Now, when she needed the hand of God so badly, it seemed to have been withdrawn. She longed for the faith to accept her fate, but the path seemed long, the horizon distant.
‘Oh God, let this chalice of bitterness, of unbelief and doubts, be removed from me,’ she prayed, looking earnestly at the figure of Christ crucified over the high altar.
But He hung his head, He did not look at her.
Inside, the darkness remained. The music seemed gently to fade away as though the organist were reluctant to stop. There was a lingering, rather than a sudden cessation, as though her fingers caressed the keys.
Sophie was brought back to reality. She had allowed herself to slump dejectedly in the pew, but she pulled herself up and, raising her head, smiled at Connie Yetman as she walked slowly down the aisle, a thoughtful expression on her face.
When Connie saw Sophie she halted in her steps and shyly returned the smile. She had her sheet music under her arm and, from the expression on her face, she was still thinking about it.
Sophie rose from the pew and sidled along the bench towards her.
‘Good morning, Constance,’ she whispered. ‘I enjoyed your playing. I always do.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Woodville,’ Connie whispered back, blushing a little.
Connie was the daughter of John Yetman by his second marriage to Euphemia Monk, who had died in giving birth to her. At the age of eight, following the death of her father, she had been adopted by Victoria Fairchild, a wealthy spinster of the town, who had formed an attachment to the orphan child with her gift for music. Constance, whose health was delicate and who caught coughs and colds very easily, had been educated privately at home and had led a very sheltered existence.
The two women got to the door and were greeted by the warm sunshine of high summer. Connie had on a simply-made cotton dress with a pattern of cornflowers. She was no beauty, with straight brown hair and steel-rimmed glasses, but she was much liked in the town, whereas Sophie Woodville was still treated with some suspicion.
‘Do come and see the design for the chapel window to be dedicated to George,’ Sophie said impulsively as they stood in the forecourt.
‘Oh, I should like that.’ Connie pushed her spectacles up her nose. ‘I was so attached to George, Mrs Woodville.’
‘I know you were, and oh, Constance, I do wish you would call me Sophie. After all, we have known each other all our lives. I even remember you being born.’
Connie’s blush grew even deeper. It was difficult to think of the Rector’s daughter, to her a very august person, as anything else but ‘Mrs Woodville’, just as formerly she had always thought of her as ‘Miss Lamb’. Sophie was twelve years Connie’s senior, and Connie had a deep respect for age. She was also a withdrawn, shy person whose sense of inferiority was acute.
As they approached the cottage into which Sophie had now moved, they could see a figure hovering outside as though uncertain whether to go or stay. When he saw them, he removed his hat and smiled with relief.
‘Mrs Woodville. I was ... Good morning, Connie.’ Mr Turner interrupted his explanation to turn to Sophie’s companion. ‘I was standing at the church door listening to you.’ He sighed. ‘Your playing is heavenly.’
‘Thank you, Mr Turner.’ Connie’s blush reached down her neck.
‘Heavenly,’ Sophie echoed, glad to see the young parson. ‘Do please come in, Mr Turner.’ Hastily she put the key in the door. ‘I have brought Constance to look at the design for the window to be dedicated to George. I would like to have your opinion too.’
The curate looked delighted, and ushered the two women into the cool interior of the cottage.
‘Where are the children today?’ he asked, looking round.
‘With their grandparents. They now stay with them for several days at a stretch. Lady Woodville is far from well.’ Sophie’s tone was devoid of emotion.
‘Most generous of you,’ the curate murmured.
‘It’s the least I can do.’ Briskly, Sophie went over to the dining-room table where the plans lay for the window and, as she unfolded them and laid them out, she said, ‘I was going to ask you, Mr Turner, whether I could prevail upon you to take these over to Sir Guy and Lady Woodville. I feel they should approve of them.’
‘But would you not take them?’
‘No. I would not.’
‘I see.’ Mr Turner’s expression too remained impassive. Connie, who was carefully studying the design, suddenly exclaimed:
‘Oh, but it’s beautiful.’ Then she burst into tears.
‘Connie!’ Sophie wrapped her arms round the young woman and looked bewilderedly up at Hubert Turner. ‘Whatever ails you, my dear?’
‘I can ... c-can’t ... ex-p-plain,’ Connie went on sobbing.
‘The design is very moving,’ the curate said reflectively. ‘I can quite see that it makes Connie weep. She knew Mr Woodville so well.’
The design depicted a reasonable likeness of George, dressed in clerical garb, with a book, presumably the Bible, clasped to his chest. One hand was extended towards the sky, to which his eyes were raised. Behind him stood a black man dressed in skimpy native costume, and then there was the representation of the sea, the betel-nut palms, together with the granadillas and limes which had surrounded the simple mission station.
The scene described to the artist by Sophie had been realised with remarkable fidelity. It was framed by a border of acanthus leaves and beneath ran the legend: ‘Sacred to the memory of George Pelham Woodville, b. Wenham, Dorset, 1881, d. Gumbago, Papua, New Guinea, December 1907, where he lies buried by the side of his faithful servant and friend Kirikeu. May they rest in peace together with ...’ and then followed the names of the six men who had been cannibalised by the Doriri. At the end of the inscription were the words, ‘Martyrs for the faith’. The colouring was simple; clerical black, red, yellow, the dark greens of the palms and the deep blue of the sea.
When the Reverend Turner raised his head, his eyes too were moist.
‘Very moving indeed, Mrs Woodville. Very beautiful.’ He drew out his handkerchief and blew his nose. ‘I think Sir Guy and Lady Woodville will be deeply affected. Maybe it will make them change their attitude towards you.’
‘I am afraid it is too late,’ Sophie said with a bitter smile. ‘The chance to do that vanished long ago.’
Eliza Heering sometimes thought she carried the cares of the world on her shoulders, or rather, her small world of Wenham and its surroundings. But they were capable shoulders, everyone agreed on that. Although she was born into the minor aristocracy, she had the sturdiness and many of the other characteristics of a countrywoman, her feet firmly on the ground.
Still, she had to do the bulk of the worrying for her greatly extended family, and sometimes, robust though she was, she thought the demands made on her were too much. Yet she was expected to remain unfailingly cheerful, a feat which, on the whole, she thought she somehow surprisingly managed to achieve.
From being a headstrong girl Eliza had turned into a sensible, good-natured woman of whom much was asked. She had married at nineteen and been widowed when she was thirty-three. She had married again at the age of forty, the same year that George and Sophie were married in Australia. Her second husband Julius, who had pursued her for many years, was a wealthy Dutchman, the brother of her sister-in-law Margaret.
It was true that Margaret and Guy had suffered, but Eliza had had her own share of grief: the tragic early death of her beloved husband, Ryder Yetman. He had built Julius Heering’s house for him and then he fell off the roof of a cottage he was thatching in the grounds; a silly, pointless accident. Julius subsequently felt unable to live in the house and had sold it to Prosper Martyn.
Eliza did not love Julius as she had loved Ryder. There was little passion in the marriage, but there was respect and deep friendship. Each had been married before and, maybe, the first spouse was the most loved. But, in settling for second-best, they had achieved a measure of happiness that many
couples more passionately in love were unable to find with their frequent quarrels, jealousies and petty fights.
Julius was the senior partner in the Martyn-Heering business and he travelled a lot, sometimes spending up to six months abroad, mainly in the Far East. Eliza never accompanied him. Her youngest son, Hugh, was a scholar at Oxford and came home in the vacations, and her daughter Dora lived at home. Dora was a country girl, loved horses and animals, and had shown little interest in the opposite sex. Sadly, Eliza thought, she would be a spinster. For Dora, animals took the place of people, and Eliza supposed it was maybe because of the tragedy that had come into her life when her beloved father died.
But Eliza did not lack grandchildren, whatever might happen to Dora and Hugh. Laurence and fertile Sarah Jane had provided her with the grandchildren she adored, who were now playing with their cousins Deborah and Ruth in the shadow of the great oak from which the Woodville family home had its name.
It was fascinating to see George’s children. Fascinating, and tragic too, because sometimes it was almost impossible to accept the fact that George’s children were all that was left of him.
There had been much sadness in her life, Eliza thought, looking around her.
It was high summer, and the elegant white house, perched on its hill, dappled by the shadows of the surrounding trees, looked at its best. In the distance Wenham, topped by the square tower of the church, shimmered in the haze, and a short distance from where she sat now was the cottage where she and Ryder had fallen in love. It gleamed with fresh paint, having been recently occupied by Guy’s new bailiff and his young wife. Eliza had no wish to see inside the cottage again or recall those memories of such happiness so long ago.
Guy was dozing in a chair while Margaret was propped up on her daybed. She wore a wide straw hat to protect her against the sun, and as usual was doing her embroidery; those fine, firm strokes of the needle which would be continued who could say, now, for how long?
The peace of the early afternoon was broken by the sound of horses’ hooves in the drive and Eliza, looking up, saw a solitary horseman make his way towards the house and pass out of sight.
Eventually Arthur appeared, followed by a gentleman in clerical dress, a bundle of papers under his arm, his hat in his hand.
‘The Reverend Mr Turner, Lady Woodville.’
Mr Turner bowed rather nervously as Margaret looked curiously at him. Guy wriggled and gave a loud snore, still fast asleep. Margaret leaned over and prodded him with a finger.
‘Guy, where are your manners? Mr Turner is here to see us.’
Guy snorted, wriggled again and then opened his bleary eyes, frowning at the visitor. He eventually stumbled to his feet and put out a hand.
‘Good afternoon, Hubert,’ he said affably. ‘Forgive me.’
‘That’s perfectly all right, Sir Guy. I am sorry to disturb you and Lady Woodville.’ The curate smiled shyly at Eliza. ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Heering.’
‘Good afternoon, Mr Turner.’
‘Mr Heering well?’
‘Thank you.’
Eliza inclined her head as the civilities took place, and Guy shook himself like a dog emerging from the river.
‘Now, Hubert, what brings you here? You seldom come without a reason, and you saw Lady Woodville only a few days ago.’
It was true. Although perfectly acceptable, Hubert Turner had seldom in the past been on the list of those who were entertained socially at Pelham’s Oak, maybe because he was considered tainted by his proximity to the Lambs. However, he took the Sunday services twice a month in a small church in the nearby village where Guy occasionally worshipped after his boycott of the Rector. Since Margaret’s illness, however, Hubert had been enormously kind. He was not stuffy, not ‘churchy’, and did not press religion upon her; but Margaret found his visits a comfort, and she liked him very much and had grown fond of him.
He now produced the papers tucked under his arm and held them out to Guy.
‘Mrs Woodville asked me to bring these to show you, Sir Guy. It is the design for the memorial window to your son, to be placed in Wenham Parish Church.’
‘What?’ Startled, Guy looked at the curate. ‘In the parish church, did you say?’
‘Surely you knew about this, Sir Guy?’ Mr Turner seemed embarrassed.
‘Not a word.’
‘Mrs Woodville has been talking about it, well ... ever since she came back.’
There was a silence as everyone considered the implications. ‘Did she not write to you about it, Guy?’ Eliza broke the silence at last. ‘You may have forgotten.’
‘She did not.’
‘I’m surprised. She told me.’
‘You would think we’d be the first to be informed. George was our son, after all.’
Margaret held out her hand for the papers. ‘May I have a glance, Mr Turner?’
‘Certainly, Lady Woodville.’
The curate, perspiring freely, passed them to her as though they had been hot coals. Margaret, her face stony, her expression inscrutable, examined them carefully.
‘May I ...?’ Guy got up and leaned across her shoulder, and eventually they were joined by Eliza, who placed a hand on Guy’s arm.
For some moments the little tableau remained motionless, each of its members lost in thought.
Eventually Guy stumbled away from the couch and sat heavily down in his chair. He buried his face in his handkerchief and began to sob loudly. Used to such behaviour, Eliza and Margaret stared at him, patiently waiting for him to finish.
‘Oh, oh, oh,’ wailed Guy, passing his handkerchief across his face. ‘Oh, oh, oh ... my darling son. I cannot bear it. What a terrible thing ... to be constantly reminded. The likeness, it is so exact. Oh my darling, my dearest George. Never did I think in my lifetime to see a memorial to him ...’
‘I think it very wrong of Mrs Woodville,’ Margaret said sharply, ‘to have inflicted this on us without notice. Extremely thoughtless.’
‘I’m sure she did not mean it,’ Eliza said. ‘It is because of the lack of communication between you. Personally, I think it is high time this silly feud was finished ...’
‘It is not a feud, Eliza,’ Margaret said icily. ‘We do not receive George’s widow because, if it were not for her, George would be alive.’
‘I don’t think you can be sure of that, Margaret.’
‘Well, I am,’ her sister-in-law said firmly, ‘very sure. There would be no need of a window of memorial had it not been for Sophie Lamb. Why should we be pleased about it now? Can you tell me?’
It was difficult to find a reply, but Eliza went stubbornly on: ‘I still think it is time that bygones were bygones ...’
Guy wiped his eyes and sighed heavily. ‘Perhaps you’re right. Maybe it is George’s way of speaking to us, asking us from the grave to receive his wife, the mother of his lovely children.’ He mournfully indicated the young people on the lawn.
‘Guy, don’t be so sentimental,’ Margaret reprimanded him. ‘And please don’t be weak. If we received Mrs Woodville now, all Wenham would laugh at us.’
‘Let them laugh.’ Eliza’s tone was scornful. ‘The opinion of the town is of little consequence.’
‘Well, you might say that, Eliza, but to us it is important. People look up to us and expect us to show standards. Having taken a position, I think we would be very misguided to back down now. I, for one, will never receive Sophie Lamb.’ She looked for a moment at her husband and sister-in-law, then said in a greatly lowered voice: ‘She will come to this house over my dead body, and not before.’
Roger Martyn enjoyed his role of young-man-about-town, a youthful businessman on the verge of being made a junior partner.
He was keen, industrious, eager to learn. He assimilated facts very quickly. He got to work early and left late. He often ate at his club if his uncle and aunt were away, which was frequently the case these days. They spent at least half the year abroad.
When they were away, Roger enjoyed
his role as head of the household, where the servants treated him with the deference usually reserved for the master. Burned on his memory was the day he had first arrived in the house, a snivelling, undersized urchin with a Cockney accent and no manners. He was given a good bath, scrubbed with carbolic soap, provided with a complete outfit of new clothes and sent to be taught how to speak without the atrocious flat vowels of an East London accent.
He had learnt quickly. From then on he had learned very quickly.
Roger had a circle of friends who liked to play cards, go to the theatre and dine either at one another’s houses or at expensive restaurants. None of them were particularly interested in women but they were united by a common bond: the pursuit of pleasures of a certain kind and the spending of money.
Roger’s origins were obscure, even to him, and he ensured that they were kept that way. The story was that he was orphaned at an early age and subsequently adopted and brought up by the wealthy Martyns. If any of his upper-crust, clever friends discovered the truth about the terraced house in Kent Town where he had been raised, Roger imagined he would cheerfully put a gun to his own head. Appearances mattered to him. They were the very stuff of life.
Roger arrived home one night just after midnight, and was paying off his cab when a similar vehicle drew up beside him and two people emerged: a man and a woman. Roger had thought his uncle and aunt were out of the country and looked round in surprise, as his cab trotted off, to see Carson reaching up to pay his own cabby. By his side stood a young woman looking up at him with a trusting, pretty face.
‘Er.’ Roger seemed uncertain what to say, staring hard at the woman.
‘Good evening, Roger,’ Carson said cheerfully, taking her firmly by the arm.
Ignoring him, Roger looked past Carson at the woman beside him. She wore a long coat, a close-fitting hat, and her hands were gloveless.
Carson stood back and, without introducing his companion, indicated the door.
‘After you, Roger.’
‘Are you coming in?’ Roger seemed surprised.
‘Of course. After you.’
‘No, after you ... and the lady.’
The Rector's Daughter (Part Two of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 9