Carson indicated to his companion that she should precede him. She seemed nervous, and looked a little longingly in the direction of the disappearing cab.
Carson gave her a gentle prod and she ascended the steps reluctantly. By the light above the door Roger could see she was not more than twenty or so.
Carson by this time had his key in the door and, as he opened it, he flicked on the lights and the hall lit up. It was a house of some size and splendour, and the girl gasped.
‘Ow!’ she said, never having been inside anything like it before.
The floor was tiled in black and white stone slabs. A glittering chandelier, suspended from the high ceiling, illuminated with its myriad twinkling lights the polished sheen of the mahogany banisters. A marble staircase swept up to the first floor where the main reception rooms were, but to their right the door was open to the downstairs sitting-room where guests were sometimes received who were not expected to stay. Carson knew that a fire would have been lit there, and a tray of sandwiches left in case he or Roger were hungry.
‘Go inside,’ he whispered kindly to his guest, sensing her nervousness. ‘Take off your hat and coat.’ He then shut the door behind her and looked at Roger, who was removing his hat and coat. He wore a coal-grey business suit, whereas Carson was in tails.
‘Been at the office?’ Carson enquired sarcastically.
‘I have, as a matter of fact.’ Roger patted down his sleek hair, glancing at the watch tucked into his waistcoat pocket. ‘We are expecting a large shipment of diamonds from the East and there were certain provisions I had to make about security. Things I cannot leave to other people.’
‘Well, I’ll say “goodnight” then, Roger.’ Carson looked meaningfully from his cousin to the closed door and back again.
‘Just one minute, my friend.’ Roger put a hand firmly on Carson’s shoulder.
‘Yes?’ Carson looked taken aback. ‘What is it?’
‘You can’t bring that woman in here, you know.’
‘Oh, can’t I?’
‘No, you cannot.’ Roger raised himself on his toes and stared into Carson’s face, his hand still on his shoulders. ‘I have no idea what you mean by bringing a woman like that to this house at this time of night. Supposing the servants saw you?’
‘It was bad luck you seeing me,’ Carson retorted, ‘and I’d thank you to mind your own business. A woman like what, may I ask?’
‘I hardly think that a respectable woman would come into a man’s house at this time of night. So the question answers itself. Besides, I think it is my business.
‘And I think it is not. Good night.’ Carson made an effort to free himself, but Roger’s handclasp remained firm. ‘Let me go, please, Roger.’
‘I want you to tell that woman to get out. I’m afraid I cannot have her in this house, whatever she is.’
‘What do you mean “whatever”?’
‘She’s a whore, isn’t she? What would our aunt and uncle think?’
‘She is not a whore,’ Carson said heatedly.
‘No lady of my acquaintance would accompany a gentleman to his house at this hour of night.’
‘But then you don’t have many “ladies” of your acquaintance, do you, Roger?’
Roger remained unruffled.
‘I know what is the correct thing to do, I can assure you of that, Carson. I’m afraid I shan’t leave this hall until you ask her to go.’
‘And I tell you to mind your own business and for God’s sake take your pawing hands off me. I am not one of your fancy men ...’
Carson then roughly shook himself free while Roger, clearly taken aback, took a minute or two to recover himself.
‘Don’t you dare say that to me,’ he said in a low voice.
‘Very well, you mind your business and I shall mind mine. I shall ask no questions if you ask none.’
‘I have nothing of which to be ashamed.’
‘Good.’ Carson straightened his necktie, looking at himself in the ornate Empire mirror in the hall. ‘Neither have I. But if you mention this to Aunt Lally or Uncle Prosper, I shall tell them how I think you spend your free time.’
‘How you “think” I spend my free time,’ Roger said with a sneer. ‘I know what you do with yours, and I can tell you that if you dare to besmirch my good name by your foul and unfounded suggestions I shall take you to court.’
‘And I shall take you to court,’ Carson raised his voice as he dug a finger into Roger’s chest, ‘if you besmirch mine.’
Suddenly the door of the sitting-room opened and the young woman who had been ushered inside stood there.
‘I want to go home,’ she said.
‘Now you go back inside,’ Carson said, trying to steer her by her shoulders. ‘I shan’t be a minute.’
‘I don’t want no trouble,’ Nelly Allen said, folding her arms stubbornly.
‘Don’t worry, Nelly, there won’t be any trouble.’ Carson gave a grim smile and looked at Roger. ‘My cousin is far more interested in bringing young men back to the house than young women ...’
His sentence remained unfinished as Roger’s knuckles connected with Carson’s chin, catching him unawares so that he fell backwards into Nelly’s arms. She, however, was too slight to support his weight and they both fell in a heap at Roger’s feet.
‘Ooo!’ Nelly wailed, putting her hands to the side of her head. ‘Oh, my ‘ead. What ‘ave I got meself into? Get me ‘at and coat. I want to go home, Carson.’
She suddenly looked up and, seeing her gaze, the two men followed it. There, in a purple padded dressing-gown with velvet lapels, stood Roberts the butler with what looked like a small, vicious cane in his hand. He descended the stairs at a stately, measured pace, swishing his stick menacingly backwards and forwards.
‘Mr Martyn, Mr Woodville,’ he said sonorously, ‘I am afraid I cannot tolerate this kind of behaviour in this household. I am answerable to Mr and Mrs Martyn, and a brawl in the ‘all is not at all the kind of thing of which they would approve.’
‘Quite!’ Carson rose to his feet and began dusting the seat of his trousers. ‘Now, Nelly, if you’d go inside while we sort this out ...’ He began to push her towards the sitting-room again.
‘I think, sir, the young lady had better put on her coat and hat and leave, Mr Woodville, if you don’t mind, sir,’ Roberts said imperturbably. ‘It would seem to be what she would like to do and I think it would be the best thing all round, sir. Dick will be down in a minute or so, and he can see the young lady to a cab.’
He had scarcely finished speaking before Dick, the under footman, fully attired, quickly ran down the stairs and smiled encouragingly at the woman in the hall. ‘Get your things on, dearie,’ he said. ‘Quick now.’
Nelly gratefully disappeared into the sitting-room and Dick followed her; and when they emerged a moment later she had on her hat and coat. Roberts moved in his customary stately manner to the door, which he opened and, with a polite bow, watched Nelly, followed by Dick, as she went carefully down the steps without looking back. Carson didn't say a word.
Roberts then shut the door and put his stick on the ebony hallstand.
‘Really, gentlemen, this is not the behaviour expected in this household. I am surprised at both of you, and when Mr and Mrs Martyn return ...’
‘Roberts, I should be obliged if you would say nothing of this affair,’ Roger said with an authoritative expression on his face. ‘It would only distress my uncle and aunt, and it is a matter which is not likely to occur again, I can assure you.’ He turned to Carson, who was beginning to undo his tie. ‘I think I can say that, cannot I, Carson? We would not like Uncle Prosper and Aunt Lally to become involved? It is between ourselves and it is finished, yes?’
‘If you say so,’ Carson mumbled and, with his tie in his hands, he pushed past the two men and rapidly ascended the stairs.
When he was out of sight, Roger took a wallet from his inner pocket and produced a large white note which he held ostentat
iously before the eyes of the butler, a long-time, trusted servant of the family.
‘Thank you for your co-operation, Roberts. I’m sure you could make use of this.’
Roberts hesitated only momentarily, eyeing the note, and then he took it carefully between his thumb and forefinger.
‘Consider the matter closed, Mr Roger. But, in future ...’
‘There will be no future,’ Roger said, almost between closed teeth. ‘I intend to get that barbarian out of this house as soon as I possibly can.’
5
Ruth and Deborah Woodville loved going to the splendid house standing on a hill two miles from Wenham, approached by a long drive. As soon as their carriage stopped outside the great west door a footman hurried down the steps of the pillared portico to greet them, sweeping them into a world of graciousness, of indulgence and luxury that was very far from the small cottage by the church in Wenham with no bathroom and an outside lavatory. Not unnaturally, they preferred to spend more and more time there. There was plenty of space to run about, and they were almost overwhelmed by their doting grandparents who, unlike their rather strict, impoverished mother, could deny them nothing.
Because she had so little to occupy her, Sophie found, to her chagrin, that there were long periods when she had insufficient to do. She became, therefore, rather obsessional in the matter of the stained-glass window that George had so wanted in his memory and the memory of his companions. She made frequent visits to the artist, who became slower and slower because of the evident lack of the wherewithal to pay for it.
Jonathan Frost was a stained-glass artist who lived in Sherborne, almost within sight of the abbey, which was the centrepiece of the old town. He was not a greedy man but he quite rightly expected to be paid for his work because, after all, it was how he earned his living. The scale of a full-size window was large, and many hundreds, if not thousands, of pounds would be needed for the different coloured glass, the tortuous process of assembling the fragments and blending them into an artistic masterpiece that would endure for generations.
Hubert Turner had returned with the sketches from his visit to the Woodville family, with little to report but their equivocal reaction, certainly no offer to pay for it.
Sometime after his visit, Sophie received a letter from Sir Guy’s bailiff to say that Sir Guy and Lady Woodville were still too distressed over the matter and manner of their son’s death to wish to be reminded of it by a memorial; and that was that.
For Sophie, however, it was not the end of the matter, despite the problems. A major one was that the church was in the gift of Sir Guy, and his permission would be needed, and this, together with the matter of payment, seemed to indicate that, for the time being, the matter would be in abeyance. Sophie began to feel more and more bitter and frustrated, but she had reckoned without the interest of George’s aunt, Eliza.
Eliza had been close to George. She had understood him and championed him against his father. She felt she didn’t know Sophie well, but mainly because the Rector and she had never got on. He had disapproved of her elopement, and preached a sermon intended to humiliate her at her wedding. After that, she had scarcely stepped inside the church.
It was natural that her feelings for Sophie were coloured by the attitude of her father. Sophie was religious, and before she married George Eliza hardly knew her.
Since her return home she had done her best to make this person who was almost a stranger welcome, but Sophie was reserved, slightly prickly. One wondered if maybe some remnants of her father’s attitude towards Eliza lingered in her?
Eliza had an idea about the window, but first she wanted to discuss it with her husband. On their marriage Julius Heering had bought Upper Park, seven miles from Blandford, and one of the finest examples of baroque Georgian architecture in the county. Built of Dorset brick and faced with Chilmark stone, it stood on a slight incline facing north/south, with magnificent views of the countryside on both sides. It had formal landscaped gardens, an orangery, and a small chapel shielded from the house by a copse of yew trees.
One early autumn evening, as Eliza and her husband strolled arm in arm through the gardens of their house, she halted in front of the chapel and, stopping to unlock the door, beckoned him in.
‘I want to show you something,’ she said mysteriously, as Julius stepped over the threshold and looked around the tiny chapel where generations of its former owners had worshipped for centuries.
The chapel still had some pews which were in relatively good condition, but there was straw on the floor as, when the chapel had been deconsecrated, it had been used by previous owners as a refuge for farm animals.
All the glass in the chapel was plain. Whether or not stained glass had ever been removed, no one knew.
‘What is it, dear?’ Julius, pipe in his mouth, looked about him.
Julius was nearly sixty, and had worn well. He was a tall, grey-haired man with the strong features of a Dutch bourgeois. He had a long nose, thin lips and grey eyes; but he was always thoughtful and serious-looking rather than smiling. He had made a great success of business and was a very rich man. He had never been a scholar, but he was well-read and appreciated art and music. Eliza, his second wife, had made him very content and he wanted nothing more in life. He put an arm out and she came up close to him.
‘What are you up to?’ he asked with a smile. ‘We haven’t been in this place for years.’
‘Julius,’ Eliza took his hand from around her waist and moved away, ‘I thought this chapel would make a nice memorial to George. You know, the stained-glass window.’
‘I thought that was to go in Wenham Church?’ Julius, looking surprised, removed his pipe.
‘I’m afraid at the moment it is out of the question. Sophie has no money to pay for it and Guy and Margaret are uncooperative ...’
‘But surely, their elder son ...’
‘They feel differently about the matter from Sophie. They say it only accentuates their grief.’
Julius made a gesture of irritation and stuck his pipe back into his mouth. He wore a tweed jacket and plus-fours, the garb of a countryman. With this he would wear a deerstalker or a soft trilby, carrying a stout stick when he went walking in the woods or chatting with the farmers on his estate. He ran a large dairy farm and was well versed in animal husbandry and country matters. Hugh his stepson sometimes talked of running the farm; but Julius thought he was not practical enough. He was a dreamer, a bit of an idler. He was far more likely to be a poet or a scholar than a farmer.
‘I am very much aware of George’s last wish,’ Eliza said slowly. ‘He was my nephew. We were very close. He confided in me more than in his mother and father.’
‘I know he did, but, my dear, do you think it wise to interfere in these family matters?’
‘George is my family too,’ Eliza replied stubbornly. ‘I think it may be a way out of an impasse. I also thought we might help financially by making it our gift. Sophie could then feel at rest because she has carried out the last wishes of her husband.’
Sophie read the letter with a sense of mounting rage that was hard even for one deeply imbued with the Christian virtue of humility to control. When she had finished she flung it on the table and sat down on a wooden chair beside it, staring straight in front of her.
Patronising. People always patronised her. In exchange for meekness, you had patronage. She was being offered a deconsecrated private chapel, which had been used as a shelter for animals, when George had wanted a stained-glass window in the church where he had been baptised and had worshipped all his life, as had generations of Woodvilles before him. Was it really too much to ask?
She was sure that Eliza had not meant to be offensive, but rich people sometimes couldn’t help giving offence, simply by lack of thought.
Eliza Heering was well thought of in Wenham, respected and admired. But it had not always been so. Sophie had only been five when Eliza eloped, much too young to remember it. But she had always known about it
even when she was a little girl, that shameful event that some people had thought Eliza survived merely because of who she was. In a way, she hadn’t changed.
Gradually, as time went on, people did forget. But in country towns and villages a sense of folklore exists; stories and legends handed down in families, distorted a little in the telling but essentially the same. And the elopement of Eliza Woodville and Ryder Yetman had been like that.
Sophie sat there for a moment or two as if to recover her breath, her sense of proportion. Then, on impulse, she snatched the letter from the table and, running across the room, opened the front door. Leaving it open behind her, she flew along the path by the church into Hubert Turner’s house, pausing only to unlatch the gate. But as she hurried up the path towards the door of his house, it opened, and she could hear voices. Connie Yetman, smiling happily, appeared on the threshold, the usual sheets of music under one arm, a basket in her hand. Behind her stood Hubert, his face relaxed and smiling, one hand on the arm that carried the music.
Sophie felt embarrassed, and it seemed they did too, as quickly their smiles faded. Hubert immediately withdrew his hand and Connie began to blush.
Connie, as everyone knew, blushed very easily. She blushed at nothing. She was almost crimson as Sophie came more slowly up to them, the letter in her hand.
‘I’m so sorry to trouble you, Hubert. If I’d known you had company ...’
‘My dear Sophie, please don’t apologise,’ Hubert said, carefully stepping to one side of the door. ‘Constance was just leaving. We were discussing the possibility – only the possibility, mind – of doing The Messiah in the church for Christmas.’
‘That sounds very ambitious,’ Sophie said in the encouraging voice of a schoolmistress and, with Sophie’s eyes upon her, Connie blushed even more.
‘You don’t think it’s too ambitious?’ Hubert wondered, his head to one side.
‘You mean, you may not have the voices? I don’t know. What do you think, Connie?’ Sophie looked curiously at the young girl.
Connie mumbled incomprehensibly and shook her head.
The Rector's Daughter (Part Two of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 10