The Chymical Wedding

by Lindsay Clarke

  Frere sat unhappily over his notes for Sunday’s sermon. His attention, fitful at best, was distracted from his appointed text by memories of the second lesson read earlier that week on All Saints’ Day. It had been from the Book of Revelation: After these things I heard a voice of a great multitude in heaven saying, “Hallelujah, Salvation and Glory, and power belong to God: for true and righteous are his judgements; for he hath judged the great harlot which did corrupt the earth with her fornication, and he hath avenged the blood of his servants at her hand.”

  As witness to the Christian triumph over pagan idolatry this was consoling, and he had taken it so at first reading, but it was hard now to picture the great harlot with Amy Larner’s crabapple cheeks and injured eyes. Try as he might, he simply could not make the description fit. Not unless she became so raddled by her experience as an outcast that she were remade – or unmade rather – in this hideous image. How he envied Emilia’s untroubled conviction in the rightness of her judgement. Why could he too not put the matter out of his mind, and attend to the problem of preserving other young women of the parish from a similar fate?

  He could not. Therefore something must be done.

  And soon.

  He checked the clock. Still before nine. It was perhaps not too late, if a little unconventional, to put in action a plan he had conceived during the course of the meal. If he did nothing, he would sleep badly again, and one troubled night was enough. There was, after all, a place in the hamlet where he might receive sympathetic and, perhaps, productive attention.

  A maid answered his knock, still drying her hands on a white apron, and so perturbed by this late demand at the door that only after a moment’s suspicious scrutiny did she bob to receive him. Sir Henry had company, she informed him, but if the parson would care to wait a moment, she would apprise the master of his arrival. She disappeared, and Frere shifted from foot to foot, holding his wet hat in the entrance hall. The chime of a tall-case clock startled him from his consternation. He should have anticipated that there might be company. He had been in error to arrive without prior notice, particularly on business that required some discretion. But he could not now vanish.

  “Mr Frere, how kind of you to call.”

  He looked up and saw Louisa Agnew at the head of the stair. She wore a full-skirted gown of silvery-blue sheen, and her ringlets were clasped back in braids which emphasized the slender line of her neck. Her smile as she descended was one of gratified surprise, though it masked, he feared, some mild confusion.

  “Good evening, Miss Agnew. I must apologize for presenting myself at this late hour.”

  “It is an unexpected pleasure,” she answered, smiling warmly, “I have been meaning to call up on you at the Rectory…”

  But he was already speaking over the second of her sentences, and she laughed lightly at the collision of their words, gesturing for him to speak again.

  “I had hoped for a brief word with your father, but he has company, I understand. The moment was ill-chosen.”

  “I am sure he will be as pleased to see you as I. It is already a gentlemen’s evening. Father is at chess with Dr Horrocks of Saxburgh, who is a frequent guest, so please do not discompose yourself.” She knew already that the parson was a diffident man, but had she detected a greater discomfort on his face than simple shyness would warrant? “Is there perhaps some difficulty?”

  “A small… er… matter has arisen. I thought perhaps the baronet might be able to advise me. However, I would not wish to disturb his leisure with a friend. Perhaps tomorrow? The matter is of no immediate urgency.”

  “Urgent enough to bring you out on an inclement night. We shall not let you leave disappointed. Alice,” she said to the returning maid, “take the Reverend Frere’s coat and hat. I will show him through myself.”

  Even as he unbuttoned his topcoat, Frere continued to demur, but Louisa would not hear of it. “Father and the Doctor spend too much time in silence over the board. A distraction should restore their powers of speech.” She led him through to a room at the rear of the Hall and opened the door saying, “Here is Mr Frere, Father, in need of your counsel.”

  The baronet and the doctor rose from the studded leather chairs before the fire. There was a low chess table between them on which few pieces remained standing. A pale mantle of tobacco smoke was draped about their heads.

  “Come in, Frere, come in.” Agnew brusquely overrode the parson’s apologies. He was in much finer fettle than earlier in the day. The conversation with Louisa had strengthened his resolve and, as she had foretold, the evening with Tom Horrocks had greatly brightened his humour. His friendship with the doctor was a meeting of opposites in mutual relaxation, and their debates a kind of intellectual wrestling match conducted without hostility and always with a warmth of affection that consoled Agnew for the long hours of solitary study. He had been further heartened by Tom’s apparent failure to discern any signs of strain to his health. Furthermore it was already clear that the evening’s game was his. “Come and meet Tom Horrocks,” he invited, “one of the few civilized heads in Saxburgh Hundred… if a confounded materialist can qualify for the epithet. Fortunately he’s a better physician than he is a philosopher.”

  The doctor grinned amiably at this pejorative introduction and offered a large hand. He was a handsome, long-boned man in his forties, with a Romanesque head and gaunt cheeks fringed by grizzled Dundrearies. “You have arrived just in time to save me from humiliation, Mr Frere,” he said. An engaging smile puckered the wrinkles about his eyes. The grip was firm.

  Frere glanced quickly at the board. “I think you are polite, Dr Horrocks. This still looks to me a hot engagement.”

  “I would have had him in four moves,” Agnew said a little ruefully.

  “I think my knight has more fight in him than that,” Horrocks protested, “but…” – he toppled his king – “I confess myself resigned this past ten minutes. And now the parson is here to bury the dead.”

  “You will take some brandy, Mr Frere?”

  “I had not meant…”

  “Come. A little will counter the effects of that damp easterly outdoors. Sit yourself down before the fire.”

  While Agnew attended to the decanter, Frere flipped the skirts of his coat and settled in the proffered chair. Louisa had made no motion to leave, and already he was worrying how best to raise the matter on his mind in this mixed company.

  “So – you are a chess player yourself, Mr Frere,” the doctor observed. The parson made a deprecatory gesture with his hands but his smile hinted at a larger answer.

  “Excellent,” said Agnew, handing the unexpected guest a fuller snifter than Frere would have preferred. “Matt Stukely had no head for the game. As often as not I’d look up from some move I’d long pondered and find him in the land of Nod.”

  “Am I to be excluded from this masculine conclave,” Louisa asked, “or may I share your fire for a while?”

  “Sit down, child,” said Agnew. Frere’s consternation grew.

  “I was wearying of your father’s smirk,” said Horrocks. “Now with the parson’s company and the addition of your beauty, the evening takes an altogether fairer turn.”

  Evidently Louisa was accustomed to such blandishments from this family friend. “And Mrs Frere?” she said, turning to the other guest. “She is quite well?”

  “Very well. Yes.”

  “And happily settled in her new home?”

  Even polite lies came hard to the lips of Edwin Frere. He nodded, contriving a smile, though his eyes shifted away. A silence fell over the little group. Frere’s hand strayed to the lobe of his ear.

  After a moment Louisa said, “I believe Mr Frere has a small problem to share with you, Father. I have emboldened him to make free with it.”

  Thus, too rapidly for calculation,Frere found himself confronted by expectancy. “I fear this is not quite the occasion…”

  There was something in this characteristic diffidence that made Henry Agnew fi
dget. Not that he disliked the man, but a greater firmness of purpose on the parson’s part would economize with everyone’s time and embarrassment. “Come, be forward with us, man,” he urged, as he thought, warm-heartedly. “We’re all friends here. Speak up. What help we can give we shall.”

  Frere’s hand stiffened about the snifter. “It is a matter of some delicacy.”

  A log tumbled in the grate sending a constellation of sparks up the chimney. The baronet and the doctor glanced at one another, then Horrocks reached for the poker and began to chivvy the embers. After such a generous exhortation it was not possible for Agnew similarly to shift his attention. Observing the manner in which Frere avoided Louisa’s thoughtful face, he was wondering whether he should ask his daughter to leave after all.

  “It has some bearing on my legacy from Mr Stukely,” Frere murmured into the silence.

  “You refer to the matter of Amy Larner, I think?”

  Frere looked up at Louisa in surprise. “You have heard?”

  The young woman smiled, pleased with herself. “Did I not once tell you that Munding has few secrets? You may relax a little, Mr Frere. I am already apprised of the situation.”

  “What situation?” Agnew demanded in some perplexity.

  “Amy’s departure from the Rectory, Papa. I told you of it yesterday evening.”

  Agnew grunted and frowned. “Ah yes. Poor old Amy… Good enough soul, that one, I should have thought.”

  Dr Horrocks looked up from the fire. “Is this the young woman I am thinking of… the one…”

  “The very one,” Louisa smiled. Aware of the parson’s discomfort, the doctor averted his own broader smile.

  “I had hoped,” Frere said, “that there would be no great difficulty… about retaining her in employment, I mean. I exercised my conscience on the point considerably. However…”

  “Her sins have found her out?” the doctor suggested drily.

  Louisa hastened to Frere’s aid. “I understand that Mrs Bostock acted as celestial detective on this occasion.” Frere nodded unhappily. Agnew growled in his throat. “I am quite sure,” Louisa continued, “that she left Mrs Frere with no choice but to act as she did.”

  “I fear so.” Frere was about to add that his wife was not naturally of a hard-hearted disposition but he was prevented by his host’s sudden expostulation. “The woman should be muzzled. That damned Pharisee of a husband too. Sanctimonious boors, the pair of them.”

  “They are not among my favourite patients,” Horrocks agreed.

  “One day, Tom,” said Agnew, “you may get to dissect their miserable flesh. If you find a heart in either I’ll burn my books.”

  “As to that,” said Frere hastily, “I cannot say. But as you yourself opined, Sir Henry, Amy is a good soul, whatever her… weaknesses. I feel in a manner responsible for her present plight.”

  “Matt Stukely would have seen her right had he not been taken off at such short notice. He may have been a gull to the senses but he had a conscience.”

  “After the event at least,” Louisa said quietly.

  Agnew smiled. “Amy wouldn’t have been the first he set up with a small pension.”

  Dr Horrocks saw that the new Rector was not entirely happy with the turn the conversation had taken. “I am glad to see you take such a charitable interest, Mr Frere,” he said. “Were more of the cloth to follow your example, I might incline more seriously towards the faith myself.”

  “Tom is an inveterate rationalist,” Louisa interposed. “Perhaps you may persuade him of the soul’s existence, Mr Frere, where the rest of us have failed.”

  “Had you cut up as many cadavers as I did in Paris, young woman,” the doctor beamed back at her, “you too might be puzzled as to its whereabouts. You will forgive my scepticism, Mr Frere, but I have my hands full keeping flesh this side of the grave without bothering my head with speculations about the other. I mean no offence, you understand?”

  Frere had taken none, for his own head was far too busy contriving ways through this embarrassing situation. “I was wondering…” he began, looking again to Agnew, who grunted his encouragement. “The thought occurred that you might perhaps be able to assist me to secure another place for the young woman? As I am yet new to the district, I find myself a little…” He looked up and met only a puzzled frown. “I thought some charitable family in need of another pair of hands perhaps?…”

  “I am afraid,” said Louisa lightly, “that where such matters are concerned my father is not entirely of this world. However I have already given thought to it myself. I even wondered whether we might take her into service here.” She saw the light of gratitude dawn in the parson’s eyes and knew she must disappoint it. “Sadly, there is no love lost between Amy and Mrs Tillotson, I’m afraid.”

  “Tilly is a prude,” said Agnew. “Even I know that. It wouldn’t work. We can’t have Tilly bristling about the house.”

  “So I concluded.”

  “I certainly had no intention of putting you to personal inconvenience.” Frere masked his disappointment, observing as he did so that Agnew would not, in any case, have allowed that to happen. “But is there not some other household in the district?”

  Louisa studied the man more seriously now, a little ashamed that she had been privately amused by his earnest and awkward presentation. Here was a Rector who intended to honour the pastoral role, however much it might personally disoblige and embarrass him. Here, in fact, was a charitable heart such as he sought among his parishioners, and to find its equal outside the Hall would be no easy matter. “The Bostocks you will have excluded already,” she sighed. “The Whartons offer no better prospect.” She took in Frere’s dismay then turned to the other guest. “What of Saxburgh, Doctor? Your acquaintance is wider and more current than ours.”

  Tom Horrocks fingered the mutton-chop whiskers at his cheek. “Well, I suppose we must keep her out of the Union workhouse if we can. There are already too many poor devils on the parish.” The hand rasped down across his jaw. “She’s a good-hearted soul, you say?”

  “I can vouch for that,” said Louisa. “All the children in the village love her. Indeed she is almost a child herself.”

  Much as he agreed with it, Frere thought this opinion came strangely from one who was little older than the person in question. “And industrious,” he added. “In the short time she was in our service, she gave no cause for complaint. I had thought her a blithe presence about the house.”

  “No doubt she considered herself lucky to be kept on,” Horrocks remarked. “Where is she now, by the way?”

  Frere’s opened hands conveyed his regrettable ignorance. “However, she is not without means. My wife has paid her to the end of the month.”

  “She has relatives in Saxburgh,” Louisa supplied. “They are poor people but they will surely have given her a roof for a time.”

  “No doubt,” said the doctor, “if she has cash in hand.” He took out a pencil and pocketbook. “Their name?”

  “Larner,” Louisa answered. “I’m afraid I do not know their address in Saxburgh.”

  “Well, I shall make enquiries.” Horrocks pencilled the name. “A question or two at the Angel or the parish pump should sort the matter straight enough.”

  “You see some possibility?” Frere asked.

  “There is a situation I have in mind. The wife is ailing and there are a number of children to care for. If Amy is good with youngsters, and learns to mend her ways, she may do well with them.”

  Frere’s delight was as open as his earlier discomfort had been. “I am deeply obliged to you, Dr Horrocks.”

  “I make no promises, mind.” The doctor’s sternness relaxed into a smile. “But they are good people and there is a need.”

  “I think,” Frere hazarded, beaming with relief and gratitude, “that you may be a better Christian than you know.”

  “Religion has no monopoly in human decency, sir. Nor in my experience do the two always run together. But be persuade
d, Mr Frere – it was your own manifest concern that elicited my finer instincts.” He took a watch from his fob and frowned. “Well, it seems I am roundly trounced at the board, I am charged with Christian charity, and I have a damp ride back to Saxburgh for my pains. It was a privilege to meet you, Mr Frere. If – which is unlikely – I have need of a parson ever, I shall know where to come.”

  “And you shall find me conscious of my debt, I promise you.”

  Despite the bitter wind Frere was glowing as he walked up the lane to the Rectory. He had been right to go to the Hall. He had been right to come to Munding. Emilia should be persuaded of it. And, if he needed further reassurance, he might think of the warmly approving and – surely he was not wrong to imagine it? – already fond smile with which Louisa Agnew had favoured him before turning back into the Hall.

  A few minutes later he climbed into bed beside his sleeping wife. His grateful prayers were said and he knew he would sleep soundly. Yet before he did so, Frere found time to reflect on the way he and his three new-made friends had been able to determine the fate of another human being, secure in the knowledge that only some monstrous convulsion in the fabric of society, or some inconceivable act of folly, could put their own rich lives so completely at the mercy of a charitable providence.

  Eager as she was to begin work on her treatise, Louisa knew that other matters would require attention first. Soon she would have little time to supervise the running of the household and, though the domestic round was well-established, she must provide against all contingencies if interruption of her task was to be kept to a minimum. The staff must understand that absolute authority lay with Tilly now, and that only the direst need could be allowed to intrude on her own privacy. Then a letter must be sent to Henry, putting his mind at rest, soothing his injured pride and, above all, ensuring that he did not come bustling down to Easterness at this critical juncture.