by Jane Jackson
A hunted expression flashed across Bryce’s face. Then because she clearly expected it and good manners forbade him denying her, Bryce took Alice’s hands and kissed her upturned cheek. Yet it was obvious from the speed with which he stepped back and the distance he established between them that whatever hopes Alice harboured, he did not share them.
As Bryce crossed to the dogcart and Alice struggled to mask disappointment, Grace ached in sympathy. She knew how it felt to yearn for someone who saw you only as a friendly acquaintance, a useful pair of hands.
There was no doubt Edwin valued what she did. If it was her week for the flowers he never failed to compliment her arrangement. When she cleaned the chapel or it was her turn to make teas for the Ladies’ Bright Hour, he thanked her for being so generous with her time.
Unable to meet his eye, her burning skin dewy with nervous perspiration, she would murmur incoherently then rush away. How she longed for him to like her for who she was, not just for what she did.
Yet were it not for her jobs she would be simply one more vaguely familiar face among the three villages on his circuit. At least he knew her name. And it was nice to be thanked. Old Mr Peters hadn’t believed in gratitude. In his view work done for the Lord was its own reward. Grace’s breath caught on a sigh and she wrenched her thoughts back to her surroundings.
Reaching beneath the seat Bryce pulled out a wooden box. He had shown her its contents the previous evening: dozens of small paper packets of seed, all carefully marked.
Reluctantly Richard tore himself away from Sophie and turned to her father. ‘We sent back five –’
‘Six,’ Bryce corrected.
‘Yes, you’re right. Six parcels of seeds and specimens.’
Colonel Hawkins nodded. ‘We received them all. Percy Tresidder is not a demonstrative man. But each time one of your parcels arrived he was like a dog with two tails. How did you do it?’
‘It wasn’t easy,’ Richard admitted. ‘After we left Sadiyya the only way we could send mail was by entrusting it to the Digaru.’
‘What’s a Digaru?’ Sophie asked shyly.
Richard smiled at her. ‘They are one of the two Mishmi clans living in the valley and spend much of their time fighting each other. In return for keeping the jungle track to Rima open, the Digaru are excused paying taxes and are allowed to carry firearms. Most important for us, they guarantee the safety of travellers passing through their country.’
‘We recruited fifty of them to carry all our baggage and rations,’ Bryce added. ‘But once we reached Rima they refused to march more than ten miles from their village, which meant that every ten miles we had to recruit new coolies.’
‘Our letters and packages probably passed through twenty different hands before they reached Sadiyya,’ Richard said. ‘If any of those men had decided to hide them or throw them away we would never have known.’
‘No doubt you want to see what Percy has been up to during your absence?’ Colonel Hawkins’ eyes twinkled. ‘The nurseries cover twenty-five acres now.’
‘Twenty-five?’ the twins repeated in unison.
Their patron’s grin was proud as he nodded towards the box in Bryce’s arms. ‘Is that the rest?’
Bryce fell into step beside him. ‘I saw some amazing specimens in the alpine region near a glacier. The strangest were two I saw on wet scree. One looked as if was creeping across the cold stones. It had scarlet trumpets that always pointed down the slope. The other had matted stems and such a dense spread of magenta flowers you couldn’t see a single leaf.’
‘You have photographs?’ the colonel demanded.
‘Of course, sir. They clearly show the habit.’
‘Though not the colours, unfortunately.’ Colonel Hawkins sighed.
‘That will come, sir. You mark my words.’
The colonel glanced back. ‘Will you excuse us, Grace? Girls, take Grace in to see your mother.’
As the three men strode towards the walled garden and nurseries, Sophie tucked her arm through Grace’s.
‘Did Richard do lots of paintings while he was away?’ she asked as the three of them moved towards the house. ‘Have you seen them yet? Are they wonderful?’
‘Yes, yes and yes,’ Grace laughed. ‘You will see them for yourself when you come to my birthday dinner next week. There are so many it would take days to look at them all properly.’
‘I cannot imagine a more delightful pastime,’ Sophie beamed.
‘I can’t wait to see Bryce’s photographs,’ Alice said. ‘When I look at them I shall imagine what it was like to be in the jungle and the mountains. I daresay it was interesting to see such places. Though I’m sure they must be glad to be home.’
Grace smiled but said nothing. Of Richard’s feelings there could be no doubt. About Bryce she wasn’t so sure. He had warned her he was very tired. Yet something about him worried her: an air of strain which, the instant he knew himself observed, he instantly masked with jokes and questions that distracted her. She wanted to help. But at the moment he was keeping what troubled him to himself.
Home to each new Methodist minister, the manse was an early Victorian house set a few feet back from the road and sufficiently spacious to accommodate a large family and several servants. A wooden gate in the low stone wall stood permanently open.
To the left of a paved path leading to a granite front step, tiny white bells of lily-of-the-valley sheltered beneath a myrtle bush. To the right, hydrangeas were unfurling fresh green leaves. An oblong of plain glass above the front door allowed light into a hallway that would otherwise have been dark and gloomy.
In the small back bedroom he had chosen for its view over fields to the river, Edwin Philpotts tied the tapes of his black vest behind his back. Securing the stiff white band with a flat stud he eased it away from his neck, the edge as sharp as a blade against his finger. Buttoning his waistcoat he shrugged into the old fashioned black frock coat that proclaimed his calling as clearly as his dog collar.
From the mirror standing on the chest of drawers a sombre face frowned back at him. Pastoral visits were one thing: this was different. Nor was it wise. He could have declined. The invitation had been written, not verbal.
Flora Bowden, the housekeeper inherited from his elderly predecessor, had brought the sealed envelope to his study and handed it to him with a loud sniff, a signal that something had upset her.
The first time he heard that sniff had been the day he met Grace Damerel. Introduced by Mrs Nancholas, his encounter with Grace had been fleeting. No sooner had they shaken hands than she had rushed away.
Tall, slim, fair was all he had registered of her general appearance. But wide grey eyes and fiery colour staining creamy skin were images that had remained with him for the rest of the day and long into a sleepless night.
He had had to force his attention back to Mrs Nancholas who was telling him how helpful he would find Miss Damerel. It was then that Miss Bowden, carrying a dustpan, had passed them with a sidelong glance and a loud sniff. Guessing a response was expected he had asked Miss Bowden politely if she too was succumbing to the head cold going round the village. The words were out before he caught Mrs Nancholas’s warning look.
Miss Bowden, her pigeon chest swelling with indignation, had responded that she enjoyed excellent health thank-you-very-much. Not like some she could mention who took to their beds every time the wind changed.
Aware of undercurrents best ignored, he replied he was delighted to hear it and turning back to Mrs Nancholas asked about hymns for the following Sunday.
Laying it aside while Miss Bowden fussed about putting more coal on the fire, he resumed work on his sermon. Not until several moments after her reluctant departure had he laid down his pen and picked up the envelope. He recognised the writing from various lists pinned to the chapel notice board.
He should have declined. He had quickly grown used to hearing her name mentioned by the sick and elderly he visited. He couldn’t think of any village organisati
on to which she didn’t contribute in some way. Even those embittered by loss and hardship softened when they spoke of her.
His parents claimed no church could function, much less flourish, without women. He had seen that truth for himself. Ministers and missionaries might draw in converts. But it was women who cleaned and polished, arranged hospitality for visiting clergy, ran all the support groups, organised activities for raising funds, and comprised more than half the congregation.
Such observations found little sympathy with his superiors who warned him that while an occasional word of appreciation was permissible it must be general. He must at all costs avoid singling out any one person for praise. Doing so risked fomenting jealousy and ill feeling.
It was a well-known fact that women, especially single women, were prone to developing emotional attachments to doctors or clergymen. This applied particularly to women of a certain age whose balance of mind was in any case precarious. As his circuit covered three villages containing a number of such creatures, it behoved him, a younger man and unmarried, to be doubly careful.
Exhausted, still traumatised, and grateful to be allowed to continue in his vocation, he promised circumspection. A missionary since his ordination he had no experience of life as a circuit minister. He was discovering it required boundless tact and diplomacy. Praise given to one group had to be matched by gratitude to another. Yet it cost little. Their initial shock informed him their efforts had never been considered worthy of mention, let alone deserving of thanks. And they showed their appreciation by working even harder.
He heaved a deep shuddering sigh. He should have declined. He could have found a legitimate excuse. She would have accepted it: believed it. But he didn’t want to lie to her, even though she would not know it was a lie. You’ll tell her the truth then? You’ll tell her the real reason you were sent back to England?
The image in the glass gazed back at him, hollow-eyed, anguished. He had not known her long. But three and a half months was more than sufficient to recognize that her kindness to the poor of the village went far beyond what might be expected from local gentry. Long enough to sense hurts bravely covered. Long enough to realize the true depth of his feelings for her. Feelings he could never admit.
He knew she was not indifferent to him. When they met in the village, in the chapel, after Sunday school, she always smiled when she returned his greeting. Though she never initiated conversation, never tried to detain him as others did, she would willingly discuss chapel matters provided he took care to look at her only when her own gaze was lowered. For if he caught her eye her colour rose and she shied away like a startled gazelle.
He should have sent his regrets. But he had not. He would go. He would be polite and pleasant to her parents and the other guests: do and say all that was proper. For a little while he would be near her. And perhaps she might look on him as a friend.
In her bedroom Grace frowned at her reflection in the long glass. She had planned to wear the pretty cameo her parents had given her for her twenty-first birthday. But her hands were shaking so much she couldn’t get the pin level. Her skin prickled with nervous perspiration. She dropped the brooch on her dressing table and snatched up a crumpled handkerchief soaked in lavender water.
Pressing it to her upper lip then her forehead and temples she drew deep breaths and mentally repeated the greeting she had been rehearsing all afternoon. Good evening, Mr Philpotts. The villagers called him Reverend. But that term was properly used only in writing. Good evening, Mr Philpotts. How kind of you to come. That sounded polite and welcoming without being effusive.
Why was she so flushed? Her bath had been deliberately tepid. Staring into the glass she pressed her fingers to hot cheeks. A lady’s hands were supposed to be cool. Hers were cold, while the rest of her was far too warm. Perhaps if she held her wrists under the cold tap – No, that would mean unbuttoning her cuffs. If fastening one brooch was beyond her she couldn’t possibly manage twelve tiny buttons.
Her mother had wanted her to have a dress specially made for this evening. She had refused. How could she justify an unnecessary luxury when her father was beset by financial problems? Besides, she had worn her blue so seldom it was virtually new.
In her heart of hearts she did not feel she had anything to celebrate. What was different from last year? Or the year before?
Tonight Edwin Philpotts was coming to dinner. As her heartbeat quickened she re-focused on her reflection. At least the high close-fitting collar hid the hollows at the base of her throat. The dress was white figured net over blue silk, the bodice drawn in by a broad sash of blue satin that emphasised the slenderness of her waist. Full sleeves of pleated chiffon were gathered into deep tight cuffs, and the hem of the deeply gored skirt was edged with a narrow frill that brushed her white kid slippers. Violet had gathered her hair up into a loose topknot of curls.
She glanced at the clock. It was time to go. Her gaze fell on the brooch. She reached out a hand, observed its tremor and left the cameo on her dressing table.
Descending the staircase ahead of her, her father was immaculate in a single-buttoned dinner jacket with silk facings. Against the dense black his stiff collar was starkly white, his face the colour of raw beef beneath close-cropped pewter hair. A gold link gleamed in his pristine cuff.
Elegant lavender silk flattered her mother’s pale complexion. Her hair appeared thicker than usual, and was dressed in a becoming style enhanced by two silk flowers that matched her dress. Realising that Violet had used pads of false hair to create the fullness, Grace was touched that her mother should think the occasion worth such effort.
Following them downstairs and across the hall to the drawing room, Grace drew another tremulous breath.
Louise took a small glass of dry sherry from the tray Patrick offered and smiled at Grace. ‘Darling, you look lovely. Doesn’t she, Henry?’
‘Indeed she does.’ Lifting a crystal tumbler containing an inch of whisky he raised it in salute. ‘Happy birthday, lass.’
Grace’s heart swelled. ‘Thank you, Papa.’
Louise extended her free hand to her elder daughter. ‘I want this to be a special evening, my darling. I do wish you had agreed to a dance. I would so like to see you have fun. You work so hard.’
‘Wow!’
She turned to see Bryce studying her in open astonishment.
‘You look really nice.’
‘There’s no need to sound quite so surprised,’ she teased.
‘Really Bryce,’ Louise scolded.
‘No, I didn’t mean –’ He pulled a face. ‘Sorry. Out of practice, I’m afraid. Evening, Father. How did the meeting go?’
As her father remained silent Grace held her breath.
‘Perhaps this isn’t the right time to ask,’ Bryce said. ‘I just – I was interested that’s all.’ As his father’s eyebrows lifted Bryce continued quietly. ‘I couldn’t do what you do, Father. And God knows you wouldn’t want my life.’ There was a painful edge to his voice that startled Grace. ‘But that doesn’t mean I’m not concerned when I read about mines all over the county closing down. It can’t be easy for you or any mine owner at the moment.’
‘It’s not.’ Henry cleared his throat. ‘I’m much obliged to you.’ He drained his glass and turned away looking for Patrick.
‘Here’s Granny,’ Grace murmured.
‘Good God,’ Bryce whispered. ‘Still in mourning?’
In unrelieved black except for her customary pearls, Hester stood in the doorway waiting for someone to escort her to a chair. Spotting Grace she beckoned.
‘No,’ Bryce restrained her. ‘Richard and I will take care of Granny this evening. A couple of glasses of sherry should loosen her up.’
Grace caught his arm, her voice low. ‘Bryce, be careful. We don’t want –’
‘We don’t want to see you running about after Granny. This is your party and your guests will be arriving at any moment. There’s the doorbell.’ He patted her hand. ‘Here they
come. Enjoy yourself.’
Grace’s heart had leapt into her throat. She clasped her hands tightly hoping to stop their renewed trembling as the door opened to admit John Ainsley.
‘Happy birthday, Grace.’ John kissed his niece’s cheek and handed her a package. ‘I hope you’ll find this useful.’
She undid the wrappings and found writing case of tooled leather and an elegant fountain pen. ‘Oh, they’re wonderful! Thank you, Uncle John. How very kind.’
‘It was my pleasure.’ Smiling, John Ainsley took a glass of sherry. As he moved away the door opened again to admit Mary Prideaux with Alice Hawkins close behind. Richard turned expectantly towards the door.
‘Happy birthday, my dear,’ Mary kissed Grace. ‘I came via Polwellan and collected Alice. Poor Sophie sends her apologies.’ Her words stopped Richard in his tracks. ‘She has developed a streaming cold and is confined to bed. Mrs Hawkins asked me to tell you how desperately disappointed she is. She was so looking forward to coming.’
‘I’m so sorry she’s not well.’ Seeing Richard’s expression Grace knew Sophie’s disappointment could not be deeper than his.
‘Happy birthday, Grace.’ Alice pressed two flat packages tied with red ribbon into Grace’s hand. These were opened to reveal some embroidered handkerchiefs and a handmade bookmark.
‘That’s so kind of you, Alice. Please tell Sophie I’ll write to her.’
‘Yes. Will you excuse me?’
‘Oh dear,’ Mary said softly beside Grace as they watched Alice approach Bryce with fluttering lashes. Turning to Grace she smiled. ‘I have a feeling the coming year is going to be a very special one for you.’ She pressed a package into Grace’s hand. ‘A small token of my affection and regard.’
Opening the little box Grace gasped. Nestling in midnight-blue velvet was a dainty gold ring set with a turquoise surrounded by seed pearls.
‘Oh, Mary! It’s beautiful.’
‘Here, let me hold the box.’ Mary took it as Grace extracted the ring and slipped it onto the third finger of her right hand.
