Past Love (Part Four of The People of this Parish Saga)

by Nicola Thorne

  Carson was over six feet tall, well built with hair that was once ash-blond but was now nearly grey, though he was only forty-one. The war had changed him, aged him, matured him. He had seen sights he would never forget and his former values were stood on their heads. From being a tearaway always in trouble, the despair of his parents, he grew up. In 1918 he was a very different man from the one who went to war.

  But his grizzled locks and strong athletic frame gave him an air of distinction which went with his upright, military bearing. He had intense blue eyes, open, honest and frank, capable of compassion but also daunting, and although his expression was often forbidding, his mouth resolute, he had mellowed in the years since their marriage as he had found a degree of happiness he had never before known.

  It was easy to see the relationship between Carson and Dora, his first cousin. His father and Eliza had been brother and sister. Dora was three years older than Carson, but she looked much younger. She too was tall, fair with the same blue eyes. They could have been taken for brother and sister. Connie didn’t ride and Carson loved riding, so he had missed Dora in the years she had been abroad.

  On impulse, Connie threw open the window and hailed them, whereupon they looked up and, seeing her, waved vigorously back. Making sure that the baby was sound asleep Connie tiptoed out of the room and ran along the corridor and down the stairs to fetch the nursemaid who was playing with the small boys on the lawn.

  “Gertie, would you go upstairs and keep an eye on baby? She has been fed and is asleep, but may want changing. I didn’t want to wake her up.”

  “Yes, m.” Gertie jumped up obediently. She was a servant of the old-fashioned school who had grown up on the Woodville estates and had no truck with newfangled notions about equality and one class being as good as the next. She emphatically knew her place, as her parents and their parents before them had known theirs, which was to serve the Woodvilles, and do their bidding without question.

  Leaving the lawn she went indoors and Connie went over to the boys who, on seeing her, abandoned their game and rushed into her arms.

  Both children were like her, brown-haired, brown-eyed, fair-skinned. They were grave little boys, but that was rather an attractive quality, unusual in children, and they didn’t laugh for the sake of it but only if something amused them. They weighed things up, they pondered. In fact they were very like Connie as a child, without the disadvantage of being a woman. They were loved and they were loving. It was a very happy family home and now the gift of a daughter seemed to make it complete. They spent hours gazing into Henrietta’s crib, noting her tiny fingers with their shiny nails, the little dimple in her chin, the fair hair, unlike theirs, and blue eyes.

  They called her Netta because her name was so difficult for them to get their tongues round, and this diminutive would be the name by which she would be known for the rest of her life.

  Connie sank on to a long wicker chair and lay back listening to the sounds around her: of children playing, dogs barking, birds singing in the great oak tree and the surrounding hedgerows. She experienced a moment of utter contentment, and she shaded her eyes from the sun which was creeping across the grass as she raised her head to be sure that the boys were all right. In a field beyond the house one of the maids was hanging out the washing, the white sheets billowing in the breeze, and a gardener trundled across the far end of the lawn with a wheelbarrow and raised his hand in greeting to Connie who responded with a wave. It was indeed idyllic.

  Just then a new noise impinged on the others and she sat upright and looked towards the drive as an open tourer came in sight, a woman at the wheel, her hat secured with a scarf tied under her chin. The boys stopped playing and ran towards the car which slowed almost to crawling pace as it approached the house. Then, unfastening her scarf, Eliza got out and hugged each of the boys in turn before walking over to Connie, who rose to greet her.

  The two women embraced and lingered for a moment clutched in each other’s arms. There was a bond between Connie and Eliza that was more than mere affection. Eliza had received the newly born baby from her dying mother and willed the sickly creature to live. She had always kept an eye on her, sympathised with her, cried with her and corresponded with her all the years she lived abroad. Her joy when she married her nephew had known no bounds.

  “What a lovely surprise,” Connie said as one of the menservants ran from the house carrying another chair.

  Eliza smiled, appraising her hostess as she flopped into a chair and removed her hat. “How pretty you look today, Connie. You’ve been so pale of late, but now you’ve got some colour.”

  “Pretty is not a word I’d use, Aunt Eliza.” Connie ruefully screwed back her hair, embarrassed at the compliment.

  “Yes, pretty. Vivacious. Motherhood suits you.”

  “Once it’s over.” Connie grimaced. “Have you come for Dora?”

  “Only if she wants to drive back, if she’s tired. She came over on her horse and it is a long ride.”

  “They’re down by the farm. I think they may have gone in to see the Crooks.”

  Generations of the Crook family had been farming on the estate since before the time of Carson’s great-grandfather which was about as far back as memories went.

  “I’m going to Sherborne and as this was on my way thought I’d pop in to see you. And, yes, if Dora wishes to come I’d be pleased because I want to choose new curtain material for the drawing room and I can never make up my mind.”

  Eliza lay back and sighed. “What a blissful day. It reminds me of my youth. There always seemed to be sunshine, and long lazy days.” She paused to remember her parents, the somewhat tempestuous relationship she had with her mother, the father who had died when she was fourteen, her brilliant, handsome brother, Guy, who had somehow failed to fulfil his promise. “I’m so glad you decided to call baby after my mother. Guy would have been so pleased.”

  “Carson has happy memories of his grandmother. She was very special to him. Besides, it’s such a pretty name. Jean did not want to come with you?” Connie looked curiously across at Eliza.

  “I thought he would want to go riding with Dora and Carson but he has gone off by himself, walking, I think.” Eliza gave a deep sigh and this time it was not one of such contentment. Connie made no comment. A footman arrived with a table followed by another with a silver tray and a maidservant carrying a large silver coffee pot carefully in both hands. Connie rose to help set out the cups and, as the staff turned back into the house, she began to pour.

  “We’re so lucky to have servants,” she said, passing Eliza a cup. “Some people can’t get them.”

  “That’s because the Woodvilles have always treated their servants well,” Eliza replied. “We treat them as people, not as slaves. But I don’t know much longer it will go on for. I think the next generation will be very different. There is much more money to be made in cities.” She smiled up at the maid who had returned with a jug of orange and two glasses which she poured for the two boys.

  “How are you, Mary?”

  “Very well, thank you, Mrs Heering.”

  “And your mother and father?”

  “Father is troubled by his rheumatics. Thank you for asking, Mrs Heering.” Mary flashed her a friendly, but not obsequious smile, and returned to the house while the boys sat on the lawn drinking their beverages.

  “Mary’s two brothers were killed in the war,” Eliza said solemnly. “She is the only child left. Her brothers were great carousing pals of Carson’s when they were all young. No wonder he changed such a lot. So many of the fine young men from this area never came back.”

  “Won’t you stay for lunch?” Connie asked. Eliza shook her head.

  “You’re too kind, but I expect Jean will be back.”

  “You could leave a message?”

  “Believe me, we shall be choosing curtain material for ages.” Eliza took her coffee and sipped it. When she looked up her expression was thoughtful, even grave.

  “I do
worry about Dora and Jean, you know.”

  “Really?” Connie sat down, tucking her feet under her, preparing for a confidence. The boys finished their cordial and returned to their game while the two dogs emerged from the shadow of the oak where they had been resting in order to be included in the fun. “Is there something wrong?” Connie continued as Eliza seemed to hesitate before answering.

  “There’s nothing wrong,” Eliza said, frowning, “but I don’t understand their relationship. It’s not like being married. They have separate bedrooms. I suppose I shouldn’t tell you, this is gossip. But it does worry me because they seem so detached, from each other that is.”

  “But they always were, I mean they were rather a curious couple even before they were married.”

  “They just seem like good friends.” Eliza looked dubious. “You know, chums.”

  “Perhaps they are.”

  As if anxious to ignore the implications of this remark Eliza hurried on:

  “And then I would have thought Dora would want children. She is so good with children.”

  Connie nodded. “The boys love her.”

  “And she loves them.”

  “Do you talk to her about it?”

  “Oh no. It’s so difficult.”

  “Anyway, it’s a bit late,” Connie said practically. “Dora is in her forties, Aunt Eliza.”

  “Yes, but it would not have been too late when they got married. It is, I suppose, just possible now, but with separate bedrooms ...” She paused and looked searchingly at Connie. “Don’t misunderstand me, they never row or have cross words; they seem very fond. But somehow, I can’t quite explain it, but they’re not like a married couple.”

  At that moment Dora and Carson appeared, walking over from the stables and speculation had to stop. Both looked in good spirits. The boys ran over to them, Toby going to his father, Leonard to Dora who, being a tall, strong woman, easily lifted him up and, holding him in her arms, continued walking towards her mother.

  “What a heavenly day,” she said. “Have you come for a ride, Mummy?”

  “Not today.” Eliza smiled. “I wanted to go to Sherborne and wondered if you’d like to come and help me choose curtain material.”

  “That’s a great idea.” Dora looked over at Carson. “Could I leave Bonnie here?”

  “Of course.”

  “I might pick her up on the way back, depends how late it is.” She looked at her watch and then down at her jodhpurs. “On the other hand, Mummy, I’m not exactly dressed for a shopping excursion. I think I’ll go home.”

  “Just as you like, dear, though I’d value your opinion.”

  “Stay for lunch, oh do,” Connie said, jumping up, “and go into Sherborne another day.”

  “Oh, well.” Eliza looked at her daughter. “I feel tempted. It seems a pity to spend even part of such a lovely day in a shop.”

  “Come on, boys.” Dora lowered Leonard to the ground. “Let’s see who can throw the ball furthest.”

  “I’ll go and tell cook there will be two more for lunch,” Connie said, pleased.

  “And I’ll go and change.” Carson held out his hand which Connie grasped, and together they wandered back towards the house.

  Eliza lay back in her chair, eyes half closed. She had been widowed for the second time two years previously when her second husband, Julius, had died. Theirs had been a marriage of convenience rather than love. She had been lonely after Ryder’s death and Julius had also been a widower.

  He had been a man of great wealth and had left her his fortune, but his death made her feel guilty because she knew that after the suicide of her son, Laurence, she had never forgiven Julius for failing to help him. Such a little sum of money to him would easily have helped Laurence out of his difficulty and he might now be alive.

  After Laurence’s death she had ceased to feel any affection for Julius, and she often wondered if she had been hard on him, unforgiving, in the way he had been to her son.

  Such sad thoughts intruded into her mind and must have shown on her face because she was aware of Dora leaning towards her, an expression of concern on her face.

  “What is it, Mummy? You look so sad.”

  “I was thinking a bit of Julius.” Eliza patted the chair beside her. “I think I was hard on him.”

  “You were hard on him?” Dora exploded. She had idolised her elder brother and had never liked her stepfather.

  “I know what you mean.” Eliza put a hand on her daughter’s arm. “But that’s the sort of person Julius was. I never thought he would leave me everything and the Heering family nothing. I think he wanted to make up.”

  “Well, you deserve it.” Dora pressed her mother’s hand. “You had a tough time and no one deserves it more.”

  “I wish you weren’t going back,” Eliza burst out, surprising herself by her vehemence. “You have no idea how much I miss you. How lonely I am in that big house.”

  Upper Park was one of the finest examples of Georgian Baroque in the country, and stood on an incline facing north to south with magnificent views of the surrounding countryside. It was on the far side of the market town of Blandford Forum, about fifteen miles from Pelham’s Oak. It was a substantial house built for a large family and now there was only Eliza and, occasionally, Hugh, who had resumed his fellowship of All Souls interrupted by the war and spent most of his time in his rooms in Oxford.

  “Mother,” Dora looked at her closely, “did you ever think of moving? It is a big house. You could come nearer to Wenham, or Sherborne which you love. Here you are, doing it all up, new carpets, curtains, and yet there’s just you and rather a lot of servants.”

  “They’re becoming harder to get too,” Eliza said thoughtfully.

  “Exactly. I think you should get a smaller place.”

  “On the other hand, I do love it. Only I wish you were there.” Dora said nothing but held on to her mother’s hand, her expression thoughtful.

  “Oh golly,” she said suddenly, jumping up. “I must telephone Jean and say we won’t be back for lunch.” And she ran across the lawn and disappeared inside the house leaving Eliza alone with her thoughts and two small boys playing with a ball and their dogs on the lawn.

  ***

  Jean Parterre knocked on the door of his wife’s room and, as she called for him to come in, turned the handle. He found her lying on the bed in her dressing gown, a book in her hand. As he came in she put the book down and smiled.

  “Hello!”

  “Hello!” He went and sat on the bed beside her. “Had a good day?”

  “Yes. When I came back from my ride with Carson Mother was there. She wanted me to go into Sherborne with her to help choose curtain material; but as it was such a lovely day Connie persuaded us to stay for lunch and give Sherborne a miss. We had it in the garden. I rang you but you weren’t here. What did you do, dear?” She gazed at him fondly.

  “I went for a very long walk. I had a pint of beer and a sandwich at a pub. I must have walked twenty miles.”

  He put a hand on Dora’s bare leg and, imperceptibly, she moved it away just out of touch.

  “Dora,” he said as though he hadn’t noticed her gesture, “when are we going home? We’ve been here over a month.”

  “Are you in a hurry?” She looked at him in surprise.

  “I don’t call staying away a month and wanting to go home being in a hurry. We have already been here longer than I intended. I fear for the vines without me.”

  Jean gave a rather nervous laugh and, rising from the bed went over to the window, hands in his pockets, and stood looking out. “You know I think one could grow vines here. I believe Julius was thinking of it.”

  “Would you like to?”

  He turned, surprised at her eager tone, and looked at her. Dora continued: “Mother is very lonely here, dear. It is a big house for her. She told me today how upset she was at the thought of us going back.”

  “You mean you going back. Your mother wouldn’t miss me.”r />
  “Oh, don’t say it like that, Jean.”

  “I feel she tolerates me.”

  “But you don’t try very hard, do you?”

  “I try as hard as I can. But she resents the fact that I took you away from her in the first place.”

  “I don’t think that’s true. Mummy has never been possessive about her children. She only wants us to be happy.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t think I’ve made you happy?” Jean’s expression was sad. “Have I, Dora?”

  “Of course!” She put her hand out towards him and he clasped it. If only she would pull him closer to her, allow him to ... but she never did.

  “She is my mother. I do feel a responsibility for her, Jean.”

  “But Dora ...”

  “I do. I’m sorry, but I do. She has had a hard life. Dad died in an accident. Laurence killed himself. She had a lot of worry about money. She married a cold fish, largely I think for security. And now that she’s getting on she’s alone. Yes I do feel a responsibility and that’s why I wondered ...”

  Letting go of his hand, Dora rose from the bed and, draping her gown closely around her, sat on the edge and lit a cigarette. Jean was aware that she was wearing nothing underneath her gown. He wondered if she knew what such proximity to naked female flesh did to him; the thought that it was there but he couldn’t touch it. Never had been allowed to touch because that was the condition on which she married him. Friends, companions, but nothing more.

  However, this was the last thing on Dora’s mind as she sat smoking. Almost carelessly she crossed one nude leg over the other and the gown fell apart even more.

  Not for the first time her frustrated husband wanted to take her in his arms and ... well, violence was out of the question which was why he went on long walks and had a mistress in Paris.

  “Jean, I wondered...” Dora appeared to be wrestling with something on her mind. “If you really thought you could start growing vines here ... we could come and live with Mother.”

  Jean felt a ball of rage and fury explode inside him but, as usual, he hid it as he hid his sexual frustration and instead allowed an expression of mild incredulity to cross his face.