The Green Ribbons

by Clare Flynn

  ‘It’s not right. Is there nothing else you can do for him? Isn’t there anyone who can help the poor man? He must be distraught.’

  ‘Oddly enough, he’s not. He’s resigned to it. I suppose he thinks anything’s better than being thrown in jail. Even a spell in the workhouse. He’ll be treated in the infirmary there and maybe by springtime he’ll be fit enough to find paid employment.’ He thought for a moment, then said, ‘I threw the mantrap in the canal.’

  She gave him a rueful smile. ‘I’m glad. Do you think Sir Richard knew it was there?’

  He pulled his mouth into a mirthless smile. ‘Probably not. But his bailiff or the gamekeeper would have done. And they do what they think the squire wants without bothering to clarify. And the squire knows that as well as I do. All these landowners care about is a keeping plenty of game for shooting. Egdon’s no different from hundreds of others up and down the land.’

  ‘I wish we could do more to help Peter Goody and the others like him,’ said Hephzibah. ‘You must carry some influence, Merritt. People will listen to you.’

  The parson looked away then turned back to look at her. ‘I’ve been in this parish for almost three years and still no one trusts me. The squire puts up with me because it’s the expected thing, but he doesn’t really approve of me because I don’t ride to hounds. He wasn’t amused when he found out that I got the butcher to cut up the side of venison he sent me last month so I could give it away to those in need. Gave me a mouthful for being an ingrate. Told me I wouldn’t be getting any more.’

  Hephzibah smiled. ‘I can picture him saying that!’

  ‘The village shopkeepers are civil enough but I know they still see me as an interloper. The rest of the population view me with suspicion. My predecessor never darkened the doors of the cottage dwellers and when I called on a few of them I was kept standing in the doorway. They see me as some well-to-do stranger who gets to dine with the squire and so must be far too grand to be invited inside their humble abodes.’ He gave a dry laugh. ‘Unlike my Wesleyan colleague, Mr Leatherwood. They see him as one of their own and invite him in for tea.’

  ‘You still manage to pull in the crowds on a Sunday.’

  He sighed. ‘It’s a small church. They were standing three deep at the back when I first came, but every week a few more of them switch their allegiance to the chapel. And they don’t like the fact that I am a single man.’ As Merritt spoke the words he felt the blood rush to his face.

  Hephzibah appeared not to notice his embarrassment and said, ‘Couldn’t you ask Mr Leatherwood to help?’

  ‘He has less time for me than the rest of them. Sees me as the devil incarnate. Mrs Muggeridge, who is the fount of all knowledge in Nettlestock, told me she overheard him saying that I’m only in the job for the five hundred a year it pays whereas he has a true vocation and believes the words he preaches – all the fire and brimstone – I just go through the motions. And the awful thing, Hephzibah, is that he’s right.’

  ‘You may not be as devout as he is, but it’s obvious that you care about your parishioners. I think it’s more important to care for one’s fellow man than for an invisible God. That’s far more important than spouting scripture all over the place and scaring the daylights out of people. Besides, isn’t one showing love for God by loving one’s neighbour?’ She sounded indignant.

  Merritt laughed. Her eyes were shining as she spoke and he knew that what he felt for her was real, more than just a reaction to a pretty face and a fine figure. He loved her. He really loved her. This afternoon had cemented what he felt about her. He wanted her with a hunger that he felt powerless to control, but on top of that he felt she really understood him, cared about the same things as him and would be his perfect helpmate in life.

  He turned towards her, knowing that there would never be a better time to ask her to marry him than now. Here they were, trapped in the rain, away from everyone, alone. It was early in their acquaintance, but what was the point in delaying when he was so sure, so certain, so absolutely convinced that they were meant to be together? It all made perfect sense. No point in delay. He cleared his throat and was about to speak, when she jumped up.

  ‘Look, Merritt, the rain has stopped and there’s a herd of deer over there. Look. Quickly! Let’s try to get a bit closer before they run away.’

  Before Merritt could respond, Hephzibah was moving across the grassy sward towards the large herd of grazing fallow deer. All his new-found courage deserted him and he cursed inwardly as he followed her.

  A few days after her visit to the workhouse, Hephzibah walked into Nettlestock to the post office. Not that she expected to find any mail there – but she couldn’t help hoping that one of her old friends might drop her a few lines. She longed for news of life in Oxford – it was hard to imagine things going on as usual there as she felt so divorced from it. It was another world. She realised she was lonely. Ottilie was a delight and she was building a cordial relationship with Mrs Andrews, but the housekeeper still maintained enough distance to signal that Hephzibah would never be able to regard her as a confidante. There was Merritt Nightingale of course, but he was a man and that automatically meant they could never be close friends.

  Hephzibah left the post office, having been subjected to a ten minute monologue from Mrs Bellamy on the need for the village to find a way to memorialise the late queen and her personal view that six weeks of deep mourning and six of half mourning were utterly insufficient to mark her passing. Hephzibah wandered along the village street, stepping aside as the children poured out of the school. A large group were heading en masse for the common ground where they liked to play games. Others clustered around the village street, dodging any passing horses and traps and bouncing a ball against the schoolhouse wall.

  As she passed by the school, Miss Pickering, the school teacher, emerged and called out her name.

  ‘Miss Wildman, I am so pleased to see you. I had meant to catch you after church last Sunday but I must have missed you in the crowd. I was going to ask you if perhaps we might organise our expedition to the Roman ruin now the weather is at last improving.’

  Saddened by this reminder of Thomas Egdon, Hephzibah gave the woman a weak smile. ‘What a lovely idea, Miss Pickering. I’m afraid Mr Egdon has forgotten all about it but perhaps the parson might still accompany us and I know Ottilie would love to be part of such an excursion.’

  The teacher clapped her hands together. ‘I’m so pleased. Do you think the Reverend Nightingale would be willing to spare us the time? Maybe in May. The ruins aren’t far. The only thing is I think you may be disappointed, Miss Wildman. There are only the faintest traces of what was once an old bathhouse and all the mosaics were removed many years ago. I’m afraid you might be bored when you must have seen so many treasures in the Ashmolean at Oxford. I visited there once myself when I was sixteen. Did I tell you my brother was an undergraduate at Balliol College?’ Miss Pickering was breathless.

  ‘I didn’t know you had a brother, Miss Pickering.’

  The woman stretched her lips and frowned. ‘Not any more. Hector died.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. I had no idea. He must have been very young.’

  ‘He was. Just twenty-four. Engaged to be married and with a bright future as a lawyer. He had just been called to the Bar.’ Miss Pickering shook her head and her lip trembled. ‘I still miss him every day. It was a perforated appendix. They operated but the sepsis had already set in and he died shortly after.’

  The schoolmistress brushed away a tear then squeezed Hephzibah’s hand. ‘Won’t you come inside and take a cup of tea with Mama and me?’

  Hephzibah hesitated for a moment then accepted.

  The house adjoined the school and the interior smelled strongly of the sickly scent of potpourri in bowls in every room. Mrs Pickering was a small woman with an imperious manner. She persisted in banging her walking stick on the floor whenever she wanted to summon the maid. The old lady scrutinised Hephzibah with ill-concealed disa
pproval and after going through the formalities of greeting, lapsed into silence and before long was snoring away in her chair.

  ‘Mama has never got over the loss of Hector and Papa. Some days she doesn’t even leave her bedroom. You have found her on a good day.’

  Hephzibah refrained from comment, trying not to imagine what a bad day might comprise. Grateful that the old woman had nodded off, she adopted the same hushed tones that Miss Pickering was using, having decided that this would be a good opportunity for her to test out her theory that the teacher might be in love with the parson.

  ‘Mr Nightingale is most agreeable, don’t you think?’

  The teacher’s face broke into a beaming smile. ‘He is indeed. And such a learned man.’

  ‘Have you had an opportunity to spend some time with him?’

  ‘Indeed. He attends the school each week to supervise a Bible class with the children. I do look forward to that so much as I always learn something new. Occasionally, he has graced this house to visit Mama and take tea with us.’

  Hephzibah decided to coax along what she was already seeing as a budding romance. Whether Thomas Egdon accompanied them on the trip to the ruins or not, with Ottilie present she could easily find a way to engineer the teacher and the parson being together.

  ‘Do you enjoy reading, Miss Pickering?’

  ‘It is my greatest pleasure.’

  ‘Then you must ask Mr Nightingale to show you his book collection. I am sure he would be willing to let you borrow any books that might interest you.’

  The teacher nodded absently, then said, ‘I am fortunate to have a large library here at home. My late father and Hector were both avid readers.’

  ‘You and Mr Nightingale have so much in common.’

  ‘I don’t know him enough to know whether that is true or not.’ Miss Pickering looked at her with an expression that was both a smile and a frown. ‘But you too like reading, Miss Wildman?’

  ‘Very much so,’ said Hephzibah. ‘But tell me, did you enjoy Mr Nightingale’s sermon last Sunday? It was very inspiring, don’t you think?’

  ‘I’m not sure I can remember what he spoke of – I’m ashamed to say. How dreadful of me,’ said Miss Pickering. ‘He always speaks eloquently. What was the subject this time?’

  Hephzibah found herself blushing as she couldn’t remember. She hesitated then said, ‘I believe he spoke of the importance of charitable deeds.’

  Miss Pickering was looking at her with a puzzled expression. ‘Really? I don’t recall. But you must be right since you found the sermon such an inspiration.’ She smiled at Hephzibah. ‘Or is it rather Mr Nightingale himself who is the source of fascination?’

  This wasn’t going at all as Hephzibah planned it. It was clear that Miss Pickering was implying that Hephzibah herself was interested in the clergyman. She decided to try a different tack.

  ‘I often take a walk after church on Sunday with the parson. Perhaps you would care to join us? I’m sure Mr Nightingale would welcome your company. He must get rather weary of mine.’

  ‘I’m quite sure he doesn’t. And much as I would love to, Mama always likes me to return from church promptly on Sunday. As I am in the schoolhouse so much she regards Sundays as her special time with me.’

  ‘But surely she must realise that you need some social discourse outside the house?’ Hephzibah lowered her voice remembering that the lady in question was snoozing in her chair across the room. ‘After all, one day, you will marry and she will have to share you with your husband.’

  Miss Pickering smiled and shook her head. ‘Oh no, Miss Wildman. I don’t think Mama needs to worry about that. Now, let me show you the library here.’ She rose to her feet and indicated that Hephzibah should follow her into an adjoining room. ‘You see we have a collection here with more than enough books to keep me occupied for the rest of my life.’

  The conversation about Merritt Nightingale was closed. While Hephzibah knew better than to push her hostess, she left the house more convinced than ever that Miss Pickering was nurturing a secret passion for the parson. Her very reticence spoke volumes. She would have to try and encourage the romance from the other side by giving Merritt a nudge in the right direction.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  A moment ago, she’d have struck even Pluto as sad,

  but now she is glowing with radiant smiles,

  like the sun which was formerly hidden

  behind a blanket of rain clouds and then emerges victorious.

  (from The Rape of Proserpina, The Metamorphoses, Ovid)

  Ottilie was upstairs in the old nursery, working on her times tables. Hephzibah had promised to find her a new book to read. She was alone in the library searching for something suitable for the girl, as Ottilie was making exceptional progress and devouring every book that Hephzibah put in front of her. She stood on the top step of the wooden ladder and stretched her hand towards a high shelf, where she could see a copy of The Water Babies. Why on earth were the books suited to children placed on the higher shelves, while there were well-thumbed copies of The Romance of Lust and Fanny Hill at eye level?

  Absorbed in her search, she didn’t hear the squire enter the room and she almost exploded with fright when his hand touched the bare skin of her inner thigh just above the knee. She screamed and nearly fell off the ladder. Egdon withdrew his hand, using it instead to steady her as she scrambled down from the stepladder. She pushed him away.

  ‘Take your hands off me! I told you never to touch me again.’

  Ignoring her protests, the squire pulled her towards him and pushed his face up against hers. She felt his fat whiskered cheek on hers and then his blubbery mouth was on her lips, like a damp slug, and he pushed his tongue insistently against her teeth.

  She jerked her head back. ‘Get off! I don’t want you to do that. Stop it! Now!’

  He gripped hold of her shoulders and his hooded eyes fixed on hers. ‘I have to have you. You’re driving me out of my mind, Hephzibah. I’ll marry you. I’ll do the right thing. But I have to have you. I can’t go on like this. You’re sending me mad with desire. Marry me! Whatever you want will be yours.’

  His bloated face was close to hers and he kept a tight grip on her shoulders. Hephzibah could smell the whisky on his breath.

  ‘You’re young. You’ll give me a son. That idiot Thomas will never marry and produce an heir. All he cares for are horses, gambling and spending money he hasn’t got. I need to protect Ingleton Hall. Marry me and you’ll want for nothing. Let me put a child in your belly.’

  He took one of his hands off her shoulders and cupped it over her breast and squeezed. Hephzibah tried to scream but was so terrified she was unable to make a noise.

  The squire tried to kiss her again, this time more roughly as he pushed her onto a chaise longue and lay on top of her. ‘Hephzibah, Hephzibah, you have enchanted me. I’m in your thrall. I’ll do anything to have you. Please say you’ll marry me. I will make you Lady Egdon.’

  He straddled her, his hands on her shoulders and his face close to hers. Hephzibah was paralysed with fear. Did he intend to rape her here in the library, with the servants in the kitchen and Ottilie upstairs?

  Before she could say anything, he spoke, again, his voice hoarse with lust. ‘Just say yes and I’ll wait until we are married. I’ll do the right thing. Just say you’ll marry me. All I want now is a kiss and cuddle. I won’t hurt you. I promise.’

  He bent his head down and pressed his mouth against hers as she writhed beneath him, her mouth clamped shut and her head twisting from side to side. Her movement under him excited him more and one of his hands was under her skirt working its way up her bare leg again.

  What could she do? His weight was heavy on her and she struggled to breathe. His breath was stale and tainted with whisky and cigars and she wanted to gag. She twisted sideways and said, ‘The servants will hear. And Ottilie is expecting me. You don’t want her to walk in and see this.’

  He lifted his gaze and
looked at her. ‘No one’s coming. I locked the door.’ He lowered his head and moved his mouth onto her neck where he nuzzled at her like a puppy. ‘You smell so fresh. Like a flower. You beautiful creature.’ His wet tongue moved into her ear. He was astride her, knees planted either side of her.

  Anger and revulsion surged through Hephzibah, giving her strength and courage. As he ran his hands over her breasts again, she jerked her head back and sunk her teeth into his cheek, biting as hard as she could.

  The squire gave a howl of pain and rolled off her and onto the floor.

  Hephzibah jumped to her feet, tasting blood in her mouth. She moved away from her assailant, backing into the library ladder and knocking it over. The squire’s groans followed her as she opened the French windows and ran out onto the terrace.

  Without stopping to get her breath back, Hephzibah ran, shocked as much by the way her instinct for self-preservation had caused her to bite her employer, as by his aggression towards her. The afternoon sun was moving low in the sky and there was a slight breeze. A faint smell of wood smoke was in the air. With no coat or shawl to protect her, she shivered. But she didn’t want to go back inside. She couldn’t risk running into Squire Egdon again. The man was a monster. He assumed that some kind of feudal system operated where, as lord of the manor, he was entitled to do as he willed with any member of his household.

  Nothing in Hephzibah’s life had prepared her for dealing with this. What was she to do? Where was she to go? One thing was certain – she couldn’t possibly stay at Ingleton Hall. Hard as it would be to say goodbye to Ottilie and to go out alone into the world, she couldn’t remain under the same roof as Sir Richard. Besides, after the way she had bitten him, it was unlikely he would be giving her the option anyway.

  She went to find Mrs Andrews to tell her what had happened and ask her to help her pack without the squire intercepting her.