The Green Ribbons

by Clare Flynn

  ‘Why don’t you begin by telling me why you have reached this conclusion now when just two months ago you were telling me how life as a country parson was the perfect job for you.’ He paused then looked meaningfully at Merritt. ‘And I suggest, young man, that you tell me the truth.’

  Merritt found himself spilling out his devastation that the woman he loved had married another man and confessed that he could see no way to continue to live in the parish where he would be forced to see her all the time.

  ‘Ah! As I thought,’ said the bishop. ‘These sudden changes of heart in my experience usually trace back to the actions or inactions of the fairer sex. I can see, young man, that you have been hurt. I can understand why it is your instinct to flee. But I put it to you that you will get over this. You will meet a suitable lady at some point in the future and all will be well. It just requires patience. I am not ashamed to admit to you, Nightingale, that I believed myself to love another before I met and married my good wife – but I’d be grateful if you’d not ever let that little gem of information reach her. Three years before I met her, I was at Cambridge and when the object of my affections threw me over in favour of a fellow who rowed for the university, I thought my world had ended. I contemplated coming down and abandoning the tripos but I prayed for guidance and persevered until I got my degree.’ He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. ‘And I suggest, Nightingale, that this setback is for you also only a temporary one. It is a test from God and you must face it. You will come out of it a better man and a better minister to boot.’

  Merritt tried not to show his irritation. How could the bishop compare a student crush to the way he felt about Hephzibah. He bit his lip. ‘I have no desire to be a better minister. I told you I am not cut out for the church.’

  ‘Nonsense. You are a great scholar and a good preacher. Just the kind of man the modern church needs. I have heard good things about the quality of your sermons. No, Nightingale, we can’t afford to lose a man like you. Go back to Nettlestock and throw yourself into your work as a minister and fill the rest of the time with your studies. You told me you were working on a new translation of the Metamorphoses. That should take up much of your time and stop you mooning over this woman. Now, talking of Latin scholarship, I picked up a copy of the Aeneid in a bookshop last week and I have been struggling over a difficult passage. My Latin’s quite rusty. Perhaps you’d be so kind...’ The bishop rose from his desk and signalled to Merritt to follow him into his library. ‘Then of course, you will stay for luncheon.’

  As soon as she had finished her lessons with Ottilie, Hephzibah went for a walk into the village. As she passed through the gates of Ingleton Hall, she decided to call upon the parson to apologise for the previous night and find out whether he had indeed caught a chill. When she arrived at the parsonage, Mrs Muggeridge informed her he was not at home, having left earlier that day to call upon the bishop and she had no idea when he would return.

  Hephzibah headed down to the canal, disappointed. She hoped that the ban on her visiting the workhouse would not extend to her taking the occasional walk with the parson, as she had grown fond of his company.

  The day was warm, the sky blue and cloudless. Hephzibah walked slowly, aimlessly, mulling over Thomas’s behaviour, trying to find a cause for it. To her relief the towpath was deserted.

  A short distance ahead there was a small brick footbridge that crossed the canal and she could see a figure on it, leaning over looking into the water on the other side. As she approached, she saw it was Merritt Nightingale. Hephzibah picked up her pace and half ran towards him. He had his back to her and didn’t see her until she was already on the bridge. He turned towards her and his face appeared stricken with grief.

  ‘Merritt! Are you still unwell? You looked so sad just now.’ She went to stand beside him, against the parapet of the bridge.

  He turned back to look at the water passing underneath them and threw a twig into the canal. ‘I used to do this when I was a boy. Throw sticks into the river and then race along the bank to get to the weir faster than the sticks did.’ He shook his head. ‘I was probably responsible for dumping more wood into that stream than a whole band of beavers.’

  ‘I called at the parsonage, Merritt. I wanted to apologise for last night. But Mrs Muggeridge said you were calling on the bishop.’

  ‘It’s better that we revert to our formal names, Mrs Egdon. I don’t think your husband would approve of us being over familiar.’

  ‘Mr Egdon isn’t here.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be right to go behind his back. Besides it would be awkward having to remember when and where to address each other that way. This way is easier. And there’s no need for an apology. I don’t even know why you want to offer one.’ He continued to look down at the canal, avoiding her eyes.

  ‘I want to say sorry for what the squire and my husband said to you about the workhouse and for the squire’s rudeness in pressing you to stay for cards then going to bed and virtually showing you the door.’

  ‘You have no need to speak on their behalf. And I am sure they would stand by every word they said.’

  She shook her head. ‘The squire has a tendency to speak out of turn when he’s had too much to drink. He’s not supposed to drink as he suffers from gout but I’m afraid he won’t be told.’

  ‘I know,’ said Merritt.

  ‘What’s wrong, Merritt? I mean Reverend Nightingale. Just now you looked terribly sad. Have you had bad news? Your parents?’

  ‘My parents are well.’

  ‘I see. And there is nothing else?’

  ‘Peter Goody is dead.’

  ‘No! What happened?’ She laid her hand on his arm.

  ‘I’ve just returned from his cottage. I called on him when I got back from the bishop’s palace.’ He sighed. ‘The rust from the mantrap caused an infection in the wound which hadn't cleared up. He was worried about his family after months without work and hobbled his way around several farms looking for some work. When he got home the wound had opened up again and he developed a fever. He died last night. I will be officiating at his funeral tomorrow.’

  ‘I am so sorry. That’s terrible. He had children?’

  ‘Five and his wife was expecting a sixth.’

  ‘What will she do?’

  ‘What do you think?’ His voice was harsh, bitter. ‘She has no choice but the workhouse. They were already behind on the rent for their cottage. Cake, the squire’s bailiff, won’t tolerate arrears.’

  The parson shook his head and stared into the water again. Eventually he spoke. ‘Where is Mr Egdon this afternoon?’

  Hephzibah swallowed and leaned over the parapet herself, struggling to prevent her emotions being revealed on her face. ‘He’s had to go to London. He’s staying at his club. For a few days. Urgent business.’

  ‘I see.’ He picked up another stray twig from the top of the parapet and dropped it into the canal. ‘Shall I walk with you as far as the gates?’

  She nodded. ‘If you have nothing else pressing?’

  They skirted around the village, eventually leaving the towpath and arcing back along the edge of woodland, behind the whiting factory, towards Ingleton Hall.

  ‘Did you mean what you said about starting a lending library?’ he said.

  ‘Of course. Do you doubt me?’

  ‘Then we shall do it. Without you going again to the workhouse, of course. Perhaps you could help me choose a selection of books and maybe help to set up the branch here in the village.’

  ‘We must involve Miss Pickering. It was her idea. I’m sure she will want to work with you on the selection of the books. She is a true bibliophile – just like you.’ She turned to him and smiled, reminding herself of her plan to push the pair together. Merritt looked unmoved.

  Hephzibah pressed on. ‘Maybe you and Miss Pickering could put your heads together. She was wondering where we could site the library. There’s no room in the church.’

  Merritt said nothing.

>   ‘I was wondering whether it might be a suitable project for a memorial to the late queen. We could erect a library in her name. What do you think?’

  Merritt shrugged, then said, ‘A good idea. I’ll need to speak to Sir Richard. Do you think he’ll agree?’

  ‘He would of course prefer it if it were named for him – but I’m sure if he can be persuaded to chair the committee to raise the funds and then he is the one who cuts the ribbon and gets his name on a commemorative plaque he might be persuaded.’

  The parson nodded. ‘I am sure if anyone can persuade him, Mrs Egdon, you can. But it will take some time to raise the money and even more to raise the building itself. And I think that will be difficult unless we are able to show that people will actually make use of it.’

  ‘Then we must find a temporary home for it.’ She clasped her hands together. ‘That would mean we can start very soon and as soon as Sir Richard and his wealthy friends realise what a valuable and much-needed facility it is they will agree to fund a permanent structure. But where? It can’t be the Hall. The squire would never agree to people traipsing through his house.’

  ‘Could we use one of the outbuildings?’

  ‘I could ask but I think it should be in the heart of the village. I doubt people would be prepared to trudge out here in all weathers to borrow a book.’

  They were silent for a few minutes.

  ‘The school?’ Merritt suggested.

  ‘Miss Pickering would never agree to keeping grown-up books in the schoolroom where the children might read them,’ said Hephzibah. ‘We need somewhere that people can visit any time and we can’t expect Miss Pickering to keep the place open in the evenings.’

  ‘There is one possibility,’ said Merritt, his voice lacking any enthusiasm. ‘The Egdon Arms – the public house. I suppose I could speak to the landlord later and find out if he’s willing.’

  Hephzibah raised her eyebrows. ‘Really?’

  Merritt shrugged. ‘Why not? It might bring him some new custom.’

  ‘He won’t be too pleased if his patrons spend more time reading than drinking. But if you can convince him, I think it’s an excellent idea.’ She hesitated, sensing that the parson was lacking his usual energy. She touched him lightly on the sleeve and smiled at him. ‘We make quite a team, Reverend Nightingale.’

  She thought she saw him frowning, but decided she had imagined it as he suddenly took her hands in his and said, ‘If ever you are in trouble, if ever you need anything... anything at all, remember I am here. I am always here for you, my friend, I promise you.’

  He raised his hat to her and walked away briskly, heading back towards the village. They were still a good half-mile from the Hall gates.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “– when Pluto espied her,

  no sooner espied than he loved her and swept her way, so impatient is passion.”

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

  About three weeks later, the coachman from Ingleton Hall arrived at the parsonage without warning and told Merritt he had instructions to bring him up to the Hall, where the squire wished to meet with him urgently. Merritt put aside his book, placing it on top of the pile that had accumulated in the drawing room since he had acknowledged there was no point in keeping up appearances for the woman who was now lost to him.

  He was shown straight into the squire’s study, at the side of the house, set apart from the finer rooms at the front of the building. It was accessed internally by a stone-flagged passage that led deeper into the house to the kitchens and servants’ quarters, and externally by a door that opened onto the rear courtyard. This entrance was designed so that the bailiff, head gardener, gamekeeper and groom could access their employer without passing through the formal end of the building. Merritt had never been inside this inner business sanctum before.

  The study was sparsely furnished, with just a couple of heavily stuffed leather chairs, a large oak table which served as the squire’s desk, and a threadbare rug on top of the flagstones. The rug looked as though it had been in use since the squire’s ancestors had fought in the civil war, no doubt with the Cavaliers not the Roundheads.

  ‘Sit down, Nightingale. Care for a snifter?’ Sir Richard pushed a decanter of whisky across the table toward him and pointed to an empty crystal glass.

  Merritt shook his head.

  The squire sipped at his whisky. ‘I need some advice. Confidential of course. I’d ask my lawyer but he’s in Scotland until next week. Damned inconvenient. I’d like your opinion in the meantime. You’re a man of letters. You went to Oxford. Read this and tell me if I can do anything to stop my son getting his hands on this money.’ He thrust a document into Merritt’s hand and leaned back in his chair, expectantly. ‘Read it, man, and tell me. Can I stop him?’

  The parson put on his spectacles and read the document, which bore a large wax seal beside the signatures. When he had finished, he folded it again and handed it back to the squire.

  ‘If I understand correctly, this documents a trust executed by your late wife’s father in favour of her during her lifetime and thereafter, her sons, of whom only Thomas is surviving. It provides for an allowance to be paid to him out of the interest on the capital.’ He looked up and removed his spectacles. ‘So I presume Thomas has been in receipt of the interest since the death of your wife and his brothers?’

  ‘Yes, yes. I know all that. It’s the rest I want to be sure about – I want to check what happens to the capital if he marries.’

  ‘It’s unequivocal. The full control of the capital passes to your surviving son upon his marriage. He is free to do with it as he wishes.’

  ‘Damn and blast. That’s what I thought. Is there no scope at all to challenge it? What was all that gobbledygook on the last page about?’

  ‘I’m not a lawyer, Sir Richard, but I believe that’s just the usual legalese. You know lawyers – they never use one word where ten are available. But why would you want to challenge it? It’s your son’s inheritance.’

  ‘Because my miserable excuse for a son has only married that Wildman girl to spite me and get his hands on the money. He’s already almost had me in the poorhouse with his overspending and all the debts he’s run up and now the ungrateful sod wants to burn his way through his mother’s money too.’ He splashed more whisky into his tumbler and took a large swig. ‘He’s brought me close to bankruptcy.’

  Merritt felt sick. Sweat broke out on his forehead at the thought of Thomas Egdon only marrying Hephzibah for financial gain. He forced himself to respond. ‘Then this is good news, Sir Richard. If your son is indebted to you he now has access to the funds to repay you.’ He desperately wanted to leave and twisted in his chair, ready to rise.

  The squire thumped his glass down. ‘He’ll not repay me a penny. I know my son. Although I doubt I know the half of his gambling debts. I’ve had to pay off his club bills or risk being expelled myself. I can no longer show my face to my tailor, and I’m sick and tired of bailing the boy out.’ As he spoke, the surface of the table was sprayed with his spit.

  ‘It’ll be worse now he’s married,’ the squire went on. ‘Gowns and jewellery for that governess. He’d already spent a fortune kitting her out for riding. The shop came after me to settle the unpaid bill. The woman doesn’t even like riding.’

  Merritt leaned back in his chair, to escape the spittle spray. ‘I’m sorry.’ He shook his head and took a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his face while pretending to blow his nose. He didn’t want to hear this. He didn’t want to listen to anything more about Thomas Egdon and the way he had exploited Hephzibah. His brain was in tumult. Egdon didn’t love her. Why had Hephzibah thrown her life away on that wretch? How could she possibly love him? Why didn’t she see his shallowness and vanity? He, Merritt, would lay down his life for her and yet she neither knew nor cared. She was blind to all but Egdon.

  The squire, oblivious to Merritt’s distress was still talking. ‘This used to be one
of the richest estates in the county, before that boy set out to beggar me. My grandfather made a fortune when they dug the canal though our land. Then when the railway came my father made more money out of that, selling them land. Now thanks to that son of mine and the collapse in rents and grain prices I’m struggling to keep afloat. Have you seen the state of the gardens? I had to get Cake to lay off half the gardeners. And when was the last time we had a ball here or even a shooting party? Not since long before you’ve been in the parsonage.’

  The parson half rose from his chair. ‘I must be getting along.’ He was angry and impatient to be gone and his head was pounding.

  ‘No. Stay for lunch. I insist. Now that I’ve dragged you all the way here.’ Sir Richard looked at his fob watch. ‘Time already. Come on, man. It will just be cold cuts and pickles.’

  Merritt was unable to muster a believable excuse and followed the squire through to the dining room, like a man ascending the scaffold. Hephzibah filled his thoughts. Why hadn’t he stopped her? Why hadn’t he declared his own feelings? Fool. Idiot. Imbecile. He imagined punching the face of Thomas Egdon. On and on. Pummelling away until that habitual smug expression was obliterated.

  ‘Come on, man,’ said the squire. ‘Stop dawdling.’ He tapped Merritt on the back and pushed him into the dining room.

  Hephzibah and Ottilie were already seated at the table. Hephzibah looked up and her face broke into a warm smile when she saw Merritt. His stomach lurched. He had forgotten she would be present. She was wearing pale blue, which matched the colour of her eyes.

  Merritt remembered the afternoon he had first seen her, as a young girl in a blue dress, eating an apple in the college garden. He ached to think of how young and innocent she had been then, how he had already sensed he would love her. His Proserpina, now captured by Pluto and descending with him into Hades.

  A bitter taste filled his mouth. Hephzibah had been gulled by Thomas Egdon. He swore to himself he would never say anything to give the slightest hint that her husband had used her – but he had no power to prevent her finding out. He prayed it would never happen. While Hephzibah would never be his now, the one thing that was paramount in his mind was her happiness. The way she had looked at Egdon was incontrovertible – she loved the man with a passion.