by Clare Flynn
‘Please, Mamma, let me go. Want to play.’ He struggled to free himself from her grip.
‘No, my darling, you’re still a little young for that. Maybe next year.’
Abigail stood in front of her, ‘This race is just for the little ones. The under-fives. The lad’ll be fine.’ She looked at her with defiance, then turned towards Thomas Egdon. ‘Ain’t that true, Tommy?’
Hephzibah still clung on to the wriggling boy.
Tom Egdon looked up and said, ‘Let the boy run, Hephzibah. It’ll do him good. You’re too protective. He needs to toughen up a bit. It’s only fifty yards.’
With a triumphant smile, Abigail took the child by the hand and led him over to the starting line where Miss Pickering was struggling to organise a group of toddlers into some semblance of order. As Abigail handed the child over to the teacher she brushed her arm against his head and knocked off his hat, revealing his shock of gingery blonde hair. She bent over, picked the hat up off the grass and said, ‘I’ll keep this for you until the race is over – it’ll only blow off while you’re running.’ She strode away, hat in hand towards the finishing line which was being manned by the parson.
Merritt Nightingale blew a whistle and the line-up of small children began to race up the green. Two of them started late and, realising they were left behind, began to cry. One boy tripped up and managed to bring down several others in a heap in the middle of the course. Edwin, a little girl and another boy were running neck and neck towards the finishing line. In the excited throng of cheering parents no one noticed that it was Abigail Cake sticking a foot out that sent Edwin flying just before the finishing line. He landed face down and was silent for a moment, then began to howl, as the realisation hit him that not only was he not going to win the race but he’d grazed his knee. Merritt Nightingale swooped down and scooped the boy up in his arms and brushed the grass from his knees, holding the little boy tenderly against his shoulder and patting him on the back. Edwin clasped his hands around the parson’s neck and nuzzled against him.
A small crowd had gathered around them and instead of congratulating the girl who had won the race, they all stared in surprise at the parson and the little boy. The two were clutching each other tightly and their likeness was remarkable and unmistakable. It was the first time, the christening apart, that anyone in the village had seen the parson and Edwin in close proximity to each other. The child’s hair was the same tone as Merritt’s, but lighter and he had the same skin tone and a light dusting of freckles.
Abigail moved forward and put the hat on the boy’s head, her mission complete.
Before Merritt could set his son down on the ground Thomas Egdon pushed his way through the fascinated crowd and grabbed the child from the arms of the clergyman.
Egdon dragged the now-wailing child by the hand behind him and marched up to Hephzibah. ‘You. Home. Now.’
He jumped on his own horse which was grazing nearby and Hephzibah went with Edwin and Ottilie to the horse and trap. She looked around but could see no sign of the squire.
Thomas was waiting on the stone steps at the entrance of the Hall when Hephzibah, Ottilie and Edwin arrived back. Egdon told Ottilie to take her nephew upstairs to the nursery and stay there. He walked into the drawing room and Hephzibah followed him, her heart thumping against her ribs.
As soon as she had shut the door behind her he struck her across the face. The blow was of such force that she fell sideways and landed on her knees. He grabbed her arm roughly and pulled her to her feet then pushed her into an armchair.
Her face was burning and she felt tears of shock and pain smarting in her eyes. She wanted to be sick. Where was the squire? Where was Mrs Andrews? But she knew the whole household would still be at the fair.
Thomas turned his back on her and went to the fireplace. He leaned his head against the marble mantel for what felt to Hephzibah like an eternity, then he swept the collection of ornaments off the top and turned back to face her.
‘You have humiliated me in front of the entire village. How long has that spineless vicar been screwing you? Did you think I would never notice the boy wasn’t my son?’ His words reignited his temper and he moved towards her, pulled her up from the seat and hit her again around the head.
Hephzibah screamed in pain and fell back into the chair. She put her hand to her head and felt the wetness of blood on her forehead where his signet ring had caught her. The room was spinning. She couldn’t think. Thomas leaned over her, his face in her face, his breath hot. The pain came again. A blow to her face. Then nothing.
She must have passed out for a moment. Then he was tearing at her clothes in a frenzy. The blows to her head had made her dizzy and disorientated. Sound of cloth ripping. Head throbbing. Face on fire. Blood in her eyes. Blinded.
‘Stop, please stop, Thomas!’ Her own words echoed from far away. Everything muddled. Large woven roses in the carpet bloomed, went fuzzy and faded away. Room spinning. Eyes won’t focus. Nausea constricting her throat. Hard to breathe.
She was on her back on the sofa when he punched her again, then a searing pain as he forced his way inside her, tearing her, brutalising her. The last thing she was aware of was the gold paint on the cornicing around the ceiling before she passed out.
When Hephzibah came to, she was covered with a blanket and the squire was standing over her with a glass of brandy in his hand.
‘Drink this. You fainted.’
She drank the brandy in one slug, feeling the heat of the alcohol kick-starting her senses. She looked around. ‘Where is he? Where’s Thomas?’ Her voice was tremulous.
‘I neither know nor care. As far away as possible. If there’s one thing I won’t tolerate it’s violence to women. He’ll never set foot in this house again. Now, suppose you tell me what’s been going on.’
Hephzibah stared at him, uncomprehending. Who was the squire to defend the rights of women? He had shown scant regard for them until now. Sir Richard sat in silence watching her as she sipped a second brandy.
Her skin warmed with the alcohol and she felt light-headed. All she wanted to do was sleep, but the squire was intent on finding answers.
‘Now tell me what happened,’ he said. It’s clear from the pantomime on the village green that my son is a cuckold and our good vicar has been behaving in a less than godly manner. I must admit, I never thought the fellow had it in him. I never thought you had it in you, either, Hephzibah. I wouldn’t have put you down as the unfaithful wife, although, God knows, that wastrel gave you cause enough.
Hephzibah looked at him without really seeing him.
Sir Richard leaned over her and fixed her with his dark eyes. ‘The sooner you tell me what’s been going on, the sooner you can go to bed and get some sleep. You look done in.’
The prospect of lying in her bed, letting the brandy lull her to a deep sleep where she could dream none of this had happened, was irresistible. She told him everything – how she had persuaded Merritt Nightingale to have sex with her in order to get pregnant. She stressed that she had taken advantage of a promise once made to her by the parson to help her if she was ever in trouble.
‘But why did you want to have another man’s child?’
She told him her motivation had been her love for Thomas and a desire to save her marriage and Thomas’s inheritance. She didn’t tell him that she and Merritt had fallen in love. She’d done enough harm to everyone without adding that.
‘I should never have done it,’ she said, her voice weak and little more than a whisper. I know that now. I’ve made everything bad for everyone. And it didn’t work. Once Edwin was born Thomas grew cold towards me. You saw it yourself.’
The squire studied her for a moment with his coal-dark eyes. ‘He realised the child wasn’t his?’
‘He never said anything about that. Just that he was happy. He said he was proud that at last we had a son.’
‘He may not have realised it consciously. But a man knows.’ Sir Richard looked away for a
moment as if weighing something up. ‘When Thomas was born I knew at once there was something about him that was different. As soon as I held him in my arms. I didn’t feel the same way about him as I did about Sam and later about Roddy. I said nothing to my wife, wouldn’t even acknowledge it to myself, but as the boys grew up I became more convinced that Thomas wasn’t my own son.’
Hephzibah sat upright and swung her legs onto the floor, pulling the blanket around her. ‘Who was his father?’
The squire shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I had my suspicions but no evidence. I watched her like a hawk after that and she never gave the slightest indication that there was anyone else. I think it must have been a brief affair. He was from outside the area. He’s no longer around.’
‘You never confronted your wife?’
He dropped his head. ‘I was too afraid. I thought if I did, she might leave me and go to him. I loved her. I really loved her. Hard as that might be for you to believe. I know you think only ill of me. A year or so later Roddy was born. His arrival made me even more certain about Thomas. I knew Roddy was my son as soon as I saw him. And it was clear Jane loved Tom more than the other two. He was like her shadow. I tried to conceal how I felt about him but I couldn’t. In truth, Hephzibah, I loathed the boy. There’s a kind of poetic justice that what happened to me has happened to him.’
He stopped and lit a cigarette, inhaling it deeply. ‘I blamed myself. I tried to make sure Jane would never regret staying with me.’ His eyes misted over for a moment then the hardness in them returned. ‘Sometimes I think Thomas dislikes women. The only one he had any time for was his mother. I on the other hand adore them. Yes, I may try to take advantage of them, but I would never harm any woman.’
‘Harm is about more than physical blows. It can also be caused by forcing yourself on someone.’
He looked away. After a moment he stood up and went to stand in front of the window, looking out over the garden. Eventually he returned and sat down opposite her again.
Hephzibah looked at him and said, ‘What about that woman, the bailiff’s daughter? She told me Thomas loved her. I saw them kissing once. Before we were married.’
The squire snorted. ‘Thomas loves only Thomas – and his horses. Yes, he and the Cake girl were inseparable as children and I know they had relations – but he had his way with half the girls in the village whenever he got the chance. She was no different from any other, no matter what she might like to think herself.’
He got up and began to pace the room. ‘You and the boy may stay here. I’ve grown fond of you both. As far as I’m concerned, Edwin will be raised as my grandson. You will both always have a home at Ingleton Hall.’
Before Hephzibah could answer there was a knock at the door and Mrs Andrews entered. ‘Sir Richard, there’s trouble in the village. I think you’d better go. They’ve turned on the parson. It’s that Jacob Leatherwood from the Wesleyan chapel. He accused Mr Nightingale of carnal acts and called him a hypocrite and a fight broke out. They pelted the poor man with vegetables and there’s a gang of them going to march on the parsonage. They’re carrying pitchforks and clubs. I thought I’d better come and get you – I’m afraid what might happen.’
The squire got to his feet. He told Mrs Andrews to run a bath for Hephzibah and treat her cuts and bruises, then left the room. Hephzibah had kept her head turned away from the housekeeper until the squire left, then she turned around and faced the woman.
Mrs Andrews put her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, Madam, what have they done to you? Who did this? Did someone attack you on the way home? And where’s the wee lad?’
‘Edwin is safe upstairs in the nursery with Ottilie. What of Mr Nightingale? Have they harmed him?’ She tried to disguise the fear in her voice.
The housekeeper shook her head. ‘I don’t know, Madam. If the parson has any sense he’ll have got out of the village. I always knew that Leatherwood was no true man of God. He’s a mischief maker and a rabble-rouser.’
She told Hephzibah to stay where she was while she went to the kitchen for water and dressings. When she returned she washed the blood off Hephzibah’s face and treated the bruising with witch hazel.
‘You need to tell the squire who did this to you. Being a magistrate he will see to it that they’re punished for it.’
‘It was my husband.’
Mrs Andrews drew in her breath, then shook her head. ‘Does Sir Richard know?’
Hephzibah nodded. ‘He threw him out of the house. I don’t know where he’s gone, but I don’t ever want to see him again. And Mrs Andrews, I can’t stay here. The squire has asked me to stay but I can’t. Not any more. Not after this.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress tree;
(from Song, Christina Rossetti)
Abigail Cake was running. She had searched the grounds of Ingleton Hall and could see no sign of Thomas Egdon. She was starting to think she had made a terrible mistake. Thomas had taken Hephzibah by the hand and dragged her and the child away with him, heading back in the direction of the Hall. She hadn’t banked on that. Her plan had been for Hephzibah to have to slink away in shame with that carrot-headed parson and their bastard child.
She ran to the back door of the Hall where Eliza, one of the scullery maids, told her that Master Thomas had been yelling at Mrs Egdon in the drawing room then, when the squire came home, he had saddled up his horse and ridden away. The girl had overheard the squire shouting and saying Mr Egdon could never come back to Ingleton again.
‘Where’s she gone?’ Abigail asked.
‘Up in her room. Mrs Andrews has been cleaning her up. Looks like Master Thomas gave her the thrashing she deserved. She were all bloody and she’d been crying. None of us was ’ere when it ’appened.’
‘In which direction did Mr Egdon ride?’
‘He was headed the back way down towards the canal and the railway.’
Abigail turned on her heels and ran across the lawns. She jumped off the ha-ha and half ran, half stumbled, her way through the familiar paths around the woods towards the village.
She headed along the main street, which was deserted, as everyone was still at the green for the May Day festivities. She ran past the Egdon Arms, past the smithy, the Cat and Canary and the schoolhouse and round the corner towards the church and the parsonage. She heard the noise before she saw the crowds. There must have been almost fifty people standing in the street outside the parsonage, shouting and banging sticks on tin cans. There was no sign of the Reverend Nightingale.
The Nonconformist preacher, Jacob Leatherwood, was standing on top of the flint wall which separated the parson’s garden from the street and the churchyard.
‘I tell you this man is not fit to wipe the shoes of the people of Nettlestock. He is a creature of the devil and not a man of God. I say to you he is a hypocrite, a Pharisee. Heed the words of Matthew, Chapter 23 verse 27 “Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye are like unto whited sepulchres, which indeed appear beautiful outward, but are within full of dead men’s bones, and of all uncleanness”.’ As he said the words the crowd roared their approval.
Abigail paused for a moment, curious as to what would happen next. She had never felt any particular animosity towards the parson, but she didn’t feel he warranted her sympathy either.
A man, whom she recognised as Leatherwood’s brother, shouted to the assembled mass. ‘Let’s teach him a lesson. We don’t need ’is sort in Nettlestock. Outsiders with city habits and low morals. Let’s drag ’im out here and tell ’im what we thinks of him. The crowd bayed their assent, surged forward and pushed open the gate.
Abigail elbowed her way past the few people who remained in the street and ran on down the hill towards the canal and the railway. Her heart was pounding in her chest and she was almost out of breath when she saw Thomas Egdon ahead of her, tying hi
s horse up under a tree, close to where the railway line crossed the road. She ran down the hill, calling out his name.
Egdon turned his head when he heard Abigail’s voice. He moved towards her and they met at the roadside, a short way from the station platform.
‘You knew,’ he said. ‘You engineered everything. You planned this afternoon, didn’t you?’
‘I wanted you to know what they’d done to you. How they tricked you. Going behind your back. I didn’t want them laughing at your expense.’
‘You chose to do it in front of the whole village. You showed everyone that the boy wasn’t my son. You humiliated me.’
‘I tried to warn you before that she was no good, but you wouldn’t listen to me. I told you she was wrong for you. I pleaded with you to leave her. I’m the one you love, Tommy. I’m the only one you’ve ever loved and I love you too. That woman had no right to come between us. She should have married the parson but oh no, she had to steal you away from me. And then she went and slept with him behind your back. But now you know everything you can leave her, divorce her for adultery and marry me.’
‘Marry you? Are you mad, Ab? I’ll never marry you.’
Her voice turned into a wail. ‘But you love me. You’ve always loved me. You said we’d be married. You made a promise.’
‘We were fifteen. We were children.’
‘But you and I are meant to be together. You always said that. You said there was no one else like me. All those times we made love in the hayloft and down behind the silk mill. It was good. You wanted me all the time. You had me all the time. You just had to flick your fingers and I was there for you. You couldn’t keep your hands off me. She never loved you at all. She only married you because you were the squire’s son. I’d have loved you even if you were just the butcher’s boy.’
She raised a hand to stroke his cheek but he pushed it away.
‘Come on, Tommy, don’t be like that. You know you love me. We can be together properly now. You can’t stay with her. Not after what she’s done to you.’ She flung her arms around him and buried her head in his chest.
