“It has.” He took her gently by the arm and led her to a bench on which he sat down, facing her.
“It must be, well ...” he paused awkwardly, but Connie’s expression didn’t change as if the memory of what was troubling Carson amused her. He was struck by her composure, her sang froid, so unlike the timid child-woman he’d known, or thought he knew. She seemed to have nothing at all in common with that extraordinarily shy, plain, myopic, desperately insecure young woman he had so nearly and, possibly disastrously, married.
“It must be eight years, Carson.”
“It’s all of that.”
“A very long time ago.”
Again that awkward pause. Then:
“Have you forgiven me, Connie? I behaved disgracefully.”
“Forgiven, and forgotten,” she said dismissively. “We were both pawns in a silly family game. My aunt was most to blame, but she meant well.” She gave a deep sigh. “However let’s not dwell on the past.” She brushed his hand lightly with her finger. “You know that Miss Fairchild died?”
“I’d heard she was dead.”
“She died in Venice and we buried her there. Of course I had to because of the war.”
“You spent the war years in Venice?”
“Yes. It was almost impossible to get back here. We had a very nice apartment in a palazzo on the Grand Canal.”
“And do you still live there?”
“Yes. I think I shall settle in Venice. I have made a lot of friends, and it’s such a beautiful place.”
“And your singing?” He sighed nostalgically. “Do you still have that beautiful voice?” If he had once been in love with any part of her it was her voice.
She laughed, for the first time showing embarrassment. “Well,I like to sing, thank you for remembering. I also play the violin, and a group of friends and I meet frequently to play trios or quartets. Oh yes life in Venice is wonderful with all the museums and the opera and various other cultural activities.”
“And you never ... married, Connie?”
“No.” She smiled again, openly and cheerfully. “Not yet anyway. And you Carson, are you married?”
Carson shook his head.
“I’m very surprised.” There was a note of mockery in her voice. “You were such a catch. I suppose the women are all over you still?”
“I was in the war, Connie. I went right through from the beginning to the end and it changed me. Believe me it changes a man.”
“Of course!” Momentarily she looked nonplussed. “How could I forget? But at least you survived. We had several friends who lost sons or husbands.” Her eyes veered towards the Woodville family vault again. “I am sorry to see the name of your father, Carson. He died a year ago?”
“Thereabouts. After that I left the army and came home to shoulder my responsibilities. I had thought I might make a career of soldiering, but it was not to be.”
“And your stepmother, my dear half-sister Agnes?” Connie’s tone contained just a hint of sarcasm. “What news of her?”
“Very little. I haven’t heard from her for months. She seems to like to appear and disappear. Let’s hope one day she’ll disappear for good, but I rather fear not. Like the bad penny she will always turn up again. She lives in London at the family house, but I understand she has been on the continent for some time. Frankly we never got on, and little good she did my father.”
“I must say my half-sister was rather strong medicine. I was not over-fond of her either.” Connie got to her feet. “Well, I must go, Carson.” She pulled her coat closer to her. “Besides it is rather chilly here.”
“I apologise,” Carson hurriedly got to his feet. “I shouldn’t have kept you.”
“Not at all. But my purpose in visiting Wenham is to dispose of Miss Fairchild’s property. There is no point in hanging on to it, especially if I am to live abroad. I shall also probably sell our house in Bath, as I make so little use of that.” She gave him a frank, impersonal but friendly smile and once more held out her hand. “It was very nice to see you again, Carson. I’m glad we met.”
“I am too, Connie.” He took her hand and held it for a minute, somehow reluctant to let it go. She had used the past tense. “How long will you be here?”
“Oh, that’s undecided.” She tossed back her head, a gleam in her soft brown eyes. “Maybe a week or two. I may have to go to London on business, but I’ll be back. I have a car.”
Carson gulped. She was so much the woman of affairs it was hard to take it all in. This time it was he who felt the country bumpkin.
“Well, then I hope we shall meet again.”
“That would be nice,” she said with the same composed smile, but really the implication was that she didn’t much care. Once apparently so in love, she had obviously put him firmly at the back of her memory.
“Did you have some purpose in coming to the churchyard, Carson?” she asked as an afterthought, as they began to walk slowly towards the gate.
“I have a friend who is discussing some work for the Rector. He is an old comrade of mine from the war who is staying with me. He is a master builder and he’s advising Hubert Turner on some repairs to the church. I introduced him and then left him. I often come to visit the resting places of my parents and my dear sister Emily, who died so young of the scarlet fever.”
Connie’s expression was sympathetic.
“We share some very sad memories, Carson, do we not? I remember little Emily well and your dear mother and father too of course.” She paused by the side of the gate and looked back towards the far side of the churchyard. “Today I saw, as well as the graves of my own dear father and mother, those of Ryder Yetman and his son Laurence. But what a lovely place for them to lie.” She looked around at the pretty churchyard on the banks of the Wen with the trees newly clad in the fresh greenery, the blossom of late spring. “Sometimes I feel sorry I shan’t rest here myself.”
“Connie, that will be a long time off,” Carson exclaimed seizing her hand. “Look, I shall be very sorry indeed not to see you again. You too are a link with the past and bonds such as these are so important. If I may I shall call on you in a day or two and maybe you’ll come and dine with us at Pelham’s Oak before you go?”
“Oh, I would like that enormously, Carson,” she said warmly as they finally stopped outside the Rectory. “I too shall look forward to our next meeting.”
“I can’t get over the change in her!” Carson had hardly been able to stop talking about his meeting with Connie. “I didn’t recognise her.”
Listening to him burbling on, Sophie permitted herself a smile.
“She used to wear most unbecoming spectacles.” Carson looked at her abruptly. “What happened to them?”
“I think she found she didn’t really need them. She only uses them now for reading. She is indeed a very self-assured young woman. I scarcely recognised her myself when she appeared on the doorstep. It’s wonderful how travel broadens the mind.”
“She seems to bear me no grudge,” Carson murmured looking at the others in conversation on the far side of the room. But her husband and Jean Parterre were engrossed in an examination of some new plans for the church.
“I’m sure she doesn’t. In fact what happened may have been a very good thing.”
“Oh, in what way?” Carson looked at her curiously.
“She might not have developed her potential, as she undoubtedly has, but remained subdued by her status as your wife, sharing the house with Agnes and so on. In those circumstances I don’t think it could possibly have been a happy union, Carson, and doubtless Connie now thinks that too.”
“Well ...” Carson was about to proceed when the door opened and a maid appeared carrying a tea tray while behind her another followed with sandwiches and cakes.
In the background Hubert Turner rubbed his hands.
“Good, I spy tea,” he said and again Sophie smiled as she took up her position by the table on which the tea things were being laid.
“Hubert is always very happy when food appears. You would think one kept him permanently starving.”
She looked fondly at her husband who, in fact, in the years since they’d been married had put on at least a stone and was beginning to resemble the rubicund stereotype of a fictional clergyman, a sort of Friar Tuck character with thinning hair and ruddy cheeks. The Rector’s wife was herself the opposite, being slim, taller than her husband and having kept her robust good looks. Though never a beauty she had always been considered handsome and remained so. Her brown hair, which she wore in a roll, was thick and luxuriant, her brown eyes clear and intelligent, her expression alert but at the same time not lacking humour. She had been the daughter of the previous Rector of Wenham and had first married the heir to the Woodville title, George, a marriage which had pleased no one except the participants. George and Sophie, both inflamed with love of the Divine, had gone as missionaries to Papua where George died of fever leaving Sophie to return to Wenham with her two daughters. Now she was the mother of two boys as well, and in her role as the Rector’s wife much admired for her charity, compassion and good works, a lynchpin of the community.
Hubert and Jean continued with their deliberations while Sophie poured the tea. She handed a cup to Jean and one to her husband.
“How is it all coming on?”
“Very well,” Hubert said helping himself to a second sandwich. “The belfry has to be reinforced and also parts of the sacristy. Mr Parterre thinks it will take about six months.”
“As long as that?” Sophie grimaced. “I hope Mr Parterre will be able to supervise it. I understood his work at Pelham’s Oak takes up much of his time?” She looked enquiringly at Jean, who stirred his tea thoughtfully.
“I think I can fit them both in, if Carson permits. I have the help of some good men ...”
“It’s also a question of money,” Carson pulled a face. “It always is. Sometimes I think it is a task which will never be completed. I’m sure the church has more money than we have anyway.”
The Rector said nothing. It was known that he was a man of substantial private means, not forced to rely solely on his church stipend. He had already put much of his own money into refurbishing the rectory with its twelve bedrooms and large reception rooms, built at the turn of the nineteenth century for a rector with a large family.
In the weeks he had been there Jean had already proved himself an asset in helping with the reconstruction of Pelham’s Oak. He knew how to save time and cut costs. The fabric of the outside had been made secure, was repointed and repainted. The reroofing had begun. Without physically dividing the house they had managed to close the rooms which were not needed and secure them against damp and cold.
“I’m sure we can work something out,” Jean said tactfully. “I don’t think the task is as big as the Rector thinks. I’m sure I can manage both. Now if we could have a look at the belfry, sir ...” He then picked up the architect’s plans they had been discussing and took them over to the window to point something out to the Rector.
“What a charming and helpful man Mr Parterre is,” Sophie murmured sotto voce to Carson as the two men proceeded with their discussions. “Nothing is too much trouble for him. And he is so good with the children. Has he children of his own?”
“He was devoted to them,” Carson nodded. “But his wife deserted him for another man.”
“And does he see them?”
Carson shook his head. “Not, I think, for a long time.”
Carson finished his tea and replaced his cup on the table. He crossed to the window and stood looking in the direction of Miss Fairchild’s house.
“I wonder how long Connie Yetman will stay with us?” He turned and smiled at Sophie. “Frankly she was so nice to me, I shall be sorry to see her go.”
Sophie joined him by the window. Miss Fairchild’s house, just out of sight, was a substantial dwelling, the last big house in the village. Her parents had owned the draper’s store in the town which had passed to her after their deaths. Her father had also invested money wisely in stocks and shares as well as property, and had left her well off. But her real fortune came from apparently worthless shares in a South African mine which had suddenly struck a rich vein of gold. When she died she left her ward not simply well off, but an extremely wealthy woman with the power and ability to do with her life exactly what she pleased.
Sophie craned her head forward as she saw her elder daughter coming round the church in the direction Connie would have taken.
“Here’s Deborah,” she said. “I wonder if she’s been paying a call on Connie?”
“Deborah is not returning to school?” Carson asked, following the progress of his niece, whose beauty it was hard to exaggerate. She was tall, like her mother and slim but there the resemblance finished. She was blue-eyed and with fair hair which she still wore in her girlish, but becoming, ringlets as though she was reluctant to grow up.
“She’s eighteen in January, and has finished her schooling. The problem now is what to do with her.”
“She’s so pretty,” Carson murmured. “You won’t have that problem for very long.”
“You think she’ll marry?” Sophie laughed. “I’m not sure she’s in any hurry. She has much admired what Dora did in the war and has ambitions to be a nurse.”
“And should you mind that?” Carson looked at her enquiringly.
“Not in the least. You know we have a tradition in our branch of the family of service to the community. Hubert and I would not in the least mind if she took up nursing, and I’m sure her dear father would have approved.”
Surreptitiously Sophie and Carson clasped hands. The great bond they shared was love for the late George Woodville. He had been a mentor and example to Carson who could never forget that, but for George’s untimely death, Sophie would now be mistress of Pelham’s Oak and the problems that beset him now might never have happened. He would have been a carefree soldier, enjoying life to the full.
On their way out, Carson and Jean stopped in the hall where Deborah was playing with her small brother Timothy, who had just been bought his first bicycle. When she saw Carson Deborah ran up to him and flung her arms round his neck. He jumped back, startled, aware of how grown up she had suddenly become, not as tall as he was but tall nevertheless. He was very fond of his niece and she adored her father’s younger brother. To her he was such a glamorous figure with his war record and his reputation for wildness as a young man. She didn’t know which aspect of him she found more attractive.
“Uncle Carson,” she exclaimed, standing back to gaze at him, “are you going to stay for tea?”
“We’ve just had tea. You’re too late.”
“Oh!” Dejectedly she looked in Jean’s direction. “And, Mr Parterre, how long have you been here?”
“Almost all afternoon. I had business to discuss with your father.”
“I wish I’d known.” Deborah stamped her foot angrily. “I missed all the fun.”
“I assure you there was no fun,” Jean replied looking at her kindly. “It was all talk about building with the reverend.”
“And you saw Connie?” Deborah looked archly at Carson.
“You heard?”
“Yes, I heard. I was on my way home from seeing a friend and I saw Connie Yetman go into Miss Fairchild’s house. She paused and waved to me so I went in for a chat.”
“Surely you didn’t remember Connie?”
“Oh, I remembered her. Of course I remembered her.”
“And you recognised her?” Carson appeared amused.
“Of course, but she came to the house when she first arrived. Didn’t you recognise her?”
“I thought she’d changed.”
“She thinks you’ve changed too.”
“Oh really?” Carson’s eyes twinkled. “For better or worse?”
“She didn’t say.” Deborah paused. “She just looked thoughtful. I can see that she’s forgiven you.”
“Now, now,” Carson lo
oked uncomfortably in Jean’s direction, “that was a long time ago.”
“She said that she was glad she didn’t marry you.”
“Oh did she?”
“Yes. She said that now she had a very full and happy life, and invited me to visit her in Venice.”
Connie drove through the narrow lanes of her native county, Dorset, her hair ruffled by the breeze blowing in through the open windows of the car. It was a glorious summer day and it was surprisingly good to be home.
Connie was a Wenham girl, born of an elderly father and a mother who was nearly forty and who died giving birth to her. Her father John Yetman had been a widower when he wooed and married Euphemia Monk, a wealthy, but extremely shy and withdrawn spinster of the parish. In the care of her grieving father Connie had had a sheltered, narrow upbringing and this inevitably continued after her father died and she was adopted by Victoria Fairchild, another wealthy spinster to whom she had become extremely attached.
Connie clung to Miss Fairchild as she had clung to her father. She was a plain, nervous child who wore glasses and took little interest in her appearance, in anything except music at which she excelled. Indeed it was her only passion until she met Carson Woodville and he began to take a kindly interest in her. It seemed impossible that this godlike creature could love her enough to propose to her, but he did.
Even now she could blush at the memory of her chagrin when she discovered that Carson had been talked into marriage by his father in order for Connie’s fortune to save the family estate.
Connie, not surprisingly, had had a breakdown and Miss Fairchild, as overprotective as ever, had whisked her away, first to Bath where she bought a house then, just before the outbreak of war and as Connie recovered, to the continent.
Connie had loved Miss Fairchild but, especially after the fiasco of her broken marriage plans, she also came to resent her. As she grew older Miss Fairchild became cantankerous and over-possessive. Looking at the situation with the gift of hindsight Connie realised that Victoria had almost deliberately kept her back, encouraging her childish attitudes and behaviour. She paid for everything and gave Connie little spending money of her own. She supervised her wardrobe continuing to choose styles for her that were far too young.
In This Quiet Earth (Part Three of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 10
