But Egbert had a similar excuse and, finally, Sophie said:
‘If it’s too much trouble, I’ll ask the cab-driver.’ And she turned sharply on her heel and went through the door, feeling those tears, never very far away these days, pricking at the back of her eyes again.
She was walking through the hall towards the door, to call the ancient cab-driver to come and help her, when she heard footsteps behind and Henry appeared, looking as though he’d had his ears boxed.
‘Oi’ll give you a hand,’ he muttered.
‘Thank you so much, Henry.’ Sophie gave him a bright smile and pointed towards the pile of luggage in the centre of the hall. ‘If you would begin with the two valises, that would be most helpful.’
She then took each of the children firmly by the hand and descended the steps of Pelham’s Oak, ancestral home of her dead husband, probably, she thought, for the last time.
As the coach trotted down the drive she turned to look back at the noble pile that had housed three centuries of Woodvilles. It had only survived so long because of money.
She knew from the Bible and countless works of devotion that money didn’t bring happiness; but it certainly made life a little more easy to endure.
Miss Fairchild and Connie sat outside a café in the Piazza San Marco, drinking tea – English tea. There were some other tourists like them doing the same: the British being the British when abroad. Around them the capillaries and arteries of alleyways and streets that formed the thoroughfare of Venice ran in all directions, each leading to a campo with a church and houses that were centuries old, or a view of the Grand Canal, or the Rialto Bridge, or the Arsenal.
They had been there three weeks and had left very little of the city unexplored; and while Miss Fairchild rested in the afternoons, Connie would try and find a church where there was music, a choir rehearsing or an organ soloist practising, as she used to do in Wenham. It was then, in the quiet, in the dim recesses of the church or basilica, that she would think of Carson, though she never mentioned his name to Miss Fairchild.
She would think that, maybe, had Agnes not appeared when she did, they would have come to Venice on their honeymoon, wandering through France and Italy first, as she and Miss Fairchild had done. Then, instead of being two spinsters, always given a corner table or served last, she would have been with a handsome man, a nobleman; but most important of all, her husband. People would have noted the glances they gave each other across the table, the secret signs, and perhaps would have guessed that they were newly married.
Connie fantasised a good deal these days about the honeymoon that had never happened. It helped her to bear the pain.
Miss Fairchild was pleased with the effect of the long holiday on the spirits of her beloved ward, though she had little doubt about what was on her mind, because of the way she moved restlessly in her bed at night; and once or twice she’d cried out his name.
Miss Fairchild knew all about frustrated love, the time the wound took to heal. Even though she had only had a kiss from Christopher, one kiss, the memory, the thrill of simply seeing him had lingered for years. Yet for poor Connie it had gone so much further. She had been engaged to be married, the banns had been called, the trousseau made, each item carefully wrapped in tissue and placed in special drawers. And then she had had the humiliation of being jilted, so that all the people of Wenham and its surrounding villages instantly knew all about it.
She put down her cup upon its saucer and looked at Connie, whose eyes were fastened on a flock of greedy pigeons in the centre of the square. They were a comical sight as they first pecked each other out of the way, then made a dash for the scraps that the tourists threw out to them. But Connie didn’t appear to find it amusing, just absorbing, as though in some way their plight was symptomatic of her own. In fact she seldom smiled. More than ever, she had grown into a serious, morbidly shy young woman.
Miss Fairchild patted Connie’s hand which lay on the table.
‘I think when we return we’ll go and live somewhere else, dear child, what do you think? Wenham is such a small, constricting place. How about Cheltenham, or Bath, where you would be able to hear lots of good music and doubtless meet more interesting people. What about it, Constance? Eh?’
‘Just as you say, Aunt,’ Connie answered impassively.
She didn’t really care where she lived, although maybe it would be a good thing to get away from Wenham. What she knew without any doubt was that, cushioned by money, she would from now on lead a life of spinsterly rectitude right to the end, untouched by love, desire, or the ecstasy of carnal knowledge: two in one flesh.
A week after Sophie left, Agnes and Guy returned to Pelham’s Oak and were met with the usual show of servility by all the staff, who ranged themselves on either side of the drive to greet the new mistress of the house just as, many years before, their predecessors had greeted Guy’s first wife.
Agnes wore a blue travelling-coat and a black hat with a large ostrich feather, and she swept past Guy, through the line of servants, acknowledging their homage with a slight incline of her head. Guy was reminded of the scene with dear Margaret when they returned from their honeymoon, and he drew out his handkerchief to wipe away the tears, which even now sprang instantly to his eyes.
But Margaret was dead, gone, and Agnes was present and he was very much in love with her. They had extended the three months to over four, visiting the spas, the grand hotels of Germany, France, Austria and Switzerland.
Guy followed Agnes up the steps and into the house, where Arthur accompanied them into the drawing-room.
‘How nice everything looks,’ Agnes exclaimed. ‘You have been doing terribly well, Arthur, in our absence.’
‘I really must say it was all due to Mrs Woodville,’ Alfred grudgingly admitted. ‘She supervised the entire spring-cleaning of the house. I told her it was all to be repainted, but she insisted.’
‘Repainted!’ Agnes said sharply, looking round. ‘Why is it to be repainted, Guy?’
‘I thought the whole place was to be done up, my dear,’ he said, looking at her, while Arthur bowed and withdrew. ‘You said ...’
‘Guy,’ Agnes sat down and began carefully to remove her hat. ‘There is one thing I want you to understand. I have not married you to throw all my money away on this house. It can be touched up here and there, but that’s enough.’ She finished pulling off her gloves and laid them on her lap. ‘I intend to spend a lot of my time in London, Guy. You won’t see very much of me at Pelham’s Oak. I find it, frankly, stifling here. London!’ She raised her head as though she could see the sights and hear the sounds. ‘It is a city I love, and I want to go to all the balls, the parties, the opera, the theatre; and that is where I will spend my substance. Not here.’
Guy looked dumbfounded.
‘At least I have enabled you to keep on this old house,’ she said contemptuously. ‘For the time being, that is. But for me, you would have sold it. Be thankful for that. But don’t think that is the end of the matter. I have not got an ever-open purse, and in a year or two it may be that if you find a buyer who will give a good price, you may well have to dispose of it.’
Guy sat down with a thud and stared in front of him, a tremor running through his body that manifested itself in shaking hands.
‘And another thing, Guy. While we’re speaking frankly,’ Agnes went on, ‘I have something else on my mind.’
‘And what is that, dear?’
‘Guy, what of our child?’
‘Our child?’ Guy blinked several times in rapid succession as though he did not quite understand.
‘We had a child, you and I, a daughter.’
Guy hung his head.
‘You told me you did not want her mentioned, dearest. You wished me never to refer to her.’
‘You’re quite right, and for good reason. It was a painful episode I wished completely to forget. But I find circumstances have forced me to confront the matter. I have discovered she is a maid at the C
rown Hotel in Blandford. In fact, she waited on me. Her name is Elizabeth.’
‘Oh, you know.’ Guy, appearing overjoyed, clasped his hands together.
‘She is very pretty,’ Agnes cut in. ‘Remarkably so.’
‘Like you, my darling,’ he said ingratiatingly.
‘But I can’t understand why she could not have been sent to an orphanage, Guy, or adopted, so that she could have been out of our lives altogether. Why had she to be here? I was incensed when I realised who she was.’
‘You never said anything, Agnes. I could have explained.’
‘I imagined you must feel pretty guilty too. I have, however, been thinking about it since, and I want to get the matter cleared up so that there is nothing between us ... to mar our happiness,’ she added.
‘Why should Elizabeth mar our happiness? Might she not add to it?’ Guy crossed the room and, reaching for her hand, took it tenderly between his. ‘Oh my darling, I have longed to acknowledge Elizabeth, the fruit of our love, as my daughter, and now that we are married and good fortune has smiled on us and Elizabeth, may we not publicly claim her as our own at last?’
‘Are you out of your mind, Guy?’ Agnes pushed his hand away and rose to her feet. ‘I would never, ever want anyone to know that a serving-maid is our daughter, a girl brought up by servants, sounding and behaving like a servant. Whose idea, incidentally, was that?’
‘Eliza’s. She was too kind-hearted and refused to send Elizabeth away. I was not even consulted, left in ignorance. Consequently, Elizabeth was for many years treated by Eliza virtually as one of her own children.’
‘Well then, she should have adopted her properly. She did her no favours. None at all. Elizabeth, though beautiful and well-mannered, is little more than a peasant, and she is going to marry a peasant. Did you know that?’
‘No.’ Guy hung his head shamefacedly. ‘I know very little about her. I see her from time to time, but she is ignorant of the fact that I am her father.’
‘Good.’
‘I do a little to support her.’
‘That should cease. Her husband-to-be is merely a man who drives a brewer’s dray.’
‘It must be stopped,’ he said angrily.
‘Certainly not. They are going to live in Blandford, so that will keep them out of the area. Now, Guy.’ She turned and shook her finger at him. ‘I want you to put Elizabeth out of your mind entirely. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Agnes.’
‘It is to be as though she never existed. Is that clear?’
‘Perfectly clear, my dear.’
‘Good.’ Agnes crossed the room to gather up her things. ‘Then don’t forget it, because I should never forgive you if we were acknowledged as Elizabeth’s parents, and our sinful, shameful past exposed.’
Agnes walked purposefully towards the door and Guy rushed to open it for her. Then he closed it and tottered back into the room, sinking helplessly into his chair again, aware of the sudden swift and irregular beating of his heart, the fleeting pain across his chest.
The honeymoon was over.
Sophie Woodville sat between her parents at the dinner-table, her head bowed, her appetite completely gone. Her mother was in the middle of one of her interminable lectures about Sophie’s misdeeds, her bad judgment, lack of foresight and so on and so forth, while her father just sat and nodded his agreement like a mechanical toy.
The lectures usually began at dinner and continued throughout the evening until Sophie, exhausted, retired to bed, pleading a headache or some other form of sickness.
The import of these nightly dissertations was that Sophie was a disappointment to her parents. She had somewhere taken the wrong turning, mainly because she took no notice of her parents’ attempts at guidance.
They could have told her, had she asked, that it was a mistake to marry George Woodville. A blind man could have seen that his parents would object. Having committed such a gross error of judgment, to whisk him off to the missions – about which, incidentally, he was never very keen – had compounded her initial folly. And then she had been careless enough to allow him to die ... And all this when one thought she had been well brought up, well educated, the apparently docile child of worthy parents.
The latest stupidity, undoubtedly, was her decision to leave Wenham.
There was no need. The Rectory was large enough for her and her family, the schools were near, what nonsense to send them to board! What needless extravagance!
Then there was the fact that she had not been firm enough with Sir Guy; she had given in to Agnes when she should have opposed her. She had done this, she had done that; she had not done this, not done that. There was no end to it.
‘Mother!’ she would eventually cry out, and leave the table, or the drawing-room, or wherever the scene was of the everlasting peroration.
But tonight, feeling decidedly unwell, she let it all flow over her until she heard the words:
‘And when your father retires we shall need, Sophie. How selfish can you be?’
‘Why will you need me?’ she asked, jerking her head up.
‘Because we are getting old, dear.’ Mrs Lamb made an effort to sound reasonable. ‘Your father is nearly eighty. He will soon retire.’
‘And when is that to be?’ Sophie turned lack-lustre eyes to him.
‘Perhaps in the next few months,’ he said. ‘It was agreed at the diocesan meeting last week and, providing Sir Guy agrees...’
Mr Lamb stopped and rolled his eyes mysteriously.
‘Yes?’ Sophie tried to sound encouraging though, in reality, she wasn’t interested.
‘Well ... providing Sir Guy agrees, as the living of Wenham is in his gift, Mr Turner is to be appointed the new Rector.’
‘Oh, that is excellent news,’ Sophie said whole-heartedly. ‘I am so pleased for him. But I thought it wasn’t possible until he had served a full term as priest in charge ? He has only been a curate.’
‘That was the reason he went to see the bishop, and could not help to move you the day you left Pelham’s Oak. The bishop has agreed that, in the circumstances and in view of Mr Turner’s generosity to the church, he will automatically succeed to the Rectorship.’
‘What “generosity” to the church?’ Sophie asked curiously.
‘Oh, Mr Turner is very generous,’ Mrs Lamb said warmly. ‘He gives to all kinds of causes connected not only with this parish but the needs of the diocese as a whole. He gives assistance to needy people. He is one of the kindest men I ever knew, because he does it all without ostentation. He has also agreed that, in our retirement, we shall continue to occupy the Rectory, as he is quite happy with his own house. He is the best of men.’ Mrs Lamb paused and gazed reproachfully at her. ‘It is a pity, Sophie dear, that you could not have seen that. That you ...’
‘Oh Mother!’ Sophie said, banging the table and standing up. ‘I am heartily sick of this ...’
And then she swayed, stumbled and sat down heavily in her chair, her face as pale as chalk.
‘Sophie!’ her father cried anxiously. ‘Are you unwell?’
Sophie sat there for few moments until the dizziness passed, wondering how to answer the question. What would her parents say if she told them the truth? The thought even made her smile, and her colour came back as her courage returned. She got up slowly from her chair and pushed it under the table.
‘I think it is all the business of the move, Father, and my own impending departure. Also, this unending criticism of my behaviour tires me. I should like to go to my room. Good night.’
‘But my dear, there is no need,’ the Rector began but, by that time, Sophie was already halfway to the door and seemed not to hear him.
A school had been found for Deborah; Ruth was to come with her. Sophie had found lodgings in Cheltenham and a possible position as a temporary teacher at a local school. It would not be for long, but it would bring in some money. Then, later, she would travel further away.
Her parents had seen that th
eir daughter was adamant, her mind made up, and already she had started her packing. She felt constantly unwell, and out of their sight spent a lot of time resting. She was, in fact, lying on her bed when there was a tap at the door and she heard her maid saying:
‘Are you there, Mrs Woodville?’
‘Yes, I’m here,’ she called out, sitting up and immediately getting off the bed and touching up her hair. ‘Come in, Susie.’ Susie came in and, with a little bob, said:
‘Mr Turner is in the front parlour, madam. He wondered if he could have a few words with you.’
‘Oh!’ Sophie was about to refuse, then she changed her mind. It would only be polite to take her farewell of one who had been a good friend. ‘Tell him I shan’t be a minute.’
‘Yes, madam,’ Susie said and, with another little bob, went away again.
Sophie ran a comb through her hair, patted her cheeks to give them a little colour, and straightened her dress. Then she went along the rambling corridors of the big house, down the stairs and across the hall to the front parlour. The house seemed to be in complete silence; it was mid-afternoon, and she guessed her parents too were resting. She opened the door, and Hubert sprang up from a chair by the fire and threw aside the copy of the Church Times that he had been reading.
‘Hubert, how very nice to see you.’ Sophie held out her hands as she went towards him. ‘I hear I am to congratulate you.’
‘Oh ... Yes.’ Hubert smiled shyly. ‘I expect so.’
‘An excellent choice.’ Sophie pointed to his chair. ‘Do sit down.’
‘I am very fortunate to be offered the living.’
‘And my parents are very fortunate to have you,’ she said sitting down too. ‘Who else would have let them keep on their house? You are a very kind man, Hubert, and my parents appreciate it. I appreciate it, too.’
‘But I have no need of this huge place,’ Hubert said in surprise. ‘I am a bachelor. What would I do with all the rooms? No, I hope I am quite happy where I am, and glad to be able to help your parents, who have been equally good to me. There is only one thing that upsets me, however,’ he murmured, and then paused while Sophie sat waiting expectantly for his explanation.
The Rector's Daughter (Part Two of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 48
