t want to spend my life as a spinster like you, to have people pity me and say things behind my back ...’

  ‘They say things?’ Miss Fairchild looked startled.

  ‘Yes “things”. “Poor old spinster, never had a man, never been kissed ...” All the money in the world can’t make up for that, Aunt Vicky,’ And, with an exclamation, Connie ran out of the room and along the corridor, and Miss Fairchild could hear the heavy sound of her feet racing two steps at a time up the stairs to her bedroom.

  She was so afraid of what Connie might do to herself that, despite her hurt, she followed her. Did people really say that about her and her friend, the late Miss Barker, and the many other spinsters, worthy women, in the parish? If so, how unfair. They were all most dignified ladies, who did not feel unfulfilled, and many of them had substantial means. They contributed to the church, to orphans and the poor, and to the welfare of the town. How awful to think that the ungrateful townsfolk might laugh at them behind their backs!

  Miss Fairchild came to the end of the corridor and was turning to mount the staircase when, through the frosted glass panes of the front door, she observed a familiar shadow, and flinging it open she saw Carson standing by the gate, a look of shame and humiliation on his face.

  Miss Fairchild stood for some seconds at the top of the steps, staring at him, and then she ran down them and along the path until her face was about three inches from his. Her gaze never left him, her mouth contorted with wrath.