Sophie’s head sank, and her chin rested on her breast. She felt the hand of little Ruth wriggle into hers. She knew, then, a sense of doubt, of unbelief, as though a curtain were being lowered between her and the Church, between her and God. What else made one believe in Him, against all odds, but faith? And what if that faith went?
What evidence had one, after all, for the very existence of a Being who seemed to expect so much and give so little? She tried to shake the doubts away as her father descended from the pulpit, and she raised her head and smiled at him. His words had been aimed at strengthening her faith, yet she had not heard them.
She rose to sing the hymn.
He who would valiant be
‘Gainst all disaster,
Let him in constancy
Follow the Master ...
And she tried to put all her heart in it.
There’s no discouragement
Shall make him once relent
His first avowed intent
To be a pilgrim.
The chords crashed to a climax, the Rector pronounced his blessing and, as the organ voluntary began, she took Deborah’s hand while Phoebe carried Ruth, and walked slowly to the exit, thinking that now she would at last confront her father-in-law.
But it was not to be the case. The Woodville pew was empty.
During the final hymn Sir Guy had gone.
Margaret Woodville sat by the window in the drawing-room at Pelham’s Oak, her feet resting on a stool. From the window she could see the town, the square tower of the church, and she knew the day would not be far off when she would rest there with her daughter Emily. She had always been an active, energetic woman until the last year, when her strength had begun to fail and an illness had manifested itself which she knew, inevitably, would prove fatal.
Guy sat slumped in a chair next to her, his eyes too, it seemed, on the church he had decided at the last minute, and against her advice, to visit, and had left so abruptly, knowing that, always a coward in his life, he had not the courage for a confrontation.
‘One of the little girls is just like Emily,’ he murmured. ‘the very image of our darling daughter. Such an uncanny resemblance. I would have thought Emily had come back to us.’
‘Perhaps she has,’ Margaret said with a sigh.
‘How do you mean?’ Guy looked sharply at her.
‘Who knows what happens to the soul after death, Guy? Maybe God put Emily’s soul into the child but then I know nothing about theology.’ She seemed to dismiss the notion but her expression remained thoughtful.
‘The elder one is like George,’ Guy went on as if he had not heard her. ‘There is no doubt the children are Woodvilles.’ Guy concluded with satisfaction.
‘I would never have doubted it. 'Margaret said with some asperity. ‘And you didn’t stay to see them?’
‘I could not. I lost heart. The Rector stared at me so hard when I came in, I hadn’t the courage. All the congregation turned to stare at me too.’
‘No wonder!’ Margaret gave a grim smile. ‘You have not been to the church since you fell out with the Rector.’
‘I had to see my grandchildren; but when I saw her, the woman, I knew that I felt as strongly as ever. I hate her, Margaret, the creature who took away our son. But for her, George would be here.’
Margaret nodded, for it was she who had stoked the flames of wrath in Guy. He had been eager to forgive, but she was not. She would never forgive, never receive a person who had caused so much pain. It was a pain that she prayed one day Sophie Woodville might feel herself.
Margaret did not exactly wish her grandchildren to be taken, but she hoped Sophie would suffer. That the mysterious hand of God would strike her down.
Margaret was a Dutch Calvinist. She believed in retribution; she lived by the book and she knew she was right.
Yet it was George, the perfect son, who had been taken from them, first to the missions and then to the hereafter, only a few years after their darling only daughter Emily had died of scarlet fever.
‘An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth,’ she said. ‘You must not weaken, Guy. Sophie Lamb’s no good. She is not a Christian, she can scarcely be human, or else she would have known what losing George meant to us. When I am gone I do not want you to weaken. Remember George, and what we lost, what she took from us ...’
Guy, who could not bear to hear her talk of her death, jumped up from his chair and began agitatedly to pace the room.
‘You know I will not hear this talk, Margaret. The doctor says it is your time of life ...’
‘The doctor would like you to think it is my time of life, but I know better. You know, Guy, that I have a disorder of the blood, that my anaemia is pernicious; that I may get weaker and not recover. That is the truth.’
‘Oh my darling, my Margaret.’ Guy threw himself on the floor beside her and flung his arms round her waist. ‘Please ...’
‘You must be realistic, Guy.’
‘So soon after George’s death is it fair you should talk of your own? Of leaving me here without you? If you go, I will go, Margaret. I will put an end to myself and finish a life that has brought more sorrow than joy.’
Margaret put a hand on his head and ruffled his still thick curls. How beautiful she had thought him twenty-eight years before; what a catch! She considered herself then the luckiest woman alive. Now time and the experience of marriage had taught her differently. It was true that, in their mellow years, their affection had been mutual, and when – if – she did go, she would leave a sorrowing husband behind. There was some consolation in the thought.
‘However, Guy,’ she said, still resting her hand on his head, ‘there is nothing to prevent us attempting to see our grandchildren, so long as we do not see her.’
‘You mean, see them, without her?’
‘Why not?’ Margaret looked at him calmly. ‘She is doubtless a practical woman and she must know how we feel. It is understandable we should want to see them. George would wish it.’
‘But maybe he would like us to see her too,’ Guy said, looking doubtful.
‘George would know quite well how we would feel about his wife, which is why he went off secretly in the first place.’ Margaret paused and lowered her voice. ‘The only despicable thing he ever did.’ Then, assuming her normal tone, she went on: ‘George knew how the Woodvilles felt when Eliza eloped. You did not speak to her for years.’
‘Times change, Margaret.’
‘Not in matters like this, certainly not. Morals never change, and what Sophie Lamb did, and caused George to do, was immoral. She was much older than he, and she should have known better. Never forget that, Guy.’
‘No, Margaret.’
Dear Mr Lamb,
My wife and I would very much like to see our grandchildren. Naturally you realise they are all that is left to us of George, and we are sure it is something he too would wish.
Unfortunately we are unable to extend this invitation to his widow, for reasons which I am perfectly sure you, and she, will understand.
If you are agreeable, we shall arrange for the carriage to be sent so that we may meet them for tea. If all goes well, it is our hope that you will allow them a longer visit in due course.
Yours sincerely,
Guy Woodville, Bart.
Sophie gazed at the letter, and it was all she could do to stop herself screwing it into a ball and hurling it into the fire.
‘Oh!’ she cried in a burst of outraged feeling, ‘how dare he. Addressed to you, Father, and not to me. As if I did not exist.’
The Reverend Lamb sat behind the desk at which he so often interviewed parishioners, and gazed at his daughter. Her feeling of outrage was understandable.
‘But what are we to do?’ he asked her. ‘This living is in his gift. I am past retirement. It is solely due to him that I am still here. In the circumstances, he has been magnanimous.’
‘Father! You surely cannot agree to this.’ Sophie looked at him in astonishment.
‘Well, even if you did, I shall certainly not agree to it.’
The Rector wriggled uncomfortably. ‘You are their mother, no question. But George is their father. I think the Woodvilles have a moral right to see their grandchildren.’
‘And what are my rights?’
‘I think you should let them. It would show you to be a person of magnanimity and, in due course, I am sure they will come round to your point of view. Besides,’ he glanced at his desk, ‘the rumour is that Lady Woodville is far from well. She may even be mortally ill. You would not wish to deprive a woman ...’
‘Lady Woodville!’ Sophie said scornfully. ‘She is as healthy as an ox. Don’t be bamboozled, Father.’
‘How long is it since you saw her, Sophie? I’m told she has some disease of the blood that has considerably weakened her; she moves with difficulty and quickly loses breath. Some say it is a very pathetic sight in a woman formerly so strong.’
‘Then what am I to do?’ Sophie threw the letter down on her father’s desk and sat opposite him.
He looked at her carefully. It was almost impossible to accept such a great change taking place in another person within so few years. His daughter. She had always been a strong character, devout, and no beauty. But now she had the kind of authority that usually came to people a good deal older. She carried herself with poise, her expression was grave, almost majestic.
It was not difficult to imagine that here was a woman fully capable of leading an impressionable young man in a direction he might not otherwise have taken. Sophie had said that she burned with the love of God to convert the heathen. But had she not also burned to have George Woodville for a husband? And would George Woodville have made her his wife had he not been persuaded? Would he have gone to the foreign missions but for her? His memories of George were of a charming, intelligent, comely and, above all, serious young man, a little in awe of the Rector’s daughter but not, then, in love.
Quite easy to see that he would follow where Sophie so firmly and competently led.
‘Well, Father?’ She tilted her head defiantly as though she could read his mind.
‘I think you should agree.’
‘Well, I shan’t. I will accompany my children, or they shall not go at all. It is not good for them to see me ignored. Besides, I wish to discuss with Sir Guy the window that George wished to be put into the church.’
‘But, my dear, I have told you that is in order,’ the Rector said feebly. ‘I have no objection and nor will the parish council.’
‘Yes, but should not Sir Guy also have to give permission? It is his church, endowed centuries ago by his family. Besides,’ Sophie paused as though she had a sudden flash of inspiration, ‘who is to pay for it, Father? I have no money and nor, you say, have you. Surely we should have the best artist, the best stained glass, and who better to provide the wherewithal for that but George’s father, Sir Guy, a wealthy man?’
2
Sitting in the garden of the Rectory, to which she had invited herself, Eliza Heering watched the two young Woodville children playing on the lawn, little Ruth toddling about, trying hard to keep up with her sister.
‘They are beautiful children,’ she said, turning to Sophie. ‘Ruth resembles darling little Emily, and Deborah has a look of George when he was small. Oh Sophie, I’m so sorry.’ Impulsively Eliza clasped the hand of the woman who, in the opinion of the family, had brought such unhappiness to the Woodville household. But Eliza was not so sure. She, for her part, considered that George had been sound in body and mind when he made up his mind to go to the foreign missions and marry Sophie Lamb. He had certainly known what he was doing.
Eliza had been close to her nephew, and had been as shocked by his death as any member of the family. She did not share her brother and sister-in-law’s hostility to Sophie but, as a woman, she puzzled her. In a way, Sophie reminded her a little of herself when young; she too had eloped with the man she loved and incurred the opprobrium of her family.
‘I feel we have a little in common, Sophie,’ she said, tearing her eyes away from the children and gazing steadily at their mother. ‘We defied our family to marry men we loved. I am sorry, though, that once again my brother is proving difficult, even though your circumstances were different from mine. But you see, Guy so loved George ...’
‘I so loved George,’ Sophie protested. ‘Why do people think I married him? For money? George had not a penny! For the title he would inherit? Sir Guy has, hopefully, many years of life left to him. I had, and have, no interest in titles and, besides, George and I intended to make the foreign missions our lives.’
‘Yes, yes, I know, but my brother can’t see this.’
‘He thinks I ensnared George. I was so much older. Maybe he imagined I was frightened of being left an old maid. Is that it?’
‘Not at all,’ Eliza tried to reassure her. ‘It is because George went to the missions. Guy imagines, wrongly, that, but for you, he would have been content to have been some country parson and stayed in this country.’
‘But George yearned to be a missionary.’
‘George was anxious to enter the church, but Guy is convinced the idea of the foreign missions came from you, Sophie dear.’
‘Oh, so that’s it.’ Sophie crossed her arms and turned her face resolutely away. ‘I am responsible for George’s death.’
‘No one else would think that but a grieving father and mother. I assure you I don’t. That is why I am here. I would like to be an intermediary between you and Guy.’
‘How do you mean?’ Sophie looked at her suspiciously.
‘Well, I thought if I might take the children ...’
‘No,’ Sophie said, unfolding her arms. ‘If they think they can get round me ...’
‘No one thinks anything of the kind. It was purely my idea. I have grandchildren myself. Laurence’s children are about the same age as yours. His wife is a sensible local girl and you would like her. I am asking you and your children to come to tea with my grandchildren and to meet Laurence’s wife. Guy and Margaret will not be there. I thought that if you could meet some of the family it would be easier, eventually, for you and Guy.’
In the circumstances, Sophie thought it would be churlish to refuse.
Laurence had married at the age of twenty-one a young woman very like him in temperament, and the same age. They were a handsome, likeable young couple, and Sarah Jane Yetman, a farmer’s daughter, was as sturdy and robust as she was pretty.
Eliza was very fond of her daughter-in-law, exactly the kind of woman she would have chosen for her son. They were generous, open-hearted people, and the conflicts in the Woodville family – especially the melodrama after the return of Sophie – were quite alien to their temperaments, and they would have no part of it.
‘I wonder that a man can be so hard to his daughter-in-law,’ Sarah Jane murmured a few days later, as she and Eliza sat together on the bench on the lawn at Riversmead while the young children scampered about them, well wrapped up against the autumn chill. They were all very near to one another in age, and Sarah Jane expected a new baby any day.
‘You mean Guy?’ Eliza looked askance at her. ‘But he behaved exactly the same way to me when I ran away with Laurence’s father. But then he was dominated by our mother. Now I ask myself if it is my mother who refuses to accept her daughter-in-law. Sometimes I think she’s the one to blame. Guy is a doting father and grandfather. He went out of his way to go to the church to see Sophie and the children, but he lacked the courage to stay. He’s always been a little in awe of Margaret. She’s the strong one.’
The young Yetmans saw little of the elder Woodvilles. They thought them rather strange. Young people in love, with plenty to do, they were concentrated on the family scene, their children and each other. They lived in their own small world, utterly happy and content.
Guy Woodville, coming up the road on his horse on his way to the cemetery, could not help seeing across the hedge the little people running about on the la
wn, his sister sitting with Sarah Jane on the bench. Without hesitation, he dismounted when he came to the gate and, unlatching it, led his horse up the drive. Ted Yewell, who had been doing some gardening in the herbaceous border, looked up and saw him.
‘Why, sir,’ he cried jumping up. ‘Mrs Yetman didn’t tell me you wus coming.
‘Mrs Yetman doesn’t know, Ted,’ Guy said, looking past him to the house. ‘I saw her and my sister, the children playing on the lawn ... Say, how is Elizabeth, Ted? I hear she is turning out a beauty.’
‘She is that, sir,’ Ted said with pride, having long forgotten that Elizabeth was an adopted daughter.
‘What will she do with herself?’ Guy tried to sound offhand. ‘She must be eighteen or thereabouts.’
‘Exactly eighteen, sir. She has gone with her mother to Blandford today. Mrs Sophie Woodville has taken them in the Rector’s carriage.’
‘Oh, then she is not here?’ Guy sighed with relief and handed Ted the bridle of his horse. ‘I wondered.’
Just then Eliza, looking round, saw him and, with a cry, jumped up. At the same time she felt a stab of guilt, because if Sophie were to appear she would think the visit was premeditated. Sarah Jane stayed where she was, gazing rather uncomfortably at Guy, who doffed his hat to her.
‘Hello, Sarah Jane. How are you?’
‘Very well, Sir Guy,’ she said.
‘And Laurence and the children?’
‘They are well too.’
But Guy seemed to be taking little notice of her, intent, as he walked slowly across the lawn, on his grandchildren. He paused in front of Ruth, who looked up at him with interest and stopped her game.
Guy crouched on the lawn and took her hand.
‘Hello, my dear. I’m your grandpapa.’
Ruth looked questioningly past him to Eliza, who had joined them.
‘Guy. I ...’
‘She is my granddaughter, Eliza,’ Guy said stubbornly, taking Ruth in his arms and hoisting her to his shoulder. ‘I have asked, begged, to be able to see them, and Sophie will not permit it.’
The Rector's Daughter (Part Two of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 4