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

by Nicola Thorne

  Eliza took a deep breath. “Carson came to me with a problem, Lally dear.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” Lally helped herself to a sandwich and then, leaning back, took a sip from her teacup before gently replacing it on its saucer. “Not too serious, I hope?”

  “Lally,” Eliza moved nearer the edge of her chair, “Carson has a problem. In a way we all have, and it concerns you ... and dearest Alexander.”

  “Oh my God!” Lally’s hand fluttered to her breast. “He is not hurt?”

  “Oh no, no, dear. He is fine. It is something, my dear, that goes back to before the war.”

  And, drawing another deep breath, Eliza launched into the story, almost word for word, that Carson had told her that same morning.

  When she came to the end she realised that neither she nor Lally had again touched their tea, which was by now stone cold.

  At last Lally, who had remained perfectly composed throughout, spoke.

  “I suppose there is no possibility of an error? This woman ... this Nelly, hoping to make something out of the story?”

  “She is very near death. She can hardly leave her bed. Surely she wouldn’t tell a lie? It is her wish to see Alexander before she dies.”

  “But after all these years ...”

  “Well, she is his mother.” Eliza, able to relax at last, took up her cup and looked with dismay at the contents. “Shall I ring for more tea?”

  “Please do.” Lally looked preoccupied. “Poor woman. One cannot help feeling pity for her and, in giving me Alexander, whatever the circumstances, she greatly enhanced my life. Had I not had him after Roger’s death,” at last Lally showed signs of losing her iron self-control and put her handkerchief of the most delicate Brussels lace, to her lips, “I don’t know what I would have done.” Looking at Eliza her large eyes swam with tears and Eliza rose and went immediately to her side. She perched on the arm of her chair and took her richly beringed hand in hers.

  “Of course, my dear. Carson regards you as Alexander’s real mother and so, I think, does ... Nelly.”

  “How can we tell him?” Once again Lally raised eyes, full of anguish, to Eliza. “It is not only myself I am thinking of. It is him. He is such a good, compassionate boy. He will feel so, well ... it might well cause a nervous collapse.”

  “Nelly herself has made a suggestion. When Carson explained the difficulties and dangers of telling Alexander, which she quite understood and appreciates ...” Eliza paused, “I must say she sounds a very nice woman. However, she suggested that she might see him even from a distance ...” She hesitated and looked at Lally. “Do you think that is something that between us all we could arrange?”

  ***

  It was a beautiful December morning and Alexander, home for the vacation, was riding with his uncle Carson in the grounds of Pelham’s Oak. The air was crisp, and the sun, low on the horizon, threw its wintry beams across the landscape they both loved so well.

  Alexander had driven over in his sports car, a present from his doting mother, and the two men, after selecting a horse for Alexander – a fine roan – set off at about eleven at a brisk canter over the fields.

  Carson was proud of Alexander’s prowess as a sportsman. Now in his second year at Trinity he had already played cricket and rugger for his college, and excelled on the polo field. He knew he was a rich, privileged young man yet remained curiously unspoilt by it all. As Eliza had said he had a well-developed social conscience and was careful not to parade his wealth. The following year he would be twenty-one and even richer when he would come into the large inheritance his adoptive father had left him, that and a seat on the board of the Martyn-Heering enterprise, now in the hands of the Dutch members of the family, if he wished it.

  For a while Alexander and Carson rode side by side chatting about the term, Alexander’s progress in his studies and in sports. If Carson felt nervous he didn’t show it and Alexander was as self-assured as ever, completely relaxed, a perfect seat on a horse.

  “When did Connie go to Venice?” Alexander asked, curious, as he had expected to see her when he arrived at the house.

  “A couple of weeks ago.” Carson endeavoured to sound nonchalant.

  “And she took the children?”

  “Yes. She wants to introduce them to the delights of classical antiquities as early as possible.” Carson chuckled, but Alexander thought his attitude forced, and detected signs of strain. But he was far too polite to question his uncle, whom he so revered.

  “You’ll be lonely without them?”

  “The house seems very quiet.”

  “Will you go over for Christmas?”

  “That depends.” Carson was looking anxiously at the cottage towards which they were riding, Ryder’s cottage nestling in a fold in the valley.

  He felt extraordinarily ill at ease and anxious lest this scheme should have unforeseen consequences. Yet Lally, he and Eliza had agreed that Nelly should have the chance to see her son but, for the time being, he should not be told she was his mother. Carson saw the window of Nelly’s room open as they approached the cottage and Massie looked anxiously out and, seeing the men cantering towards her, waved. Carson waved back as Massie abruptly turned back into the room. When Carson looked up again Nelly, aided by Massie, stood at the window, her pale face framed by her dark hair, more than ever like a Renaissance Madonna. They were now very near the house and Alexander suddenly raised his head, and saw the open window.

  “You have tenants in Uncle Ryder’s cottage?”

  “A sick woman and her maid.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “The lady is tubercular and has not long to live.” Carson found himself almost choking on his words.

  “How very sad, Uncle Carson.” Alexander drew in his horse and stood looking intently up at the woman standing in the window. She looked down at him and, although he couldn’t see it, her eyes filled with tears. Suddenly, impulsively, she raised her hand and waved and Alexander, moved, he didn’t know why, by deep emotions, by stirrings of sadness and compassion, raised his hand and waved back.

  For a moment Carson took in the tableau: the strange, poignant meeting of mother and son after twenty years. He thought it would remain forever etched in his memory. Then Nelly drew back from the window, Massie appeared at it again and closed it firmly and Alexander, as if brought back to reality, gently prodded his beautiful, patient roan and began to move on. Slowly Carson caught up with him. He was almost too overcome by emotion to speak and was thankful that Alexander was a few paces ahead of him.

  “What a very beautiful woman.” Alexander slowed down to let his uncle catch up with him. “Do you know her history?”

  “Oh yes, I am aware of it.” Carson paused. “One day I’ll tell you.”

  “You’re a very kind person, Uncle Carson.” In a spontaneous gesture Alexander put out his hand and touched Carson’s sleeve. But Carson drew back, again feeling shabby and ashamed at this act of deception, however well-meant.

  He felt there were two victims: Nelly and Alexander, and they deserved better of him.

  Chapter Twelve

  Sarah Jane Yetman stood back in order to survey the decorations she had just painstakingly put on the large Christmas tree in the hall, with the aid of her two maids, Verity and Blossom. It was a task she always undertook with little enthusiasm since Laurence had chosen to take his life just before Christmas, and thus spoilt it for everyone, not only that year but for many years to come.

  As Christmas drew near, a pall inevitably fell on the house as Sarah Jane retired into semi-mourning and made frequent visits to Wenham church where Laurence was commemorated in a window together with his cousin George. Inevitably, she found Sophie there too, because George had died even closer to Christmas, which thus became, in many ways, a doleful anniversary for both houses, however hard one tried to suppress it and not spoil the festivity for others.

  Sacred to the memory Of George Pelham Woodville, born 1881,

&
nbsp; his faithful servant Kirikeu and their companions,

  who gave their lives for Christ in Papua,

  New Guinea, December 1907.

  Also in loving memory of his cousin Laurence Thomas Yetman,

  born 1882, who died November 13 1912, both late of this parish.

  This window is erected to their memory by their family

  and the generous donations of the people of Wenham.

  Each year between the two anniversaries, a short memorial service was held in the church for the two men. But sometimes Sarah Jane felt it was time this practice was discontinued, not out of love or lack of respect, but because it made it harder for her to break away from the memory of Laurence to begin life afresh. It seemed in many ways so unfair that he should be commemorated for causing his family so much grief and, as time went on, she felt her attachment to the memory of her dead husband getting more and more remote, but she carried on keeping up appearances for the sake of the family, who expected it.

  However, Christmas had to be got through and once it was over she usually felt happier, as though a burden had lifted. Time to move on.

  Sarah Jane dismissed the maids and told them to get on with their household tasks. Then she looked at her watch and saw that it was only eleven o’clock, and she had the rest of the day to get through.

  She still had Christmas cards to send and presents to tie up, but this year was different to the ones before because so many sad things had happened in the course of it.

  Deborah Woodville had eloped with Sarah Jane’s brother, Bart, which brought new humiliation to her side of the family and grief on the Woodville side. It seemed such an awful, irresponsible way to behave and had caused untold suffering to Sophie. It was also rather deplorable, extremely irresponsible, for Debbie to repay her mother and stepfather in this way for all the kindness they had shown her, though she had never been an easy person to deal with over the years. As for Bart – well everyone had ceased expecting any responsible behaviour from him. He was a law unto himself.

  Then there seemed little doubt that Carson and Connie’s previously ostensibly happy marriage was on the rocks due to the appearance of a mysterious woman in Carson’s life. No one knew anything about her except that she was an invalid. But Connie’s objection to her was surely an indication that the appearance of the stranger had some connection with Carson’s past, and she resented it.

  Connie was a local girl, Wenham through and through, much loved in the small town where she had been born, and her mother and father before her. She had adorned it further in her role as lady of the manor, had participated in all the local activities and given her name to numerous good causes.

  The happy family life that had seemed to predominate at Pelham’s Oak was a cause for rejoicing on the part of those older members of the community who had been critical of the role of Sir Guy or his foreign wife, Margaret and, although his second wife, Agnes, still lived in the town, she was a virtual recluse. It was whispered abroad that she drank too much in order to drown her sorrows: the defection of her third husband, Owen Wentworth, who had never been traced, so that no one knew whether he was alive or dead, and the alienation of her only child, Elizabeth, which meant that she was denied the company of her many grandchildren which might have been a comfort in her old age.

  Agnes, who was a sister of Ryder Yetman, was not much older than her sister-in-law, Eliza, yet, in many ways, she had aged prematurely. Few people however were sorry for her and most decided that she deserved what she had got.

  It was said that Constance had only gone to Venice for a holiday, but she had been away a long time and showed no signs of coming back. Nor would Carson join her for Christmas. It was a matter he refused to discuss with his family.

  Apart from family troubles, the country continued to be depressed in the wake of the war which had ended twelve years before, with over a million and a half people still unemployed, disabled ex-servicemen begging on the streets of large cities, and the Labour Government, which had promised so much, unable to alter the situation. They weren’t as affected by the situation in the country as the people in the towns, but it was a gloomy picture whose repercussions were felt throughout the land.

  Sarah Jane shook her head at these sad reflections and wondered what to do with the rest of the day, or how to dispel the melancholy mood that had afflicted her since the appearance of the decorations and the tree and the realisation that Christmas was only a short time away. Felicity would be home but not Martha, and Abel and Ruth would divide their time between Riversmead and the Rectory, but their minds were really on each other and their new home. Not much room there for considering other people.

  Sarah Jane sat down at her bureau and consulted the list of those who were yet to receive cards. She drew a pile towards her and began signing them when there was a tap at the door and Blossom the maid put her head round.

  “It’s a Mr Palmer to see you, ma’am.”

  “Oh!” Glad of the interruption Sarah Jane pushed the cards to one side and got up. “Do tell him to come in, Blossom. He will be here to see Mr Yetman. You could also bring in some coffee.”

  “Yes, madam.” Blossom exited, only to return a few moments later with Solomon Palmer who, with a pink nose and white lips, looked very cold.

  “You look frozen to death.” Sarah Jane fussed over him and shook hands. “My goodness, your hands are cold.”

  “It is a very cold day, Sarah Jane.”

  “Do warm them by the fire,” she urged, pushing him forward. “I’ve asked Blossom to bring us coffee.”

  “That’s very good of you.” Solomon stood in front of the fire rubbing his hands together. Outside snowflakes had begun to fall.

  “Very different from that hot day in August.” Sarah Jane went and stood beside him. “Do you remember how hot it was?”

  “I do remember indeed.” Solomon looked thoughtfully at her and smiled, and the memory of that day suddenly seemed to re-awaken the mood of intimacy they’d shared then, though neither of them had referred by word or gesture to it again in the half dozen times or so that they had met since, always in the company of other people connected with Abel’s business.

  Blossom entered and, putting the coffee tray down on a table, hovered as if wondering whether she should pour.

  “Leave it, Blossom,” Sarah Jane instructed, feeling suddenly strangely excited at the close proximity of Solomon. “I’ll see to it.”

  “Yes, ‘m.” Blossom dropped an awkward half curtsy and left the room. She was new and rather clumsy and, though anxious to please, she found Sarah Jane a hard task-mistress.

  “Servants!” Sarah Jane shook her head as Blossom shut the door with a sharp bang. “They’re not what they were. But with the country in the state it’s in one dare not complain.” She looked across at Solomon. “Milk and sugar?”

  “Please.”

  “I suppose you’ve come to see Abel?” she asked as she passed him his cup. “He’s –”

  “Actually,” Solomon began to stir his coffee, “I’ve come to see you.”

  “Oh!” Confused, Sarah Jane took her cup and sat down in a chair facing the fire. “In what way can I help you, Solomon?”

  Solomon went on stirring his coffee, the thoughtful expression still on his face. Then he put the cup to his lips, drained it and replaced it on the table.

  “More?” Sarah Jane, as well as this suppressed air of excitement, also began to feel rather nervous.

  “No, thank you.” He took the chair opposite her, sat down and leaned forward, joining his hands as if he had something important to say.

  “I am very attracted to you, Sarah Jane. I wondered how you felt about me?”

  “Attracted?” Sarah Jane stammered. “How do you mean, attracted?”

  “You must know what I mean.” More at ease, once he’d put the question, he leaned back and gave a relaxed smile. “You must know what ‘attraction’ means. After all you have been married and you have children.”

&nbs
p; A blush that started from Sarah Jane’s neck ran swiftly to her cheeks.

  “I can scarcely think of anything but you; when I shall see you again.” He continued.

  “But ...”

  “I wondered if you felt the same about me? I thought perhaps you did.”

  “I like you, Solomon, of course I do. But something like that ... why you’re ... so much younger than me. You’re younger than my son!”

  “Is it so preposterous that a man should love an older woman? I find you physically and mentally attractive. Now were you in my place and I in yours, that is I were the older one, no one would consider that untoward, would they? You told me that Connie’s father was twenty years older than her mother?”

  “I really don’t know what to say.” As she had felt the blood rush to her face Sarah Jane now felt it drain away, and she put her head in her hands. Then after a while she said, “I think you know, Solomon, that what you are saying ... suggesting ... would be very much frowned upon in this small community.”

  “Then let us go elsewhere.”

  “But that’s impossible!”

  “Why? We are both free. You said you might want to sell this house. Let’s make a fresh start somewhere new, if that would please you.”

  “I can’t consider it.” Sarah Jane shook her head with great emphasis. “It is out of the question. I am flattered, of course, and you have done much to restore my self-esteem, but one of my daughters would be far more suitable for you than I. And what they and Abel would say I cannot begin to think.” She buried her head in her hands again, her mind in turmoil.

  She felt a hand on her shoulder, was aware of a face close to hers. Solomon was standing beside her and gently he drew her hands away from her face. She looked at him with wonder as he folded her in his arms and then she felt herself melting, dissolving in the warmth of the embrace in a way that, after the death of her husband, she had thought she never would again.

  ***

  Sophie sat in her usual seat at the base of the window looking, as she so often did, at the image of George kneeling at the foot of the cross. George, forever young, his features unravaged by time. He had only been twenty-six when he died of fever; pure, unsullied, unspoilt, his beautiful soul dedicated entirely to the service of God, for whose sake he had sacrificed his life.