Lally, looking gorgeous in a dress of lavender chiffon and a large picture hat, was squired by Alexander who was nearing the end of his first year at Cambridge. Tall and good-looking in his morning suit he was the object of many a flirtatious glance from some of the young women present. But Alexander seemed impervious to female wiles: polite, charming, courteous but, so far, not susceptible. He looked rather disdainfully about him, as if the company were slightly inferior to that which he was used to; young society women with considerable fortunes whose brothers, from Sherborne and Trinity, were his friends. If he concentrated on anyone it was his mother, who was never without a glass or a plate or an ashtray for her cigarette ash, assiduously held for her by her dutiful son.
Connie, well pleased with the day’s arrangements, finally had a moment to sit down and enjoy a glass of champagne. It had taken days, weeks, of effort to organise an event which had been rather thrust upon them. They had assumed the reception would be at the Rectory, but when Sophie explained the circumstances they readily agreed to hold it at Pelham’s Oak.
The last wedding reception had been hers, the day she married Carson after a period of uncertainty, some doubt and indecision on her part. It was not that she didn’t love Carson, but she knew she would always have to share him with other people. There was something compulsively philanthropic about Carson. He had given a home to Elizabeth and her family, a temporary home to Debbie whose baby was born there. Before that there had been Jean Parterre who stayed two years. Then there had been his stepmother, Agnes, who had only left when Connie had provided a house for her. It seemed at one time there would be no room for Connie unless she wanted to run a home for those friends or relations of Carson, who seemed to consider it a duty to offer succour to his fellow men.
Carson would never say “no”. He was too altruistic, too good-natured. He had even offered Eliza a home when Upper Park was sold because, after all, she had been born at Pelham’s Oak. Thankfully, as far as Connie was concerned, although she loved Eliza, she had declined. In her wisdom she had perhaps seen that Connie wished to have her husband, her home and her children to herself.
Connie sat by the open window, glad of the gentle breeze that blew in from outside. She was very tired and she hoped that they would all soon begin to go.
Abel and Ruth seemed to be making a farewell tour of the room, circulating among the crowd who pressed in upon them. They were, indeed, a charming, well-suited couple. Connie looked at her watch. In about an hour, after changing, the bridal pair would be driven to the station to get the boat train for Dover and then to France and Italy.
She felt a hand on her shoulder and found Carson looking tenderly down at her.
“Tired, darling?”
“Exhausted! I feel as though I’d arranged all this myself.” She took his hand.
“It’s gone awfully well.” He flopped down beside her.
“Lovely to see everyone here, too. You love these family gatherings don’t you, Carson?”
Carson nodded. “I’m so glad Jean and Dora were able to come. Doesn’t she look well?”
As if she’d heard her name Dora looked across at Carson and gave a little wave. Jean lifted his hand and the pair of them drifted across to Carson and Connie.
“What a happy day.” Dora sat on the chair next to Connie, vacated for her by Carson. “It’s so warm.”
“Who’s looking after Louise?”
“Catherine, one of Lally’s maids. She’s very good with her. But we must be getting back. Feeding time.”
Carson said: “We want you to come for dinner, or lunch if you prefer, before you go back. Bring Louise. Netta will be enchanted by her.”
“Stay the night,” Connie added. “It will be like old times for Jean.”
Jean shook his head. “Kind of you, but we only have a few days left with Eliza and she so adores the baby.”
“But maybe we could come for lunch.” Dora stooped to kiss Connie who started to rise. “No, please, don’t get up. We’ll just slip away.” And, with a smile, she took Jean’s hand and went off into the crowd, pausing to take farewell of bride and groom.
Bart Sadler had kept a low profile during the day’s proceedings. He nearly didn’t go to the wedding but thought it would look at the worst cowardly, at best as though he was sulking. So he sat at the very back of the church and did not hang around outside, appeared in no pictures, but went to his car which he’d parked at the far side of the town, thus making sure he was one of the last to arrive at the reception.
Again he slunk in at the back, missing the receiving line, which had been his intention. He had hardly spoken to anybody but stood on the far side of the room, away from the windows, smoking a cigar, drinking a glass of champagne, observing.
She was just as beautiful as her sister, more so in his eyes. She had a maturity which Ruth lacked, also an air of sadness, the reason for which he thought he understood. In a small town a social misdemeanour like hers assumed gigantic proportions, as he knew only too well. In a way they were both the black sheep of their respective families.
In her pale blue dress, a wreath of artificial roses on her pale gold hair, she looked exquisite. How typical of the men in this backward rural area to leave such a jewel unclaimed, just because of her past. There were a number of pretty young girls in the room and most had the attentions of admiring males who plied them with glasses of champagne and offers of food. Inspired by the occasion there was a lot of understated amorous activity going on; perhaps future liaisons in the process of being hatched?
The daughters of Sarah Jane Yetman, Martha and Felicity, Abel’s sisters, personable though not nearly as beautiful as Deborah Woodville, were surrounded by a cluster of young men.
When he had first come in Bart had noticed that young Solomon Palmer seemed to be paying Deborah a lot of attention, but he drifted away to the side of Sarah Jane, the bridegroom’s mother, and now Deborah seemed to have taken sole charge of the young bridesmaids after the disgraced Betsy departed with sick all down her dress, her hand wrathfully clasped by an outraged, red-faced Elizabeth.
Towards the end of the afternoon, after all the toasts were drunk and speeches finished, and just as the bride and groom were about to leave, Bart managed to make his way surreptitiously around the room so that he stood almost next to Deborah. By now all backs were turned as the focus of attention was on the bride and groom.
“Hello!” Bart mouthed to Deborah, who gave him a distant sort of smile.
Bart sidled up to her.
“Enjoy the day?”
“Oh, lovely. Didn’t Ruth look gorgeous?”
“Well,” Bart put his head on one side, “I think you looked better.”
“Oh no,” a hand flew to her mouth, “Ruth is much much prettier than me.”
“That’s a matter of opinion.” Bart looked at her with unconcealed admiration. “Do you think we could have dinner together again, Deborah?”
“I’d like that ... but –” She glanced over to her mother who was standing with the rector and Carson, as though discussing arrangements for the departure of the bridal couple.
“Deborah,” Bart said gently, “you can’t have your life dominated by your mother.”
“I know, but ...”
“I am aware that she doesn’t like me, but she can’t stop you from seeing who you want. Can she?”
Deborah appeared more and more confused.
“She can’t, Deborah,” Bart spoke urgently, “and if you want to see me, and I think you do, there is no harm in it. You should be able to without being chaperoned by your sister or your new brother-in-law. Now, would you have dinner with me, say, Thursday?”
Deborah coloured and shook her head.
“I can’t, really.”
“Why not?”
“It would be so hard to get away, without Mother knowing.”
“Very well then, lunch. You can get away for lunch, can’t you?”
“It might be easier,” she said cautiously.
“I’ll pick you up on the corner of the road by the bridge at, say, twelve-forty-five?”
Deborah remained silent, as if tongue-tied.
“You needn’t dress up.” Sensing victory, Bart hurried on. “It will be as though you’re merely going for a walk.”
“Friday would be better. Mother, I know, is away that day, at a church function in Bristol.”
“Friday, then.” Bart reached out and furtively squeezed her hand. “Don’t forget, and don’t be late.”
Deborah shook her head.
“And don’t be afraid,” he hissed. “Remember, your life is yours not your mother’s.”
With their three children, Connie and Carson had settled into an easy tenor of life at Pelham’s Oak and, in the days following the wedding reception, things gradually returned to normal. The reception rooms were cleaned, the furniture polished or dusted and put back into place, the long trestle tables taken to one of the outbuildings for storage until the next time they would be required. The large house ran smoothly, aided by its devoted staff under the guidance of Connie who, despite the money that had cosseted her against the harsh rigours of life, was a frugal and expert housekeeper.
It was understood that she was in charge of the arrangements indoors while Carson controlled everything that happened out of doors, from the care of the gardens and grounds to the running of the farms and the tenancies of the various properties on the estate.
One could not wish for a happier, more peaceful life, Connie thought as she opened the mail in the breakfast room which had been laid on this particular morning for three, as Dora was out riding with Carson. The children ate earlier in the nursery, as Connie and Carson tended to breakfast late after he had had his morning ride and she had checked the lunch and dinner menus with cook, and gone over the day’s household duties with the butler and head housemaid.
Arthur, the Woodvilles’ devoted butler for so many years, had retired to a comfortable flat in Bournemouth and his successor, David Rose, was a local man who had trained at Kingston Lacy, the stately home of the Bankes family near Wimborne, first as footman then under-butler.
Connie finished sorting the post and put Carson’s beside his plate, curious about one letter which was addressed to him in a rounded, ill-educated hand. By contrast the rest of his correspondence was, as usual, largely to do with business.
Her own mail was sparse but this morning contained a letter from her friend Francesca Valenti who had been such a help to her after her guardian died and she settled, she thought for ever, in Venice. Francesca and her husband kept an eye on Connie’s property there, a flat in one of the palazzi on the Grand Canal, and her letters were always full of news and gossip about the Venetian scene.
Connie had just finished reading her letter when Carson came in, still wearing jodhpurs from his morning ride, followed by Dora, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling with good health.
“Did you have a good ride?”
“Wonderful!” Dora flung her arms impulsively round Connie. Then, looking at Carson, “Oh, I shall miss you both so much.”
“And we miss you.” Carson held her chair back for her. “I wish you lived nearer.”
“Jean promises that we will come over in the summer before the vendage. And, of course, I can come at any time,” Dora paused, “only I must be careful. I never want to upset Jean again. He has been so sweet to me, so giving. Really I don’t deserve such a good husband.”
“You do.” Connie clasped Dora’s hand reassuringly.
“No I don’t.” Dora sat back, her mouth in a stubborn line. “I behaved abominably, both towards Jean and poor little May. Where is she? Does anyone know?”
Carson shook his head. “I know that Bernard Williams wouldn’t have her back, nor would he let her see her children. Someone said she was in London.”
Dora, hand on her chin, gazed solemnly at the table. “She gave up the Yorkshire house and just vanished. I was paying her an allowance, but she stopped claiming it and I had a note from the bank that her account had been closed. I feel very bad about May.”
“Surely what she did was voluntary?” Carson went over to the sideboard where breakfast awaited them on silver chafing dishes.
After his ride, Carson enjoyed a good breakfast and appreciatively lifted one cover after the other inspecting the contents. “Can I serve you, Dora?”
“What about Connie?”
“She eats nothing at breakfast. Oh, a piece of toast.”
“Well, I like a cooked breakfast.” Dora got up and stood beside Carson examining one dish after the other: kedgeree, devilled kidneys, eggs fried and boiled, sausages, mushrooms. “There’s enough to feed an army,” Dora observed with a smile.
“Our cook was used to a large family in her last post. She never quite seems to have got the hang of ours. She longs for the days of the stately home with lots of people. As she knew you were coming for breakfast she made the most of it. But the portions are small.”
“Enough to feed an army,” Dora said again returning with a well-filled plate.
David entered unobtrusively with toast in a silver rack for Connie and a coffee pot. While they ate he filled their cups.
“That’s all for the moment, thank you, David,” Connie said, selecting a piece of toast. Then to Dora, “I do agree with Carson. May was old enough to know what she was doing. You mustn’t feel too guilty. After all she chose to leave the children.”
“She said her nerves were in shreds. I was very worried about her. I think Bernard was very difficult. However, I’m sorry May has cut off contact, which is obviously her choice. Meanwhile I have to rebuild my life with Jean and Louise.”
Carson had started sorting through his mail and was looking at the envelope mentally singled out by Connie, a frown on his face as he too examined it.
For some reason Connie found herself watching him anxiously. However, Carson put the letter down without opening it and continued with his breakfast. When he had finished he sat back, poured himself another cup of coffee in a leisurely manner and then slid a paper knife through the envelopes before him, leaving the handwritten one until the end.
Finally, he opened it and Connie watched him as he perused a closely written, single sheet of paper. Because of his busy, healthy outdoor life he always had a good complexion, but she could have sworn he paled as he came to the end of the letter and put it thoughtfully on the table in front of him.
“Anything wrong, darling?” Connie’s tone was carefully offhand.
Carson didn’t reply, but leaned on his elbow gazing out of the window, as if he hadn’t heard.
“Carson?” Connie asked again and now Dora had put down her knife and fork and was looking at him curiously. After a while Carson shook his head.
“It’s nothing,” he said briskly, gathering up his letters. “I’ll be in my study if I’m wanted.” Then as if remembering Dora he stopped and smiled.
“Same time tomorrow, Dora?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t think so.” Dora looked up at him. “You know we’re leaving the day after. I feel I have to spend more time with Mother.”
“Anyway, you’re dining with us tomorrow night.” He smiled at her again and left the room.
Connie felt uneasy. But she knew better than to question Carson about the contents of the letter.
Dora carried on with her breakfast and when she had finished sat back and lit a cigarette.
“More coffee?” Connie asked.
“Thanks.” Dora passed her cup. “Carson seems rather upset by that letter. I wonder what was in it?”
“Oh, I don’t expect it was anything,” Connie replied casually. “Probably some ... well, I don’t know.” She shook her head. “It had a London postmark.” She looked steadily at Dora. “Carson and I have no secrets from each other. I’m sure he’ll tell me in due course.”
Carson sat in the train bearing him to London, the letter he had received a few days before in his hand. He had wanted to leave immedia
tely but he also wanted time to think, to decide what to do. On one hand he could ignore it. Forget Nelly had ever existed though, as he was a kind and compassionate man, this would have been a very difficult thing to do.
But to have rushed up to London would have worried Connie, and then there was the imminent departure of Dora and Jean. So he decided to wait until they had gone. Then, without telling his wife the reason, he announced he had to make a trip to London to attend to some business. He would stay the night at his club and be back the following day.
Again, Connie knew better than to question him.
Carson read the letter, written in very carefully rounded, unformed handwriting, through again.
‘Dear Sir Carson,
‘I hope you will forgive me writing to you. It is about Nelly. She is very sick. She asks all the time about her son what she left on the doorstep of a lady before the war. She believed the lady was related to you. She has never forgiven herself, sir, and has always pined for the baby. She was forced to give him away as she had no means of support.
My reason for writing is Nelly believes you are the father of her child and you may know his whereabouts.
You do not know me, sir, but I have been a friend of Nelly’s for many years. We were in service together until Nelly got sick. Now we are both out of work.
She read about you in the papers when you was married, saw your picture, and said how little you’d changed. She remembered you well. I hope you will not blame me for writing, but I think it would help Nelly to die in peace if you was to be kind enough to help her.
Respectfully,
Massie Smith.’
Nelly: dark hair, oval face, deeply recessed black eyes, the face of a quattrocentro Madonna. She had been a barmaid he met in a pub in London to which he used to repair to cheer himself up, when he had worked in the Martyn Heering business as a clerk in a warehouse by the river and had hated it. They had had a passionate affair.
Once, he had even considered marrying Nelly, but then he had considered marrying so many women with whom he, a deeply susceptible young man, had fallen in love. There was Prudence, a farm girl to whom he had promised marriage; and he had even considered marrying Elizabeth, not knowing at the time that she was his half-sister! Happily fate spared him to marry his one true love, now his dear wife: Connie.
Past Love (Part Four of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 14
