The Rector's Daughter (Part Two of The People of this Parish Saga)
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‘Yes?’ she asked encouragingly.
‘I am very sorry to hear you are going.’
‘Yes.’
‘And so soon?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘I’m frankly devastated,’ Hubert said in a voice vibrant with emotion, and then abruptly standing up, he began agitatedly to pace the room. ‘I so hoped that, as you had returned to the Rectory and were no longer at the beck and call of Sir Guy, we would be seeing more of each other, Sophie.’
‘Unfortunately it is not to be,’ she said, and a feeling of sadness welled up in her that, just when she needed her friend, he would not be there.
For Hubert Turner was a good man, someone of whom it was not wrong to use the word ‘gentle’. He was a gentleman in every way: humorous, kind, pious and, she was sure, above all compassionate. Of all the people she could think of, he would not be the first to cast a stone.
‘I shall miss you, though,’ she added impulsively. ‘I don’t think you realise how much.’
‘In that case,’ he protested, ‘must you go?’
‘I’m afraid I must. I have engaged rooms in Cheltenham and a temporary post at a school.’
‘But why?’ The strength of his emotion surprised her.
‘I simply want to go away, Hubert.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Is that wrong? I don’t wish to live with my parents. I don’t wish to remain in Wenham. My time here hasn’t been altogether happy and I wish to get away, to put certain things behind me, like the death of Laurence. It affected me deeply.’
‘It affected us all,’ Hubert said sadly, ‘because each of us, in his own way, thinks that he could have prevented it.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Digging up your roots won’t make you forget,’ he replied.
‘No. And I do not even leave a memorial behind to George. In four years I have not achieved that, and that, Hubert, is the measure of my failure.’
She cast her eyes to the floor, and when she looked up Hubert was standing in front of her, his cheeks flushed, hands in his pockets. His wise, grave face looked immeasurably sad, and she thought how dear it was to her. How much dearer than another face, and how foolish she had been to be so swayed by passion that she put it before affection and respect. Heavy-hearted, she put out her hand. But Hubert didn’t take it. Instead he said:
‘Sophie, would you consider staying behind in order to become my wife? I know you don’t love me, and I have asked you before. But I have never ceased to love you, Sophie ...’ He moved away and began to pace the floor again. ‘I have loved you almost since I met you; but I knew you were too good for me.’
‘Too good ...’ She wanted to laugh, but he would misinterpret it.
He hurried on: ‘You were filled with the spirit of God and wished to return to the missions. Your forbearance and humility were admirable. In you I see the spirit of supreme self-sacrifice ...’
‘Please don’t go on, Hubert,’ she pleaded. ‘If you knew the truth about me you would not say that.’
‘What do you mean, Sophie?’ He peered closely at her face.
‘You would despise me.’
‘I despise you? Impossible.’
‘I am to have a child, Hubert,’ she said, joining her hands together on her lap. ‘There, now you know. That is why I am going away. I want you to know the truth because, otherwise, I think I could have been happy with you. I have always liked you, admired you, felt you were a true friend. But I was a very foolish woman. Not wise at all, or kind, or good, or gracious. I loved a “man”’ – she stumbled over the word because she nearly said his name – ‘and he did ask me to marry him. I emphasise this not to excuse my sin but because I did expect him to marry me. I thought that soon, in the eyes of God, we would be one. This was the reason I anticipated the marriage act; but it only made him despise me. So you can imagine the sense of shame and disgrace I feel that now I am to bear the child of such a dishonourable man. I suppose I should have expected nothing better of one who would take such advantage of a woman’s weakness.’
She paused because she felt too near tears to go on. Then, standing up, she said:
‘I would like you to go now, Hubert, and, as you are a priest, regard this secret as you would a confession. I will leave this place and I never wish to return, so that no one will know about the baby I bear, or bring such shame to the knowledge of my parents.’
She turned her back on him and waited, head bowed, for the sound of him leaving the room. But instead she felt his hand on her shoulder, his breath warm on her cheek.
‘I should still like the privilege of taking care of you, your children and the child you are carrying, Sophie. Nothing you can say alters my mind. I love and respect you, and I recall the words of Our Lord: “Many sins are forgiven her because she has loved much”.’
Sophie slowly turned to look at him, and saw such an expression of tenderness on his dear face that her heart performed a somersault. She didn’t know whether or not it was her imagination, but beyond him, through the window, she could see that the sky, which had been overcast, appeared to have brightened.
The dark storm-clouds had cleared, the sun had come out and bathed the earth in a very sweet light.
Epilogue
The Window
Epilogue
Wenham, Dorset, October 1913.
The sun seemed to catch the exact angle of the cross, and thus to magnify it above the kneeling figures who, hands joined, had their eyes raised towards it. Only two of the figures, etched forever and devoutly in glass, were white; the others were black, clad in the minimum garments of savages.
The rays beamed down in benediction on those who had gathered in the shadow of the cross and who, many years before, had died for it.
Sacred to the memory
of
George Pelham Woodville, born 1881,
his faithful servant Kirikeu
and their companions, who gave their lives
for Christ in Papua,
New Guinea, December 1907.
Also
in loving memory of his cousin
Laurence Thomas Yetman, born 1882,
who died November 13 1912,
both late of this parish.
This window is erected to their memory
by their family and the generous
donations of the people of Wenham.
As the organ struck up a solemn march from Handel’s Saul, the procession that had assembled at the back of the church began walking slowly down the aisle: the outgoing Rector, the incoming Rector and the Bishop of Salisbury were all resplendent in white and gold copes. Because, despite the sadness of the dedication of the window, it was also an occasion for rejoicing.
Hubert Turner was to be installed as Rector of the parish in place of his father-in-law, the Reverend Austin Lamb, who had served it for over thirty years. Preceded by an altar-boy carrying the pectoral cross, the members of the procession arrived at the sanctuary and, after bowing to the altar, grouped themselves at the base of the window, whose wondrous colours, its brilliant blues, reds, amethysts, yellows and greens, had only finally been put in place the day before.
In the front row of the congregation Sophie stood beside her mother, her infant son in her arms. In a weekend of rejoicing, Samuel George Turner was to be baptised by his father, the new Rector, the following day. His father in the eyes of the parish, and certainly, Sophie thought – her eyes lingering on him lovingly as he went solemnly and reverently about his duties – in the eyes of God.
Sophie’s heart was full of sadness at the memory of George, yet there was an overwhelming sense of joy and tenderness too. She had been restored to God, she had peace in her heart, and for this she had to thank her husband. Was there ever a man like Hubert Turner, she wondered? So selfless that even George, that epitome of goodness, ran him a close second, but second nevertheless. As he raised his hand in blessing towards the window she knew that, but for his generosity, it would not be there, and nor would she
and her children – the two eldest grouped on either side of her, the young baby in her arms.
She had been very wicked in her life, but she had been blessed too. She had been married to two remarkable men, and maybe her Lord who, after all, forgave the woman taken in adultery, had not abandoned her. She knew that she would never, ever stray from the path of holiness and righteousness again.
The bishop pronounced the consecration of the window and followed it with a brief, simple, but moving homily extolling the virtues of those honoured:
‘“Their names liveth for evermore.”’
Their names lived in her heart, certainly, and in the hearts of her family. Behind her stood Sarah Jane with her children, then Eliza with Hugh, Dora and Julius – who had contributed substantially towards the funds. Of George’s father there was no sign. He had been confined to his home since suffering a severe heart-attack shortly after his honeymoon. But the new Lady Woodville was there, resplendent in an haute-couture outfit, and so were the Martyns: Prosper, Lally, Roger and his wife Emma.
Miss Fairchild and Connie Yetman had moved to Bath and were not in church. But they had sent a substantial contribution to the window. George and Laurence had been loved by everybody, and would not easily be forgotten.
Carson stood, in place of his father, alone, taciturn, grimfaced. Maybe he thought about his dead brother, whose successor he was, or maybe his mind was on the many burdens he carried: his fierce passion for a woman who was another man’s wife, and whose eyes he was now studiously trying to avoid, his quarrels with his detested stepmother Agnes, and the fate of the house should his father die.
It was thus, on a mild autumn day, that all the people of the parish gathered together to honour those who were no longer among them, and to celebrate the induction of their new parish priest.
In almost a year’s time the guns of war would again ring out to disturb their tranquil existence but, happily, they did not have the power to see into the future.
But now, for Sophie Turner, the daughter of the Rectory, the wheel seemed to have come full circle. Here she was, again an important and respected member of the community, an integral part of the very fabric of the small, closed society into which she had been born and yet which was, in so many ways, a microcosm of the world.
Contents
THE RECTOR’S DAUGHTER
Publishing History
Synopsis
About the Author
By the Same Author
Family Tree of the Woodville Family 1820-1898
Family Tree of the Yetman Family 1800-1898
Contents
Prologue
Part One
Return of the Widow
1
2
3
4
5
6
Part Two
Coals of Fire
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
Part Three
The Power of Money
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
Epilogue
The Window
Epilogue