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

by Nicola Thorne

  “I think you’re very clever.” As they took to the floor Sarah Jane looked up admiringly at Solomon. He was very tall, lean and gangly. She liked tall men. Laurence had been tall, strong and well-built.

  “Clever?” Solomon looked down at her, his expression puzzled.

  “My son tells me you were entirely responsible for the restoration of all this.”

  “It wasn’t very difficult. I mean most of it was in place. Mrs Heering had taken good care of the property. It simply needed a bit of a facelift.”

  “I still think you’re clever. I’m so glad you’re in partnership with Abel.”

  As the old-fashioned waltz started and they closed up and began to move sedately round the dance floor Sarah Jane experienced on her back a sensation of heat as Solomon’s hand seemed to rest on it with a familiarity, almost an intimacy that reawakened in her feelings and desires remembered from when her husband was alive, and too long dormant.

  PART TWO

  An Old Love Rekindled

  Chapter Eight

  Jean Parterre sat for a long time outside the open gates leading to Forest House, shoulders hunched, arms folded, pondering his next move.

  A feeling of exasperation had led him to seek out his wife who, since her departure the previous spring, had been evasive. He had written, he had telephoned, he had cabled. Only silence. He knew now that she had left Yorkshire in the summer and was staying with her mother at the home of Lally Martyn, whose house he had visited many times in the past.

  It was a splendid residence, built in the Dutch style as it had been intended for a Dutchman, Julius Heering, and it had first been called Amsterdam Hoos. It was surrounded by woods, the short drive leading directly to the main door.

  But now that he was here at last Jean was afraid. His hand trembled. He was fearful that something awful had happened to Dora and no one had told him. That he had deeply offended, maybe traumatised her by making love that night. But it was not rape, it had not felt like rape and he had thought, hoped, that he detected a response in her, a woman he dearly loved, to his tender caresses. After all she did not flee the bed afterwards, but stayed with him, clasped in his arms, until morning. His only hope now was that she had never returned for the rest of her things, nor sent for them. Nor had she filed for a divorce.

  So, summoning all his courage, Jean had embarked with his motor car and here he was on a cold November day with the landscape bleak around him, and a hint of snow in the low-lying clouds. He, a man who had bravely faced the Bosch, dared not approach by the drive, so he parked the car off the road in the shadow of trees and slipped through the gates in the hope that he would be unobserved.

  He was. It was lunch time and, perhaps, the staff were busy serving Eliza and her daughter, maybe Lally.

  What should he say? What would he do? Maybe he should go back and find a telephone, at least warn them of his presence?

  Instead he slipped round the side of the house, following a path that led, he knew, to the extensive gardens behind.

  There was a large conservatory at the back full of rare tropical plants and a huge vine that provided a tranquil arbour of greenery in the summer when the sun beat hotly down on the glass roof. Shady in summer, it was also a pleasant place to sit in winter-time and, peering in, he saw Dora lying in a long wicker chair, her feet up, half covered with a rug of some description. There was a book on her lap and she appeared to have fallen asleep.

  But she looked very pale and his first thought was that she was ill. Covered with a rug, a woman of her age! She hadn’t contacted him because she was ill and didn’t want him to know. He pressed his face against the glass and tapped on it with clenched knuckles.

  Startled, Dora’s eyes flew open. She raised herself in her chair and looked up. At first she couldn’t fathom where the noise was coming from and so he tapped again.

  “Dora!” he mouthed through the glass and, turning sharply, she saw him. Her hand flew to her lips as, for a long moment, they stared at each other. Then Jean rapidly rounded the huge glass edifice and went inside.

  Dora was alone. Beyond her an open door led into the vast atrium of a hall from which a circular staircase led up to a huge glass dome, making it always a place of light, sun-dappled, cheerful even on the gloomiest day.

  Jean stood at the doorway and looked at the woman in the wicker chair, who hadn’t risen but remained where she was, those startling blue eyes fixed on him. Her golden hair had been cut in the fashionable Eton crop and more than ever she resembled an androgynous figure in a pre-Raphaelite painting, neither male nor female.

  Slowly he approached her.

  “You should have told us you were coming,” she said.

  “You never returned my calls.”

  Silence.

  “Dora, are you all right? I’ve been very worried about you. You’ve no idea how worried I’ve been.”

  “I’m sorry.” She looked up and gave a wan smile. “I’m going to have a baby, Jean.” She patted her stomach. “Quite soon now. I should have told you. Mother, everyone, said I should have told you but, in a way, I’m a coward. I kept on putting it off. I was afraid, you know ...”

  “But if you were afraid,” he said gently, pulling up a basket chair to sit down close beside her, “all the more reason for telling me.”

  “No, not afraid of having the baby – I leave all the worrying to Mother – but afraid of, you know, entanglement, possession, all the things I never wanted to get married for and on account of which I left you.”

  He reached out and tried to take her hand, but she kept hers tucked under the rug. She seemed somehow to have shrivelled up, out of reach.

  “Is the baby ...” he paused and his mouth felt terribly dry, “ours?” he ended in a whisper.

  “Of course, you silly thing.” Now she put a hand out and took his. “You don’t think I’d go in for that sort of thing too often, do you?”

  “I thought you were very angry with me.”

  “I was confused.” Her nails dug into his palm. “I didn’t know what to do about May. I felt terribly guilty about her. Still do.” Dora threw him a look of anguish. “She left her husband and children because of me, you know. He won’t have her back won’t let her see the children. In a way I’ve ruined May’s life; but things seemed different when we were together. I know I ruined yours. You’ve no idea how ghastly I feel about it all.” For a moment she looked so distressed that Jean actually felt sorry for her, as though she was the one who had suffered, instead of causing so much suffering to the two people she professed to love best. But how could you feel angry with someone you adored in the way that still, despite everything, he adored Dora?

  “Also, of course, it was some time before I realised I was pregnant. That was a shock, I can tell you! I’m forty-six soon, you know.”

  “But you’re all right?” he asked anxiously.

  “Fit as a flea. I get a little tired. Mother and Lally are both out today, so I had sandwiches and a glass of milk.” She pointed to a tray by her side. “I was just having a snooze.” She looked at him sharply. “Have you eaten?”

  “Darling, I’m so glad you’re all right,” Jean said and, placing his head on her knees, he started to weep. “You’ve no idea how terrible I’ve felt. How much I missed you.”

  “Silly old sausage,” Dora said, a note of fondness in her voice as he clutched her. “Silly old man.”

  And for a time they sat there, Dora stroking his head, making soothing noises.

  She realised now that very soon she would have two babies to care for, not one. And that nothing would ever be the same again.

  ***

  Bart Sadler placed an avuncular hand on Abel’s shoulder. With the other he sketched an imaginary building to the left of the newly refurbished greenhouses. They were standing at the drawing-room window looking out on to the wintry landscape, the thick layer of frost that still covered the ground, although it was nearly noon and a bright January day.

  “I am going to
breed horses, Abel. Arabians. Or shall I say I am thinking of it? I want the finest stables in the county. That is your next job. I think we take the existing stables down towards the park and then I want a paddock and a training ring, and all the paraphernalia,” he went on, waving his hand expansively in the direction of the extension to the stables.

  “Breeding horses, Uncle Bart?” Abel stroked his chin.

  “Don’t you think it a good idea?” Bart looked concerned.

  “Is it something you really know anything about?”

  “Not yet. But I shall. I shall endeavour to find out everything I can about horse breeding, and employ the best advisers. How about Dora?” He looked across at Abel. “She knows everything there is to know about horses, doesn’t she?”

  “She knows a lot. Whether about Arabians or not I have no idea. But she has just had a baby, Uncle Bart, and I understand she is to return to France to live with her husband.”

  “Well, well, I’m delighted to hear the news, but sorry I shan’t have the benefit of her advice.”

  “My advice, Uncle Bart, if you really want it ...” Abel began slowly.

  “And I do,” Bart interrupted him.

  “... is to stick to what you know. You are a very successful businessman. Metals, is it not? You also have a knowledge of stone, having been a mason for many years. Much as I would like the work of designing and building new stables for you I think you should stick to what you know.”

  “But it is for a hobby, not a business. I have money to spend, you know, and I fancy that to get ahead in a rural county you have to know about horses.” Bart looked approvingly at his nephew. “Thank you for your honesty, Abel. I like an honest man. But I still want you to go ahead and build me stables. Now, why don’t you bring your fiancée to dinner, and invite her sister too? Next week some time?”

  “Why,” Abel looked gratified, “that is very nice of you, Uncle Bart. Ruth, I’m sure, will be delighted. I can’t answer for Debbie. She scarcely ever goes out.”

  “Try and persuade her.” Bart winked at his nephew and pressed his arm. “Tell her it will do her the world of good.”

  “And when is the wedding to be?” Bart asked, raising his glass towards the couple who, wreathed in smiles, sat together to his left. On his right, occupying sole position, was Deborah who too was smiling, relaxed for the first time since she’d come into the house an hour before.

  “In the spring,” Abel said, looking at Ruth. “A big wedding in Wenham Parish Church.”

  “I would consider it an honour if you would have your reception here,” Bart said.

  “Oh, but Uncle Bart ...”

  “I think Mother would want it in the Rectory,” Debbie murmured. “I think she would be very upset to have it anywhere else.” She had been on the point of saying ‘here’, but managed to stop herself at the last minute.

  “Well, we shall have to work on your mother,” Bart said with a smile.

  “It would be splendid to have the reception here,” Abel said, gratified. “Very generous of you, Uncle.”

  “And Ruth, what do you say?” Bart turned to the bride-to-be, noticing that the sparkle had left her eyes.

  “Well ...” she was looking at her elder sister to whom she usually deferred, “if Debbie says Mother wouldn’t like it ...”

  “But it is not for your mother’s wedding, is it, Ruth?” Bart said with an edge to his voice. “It is yours and Abel’s. You will have many guests and, large as the Rectory is, I don’t think you could do justice to the numbers who will come. Nor, I think, would you provide the kind of fare I would have in mind. Not that I think your stepfather is frugal,” he added hastily, “for I know him to be a generous man and, I believe, not a poor one. But it is something I would like to give the happy couple as my gift, and also a way of saying ‘thank you’ to Abel for all he has done for me.”

  “We shall have to ask Mother.” Ruth still had an eye on Debbie. “Although it is most kind of you to suggest it.”

  “I think we should have it here,” Abel said eagerly. “I can’t think of a better place to start our married life, or a better way. We must try and persuade your mother who, I’m sure, will be grateful to Uncle Bart for his generosity.”

  “Remember, I’m an old friend of the family,” Bart rang the bell for the butler to serve the next course, “as well as a relation. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to give my dear nephew and his bride a good start in life.”

  It had been a splendid dinner, course upon course, accompanied by fine wines served by attentive servants tip-toeing about. The flickering pinpoints of light from dozens of candles in silver candelabra were reflected in the highly polished, huge mahogany table, the cut-glass decanters and crystal wine glasses.

  Bart Sadler and Abel had worn black ties, she and Ruth their party best, though Deborah knew that hers didn’t amount to much, a blue woollen dress with belt and collar, buttoned up to the neck; a true daughter of the rectory. Like her mother she had no interest in clothes, but Ruth had gone to Yeovil to buy a new frock, had had her hair done, wore make-up, which Debbie had never touched, and sparkled in her finery, aglow with her new-found happiness.

  However, Deborah was aware that Bart paid her a lot of attention. He looked at her often, smiling, the kind of intimate smile that was a little disconcerting, as though they shared some kind of secret. And maybe they did; that day at the jetty about which she had told no one. Nothing much had happened, but it seemed to mark the beginning of an understanding that was cemented at his party the previous October, when he had danced several times with her, so often, in fact, that people commented on it.

  But he was so very old, older than her stepfather, who was some years younger than her mother. As he had courted her mother, and she knew that he had, they must be about the same age. It was unthinkable ... but he was so very kind to her, so very nice. He made her feel rather important, which no one else in her family bothered much to do. She was an embarrassment to them, a woman who had once run away with a common labourer, lived with him and borne a child.

  It was only because they regarded it their Christian duty to forgive all sinners that they had taken her back, and that was not until after the birth when the baby had been spirited away. She had done nothing to stop it feeling little natural affection for a child she had not wanted by a man she did not love.

  But of course everyone knew. Baby or no baby, everyone knew.

  The butler, followed by a footman, brought in a huge silver tray with a silver coffee pot and began to pour into tiny delicate porcelain cups that had already been arranged on a side table. The footman carried a tray on which there was an assortment of bottles and glasses.

  Bart and Abel had brandies, Ruth had a liqueur. But Deborah knew that, unused as she was to drinking, she had had enough. Any more would go to her head and she would make a fool of herself. She didn’t want that.

  Abel and Bart smoked large cigars and sat back in their armchairs with a brandy in one hand, a cigar in the other. They were chatting about plans being drawn up by Solomon Palmer for the stables. Ruth smoked too, black Sobranie cigarettes. Her mother would have had a fit. It wasn’t that Deborah didn’t dare try them. She thought they might make her sick. Although she was the one who had created scandal, run away and had a child, she was far from being the sort of woman of the world she knew her sister aspired to be. Already Ruth could see herself as the wife of a prosperous builder, living in the fine house which Abel talked of building.

  Debbie aspired to nothing. Since her return home in disgrace she lived in a shell, and she knew that, in many ways, she was terrified of emerging from it.

  The air was thick with smoke and the fumes of fine brandy. Deborah looked around and could hardly believe that she could be in such sophisticated company in such a place. Why, she had hardly ever gone out in her life!

  Bart got up and began to wind up the gramophone that stood on a table.

  “I thought we might dance,” he said looking aro
und, his cigar at a rakish angle in the corner of his mouth. “Anyone like to dance?”

  Immediately Abel sprang up, both hands towards Ruth who also bounded out of her chair and, as the racy strain of Bye, Bye Blackbird began, the two started to bob around the room while Bart made selections from a pile of records by the side of the machine. He then turned to Deborah and, hand extended, gently drew her from her chair, put his arm round her waist and they too began to jog around the room until the record finished and was replaced by tunes from No, No Nanette.

  Bart then changed the mood of the music. What is this Thing called Love? was a slow, romantic number from the hit Cochran musical Wake Up and Dream. The engaged couple danced closer and closer until they ended up in an embrace on the dance floor. Deborah found her head resting on Bart’s shoulder, his hands very tight round her waist as he drew her closer to him. She raised her head and looked into his eyes and, as he bent forward she thought he was going to try to kiss her. Luckily, she averted her face and the kiss landed on her cheek.

  Suddenly the memory of the pair of them sitting on the jetty came to her; sitting side by side gazing into the depths of the river, with unexpected sense of comradeship, and she realised that she was getting into very deep water with Bart Sadler.

  ***

  Sophie, face white with fury, gazed at the letter that Hubert had passed to her without comment.

  “I certainly will not let Ruth hold her reception at Bart Sadler’s,” she said. “What an impertinence!”

  Her reaction was not unexpected and Ruth and Deborah sat at the breakfast table, hands out of sight, mouths clenched, preparing for the storm.

  “Bart is Abel’s uncle,” Hubert broke the awkward pause, “I’m sure he didn’t mean to be impertinent, dear. I think it is a very nice letter.”

  “‘May I have the pleasure’ ...” Sophie’s voice assumed a note of mockery. “‘I can’t tell you how delighted I would be if ...’ ‘My wedding present to the young couple’. What rubbish this man writes!”