‘Cut the cord, Mrs Brewer,’ he ordered the midwife as he wiped the blood off his arms. ‘That was a very near thing.’
Massie looked with some awe at the blood-stained creature lying on the towel between the legs of its mother, thrusting its tiny fists in the air as if raging against the unfairness of the world it had entered. Then she picked it up, tenderly wrapped round it the blanket the midwife had given her, and cradled it in her arms.
‘Nelly,’ she cooed, ‘you’ve got a dear little boy.’
But Nelly, poor Nelly, had fainted.
The Hills arrived at the Martyn home in Dorset at the end of what had been a most exhausting season. But even here little respite was offered, or expected. Lally had engaged extra staff to cope with the influx of visitors; vans full of fresh food and provisions arrived every day.
The mixture was the same as before, only it took place in the country instead of in the stuffy atmosphere of London. There were parties, dances, private dinners, lunches; picnics, when the weather allowed, to Bournemouth and Studland Bay; and visits to the many fine houses that the county boasted, for the Hills and Martyns between them knew almost everybody.
Lally adored house-parties and threw herself into everything with vigour. Not a detail was ignored. Nothing was too good for the Hills – for the girl who, she hoped, was to be her daughter-in-law. She liked Emma, and she could see that Emma liked Roger. She was even sure that Emma loved Roger, but not so sure that he loved her. What went on in Roger’s mind it was always difficult to know.
She tried to trap him into talking about Emma, but he was evasive. It was so hard to get him alone. He was forever on his way to this place or that, a golf club or a fishing rod in his hand, or perhaps a riding crop. He seemed to be always ascending and descending stairs, always on the run. The house was in a constant state of controlled turmoil. Not a minute of the day was free. It was almost as though no one wanted time to think.
Of course, the young people were encouraged to spend some time alone together, but not too much. Not long enough for anything to happen. They were sent off for walks, allowed to take a rug and a picnic-basket and be alone; but they were expected back within a certain time. One didn’t want one’s daughter compromised, although Lady Hill didn’t have to spell that out to Lally. It was quite obvious that she was an over-protective mother and that her daughter was, as everyone expected, a virgin. It would never do for Emma to slip up before the engagement was announced.
But when would that happen? The day for the Hills’ departure drew near, and the climax was to be a dinner at the house for close family and friends, followed by a dance.
If nothing happened then, nothing ever would. Emma’s parents, and Prosper and Lally, were slightly worried.
Twenty-two people sat down to dinner. It was a splendid occasion. The Martyns’ London chef, transported to Dorset for the important week, didn’t spare himself: Carpe à la Vrai Nivernaise, Cotelettes de Veau à la Lyonnaise, Chausson aux Champignons, La Flamusse aux Pommes. To drink, champagne, Château Latour-Pomerol, Muscat de Frontignon.
Extra party staff had also been engaged to supplement the regulars employed by the Martyns, and during dinner there was a constant coming and going, doors swinging open and shut, soft commands being authoritatively called by the butler, who had never had a night such as this.
The lace cloth on the long table was of finest Brussels, the overhead chandelier blazed with a thousand tiny pieces like minute diamonds; the Sèvres porcelain had been brought down very carefully from London, packed in boxes filled with straw, the silver was polished not once but twice until it dazzled. In an anteroom the small string orchestra, engaged for the dance that was to follow, played softly: airs by Schubert, Mozart, and some of the Romantics.
Roger and Emma sat next to each other, heads occasionally together as they exchanged some comment, clearly at ease in each other’s company, knowing each other well. People could hardly take their eyes off them, and the atmosphere accordingly was charged with expectation.
All the relatives were there: Eliza and Julius and Dora, but not Hugh, who was travelling on the Continent; Sir Guy, Carson, Sophie, her parents; some Martyns from Bournemouth, several big-wigs. There was a sprinkling of young people, friends mostly of Laurence, Sarah Jane and Dora.
Dora, attractive, elegant, rather aloof, always seemed the odd one out at these occasions. She sat next to her cousin Carson and, as they invariably did, they talked about horses.
Carson, along the table from Emma, thought she was enchanting.
‘Roger is a lucky fellow,’ he said to Dora.
‘You keep your eyes on me and your mind on horses,’ she murmured with a smile. ‘You know your reputation.’
‘Oh, I’m sure Roger would fight for his bride,’ Carson said derisively. ‘Now, where were we ...?’ But he still kept glancing at Emma, surreptitiously, all during the long, long dinner.
Sophie sat on Roger’s left and, after she had complimented him quietly on Emma, she turned to her neighbour, who happened to be, whether by change or design, Bart Sadler.
‘So, we meet again,’ she said.
‘Isn’t it fortunate?’ He gave a sardonic laugh and raised his glass. ‘To you, Mrs Woodville. You look very handsome tonight, if I may say so.’
‘Thank you.’ She lowered her eyes but did not blush.
After all, she was perfectly in command of herself. He was a charmer, but she didn’t intend to let him get the better of her by flattery.
However, after that bold and unexpected start he seemed completely to dry up, and applied himself to the succession of delectable delicacies on the plates set before him.
Sophie decided he was taciturn, unused to small talk. He was a powerful man, undeniably attractive. She saw Hubert Turner, sitting next to Eliza, looking at her from the other side of the table, and she smiled, trying to indicate with an imperceptible shrug of her shoulders that she’d rather be next to him. Her father was talking to the wife of the Bishop of Salisbury, and her mother to the Bishop.
‘This is the smartest occasion I have ever attended,’ she observed to Mr Sadler, trying hard to find something to say.
‘Really? I suppose it is very grand,’ he agreed. ‘Too grand, perhaps.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Well, as you say, it’s not the sort of thing we’re used to. I’m not, anyway.’ He looked down at his pristine evening dress and smiled. ‘I had to buy a new suit.’
Sophie put her napkin to her mouth and giggled. ‘And I had to have a new dress made.’
‘See?’ He seemed pleased by her admission. ‘All this expense, for what?’
‘They are hoping for an engagement.’ She put her mouth very close to his ear. ‘Roger and Emma.’
‘Oh!’ It appeared he had not known this. ‘I hope they will be very happy.’
‘I’m sure they will be. She seems a very nice girl, and everyone is devoted to Roger.’ Then she paused, and as her neighbour apparently had no comment to this, said: ‘I think you told me you were a stone-mason, Mr Sadler.’
‘Yes, I am, a humble stone-mason, quite out of place here, as a matter of fact. But I do some business with Prosper Martyn, so I suppose that is why they asked me; and Laurence is my brother-in-law, and I often find that where he is asked I’m asked too. That is one of the few privileges of being distantly related to a Woodville.’ He gave her a sly glance and she thought he was laughing at her. She made no reply but looked along the table. Sir Guy – well in his cups, having been allowed too much champagne before dinner – was ogling the wife of the mayor. The mayoress, however, felt perfectly safe with Prosper Martyn on her other side. Anyway, when did a little harmless flirtation harm anyone? She was polite to Sir Guy, being careful not to give him any ideas.
‘Forgive me if I return to what you said some moments ago, Mrs Woodville,’ Sadler jerked Sophie’s attention back to him, ‘but you mentioned that I was a stone-mason, and I felt there was some reason for the remark.’
‘I am anxious to have a memorial to my husband before I return to New Guinea.’ She paused and then gave a deep sigh. ‘It was hoped to have a stained-glass window in the church, but this has not yet been possible.’
‘Why is that?’ At last a look of interest replaced the boredom in Mr Sadler’s rather fine, brown, hooded eyes.
‘Oh, this and that,’ Sophie said casually.
‘But your father is the Rector.’
‘It’s not just a question of where to put it, but ...’ She paused, as though wondering how to proceed. ‘A stained-glass window is not a simple matter. It is to do with colour and design, then where to put it, and so on.’ She knew she now had his complete attention-and took a sip of wine from her glass. ‘It is also, alas, to do with cost. I wondered,’ she went on very quickly, ‘if a monument made of stone ...’
‘Would do as well?’ Bart put his elbows on the table and joined his hands beneath his chin. ‘I should think a monument of the finest Purbeck marble possibly superior to a stained-glass window, though, of course, I’m prejudiced. As for the cost ... I really can’t say because Purbeck does not come cheap.’
‘Of course not.’ Sophie, flustered, looked at the custard pie which had just been placed before her.
‘But please don’t let that put you off.’ Bart felt in the breast pocket of his evening jacket and drew out a card which he gave to her. ‘Please do get in touch with me and I can show you my yard, some designs, what I have to offer. And ...’ he smiled at her, ‘how much it would cost.’
‘That is most kind.’ Sophie gratefully slipped the card into her evening bag. ‘I will be in touch with you very shortly.’
‘But tell me.’ Now Bart’s eyes were not bored at all but enlivened by a look of genuine curiosity. ‘Do you really intend to return to a godforsaken place like New Guinea?’
‘Indeed I do.’
‘For good?’
‘Maybe.’ She stared at him. ‘I have a vocation to be a missionary and I feel I must carry on the work of my late husband.’
‘Very commendable.’ Mr Sadler drew out a clean white handkerchief and pressed it to his brow. ‘Will your children go with you?’
‘Of course.’ Sophie looked surprised.
‘Do you think it is right, Mrs Woodville, to bring up children in a foreign land so far from home?’
‘Why not? Other missionary families have children. They usually all go to school in Port Moresby and are well looked after, I can assure you.’
‘And yet your husband died of tropical fever?’
‘It can happen to anyone, but in his case his illness was neglected. I assure you, our children are very well taken care of.’
‘But supposing it should happen to you, did you think of that? And if you died, your children would be orphaned. Tell me, do you think that’s fair?’
Sophie, who had been aware of a growing sense of irritation, found it turning into indignation. What business, after all, was it of this man, almost a perfect stranger? The intimacy of his questions annoyed her, and abruptly she turned to engage the attention of Roger, as Emma was talking to Laurence Yetman on her other side.
At that moment, however, Prosper tapped the table and, rising, proposed a toast to the monarch. ‘His Majesty King George the Fifth,’ he said, raising his glass.
‘The King, God bless him,’ voices intoned, and everyone in unison raised their glasses to their lips.
‘If the ladies would like to leave the table,’ Prosper said, looking around, ‘the gentlemen may care to smoke.’
Lally rose with a smile, giving a signal for the women to leave their chairs and follow her from the room.
Prosper watched them go and, as Roger turned to take a cigar from the humidor being passed to him by a servant, Prosper leaned across the seat that the dowager Lady Mount had vacated between them.
‘You may go too if you like,’ he said encouragingly. ‘You may like to accompany the ladies. One lady in particular, I mean.
‘But I prefer to smoke a cigar, Uncle Prosper,’ Roger replied nonchalantly.
‘What is the matter with you?’ Prosper said angrily. ‘You know that the purpose of this party is ...’
‘Unfortunately, you make it very obvious,’ Roger replied, taking a cigar and carefully examining the tip.
‘Well ...’
‘Maybe later.’
‘I can’t understand you.’ Prosper angrily shook his head.
‘And I can’t understand you. What, after all, is the hurry?’
The other men who remained at the table found it difficult to pretend they were not listening, so, rising from his chair, Prosper said to the assembled company: ‘Would you excuse us for a moment?’ and beckoned to Roger to follow him from the room.
Roger looked as though he would ignore his uncle, but in the end, aware of the eyes upon him, reluctantly got up.
Once outside the dining-room door, Prosper closed it and walked along the corridor, which happened to be empty, casually placing his arm through Roger’s.
‘Now, Uncle, what is it?’ Roger sounded bored and rather tired. ‘Why the fuss? Leaving guests in the middle of port and cigars ... what will people say?’
‘My dear boy,’ Prosper said, changing his tone completely and pressing Roger’s arm, ‘you like Emma, don’t you?’
‘Very much.’
‘Well then.’ Prosper stopped, disengaged his arm and looked into Roger’s eyes. ‘When will you pop the question? They have been here nearly a week. You have seen her almost constantly, every day, for most of the autumn season.’
‘That doesn’t mean I’ve got to marry her, Uncle.’ Roger tried to make his voice low and reasonable.
‘What!’ The stud fastening Prosper’s collar nearly popped from its socket. ‘My dear Roger, you haven’t led her up the garden path, have you?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘Well, if this is your attitude, people will think you have. Only today the admiral and I were discussing a settlement.’
‘That’s very generous of you, if a little premature,’ Roger murmured.
‘Premature?’ Prosper raised his voice again. ‘How long do you need to court someone?’
‘Some people take years, Uncle. I have scarcely known her six weeks.’
‘Well, you can be pretty sure that if that is your attitude, sir, you will lose her. She has a number of young men eager for her hand, and willing to declare themselves in far less time than it has taken you!’
‘I can understand that,’ Roger said. ‘She is a most attractive girl.’
‘Then let it be you.’ Prosper prodded his immaculate shirt front sharply with his finger. ‘Let it be you, Roger. You will not find a nicer girl in England, or a nicer family. You’re at an age to marry, and so is she.’
‘She is only eighteen, Uncle.’
‘That is the right age. There you have a wife you can form, who will not cause you trouble, who will look up to you and respect you, who will let herself be guided by you completely. It is a good start in life. Moreover, you are extraordinarily fortunate in that she is an heiress. When the admiral told me the scale of her fortune, I was astonished. You will never have to worry about money in your lives, either of you. I can’t tell you how lucky I think you are, Roger, and what I, and your aunt, expect of you is that this night you will do your duty and make us all very, very happy.’ He stepped back, his head on one side, and looked critically at his heir. ‘Now, what say you, Roger? The chance may not come again, certainly as far as Emma is concerned. If they leave tomorrow and you have not proposed, that will be the end of it. You will not meet on these terms again. The admiral has made as much clear. He called it “trifling” with his daughter, and I assured him that was certainly not the case, you were wildly in love. Now, what do you say?’
Wildly in love ...
Roger leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. If only it could be so. His mind raced back across the years and he saw the house in the mean
street in Kentish Town, the large bed which he shared with his adoptive brothers and sisters. He heard the snores of his adoptive father coming from the room next door where, after returning as usual too drunk to mount the stairs alone, he had been helped up to bed by the boys. He smelled the stench of cabbage cooking in the kitchen, the slightly putrid aroma of decaying vegetables in the alleyway outside the back door, laced, sometimes, with the stink of stale urine from a passing drunk or the countless stray cats who proliferated in the area.
He recalled, oh how vividly, his ill-fitting clothes, his own whiney voice, the permanent drip that seemed to hang from his nose, the socks with holes, the shoes a size too big, usually, or too small.
He glanced at his legs and admired the fine cut of his evening trousers, the sparkling white of his shirt. He glanced at the gleaming golden cufflinks that had been a twenty-first birthday present from Lally, and he inhaled the aroma of the Havana cigar between his fingers, the pungent fragrance of expensive cologne on his skin.
Yes, indeed, it seemed a small price to pay to be rid of the old memories.
‘Very well, Uncle,’ he said at last, opening his eyes. ‘I will do what you say.’
‘Oh, my dear Roger.’ Prosper moved towards him and clasped him emotionally in his arms. ‘I can’t tell you how happy I am for you. My profoundest congratulations and best wishes to you, darling boy. I don’t think this is a decision you will ever have cause to regret.’
9
The matron of the Lady Frances Roper Home was a Mrs Bland, a capable but rather unimaginative woman, well into her fifties. Whether there ever had been a Mr Bland was not known; also she appeared to have no children of her own.
Mrs Bland had been a midwife at the home for many years before she was appointed matron. The home owed much of its reputation for cleanliness to her, and certainly, in her book, cleanliness came before compassion, and probably before godliness as well.
The Rector's Daughter (Part Two of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 17