As it was a fine day, they sauntered into the churchyard, not straying too far from the door, and were soon deep in a discussion of the workmanship of a large table tomb, the resting place of a former vicar and a favourite sunning place for some of the local cats, when they saw Mr Wood escorting his mother, who leant on his arm, along the path from the direction of the new bank on the Bull Ring. Edmund advanced to meet them.
“Good day to you both.” He greeted them cheerfully.
“Good day, Mr Bredwardine. I appreciate your giving of your time, sir. Thank you for coming out too, Mr Gower. I am glad you have had a pleasant day for your drive,” said Charles Wood, shaking hands in a slack manner with both men. He was blond and handsome but in a strangely blurred way: his lips were too loose for classical beauty and his blue eyes had an unsatisfactory wateriness, but he was amiable enough in his manner. He was thirty-two, of an age with Edmund, but the latter had only met him for the first time two weeks ago, when he first came to the benefice house to discuss the monument for his recently deceased father who had been a solicitor and a distinguished Town Clerk for some years before his retirement. Charles had been away, living in London, when Edmund had first arrived in the parish four years ago. He had ostensibly been taking his dinners at Lincoln’s Inn in order to qualify as a barrister, or so his ambitious parents had hoped, but the real aspiration of their son had lain in the arts and he had thrown up the law and dabbled in painting. Furthermore the fleshly temptations of the capital had met with little resistance from him and he was rumoured to be too partial to a glass or two. Worse still, he had married imprudently, to the horror of his mother when he had brought his wife to his native town, for the junior Mrs Wood (low be it spoken!) had been a publican’s daughter and had acted as a barmaid in her father’s tavern. The Wenlock town gossips had gloated exultantly over this juicy titbit, cawing like crows over a dead lamb; Mrs Wood was commonly rumoured to have vinegar for blood, so acid had her tongue become in recent years, and few were sorry to see her pride be forced to take such a tumble.
She was not in a good humour today. “Are we to stand here gossiping all day, son Charles?” said the old lady tartly. “Let us proceed to the church and have done as soon as may be. Time is money.”
With that crisp pronouncement in lieu of greeting, she led the little procession inside the church, pausing for Edmund to open the heavy door for her on its old horseshoe shaped hinges. Once inside, they gathered by the north wall and Mr Gower put up his stepladder and climbed it, unfurling the plan of the monument against the wall for their critical assessment.
“Too large” said the old lady dismissively, after scarcely a glance. Her son looked uneasy.
“But it is an elegant design, is it not, Mother?” he asked. She shrugged and made a dismissive gesture. Charles implored support from Edmund with his eyes. Edmund, pitying his situation, came to his aid.
“If I may venture an opinion, madam, it is an elegant design and would undoubtedly enhance other such monuments in the church. Most importantly, it would be a fitting tribute to your late husband.”
Charles shot him a look of gratitude. Mrs Wood’s disparaging face mellowed slightly. Edmund was one of the few people whose judgement she did not wholly disdain. She spoke again: “Yes, the urn and the scroll are acceptable, I suppose, but I would fain see a smaller version.”
Mr Gower cleared his throat: “Excuse me, ma’am. ‘Ud I be right in thinking you dunna like the size because it might be dearer to make?”
Mrs Wood bristled, but agreed, coldly. “Precisely so. I wish to see it reduced in scale and price.”
“Ah, well, begging your pardon, ma’am, you are wrong there. It wunna make it cheaper to ‘ave it smaller, far from it. I would have to reduce the lettering considerably and that makes for much more work, ma’am, to get it right. That, or you must say a lot less about the poor deceased gentleman, which folks might think disrespectful. The design too would be quite spoiled, the proportions all wrong. It just udna look right. I can start all over again if that’s what you want but I ‘ud ‘ave to charge for time and trouble taken so far, ma’am, which would be a waste.”
Mrs Wood fixed him with a gimlet eye. She turned to her son: “There are other monumental masons, I suppose” she said frostily.
“Not in Wenlock, there’s not,” Mr Gower rejoined, stolidly, before her son could respond. “Some in Shrewsbury, though. Of course they will charge more anyway, and their expenses will be greater, coming from that much further away.”
“Come, mother,” said Charles nervously, “you know that I wish to defray all the expense and you need have no trouble in the matter. It is a very fine design. I’m sure Father would have approved of it. We may as well proceed, you know. People will think it odd if the matter is not resolved soon and no monument appears to Father’s memory.”
“Well, as long as it is your own money you are wasting, you may do as you please. No one cares for my opinion. I am just an old woman to be put aside.” She began to turn to the door.
“No, no, Mother, never. Please! It is because I value your opinion that we have come together today. I did not want to press on without your blessing.”
“You were happy enough to do so when you chose your bride.” She almost spat out the last word. Her vehemence caught them all by surprise. Her son flushed scarlet with mortification. He was obliged to take a deep breath before he could speak again.
“Now, mother, these good folk don’t want to hear all about our private concerns,” said Charles, taking out his handkerchief to mop his brow. He glanced uneasily at the two men. Mr Gower was clearly ruffled by the lady’s rudeness and would render no help. Edmund was embarrassed at the growing awkwardness of the scene. He sought to mediate and placate the old lady: “Madam, no one wishes to force you to consent to something of which you cannot approve. Nonetheless there is much to be said for proceeding. Your own discernment has seen that the design is a fine one, as your son says, and Mr Gower’s point about cost is well made. Could you not see your way to approving what can only do honour to your late husband’s memory?”
His calm words made the old lady recollect herself. She gathered her dignity visibly back around her, like a shawl, and gave a nod.
“Well, yes, I suppose it will do, if Charles is so foolish as to spend so much. You may proceed, mason. Good day to you, Reverend.”
Charles shook hands hastily with the men, expressing voluble thanks to them both and scurried out after his mother.
As the Woods disappeared under the Guildhall archway, Edmund and Mr Gower looked at each other with raised eyebrows and Thomas shook his head with exasperation.
“I’m glad that is settled,” he said with emphasis and Edmund could only heartily concur.
* * *
As Edmund left the church, he followed the same path as the Woods had taken, which lead onto the High Street by way of the passage beneath the ancient Guildhall. He planned to call briefly on blind Mr Simmonds who had been unwell but was now recovering. With his mind still dwelling on the recent unpleasant scene, he was idly tapping his stick, a hazel rod with a finial rustically but robustly carved with a spaniel’s head, the gift of a grateful parishioner, on the railing. He halted in surprise when a handsome little male kitten emerged from the bushes as if attracted by his tapping. It had a beautifully marked marmalade coat that promised to be very fine, although it was somewhat matted at present. The tiny animal sat down with a bump, four-square in his path as if on purpose to waylay him, and mewed up at him with an unmistakable plea in its voice. Amused, he crouched down and stroked the little creature. It responded immediately by butting its head enthusiastically and lovingly against his hand. Edmund looked around and called “puss, puss,” to see if he could locate the mother cat but no such animal appeared. The kitten was thin and clearly hungry but it looked old enough to have finished weaning; Edmund estimated it to be about seven weeks old or thereabouts. He picked it up in both hands and addressed it with mock solemnity.
“Well, little one, you do not look too well cared for, hmm? Perhaps I should take you home and feed you. What think you?” The kitten opportunely mewed again, just as if it were agreeing very eagerly with Edmund, which made him laugh and eased his spirits after the tension in the church. He unbuttoned his coat and refastened it awry to create a fold into which he tucked the little creature, to keep it warm against him. He decided to go straight home instead of visiting Mr Simmonds with a wriggling kitten and turned back.
Chapter 3
The new arrival was greeted warmly and much exclaimed over by his womenfolk, who were all surprised to see Edmund return so soon, since his rounds were often protracted by his attention to the needs of his parishioners. Harriet, his older sister, took the little cat from him and hurried to the kitchen to give it some watered milk, which it accepted eagerly. She and Deborah let its stomach rest before offering it a little minced roast chicken, taken from the family dinner, then in preparation. It devoured this readily, reaching as far as it could around its mouth with its little tongue after the meal, with every evidence of satisfaction. It yawned hugely and soon fell asleep on the rug near the range, where the women reluctantly left the pretty animal to return to their domestic duties, Deborah promising to look after it.
Over dinner, the family discussed the events of the day. The ladies were all pleased with the appointment of Deborah’s brother to be their new gardener and handyman. Edmund mentioned the meeting in the church, but forbore to tell the full extent of Mrs Wood’s unpleasantness, only remarking that the design was approved at last, and soon the talk around the table centred more happily on the kitten’s likely history and future.
“Well, I have this day engaged a new gardener and a new mouser, it would seem. I think the kitten may prove a fine hunter,” opined Edmund, “he promises to fill out well, if he is cared for.”
“Deborah says that we badly need a cat since old Smokey died. The mice have been increasing again,” replied Harriet.
“The cat must not be spoiled, Harriet. It will stay in the kitchen.” Mrs Bredwardine sounded firm on this point, but Edmund and Harri both knew that this was not likely to prove an iron rule. Once the kitten had made a few endearing gambols in her sight, she was very likely to soften and permit liberties.
“But should we keep it, dear?” asked Edmund’s Aunt Cecily, timidly. “It may belong to someone who is looking for it. I should be very sorry to think of any young child grieving for its loss, for instance.”
“Aunt Cecily, you are in the right, as always,” said Edmund, for this thought had crossed his mind too. “I have the solution. I will cry him at church tomorrow, like the banns. He cannot have ventured too far onto that path or he would have come to harm under some cart’s wheel, so if he has a family, they are likely to be at the service. If no one claims him, we will give him a home and he can earn his keep in the kitchen by dealing with the mice.”
This proposal contented everyone. Their happy smiles were in no degree lessened when the doorbell rang and Deborah announced Dr Peplow. This gentleman was tall, broad-shouldered and had dark crisp hair, just beginning to grey at the temples. He had an engagingly open countenance, with kindly brown eyes, though he looked rather melancholy at times. Although his new practice was nine miles away in Shifnal, he was rather lonely there, being a widower in his mid-thirties, and so he often came to Wenlock to visit his sister and brother-in-law, Mr and Mrs Mason, to whom he was sincerely attached, and who had been married by Edmund only in June. He and Edmund had formed a friendship shortly afterwards and he now often finished his visit to the town by calling informally at the benefice house after leaving the Masons. All of the ladies were pleased to see him. Aunt Cecily positively doted on him for his kindness to her from their very first meeting but it was Harriet’s heart which quickened most when he came in and bowed to them all in his grave manner. Was it her imagination or did his eyes dwell on her just a little longer than on anyone else? She inwardly reproved her folly with severity for thinking such nonsense, “like a green girl,” she thought to herself. She chided the hope which continued to rise nonetheless, and concentrated instead on her embroidery while Edmund eagerly took his friend away to his study to examine his latest additions to his coleoptera collection. His family were tolerant of his hobby, but did not share his love of the invertebrates and so it was a rare pleasure for him to be able to discuss the creatures with an interested fellow observer. However when they returned for a bite of supper at the insistence of Mrs Bredwardine, and had eaten their fill, Dr Peplow contrived to sit by Harriet and engage her in conversation, while Edmund read snippets from the two day old newspaper to his mother and aunt, who listened attentively over their needlework.
“I hope you do not strain your eyes too much in the candlelight, Miss Bredwardine,” he said after watching her deft movements for a few moments. The tone of kindly regard was noticeable but Harriet argued to herself that he would sound thus to anyone, being used to speak kindly to his patients. She determined to keep her own tone light and hoped her voice would not betray her.
“Oh no, sir. I am not as diligent as you may suppose. I rest them often, I do assure you, in sheer idleness,” she replied, with a warm smile that insisted on settling on her face, however guarded her feelings.
“If I may risk your displeasure and dare to contradict a lady,” he said, smiling likewise, “I think that unlikely: your brother speaks of you as one who is always about some useful task, here at home or in the Sunday school, or in the parish. He says that he cannot imagine how he might manage but for your help and that of your mother and aunt, of course.” The last phrase was added as a polite afterthought. Harriet, much pleased, felt herself blushing as though she were nineteen again, and at the county dance where a handsome young officer had declared her to be the prettiest girl in the room. She was glad of the dimness of the candlelight which helped to hide the redness of her cheeks. Unbeknown to her however, the compliment had set her eyes sparkling and the glow of the candle showed this off to advantage.
“I only try to do my part, sir,” she replied gravely. “There is much to keep us all occupied in a poor parish like this. Edmund works hardest of all, of course. That is why I am so very glad that you and Edmund have become acquainted; it is such a relaxation to him to talk of matters other than parish affairs with a man of information and sense. Natural philosophy is a great consolation to him.” She had leaned forward in her earnestness, her face animated in her praise of her brother. Dr Peplow nodded, gratified in his heart by the praise she had thus accorded him too in her natural and unaffected way.
“Yes, his friendship and goodwill gives me much pleasure also,” he replied, “but tell me, what do you do for relaxation, Miss Bredwardine? There are not many balls or social gatherings in Wenlock, that much I know.”
“No, there are not.” She did not add that she derived little enjoyment these days from the few that there were, since her hand was seldom sought for a dance. At thirty-four, Harriet expected to have to sit with the older ladies these days. “I read, sir, and embroider, and take walks when the weather is fine, like other women.” She was keen to divert the talk away from herself. “Pray, how does your daughter do, Dr Peplow?”
“She is in good health, thank you, and progressing well in her lessons. Grace is a dear child.” He hesitated for a moment. “I wonder if I might have the pleasure of introducing her to you one day?”
“That would be delightful.” Unbidden, a wave of happiness washed over Harriet at this evidence of the doctor’s esteem but almost immediately it was countered by an anxiety that she was being a fool, building a castle in the air based on nothing more than a friendly suggestion. She told herself sternly that the doctor meant to compliment her whole family by this request, but she could not stop her hand trembling slightly. Fearful of betraying too much emotion if they were to continue thus tete-a-tete, no matter how delightful and gratifying to her own innermost feelings, she laid down her needle and addressed he
r mother, thus making the conversation general:
“Mama, Dr Peplow would like to bring his daughter to visit. We would very much like to meet Miss Peplow, would we not?”
“Indeed we would, my dear. It would give us great pleasure, sir, if you were to bring her to take tea, the next time you visit your sister, if she could spare you both,” said Mrs Bredwardine warmly.
“Oh, that would be such a great happiness, Sabrina. We have not seen little Jenny, our little Westwood cousin, or the Phillipses, for such an age. It would be so nice to entertain your little girl, sir, if she would care to come,” ventured Aunt Cecily wistfully, for she was inordinately fond of children and took great pleasure in running the Sunday school with her niece.
“Most certainly, Miss Morrall. It would a great pleasure to her too. We live a little too quietly, I sometimes fear.” The doctor spoke warmly. He had often felt a sense of homecoming in being with this family.
“Did I understand you to say that you would be visiting your sister again, with your daughter, for the Michaelmas Fair, Peplow?” asked Edmund. “Why not bring her along to see us too, if it would not incommode you? You see how welcome she would be!” He smiled around at all his womenfolk. Dr Peplow bowed his thanks.
“We would look forward to it, Bredwardine.” He stood up. “I had better be on my way, since Grace worries if she does not hear me come in before she retires,” he said, shaking hands with Edmund before saying goodbye to the company and leaving for home.
Bitter Herbs Page 2
