The Chain Garden

by Jane Jackson

  ‘That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘Not to her.’ Her gently smile robbed the words of any sting.

  He watched her survey the milling people. She was a paradox: unremarkable in her gown of dark grey silk, her brown hair neatly rather than fashionably dressed. Yet her contained public manner was totally at odds with the quick wit and ironic sense of humour she revealed to her friends.

  ‘Only another hour,’ she murmured, ‘and they will all be on their way. Perhaps I shouldn’t say this, but being an only child with few relatives, all of them delightfully distant, has its compensations.’

  Henry’s muffled snort of laughter took them both by surprise.

  ‘That’s better.’ She darted him a swift smile. ‘I’m so glad Zoe was able to get home, even if she can’t stay long. That was a beautiful solo. She has an exquisite voice. Her presence has certainly mellowed Mrs Chenoweth. I imagine John Ainsley and Edwin Philpotts will both be hoping the improvement is permanent.’

  Henry’s mouth twitched.

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘But surely I can be honest with an old friend?’

  As their eyes met an awareness of something shared warmed Henry. Honest with an old friend. She had given him the opening he needed: an opportunity he could not afford to ignore.

  ‘Mary, I – er–’ Doubts crowded in. He panicked and broke off, clearing his throat.

  ‘Yes, Henry?’

  ‘I – I’d like to talk to you. Not now, in a week or two maybe? I just have to –’

  ‘Take all the time you need, Henry.’ A faint flush coloured her cheeks but her voice remained perfectly calm.

  If only it were that easy. But as he nodded he felt his mood lift. He gazed at his younger daughter, a slim golden-haired beauty striking yet ethereal in black silk and lace.

  ‘She is lovely,’ Mary said. ‘You must be very proud of her. Indeed you have reason to be proud of all your children.’

  Henry didn’t reply. He was absorbed in an idea that initially had shocked him. Yet the more he considered it the more sense it made. Dorcas would understand. After all, nothing had changed for them. Nor would it. Dorcas was part of his life, part of him. Mary was a wealthy woman.

  His plan had been to ask her to join the adventurers. But her advisors would never countenance more than minimal investment and that was simply not enough. However, if he married her – he shifted uncomfortably, ashamed of such thoughts at a time like this. Yet what choice did he have? Louise was dead. Meanwhile, for him, for the family and everyone dependent on the mine, life had to go on. Problems had to be overcome by any means available.

  If he married Mary he would have access to considerable wealth. With that kind of money he could replace the pumping engine; buy water-cooled drills; perhaps even repay the bank the money he’d borrowed using the house as security. Would she have him? They had always got along well. The family liked her. She was intelligent and level headed. Most important – apart from the money – she enjoyed excellent health.

  Though she made light of being single and even extolled its advantages, what woman would forego the status and comfort of marriage in favour of lonely old age? It was far too soon. Waiting a respectable year was a convention he literally could not afford. Even so, he mustn’t rush his fences. Mary was a woman of breeding and class. He would need to treat her very carefully.

  ‘What was that? Oh yes. Colonel Hawkins tells me the boys are making quite a name for themselves in the gardening world.’

  Standing unnoticed at one side of the doorway, Grace watched her sister move from group to group accepting with a deprecating smile and downcast eyes the compliments showered on her.Zoe was sophisticated and beautiful and talented and loved. While she – could not enter the room.Swallowing nausea that made her hot and dizzy, Grace fled upstairs to her room.

  Henry felt drained yet edgy. It had been an exhausting week. The engineering works at Hayle had supplied the necessary parts for the pump only after he had promised payment – in cash – by the end of the month. The impertinence still rankled. Yet in his heart he couldn’t blame them.

  After working day and night over the weekend his men had got the pump operating once more. Three days later miners had been able to return to the lower levels. Now everything depended on their skill in picking up the lodes again.

  They would be drilling horizontally, which made far more dust than stoping. But other than reminding the captains to tell the men to cover their noses and mouths there was nothing he could do about it. The tin was there. The tributers would find it. They had to.

  Standing at his study window he saw her drive up. His heart gave a sudden thud and he drew back quickly, irritated and unsettled by his reaction. He went to his desk and sat down then immediately got up again and crossed to the door, opening it as Patrick knocked.

  ‘Miss Prideaux, sir.’

  ‘Mary, do come in.’ Her choice of lavender silk rather than the deep black of mourning inspired both relief and hope.

  ‘A tray of tea, sir?’

  ‘What? Oh, yes.’ As the door closed on the maid he turned, rubbing his hands together. ‘A pleasant journey?’

  ‘Very pleasant, thank you.’ She sat down.

  Beneath the brim of her hat her cheeks were pink. This startled and reassured him. But as she folded her hands and looked up waiting for him to speak, he wondered if he’d made a mistake, misjudged her. Doubt jolted confidence that was already shaky. He paced the room wondering how – where – to start. Telling himself not to be so ridiculous he coughed.

  ‘Mary, I – I –’ he stopped. He hadn’t the faintest idea how to continue.

  She raised one hand, her colour deepening. ‘Would it help if I were to tell you I have an idea of what it is you wish to say?’

  ‘You do?’ he blurted. ‘Forgive me. It’s just –’ he shook his head. ‘Should I continue? Or would you prefer –’

  ‘No, please go on. But – and please don’t take offence – I would appreciate total honesty.’ She must have seen the shock he couldn’t hide for she added gently, ‘I like to think we are friends, Henry. Between friends there should be no misunderstanding.’

  ‘You’re right.’ He owed her that. Abandoning his planned approach he paused to gather his thoughts. Then just as he drew breath to begin there was a knock. With a snort of irritation he threw open the door.

  ‘Your tea, sir.’

  ‘Thank you. Put it on the desk.’ He turned away as Kate set the tray down.

  ‘Shall I –?’ the housemaid began.

  ‘No. That will be all.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ Bobbing a curtsy Kate scuttled out.

  ‘Would you?’ he indicated the tray.

  ‘In a moment. You were about to say?’

  Resuming his pacing he told her the unvarnished truth about his desperate need for money if he were to hold onto the house, maintain the family’s standard of living and keep the mine functioning.

  She listened without interruption. When he’d finished he passed a hand over his cropped head feeling helpless, angry and ashamed.

  ‘Henry, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.’

  ‘I should hope not. It’s hardly something to be proud of.’

  Turning towards the tray she poured the tea. Then to his astonishment she added a dash of milk and half a teaspoonful of sugar to one. As she held it out to him she dipped her head so her hat hid her face. He thanked her, her awareness of his taste kindling a fresh spark of hope.

  After taking a sip of her own tea she replaced the cup and saucer on the desk and folded her hands once more in her lap. Though she appeared calm her knuckles betrayed her.

  ‘Henry, we wouldn’t be having this conversation were it not for my considerable wealth. I am willing to invest a substantial amount of money in Wheal Providence. However, there is a condition.’ She stopped. ‘Henry, do you think you could sit down?’ One hand strayed to her throat and she gave a breathless laugh. ‘This is not easy for either of us. To watch you pacing l
ike a caged animal doesn’t help.’

  Setting his cup and saucer down with a clatter he subsided into the chair opposite hers. Relief made him tremble.

  ‘A condition? Only one? Name it. I am already in your debt for the way you dealt with everything after – When Grace took to her bed. Your handling of my mother-in-law has been masterly.’

  ‘Thank you. Such kind remarks make it easier for me to –’ Rising, she moved towards the window. ‘As you know much of my life was devoted to nursing my parents.’ She glanced over her shoulder. ‘I would not have you think I begrudged one moment. Indeed it was a privilege to be able to return the love and care they lavished on me while I was growing up. While they needed me marriage was not an option. After they died I was no longer in the first flush of youth and it was not my person but my fortune that attracted suitors.’

  She turned to face him. ‘Despite increasing loneliness I found myself unable to consider offers from men I either could not respect, or for whom I did not feel that depth of affection one hopes for with a life partner.’

  She stopped again to moisten her lips. Henry was intrigued. He had never seen Mary other than totally in command of herself.

  ‘The welcome I have received in the Damerel household has brought be more happiness than words can express. I was deeply fond of Louise.’ She stopped speaking and gazed out of the window.

  Henry waited, literally biting his tongue.

  ‘However, spending as much time with her as I did, I could not help being aware – For a man such as yourself, strong and active, marriage to someone of such frail constitution cannot have been easy.’ She turned to face him, straight-backed, her cheeks stained crimson. But her gaze was unflinching. ‘My own health I’m pleased to say has always been exceptionally robust.’

  Henry stared at her momentarily dumbfounded. Thrown by her quiet dignity and request for total honesty he had abandoned his planned proposal. He had laid his financial problems before her and hoped for no more than an offer of investment. But she was proposing… Good God, she was proposing. Marriage was her condition for giving him the money he needed.

  As all the implications of her final remark registered he realized with a jolt that she wanted more than his name and the status of being Mrs rather than Miss. She wanted a full marriage with the possibility of children. She wanted him. Astonishment gave way to pride and darting excitement. It was years since he had experienced either.

  An image of Dorcas flashed across his mind. He pushed it aside. She would understand. The mine was his life just as painting was hers. She knew how long and how hard he had struggled as disaster loomed ever closer.

  Marriage to Mary meant more than survival. It meant he could build Wheal Providence up to rival the richest mine in Cornwall. He loved Dorcas. Nothing would change between them. What Mary did not know could not hurt her.

  ‘Henry?’

  Jerked from his thoughts he saw shadows of uncertainty and mortification cloud her face. He reached her in two strides and caught her hand holding it between both of his.

  ‘Forgive me, lass. It’s just – well, to be blunt, I didn’t expect –’

  ‘Why should you? Do you think me shameless?’ Her smile was unforced and self-mocking. But he sensed uncertainty.

  He squeezed her hand. ‘How could I?’ Then in affection and gratitude he raised it to his lips. ‘We understand one another. Mary, will you do me the very great honour of becoming my wife?’

  Her eyes glistened as she smiled up at him. ‘Thank you, Henry. I will.’ There was a small awkward pause. They both spoke at once.

  ‘Naturally, I wouldn’t –’

  ‘When had you –?’

  Henry cleared his throat. ‘I was thinking, if we did not wish to wait too long then –’

  ‘Perhaps a month or two?’

  His thoughts raced. Would she make him wait for the money until after the ring was on her finger?

  ‘Public opinion does not concern me,’ she continued. ‘But I am fond of your family and as our decision inevitably involves them as well, I feel a short delay would be tactful. Don’t you think?’

  He nodded. He had no choice.

  ‘A quiet ceremony in the chapel with just the family would suit me very well. It is, after all, a very private and personal matter. Meanwhile I will make appointments with my lawyers and the bank.’

  ‘You won’t regret this, Mary,’ his voice was thick. As he pressed another kiss onto her knuckles she shyly touched his cheek.

  ‘Henry, about telling the family –‘

  ‘Best leave it a while. Not long,’ he added quickly, not wanting her to think him reluctant. ‘But what you were saying about tact – well, it’s only a week since – You do understand?’

  ‘Of course. When the time comes would you rather make the announcement on your own?’

  ‘Good God, no! What I mean is –’

  ‘I know exactly what you mean, Henry.’ Her dry tone was belied by an understanding smile. ‘We’ll do it together.’

  ‘Mary,’ he hesitated. ‘Would you tell Grace? Privately? She and her mother – You know. I think she’d take it better from you, being another woman. Would you mind?’ He could feel himself sweating, and eased his stiff collar with a forefinger.

  She pressed his hand. ‘Of course not.’

  After seeing her out, he returned to his study and sat at his desk. He must tell Dorcas. But it wasn’t urgent. Right now he had more than enough on his plate. He could wait a week or two. Once the news got out the village gossips would pounce like crows on carrion. But Dorcas would understand.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Just after ten on the last Sunday in July, Edwin left the manse carrying an overnight bag to make the five-mile walk to Godolphin Wollas where he would preach an afternoon and evening service. Heavy dew still spangled the grass that edged the road, the glittering droplets indicating a fine day. In a bluebell sky small clouds were piling into fleecy billows that trailed shadows in their wake as they sailed high over the landscape.

  From the hillside he looked down onto woodland boasting every shade of green from the dark gloss of holly to the pink-tinted jade of sycamore and the burgundy richness of an occasional copper beech.

  Cut hayfields looked scalped and pallid against lush pastures where cattle grazed. Scarlet poppies dotted fields of ripening wheat and barley like splattered blood. The thought –a dagger thrust between his ribs – stopped his breath. He thrust it away and inhaled deeply. Not now. Not today. Concentrate on something else. His eye caught by two peacock butterflies fluttering above a pale green field of oats that rippled in the breeze like water, he thought of Grace.

  Her portrait lay in the bottom of his bag protected by two sheets of writing paper. She had glowed that day, her lacy gown a change from her usual skirt and blouse. Even allowing that she had been her mother’s principal nurse and companion, closer to her than anyone else, bereavement had affected her more severely than he would have expected.

  Now a door had closed on part of her life. What would she do with the rest of it? How he wished…Such thoughts were worse than foolish. She deserved so much more than he could offer. But knowing that didn’t ease the ache or stop the yearning.

  It was almost eleven-thirty when he reached the farm. A broad carriage drive led up to a heavy front door, which on most Cornish farms was only ever used by the undertaker. Edwin walked round to the back.

  The house was large and solid, the granite walls softened by a green tangle of ivy and Virginia creeper that reached to the eaves and fringed deep white-painted sash windows whose many small panes reflected the sun.

  Following the flagged path that separated the house from the kitchen garden he arrived at the ever-open back door as his host came out to greet him.

  Norman Angove was wearing his black Sunday-best suit, a starched collar, a gold watch chain looped across his waistcoat, and a broad smile.

  ‘How do, Mr Philpotts.’ Seizing Edwin’s hand he gave it a hearty sha
ke. ‘Handsome day, isn’t it?’

  ‘It certainly is,’ Edwin smiled.

  ‘Surely better ‘n the last time you was here. Mind you, we needed the rain. Come on inside.’ He led the way into an airy kitchen rich with the savoury aroma of cooking. Edwin’s stomach gurgled and his mouth watered in anticipation.

  ‘Morning, Mr Phillpotts.’ Lucy Angove glanced up, her plump face flushed and smiling. On the top of the Cornish range three saucepans bubbled. Gripping one corner of a large roasting tin with a folded cloth, she ladled the juices over the browning meat, her frilled blouse and dark skirt protected by a crisp white apron.

  As she replaced the tin in the lower part of the oven, Edwin glimpsed another on the top shelf full of golden roast potatoes. Hunger sent pangs through his stomach. Slamming the oven door shut, Lucy hung the cloth over the brass rail and wiped her hands on her apron.

  ‘Dinner won’t be long. I expect you’re ready for it. ‘Tis some long way from Trewartha. Norman, haven’t you offered Mr Phillpotts a drink? The poor man just walked five miles in the sun.’

  ‘Give us a chance, woman. Fancy a glass of apple juice, Mr Phillpotts?’

  ‘That would be most welcome, thank you.’

  ‘Fetch a fresh flagon, Norm. The boys near enough finished that one in the larder.’ She turned to Edwin. ‘Sit down a minute and rest your legs.’

  Dropping his bag Edwin pulled out one of the hoop-back wooden chairs. Spread with a gleaming white starched cloth the oblong table was set for five. He gazed round and felt the welcoming atmosphere enfold him.

  Above a stone sink big enough to bathe in, sunshine streaming in through the window illuminated spotless flagstones. Scrubbing had bleached the grooved wooden draining board almost white. Cheerful red-checked curtains were fastened back to allow in as much light as possible. Beneath the sink stood a full bucket of clean water drawn from the pump in the yard.

  Cupboards stretched along one wall from waist height to floor. Above them on a wide shelf holding saucepans, baking tins, mixing bowls and serving dishes, a floral-painted tea caddy sat next to wide-topped stone jars labelled salt, sugar and flour. Colourful crockery was displayed on an enormous oak dresser.