by Jamie Probin
Father Thomas looked at her sadly.
‘God already has forgiven you Samantha. You just need to forgive yourself.’
Joseph Hollins left the offices of the Gloucester Telegraph and walked to his car with a deep sense of satisfaction. The emotion did not lead to anything so radical as a smile, or indeed any outward sign of gratification, but he still permitted himself a proverbial slap on the back.
Smiles did not come often to the face of Joseph Hollins, for he was a remarkably solemn man who did not approve of frivolity. He took life very seriously, and saw little deserving of a lighter-hearted approach among all the heavy issues facing society. As a child his parents had tried in vain to encourage him to play games with the other boys, but he would simply stare at the rugby ball, or whatever it was, as if it were quite the silliest thing he had ever seen, and return to his book. Once his father had given him a stick and asked why he didn’t go and play war with some of his friends. Joseph had replied that war was not a suitable subject for play.
At school his teachers had worried too. He was not a loner in the sense that he shunned the company of others, but every other boy there enjoyed the typical pastimes that Joseph thought so foolish, and so he would sit on his bunk and read whilst the sounds of running, kicking, shouting and laughing floated outside the closed window.
Naturally this attitude did not endear him to many people, although neither did it annoy most of them. There was nothing pretentious or superior about Joseph’s attitude, and he did not condemn others for failing to share his views. Joseph Hollins simply wanted to be an adult while he was still a child. Occasionally he would look back and wonder if that was a mistake, because now, at the age of forty, he sometimes felt a sense of jadedness about life, as though somewhere he had missed something important.
These incidences were rare, however, because a successful career had left him little room for idle musings. Joseph’s attitude to life had quickly manifested itself into a clear ambition to be a journalist. A twin passion for researching news stories, and having something to say about them, soon took him to the offices of the Gloucester Telegraph. Once there his incisive reports on current affairs mixed with a special gift for unearthing historical tales of interest to quickly propel him up the ladder.
One particular exclusive, after Joseph had discovered records showing that a new vicar to the town of Manhampton, Rev Philip Groves, had once spent several months in prison, led to both the de-frocking of the vicar and a huge leap in the sales figures of the paper. The story had brought some tension between Joseph and his wife, Rebecca; she had known and liked Rev Groves, and said he was the best vicar the parish had seen in her lifetime. She said he had paid his debt to society and should not have suffered again, but Joseph would merely reply in his solemn manner that people had a right to know the truth, and his job was to tell them. What they did with that knowledge was their business. He had borne no ill will to the reverend, and protested his de-frocking in an editorial soon afterwards, but his mantra remained that “the more people are informed, the better they are able to make decisions.”
It was not long before Joseph Hollins was made editor of the Gloucester Telegraph, and under his supervision the newspaper went from strength to strength. What had once been a small publication for one town was now competing for sales with the countywide Gloucestershire Post. Joseph detested what he saw as the drift towards more trivial and frivolous articles sprinkled among the “proper news” in other publications, such as the aforementioned Gloucestershire Post, and stubbornly refrained from allowing the Telegraph to do so. In fact, to the trepidation of the owners, he increased the level of solemnity of the stories, until most readers discarded their daily with the idea that they had better hurry home and see their loved ones before the Apocalypse descended. Nevertheless the sales continued to grow, and today the newspaper was read by more people in the county than any other.
As his car buzzed quietly through the countryside between Manhampton and Upper Wentham, the needle on the speedometer hovering steadily on the speed limit, he thought over the current theme dominating his publication. It was clear to him that trouble was brewing in Germany and Italy, and whilst other media were discussing the situation in a rather abstract and hypothetical manner, Joseph had been researching the country’s preparedness for war and regularly proclaiming the alarming results over the past two years. His latest campaign was to encourage subscription amongst young men to Britain’s vastly understaffed army, and much of his current satisfaction was due to the response his crusade was receiving. What had begun as a suitably succinct title to an editorial – “Let’s Be Ready!” – had somehow become a slogan sweeping first the county, and now the country. Douglas McKinley, the local MP who lived next door to the Hollins, had told him that the motto had been heard several times in the House of Commons recently, and was even used by the Home Secretary in a speech last week. There were rumours that the Prime Minister himself might soon be contacting the offices of the Telegraph.
By the time Hollins pulled the car smoothly to a halt outside The Paddocks, the large house he and Rebecca occupied on the edge of Upper Wentham, he could no longer resist the temptation to smile. He would not allow it to last long, he told himself, but he had earned it.
He entered the house and shouted to his wife, but there was no response, so he patted the head of their golden retriever and picked the day’s post from the tray where the maid had left it.
A bill from the haberdashers and a letter from an old school friend (in fact, his only school friend) were scanned, but it was the last letter which wiped the smile from his face faster than even he had expected. As he slit the top of the envelope with the letter opener a small square of white paper fell out with two words printed in a clear and nondescript style.
“I know”.
With horror Joseph picked up the paper and looked inside the envelope at the single item within.
A white feather.
Chapter 12
The reason Rebecca Hollins had not responded to her husband’s greeting at the house was that she was still in the village. She had been shopping in Manhampton, as she usually did on a Wednesday, but, on returning, had alighted the bus in the village centre rather than outside the house, so she could call in to the small florists run by her mother.
‘Here you are mums, I saw a lovely colour of yarn in town, and I knew you would like it.’
She pulled a ball of soft green wool from her shopping bag and handed it to Adele Carmichael, who looked at it approvingly.
‘Oh, it’s lovely! Just what I wanted for that cardigan. Thank you Becky.’
No one, not even her husband, was allowed to call Rebecca Hollins “Becky” except for her mother. Somehow she did not mind when it was her mother.
The door to the shop opened with the tinkling of a bell, and Andrea Ketterman entered.
“Good morning Mrs Carmichael. Oh, hello Mrs Hollins, I didn’t see you from outside the shop. What a beautiful day isn’t it?’
‘Absolutely lovely,’ replied Adele. ‘I’m even toying with the idea of closing the shop early and going for a walk by the river. We’ve been very lucky with the weather this summer haven’t we? I do so hope it holds for you until Saturday.’
‘So do I,’ smiled Andrea. ‘There is nothing so fickle as the weather is there? One plans and plans against every eventuality, I almost feel like I am tempting fate.’
‘Oh don’t say that dear,’ admonished Adele. ‘I am so looking forward to the reception in the gardens.’
‘Don’t worry Mrs Carmichael, even if mother nature does her worst we have plenty of marquees. Although it would be a shame if people could not wander through those lovely grounds.’
Rebecca nodded, then turned to her mother.
‘I must rush mums, Joseph will be getting home any minute. I just wanted to give you that wool.’
‘Okay darling. Goodbye.’
Rebecca wished Andrea a good day and left the shop with a final, deep smell of the fr
esh flowers.
Adele Carmichael gave her customer her full attention. Andrea had employed Adele to arrange all the flowers for the wedding, and money had been no expense. This one event had provided a profit equivalent to three months of average business for the florist. Of course, with the history of Adele Carmichael’s relationship to the Wentworth family, it had been a little awkward from time to time, but Sir George’s contribution had been confined to the fiscal. Andrea had arranged all the practical details.
‘Any problems, my dear?’ she asked
‘Oh no, Mrs Carmichael. It’s just that I’ve decided to have a special bouquet for the top table at the meal.’
Adele thought for a moment and then began plucking various flowers from different locations around the small shop. She moved seemingly at random, picking out stems with an apparent arbitrariness. When she had finished, however, her hands hovered over a vase in a whirl of movement, and seconds later a stunning arrangement stood on the counter. Adele Carmichael did not have many talents in life, but she had always been gifted with flowers.
‘Oh Mrs Carmichael! It’s beautiful!’
Adele Carmichael was only forty nine years old, but had already been widowed twice, and spent the last nine years alone. Her first husband, Edward Carmichael, was her childhood sweetheart, and they had married at sixteen. Rebecca had been born only a year later, and a son, Richard, a year after that. Edward had been a blacksmith and provided well for his family, and for a short time they were extremely happy. Then Edward Carmichael joined the countless corpses on the second day of the Somme, and suddenly Adele was alone with two children to support. During the war she did her service, and there was no time to think how new this widowed life was, because everything was new for everyone in this unprecedented world of conflict.
After the war finished, reality had come flooding back. She was still alone, but life could no longer be improvised on a day-by-day basis. She must manage for herself and her children. Eventually they would be able to provide for themselves, but what of the present? All her problems seemed to vanish when Sir Alfred Wentworth entered her life. She had lived in Upper Wentham since birth, and was under no illusions about the outrageous reputation he enjoyed, but whether through idealism or simple survival instinct, she saw the financial and situational stability he offered, and could not refuse. Who would not want to live in Blackwood Manor as lady of the house?
The marriage had not been a success, and when Alfred died Adele shed few genuine tears. It had, however, come as a shock to find nothing but a meagre endowment in the will, providing enough money each month off which to live, but little more. It was a cruel blow for one whose affluent lifestyle had been the only redeeming quality of her unpleasant marriage.
Nevertheless, she made the best of the situation. Her lifelong dream had been to run her own florists, and astute advice from the family solicitor enabled her to use her income to create the opportunity. The business was not particularly a thriving one, being in such a small village, but word travelled. There were sufficient sales in the area to get by, and Adele was happier than she had been since before the war.
She looked at the bouquet and felt a hint of pride. It was indeed beautiful, as Andrea had said.
‘I think they will look very nice on your top table,’ she smiled at Andrea.
Although Adele did not have a great number of weddings to cater for, they were the source of most of her income, and she had done enough to recognise common symptoms in her clients. In Andrea Ketterman she saw a bride firmly entrenched in the anxiety stage.
‘A little nervous about the big day, my dear?’ she asked with a kind smile.
‘Very,’ replied Andrea with emotion. ‘It’s funny, I didn’t think I would be. I’m not that kind of person at all, but these last few days I’ve just been so worried.’
‘Of course you are. It’s the greatest day of your life, and you want to be certain everything is just right. But don’t worry dear, everything will be fine.’
Andrea looked at her uncertainly, and then asked quietly: ‘Is it nice? Marriage, I mean. I don’t know what to expect.’
Adele laughed gently, and was lost in thought for a brief moment. Then she returned her gaze to her client.
‘I don’t know that I’m the right person to ask. I’ve been married twice; the first was simply wonderful and the best years of my life. The second… well, it was a bad idea from the start. But your marriage to Charles will be nothing like that, I’m sure.’ Her eyes flashed with a confidential gleam. ‘And I can tell you from experience that being the lady of Blackwood Manor is not a bad position to have!’
Andrea stared at the older woman, and it suddenly registered that the two of them would be related somehow after the wedding. Adele Carmichael was actually Sir George Wentworth’s stepmother, despite the fact that she was four years his junior. It was more surprising given how well Adele looked for her age; she could easily pass for a sibling of Charles Wentworth, rather than his step-grandmother.
‘Is that why you reverted back to using Carmichael as your surname?’
Adele nodded.
‘It was my first husband’s name, and it reminds me of him. If I think of my first marriage rather than my second it stops me being bitter about the institution.’
‘I’ve heard people say that Sir Alfred was not a nice man. Did he mistreat you?’
‘Not physically. He just… used me when it suited him. He took everything from me and gave nothing. He was a very selfish man. That is one of the few ways in which George is like him. It must run in the family.’
‘Charles is not selfish,’ Andrea said defensively.
‘Oh no, of course not. We all know that Charles is nothing like his father. Of course I didn’t mean Charles. No, you shall be much happier as Lady Wentworth than I ever was, my dear, and I wish you all the luck in the world.’
Rebecca Hollins reached The Paddocks, and saw her husband’s car in the driveway. The door was unlatched, and she called as she entered the house:
‘Hello darling.’
She received no answer, but she could see the light through the crack in the door to the sitting room, and could sense her husband’s presence within. As she took her coat off and hung it over the hat stand, she proceeded to talk loudly.
‘Sorry I’m late. I called in to see mums at the shop. You can thank Andrea Ketterman that I’m not later, actually. She arrived to pester mums again about the flowers for the wedding, so I was surplus to requirements. Andrea looked quite nervous to be honest, but then I’m not surprised. I’ve always thought she chose Charles Wentworth for his money, and now suddenly she is facing a lifetime with him and getting the wind up. No one will ever convince me that she wasn’t mad about Ronald Asbury, but in the end she picked money and status over love. Some women can be so stupid, can’t they? Lucky for me, I found a man who I loved and had m… Joseph! What is it?’
Rebecca had pushed open the door to the sitting room and saw Joseph sitting at his desk, ashen-faced and shaking. On the desk in front of him still lay the note and the white feather. She raced across the room
‘Joseph! Are you ill?’
He shook his head tentatively.
‘N-no.’
‘What’s the matter?’
For a moment he looked desperately at her, but then just shook his head as if to say nothing was the matter.
‘What do you mean, nothing?’ she demanded. Rebecca Hollins was a slight woman, with thin lips, high cheekbones and fine straight hair. A stranger, upon seeing her slender frame, would be forgiven for thinking that they were looking at a meek woman, and for the most part they would be right. In general, she was a woman who remained in the background when part of a group, and left little impression on those she met. But when strong emotion gripped her, a determined gleam came into her eye and a potent strength became suddenly manifest in her posture. So it was now, and when he looked at her expression Joseph knew it was pointless to delay the inevitable. The truth would com
e out and, however painful it might be, any attempt to divert the process would simply make things harder.
‘I’m sorry Rebecca, there’s something you need to know. I’m afraid you made a rotten choice when you married me.’
‘What is it?’ Her tone was brisk and business like. ‘Another woman? Some wrongdoing at work?’
There was an almost surgical intent to the manner in which she removed her gloves.
He shook his head miserably.
‘Nothing like that. I… I’m ruined.’
‘Ruined? Why?’
Joseph took a deep breath, tried to meet her eye, but could not bring himself to. Instead he stared down at the objects on the desk and began to speak.
‘You know what I’m like. I’ve always been a pompous ass. When I was a boy I always wanted to be mature and sophisticated, to do and think things that adults did, to be better than my peers. Whilst my friends were playing football, I was inside reading Shakespeare, or trying to join in with the conversations of my parents and their friends.’
‘Darling, I appreciate your self-criticism, but please get to the point.’
‘I am getting to the point. I’m trying to explain. It’s because of who I am that I did it. I’ve been an adult since I was nine and, by God, I’m bored of it. But when I went up to read English at Durham, things became difficult. I was so used to being more sophisticated than my fellows, yet here I was suddenly surrounded by those just as intelligent and advanced as I was.’
Rebecca watched him with no expression, saying nothing.
‘It offended me to think that they might be my equal, little fool that I was, so I began to consider more… iconoclastic philosophies. I thought if I believed in things that most people considered radical, then I should once again be able to look down on them.
‘When I look back I can see it hardly mattered what the belief actually was, just that it be revolutionary in some way, to set me apart. I dabbled in all sorts.’
Rebecca interrupted him with a snort.