The Green Ribbons

by Clare Flynn

  Hephzibah was spending her third wedding anniversary, without her husband: Thomas preferring to spend his time at his club in London. At least that’s what he told her. When feeling low, which was increasingly often these days, she wondered whether he was holed up somewhere with Abigail Cake. As well as their wedding anniversary, today had been declared the first of what was to be an annual day to celebrate the glory and mighty heritage of the British Empire. The village school was closed for the afternoon and the evening festivities were to include the lighting of a bonfire and a small firework display. Thomas was unmoved by the prospect of the celebrations or the opportunity to also commemorate their anniversary – a race meeting took priority.

  Feeling guilty, she searched the pockets of his favourite jacket, but found no love tokens, just a few crumpled bills and a number of race-course betting slips. The bills alone were cause for concern as they were all stamped in red with the words Final Demand. Raising the issue of his debts with Thomas was out of the question. She could hardly tell him she had been going through his pockets – and even if she found an excuse, he would never listen to her.

  Thomas was even more resolute than his father in his views about the role of women. Any mention of women’s suffrage caused him to rail angrily that women ought to know their place. He cited Hephzibah as a model whom other women could learn from. This made her uncomfortable as she had been nursing plans to get involved with the suffragette movement. She had discussed the aims and objectives with Miss Pickering and they had spoken about going along to a meeting of the newly formed breakaway, the Women’s Social and Political Union, in Newbury. If only Thomas were at Ingleton Hall more often. She would be able to work on him, begin to open his mind to the importance of women gaining the franchise, make him understand the sacrifices so many women were making for the cause.

  The best hope she had of encouraging him to stay at home was the hardest to achieve. She was certain that were she and Thomas to have a child he would spend more time at Ingleton Hall. She had failed to conceive in three years of marriage. It was not for want of trying – whenever Thomas was at home he wasted no time in taking her to bed. At first she had not worried about it, but during the past twelve months her anxiety had increased. The squire lost no opportunity to goad his son, constantly reminding him that he had always suspected he would fail to father a child. While Thomas ignored the barbed comments at first, the constant repetition, and the growing awareness that his father was right, made Thomas preoccupied and distant and his absences grew longer.

  On the evening of Hephzibah’s wedding anniversary, Ottilie, now thirteen, accompanied Mrs Andrews to the village to witness the Empire Day bonfire celebrations, leaving Hephzibah alone with her father-in-law. The squire drank little during dinner, then asked her to join him for a nightcap. The fire was roaring in the large drawing room and the squire’s dogs, a pair of foxhounds, lay sleeping in front of it. Hephzibah picked up her book, a volume of poetry, and began to read.

  The squire interrupted her reading. ‘By now you must know my son is an uncontrollable spendthrift,’ he said. ‘He received a substantial sum when he married you, a bequest from his mother and grandfather, but it’s all gone.’

  Hephzibah felt a wave of fear pass over her. What Abigail Cake had told her was thus at least partially true.

  ‘I had a letter from him today asking me to lend him a hundred and fifty pounds. Claims to be broke. That means he’s managed to work his way through several thousand since your marriage.’

  Hephzibah felt her face colouring. Did the squire also believe Thomas had only married her to get his hands on his inheritance? ‘Where has the money gone?’ she said, her voice so quiet she could barely hear herself.

  ‘Dashed if I know. Horseflesh, gambling, trinkets and dresses for you and Ottilie, paying his tailor. Running up bills from entertaining his friends at his club. My son is a generous man. One thing I can’t fault him for. But his generosity doesn’t run to his father. Seems to think it’s perfectly acceptable to bleed me dry.’

  Hephzibah picked up the poetry book she’d laid aside when he began talking. ‘I am not comfortable discussing Thomas behind his back.’

  ‘It’s time you got comfortable. You’re his wife, damn it, you need to share some responsibility.’

  ‘Responsibility?’

  ‘If we don’t put a stop to his profligacy there’ll be nothing left of Ingleton Hall. I don’t want to go to my grave knowing that this house and the estate have gone to wrack and ruin. I’ve worked hard to make the place profitable. I invested in the most modern farming methods; I drained ten acres of waterlogged ground; I put in limekilns so I could fertilise; I experimented with machinery; I built the carp ponds and the water gardens; I was the first man in the county to use a steam thresher. Every penny I spent on Ingleton was from money I earned or my father had earned before me. Every last penny. Thomas is draining me dry. I didn’t know what a mortgage was until a few years ago. Now with the rents at rock bottom and the collapse in grain prices, I can barely get by. It breaks my heart.’

  ‘Why don’t you say this to Thomas, not to me? Why don’t you involve him more in the running of the estate?’

  The squire snorted. ‘Involve him? He’s never shown an interest in anything except his own selfish pleasures. He hates the countryside unless he’s riding a horse through it. Why in God’s name do you think he spends so long in town? I hoped that when he married you he might be here more often.’ He drained his glass and poured himself another drink. ‘He’s more than a disappointment to me – I’m actually ashamed of him.’ He leaned forward, his head in his hands, then reached for his balloon of brandy. ‘His brothers were different, you know. Worth ten of him. Both of them. If either of them had lived they’d have worked with me to make Ingleton what I wanted it to be. You can’t imagine what it’s like to have your children die before you. And not one but two of them.’ He took a slug of brandy. His big dark eyes were lachrymose.

  ‘I’m sorry. It must have been very hard for you. Losing Lady Egdon too.’

  He looked up at her. ‘She was never the same after Sam’s death. They died within a few months of each other. Thank God she never lived to know that Roddy would be killed too – and before he was of age. My youngest boy was in the army. Should never have signed up. Only seventeen. What a bloody waste...’ His voice trailed away.

  Hephzibah had never before witnessed the squire in such a melancholic state. She was lost for words, muttering that she was sorry whilst hoping he would pull himself together and move onto safer territory.

  ‘I was to blame for Samuel’s death,’ he said at last.

  ‘I thought he shot himself?’

  ‘I might as well have pulled the trigger. I let him down. Did something I regret.’ The squire narrowed his hooded eyes.

  Hephzibah waited for him to elaborate but he lapsed into silence, staring into the bowl of his brandy glass.

  Eventually, he spoke again. ‘I’ve decided to redraft my will. I need to protect Ingleton Hall from my son.’

  ‘Why are you telling me this? You need to tell Thomas.’

  ‘It concerns you too. I want you to be the one to tell him. It will be better coming from you. I intend to leave the bulk of my estate to my first male grandchild. Ottilie is nearly fourteen and I hope she will be married when she’s eighteen – so you and Thomas have very little time left to get on with producing an heir.’ His dark hooded eyes bored into her. ‘But you know as well as I do, Hephzibah, my son is incapable of fathering a child.’

  Embarrassed and uncomfortable, Hephzibah’s brain raced. Where was this conversation leading? She wished she had refused to join him in the library. Squirming with embarrassment she said, ‘Why do you persist in saying that he can’t father a child? Why do you blame him? It could just as easily be my fault.’

  Her head pounded. Stop him talking at me. I don’t want to hear any more. How can I get away?

  Egdon raised his hooded eyes and studied her
for a moment or two. ‘You have been deceived in your choice of a husband, Hephzibah. He takes his responsibilities as a husband no more seriously than those as a son. If you didn’t realise it when you married him, you must know by now that it’s more than playing cards and trips to the races that keep him away from home.’

  Hephzibah jumped to her feet, picked up her book and moved to the door.

  ‘Stop. Please,’ he said, his voice, quieter and more conciliatory.

  She halted at the door but kept her back to her father-in-law, waiting to hear what he would say.

  ‘I don’t want to be cruel, Hephzibah. In fact I’ve become rather fond of you. You’ve a bit of spirit. I know I made it hard for you when you first arrived, but you soon put me in my place. And you have to admit I’ve not laid a finger on you since he married you. But you need to stop burying your head in the sand. He tomcats his way around London and is hardly ever here. If he wants to make babies he has to be in your bed. Now come and sit down.’

  She stayed on her feet.

  ‘When he is here, does he do what he’s supposed to do? Does he make love to you?’

  Hephzibah could feel her face burning. It was insupportable, having to listen to this gouty old devil lecturing her on the facts of life. The memory of his assault on her three years ago was still fresh. She was angry and humiliated. ‘Mind your own business, Sir Richard. What happens between my husband and me is entirely our business.’

  ‘Damn it, woman. It isn’t. More than a hundred souls depend on Ingleton Hall and this estate for their livelihood, not to mention the tenant farmers and countless others from the smithy to the innkeeper, the thatcher and the undertaker. You need to face the facts. Make my son see sense. Do what you need to do to keep him here more and to get you pregnant. The way to make babies is to keep having sex.’

  He paused a moment, studying her. ‘You’re wasted on that boy. A woman like you needs a real man. One who won’t neglect you in the bedroom.’ His wet lips shone in the candlelight and Hephzibah felt afraid.

  ‘I don’t want to hear any more. You’ve made yourself clear. Goodnight.’

  When she got to her bedroom, Hephzibah was shaking with fear and anger. There was an implied threat in what the squire said. His obsession with carrying on the family dynasty was evident. A child of Ottilie’s would only ever be second-best without the Egdon name. Yes, the squire had behaved impeccably towards her since her marriage but the stakes were high for him and his past behaviour left Hephzibah in no doubt that he would force himself upon her again if it meant he would gain an heir.

  Opening the top drawer of her clothes chest she took out the green ribbons that she had bought for her cancelled trip to Italy. Hephzibah stroked the soft velvet and felt the tears welling. The ribbons had been stolen by the woman with whom her husband was probably still dallying. She stroked the thick velvet pile and ran her finger along the edges. Holding them up to her face she could smell Abigail Cake on them – a smell of wood-smoke and apples. She dropped them. She would never be able to use them now. Any pleasure she might have had wearing them had been spoiled by Abigail Cake. Yet something held her back from throwing them away. They were the last gift from her mother. Abigail had returned them to her – perhaps it would be the same with Thomas. If she was patient, would she win her husband back too? The words of the squire swirled around in her head. Was he right that Thomas was having affairs all over London? She couldn’t bring herself to believe it. She folded the ribbons, wrapped them in tissue and put them back in the drawer.

  It was three weeks before Hephzibah had an opportunity to speak to Thomas about what her father-in-law had said. That afternoon, while walking in the grounds, she had seen Abigail Cake heading from the kitchens towards the cottage she shared with her father and siblings. As Abigail crossed the stable yard she was in profile and it was immediately obvious to Hephzibah that the bailiff’s daughter was expecting a child.

  Hephzibah’s heart contracted. Who was the baby’s father? Why was Abigail Cake, an unmarried woman able to conceive so easily? Was it Thomas’s baby? The squire’s? Hephzibah turned off the track and went into the woods, her head spinning. Bile rose in her throat and she bent over and was sick in the undergrowth. She wiped her hand over her mouth and felt the tears coming.

  That evening when at last she was alone with Thomas, Hephzibah gave him a watered-down version of her conversation with the squire, merely stating that Sir Richard had expressed consternation at the lack of a grandchild and intended to alter his will, to permit Ottilie’s eventual offspring to inherit his estate. She didn’t mention that the squire’s plan was to bypass Thomas altogether, but the implication was clear.

  Thomas’s reaction was not what she expected. He was lying, slumped on his back on the bed. He rolled over onto his stomach and at first she thought he was ignoring her. Then she realised he was crying.

  Hephzibah rushed over and sat down beside him and began to stroke his hair. ‘What’s wrong, my darling? Please tell me. What’s wrong?’

  His voice was muffled. ‘I’ve messed everything up, Zee. I should never have married you. I’ve not been fair to you.’

  Hephzibah felt her stomach clench with fear. Was he going to admit his feelings for Abigail and tell her that he was responsible for her becoming pregnant? She closed her eyes.

  Thomas sat up, drawing his knees up to his chin. ‘It’s hard for me to tell you this. When I was eighteen I had the mumps. Besides turning my face into a chipmunk’s, it caused my testicles to swell up. The doctor said it could make me sterile. I took the risk that it wasn’t going to happen and didn’t warn you. Now we are suffering the consequences.’

  Hephzibah climbed onto the bed beside him and wrapped her arms around him. ‘Oh my poor darling. I’m sure we can still have a child. Why don’t we go and talk to Dr Desmond again? We can go together.’

  He looked stricken. ‘I will not humiliate myself by doing that. I won’t have him prodding me about and feeling sorry for me. If we can’t have children then it’s too bad.’

  ‘Tell me exactly what the doctor said when it happened.’

  He closed his eyes. ‘Just that there was a risk it might make it harder for me to father a child.’

  ‘But not impossible?’

  ‘No. It could turn out not to be a problem, or it might take longer. But there is a possibility that I may never be able to father a child at all.’

  ‘There you are. A possibility only. And he did say it may take longer. So we will be patient and keep trying.’ She stroked his hair and kissed the top of his head. Taking his face in her hands she looked into his eyes and said, ‘No matter what, my darling, I will always love you.’

  He sighed and whispered, ‘Thank you, dearest girl.’

  She tried not to dwell on the fact that he had still not told her that he loved her too.

  ‘I married a good woman,’ he said eventually, ‘and the most beautiful I have ever laid eyes upon. I don’t deserve you, Zee.’

  ‘Hush,’ she said and kissed him on the mouth.

  He rolled her onto her back and murmured, ‘Yes, let’s keep trying, starting now.’

  September 1904

  The parcel bore an Oxford postmark and was addressed to Hephzibah in an unfamiliar hand. It was a rectangular shape and, judging by the weight contained one or more books. She felt strangely reluctant to open it, taking it up to her bedroom and leaving it there while she took Ottilie though her daily lessons.

  It was only after dinner that Hephzibah sat on the bed and undid the wrapping, folding the brown paper and winding the string into a ball. Thrifty habits died hard.

  Inside were three leather-jacketed notebooks and a short letter from the Dean who had replaced her stepfather at the college. He had found the notebooks inside a dusty shoe-box in a corner of the attic and, as they appeared to be the work of the late Mrs Prendergast, he thought Miss Wildman should have them. He hastened to state that he had not read the contents.

  Hephzibah und
ressed, washed and then climbed into bed with the notebooks, overcome with excitement and anticipation. She felt as though she was about to hear from her mother from beyond the grave.

  The diaries dated from 1884, when Hephzibah would have been two years old and her birth father still alive. The family were living in Oxford but, as was the case for much of her mother’s first marriage, Hephzibah’s father was away on one of his botanical expeditions to Africa. Hephzibah read eagerly, hoping that she might find out something new about her father.

  She turned the pages with a growing sense of shock and disbelief. The idyllic marriage that she had always supposed her mother had enjoyed with her father, despite their long separations, appeared to have been a far from happy one. Walter Wildman had been cold and distant and prone to fits of melancholy that made his long absences a relief to her mother. As she read the words in her mother’s familiar sweeping copperplate, Hephzibah gasped. Never once had her mother said a bad word to her about her father and yet reading her agonised words, it became clear that the marriage had been a bitter and miserable experience. On his rare visits home to Oxford he spent his time closeted away in his study. He paid no attention to his daughter and was critical of his wife, belittling her at every opportunity. Hephzibah felt a mixture of embarrassment and anger as she read her mother’s heartbreaking disclosures, presumably meant for no eyes other than her own.