Katherine Wentworth (The Marriage of Katherine Book 1)

by D. E. Stevenson

  It was all very interesting indeed, but very tiring; I was not sorry when at last we came out together into the sunshine and Mr. Heath invited me to tea at the vicarage, saying that it would give his wife a great deal of pleasure if I would come. I saw he really meant it, so I accepted. There was no need to hurry back to Limbourne; it was a relief to escape from the uncomfortable atmosphere of the Wentworth family and to talk to somebody kind and pleasant and good.

  ‘My wife will be delighted,’ said Mr. Heath joyfully. ‘This way, Mrs. Wentworth—through this little gate—I take a great deal of pleasure in my garden. Roses are my hobby.’

  Unfortunately I could not take pleasure in Mr. Heath’s garden, nor even admire his roses, because I had suddenly begun to feel very queer indeed. I sat down upon a conveniently placed seat and tried to pull myself together.

  ‘Oh dear!’ exclaimed Mr. Heath, looking at me in alarm. ‘I’m afraid I’ve tired you, Mrs. Wentworth. I’ll run and fetch my wife.’

  He trotted away rapidly towards the house; I heard him shouting, ‘Helena, Helena!’

  The seat was in the shade and I was beginning to feel better when Mr. Heath reappeared, followed by a large stout woman with a round kindly face. ‘It was most inconsiderate of me,’ he was saying. ‘You know what I’m like, Helena, when I begin to talk about the church! I have tired Mrs. Wentworth, I have exhausted her. Oh, dear me, how very thoughtless!’

  Mrs. Heath had brought a bottle of smelling-salts with her. ‘Tea is ready,’ she said. ‘I could bring it here on a tray. Perhaps that would help. A cup of freshly made tea is very reviving.’

  ‘I’m all right now,’ I told her, trying to smile. ‘It was just the hot sun—or something. Terribly silly of me!’

  It took some minutes to convince the kind people that I really was better and quite able to walk to the house. Presently we were sitting in the vicarage drawing-room: a cool room, shabby and threadbare, but with a curious old-world dignity of its own; Mrs. Heath poured out tea into lovely old Wedgwood china cups and Mr. Heath hurried away to fetch a tin of glucose.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s rather nasty,’ said Mrs. Heath apologetically. ‘I always think it spoils a good cup of tea, but John has great faith in glucose; it will please him if you allow him to give you a little. John is so interested in the church that he doesn’t realise how tiring it is to be shown round.’

  ‘I was very interested indeed,’ I assured her. ‘I’m all right now, so please don’t worry. As a matter of fact I’ve been having rather a difficult time lately.’

  Mrs. Heath nodded. ‘Yes, I expect you have. We don’t go to Limbourne very often—only occasionally, when Sir Mortimer thinks it his duty to ask us to lunch—but I’m always very glad when it’s time to come away. It’s a tragic family, Mrs. Wentworth.’

  ‘Tragic?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. They have so much . . . and yet nothing. They have none of the really important things, if you know what I mean.’

  There was no time to say more; Mr. Heath returned with the tin of glucose and spooned some into my cup. ‘It produces energy,’ he explained. ‘You know, Helena, I really think Mrs. Wentworth is looking better. Of course you are unable to judge, because you didn’t see her when she arrived at the church. She had such a pretty colour. So when she suddenly became very pale it gave me quite a shock—the more so because I felt myself to blame.’

  It was time to change the subject. ‘Have you a large parish, Mr. Heath?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, large and very scattered. Too large and scattered for me to visit as frequently as I should wish; I have only a push-bike, you see. However our son, who is a first lieutenant in the Navy, is coming home shortly on leave from Singapore; he has a small car which is reposing in our garage at the moment, and he has promised to take me to some of the outlying farms while he is here.’

  ‘The church is very well filled on Sundays,’ put in Mrs. Heath.

  ‘Yes, that is so,’ agreed the vicar. ‘People are very good in coming—even on wet days—and although the Wentworth and D’Artington pews are empty both families are generous in giving. Some time ago when we had a case of vandalism Sir Mortimer and Major D’Artington paid for things to be put right.’

  ‘Vandalism—in the church?’

  ‘It was in the churchyard. Some of the headstones were daubed with yellow paint. It was quite a costly business getting it removed.’

  ‘Another night we had a ghost,’ said Mrs. Heath, smiling. ‘Tell Mrs. Wentworth about that.’

  Mr. Heath shook his head. ‘Not a real ghost, of course. It was merely a sort of scarecrow set up on one of the tombs and covered with luminous paint. Several people who were coming to Evensong were alarmed, and I must admit it was a disturbing sight . . . in the dark, you know. The figure appeared to be emerging from the grave. Fortunately I was on the spot in a few minutes with a powerful torch and I soon had “the ghost” in pieces on the ground.’

  ‘Did you inform the police?’

  ‘Yes, indeed we did. Two of them came to see me and took notes, but that was as far as they got. One of my choirboys was suspected but I was able to clear him. He comes to me for coaching in Latin and was with me at the time.’

  ‘It was ridiculous to suspect poor Cyril,’ Mrs. Heath put in.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed the vicar. ‘Cyril is a thoroughly good boy, it would never have occurred to him to play such a cruel trick, but of course the sergeant did not know Cyril as we know him. One must remember that, Helena.’

  ‘You would find excuses for the devil himself!’ exclaimed Mrs. Heath.

  ‘Helena, my dear! What will Mrs. Wentworth think of us?’

  ‘We needn’t bother, John,’ replied Mrs. Heath, smiling sweetly. ‘Mrs. Wentworth is one of those people who understand everything. I knew that the moment I saw her.’

  I couldn’t help laughing; if I did not understand ‘everything,’ I certainly understood the Heaths. They were darlings.

  ‘For my part,’ continued Mrs. Heath, ‘I can find no excuse at all for the sergeant. He’s rude and stupid. Why can’t he catch those hooligans who are doing all the damage in the district?’

  ‘Do you mean there have been other cases of vandalism?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid so,’ replied Mr. Heath unhappily. ‘Not actually in our village but farther afield. The police seem unable to trace the culprits.’

  ‘Wait till Adam comes home,’ said Mrs. Heath confidently. ‘Adam has more brains than all the police put together. Adam will catch them.’

  After that we talked about other things. They wanted to know all about Simon—which was not unnatural—so I told them what I could.

  ‘Cricket!’ exclaimed Mr. Heath, beaming with satisfaction. ‘He’s fond of cricket, is he? That’s excellent. We shall have him in the village team; he will be a great asset. We are badly in need of new blood.’

  I was enjoying myself so much that the time passed quickly and presently Cyril arrived for his lesson in Latin, so Mrs. Heath said she would walk home with me. There was no necessity for this kindness—I was perfectly well—but it was pleasant all the same. As we walked along together I asked her about the D’Artingtons, for I had heard enough about them to make me eager to hear more, and Mrs. Heath was quite ready to tell me all I wanted to know.

  ‘Lord D’Artington is very old,’ she explained. ‘He’s practically an invalid now so of course he never comes to church, but Major D’Artington comes when he can. When John said the Wentworth and D’Artington pews were always empty I think he really meant they were comparatively empty. Years ago, when we first came here, they were both quite full. You understand, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Major D’Artington is a widower,’ continued Mrs. Heath. ‘He has an only son who is at Eton. Wilfrid is a dear boy, he often drops in to see us during the holidays. Major D’Artington was very badly wounded in the war, he got the D.S.O. and the M.C. as well. Tom Coles (who’s the son of the blacksmith in the village
and was in the same regiment—I think it was the Coldstream Guards) says that it ought to have been the V.C. Tom Coles says the Major is as brave as a lion. Major D’Artington is very kind and generous, he always heads the subscription list when John wants money for anything, but he isn’t very friendly—if you know what I mean. We’ve known him for years and years, of course, but you never seem to get to know him any better. John says it’s his Norman blood.’

  ‘Perhaps it is.’

  ‘Yes, but simple faith is better than Norman blood, isn’t it? He may have simple faith for all I know,’ added Mrs. Heath with a sigh.

  ‘He sounds very interesting.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Mrs. Heath doubtfully. ‘I expect he is interesting—if you could get to know him. He’s very popular in the village, of course. The people are all terribly proud of him; they feel he belongs to them. I’ve seen him talking and laughing in the blacksmith’s with Tom Coles and other men in a very friendly way.’

  ‘Sir Mortimer sometimes goes over to dinner at Hurlestone Manor and plays chess with Lord D’Artington.’

  ‘Oh yes, the two families are quite friendly,’ agreed Mrs. Heath. ‘But of course there is no Mrs. D’Artington now, so they don’t entertain. I sometimes feel it’s rather a sad house for a young boy like Wilfrid. There’s talk in the village that the Wentworths would like Miss Godfrey to marry Major D’Artington, but I’m quite sure he has never thought of such a thing for a moment. He was devoted to his wife, and although he isn’t really old in years (about forty-five, I suppose) he seems to have become old and settled in his ways. It may be because he was so very badly wounded—I think he still suffers a good deal of pain—or it may be the death of Mrs. D’Artington. At any rate I should be very much surprised if he were to marry again. I hope you don’t think I’m a dreadful gossip, Mrs. Wentworth. We hear these things, you see. The women who come to the work-party at the vicarage talk about them. John thinks I shouldn’t listen, but I can’t shut my ears, can I?’

  ‘Of course you can’t,’ I agreed.

  Although I knew a little more about Mrs. Godfrey’s plans for her daughter, I decided to hold my tongue. Mrs. Heath was a dear kind creature but she certainly was a talker.

  Chapter Eighteen

  My afternoon with the Heaths had been so enjoyable that I felt strengthened and encouraged; I was further encouraged by letters from home which arrived the following morning. Aunt Liz had written in her usual terse manner, informing me that the children were good and happy and eating well; Bella was enjoying their company and had given them tea in the kitchen one afternoon as a treat. Aunt Liz had taken them to the Zoo and had arranged to take them to tea at West Linton with some friends of hers the following day. The friends had three grandchildren staying with them and were the possessors of a delightful garden. She enclosed a short letter from Den—very nicely written—and a highly-coloured picture of Noah’s Ark, drawn and painted by Daisy.

  There was also a letter from Alec:

  My dear Katherine,

  This is just a hasty scribble as I am writing in the office and have not much time. I hope you had a good journey and that you are finding Limbourne more comfortable than you expected. I feel sure I was right when I told you that your ‘in-laws’ would be pleasant and kind. It is to their own advantage to be friendly. Remember that you are in a strong position—and keep your end up.

  Unfortunately I shall not be here when you return to Edinburgh on Monday. I had hoped to see you and hear a full account of your experiences, but Zilla is very anxious for me to take her to London, where she is to join her friends the Carews and stay with them at their flat for a few days before starting on their tour of France. Zilla dislikes travelling alone so I feel I ought to take her, especially as she has not been well lately. She had another of her heart attacks last night and I was so alarmed that I decided to take your advice and see her doctor. I have made an appointment for him for to-morrow. He may be able to suggest some treatment.

  It is most unfortunate that I shall be here in Edinburgh all August while you are in the north. I could easily have arranged to take my holiday in August, as it is a very slack time at the office, but somebody must be on the spot in case anything unexpected turns up. I thought I had arranged things rather cleverly when I volunteered for the job but my well-laid plans have ‘gone agley.’ To tell the truth I am feeling very depressed—so you must excuse this stupid letter—the future looks bleak and ‘the grasshopper is a burden.’ If you could find time to write me a few lines it would cheer me up a bit.

  Your affectionate friend

  alec

  It was kind of Alec to write when he was so busy. I was delighted to receive his letter and especially glad of the reminder that I was ‘in a strong position.’ When I thought about it seriously I realised that I was allowing myself to be intimidated by Limbourne. Although Sir Mortimer was always polite and pleasant to me he took it for granted that everybody beneath his roof would conform to his wishes. Florence was his faithful slave and expected me to be the same; Lance did not bother about me, except occasionally when he felt inclined to exercise his humour. I had tried to make friends with Anthea but she was uninterested—not only in me but in everything. When she was not upstairs in her studio, painting, she mooned about the garden or sat in the drawing-room turning over the pages of a fashion magazine in a listless manner. I thought the girl seemed unhappy and said so to her mother, but Florence assured me that dear Anthea was perfectly happy; she was very very sensitive and highly-strung. ‘Just like me when I was eighteen,’ said Florence complacently.

  The whole atmosphere was discouraging and had a lowering effect upon my spirits, so Alec’s advice to keep my end up had come at the right moment.

  So far so good, but the last few sentences of Alec’s letter were disturbing. I was very fond of Alec so I was sorry to learn that he was depressed. Naturally he was annoyed at the miscarriage of his holiday plans, but it seemed to me that his depression must have some deeper origin. Alec was a sensible man, not given to exaggeration; he would not have said that the future looked bleak unless he felt seriously unhappy about it. I wondered what could be the matter. I decided that I must write to him and try to cheer him up a bit—as requested.

  *

  2

  On Saturday morning I went out to the rose-nursery; I had been there several times since Medlam had shown it to me; it had become a refuge. This delightful spot was the only place in the vicinity of Limbourne where there was the disorder which I had come to associate with freedom. Better still, I could be certain of solitude—nobody came to this part of the garden—I could sit amongst the roses upon an up-turned wheelbarrow and think my own thoughts, secure in the knowledge that I would be undisturbed by Florence or Anthea or Sir Mortimer—or even by Mrs. Sillett. Mrs. Sillett often wandered round with one of the gardeners to pick flowers for the vases in the house, but she never came here.

  To-day, however, the rose-nursery was not deserted; Medlam was there, engaged upon the task of budding roses. I had never seen this done before so I watched with interest. Medlam seemed pleased to see me and explained the whole matter in detail; he was kind enough to allow me to try my hand at the operation, showing me how to cut a bud from one of the tea-roses, to insert the stem in a sturdy briar and to bind it together securely.

  ‘That’s good, that is,’ he declared. ‘I’ll put a label on it and next time you comes to Limbourne you’ll see your own rose.’

  I felt inclined to tell him that my own rose would have died of old age before my next visit—but I refrained.

  ‘Now you’d like a booky,’ said Medlam, taking out his knife and looking round.

  Although I did not really want a ‘booky’ (I had nowhere to put it except in my bedroom) it was impossible to refuse the offering so I accepted the enormous bunch, of beautiful roses with suitable gratitude.

  What should I do with the roses? Should I take them to the church and see if Mrs. Heath would like them? It seemed a good i
dea.

  Mrs. Heath was in the church doing the flowers, she was delighted with the roses and asked me to stay and arrange the altar-vases. We did it together, very happily, and then sat in the porch and chatted for a while.

  ‘It makes such a difference having lovely flowers,’ said Mrs. Heath. ‘Those roses are perfectly beautiful. Of course the Limbourne rose-garden is known all over the county. I didn’t know that Sir Mortimer ever allowed them to be picked—except when they are fading.’

  ‘Medlam cut them for me in the nursery-garden,’ I explained. ‘There are lots of roses there.’

  ‘There are lots of beautiful flowers, besides roses, aren’t there? I wanted John to ask Sir Mortimer if we could have some now and then, but he won’t do it. He says it’s better to have flowers for the church from people who want to give them—even if they aren’t so beautiful. Sometimes the flowers are very straggly,’ she added with a sigh.

  ‘I agree with Mr. Heath.’

  ‘Yes, I thought you would. You’re like John in thinking that ideas are more important than things. John says you gave him an idea for a sermon.’

  ‘I did?’ I asked in surprise.

  She nodded. ‘It was something you said about not having a hat to go into church. John said it was very revealing; it showed you had faith in God and consideration for the feelings of your fellow creatures.’

  I couldn’t remember what I had said.

  ‘Well, never mind,’ said Mrs. Heath. ‘John gets ideas for his sermons in all sorts of ways. One day when I was baking a cake for John’s birthday an old man called at the door and asked for a piece of bread. I gave him a ham sandwich and a glass of milk. I was so sorry for the poor old thing that I quite forgot the cake, and when I remembered to look in the oven it was burnt to a cinder. You wouldn’t think that a good idea for a sermon, would you?’