‘Because you do not wish to see her.’
‘She has no right,’ Guy said in a preoccupied way, stroking Ruth’s hair from her face. ‘No right at all to deprive us of the pleasure of our grandchildren.’
‘And I do not think you have any right, Sir Guy, to bar her from her husband’s home.’
Guy and Eliza turned and looked with some astonishment at Sarah Jane who, remaining where she was on the bench, her hand in front of her eyes shading them against the sun, stared across the lawn.
‘I am wholly on the side of Sophie.’ Sarah Jane got slowly to her feet and walked ponderously over to them, clutching her stomach. ‘George was her husband. They were married nearly six years. He died a noble, martyr’s death and has left her bereft.’
‘But what about us?’ Guy wailed as he gently lowered Ruth to the ground. ‘What about his parents? Did she consider them when she persuaded George to go to the foreign missions? Without her he would never have considered such a step. He was far too quiet a man and, besides, his health was never robust. I could have withstood his marriage to the Rector’s daughter, his vocation as a country parson, all these I could have forgiven and understood. But to go to New Guinea without even letting us know! That was entirely out of character as far as George was concerned, and I can only blame the influence of his wife.’
‘Then I think you’re very unjust.’ Sarah Jane reached for the hand of Abel Yetman, who tucked his through his mother’s. ‘Sophie came home especially at George’s request, to see you, and to arrange to have a window in his memory. She intends to go back to the missions and, if you are not careful, you will see neither her nor your grandchildren again.’
‘Back to New Guinea?’ Guy gasped, looking with dismay at Eliza. ‘That is terrible. To take these sweet, innocent children back to a place whose climate has killed their father? That I cannot allow. I cannot tolerate it.’
‘But you will have to tolerate it, Guy,’ Eliza said with an air of sweet reasonableness. ‘If you will have nothing to do with Sophie, the matter is out of your hands. If you do agree to see her you may find her more reasonable and, I assure you, susceptible to any kindness. She is lonely and vulnerable, at odds with her elderly parents. Yet the people who could be second parents to her refuse to see her. And now,’ she looked quickly towards the road, ‘I think you should go. If she saw you here she might think we had arranged it behind her back. Nothing would distress me more.’
‘Very well,’ Guy said petulantly, and stooped to pat Deborah on the head and bestow a kiss on Ruth’s chubby cheek. ‘I’ll discuss the matter with my wife. In the end the decision will be hers.’
Then, without addressing the two women further, he put his hat firmly on his head and strode to where Ted was holding the reins of his horse.
‘If you ever need help with Elizabeth,’ Guy said in a low voice as he put a foot in the stirrup, ‘with her education, or should she want money for a dowry, you have only to let me know. You know that, don’t you?’
‘Very kind of you, Sir Guy,’ Ted said, touching his forelock as he helped the baronet to mount. ‘And give my best wishes to her ladyship, sir.’
‘I will,’ Guy said. ‘But not a word about what I just said ... to anyone.'
‘I understand, sir.’ Ted stood thoughtfully to one side as, nudging his horse, Guy went through the gate and up the hill, out of sight.
***
Guy took the bridle path home across the fields, through the woods and down the narrow little lanes of his native Dorset. He had been born there and now, he knew, he would die there. Long ago he had abandoned the lifestyle, manners and dress of a dandy, a man about town, and become a simple countryman. He felt close to the soil and the people who lived there, and much of it had to do with the death of his daughter, Emily, from scarlet fever when she was twelve. Since then he had been a changed man, grieving over his past, sorrowful for his sins and, until the Rector’s daughter had gone off with his son and heir, a worshipper at St Mark’s church and close friend of the Rector.
Quite irrationally, Guy felt the Rector was responsible for the behaviour of his daughter. He had turned against his former friend and scarcely ever attended Divine Service in the church which was in his gift.
Guy crossed a stream and paused, letting his horse drink from its clear water.
From where he was he had an excellent view of his patrimony: Pelham’s Oak, handed down from father to son since the sixteenth century. Remodelled in the eighteenth century, it was now a Palladian mansion clad in Chilmark stone, with a pillared portico, large windows and graceful Georgian lines. It stood on a hill and was a landmark for many, and so was the huge tree on the sloping lawn, planted, it was said, as an acorn by that Pelham after whom the house was named.
Guy always had a deep sense of contentment as he gazed at his home, the feeling of love and familiarity he had for the place where he was born.
He finally took his eyes from it and, as his horse had quenched her thirst, let his gaze wander to the cottage where Ryder Yetman had lived before he eloped with Eliza. It had taken Guy a long time to forgive that, too. Was he, perhaps, in essence an unforgiving man?
He began the climb across the meadows up to the house and, skirting it, observed an unfamiliar horse tethered to a post in the drive. The stable boy, Ned, who was rubbing it down and giving it oats, respectfully touched his forelock as Guy rode up to him and began to dismount.
‘Mornin’, Sir Guy.’
‘Morning, Ned.’ Guy looked across at the horse, now with its muzzle deep in a bag of oats.
‘’Tis Mr Platt’s horse, sir. Farmer Platt of Nether Bend Farm.’
‘Oh, I know Platt,’ Guy said, tossing his reins to Ned. ‘I wonder what ails him?’
Ned said nothing but began taking the saddle off Guy’s horse, Daisy, preparatory to rubbing her down. At the door of the house Arthur, the butler, his face as usual impassive, greeted his master.
‘I hear David Platt is here,’ Guy said amiably, tossing his hat to Arthur.
‘I have put him in the morning parlour, Sir Guy.’
David Platt was a tenant farmer, a good one who provided Pelham’s Oak with much of its fresh meat and garden produce.
Guy strode across the hall and flung open the door before Arthur could reach it.
‘Well, David,’ he said, going towards his tenant, hand outstretched, ‘this is a pleasant surprise.’
The man mumbled something and anxiously rolled the brim of his hat round in his hands.
‘You don’t look too happy, David.’ Guy pointed to a chair. ‘Please sit down.’
‘Oi’d rather stand if it be all right with you, Sir Guy,’ the farmer said, his eyes avoiding Guy’s.
‘My good fellow, I can see that there is something wrong,’ Guy said anxiously. ‘Is it the rent? Is it too high? Do we not pay our bills on time? Come man, out with it. What is it?’
‘It is about your son, Sir Guy,’ David Platt said, his voice thick with emotion. ‘Oi’ll be honest with you.’
‘Oh!’ Guy, drawing out a chair, flopped into it and, reaching in his breast-pocket for a handkerchief, began to mop his brow. ‘Carson.’
‘You know he’s been hanging around my daughter, Susan, Sir Guy.’
‘No, I didn’t.’ Guy sighed loudly. ‘But I do know that he gets up to a lot of things in which he shouldn’t concern himself. I am sorry if he is troubling your daughter.’
‘It’s not only troubling, Sir Guy,’ the aggrieved father said and, as if feeling better for unburdening himself, flopped down in a chair next to Guy. ‘It’s not only as if he was bent on seduction – and who knows but what that may not have happened already.’ The farmer raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘But he fills her head with all kinds of ideas ...’
‘Such as?’ Guy looked at him in alarm.
‘Promises her marriage and such, Sir Guy. Fills ‘er head with all sorts of notions.’ The farmer wriggled in his chair and crossed one leg over the other. ‘Susan is a
good girl, so far as I know. She is seventeen and not averse to work. She helps her mother in the house and regularly attends chapel. But ever since Carson has been hanging around,’ the farmer gave an exaggerated sigh, ‘her mind baint on her work, and not on her prayers neither, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘Susan is, if I remember, extraordinarily pretty,’ Sir Guy said thoughtfully. ‘Maybe you should send her away, David?’
‘Send her away?’ The farmer looked indignantly at his landlord. ‘And pray, where to, sir, and, above all, why? She’s my only daughter, and her mother’s help and companion. Why should oi send her, just because your son pesters her and fills her with notions above her station?’ He leaned forward and tapped the arm of his chair with a thick finger. ‘Why don’t you send Master Carson away, Sir Guy? You have the means, and if you asks me, the sooner it be done the better. You will not only have him wed to someone you consider unworthy of your noble family, but you will have a number of bastard grandchildren scattered around the area, if you have not already. And that will be trouble in plenty for you, Sir Guy. Trouble in plenty.’
After the farmer had gone, Guy, suddenly feeling his years, went into the dining-room and helped himself to a glass of sherry. It was nearly time for lunch but he was not hungry. He looked out of the window at the land that he loved, clothed now in the soft mists of autumn. The leaves were slowly changing colour and falling gently down from the trees. Soon it would be winter, and the anniversary of George’s death in that far-off, inhospitable climate.
George, the good, the kind, had gone, and in his mind he saw little Ruth and Deborah scamper playfully across the lawn. Guy swallowed his sherry and was returning for another when there was a knock at the door and Arthur deferentially put his head around it.
‘Will you be lunching alone, Sir Guy?’
‘Is Lady Woodville not lunching?’ Guy looked up from the decanter in surprise.
‘Her Ladyship has decided to spend the day in her room.’
‘Then I will lunch there with her.’
‘Very good, Sir Guy.’
The butler withdrew and Guy, a full glass in his hand, left the dining-room and crossed the large hall, mounting the staircase to his wife’s room on the first floor. He tapped quietly on the door and turned the handle before she had time to call.
To his surprise he found she was still in bed. Sometimes she stayed in her room sewing or reading, but she always rose, bathed and dressed.
Guy rapidly crossed the room and sat on the side of her bed, stretching out a hand to touch her cheek.
‘My dear, are you ill?’
Margaret, who had been half-asleep, opened her eyes and looked at him in surprise.
‘Today the effort was too great, Guy. I tried to get up but my maid helped me back to bed again.’
‘Then I will send for Dr Hardy at once.’ Guy made as if to get up, but Margaret clung onto his arm.
‘Guy, dearest, what is the use? We both know what is the matter. It is merely a question of time.’
Guy impatiently shook her hand away and, getting off the bed, stood gazing down at her.
‘Margaret, what nonsense you talk! You are not yet sixty, not ready to die!’
‘Nevertheless, dearest, I feel that what ails me is mortal.’
‘I will not hear such talk.’ Guy stomped angrily away from her bed and stood once more gazing out of the window as if his own life were passing. What a barren landscape it would be without her! ‘The doctor has pronounced no such sentence.’
‘If he doesn’t know, I do,’ Margaret said quietly.
‘Anaemia, that is all.’
‘Certain types of anaemia can be a serious matter.’
‘I will take you away to Germany, Switzerland, Italy ... There, at the health spas, you will find the treatment you need. I will make arrangements for it straightaway.’
‘Guy ...’ Margaret held out a hand and beckoned him to her side. ‘Sit by me, Guy.’
‘Not if you are going to talk ...’
‘Sit by me,’ she commanded.
Docilely, Guy took his place by her side and gazed at the face he had once considered so plain but now loved so much. The thought of life without his sensible, practical wife was intolerable. She not only managed him, she managed the whole estate. He took her hand and brought it to his lips.
‘Without you I would be broken, Margaret. Please don’t leave me.’
‘Guy, only God knows the time and the place, but I am weak and growing weaker. Frankly, I could not make the journey to Poole or Bournemouth, never mind the Continent. Every day, my dear, I feel a little more frail. I must tell you this because I want you to be prepared, should it happen.’
Guy crashed a fist into the palm of his hand. ‘But after George ... it’s too cruel!’ He threw himself down on the bed beside his wife’s body and began to weep bitterly, while Margaret lay there feeling strangely calm. Gently she stroked his forehead. What an irony it was that now, when her husband was finally hers, she should have to contemplate leaving him.
‘George’s death was a terrible blow to me too,’ Margaret whispered. ‘And I too long to see our grandchildren ...’
‘I saw them today,’ Guy burst out, struggling to sit upright, dabbing his eyes with his handkerchief. ‘I was on my way to the churchyard to say a little prayer at Emily’s tomb and, passing Riversmead, I saw a number of children on the lawn, Eliza and Sarah Jane sitting on a bench watching them. And among them were little Ruth and Deborah, our grandchildren, Georges children ...’ Overcome with emotion he paused suddenly, unable to continue.
‘And Sophie ...?’ Margaret stared at him in alarm.
‘Sophie had gone into Blandford. Eliza was anxious that she might return and imagine Eliza had purposely contrived the meeting. Dearest, I wonder ...’
‘If you wonder if I have changed my mind about George’s wife, the answer is no,’ Margaret said with a sudden strength in her voice. ‘However wicked it is of me to feel such hatred for the woman who took George from us, I cannot help it.’
‘Not even for the sake of the grandchildren?’
‘Not even for them,’ Margaret said firmly. ‘Even if I have to go to my grave without sight of them.’
They were interrupted by a further tap on the door and Arthur entered bearing a tray, followed by one of the maids with another, which she arranged on Margaret’s lap.
‘There, my lady. The beef tea is particularly nourishing and cook says you should drink all of it.’
‘Thank you,’ Margaret said with a sweet smile and, pulling the tray towards her, reached for the cup and took a few sips.
‘Delicious!’ she exclaimed. ‘Just what I need to restore me to health. Tell cook it is excellent.’
Guy had a more solid lunch, but his heart was not on his food and after a few mouthfuls taken at a table set near Margaret’s bed, he pushed his plate away.
‘There is one affliction after another in this household,’ he said mournfully. ‘God is punishing me for the misdeeds of my youth.’
‘Only your youth, Guy dear?’ Margaret said with a mischievous smile, but Guy ignored her.
‘David Platt from Nether Bend Farm was here only a short time ago, complaining about Carson ...’
‘Oh, who is not forever complaining about Carson?’ Margaret said offhandedly.
‘But this is serious. He has told the farmer’s daughter he intends to marry her.’
‘But that is absurd, out of the question ...’
‘She is extraordinarily pretty, and he is over twenty-one.’
‘But she is not.’
‘Remember what happened to Eliza? That didn’t stop her.’
‘No.’ Thoughtfully Margaret put down her mug of tea, recalling, as if it were yesterday instead of twenty-eight years before, the occasion when she and Guy returned home from her native Holland to be told that Eliza, just eighteen, had eloped with the son of a builder. The daughter of a farmer was not so very different in the social scale.
/> ‘He must go away,’ she said suddenly.
‘That is what the farmer suggested. But where? And will he go?’
‘He will have to. You must tell him you will disinherit him.’
‘That won’t worry Carson.’
It was true. The heir to the Woodville name dressed and behaved like a farm-hand, with little thought for wealth.
‘We must appeal to his better nature. I know, we must send for Uncle Prosper,’ Margaret said, with the light of inspiration in her eyes. ‘Now, Guy, ask my maid to come, because suddenly I feel a little stronger. Maybe it was that good beef tea.’
Guy went slowly over to her and embraced her, holding her tightly against his heart.
If only her cure could be so simple.
Prosper Martyn was Carson’s great-uncle, the brother of his grandmother who had died when he was fourteen. Carson remembered her vividly, although she was a remote, rather elderly figure, smelling of violets, whom he used to visit with his brother and sister in great state, usually with his father. His mother and grandmother did not get on.
Perhaps it was because there was a certain amount of discord in his family, undercurrents of which he could not help but be aware, that Carson, the youngest child, had become rather difficult. As he got older he grew increasingly hard to control, until in the end everyone gave up and he more or less did as he wished.
Maybe his father was not firm enough, his mother too distant. The only one he really loved and who, in turn, loved and understood him, had been his elder brother.
Now George was dead and Carson shared the family resentment of Sophie for taking George away.
Carson had had little to do with Great-Uncle Prosper. He thought him very old, but considered his wife, Aunt Lally, very beautiful, even though by now she seemed to him a little old too. In her youth she had been a dancer and, apparently, quite lovely. He liked to visit their beautiful house near Sherborne, which had originally been built by Julius Heering before he married Eliza.
An invitation to visit Uncle Prosper and Aunt Lally usually coincided with a visit by Aunt Lally’s nephew, Roger, whom she and Uncle Prosper had adopted when he was twelve.
Carson and Roger were antipathetic to each other. Roger worked in the Martyn-Heering business, a wealthy conglomerate which included a bank, in the City of London. Roger was spectacularly good-looking, his colouring fair, like Aunt Lally’s, and he was always well and correctly attired. His speech was clipped and polished, his manners impeccable. He had the air of a dandy, the hauteur of a grandee.
The Rector's Daughter (Part Two of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 5