First he would tell his Uncle Prosper he no longer wished to work for the Martyn-Heering concern. Then he would go down to see his mother and father. He would repent of his past and say he was a reformed character, and that this was mainly due to the nature of the good woman with whom he had fallen in love. He would warn them that, in the accepted sense, she was not a ‘lady’. Her father was a porter at the Garden. Perhaps he wouldn’t, after all, say she worked in a bar. He would remind his parents that times changed. These were modern days when even gentlemen worked for a living. He knew quite well what his parents would say to that! No matter.
His one hope was that his parents would be so happy he wanted to settle down that they wouldn’t mind about his partner’s social origins. After all, he was nearly twenty-three and he was sure his parents would be only too relieved that he wished to take a responsible attitude to life.
The handle of the door turned, and thinking it was Frederick, the clerk down the corridor, with his tea, he rose from his desk to remove the kettle from the fire.
He turned round with a smile, to see not Frederick but his Uncle Prosper, with a large ledger under his arm. Normally of a taciturn countenance, the expression on his face was more than usually forbidding.
‘Good morning, Uncle,’ Carson said politely, putting the kettle back on the hearth. ‘You’re just the man I wanted to see. Would you like some tea?’
‘No thank you.’ Prosper sat down and placed the ledger firmly on Carson’s desk. ‘And what did you wish to see me about?’
‘I have reached a decision. I would like to give notice, Uncle.’
‘Oh, have you indeed?’ Uncle Prosper’s expression grew, if anything, even more forbidding. 'And what made you reach this decision?’
‘I have had enough of this life, sir. I have decided I wish to farm. I am not cut out for the City. I may even,’ he paused, ‘wish to marry.’
‘Is that so?’ His uncle’s tone was laconic. ‘And is there a fortunate young woman in mind?’
‘There might be.’
Carson began to feel uncomfortable, not only at the sight of the ledger, but at his uncle as he drew it towards him and began slowly to turn the pages. When he came to a certain one he put his forefinger on a line and raised his head.
‘And I suppose you have sufficient funds to begin farming and embrace matrimony?’
‘I have saved a small amount, sir,’ Carson said modestly. ‘I am hoping my father will be relieved at my decision, and will take a tolerant view and advance me some funds. All he wished was for me to settle.’
‘Before you proceed,’ Prosper interrupted him, ‘perhaps I should tell you the reason I am here.’ With his finger still on a place in the ledger, he looked at his nephew. ‘We have found some irregularities in the ledgers, Carson, and I am sorry to tell you these point to you. What you have just told me might explain the reason. I was reluctant to account for the fact that you would embezzle company funds, but now the reason is clear to me.
‘You planned to leave. You needed money; funds more than you have, having spent your inheritance. You wish to marry and start a business. It is all quite clear to me now, whereas before it was not. I could not believe it ... If only you had asked.’
Carson rose, and with the palm of his hand resting on his desk, stood looking down at his uncle.
‘I am quite at a loss to understand what you are talking about, Uncle Prosper. I have never made false entries in the books, never embezzled funds. Frankly, I wouldn’t know how.’
‘Yet the discrepancies are here.’
Prosper thrust the ledger towards Carson and then drew from his pocket a sheaf of bills.
‘These were found last night in a box in the cupboard behind you. They have never been entered. It is quite a simple thing to do, not complex at all. The suggestion is that you have diverted funds from the business into your own pocket by concealing merchandise, pretending it has not arrived, and perhaps making a separate transaction yourself ...’
‘That is utter nonsense!’ Carson said indignantly. ‘Malicious and false. I deny it completely.’
‘But the evidence is here.’ Prosper thrust the bills at him.
‘The evidence has been planted behind my back, if you wish to know, Uncle.’ Carson leaned again across the desk. ‘I knew that somebody had been in here last night. The ledger was different. Things had been moved, interfered with.’
‘I came here,’ Prosper said, ‘with a certain person, an employee of this company who entertained certain suspicions about you. I couldn’t believe this because not only were you my great-nephew, but I could discern no motive. But I do now. You had a motive and, despite what you say, it appears you had the means.’
‘I did not steal from this firm.’ Carson advanced menacingly round the desk towards his uncle. ‘This so-called evidence has been manufactured to discredit me.’
‘Why should anyone wish to do that? Can you tell me?’
Carson stood upright and scratched his head. ‘No, I can’t. I am mystified that anyone could be so malicious ...’
He began to wonder about Frederick who, he had sometimes felt, was jealous of him, suspecting privilege from his family connections.
Prosper put the incriminating bills back into his pocket and, standing up, ran a hand wearily over his face.
‘Carson,’ he said, ‘I am an unhappy man. You are my sister’s grandson and I love you. Whatever you have done, I love you. I have supported you and spoken up for you when you seemed not to have a friend in the world. I was delighted when you decided to accept my invitation and came to London, and the improvement in your dear mother’s health has been noticeable. I would keep this from her now if I could, but I can’t. However, I wish to keep this matter in the family. It is not the firm’s intention to press charges. Julius Heering is au fait with the situation, and he agrees.
‘However, we cannot keep someone in the firm whom we do not trust. You are dismissed immediately. You will have to go home, and your parents will be informed, and that will be your punishment. Let us hope it is a lesson to you too.
‘As for marriage,’ Prosper swept a hand towards him, ‘as for marriage, you can put that out of your mind straightaway. My suggestion will be that you are sent abroad for a while, to cool your heels. Young man ...’ He advanced towards him until Carson could feel his breath on his face. ‘Many years ago your father worked in this very same room, doing a similar task. Your father did not like what he did any more than you, but he was honest...’
‘I am honest too,’ Carson cried, ‘and I demand justice. I am completely innocent. I never stole. I never have and never would. It is utterly alien to me. I demand to know who my accuser is, and how these trumped-up charges against me arose. And if I am not told ...’
‘Yes?’
‘I will go to the police.’
Prosper slumped into the chair again and crossed his legs, a hand dangling by his side.
‘If you do that, Carson, you will be very foolish. We shall have to produce our evidence, and it is damning. Were it not, I would say so. You will then be accused of embezzlement and tried in a public court of law.
‘I’m afraid the consequences for you would be ruinous. If found guilty as charged, you would without doubt be sentenced to many years in gaol, and yours and your family’s good name ruined forever.’
6
All England was mourning the sudden death of the King. Edward the Peacemaker was dead: good old Teddy. Certainly not perfect, and in many ways his life had been one of controversy, but King Edward had come to symbolise an era, though that would not be known for some time afterwards: the Edwardian age.
The event of the King’s death, however, did little to disturb the even tenor of life in the quiet Dorset countryside, or in the town of Wenham, where the flag flew at half-mast from the church tower. One or two people wore black, but not many. Edward, like his forebears, was largely unknown, and had certainly never been seen by the majority of his people.
> Bringing in the cows for milking, Carson Woodville did not have the death of the King on his mind, or even the declining health of his own mother, which had grown noticeably worse since he had returned home under a cloud. Once again Carson had failed his family, even though they were eventually spared the truth about his dismissal. His work was considered unsatisfactory; he was not suited to it. Immediately on his return he was put to work, in disgrace, on the Sadlers’ farm.
The cows climbed slowly up the track that led from the field to the milking-shed, taking their time. Some paused on the way to munch the succulent grass lining the banks and Carson, bringing up the rear with his sheepdog, thought that, in many ways, this was the kind of life he’d wanted, and he should be happy.
But no one could be happy, leaving under a cloud. Even three months later, his heart still burned with indignation at the injustice of his treatment. He brooded and speculated about the identity of the person who had planted evidence against him. One name leapt to his mind, but there was not a shred of proof.
Then there was the question of Nelly. He had left town too suddenly to explain why. He told himself that one day he would go back and find her.
But in time Carson began to wonder whether that would be a good idea. He had nothing to offer Nelly. He would fail in her eyes, as he had in his parents’. He would see those big round eyes filled with scorn instead of love. He couldn’t bear it.
Carson banished the horrible vision from his mind and pressed on up the hill. He drove the last of the cows into the shed and began to prepare them for milking. He tethered them in their stalls, observing that, as usual, Elizabeth the milkmaid had put out the stools and the pails for milking. Other cowherds would assist, and this was the time of day that Carson enjoyed.
He particularly enjoyed being near Elizabeth Yewell. He had known her all his life. Their paths had frequently crossed. She was the daughter of his Aunt Eliza’s servants, Beth and Ted, and with the camaraderie of the young, which eschewed class barriers, they had played together as children.
Yet Carson had not been aware of Elizabeth as a beauty until he had come to work at Sadlers’ farm, where she also worked as a milkmaid. Elizabeth to some extent helped Carson to forget about poor Nelly, to put her in perspective; in short, out of his mind.
The Sadlers had been established in the hamlet of Shepton for generations. They had originally been tenant farmers of the Barton family, who had owned the manor, the farm and a cluster of tiny houses. The Bartons had left fifteen years before, and Edwin Sadler, now seventy-eight, had bought his farm. He had not married until he was forty-five, and his bride was twenty-five years his junior. They had seven children, and the farm was now run by Tom and John Sadler. Sarah Jane, the middle daughter, had married Laurence Yetman.
John and Tom were also married and lived on the farm with their families. It was a large household, in which twelve to fifteen people regularly sat at the table for meals. These were presided over by Edwin, who went round the farm every week with his sons on a careful tour of inspection.
Carson had worked on the farm from time to time in the past. Tom Sadler was quite glad to have him back as he was a good worker, and he gave him a bunk and a warning to keep his mind on his work and not on the pretty young women around him.
Once the milking was under way, and a warm steam rose from the pails, these were collected and poured into large churns. The milk was then taken to the town, or turned into butter or cheese at the farm.
Carson, resting his head against the cow’s flank, was aware of a neat pair of ankles on the other side. He lowered his head until he could see the owner, although he already guessed it. Elizabeth, squatting on her milking-stool, was busily working at the swollen udders of the cow. Her long work-day dress had risen over the tops of her shoes and, for a while, Carson studied them, imagining how it would be with the dress much further up or, maybe, no dress on at all. The milk spilled over his pail, and the cow’s udder was flaccid in his hand. A carrier stooped down to take the pail and Carson wiped the animal’s udders with a cloth. Then he stood up at the same time as Elizabeth, whose task was also finished.
The cows, released from their full udders, began stamping impatiently for their reward, and the cowmen began to take them from their halters and lead them out to the shed where their feed awaited them.
Carson stood watching Elizabeth as she too wiped the cow’s udders, then he stared down at her hands as one of the men led the beast away. She turned, face flushed with her exertion, and saw Carson looking at her. His gaze made her flush even deeper.
She was twenty and, even though they had grown up together, she knew his reputation well enough. Her mother had urged her to be sure she kept well away from Carson Woodville when he came to work at the farm, and her father usually came to take her home, driving the trap the five miles to Shepton and the five miles back.
Carson wandered over to her and smiled.
‘Any chance I can give you a lift home today, Elizabeth? I am going to visit my cousin Laurence.’
‘No thank you, Carson,’ Elizabeth said offhandedly. ‘My father will be here shortly.’
‘Very well.’ Carson turned and took his jacket off the hook. ‘I’ll be seeing you, then.’
Carson walked out of the milking-shed and over to the bunk-house, where he flung himself down on his bed. He had a piece of straw in his mouth and he chewed it reflectively. He thought Elizabeth liked him, but pretended not to because, sure enough, she was bound to have been warned off him. He knew that Beth and Ted were protective, and whenever he visited Riversmead Elizabeth was kept well out of sight.
Yet when they were children, in the days when Eliza had lived there, they all used to play together: he and his sister Emily; Laurence, Dora and Hugh; Elizabeth Yewell and her eldest sister Jenny, her younger brother Jo.
The carefree, happy days of childhood were gone, and the age of awareness had brought awkwardness and embarrassment in their place: sex, the knowledge of good and evil.
Well, he, Carson, had taken his fill of that, and little good it had done him. In the eyes of the world he was a wastrel, a failure, and yet he knew himself to be a good man; maybe over-impulsive, passionate, but, especially since the death of his elder brother, eager to play his role as his father’s heir.
No one took him seriously, and in the eyes of the world, a wastrel and a failure he remained.
He knew how faint were his chances with Elizabeth, and he thought once again of Nelly and her sweet, trusting face, her dark, limpid eyes. He felt a lump come into his throat, because he had treated her badly. He determined there and then that as soon as he had some holiday, he would go up to London and try and find her. He had been fond of her, even imagined himself in love with her, and in his panic his behaviour towards her had been shameful.
Pleased with his good resolution, Carson got off the bed, went and sluiced his hands and face, and put on clean breeches and shirt, which was required by Tom’s wife, Ethel, who ran the domestic side of the farm with what some considered a rod of iron: little better than a strict boys’ public school, they said. Others conceded that discipline and regularity were important on a farm of such size, with the welfare of so many people and animals to consider.
Ethel and her sister-in-law and a maid did the cooking, providing three wholesome, nourishing meals a day: breakfast, lunch and dinner. They hardly had time to recover from one meal when the preparations for the next began. Each brother had three children, so that altogether there were six under the age of five, and their needs had to be seen to as well.
The evening meal was about to start in the huge farm kitchen, and Carson took his place next to Hettie, John’s wife, and a worker called Harold. Before him stood Ethel with a plate in her hand onto which she was ladling food, and as she passed his to him she gave him the sharp, fault-finding look everyone dreaded.
‘Carson!’
‘Yes, Mrs Sadler?’ he said immediately.
‘Are you going into the town
tonight?’
‘S’matter of fact, I am, ma’am.’
‘Then would you take Elizabeth? Her father has sent word that a wheel has broken from the cart. I said he could borrow one of ours until his is mended. You can take the cart with you and come back with the horse.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Carson felt his heart suddenly seem lighter as he tucked into his food. Then, looking round, he said:
‘Where is Elizabeth, Mrs Sadler?’
‘She’s waiting in the parlour. Her mother and father expect her for dinner, so you’d better hurry.’
‘Yes, Mrs Sadler.’ Carson began to gulp his food, much to the amusement of his fellows, some of whom giggled silently to themselves. A few minutes later he was ready.
‘Won’t you have pudding, Carson?’ Ethel looked at him in surprise.
‘Doubtless Ted and Beth will give me a bit of pudding, ma’am. I know they’ll be anxious to see their daughter home.’
Ethel smiled grimly and handed the dish to someone else. ‘And don’t be late back yourself,’ she said as he scraped his chair back from the table.
‘No, ma’am.’
She watched him as he went to the kitchen door and, as he closed it, said sotto voce to Hettie:
‘I think that lad is showing considerable improvement. Not so wild.’
‘He’s not what he was,’ Hettie agreed. ‘Something happened to him in London.’
‘Maybe it’s the worry about his mother.’
‘Whatever it is, he is at pains to work hard, to be seen to work hard and, above all, to behave himself. Certainly, the reputation he had would not be deserved now.’
As they started on their journey down from Bulbarrow, very few words were exchanged between Elizabeth and Carson. She seemed rather put out to find herself in his company and kept well to her side of the cart, a fact which Carson noticed.
‘You need have no fear of me, Elizabeth,’ he said, looking at her with a grin. ‘I know how to behave myself. ‘Sides, I’m too scared of your ma and pa.’
The Rector's Daughter (Part Two of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 12