‘You know!’ Guy looked at her in astonishment.
‘I know Elizabeth is really your daughter by Agnes Yetman. I have known for a number of years.’
‘You knew all the time and said nothing? Who told you? Eliza?’
‘No, it was not Eliza. It was common gossip that Elizabeth was your daughter, and I am more aware of what people say in the town than you realise. It is known that Ted and Beth treat her differently from their other children, and why. Now let’s not discuss it any more. No one now remembers; it all happened so long ago. But I know, and I forgive you. That is all. Besides,’ she gripped his hand and smiled grimly, ‘for many years now you have loved me as much as any mistress, and that is what matters.’
‘Oh, I did. I do!’ Guy exclaimed brokenly. ‘I have loved you, and only you, for years, Margaret. More than you will ever know.’
‘But I do know,’ she said with a quiet satisfaction, pressing his hand. ‘And that means more to me than you will ever know. It is one thing to love a man, knowing that love is not reciprocated. But to love and be loved is a different matter altogether. I have so much to be thankful for.’
But her face was weary as she closed her eyes, and Guy sat beside her silently weeping.
Part Two
Coals of Fire
7
Margaret Woodville died in her sleep almost three months to the day following the death of King Edward. She was found by her maid in the morning and, from the expression of sweetness and repose on her face, it would appear that, in her last moments, she had found contentment. She was only fifty-nine.
Margaret had achieved much in her life; but her personal suffering had been enormous. She had been a foreign woman, a woman from abroad, and it took many years for the people of Wenham to accept her.
Even then, she was never one of them, nor did she strive to be. She was not as grand as her mother-in-law, Henrietta, who used to make a stately progress through Wenham in her carriage, bowing to right and left rather like a member of royalty. She had also gone regularly to church, which the Calvinist Margaret never did. Margaret was married in the church and went there for the christening of her children and formal occasions like Easter and Christmas, until Guy fell out with the Rector, and then neither of them went at all.
And it was the same Rector who buried her, thirty years after he had married her.
The people of Wenham were a hardy lot, and many of them recalled that day as the hearse bearing the coffin was borne slowly past, pulled by four black horses. Fifty-nine was not old, and some of them, now in their eighties, had been middle-aged when the young Sir Guy rode out with his bride, not a beauty, not young, but wealthy. It was she who was to save the family fortunes.
The Rector of Wenham liked few things better than a good funeral. He felt such an occasion brought out the best in him, especially if the person to be interred was someone of significance in the community; and who more significant than Lady Woodville?
He had not known her very well, but that didn’t prevent him giving her the best funeral of which he felt himself capable. The choir rehearsed for days, he went over the order of service again and again with the Reverend Turner, and he burned the midnight oil over his sermon.
Above all, the Rector felt it was a chance to achieve reconciliation with the Woodville family. It was an occasion of social and political significance as well as a religious one.
It was a beautiful day for a funeral; a time when earthly cares are put away and the soul returns to its maker. The fields and hedgerows seemed bursting with life, the sky was of an almost Mediterranean, cerulean blue, and the sun shone down as a symbol of benediction.
The carriage wended its way from Pelham’s Oak, a sad funeral procession going at a snail’s pace, and Guy, his black top-hat on his knee, sat quietly weeping for the wife he had loved too late.
The Rector and Mr Turner, in black copes, greeted the funeral party at the church door, and Carson helped to carry his mother’s coffin down the nave to where it rested in front of the sanctuary, on a bier flanked by tall wax candles.
The choir rose and sang, most beautifully, a favourite air of Margaret’s: ‘How beautiful are thy dwellings’. When this was over, and after prayers, the Rector mounted the pulpit and gazed round at the mourning congregation.
“‘Who can find a virtuous woman? For her price is far above rubies.” The Book of Proverbs, Chapter thirty-one, verse ten.’
Theatrically he flung his arm, from which hung the black stole, across the lectern, and gazed around him with an expression which, in days of old, would have struck terror into the hearts of his congregation. But now he was an old man and he frightened them no more.
‘Dearly beloved, those were the words used thirty years ago when the marriage of Guy Woodville to Margaret Heering was solemnised before me. Never did I think she would predecease me...’ – there was a loud sob from Guy and Eliza’s arm stole round his shoulder – ‘... leaving a sorrowing husband.’
Mr Lamb tucked his hands into the sleeves of his surplice and gazed at the ancient rafters.
‘Margaret Woodville was a Dutchwoman. She came to us from abroad, but embraced these shores. She was not a regular member of our church, being a nonconformist, and thus I did not know her very well, but virtue shone from her and she made Sir Guy, who mourns her here among us, a good and loving wife.
‘She bore him three children and, alas, one is buried here in the family vault, another sacrificed his life for souls in New Guinea. George Woodville was my son-in-law, and today we praise him ...’
Sophie sat erect in the pew behind the Woodvilles: Guy, Carson, Eliza and her children and husband. On either side of her were Deborah and Ruth, their hands tightly clutching hers. They had last seen their grandmother the previous week, and they were too young to realise they would never see her again. To be sure, it was an awesome occasion, and they sensed its importance and majesty. They also knew that she was lying in the coffin because they had been taken to see her there: a waxen face with a slight smile on her lips. It was like a doll and not the grandmamma they had come to know and find a little hard to love.
Sophie listened, expressionless, to the eulogy that her father delivered on the woman she knew had been responsible for excluding her from Pelham’s Oak. A good woman? A virtuous one? That, surely, was a matter of opinion. ‘Her children arise up and call her blessed’? Two of them, as her father had said, were dead.
‘The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her’? That was true. Who would take her place now?
“‘Give her of the fruit of her hands and let her works praise her in the gates.” Amen.’
The Rector concluded his sermon and was pleased with its effect. Half the congregation was in tears: the sign of a good funeral oration. Satisfied, and with his Bible in his hand, he made his way creakily down the steps of the pulpit and joined Mr Turner in the sanctuary.
Sophie remembered George’s simple funeral in the mission chapel in New Guinea. It had lacked the full solemnity of this, and instead of the polished tones of a well-rehearsed choir, the half-naked natives had sung their hymns in pidgin English. She looked around her at the stained glass in the windows of the nave. There was still no memorial to George. Maybe, ironically, now that his mother was dead, there would be.
Suddenly the memory of New Guinea seemed to overwhelm her and she felt that George was physically near her. It was an uncanny feeling, an intimation of the supernatural, as though George himself had come to take his mother to the throne of God. Then, in her heart, Sophie forgave Margaret for what she had done to her.
Later as they all stood around the family vault, Sophie remained at the back. She would not have gone at all if it hadn’t been for the grandchildren, but would have remained in the church, thinking about George and his nearness. He was near no more, and she imagined him entering the crypt with Guy and Carson to lead his mother by the hand to God’s throne. Next to her coffin would be that of Emily, her little daughter who had di
ed when she was twelve. They were all united now. Sophie blew her nose hard.
People began to disperse. She too was about to turn away when Eliza detached herself from her husband and the little enclave made by the Woodvilles, and went up to her, bending first of all to say a few words to the children. Then she straightened and looked into Sophie’s eyes.
‘Guy would be very glad if you would come to the house afterwards.’
‘Oh!’ Sophie found it hard to conceal her surprise.
‘He really would. He would like to have asked you himself ...’
‘I understand,’ Sophie said. ‘I think maybe I shouldn’t.’
‘Oh please.’ Impulsively, Eliza took her hand. ‘The family would really appreciate it. If you could bring yourself to come it would be a fine Christian gesture, one that I think you will not regret.’
‘I’ll come then,’ Sophie said. Suddenly, once again, she was conscious of the presence of George telling her what to do. ‘Would it be all right if I rode with you?’
‘Of course. Gladly.’ Eliza seized her arm and began to walk with her to the cemetery gates.
Sophie had been to Pelham’s Oak about half a dozen times in her life, but not once since she’d been married. She could remember attending the party for the christening of Carson with her parents when she was about twelve.
Eliza and Julius took her and the children in their impressive Silver Ghost Rolls-Royce motor-car which made all heads turn wherever they went. Sophie appreciated Eliza’s kindness, but as soon as they arrived at the house Eliza fell automatically into the role of hostess, and Sophie soon found herself, in the general mêlée, on her own. The children, quite familiar with the house, had immediately run off.
Sophie felt lost in the crowd but, at the same time, was grateful for the anonymity it conferred on her. She wandered round the cream-and-gold drawing-room hung with portraits of generations of Woodvilles in different poses, most of them seeming to stare rather superciliously at the throng below. She had nothing in common with these ancestors of George, nor they with her. George had been a man cast in a different mould.
By now the room was crammed with mourners, all dressed, without relief, in black. There was a solemn, sepulchral feeling to the gathering, and Sophie began to wish she had obeyed her instinct and not come. She stood for a moment by the window and saw that, as at Carson’s christening, there was a marquee on the lawn for the estate workers, who were expected to drown their grief in beer, rather than the sherry or wine which was offered in the house, as well as tea and cold cordials. Beyond the marquee she could see Wenham and the tower of the church, where they had just laid Lady Woodville to rest.
Sophie turned, embittered by her thoughts. How peculiar it seemed to be in the house recently vacated by the deceased, and from which she had always rigidly excluded her daughter-in-law. Lady Woodville. It was a title that now she would never have. Not that she coveted it. Not that she coveted anything: the splendid house, the gracious grounds, the appurtenances of minor nobility.
In the distance she could see Hubert Turner and sensed that he was trying to make his way towards her. But he knew so many people that every few seconds he had to stop. Her father was talking to one group of people, her mother to another. It was only she, Sophie, who didn’t fit. She was the outsider.
She went to the long buffet table and asked for a cup of tea. Gravely a servant poured her a cup from a silver teapot and handed it to her. Next to her a man handed her a plate.
‘Would you care for a biscuit?’ he asked and, as she shook her head, he put the plate back on the table.
‘Thank you all the same,’ Sophie said, ‘but I’m not hungry.
‘I don’t think we’ve met.’ The man, in a black morning-suit, held out his hand. ‘Bartholomew Sadler. I’m always called “Bart”.’
‘How do you do, Mr Sadler?’ Sophie politely extended her hand. ‘I’m Sophie Woodville.’
‘Oh! You’re the Sophie Woodville.’
‘The Sophie Woodville?’ She couldn’t help smiling. ‘And you must be a relation of Sarah Jane.’
‘I’m her brother, the only one who doesn’t farm.’
‘And what do you do?’
‘I’m a stone-mason. I have a yard in Portland. In fact I wonder why I came today. I hardly knew Lady Woodville.’
‘I was thinking the same thing,’ Sophie said a little wistfully.
‘I thought you looked lost.’
‘Then you must know why.’
‘I never listen to gossip,’ Bart Sadler said softly. ‘Tell me why.’
She wondered if he was teasing her. He had rather a gaunt, stern face, like the pictures of Abraham Lincoln, a lofty brow and dark, piercing eyes.
‘I was married to George Woodville. My parents-in-law were not pleased with the match and this is the first time I have been inside this house for many years.’
‘I saw you with two children. They seemed to know their way around.’
‘They have frequently visited their grandparents.’
‘You must feel very bitter,’ Mr Sadler murmured.
‘Not at all,’ Sophie said vigorously. ‘Sad, but not bitter.’
‘Bitterness’ was a word that would get round the community, Sophie thought, far too quickly. She didn’t want anybody to realise quite how bitter she was.
Just then the crowd slowly parted to reveal Guy, leaning heavily on Eliza’s arm, coming slowly towards her with the shambling gait of an old man. Bart Sadler took her cup and replaced it on the table as Guy stopped in front of Sophie and took her hand.
‘My dear,’ he said, patting it. ‘It is so good of you to come.’
‘I was glad to come at last, Sir Guy,’ she said proudly, raising her voice a little so that people could hear.
‘My dear wife didn’t understand, you know. She didn’t realise. But I loved her ... so much.’
Guy dropped Sophie’s hand and, getting out his handkerchief, dabbed his eyes.
‘I quite understand, Sir Guy.’ Sophie realised that the eyes of most people in the room were upon her, watching, waiting, hanging on every word, sensing every reaction.
‘It is very good of you, very Christian,’ Guy emphasised. ‘Today is not the time for us to speak, but I hope you will come again.
Then, rather like a monarch making a royal progress, he moved away, and once again the crowd parted and re-formed like a mêlée of courtiers around the royal presence. Sophie stood watching him until he was completely obscured.
‘You did that very well,’ Bart Sadler whispered. ‘You mean, you haven’t spoken to him since you returned?’
‘This was the first time,’ she said with an air of triumph. ‘I understood it was Lady Woodville who opposed me, and it seems I was right. George always said his father was a very gentle man.’
‘You must feel most gratified.’
‘Gratified?’ Sophie looked at him with surprise. ‘You think I should feel grateful I am invited to his wife’s funeral reception? No, I should have been much more gratified if Lady Woodville had been a real mother-in-law; if I could have talked to her about her son. You would think a mother would like to have known how he had lived all those years away, would you not? How he died?’
‘I admit I find it strange,’ Bart murmured, taking another glass of sherry from a passing waiter. ‘But then I know nothing of the nobility, Mrs Woodville. I am just a very simple, ordinary man of the countryside.’
Miss Victoria Fairchild also gazed upon the scene from the safety of a window embrasure, Constance by her side. Constance had played the organ for the funeral ceremony, played it most beautifully, and people had gathered round, congratulating her. Constance gazed about myopically, peering through her steel-framed spectacles, as if she found the world a bewildering place and was only happy at the console of an organ. Had she been a little girl, as she felt, and not a woman, she would have clasped Miss Fairchild’s hand, but restrained herself by standing close to her; as close as she could get.
Constance had been orphaned when she was eight, and had been adopted by the kindly spinster, with whom she shared a love of music. John Yetman, Connie’s father, had shown great kindness to Miss Fairchild when the romance she had briefly enjoyed with his brother Christopher ended in sadness. Christopher Yetman had proved to be a bigamist and had vanished from her life.
Miss Fairchild and Connie had a good life together. Indeed Miss Fairchild, who had lived in the shadow of her parents until she was forty-five, could only be said really to have come alive after their deaths, which were close together. Each year the two women travelled to the Continent, walking in the foothills of the Alps or painting among the lakes in northern Italy. Constance loved to visit the continental cathedrals and sit in their darkened interiors listening to music.
Miss Fairchild was now seventy-five, but she looked very much as she had fifteen years before, when she had adopted Connie. She was a rather thin woman, of medium height, with a back she kept ramrod-straight; she had a kind face with features full of character, whose only real blemish was a scar on her lip caused by a cleft palate at birth. Miss Fairchild had always blamed the blemish for the fact that she had not married and had children of her own. But after she adopted Connie this resentment vanished, because she could imagine no daughter as perfect as her ward.
Connie was now twenty-three, myopic and decidedly plain. She was a person who was unconcerned about her appearance and, certainly, she would have considered it vain and stupid to try and be other than what she was.
By any standards she did not make the best of herself, and few had any doubt that her destiny was to follow the state of single blessedness that had been her guardian’s fate through life.
Miss Fairchild was sitting in the embrasure, drinking a cup of tea. She had been shocked by Lady Woodville’s death, although she had never known her well. She had been dubious about accepting the invitation to the reception, but she thought that Connie did not get out enough, did not mix enough in Wenham society, and to be seen at a funeral was better than nothing.
The Rector's Daughter (Part Two of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 14