He never spoke again.
Part One
Return of the Widow
1
The return home of the Rector’s daughter after many years away on the foreign missions was an event of some importance in the North Dorset parish of Wenham.
There Sophie Woodville had been born, the only child of the Reverend and Mrs Lamb, to whom she had come as an unexpected gift relatively late in life. And as Sophie had first brought joy, so had she eventually brought distress, almost despair, to her parents when she ran away to marry George Woodville and caused a rift between the families which had not yet been repaired.
The living of Wenham was in the gift of Sir Guy, George’s father but, though grieved by his son’s behaviour, he was not a vindictive man. He knew that the Rector could not justly be blamed for the behaviour of his daughter and, although Sir Guy ceased to attend his church or meetings of the parish council, he had not asked for the Rector’s resignation as he had once threatened to do.
The Rector, though well past the age at which the Church of England expected its clergy to retire, remained in the comfortable, spacious Rectory, and eventually a curate had been appointed to assist him in his duties. Hubert Turner, who was unmarried and had ample private means, lived in the house near the church, a comfortable four-bedroomed dwelling that had once belonged to Euphemia Monk.
Sophie left the mission in April and arrived home in September, having spent some time in Australia on the way, to see friends and recover from her ordeal. She was sad to part from the mission station where George and she had been so happy, found such fulfilment, and although she told herself she would return, in her heart she feared she never would.
The long sea-voyage further helped to restore her, and it was a much stronger and more confident woman who, accompanied by her two children and a nursemaid engaged in London, arrived at Blandford, where she was greeted by the Reverend Turner on behalf of her father.
Hubert felt every bit as nervous at meeting Mrs Woodville as he had when he had mounted the pulpit in Wenham to deliver his first sermon, conscious of the critical gaze of the Rector, robed, sitting in the Sanctuary and listening very carefully, a hand cupped to his ear. Turner was twenty-seven years of age, a graduate of Durham where he had served as deacon in the cathedral before his ordination and his transfer to the diocese of Salisbury. He little resembled the popular notion of an Anglican divine, being rather short and stocky, with horn-rimmed glasses and the cheerful expression of a man who did not dwell overmuch on affairs of the soul, but enjoyed outdoor life and the pleasures of the table. Mr Turner was fond of walking and even played football for the town’s team.
‘You do not know me but I know you, ma’am,’ he said, bowing deeply to Sophie and removing his hat. ‘I am your father’s curate, Hubert Turner, at your service, Mrs Woodville.’
Sophie looked at him in some surprise, but there was a trace of amusement on her lips as she studied him. The humour in her face was the first thing he noticed, also that she looked tired, drawn, and maybe a little apprehensive. She had the kind of reserved looks that Hubert Turner found attractive; dark brown hair, rich brown eyes where the humour lay, a determined chin; every inch the parson’s daughter, with the clear light of Christian courage showing through. But there was something else: she was a woman of the world too, a woman, clearly, who had lived.
The curate in that brief instant warmed to Mrs Woodville, the admiration showing, perhaps too clearly, in his eyes. Swiftly she turned and introduced her two young children and, finally, her maid, Phoebe Nightingale.
‘No relation to the Miss Nightingale,’ she added with a smile.
‘D’ye do, sir,’ Phoebe said, with a neat little bob. She carried Ruth in her arms while Sophie firmly clutched the hand of the energetic Deborah whom nothing ever seemed to tire. George had had ash-blond hair and a fair skin, and his daughter looked like him. Like him too, she had large, twinkling blue eyes. Looking at her, it was difficult to imagine that she had so recently been struck down by tragedy. Maybe she was too young fully to take it in.
The Reverend Turner politely shook hands with the children and then demonstrated his powers of organization as he directed the porter he had brought with him from the station entrance to collect Mrs Woodville’s considerable amount of baggage from the guard’s van, and stow it on his barrow.
The operation even held up the progress of the train, but once everything was safely removed, the guard blew his whistle and the new arrivals stepped back to watch the train steam out on its way to Exeter.
‘It is extremely kind of you to meet me, Mr Turner,’ Sophie said in what the curate thought to be a particularly sweet voice. ‘How are my parents?’
‘In excellent health, Mrs Woodville. Your father takes Matins every Sunday. I do the Eucharist at eight and the evening service, but at that he sometimes preaches. I find the example of your father inspirational, and cannot tell you how fortunate I feel I am to have the opportunity to practise the ministry by his side, under his tutelage.’
Sophie said nothing but walked slowly along the platform, taking in the sights, sounds and, above all, the smell of Blandford Station which she had last seen nearly eight years before when, although she had not known it then, she left her home for the last time before her marriage.
Outside the station stood the familiar coach, drawn, she was sure, by the same horses, and as she went up and stroked their muzzles a lump came into her throat.
She had not realised how glad she would be to return home. The Reverend Turner instructed the porter as, together with the coachman, he went on putting luggage into the hold until it looked as though it would burst. There was a lot of discussion, muttering and shaking of heads, coins changed hands, and it was decided to return for the rest the next day. Mr Turner gallantly handed Sophie into the coach, watched with interest by a crowd of onlookers, who with all her baggage imagined her to be, perhaps, a member of the Portman family visiting Bryanston, the local stately home.
The coach went at a brisk pace along the market place, past the Crown Hotel and over the bridge before it turned right and took the uphill road to Wenham.
‘You will find much has changed in the time you have been away,’ Mr Turner said. ‘A few people have now purchased motor-cars. I hear your father-in-law is thinking of buying one.
‘Indeed?’
Mrs Woodville did not seem particularly interested. Hubert Turner felt uneasy. He knew that relations between the Woodvilles and the Lambs were not close. He ran a finger round his dog-collar.
‘Mrs Woodville, you must understand that I am a relative newcomer to the district. What happened many years ago does not concern me.’
‘Quite.’ Sophie gazed at him enigmatically.
He was afraid he had offended her and, clearing his throat, said, ‘May I say, Mrs Woodville, how distressed I was to hear about the death of your husband. Please accept my deep sympathy.’
‘Thank you, Mr Turner,’ Sophie said graciously. ‘However, I am consoled by the fact that my husband was a martyr who gave his life for the souls of the heathen. One of the last things he did was to baptise his servant, to whom he was devoted. I am sure that they both sit at the right hand of God.’
Mr Turner felt dumbstruck, and remained so as the carriage bowled along and the children were instructed by their mother as to places of interest they passed, until at last she cried:
‘Ah, there is Wenham! I hadn’t realised until this moment how much I had missed it.’ She put a hand to her mouth as if to restrain a sob.
The town stood on a hill overlooking the River Wen. Its most conspicuous feature was the Church of St Mark, whose square Norman tower could be seen for many miles around. Next to the church was the Rectory, which could also be seen from the approach road, a large, well-proportioned house which had been built at the turn of the previous century.
A medieval bridge, with corbels in the centre of each side to accommodate pedestrians, bestrode the river, and now the
carriage crossed it and then trotted up the hill, before turning into a narrow street leading off the market place and stopping in front of the church.
For a moment Sophie gazed out of the window, as if suddenly overcome with apprehension. Two familiar figures stood on the threshold of the door, gazing at her; both a little stouter, certainly older. She wondered how long they had been there.
Her mother and father.
***
Under the careful eye of Phoebe the children scampered on the lawn, watched from the drawing-room window by Sophie and her parents as they had tea. The Reverend Turner had tactfully withdrawn to his own house, saying that he had a sermon to prepare.
The traditional English tea, taken indoors with the September sunshine slanting through the high windows of the Rectory, reminded Sophie of the days when she and George, aware of their burgeoning attraction, sat together on the bench on the lawn which sloped down towards the river. Nothing had changed, except that then it had seemed impossible that a youth of seventeen and a young woman six years his senior would eventually marry. But they had ...
The welcome had been constrained. The Lambs were not demonstrative people, not kissers or touchers, they seldom embraced. Pecks on the cheek had been exchanged as if Sophie had been gone only a few days, and there was general chit-chat as they were taken to their rooms and allowed to rest until it was time for tea.
The children were too excited to rest. Ruth only toddled inexpertly, guarded by Phoebe, but Deborah tore around, and her grandparents watched her a little apprehensively, as though doubting her existence. Mrs Lamb, looking from one child to the other, murmured:
‘Deborah is so like George.’
‘So like him,’ Sophie agreed.
‘Could you tell us a little ... what happened?’ Mrs Lamb dabbed at her eyes.
‘George need not have died,’ Sophie said firmly. ‘He was left in malaria-infested country by a foolish man whose one idea was not to offend his bishop. George was accompanying the priest in charge of our mission area, Mr Barker, on a regular trip they undertook to try and bring the Word to the heathen of the interior. George, who was not strong and prone to fever, fell ill, and Mr Barker, anxious to placate the bishop, who was expecting him, left him to make his own way back.’
‘Oh!’ Mrs Lamb joined her hands and cast her eyes indignantly towards heaven.
‘Monstrous,’ the Rector growled.
‘He should not have left George,’ Sophie said severely. ‘Then half a dozen men, whom George had been left with, went to look for food to strengthen him and ran into an ambush set by head-hunting savages.’ Sophie put a hand over her eyes. ‘I can’t tell you the rest.’
‘Don’t!’ Her mother touched her arm. ‘Better not. We understand.’
‘Had you not behaved so unwisely, Sophie,’ the Rector said cautiously, ‘this would not have happened.’
‘We did not consider it “unwise”,’ Father. We were moved to preach the Word. George died as he would have wished, and I ... I do have peace of mind.’
Her eyes were bright as she stared at her parents, then her gaze fell to her wedding ring.
‘It caused a lot of trouble.’ The Rector’s tone was reproachful. ‘Sir Guy was not pleased.’
‘That’s to put it mildly,’ Mrs Lamb said with a sniff. ‘It has poisoned relations between us. I must warn you, Sophie. Do not expect to be well received.’
‘Oh, I shall not,’ Sophie said. ‘Believe me, I expect nothing of the Woodvilles.’
‘Then what will you do for money?’ Her mother’s expression was one of bewilderment.
‘Money?’ Sophie too looked puzzled.
‘You can hardly expect us to keep you, dear, on a Rector’s stipend. I do hope you realise that. Unless George has left you money I’m afraid you will be destitute. For we have none.’
The first day after Sophie arrived home, she took her children into the small town of Wenham just to savour its sights and smells again. It was market day and the cattle still lined the street, although there was talk of building a market. She passed the Baker’s Arms, which doubled as a magistrate’s court, and the haberdasher’s once owned by Miss Fairchild. The butcher, the baker, the greengrocer and the saddler were still there. Little had changed. She saw few people she knew, and even fewer seemed to recognise her. Eight years was a long time.
She felt isolated and alone, except for the children, her future precarious. She knew her parents were not poor, and their remarks about destitution had wounded her.
She walked down the hill and stood for a few moments at the gates of the Yetman house where Eliza, George’s aunt, had lived with her husband Ryder until his death.
A young man who had crossed the bridge and ridden up the road, stopped at the gate and took off his hat.
‘Good day, madam,’ he said politely. ‘May I help you?’ Sophie felt a little abashed, as if she’d been snooping, and stepped back.
‘I am Sophie Woodville, the Rector’s daughter. I think you must be ...’
‘Laurence Yetman, ma’am. Eliza’s son.’ The young man jumped from his horse and extended his hand. ‘Do forgive me, Mrs Woodville, I didn’t recognise you.’
‘Nor I you,’ she smiled. ‘But I have been away eight years.’
‘I would be eighteen when you left, Mrs Woodville. I am now twenty-six and a married man myself. Do let me introduce you to my wife. She will be so pleased ...’
Sophie put out a restraining hand.
‘I would love to meet your wife, Laurence, but not now. She will not be prepared and nor am I; but I am glad to know there are still Yetmans in Riversmead.’
‘And will be for a long time to come, I hope, Mrs Woodville, because we have two children and a third on the way.’
‘That is most exciting news,’ Sophie laughed. ‘And your mother?’
‘My mother is very well, thank you.’
‘I hear she remarried. Is she happy?’
‘Very. She married Julius Heering, Lady Woodville’s brother.’
‘So I heard.’ Sophie’s expression remained impassive. She wondered if Julius Heering would be kinder to her than his sister Margaret.
‘Do give your mother my best wishes, and your stepfather.’
‘You can be sure I will.’
Laurence stood with his hat in his hand, watching her for some time as she walked slowly up the hill to keep pace with the small girl hanging on to her hand, the nursemaid in the rear, pushing a pram.
Sophie Lamb back in Wenham.
What, he wondered, would the people of the parish have to say about that?
Sophie sat with her mother, her two children on either side of her, that first Sunday back in Wenham for Matins, which was taken by her father with Mr Turner assisting. It was the last Sunday in September, a pale, mellow, autumnal day in which the Dorset countryside looked at its best. As Sophie crossed from the Rectory to the church, through the boughs on the heavy chestnut tree she could see the sheep peacefully grazing in the meadow leading up from the river.
With the full peal of bells bursting joyfully forth, and the bent heads of the worshippers who hurried towards the church, she realised it was a sight quintessentially English that she had missed during all her years in New Guinea.
The choir were in good voice, singing from the organ loft, and as Sophie sat through the age-old ritual of the Established Church her thoughts flew to the far-off mission station and the quiet grave under the lime tree.
Onward, Christian soldiers!
Marching as to war,
With the cross of Jesus
Going on before.
George had been a soldier who had fought the good battle for which he had forfeited his life. Sophie realised her eyes were swimming with tears and, as the hymn ended and there was a rustle as the congregation sat down, her father mounted the pulpit and, clearing his voice, seemed to project it to the back of the church – just at the same moment as the double doors were flung back, and all heads turned.
Sir Guy Woodville stood at the back, his legs apart, his head held high, hat in hand, and for a moment seemed to challenge the Rector whose church he had not entered for years. Then he turned and climbed into the family pew at the back of the church. For a moment he knelt in prayer, then he sat down, his eyes on the man in the pulpit.
Sophie alone did not turn. She sensed who the newcomer was to have caused such interest, and folded her arms protectively around her two children. The Rector, thoroughly confused, looked as though he were about to descend the steps again, his sermon finished. Mr Turner discreetly shook his head and the Rector came to his senses and, unfolding the pages of his sermon, threw back his head. His smouldering gaze, which for so many years had struck fear into the hearts of his congregation, lingered on the back pew and travelled slowly down to his daughter and infant grandchildren.
‘Dearly beloved,’ he began, ‘I am here today to tell you of the joy of my wife and myself upon the return of our only daughter Sophie, together with her two small children born in a foreign land. It is the first time we have seen them.
‘As you well know, the circumstances of our daughter’s return are mingled with grief, because behind her she has left the body of her husband; and his father has today joined us in this church. We welcome him.
‘Our hearts go out to Sir Guy and Lady Woodville in their loss but, at the same time, we have the assurance of a blessed resurrection for a man who gave his life so nobly for God.
‘Because George Woodville was a martyr. Gladly did he lay down his life for Christ ...’
Sophie found that the words seemed to echo above her head, coming from afar. They could not see the grave, the tiny mission station with half-clothed natives whose houses were built on stilts. For her father, for Sir Guy and the congregation, George might have died, but for her he remained alive in her heart. Every minute of the day. She saw him in Ruth and Deborah. But she saw also the suffering, emaciated face, the enfeebled body of a prematurely aged man as he fought that final battle. George had not wanted to die, even for Christ.
The Rector's Daughter (Part Two of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 3