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

by Nicola Thorne

  ‘But Mother, Laurence would never shoot rabbits. He never shot rabbits or birds, you know he didn’t. He loved wildlife too much; he loved everything that moved. He frequently walked through the woods with Kimber, but never with the gun. I can’t remember ever seeing that gun out of the cupboard. It belonged to his father and Laurence has not used it, to my knowledge, in all the time we were married.’

  Eliza stared long and hard at her and then, reaching for Sarah Jane’s hand, kept it in hers.

  ‘I know,’ she said, ‘I know. I have always known but, like you, I shall never understand; so I like to believe it was an accident, and I always shall. You must too, my dear, because if we think that Laurence deliberately put the gun to his head and blew out his brains, we shall both go mad. And far too many people need and depend on us, now that our darling is dead.’

  The following day Sophie and her children moved in temporarily with Sarah Jane and hers, to help with the running of the household, and Eliza finally went back to her husband.

  She sat for a long time in the car in front of the house, expecting that at any moment he would come to the door, because he must have known she’d arrived.

  But when the door did eventually open, it was the butler who gravely descended the steps to help her out of the car.

  ‘Will you be requiring the car again today, Mrs Heering?’ the chauffeur asked.

  ‘Not today, thanks, Gerard. I don’t know about my husband.’

  ‘Mr Heering is in his quarters, madam,’ the butler said. ‘He is not feeling well.’

  ‘Oh? Still?’ Eliza looked up at the windows of Julius’s bedroom and saw that the curtains were drawn. ‘Have you sent for Dr Hardy?’

  ‘No, madam. Mr Heering insisted it wasn’t necessary.’

  ‘Very well. I’d better see to him myself.’

  Eliza took her time, once she was in the house, because she had been absent for so many days. She went to see cook in the kitchen, who confirmed that Mr Heering was not eating. She went up to her room, changed her clothes and summoned her maid to unpack her case.

  Then, and only then, did she go along the corridor and knock at the door of Julius’s room.

  ‘Julius, may I come in? It’s Eliza.’

  There was no reply, and she was about to enter when the door opened and Julius, fully dressed, stood in front of her.

  She saw that his curtains had now been drawn back, though his bed was unmade, and suspected he had hastily risen and dressed when he heard her arrive.

  ‘Are you still unwell, Julius?’ she asked, entering the room. ‘Had you not better see the doctor?’

  ‘You know there is no need for a doctor, Eliza,’ Julius said in a sepulchral tone of voice. ‘You know quite well what is wrong with me.’

  ‘No.’ Eliza walked into the room and stood looking round.It had an air of neglect as though no maid had been admitted to clean it for several days. ‘What is wrong with you?’ she asked at last, turning towards him.

  ‘I can tell by the way you speak that you know what is wrong with me,’ Julius said. ‘It is guilt about Laurence.’ He then flopped into a chair by the fire and put his head in his hands.

  ‘Well,’ Eliza said calmly, sitting opposite her husband, her hands in the pockets of her cardigan, ‘I can well understand that.’

  Suddenly he flung both his arms towards her and, like a man making an impassioned plea, burst out:

  ‘But how on earth was I to know he would do a thing like that? Of course I would have helped him.’

  ‘Too late now. Besides, it was an accident,’ she said in an unemotional voice.

  ‘Do you really believe that?’ Julius looked closely at her.

  ‘No.’ She folded her hands in her lap. ‘He never shot animals. He hated killing, but few outside the family know that as he was a countryman. No one else must know. “Accidental death” will be the verdict at the inquest, and in a way that’s what it was, and what we wish it to be: an accident that Laurence was in the wrong place at the wrong time when his final despair took hold of him, and no one was there to comfort him.’

  ‘Everyone has withdrawn their money from the Two Counties Bank,’ Julius said. ‘I hear the manager has left the town. Whatever the verdict, the people know. They know why Laurence died.’

  ‘Well ...’ Eliza got up, suddenly chilled, to stand nearer the fire ‘... that is the best way to leave it. Now, Julius, why don’t you come downstairs and have some lunch with me?’

  ‘You’re very forgiving, Eliza,’ he said humbly, reaching for her hand. ‘If I had helped Laurence you know he would be alive. It was against my principles but, nevertheless, his death will be on my conscience forever.’

  Eliza had never seen her husband like this. He was always so in control, master of everything; seldom showing emotion, seldom revealing his true feelings. Now he had been reduced to a most uncharacteristic state of humility which she found rather pathetic.

  ‘Julius,’ she said, turning away from him towards the fire, where she stood for a few moments staring into the flames. Then she looked at him again. ‘Julius, as you feel so bad there is something you can do.’

  ‘And what is that, my dear?’ he asked with a note of hope in his voice.

  ‘Have I any rights as a wife?’

  ‘Of course you have. Why?’

  ‘In the past it did not seem like that. I have been a slave.’

  ‘Not at all.’ He crossed and uncrossed his legs. ‘What a ridiculous thing to say.’

  ‘You said “we Woodvilles” were impoverished and you despised us for it. It is true that, in this respect at least, we are not a very clever lot; but there is something that I would like to do.’

  ‘And what is that, Eliza?’

  ‘I would like the money as a gift, mine by right, to buy Riversmead from the receivers so that Sarah Jane and the children can live in their own home for as long as they wish. I would like all Laurence's debts cleared and to give the house to them.’

  ‘It is done,’ Julius said with tears in his eyes. ‘The money is there whenever you want it.’

  ‘Thank you, Julius.’ She remained for a long time looking at him, contempt in her eyes, as the tears began to trickle down his cheeks. ‘But I must tell you this, and I shan’t say it again. You’re a mean-minded man, Julius, who has made money your god in the place of compassion. You could easily have saved my son, and I’m glad to see you cry. However, your tears will never bring him back, and I hope your guilt does remain with you for the rest of your days, and you never allow yourself to forget it.’

  23

  The Black Bull was a small, dark, seedy-looking public house that nestled under the north side of Blackfriars Bridge just after it had crossed the Thames. It predated the building of the bridge, so that all day long the whole place rattled as the trains passed overhead on their way to Holborn Viaduct Station.

  However, few of the customers noticed the noise because it was a rowdy, cheery place and they made their own kind of commotion – soon, inevitably, heightened by a degree of intoxication.

  It was here that Carson, who used to have a drink on his way back to Montagu Square from the City, had met Nelly Allen.

  He could recall it now, though not the night he’d first seen her. She hadn’t been a raving beauty, not the kind that usually attracted him, but her quiet nature, her elfin appeal, had finally captured his attention. She had seemed uninterested in him, which was also a challenge. It became a further challenge to get her into conversation, and another to ask her out. After that, she was hooked; no mere pretence.

  However, there was no sign of Nelly now, and Carson sat at the bar over his beer, thinking of those days and the little room in Carter Lane where he had imagined himself in love with her.

  She had loved him. Of that there was no doubt. But he was fickle; the feeling had soon passed and, until he stared into the eyes of little Alexander, he had almost forgotten Nelly. Now it was possible to imagine that she had borne him a son.

&nbs
p; He wondered now where she was, and if he’d ever find her again.

  ‘Nelly Allen?’ The landlord handed Carson his second pint. ‘Never heard of her.’

  ‘Two or three years ago,’ Carson explained, putting the frothing head to his lips. ‘Dark, quiet sort of girl.’

  ‘No.’ The landlord shook his head and began wiping the bar with a wet cloth, a cigarette slung from the corner of his mouth. ‘Only bin here eighteen months meself.’

  ‘Thought I didn’t recognise you,’ Carson said. ‘Sorry to have troubled you.’

  ‘No trouble,’ the landlord replied. ‘Wish I could have helped. Important to you, was she?’

  ‘Not really,’ Carson said offhandedly and, as the landlord moved away, he swallowed the rest of his beer and prepared to depart. He felt a pang of guilt at dismissing Nelly so trivially, but what was the point when he didn’t know himself?

  There was a tug at his elbow and he looked down. It was the barmaid, who had moved round to the saloon side of the bar where she was picking up dirty glasses and putting them on a tray.

  ‘I knew Nelly Allen,’ she said out of the corner of her mouth.

  ‘Did you?’ Carson spun round. ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘She left sudden-like,’ the barmaid said slyly.

  ‘Do you know why?’

  ‘Well, someone said she was ill. I don’t know if you’d call it an illness.’ The barmaid gave a suggestive little snigger.

  ‘Why do you say that?’ Carson demanded.

  ‘Some say ...’ the barmaid came up to him and put her mouth to his ear ‘... that she was in the family way; but people can be unkind, can’t they? You don’t really know. May have had a growth or sommink.’

  Carson seized her arm and said urgently, ‘Look, if you ever see her, say you saw Carson – Carson, remember – and she can get in touch with me through the house in Montagu Square.’

  ‘That all?’ The girl sounded disappointed.

  ‘That’s all.’ Carson tucked a pound note into her hand, ‘And have a drink on me.’

  ‘Thanks.’ The barmaid hurriedly stuffed it down her bosom. ‘Can’t say I’ll ever see her because I don’t really know her, do I?’

  Carson shrugged and went out into the street, the busy thoroughfare full of London traffic. He walked along the cobbles of Blackfriars Lane, past the Apothecaries’ Hall and into narrow Carter Lane, where he stood for a few minutes looking up at the grimy building, thinking of Nelly.

  More than ever, he felt that she was the mother of his child.

  Carson went straight back to Blandford from London, and arrived at his cottage just as it was getting dark. He didn’t know what to do about the mystery of Nelly and, in a way, he would like to have shared his problem with Lally; but he thought it might be too much of a responsibility for her, probably too great a shock for her to bear. Besides, if Alexander proved to be his child he might wish to reclaim him, and what would Lally say to that?

  It was amazing to think that for two years she had perhaps been looking after his son, and he felt a wave of gratitude for the woman who had shown the compassion that saved Alexander from an uncertain fate.

  He lit the lamps in his cottage, and was about to light the fire when there was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in,’ he called, looking over his shoulder. It was Lally’s under footman, Paul.

  ‘Yes, Paul? What is it?’ Carson asked cheerfully, setting a match to the combination of wood-shavings and paper in the grate.

  ‘Mrs Martyn noticed you had arrived home, sir, and wondered if you would like to dine?’

  ‘Tonight?’

  ‘Dinner is in an hour, sir.’

  ‘Well, that’s very kind of her.’ Carson jumped up. ‘It will just give me time to have a bath and change.’

  ‘Mrs Martyn asked me to tell you there was company, sir. Mrs Roger Martyn is staying in the house, and she would be glad if you would wear a black tie.’

  ‘Certainly, Paul. Thank you.’

  Carson smiled to himself as the footman closed the door. Lally, the dancer, was a stickler for etiquette.

  Carson had not seen Emma Martyn since her wedding eighteen months before. His and Roger’s paths never crossed. While he seemed to go from one misfortune to another, Roger continued on an upward path. It was really quite amazing to think that, in addition to all his other good fortune, he was married to this adorable creature as well.

  She sat opposite Carson, looking the very picture of loveliness in a cream evening-gown, cut on the cross so that it emphasised the contours of her slender figure. Her striking golden hair was worn softly waved in front and short at the back. Her skin was almost opaque, her blue eyes the colour of cornflowers. A beautiful diamond necklace was round her slender throat, while on her fingers sparkled a selection of exquisite and clearly extremely expensive rings.

  ‘It’s odd that you two haven’t met since the wedding,’ Lally remarked as the servants withdrew during dinner.

  ‘Roger is busy making money,’ Carson said with a smile. ‘I’m afraid the country is too dull a place for him. You too, probably, Emma.’

  ‘Oh, I adore the country,’ Emma assured him. ‘I love the town, but at heart I’m a country girl.’

  ‘Really?’ Carson seemed surprised. ‘You must miss Roger now.’ He looked up from the supreme of chicken in a light lobster sauce which Lally’s superb chef had conjured up for them this evening.

  But Emma made no reply. Instead it was left to Lally.

  ‘They have made us both widows,’ she said. ‘You would think they would take their wives on such an exciting and important trip. The Far East!’ Her eyes sparkled.

  ‘But Aunt, you know you would not have wanted to leave Alexander,’ Carson said. ‘What would he do without you for six months?’

  ‘He would have been well looked after. However, I would have missed him, it’s true. Babies grow so quickly in six months.’

  She gave Emma a meaningful look, but her daughter-in-law kept her eyes on her plate. Carson smiled to himself. Lally wanted to be a grandmother.

  ‘Tell me,’ Lally said after a pause, ‘was your visit to London a success?’

  ‘Not really,’ Carson replied.

  ‘What was its purpose, may one ask?’

  ‘I was looking for someone.’

  ‘And did you find him?’

  ‘No. It was a her.’

  The two women exchanged glances and then Lally, sensing he would reveal no more on the subject, began to talk of something else.

  After dinner Lally said she had letters to write, and excused herself. She suggested that Carson and Emma might like to amuse themselves with the gramophone. Perhaps they might even like to dance.

  Carson was pleased at the chance to be alone with Emma, whom he found most entertaining company. They sat on either side of the fire as Paul served coffee and liqueurs.

  ‘And put back the carpet, please, Paul,’ Carson said. ‘In a few moments Mrs Martyn and I are going to dance to the gramophone.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ Paul said, moving across the room while Emma gazed at him with a question-mark in her eyes.

  ‘You like to dance, don’t you?’ Carson asked a short while later when, after Paul had rolled back the carpet and left the room, he rose to select a record and put it onto the machine. Then, after winding it up and carefully putting the needle in the groove, he held out his arms.

  ‘Love it,’ she said, as she took his hands, keeping a respectable distance between them.

  ‘What would your husband think if he knew we were doing this?’

  ‘He probably wouldn’t notice.’ Emma held her head back and, eyes still sparkling, smiled.

  They felt comfortable in each other’s arms and for a few moments they twirled around in the otherwise empty room to the sound of the music.

  They danced until the record stopped, and then Emma went over to change it, looking one by one at the stack of records. Carson refilled their glasses with cognac and, tak
ing hers over to her, perched on the arm of the chair as she examined the records, gazing intently at her.

  ‘Is Roger keen on dancing?’

  Emma gave him an exaggerated look and then, crossing to the machine, put her latest choice on the table and enthusiastically began to wind up the gramophone, tapping her toes. She held out her arms and he stood up and guided her on to the floor.

  ‘I said, is Roger ...?’

  ‘Why should we talk about Roger?’

  For a moment she stopped dancing and looked at him, while the music continued in the background. He found it hard to interpret her expression.

  ‘It’s all rather strange,’ he murmured as they began dancing again.

  ‘Roger is a very strange man,’ Emma replied.

  ‘I see.’

  Carson thought enough had been said on the subject for the evening, and then he very lightly placed his cheek against hers; and that way, stopping only to change the records, they continued to dance until the small hours of the morning.

  Carson slept late into the next day, having gone to bed late; and he had then been unable to sleep because the thought of Emma haunted his mind.

  As he’d first touched her, a sensation like an electric shock had flashed through his fingers, and as they danced close together there was an overwhelming urge to take her in his arms, to embrace her. But he resisted, and when, later, he saw her to the foot of the stairs as she went to her room, he didn’t attempt to kiss her.

  Now it was almost noon and he still lay in bed, arms clasped behind his head.

  Women. They were a terrible problem. First one and then another. Maybe the best thing, the wisest thing, would be for him to go away, far away. Maybe he should reconsider the idea of joining the army as his uncle had suggested, and be sent overseas away from temptation.

  Roger’s wife. He sat upright with shock at the thought of the scandal such an affair would provoke if Roger got to hear about it, a man jealous and unpredictable in his moods. But it was not an affair yet; nor must it be. He loved Lally, who would also be affected if he seduced her daughter-in-law. He would become a pariah in the district, spurned by everyone, including his family. The man who had jilted Connie Yetman, virtually at the foot of the altar, had few friends.