The Green Ribbons

by Clare Flynn

  It was only in the last of the three books that the tone of the diaries changed. In 1886 misery was replaced by exuberance. Hephzibah’s hand went to her neck and clutched at the locket that hung there. Everything she had ever thought she had known about her parents was a lie.

  Her mother had embarked on a love affair with her stepfather some three years before her own father had died. She felt herself blushing as her mother all those years ago poured out the love she felt for James Prendergast, a visiting professor whom she had met while he was undertaking research in the Bodleian.

  Hephzibah closed the last notebook and leaned back against the pillows she had piled behind her. Her mother and Dr Prendergast. The devoted couple. The late second marriage. She had always assumed they had been drawn to each other in mutual grief after the loss of their original partners and that love had only slowly blossomed, that such love was based on mutual respect and companionship – a mature marriage of shared interests and friendship. Yet reading her mother’s words it was apparent the love she had found was un amour fou, a passionate love affair, viscerally physical.

  Hephzibah hugged her knees. What would her mother think if she knew that her daughter was reading her secrets years later and discovering that she had betrayed her father by having a love affair? She felt angry on behalf of her father, a man betrayed, cuckolded – to use that old but appropriate expression. She put out the light and curled her body into a ball in the bed. Lies, lies, all lies.

  As she tried to sleep, images of her mother and stepfather filled her head. She couldn’t even remember her real father. All she had known of him was a faded wedding photograph, in which he stood stiffly, wearing a top hat behind her seated mother. Dr Prendergast had been the only father she had known. The only father she had loved. Reading her mother’s words she now understood why. He was a good man. Her own father had been a cold, cruel bully. Hephzibah told herself it was time to ignore convention and think instead about emotion, about love, about one person caring for another above all others.

  Suddenly it all made sense to her. She knew what she must do. She must sacrifice herself for the love of her husband. Love was all that mattered and she would do anything for love of Thomas Egdon.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  And God blessed them, and God said unto them, Be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth, and subdue it; and have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over every living thing that moveth upon the earth.

  (Genesis 1.28)

  Ever since he had recommended placing the temporary lending library inside the village pub, Merritt Nightingale had enjoyed improved relationships with most of his parishioners – the exceptions being those who preferred the stronger, sterner messages of Jacob Leatherwood, the preacher at the Nonconformist chapel. Whether or not the villagers could read, they saw the creation of the new library as an act of generosity and the parson’s short term siting of it in the Egdon Arms a sign of his liberality. The shiny new memorial library and village hall opened and were well patronised, but Merritt felt sad that the casual nature of the library-in-a-pub was lost.

  This morning he had received a long succession of petitioners, requesting his endorsement of their requests for charitable aid, his witnessing of their wills, as well as one or two illiterates asking him to write or read letters on their behalf. The better-off petitioners brought him small gifts – a basket of eggs, a jar of honey or a nice fat cabbage. Merritt, for his part, had instructed Mrs Muggeridge to put a flask of beer and a jug of cider on a table in the lobby where the parishioners waited for their audience with him.

  The requests for the parson’s clerical services significantly outweighed any applications for spiritual guidance – although this morning he had been asked for advice by an elderly man who claimed to be increasingly troubled by his conscience regarding a brief episode of more than forty years earlier. The man confessed to having kissed another woman a week before he married his wife. Merritt tried not to smile as he assured him that, as long as he showed contrition for this minor long-ago infraction, God would be merciful and would allow him into heaven. The old man then enquired whether he should confess his infidelity to his wife.

  ‘Have you had anything to do with this other woman since?’ asked Nightingale.

  ‘Oooh no, your reverend. Never.’

  ‘Then I’d caution you against mentioning it to Mrs Carver. It was so long in the past that there’s little point in raising it now.’

  ‘You reckon, sir?’

  ‘You’ve had a long and happy marriage with Mrs Carver. There’s no point in raising doubts in her head after all this time. Better to let sleeping dogs lie.’

  ‘A happy marriage? I’m not sure I’d put it that way meself. Only I was athinkin’ that I might try my luck at kissing the lass again, seeing as how she’s now a widow woman.’

  Merritt sat back in his chair, surprised. ‘I don’t think I’ve understood. I thought you said your conscience was troubling you? Why then would you want to kiss this other lady? That would make matters worse. It would give you more to weigh your conscience down. And while your wife may not have known, or will have long forgotten about this past indiscretion, you run the risk that she’ll find out and be much less forgiving if you try it again.’

  ‘I don’t see how as it would make my conscience worse,’ the old fellow replied. ‘I was athinkin’ it might make it better.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘I felt bad to have kissed the lass and then left her to marry the missus. She only wed old Sorrell because she couldn’t have me. For forty years I’ve thought it a terrible mistake and now old Sorrell’s passed on, so I was in a mind to put things right with her.’

  ‘Why are you asking me, Mr Carver? What do you want me to say?’

  ‘I just wants to know if I can do it.’

  ‘Do what? Kiss her?’

  ‘I’d in mind a bit more than just kissin’ – my missus has had no truck with the sex thing since our last one were born and I gave up trying to convince her otherwise twenty year ago, but I’ve a mind to have myself a little fling before I meets my maker. Just want to know that there’s still some life in this old dog before I kicks the bucket.’

  Merritt was puzzled. ‘It sounds to me as though you have already made your mind up. I’m not sure why you’re asking me. If you expect me to give you some form of ecclesiastical dispensation for adultery then I’m sorry I neither can nor will.’

  ‘But the Bible says “Go forth and multiply”, so that means God wants us to procreate.’

  ‘I suspect you’ve left it rather too late to be multiplying, Mr Carver. I imagine the lady in question is long past child-bearing age?’

  Carver nodded enthusiastically. ‘That’s the beauty of it, Reverend. No chance of unwanted babies. Just a nice bit of slap and tickle.’

  ‘And is this lady, er... Mrs Sorrell, aware of your intent? Do you think she feels the same way about you?’

  ‘Ooh aye. Judging by the look she give me over the top of her hymn book when I winked at ’er in church on Sunday.’

  ‘And Mrs Carver? What would she say if she knew you planned to have a last fling with this other lady?’

  ‘I’m not telling ’er. She’d clobber us with an iron skillet. She’s a temper on ’er, that woman. Down to sex frustration if yer askin’ me. If she enjoyed a bit of the other every now and then, she’d be all the better for it.’

  ‘In that case, Mr Carver, I believe you should direct your efforts to wooing your wife again. It sounds like you’ve each been taking the other for granted. Treat her the way you did when you were courting her all those years ago. Woo her and win her. Imagine you’ve just met. Never mind the other lady. After all, it was your wife you chose to marry. Make her want you all over again. If she’d hit you over the head with a frying pan if you told her about this lady then it shows she still cares for you.’

  ‘Ya reckon?’

  ‘I do. If you direct your desire and aff
ection at her I’m sure you’ll see the benefits and before long you could be enjoying a second honeymoon.’

  ‘Yer a wise man, vicar. And you not even married. God must indeed speak through ya. Thanking you, sir.’

  ‘Don’t thank me now – you can thank me later when Mrs Carver has a smile on her face again.’

  Carver gave the parson a slap on the back. ‘Yer all right, you, sir. Yer all right.’

  He left the room and another man took his place. Merritt looked at the clock and sighed.

  The last of the long line of rustics had left the parsonage, Merritt had eaten his luncheon, or dinner as Mrs Muggeridge insisted on calling his midday meal, and the parson was ready to retire to his study to work on his weekly sermon. This task was becoming increasingly onerous. Merritt felt uncomfortable when he witnessed the rapt attention bestowed on him by his flock, who nowadays hung on his every word. With a sizeable minority of them living in straitened circumstances, Merritt felt guilty at offering balm in the form of words when he knew they needed not prayers and piety but bread and the occasional bit of meat, and a chance to enjoy their homes without fear of eviction.

  Before he could settle at his desk, there was a knock at the front door and a few moments later another knock on his study door and Mrs Muggeridge entered.

  ‘Reverend Nightingale, there’s Mrs Egdon here to see thee. Shall I ask her to wait in the drawing room or do you wish me to ask her to come back later. I can explain you’re busy working on your sermon.’

  ‘Show her into the drawing room, Mrs Muggeridge. I’ll be in right away. And don’t forget to offer her some refreshment.’ The housekeeper nodded and bustled away.

  No matter how long it was since he had seen his hopes for marriage dashed, Merritt still felt his heart race with excitement at the sight of Hephzibah, or even at the mere mention of her name. He took off his spectacles and hastened towards the drawing room, wishing he had not allowed the chaos of books to take possession of the room again.

  The object of his frustrated desire was sitting in one of the fireside armchairs, from where she had removed a small pile of books and papers, which were now neatly stacked on the floor beside her. She looked up and smiled at him but Merritt thought her expression appeared nervous, perhaps even anxious.

  The parson settled himself into the chair opposite. ‘What an unexpected pleasure, Mrs Egdon.’

  Hephzibah didn’t reply. Her hands in her lap were restless. She kept rubbing the back of one hand with the other, then interlocking her fingers. They sat in silence for a few moments as the fire in the grate crackled and the long-case clock ticked.

  ‘Are you well, Mrs Egdon? You seem distressed.’

  She closed her eyes, then took a gulp of air and said, ‘Do you remember, Reverend Nightingale... Merritt... you said to me once that I could ask you anything and you would not hesitate to help me?’ Her face was suffused with blushes and she continued to fidget with her hands.

  ‘I do,’ he said. ‘And I meant it.’

  ‘I need to ask your help now, but I am too afraid to ask you.’

  ‘Don’t be afraid, Hephzibah. There’s nothing you could ask of me that would be too onerous. I am here at your disposal.’ He paused and looked up at her face, contorted with emotion. ‘Tell me what’s wrong. How can I help you?’

  Hephzibah looked at him and Merritt felt as though she were seeing him for the first time, exploring his face, studying him, searching for something. It was so different from the usual way she behaved towards him – kind, indulgent, friendly, as if he were a family pet, a faithful dog, accepted and loved but taken for granted. Now she seemed to be trying to read him, fearful that she might have mistaken something in his character, anxious that what she was about to say might never be unsaid and would mark an irreversible change in their friendship.

  Merritt felt his heart racing. He sensed she was about to reveal some confidence, show a level of trust that no one had ever shown in him before, but he also knew that it was fragile and that she might withdraw, pull away and the moment would be lost forever and their drawing together would not only not happen but they would move further apart. He moved off his chair and knelt on the floor in front of her and reached for her restless hands, anchoring them under his own.

  She drew her hands away from his, placed them on the arms of the chair and leaned back, putting a distance between them. Merritt felt awkward, still kneeling at her feet, stranded like a polar bear on a drifting iceberg. He got up and went to stand in front of the fireplace.

  He was confused – one moment she appeared to drop her barriers and the next to raise them higher than before. He was out of his depth, afraid. Something told him that they had reached a point where their relationship would change irrevocably and he was afraid that he might be unfit to offer the help she so clearly craved. This was not like his conversation with Mr Carver – he could not trot out platitudes or quote scriptures at Hephzibah. She was obviously distressed. His stomach churned as his brain raced through the possibilities, but his imagination fell short.

  ‘This is very difficult for me,’ she said, at last. ‘I am afraid. I don’t know how to tell you. How to ask you for help.’

  Merritt fought the urge to kneel at her feet again – fought the urge to grasp her hands in his. He clenched his fists behind his back and looked at her, fixing his eyes on hers, trying to summon up the strength to help her, without giving away the fact that he loved her with a passion that would not abate.

  The clock struck the hour and it was as if it had struck Hephzibah too, as she jumped to her feet. ‘Do you mind if we go for a walk? I feel uncomfortable here. I don’t think I can speak freely. I will be more able to talk openly if we are outdoors.’

  They set off, walking in silence, following their instincts, heading away from the village and the well-trodden paths. After fifteen minutes or so they reached the boundaries of Nettlestock village where it adjoined the open parkland leading up the hill to Mudford. Merritt thought of the last time they had walked together here, when Hephzibah had spotted the herd of deer, just as he had been about to open his heart to her. He was glad he hadn’t had a chance to speak then as he had saved himself the humiliation of her rejection. It had been just days later that she had eloped with Thomas Egdon.

  There was still a little part of Merritt that wondered, if he had spoken up that afternoon, whether she might have listened and thought twice about Egdon’s offer – but he knew he was deluding himself. The way she looked at her husband was enough to disabuse him of any illusions. The last time he had been in their company Merritt had looked in Hephzibah’s direction and saw her gazing upon Thomas Egdon with a look of unmitigated love and admiration. He had kept asking himself why he didn’t seek another parish, return to Oxford and resume his academic studies, travel abroad – anything to get away from here, get away from Hephzibah and the constant pain of watching her loving someone else.

  It was a beautiful autumnal day. They stood at the top of a low hill and looked out over the farmland below, where men were hard at work in the distant meadows, making hay. They stood side-by-side, watching the men moving between horse and wagon, pitching, loading and raking hay. From time to time a man would break away and walk over to fill a tin cup from a large wooden bottle of ale to quench his thirst.

  ‘I have come to love this place,’ said Hephzibah. Her voice was tremulous.

  ‘Would you like to sit down in the shade and then you can tell me how I can help you?’ he said.

  ‘No. Let’s keep walking. I will find it easier that way. I don’t think I can look you in the eyes.’

  A rabbit ran across their pathway, disappearing into the long grass. Hephzibah sighed, then, staring straight ahead, started to speak. ‘I am in a terrible predicament. You are the only person I can turn to, the only person I can ask for help. You did say once that you would do anything for me, but what I am going to ask of you may be too much and I will understand. Yes, I will understand... but I don’t know what I
will do.’

  He rested a hand on her arm but she shook it off. ‘Please don’t touch me. Let me finish what I have to say first. When I have said it, you may want to have nothing more to do with me.’

  Merritt was beginning to feel frustrated. ‘Just tell me, Hephzibah. Nothing you could ask of me would make me like you any less.’

  She gave him a sad smile. ‘As you know I married my husband somewhat precipitately. His proposal was unexpected, but it was the fulfilment of my dearest wishes. I love Thomas with all my heart.’

  Merritt’s face twisted in pain but he stared ahead, grateful that she had wanted to walk and he didn’t have to look her in the face.

  ‘Have you ever loved anyone, Merritt? Loved them so much you can hardly breathe in their presence? Loved them so you would do anything to secure their happiness?’

  He swallowed and mumbled that he had. He was beginning to wish he had not agreed to accompany her. It was too painful to listen to her avowals of love for his rival.

  ‘In my experience, love is not always a happy state, a source of joy,’ she said. ‘For me it is more often a cause of pain. May I speak frankly?’

  Merritt nodded.

  ‘It seems to me that love is a very one-sided thing. And yet I know it doesn’t have to be. My parents loved each other deeply and couldn’t bear to be apart. My husband, however, is frequently away. By his own choice. His time spent in London and elsewhere outweighs the time he spends with me. I cannot understand that. When he is with me he is a good husband, but yet... I can’t help but think if he truly loved me he would not choose to leave me so often.’

  Merritt started to speak but she cut him off. ‘Please let me finish or I will lose my courage,’ she said. ‘Our elopement was brought about by my father-in-law acting inappropriately towards me. He has appetites that he wishes to feed as soon as they occur. I have since come to know that he made advances to my predecessors and none of the other governesses lasted long as a consequence. I also understand that he takes advantage of some of the servants and women on the estate, who are afraid to resist him for fear of losing their livelihoods.’