The service was a fine one, after all my reluctance; the sermon was of kindness and forgiveness of those who injure us, and the text that Mr Verrall took as his lesson was Hosea, Chapter Two, verses 19 to 23. Emma Milstead was called to give the reading, and she read the words very sweetly:
‘And I will betroth thee unto me for ever; yea, I will betroth thee unto me in righteousness, and in judgment, and in lovingkindness, and in mercies. I will even betroth thee unto me in faithfulness: and thou shalt know the Lord. And it shall come to pass in that day, I will hear, saith the Lord, I will hear the heavens, and they shall hear the earth. And the earth shall hear the corn, and the wine, and the oil; and they shall hear Jezreel. And I will sow her unto me in the earth; and I will have mercy upon her that had not obtained mercy; and I will say to them which were not my people, Thou art my people; and they shall say, Thou art my God.’
By the end of the service I felt restored, and in my heart I thanked God for it, but I felt that I should also thank the reverend, so that he should see that the awkwardness of our previous encounter was not going to keep me from my place in God’s house. I waited with the other members of the congregation to shake his hand, and he was very surprised to see me. I told him the position at the St Albans school had been unsuitable, and, although I had been most grateful for his assistance, I had been led to return back to Bromley straight away. I told him I had felt the spirit move me during the service; that I felt the words of the sermon in particular had brought me closer to God and had made me feel loved.
‘I thank God for it, Miss Monckton,’ he said, and smiled at me warmly.
I shook his hand and walked back across the fields to Farwig – Thomas had been taken firmly by the arm by his betrothed, although I noted with a smile the wistful look he cast over his shoulder at me. The house smelled strongly of the fish stew that Mary Ann had cooked for us on Friday, the scent of it lingering in the curtains and the rug and the bedclothes, so strongly that I had to leave the house again just to breathe.
Monday, 28th August
I had a letter from Richard this morning, saying that Maria has been out of sorts since my visit; she suspected us of indulging in our previous intimacies and had been upset by the thought of it. He writes that he denied it in the strongest possible terms and assured her that, were she to ask me, I would confirm that no such transgression had taken place. He is writing to alert me, he says, that a letter from her might well be forthcoming.
I am disgusted and horrified at the very thought of it. Poor Maria! That she should suspect us now, when, of all ironies, nothing at all has happened between us! Richard goes on to state that Maria has been in a state of nervous excitement since she first admitted to him that she was pregnant. He says she has too much time on her hands, and has little to do but think and fret. He hopes that she will soon have the baby to think of, and will not trouble herself further; the baby will keep her occupied. He says that, if I should find myself in London at any time, I should alert him, and he would be happy to pay me a visit at whichever boarding house I am staying in, so as to not trouble Maria further.
Are all men like this? I am beginning to feel that they are! How foolish I have been, to not see it until now.
But this is so typical of Richard in particular: that he would fret about his beloved wife in one sentence, and almost immediately afterwards suggest that he should call upon me privately. A few weeks or months ago I might have been overjoyed to receive this letter, for it suggests that he still loves me, still desires me, and that perhaps he regrets the restrictions of a marriage covenant after all. In fact, none of these things is true. This revelation has come upon me quite suddenly, that he does not love me and probably he never did. He found me, perhaps, diverting. And with that revelation another follows fast on its heels: perhaps he finds Maria merely diverting, too. Perhaps he will find someone else more to his liking, and so it will continue.
Perhaps I am considering him unfairly; after all, he married Maria. He might have cast her aside.
Tuesday, 29th August
I planned to visit Frances this afternoon, but I arrived early and found myself at the chapel. I have decided that I shall not be afraid of the reverend, for I am certain that he must regret the event just as I do. If he should approach me again, I will decline politely and leave.
As before, I expected the gate to be locked and it was not. I should have closed the gate again and walked away, but of course I did not. I walked up the path to the side and, as before, found the back door open and apparently nobody inside.
The thought occurred to me, after my revelations about Richard Field yesterday, following his letter, that perhaps the reverend was in his vestry and perhaps he was entertaining another parishioner. Perhaps, like Richard, the reverend is a man who simply cannot decide which lover is best, and so keeps them all, until he is found out, or challenged. Men are such very odd creatures, that they do not know their own minds!
He was alone, however, and apparently pleased to see me. He made me tea. We sat and talked about his sermon, and the circumstances surrounding my return. I told him the school was lacking in facilities and was not supportive of its staff, which appeared to satisfy his curiosity.
Then he said that he hoped I had not returned on his account.
I said I did not understand what he meant, and his cheeks flushed and he replied that he hoped that I had not assumed from our previous time here in the vestry that he had developed some sort of attachment to me. I told him that I absolutely had not; that in fact the very reverse of it was true, and that we should both put it to the back of our minds, and not consider it again.
I felt stronger for having said this.
I got to my feet and made to leave, and he stood in the doorway, and apologised, and said I should not be offended, for he understood well enough that I was an intelligent woman as well as a deeply spiritual one, but that he had never thought of the indulgence of God-given desire as a sin.
I was so surprised at this remark – clearly he has thought about it in some depth, and so his intimacy with me was not, after all, a mindless capitulation to a physical need – that I took my seat once more and allowed him to continue.
He told me the most curious tale, then, about how his wife is a good woman, and a good mother to their sons, and a virtuous one besides, but how his marriage was almost entirely without the natural affection that ought to exist between a man and his wife.
I asked him why that was, and he told me that she had been delivered of a stillborn son at her first confinement and had never quite recovered, even though she had had three healthy babes since then. And then they had had a fourth child, another boy, after their youngest, but he had lived but a short while and had then been taken to the Lord, and she had quite blamed him for the death of their son.
I asked why his wife had blamed him, when such a thing, though terrible, was so very common as to affect almost every family at some time?
He said that his wife believed him to have strayed from the path of righteousness and to have been tempted into sin, and the very great fear of losing her reputation and that of her family had caused her a deal of distress, so that her pains were brought on early, and the child was born very small and weak.
‘And were you?’ I asked.
‘Was I …?’ he answered.
‘Were you tempted into sin?’
He looked at me, his eyes unfocused as if his thoughts were occupied with the business of remembering that sad time; I thought he looked almost beautiful, if a man can be such a thing, with his eyes blue as the summer sky and his hair dark and curling about his ears, lost in consideration of the past. ‘Of course I was,’ he said.
Afterwards, in the passage at the side of the chapel I had to stop and be sick. It came upon me quite suddenly, and just as quickly was past. I wiped my mouth on my handkerchief and went on.
He thinks me, perhaps, an impressionable young girl who might feel sorry for him, this poor honest man who works s
o hard to bring people to the Lord and is sorely punished for having a cold wife. He thinks I should feel sorry for him, because his poor wife lost a child due to the pain of his infidelities! And he has unburdened himself to me, and has told me of his failings, and disguised them as triumphs. I am not entirely sure if I feel pity for him, or disgust, or something else. Perhaps I should feel a little flattered, that he revealed himself to me in that way. For he surely thinks of me as trustworthy: he knows I cannot tell anyone of our conversation, nor shall I. I have become his keeper of secrets, and in return he is my – what? What is he, to me? I cannot even think of it now without feeling unwell.
Thursday, 31st August
Sometimes situations seem quite altered when regarded afresh after a period of time. Richard is never far from my thoughts, but I have been remembering how our connection came about, the circumstances surrounding it, and it seems to me now so much less romantic than it seemed then.
That he seduced me, I now have no doubt. But it was not a seduction such as you see in a novel, with a reluctant, foolish girl being assaulted until she relents. In my case it started with conversation, and an unexpected kiss. It was not a relentless pursuit, even if the attention was unsought. I went to London that first time with no notions of love or passion, only the desire to teach and improve the lives and prospects of the girls at my school. My family released me into the care of a man thirty years my senior, recommended to them by the board as being respectable and kindly, and did not expect that I should, within the space of a few months, be sharing his bed.
It began with a kiss – on my hand, and then, on a further occasion, days afterwards, my cheek; and then my lips, when I did not turn my face away. Each of them followed by apologies for his behaviour and desperate promises not to insult me further. But in my mind he was not a wicked seducer, for I liked him; we had interesting, grown-up conversations, and he listened to me, and did not dismiss me as a foolish girl. What else should I have done? For I had nowhere else to go, and so I forgave him his indiscretions, and gradually I began to wish for them to continue.
‘I fear I have developed an uncommon passion for your company, Harriet,’ he said to me once. I remember it well. Afterwards he avoided me for several days, coming in late and taking his supper in his room, and breakfasting before me. In the end I was so very distracted by it that I knocked on his study door, late one evening. I told him he need not keep himself so separate on my account, that I had no desire to embarrass him in any way, and that, if he wished to avoid me, then I should perhaps seek out a new lodging.
‘But this is your home,’ he said. ‘Do you not feel at home here?’
I said I did, I liked it very much. I had, privately, considered that my own reputation might be better served if I found lodging with a family, or perhaps a lady, but there were very few respectable houses that offered lodging in the area, and I felt myself lucky to have a room in such a fine house. Besides, were I to leave, then questions would be asked about why, and Richard’s own reputation might be damaged by my departure.
‘Then you must stay,’ he said warmly. ‘Don’t mind me, my dear. You know you are safe here.’
Safe.
Such an interesting thing to consider, now. I never felt in any danger. He told me he was lonely, and sad; and that I was young, and beautiful, and intelligent. It was flattery, of course, and my soul purred like a stroked cat to hear it. I prayed for him every night, that he might feel less alone, or that he might draw comfort from the Lord. He never forced himself upon me, or subjected me to any violence, or expressed any anger when I did not comply. I never felt afraid. But does the sheep feel afraid of the wolf, the first time she meets him?
It did not feel like seduction, right up to the moment that he knocked on my bedroom door, late into the night, when I was already asleep. But that is exactly what it was.
Friday, 1st September
I have been thinking a lot about Richard, and his behaviour towards me. About Maria, and that night I held her and shushed her and told her that I would leave. She had cried all over again, with relief. Perhaps she thought my intimacy with Richard ended on that night; that she had won him, because he had seeded himself inside her. But on that hot, final day in May, my heart so desperately sad and lonely, I sought him out in his study and kissed him, and made him love me for the last time. I do not regret it, although perhaps I should. I did not promise her anything other than that I would leave, and I kept that promise.
No matter. I doubt Richard will tell her, for it puts him in a very bad light, and he shan’t want that.
I had not written to Richard or Maria since his last letter, but this morning another letter arrived: perhaps with my salvation contained within it.
My dear Harriet,
I write in haste to inform you of another position that has recently been brought to my attention, that may be more to your taste: a new infant school at Arundel, in Sussex, is to be opened shortly and the board is in need of a teacher to take the management of the girls’ room. The senior school is a good one, I have heard. If you should desire it, I will happily send a letter of recommendation on your behalf, and inform you in due course of their reply.
Maria wishes me to send you her love; her time is very near. I hope to write again with happy news very soon, and until then, I remain,
Your friend,
Richard Field
Your friend. He has written in sight of Maria, or perhaps he showed it to her before he sent it; there is no mention of his previous letter, sent just a few days ago. No matter: there is another position! I feel a little reluctant however, thinking that perhaps it would be wise to at least visit the school, and the town, before committing myself to another potential mistake. I wrote back to Richard immediately, asking him to please recommend me, and if he knew how soon they required the successful applicant to begin? I told him I should like to visit first, to see the school and the town and to be sure that I should be happy there.
I told Frances, of course. Once or twice I have come early to her house and brought with me food to prepare her supper, and she has been most pleased to see me when she returned, tired and hungry. We sit and eat, and she tells me all the news of the school: Mr Campling’s blusterings, the progress of the senior girls; the funny little things that the smaller girls say.
I did so today: I made an oxtail stew this morning and set it on the stove to cook slowly, while I sat in her room, quietly, reading and writing here, and listening to the Beezleys bickering down in the bakehouse.
Frances watches me closely. I notice it because it is a gentle sort of watching, unobtrusive and yet strangely intimate. She watches me dress and undress; she watches me wash my body and she watches me sleep. I know she desires more from me, but I also know that she waits for me to find that same desire in myself. I do not say that I shall never find it, for I certainly feel affection towards her; I admire her very much indeed. And who knows, for certainly my heart is full of confusion for men and their ways.
Saturday, 2nd September
I woke in the darkness, needing the pot, and now I cannot sleep. I lay still for a while, listening to Frances breathing, and then I got out of bed and came to sit by the stove with my journal.
Arundel feels somehow closer to Bromley than St Albans, although it is not: this afternoon, leaving the dish of stew on the stove, I walked to the school to meet Frances and looked at the map of England that she has hanging on the wall of the girls’ schoolroom. As the crow flies, it is nearer; but the roads to it look poor. It is close to the sea, however, and the air will be clear. I think I should like that very much. Above all, I should have the management of the infant school, with nobody to tell me what to do with my pupils; if I do well, in a year or two I should then have my pick of the schools in London, if I wished to return.
If I am spared, of course. It is at this time of night that I feel the most afraid; it feels that death and damnation lurk all around us, in the darkness, waiting to claim us. In the morn
ing I shall feel foolish for these thoughts, of course, but now it seems that nothing good lies ahead for me.
Frances is stirring in the bed; she fidgets, sometimes, and talks in her sleep, just rambling nonsense, but rather sweet. She is not pretty but she is graceful, and strong, and bold. I wonder how that might feel, to love another girl; if it is different from a man. I think it should be very different, but perhaps that is a good thing. Men can be so brutal. In the act itself I find that energy rather exhilarating; but in other matters, in life and conversation, in quiet moments and in daily work, for example at the school, I find the brutality of men exhausting.
I do not know why I wrote that. I sometimes believe my honesty here is dangerous. If someone should read this! But it is the truth that resides in my heart, and this is my journal.
I am reminded of that visiting preacher – Mr Carter – who made such a point of speaking with me at that tea party and then would not leave me in peace. There was no harm in him, that I saw, just this dreadful persistence and the way he looked in my direction and yet never quite met my eyes. I sometimes believe that men can sense vulnerability the way a pony smells a pocketed apple; they seem to seek out women who are alone or friendless, and take advantage of a quiet temperament. It is a different form of brutality, I think, and just as exhausting.
The Murder of Harriet Monckton Page 37
