‘How can you be a burden in a house this size?’ The Rector’s tone was querulous. ‘We have enough room for a dozen refugees from the missions, never mind three. It is the least we can do to give you a home.’
‘I still feel it is too much to ask of you and Mother, Father, to look after two young children at your time of life.’
‘But you have a nursemaid,’ her mother said sweetly, ‘the children are no trouble at all.’
‘I really prefer to have my own household.’ Sophie pulled her shawl across her shoulders. It was time to be honest with them. ‘I thought, perhaps, a small cottage.’
‘And who will pay?’
There was an unpleasant edge to her mother’s voice that sounded strange. It made Sophie aware of what destitution really meant. It was humiliating, deprivation of choice.
‘Yes, who shall pay?’ Her father seized at the opportunity to emphasise his daughter’s dilemma. ‘When we have a vast house here, with dozens of rooms, what do you think the people of this parish will say to the impoverished widow of a missionary – the daughter of the Rector of Wenham, whom everyone knows – maintaining a separate establishment?’
‘You have ideas above your station, Sophie,’ her mother admonished her gently. ‘I thought you were a woman humbled by your harsh experiences, but now I am not so sure.’
Sophie turned away, biting her lip. Her parents knew what was wrong but they pretended to ignore it. She felt more than ever reduced to the status of an unmarried woman, dominated once again by her parents as she had been until George had freed her.
Her eyes pricked with tears and she walked quickly to the window. Despite the beauty of the scene, it was like looking out of a prison: the trees were bare, and even the birds standing disconsolately on the skeletal boughs of the trees seemed cold.
She had been wrong to return to Wenham. She should have followed her instincts and disobeyed George’s wishes. She should have stayed among people with whom, at least, she was happy, fulfilling a mission that brought her close to God. Now she sometimes felt that she had somehow lost touch with Him that, like her enjoyment of life, her faith was slowly draining away.
She leaned her hot brow against the windowpane and found herself staring straight into the eyes of Mr Turner, who appeared at the gate of the house opposite, which had once belonged to Euphemia Monk, who had married John Yetman, as his second wife.
Mr Turner raised his hand and waved, and she waved back. He was always so robust, so cheerful, that just the sight of him did one good.
‘Mr Turner,’ she cried, and it seemed her spirits rose.
‘He will have come to talk to your father about Sunday’s sermon,’ Mrs Lamb said. ‘How fortunate we were to have him as curate.’
Sophie and her mother turned spontaneously towards the door as Mr Turner was shown into the room. Despite the short distance he had to travel, he was heavily protected against the cold with gaiters, a long coat, a warm muffler, gloves, and his hat, which he held in his hand. He was a man who took good care of himself.
Otherwise he wore conventional clerical gear, a black suit, vest, and a white collar. He had a pleasant, affable expression and, after shaking Mrs Lamb’s hand, extended his hand towards Sophie. She clasped it, and it seemed as though a silent strength flowed between them, an exchange of energy that surprised them both.
‘Good day, Mrs Woodville,’ he said. ‘And how do you like our English weather?’ He blew between the palms of his hands before extending them to the fire roaring up the chimney.
‘I was born in Wenham, Mr Turner.’ Sophie, still surprised by the feeling between them, managed a smile. ‘Don’t forget that.’
‘But eight years in the South Seas!’
‘There are compensations,’ she said, ‘in being at home, though I shall be moving soon.’
‘Oh!’ He looked in surprise from her mother to her father and then back to her again.
‘What nonsense,’ her father snorted. ‘This house is big enough for an army, and yet she talks about living separately.’
The Reverend Turner obviously thought it wiser not to comment and, after warming his hands, sat in a chair opposite the Rector.
‘There is a cottage in this living which is empty.’
‘Oh?’ Sophie looked eagerly at him.
‘It belonged to the verger. It is on the other side of the school hall.’
‘Oh, a pretty little cottage.’ Sophie clasped her hands together.
‘Very pretty,’ Mr Turner agreed. ‘And the new verger does not need it because he has a home of his own. Our last verger was unmarried.’
‘Quite unsuitable for Sophie,’ the Rector said bluntly. ‘No amenities. Freezing in winter.’
‘It does have three bedrooms.’
‘I would thank you, Mr Turner, not to concern yourself too much about our family matters.’ Mr Lamb's tone bordered on severity.
‘Oh, I beg your pardon, Rector.’ Mr Turner, clearly ill at ease, lowered his head. Then, quickly producing some notes from his vest pocket, he said:
‘Matthew five, verse three ...’
Mrs Lamb signalled to Sophie and the two women moved silently out of the room.
As Sophie’s mother gently closed the door behind her, she turned to her daughter with a reproving glance. ‘You must not upset your father. He is not a well man.’
‘Mother, you must not blackmail me,’ Sophie hissed. ‘I refuse to feel guilty.’
‘I am surprised at you, Sophie.’ Mrs Lamb propelled her daughter along the corridor towards her sitting-room at the end of the house. ‘Here you have everything you could wish for. We keep you and pay the nurse who looks after your children. You want for nothing ... nothing.’ Her mother’s words reverberated around the room.
‘Except my freedom, Mother.’
‘You are perfectly free.’
‘I am not. I am treated like a child and not like a married woman, a widow of thirty-three years of age. When I go out you ask me where I am going and what time I shall return.’
‘That seems to me a reasonable request. You have the household to consider, after all.’
‘Well, I don’t think it is reasonable. I want my own establishment, my own house until such time as I can return to the missions. I really don’t wish to sound ungrateful, Mother.'
‘I find you very ungrateful, Sophie,’ her mother said primly. ‘Ungrateful and difficult, yes, I’ll admit it. Your father and I are very surprised by the change in you since your return. You seem to take for granted all we have done and do for you.'
‘I am not ungrateful, Mother.’ Sophie gritted her teeth, and kneaded the knuckles of one hand in the palm of another.
‘A penniless widow, rejected by her parents-in-law, yet whom we have taken to our bosoms in a true Christian spirit. You behaved as badly towards us as you did to them, yet we have not rejected you.’
‘I did not behave badly.’
'You eloped with a man.’ Her mother's voice rose.
‘I did not elope.’
Her mother stuck a finger in the air like an avenging angel. ‘You travelled with him alone on a boat all the way to Australia without being married. Imagine what people thought of that!’
‘Nothing untoward occurred.’ Sophie also raised her voice, feeling her pulse quickening. ‘George and I were Christians, who would not have dreamed of anticipating marriage, a sacrament ordained by God. I shared a cabin with two other ladies of similar virtue, bound for the missions.’
‘That is not the point. No one in Wenham knows that.’
‘Then tell them, Mother.’ Sophie now found herself shouting. ‘Tell the whole world that I shared a cabin with two ladies of impeccable credentials who will vouch for the fact that I never spent a moment alone with George.’
‘Shhh!’ Her mother, her face aghast, looked towards the door. ‘The servants will hear.’
‘Then maybe they will tell the whole of Wenham.’
And with a defiant glare at her mother Sophie
stormed towards the door, and banged it so hard behind her that the whole house seemed to shake.
Mr Turner unlocked the door of the verger’s cottage and stood back to allow Sophie to enter. He had taken the precaution of ensuring that no one had seen them. He sensed the Rector would not approve of his gesture.
It was indeed a pretty little cottage, with two downstairs rooms and three upstairs. It had no bathroom, and an outside toilet, but it was in good condition and the carpets and curtains were serviceable, if old.
‘It will do,’ Sophie said at once, delightedly looking round. ‘It will do very well, at least until we can go back to New Guinea.’
‘You really do intend to do that?’ She thought Mr Turner looked a little disappointed.
‘Oh yes.’ Sophie leaned against the balustrade of the staircase which swept down into the living-room. ‘It was I who had the call and inspired George.’
‘Oh, you did inspire George ... er Mr Woodville.’ The curate looked at the floor. ‘I wondered.’
‘You mean, you wondered if the gossip you heard was right,’ Sophie said sarcastically. ‘That I seduced George Woodville and filled his head with thoughts of the missions ...’
‘No, no, no, Mrs Woodville ...’ The young man uncharacteristically began to stammer.
‘Come, Mr Turner, you listen to gossip as much as anyone else, do you not? You have heard that I set my cap at George, probably with an eye on a title who was years younger than I, and lured him from his parents ...’
‘Not exactly, I assure you.’ But still Mr Turner sounded uncertain.
‘That is what everyone says, but it is not true.’ Sophie banged the banister. ‘I resisted George even though he loved me and I loved him. But the initiative came from him, and so did the suggestion to go to New Guinea. He wanted to get away from his parents because they neither approved of his sacred vocation nor his desire to marry me. I would, I assure you, gladly have sacrificed my love for George if it could have prevented a rift with his family, but he would not hear of it. He was very much the man, believe me. In the end, all I could do was follow.’ Sophie sounded a little, uncharacteristically, coy. ‘And I am glad I followed, Mr Turner, believe me,’ she continued. ‘I would not sacrifice those years of perfect happiness for anything. We grew in mutual love as man and wife, and were also filled with the supreme, overwhelming love of God. My husband died a martyr’s death. I regret ... I regret nothing.’
Suddenly Sophie felt such grief, such a sense of desolation, that she burst into tears and, before she knew what had happened, Mr Turner moved quickly forward and put his arms awkwardly around her.
‘There, there, Mrs Woodville.’ He gently patted her shoulder as she leaned her head against him. ‘There, there.’
After a while Sophie’s tears ebbed and, as if aware of their compromising position, she quickly stepped backwards. She took a handkerchief from her pocket and vigorously blew her nose.
‘I do apologise. I lost control. It was unpardonable.’
‘Perfectly understandable,’ he said, even though he also felt awkward. ‘I think you are much maligned.’
‘I am much maligned,’ she agreed, blowing her nose again. ‘I am cold-shouldered by the people of Wenham because of the evil ideas they have in their minds. I am ignored by my husband’s family. My own parents scarcely tolerate me, and make me feel an unwelcome beggar. I am a pauper with no means of my own and, believe me, I am tired of the situation.’ She put her handkerchief away in a determined manner and flung her head back defiantly.
Hubert Turner knew that he was in the presence of a woman of strength, of inner and outer beauty, and he began to feel something approximating the emotion that had overwhelmed the young George Woodville. Maybe it had been there, lying dormant, from the day he met her at Blandford Station. A strong, good, pure woman with a love of God that had been sufficient to defy savages, wretched conditions, the torments of illness and, finally, death. An experienced woman who had mothered two children, who was no stranger to the facts of life. Such a woman was in a position of considerable power over one such as he, who had no experience of life, had been brought up in a boys’ public school and a strict theological college. His feelings were confused between admiration, veneration even, and desire.
What was more, there was the same difference in age between Sophie and Hubert Turner as there had been between her and her husband. What had attracted the younger man then attracted him, Hubert, now: her strength, her character and determination.
Sophie, gazing at him, could almost read his mind. She felt embarrassed, and moved away from the staircase. Somehow she had never associated the Reverend Turner with those carnal feelings that afflicted other men, although he looked no more good and pure than dearest George had, and how George had enjoyed the pleasures of the marriage-bed.
Suddenly the idea of the Reverend Turner as a suitor seemed absurd, out of the question. It would bring upon her head more coals of fire than there were already. Think of the reaction of her fellow citizens, who would say she had been home a mere four months and already she had forgotten her dead husband and ensnared the curate!
‘I think I should get back to the Rectory, Mr Turner,’ she said coldly. ‘Forgive me for that show of emotion. I don’t think you quite understand.’
‘Oh, I understand, Mrs Woodville.’ Mr Turner hastily opened the door as though feeling a little guilty himself. ‘Believe me, I understand completely. I understand your position and I am sorry for you. Deeply sorry. Yet I cannot feel it right that you should deny your husband’s parents sight of their grandchildren, however badly done by you feel. Quite justifiably,’ he added.
‘But what business is it of yours?’ Sophie enquired sharply.
‘No business at all, Mrs Woodville.’ Turner’s tone was humble. ‘But I am just saying what everyone else says, and that is probably the reason you find the townsfolk less than friendly. There is also another matter, Mrs Woodville.’ As Sophie stepped outside into the cold he stood beside her, his back to her, and locked the door. ‘As part of the church this cottage is in the gift of Sir Guy. Maybe you could come to some arrangement with him?’
‘What do you mean, arrangement?’ she gasped.
‘He may want to see his grandchildren. You, on the other hand, would like to set yourself up as a woman of independent means ...’
‘She’s asking for money,’ Guy said, tossing the letter across to his wife who, despite the cold, had felt well enough to come downstairs to where Arthur had set her couch in front of the fire. ‘She is nothing but a common gold-digger.’
Margaret put on her spectacles and read the letter, which had been delivered by hand.
Dear Sir Guy and Lady Woodville,
It is with some difficulty that I bring myself to write to you, but I understand that Lady Woodville is not well. Thus I can well appreciate your desire to see George’s children.
I think you realise that I have suffered much personal humiliation from being excluded from the invitation to visit Pelham’s Oak but, although I cannot agree with it, I can to some extent understand it. Others have helped me to understand it.
I assure you that the initiative concerning our marriage and the decision to go to the foreign missions was taken entirely by my late husband, George. I meekly concurred with his wishes. I believe that even had I not existed, George would have gone to New Guinea. It was meant by God, His will. George loved his work and the constant search for souls for Christ.
That said, my dear Sir Guy and Lady Woodville, I am convinced that it is wrong of me to deny you any longer the chance to meet your grandchildren, and I am using the good offices of Mrs Heering to arrange it.
One further point. I should like to live apart from my parents, but have not the means. I think I and my children would benefit from it. I understand that the small cottage by the side of the church hall, which is vacant, is part of the Woodville estate. With your permission, I would be glad to occupy it until such time as I have completed the b
usiness I have here and can return to New Guinea.
Yours sincerely,
Sophie Woodville.’
Margaret gazed for a long time at the fine writing and then, slowly folding the letter, handed it back to her husband. ‘Not gold-digging. She simply wants somewhere to live.’
‘That Rectory has fourteen bedrooms.’
‘She obviously is at odds with her parents,’ Margaret replied. ‘She is not asking us for money, merely a home of her own.’ Margaret surprised herself by her own reasonableness.
‘You think we should say “yes”?’ Guy looked most astonished at her change of heart.
‘I think you could ask Eliza to act as broker, as Sophie suggests. You might also say that if she postpones, or even abandons, her intention to return to New Guinea, we might be prepared to be even more generous.’
‘How do you mean?’ Guy looked attentively at her.
‘Once our grandchildren return to New Guinea we may never see them again. If you give her a very small allowance and somewhere to live, it may be enough to keep her here or, if she is determined to return, she might agree to leave the children with us. We do not need to see her, but I think we can be generous with her, bend a little. Don’t you, Guy? Just for the sake of dearest George?’
There was only a year in age between Roger Martyn and Carson Woodville, yet by temperament they were completely different. Roger was of medium height, with almost perfect features and fair hair that was always neatly combed. He had eyes of a most brilliant blue, a delicate, sculpted mouth and the aquiline features of an aristocrat.
Carson, on the other hand, was tall, bluff, ash-blond, and sometimes his manners seemed more like those of a farm-hand. His clothes never seemed quite to fit him, and he had the gait of a friendly, vigorous puppy. Roger, on the other hand, had all the finesse, the sleekness of a saturnine cat.
When Carson joined the Martyn-Heering firm in the spring of 1909, Roger had already been there nearly four years. He had progressed from being a mere clerk in the spice warehouse on the bank of the Thames, to the banking side of the business in Threadneedle Street.
The Rector's Daughter (Part Two of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 7