‘Do you sing, Sophie?’ Hubert asked her. ‘Why, of course you do. You have a fine contralto voice. It soars above the others in church.’
‘Oh, I could never sing solo in church,’ she protested.
‘But why not?’
‘I would sing in the choir. But not solo. Never.’
‘Mrs Woodville’s voice is good enough for the solo part,’ Connie said with surprising authority. ‘She has a lovely voice.’
‘Well, thank you very much.’ Now it was Sophie’s turn to blush, but only slightly, as though people seldom paid her compliments. ‘I would still prefer it if you could get someone else to sing the contralto part, and I would gladly join in the choir.’
‘I must be on my way,’ Connie said nervously, and slipped past Sophie to the gate while Hubert showed his guest inside.
‘A very nervous young lady,’ he said. ‘But so gifted.’
‘An accomplished musician,’ Sophie replied. ‘I do hope I haven’t disturbed you. I know Friday morning is usually devoted to your sermon.’
‘Of course I don’t mind.’ Hubert ushered her into his study where his sheafs of notes were spread out in front of a large, well-used Bible. Outside the window the leaves were scattering lightly on the lawn like harbingers of winter.
‘Do sit down, Sophie,’ he pointed to a chair, ‘and tell me what brings you here. You appear extremely agitated.’
‘I am,’ she burst out. ‘Just read that, Hubert, and tell me what you think.’
Hubert slowly took the letter Sophie thrust at him and, just as slowly, read it. ‘This is a surprise.’
‘What do you think, though? What do you think?’
The resentment in Sophie’s voice, her anger, seemed to unnerve him, and he read through the letter again before putting it on his desk.
‘If you ask me for an immediate opinion, I cannot give you one. I was so used to the idea of the church ...’
‘It is what George wanted,’ she said heatedly. ‘Not to have it in an obscure chapel that has been deconsecrated for years and used as a cattle shed. I find the suggestion insulting.’
‘I’m sure Eliza meant well,’ Hubert murmured soothingly.
‘Patronising!’ Sophie joined her arms akimbo. ‘Second-best because George is dead and I am penniless.’
‘Oh no, I’m sure not ...’
‘Oh yes, Hubert. Patronising. People like her can’t help it. They were born to money, to riches. They never think how other people might feel. I’m told her husband is a millionaire. Oh Hubert, I’ve struggled so hard to carry out the dying wish of my husband, so hard to do his bidding. Mr Frost has done his plans without charge, but he can’t be expected to do more. Guy’s parents ... the very least ...’
She took out her handkerchief and screwed up her eyes. ‘It’s so hard, Hubert. You’ve no idea ... Hard, with this wall of suspicion and condescension on the part of the Woodvilles. Oh, how I wish I could go back to Gumbago and carry on the work my precious husband and I started there.’
Then, surprising even herself, she gave herself unexpectedly up to tears.
Hubert didn’t know what to do. It was the second time he had seen her cry and, in a way, it was odd to see such a strong woman crumble. Yet it was reassuring, too, to know that she had a weakness. That Sophie, so strong, so rock-like, was prey to human emotions like everyone else.
‘Sophie,’ he ventured after a moment as he continued to gaze anxiously at her, ‘I could advance you the money ... if you wished. I could pay for it without any trouble at all. Thanks to generous parents I am not without means. I would consider it an honour. Then, when you are able ... Or.’ He gulped and, feeling decidedly ill at ease even in his own home, wiped one sticky palm against the other. ‘Or ... if we were man and wife it would be perfectly natural. You would never need to pay me back then.’
Sophie’s tears stopped almost as abruptly as they had started, and she stared incredulously at him.
‘What are you saying, Hubert?’
‘My dear ... dearest Sophie ...’ He got awkwardly on to his knees beside her and attempted to clutch her hand. It was very cold and unresponsive, and he was tongue-tied and clumsy, never having been in such a situation, adopted such an attitude, in his life before.
He felt it was like a scene from Trollope and he was making himself, at the same time, ridiculous. However, here he was, an abject suitor, so he pressed on, hoping she would understand.
‘I have not wanted to speak to you before, Sophie, because of your bereavement. I was deeply sensible of your loss and did not wish you to think I did not respect your feelings for your dead husband, was not fully conscious of the fact that it was far, far too soon for you to love another.’
‘I, love ...?’ Sophie began.
‘It is nearly two years since George died, Sophie,’ Hubert hurried on, ‘and I know how hard these years have been for you.’ He made a nervous grab for her hand again, and this time her fingers curled over his. ‘Is it possible, Sophie, that you could think of letting another have the privilege of sharing the burden with you? If you cannot return my love now, I understand, in the hope that the feeling I have for you will one day become reciprocal. In the meantime, Sophie, if you would allow me ... my heart would be so full. I should be the happiest man alive.’
Sophie was aware of his hand, in her palm. It was a long time since she had touched a man or a man had touched her. His clasp was firm and she could feel, once again, his strength reaching out to her.
Oh, it would be very fine to have someone like Hubert by her side. He was not a ninny, namby-pamby clergyman like so many in the Church of England. He was a strong, wiry little man, a football player; a person with character. With him she could face the world, the Woodvilles, her parents, all those people who patronised her, pitied her or, perhaps, even looked down on her. The children would have a father they could respect, who would look after them and help them.
‘You know,’ he went on, conscious of her warm, soft skin, her full, enticing bosom an inch away from his nose, ‘I have means of my own. My parents are dead and left me well off. I could provide for you, Sophie, and more. In addition of course, the window would be taken care of. Completely.’
He stared at her and, for some moments, their eyes met, as if it were impossible to tell which of them was more surprised by what had happened. ‘You would never have to worry again, Sophie, about anything. I would see that you had everything you needed ...’
He removed his hands from hers and got thankfully up from his knees. Sophie too stood up and played with the belt of her pretty beige woollen dress with its wide alpaca collar, which she had made herself during the many hours she spent alone in the cottage.
She looked outside at the lowering skies, the trees heavy with rain, and she saw the coral shingle of Gumbago, the native houses on stilts, the low squat roof of the school made of sago leaves. In the distance the sun shone on the sapphire-blue sea, and inland were all those souls waiting to be converted.
‘I want to make one thing clear,’ she said, lowering her eyes as if the suggestion embarrassed her. ‘I could never accept a bribe, Hubert. Never...’
‘Sophie,’ he said, aghast, ‘I never meant ...’
‘About the window ... it is important, but you could not bribe me with that ...’
‘Nor would I ever wish ...’ He began to blush like Connie.
‘As long as you understand that,’ she said, ‘that’s fine. I am very honoured by your proposal, and touched. I cannot, of course, reply straightaway, but I will think about it. Seriously, I promise.’
‘Oh thank you, Sophie,’ he said gratefully.
‘There is another thing, Hubert, that could perhaps have some influence on me...’ She looked speculatively at him for a moment and once again his eyes lit up with hope. ‘Is there any chance that you would ever be interested in the life of a missionary ... that you might consider going to New Guinea?’
‘Oh Sophie,’ Hubert said, putting his hands to his
face, ‘oh, what can I say? My dear ...’ Suddenly he lowered his hands and met the full force of her gaze. ‘You have been honest with me and so I shall be with you. The answer, I am afraid, is ... none at all. I have not the least desire to serve Our Blessed Lord in the mission field, even for you.’
For Carson Woodville, life had become a battle. It was a battle to maintain any semblance of interest in work he detested; to appear at the office on time and struggle through the day until evening. It was a battle to maintain any kind of harmonious relationship with Roger, a condition which had been exacerbated since the incident over Nelly. Ever since then it had seemed to Carson that Roger had the upper hand; he watched him carefully, as though waiting, hoping, praying maybe, to catch him out of line.
When they were in town Aunt Lally and Uncle Prosper did their best to provide suitable entertainment for the two young men with such disparate interests who lived under their roof. They held dinner parties, attended balls, soirées and parties of all kinds in order to try and find for them suitable young ladies of marriageable age. There were enough of them around. Every young girl in London seemed on the lookout for a husband, every anxious mother combed through the lists of suitable young men.
It was clear that the ladies found Carson attractive, but mothers were less interested and there was a question mark against his name. Despite being the heir to a baronetcy there was a coarseness about him that seemed to belie his inheritance. Besides his eyes were always roaming, and the only women who seemed to interest him were older, and invariably married. Roger, although handsome and especially attractive in evening dress, white tie and tails, seemed a cold fish, preferring to watch from the sidelines with a rather supercilious eye. Young women who were not particularly well educated, and few of them were, found him difficult to talk to, and the flirts found the distaste in his eyes rather chilling. Mothers also had a question mark against Roger. Though rich, clever and with prospects, there was the hint of mystery about him, his origins. Something not quite right.
Nelly the barmaid lived with her parents in a mean flat in a block of charity buildings in Covent Garden. She had three sisters and a brother, and her father was a porter in the market. It had never occurred to Nelly that Carson, with his rather rough manner and country accent, could possibly be a gentleman. She had accepted him for what he said he was: a farmer’s son from Dorset, trying to find his luck in London and working as a clerk in the City.
After the incident in Montagu Square, she knew differently.
That was the first evening he had dressed up, and she knew he was a toff.
He told her something about his real life then, but not much, and not that his father was a baronet, and one day he would be one too.
He painted himself to Nelly as he was: a man out of sorts with himself and society. He found her a sympathetic listener, a girl with natural charm and healthy sexuality.
Nelly had a friend who was also from the country and who shared a room with another girl in Carter Lane, just behind Blackfriars. Both girls were out at work in the evenings, and Nelly had the key to their room. On her days off she and Carson would meet in the little room in the shadow of the great dome of St Paul’s, and make love.
There was a simple naiveté about Nelly that appealed to Carson. Above all, she was honest, so different from the society girls his uncle and aunt tried desperately to interest him in.
Carson had had a reputation in the Blackmore Vale for the way he chased women, and in many ways it was deserved. It was a little like a fox-hunt. He chased the women, bedded them, and that was that. Most of them he had never seen again.
But with Nelly he had established a relationship. He began to think of her as his woman, and she considered him her man. In a sense, he supposed, it was love.
Nelly was, indeed, a good listener. She was used to it, listening across the bar for hours on end to the outpourings of inebriates. But Carson was not like these; he was not the regular sort of drunk. She thought he drank –
and he did, mostly too much – because he was unhappy, and gradually, over the weeks and months they spent together in the poorly furnished room with its cheap furniture and threadbare carpets, she got him to talk about it. He began to rely more on her and less on drink.
Gradually Carson became Nelly’s whole life from the grime and poverty of the tenement in Covent Garden, her rather rough, uncouth father, her constantly complaining mother. Carson seemed to represent another world and, oh, how she yearned to be part of it. She added little touches to their room and tried to make it appealing with antimacassars on the chairs, a pretty fringed cloth on the table and fresh flowers that she got from Covent Garden in the vases. She was sure this was the sort of thing he was used to.
She began to fantasise about herself and Carson, and to imagine that, one day, they might have a future together in a beautiful wisteria-covered cottage in the country, with lilac trees in the garden, a cat and a dog and, perhaps, a baby of their own.
Carson, being a countryman, knew about birth control and took precautions. However, full-blooded young people are often impulsive and not as careful as they might be. Moreover, Nelly was not one of those people who suffered from morning sickness or any other symptoms, so she was perhaps two or three months pregnant before it occurred to her exactly what had happened.
She was a young woman of dignity. What had happened, happened far too early. She had not set out to trap Carson and she was horrified at the consequences of their behaviour. Of course she blamed herself. However, if maybe now they went to the country, perhaps everything would be all right.
‘I’ve always fancied the country,’ she told Carson one day.
‘What makes you say that now?’ Carson was lying on his back, staring at the cracks in the ceiling.
‘I thought it might be a solution. You’re not happy as you are. Neither’m I. I’m not suggesting ...’
Cold terror suddenly struck at Carson’s heart. But she was suggesting. She was not satisfied with things as they were. It was the same with all women. He thought Nelly was different but, in fact, she was just like the others.
They’d been together nine months. It was time, perhaps, to call it a day. He turned to look at her, and the expression on her face made him feel like a cad. She was young and trusting and vulnerable. She really did have a beautiful face; solemn and rather mysterious, like an Italian quattrocento painting. Her hair was nearly black, thick and with a brilliant sheen. Her lips were full, and her eyes were very dark. She had a rounded, womanly body and full breasts. It made him hungry just to look at them. He cupped one in his hand and buried her nipple in his mouth. He was overcome by a frenzy of desire, of yearning for her, and he sank into her as her thighs parted for him.
He clasped her tightly to him and nudged her ears with his lips. ‘I love you, Nelly,’ he said.
That night she drank nearly half a bottle of gin, but instead of getting rid of the baby she made herself ill, and lay prostrate on her bed for several days, unable to tell Carson what had happened.
Ever since the row with Roger, Carson had steered clear of his cousin. Almost the only occasions they were together were on outings with their aunt and uncle, who continued to try, unsuccessfully, to pair each of them off with a suitable mate.
Carson no longer went to work with Roger but caught an omnibus. He was always there on time, if not a little early, bent over his desk at the boring task of stock-taking, or checking lading bills and balancing input of stock against output.
On a cold morning in February 1910, Carson, after reaching the office, kept on his coat because it was so cold. He lit a fire and knelt by it for some moments, rubbing his hands together and blowing on them, before sitting down at his desk and beginning his mundane task. He drew a sheaf of lading bills towards him and opened the heavy ledger.
Somewhat to his surprise, he saw it was a new ledger and not the one he’d been working on the day before. The pages were fresh and empty.
It was rather odd, and a s
light feeling of apprehension overtook him, as though some ghostly presence were looking over his shoulder. Quite clearly the matter was more prosaic, and someone had been there the night before, after he’d gone, inspecting his work.
There were other signs of interference. He was not a particularly methodical person, but he kept his pens in a certain place, his different-coloured inks in another, a ruler here, a rubber or blotter there. He rose and poked the fire, which spluttered apathetically, then he walked restlessly to the window. In a few moments he had reached a decision.
He would give notice. He was being spied upon. Clearly, he was not trusted. It was a situation he could not tolerate, besides which, he knew that he loved Nelly and she suited him. He would confess the truth about his origins and he would take her to meet his parents. She would be overawed, they would be shocked; but everyone would eventually get over it. He would not be the first man to marry below his station, though certainly the first Woodville to marry so far below, but perhaps they would be glad he had settled down. He would ask for a farm on the Woodville estate, and he and Nelly would be like two peas in a pod. He might have been born a Woodville but, at heart, he was a country boy who liked simple country things, and his Nelly would do very well. He could visualise their life together winding peacefully along like the calm, uninterrupted water of the River Wen.
Relieved that he had come to a decision to abandon his bachelorhood and an unsatisfactory way of life, Carson resumed his seat and began drawing lines for his columns of figures. Then he wrote at the top of the ledger: Tea, Ceylon and, drawing a neat line under that, began to enter the amounts from the bills to his ledger until he had filled one column and begun another. After a while the room started to warm up and he removed his coat. Outside, it had begun to snow.
At eleven Carson got up to boil the kettle. Sometimes he made his own tea and sometimes one of the clerks along the corridor brought him a cup. It cheered him up to think that in a few days all this would be in the past. Gone, dull ledgers, gone, cheerless cups of weak tea. He sat down again, watching the kettle come to the boil on the fire, and mentally working on his plans.
The Rector's Daughter (Part Two of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 11