The Green Ribbons

by Clare Flynn

  Just as the parson appeared and took up his position in front of his congregation, Hephzibah spotted what she was absolutely certain were her missing green ribbons. They were gracing the back of the head of a young woman several rows in front of her on the other side of the aisle. The girl in question had a cascade of chestnut curls worthy of a Titian portrait and Hephzibah had to admit that her green ribbons set off the colour of her hair perfectly. The plush velvet was a marked contrast to the coarse linen of the woman’s dress. As the parson began to deliver the order of service, the young woman turned around in her seat and looked straight at Hephzibah as if challenging her outright to reclaim her property, then turned back and joined in the service as though innocent of any misdemeanour. Her audacity shocked Hephzibah. She was brazen, defiant, unrepentant. So the girl with the chestnut hair was the intruder in her bedroom the previous night. That must also mean that she was the mistress of Squire Egdon.

  Hephzibah studied the girl over the top of her prayer book. She had never come across a woman of easy virtue before. She appeared to be in her early twenties and was undeniably pretty. How could someone like her fall prey to the advances of the squire? Hephzibah thought of his swollen red foot, his penetrating eyes with the dark circles beneath and that shiny bald head. She found him repulsive and could not imagine why a young woman would choose to visit him in an empty bedroom, doubtless let him touch her in the way only a husband should touch his wife. She had even been laughing. Hephzibah shuddered involuntarily. It was too horrible to think about. If the girl was prepared to go through all that, then she was welcome to her stolen ribbons. Then she asked herself why Sir Richard would have a tryst in an empty room, close to the accommodations of his daughter, the governess and the housekeeper. It must mean that someone else was in that unused bedroom. Perhaps one of the servants?

  When the service was over, Hephzibah lingered in her seat while the congregation filed past. Mrs Andrews was one of the last to leave and she stopped at the end of Hephzibah’s pew.

  ‘Are you walking back to the Hall, Miss Wildman, or would you like to travel with Ottilie and me in the trap?’

  ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll walk. It’s such a beautiful day.’

  ‘Luncheon is at one-thirty. The squire expects you and Ottilie to join him.’ Then with a slight twitch of her lips, conveying unspoken disapproval, she went on her way.

  The Reverend Nightingale was stationed in the church doorway when Hephzibah emerged. Seeing her, he said goodbye to the couple he had been talking to and turned to greet her. ‘Miss Wildman, what a pleasure to see you.’

  Hephzibah smiled, noticing the spread of a blush from his ears onto his cheeks.

  ‘I do hope my sermon met with your approval?’

  Hephzibah realised she had been entirely oblivious to the content of the homily and sent up a silent prayer that he would not expect her to discuss it further. ‘Most thought-provoking,’ she said. ‘Inspiring, in fact.’

  He laughed. ‘I fear you are overstating the case.’

  When he laughed, his face appeared less ordinary. She decided she liked him.

  ‘I’m afraid the carriage for Ingleton Hall has already left. You will have a long walk back.’

  ‘I chose to walk. I’ve been shut up indoors for days while it poured with rain. I have a full three hours before I’m expected at luncheon so I intend to explore the village and maybe the grounds of the Hall.’

  Nightingale’s blush deepened. ‘Then perhaps you will allow me to accompany you as your guide?’

  She was taken aback and hesitated a moment.

  The parson went on, his words tumbling out of his mouth. ‘No, of course not. You will have had enough of listening to me after that sermon! Not right to inflict more of my presence upon you. I’m sorry. It was thoughtless and intrusive.’ He looked down at his feet and twitched the hem of his cassock between his fingers.

  The man was clearly a bag of nerves. She wondered if he was always this way. It might explain what he had said about his parishioners avoiding him. But she liked him. He was kind, warm and intelligent. And he had a nice smile. ‘I would be delighted if you would accompany me, Reverend Nightingale. You can show me the local landmarks.’

  ‘Really?’ he asked. ‘If you’re quite sure I won’t spoil your morning?’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  By the margin, willow-veil’d,

  Slide the heavy barges trail’d

  By slow horses;

  (from The Lady of Shalott, Alfred, Lord Tennyson)

  Merritt left Hephzibah to wait in the drawing room of the parsonage while he rushed upstairs to fling off his vestments and change into a sturdier pair of shoes. The drawing room had been transformed in the three days since she had last visited. He had enlisted the grudging help of his mystified housekeeper to move most of his books into the study, where they were now piled high on the floor and overflowing from the many bookshelves. He and Mrs Muggeridge had carried the rest upstairs to his own bedroom and the two guest rooms, where they were piled on top of the unused beds. No one came to visit anyway.

  If Mrs Muggeridge attributed the parson’s sudden change of heart about restoring order in the drawing room to Miss Wildman, she did not let on. Merritt was relieved as he would not have known what to say if the housekeeper had confronted him about his desire to make a good impression on the new arrival in Nettlestock. Mrs Muggeridge had often muttered audibly about how it wasn’t right to have a parson who was unmarried – his predecessor had been married with two daughters. If she began dropping hints about Hephzibah Wildman, he didn’t think he would be able to conceal his feelings. Fortunately, Hephzibah’s presence in the parsonage this morning would not be remarked, Mrs Muggeridge having gone to visit her sister in the next village, as was her custom every Sunday after the church service.

  When Merritt returned, Hephzibah was standing by the window, looking out at the garden, which was awash with swathes of pink and purple phlox, with pink and white roses growing against the flint stone wall.

  She turned to face him. ‘You have a very pretty house and garden, Reverend Nightingale.’ She stretched her arm out to sweep the room. ‘But I think the room would look all the better for some books. I always feel a room to be unfurnished without them.’

  Merritt stopped dead, his mouth open.

  ‘I am teasing you, sir,’ she said. ‘I have a terrible habit of using irony. Pay no attention.’

  He grinned at her, relief flooding over him. ‘Yes, Miss Wildman, as you can see, your visit was the spur I needed to take some drastic action. There is now at least one room in the house that is devoid of books. I have to thank you for that and I must admit that I am greatly enjoying the unusual pleasure of sitting in an empty chair in front of the fire with the single book that I’m reading in my hand. When I am done, I return it to join its fellows in what has now become the most cluttered and disorderly library in the world.’

  ‘How then can you find what you are looking for?’ she asked.

  ‘I usually don’t. When I seek out a particular title I am always diverted by the tempting sight of another, so it doesn’t make a lot of difference. Those books that I need to prepare my sermons I now keep in that cold little parlour I subjected you to on your last visit, so they’re always to hand. One day I shall find the time to organise all my books properly and permanently.’

  ‘By then you’ll need a larger house as your collection will undoubtedly have grown.’

  ‘Ah,’ he sighed. ‘You already have the measure of me. Shall we go for that walk?’

  They left the parsonage and walked through the village, with Merritt pointing out the stern facade of the Wesleyan chapel, the two inns, the blacksmith’s forge and the village school. It was a pretty village, many of the houses being very old, but cared for, with roses trailing over their walls and thatches well-groomed. Hephzibah appeared to be listening but asked no questions and Merritt lapsed into silence, worried that he had bored her.

  ‘I have al
ways lived in Oxford,’ she said eventually. ‘I know nothing of village life. Don’t you find it dull?’

  ‘I do miss conversation... the opportunity to debate with others, the stimulation of life at the university. But there are many compensations in Nettlestock. I love the countryside, the quiet, the opportunity to study without interruption. I sometimes fear I’m at risk of becoming something of a hermit. But then my duties do require me to interact with my flock from time to time, so there’s no real danger of that.’

  ‘You don’t seem to me to be a person who shuns the company of others,’ she said. ‘You’re far too nice for that.’

  Merritt coughed. Did she really like him? Did he dare hope that one day she might come to feel for him a little of what he felt for her?

  ‘Growing up,’ she went on, ‘I had lots of friends, but since Mama and Papa died, it has felt as though they have abandoned me. As if my loss might somehow contaminate them, or bring them misfortune. Oh, they were terribly kind and friendly when they saw me, but they stopped inviting me to their homes and went out of their way to avoid meeting me. But nothing is as hard as knowing I will never again see Mama and Papa. Even as time passes it is no easier.’

  Her words filled him with sorrow for her. She looked so small and frail and he wished he could fling his arms around her and press her close against his chest.

  Before he could find the right words to say, she continued. ‘Are your parents alive, Reverend Nightingale? Are you close to them?’

  ‘Yes and no,’ he said. ‘They live near Birmingham and I see them rarely. My father is a doctor and both my brothers followed him into general practice. He was disappointed that I didn’t share their talent for the natural sciences, but preferred literature and studying the classics. He tried to push me to work harder and ready myself to study medicine, but I had neither the aptitude nor the desire. We quarrelled often. He told me once that I had let him down. I swore then that if I am ever blessed with children I will let them find their own paths and not expect them to follow mine.’

  ‘And your mother?’

  ‘An obedient wife.’ He shook his head and looked away.

  ‘What did they think about you becoming a clergyman?’

  ‘I think Father thought it was the best possible outcome under the circumstances. His cousin was the former incumbent here and the living was passed to our family so Father urged me to take it.’

  ‘You didn’t set out to become a parson?’

  ‘No. I never gave a lot of thought to religion. I went to church of course but that was as far as it went. I am not what one might call a man with a mission. I see it as a job. The duties are light. Just the regular services, the odd funeral, my sermon to write and, once a week, a Bible class at the village school.’

  She smiled. ‘I’m rather glad to hear that. I don’t think I’ve ever got on with people who are very pious. I had hoped religion would have been more of a comfort to me when my parents died, that my faith would deepen, but instead their death has stretched it to the limits.’

  As they turned off the village street and skirted around a large expanse of common-land, Merritt laid a hand on her arm. ‘I can understand that. Sometimes I struggle to comprehend why God places such a heavy burden on some individuals and allows others to lead a charmed life. Every time I visit the workhouse in Mudford and see the wretched state of decent, honest people, or if I have to bury a small child, it feels so wrong. Just last week I conducted the funeral for a young man whom I had married just six months earlier. He’s left a widow expecting a child and with no one to provide for them. God can be very cruel.’

  ‘You don’t doubt your faith though?’ she asked.

  ‘To be honest I don’t let myself think too deeply about it. I am afraid that if I did I might lose it altogether.’ He stopped and turned to look at her. ‘Have I shocked you, Miss Wildman?’

  She shook her head and looked at him with interest.

  ‘Only, I think if any of my parishioners or the bishop ever heard me speak like this I’d be run out of Nettlestock.’

  ‘Your secret is safe with me.’

  They were walking past a large red brick building that Merritt, in an effort to steer the conversation onto safer ground, told her was a water mill. ‘There used to be a silk factory next to the mill, but now it’s just used to grind corn. It’s cheaper to import silk from abroad. I’m afraid a lot of the village’s industries have suffered in recent years. There are chalk quarries nearby and there is a factory making whiting from the chalk. It’s still going, but it produces a fraction of what it once did. It’s hard here in the south. Industry is all about the north. We depend on agriculture here and with cheap imports of foodstuffs even that’s dwindling every year. Nettlestock has become a backwater. Speaking of which...’

  They were at a bend in the road and in front of them was the canal. A lock was on one side of the road bridge and an empty loading dock on the other. They went to stand on the bridge.

  ‘Even the canal has seen better days. Built less than a century and already hardly used. All the whiting used to go by barge to Bristol, but now most of it’s sent by train. There’s the railway goods yard over there.’ He pointed further down the lane. ‘Poor old canal. The towpath’s getting overgrown and I doubt the lock here opens more than once or twice a week.’

  ‘What do the villagers do for work?’ she asked.

  ‘Mostly agricultural work. There are some still employed with the chalk pits and the whiting works. Not a lot else. Many left and went up north to work in the big mills and factories. The villagers tend to keep their distance from newcomers. They don’t take to strangers. I think a lot of it stems from the riots back in 1830. Made everyone suspicious of everyone else.’ He looked at Hephzibah sideways to reassure himself that he wasn’t boring her. He was all too aware of his tendency to get carried away with his own enthusiasm.

  She was frowning, her head on one side but her eyes reflected her interest. ‘Riots? Here in Nettlestock?’

  ‘Yes, here in this sleepy old village. Machine breakers. They went around smashing agricultural machinery and burning hayricks. It was all done out of fear. They were scared that the newfangled farm machinery would do them out of their jobs. They only wanted to protect their livelihoods. Feed their families. But the authorities had little sympathy. One night the ringleaders were meeting in the local ale house to plan their next raid when the doors opened and Sir Rupert – Sir Richard’s father, some of the other local magistrates, Lord Rochester-Palmer from Heddon Hall, and a troop of constables burst into the room. One of the so-called conspirators swung for it, poor devil, and the rest were all transported to Tasmania.’

  ‘How dreadful. What happened to their families?’

  ‘Who knows? Some will have struggled on. Most probably ended up in the workhouse. Hard to get by when the breadwinner’s gone.’

  ‘So their protests were self-defeating then?’ She looked thoughtful.

  ‘Aren’t these things always that way?’ he said. ‘But it doesn’t stop men hoping and wanting to make things better. I suppose they thought it was better to try than to do nothing. But we can’t stop progress. It’s seventy years ago but memories are long around here.’

  They walked on along the towpath. The morning was warm with just a gentle breeze stirring the weeping willows on the banks. Merritt touched her arm and silently signalled to her to look across to the opposite bank where, in a flash of emerald green and blue, a kingfisher skimmed low across the water and then stopped motionless in the air before plunging down into the water after a fish. The bird burst up carrying its prey in its beak and disappeared into the foliage of the trees.

  Hephzibah’s face lit up and she squeezed his arm. ‘I’ve never seen a kingfisher. What a thing of beauty it is. Thank you, Mr Nightingale, for showing me.’

  They walked on, Merritt helping her around any obstacles – part of the path was waterlogged after the heavy rains. After a while the towpath almost disappeared, it was
so overgrown. There were a couple of barges moored and covered over with waterlogged tarpaulins. There was no sign of any barges actually still plying the waterways.

  They turned and took a path that led to the churchyard. Hephzibah saw the clock on the tower showed a quarter to one. ‘I’m going to be late,’ she said. ‘The squire won’t like that.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Merritt said. ‘My fault for talking too much. I’ll walk with you back to the Hall. I promise to walk faster than I talk.’

  He was rewarded with a beaming grin and a squeeze of the arm.

  ‘Thank you, Reverend Nightingale. I’m so enjoying our conversation that I’d hate to cut it short. But won’t I be keeping you from your own luncheon?’

  He explained that he ate in the evening on Sundays to allow Mrs Muggeridge to spend the day at her sister’s. ‘I would be spending my time walking anyway and it is so much more pleasant to do so with you than alone.’

  As they headed in the direction of Ingleton Hall, Merritt asked Hephzibah for her first impressions of the squire.

  Hephzibah wrinkled her nose and then gave him a rueful smile. ‘According to the housekeeper his bark is worse than his bite, but I’ve never been very fond of barking. I dare say I’ll get used to him. I don’t want to let you down after you have secured me the position, sir.’

  ‘You won’t do that,’ Merritt said. ‘I have faith in you. I know what you mean about Sir Richard though. I’m a bit afraid of him myself. He invites me to dinner occasionally and I find it something of an ordeal.’