It seemed a vain hope, she thought, getting stoically to her feet. Besides which, by then they would probably tell her she was too old.
Sophie returned to Wenham on a slow train which gave her plenty of time to think. In many ways the decision had not surprised her, and had left her with a number of hard alternatives. She took stock of her life in recent years.
In the first place, she considered she had achieved very little during her time at Wenham. She had not settled; she had not encouraged a man who wished to marry her, despite his worth, integrity and the undoubted honesty of his intentions. She had no money, no home of her own and, worst of all, she had not even set up a memorial to George. In this small, dying request she had failed him.
Maybe in her mind she had thought it would be the last thing she would do before she left to return to his burial place. In fact, how could she have gone back without doing it? Sometimes the task, quite a simple one really, seemed insuperable. It was as though, in some mysterious way, the hand of God had intervened to delay it.
Sophie arrived in Blandford and, although she had ordered a cab to meet her, she saw, with mixed emotions, that Mr Turner had arrived with his pony and trap, and sat looking expectantly towards the entrance to the station. He was, she thought, decidedly an agreeable man, and he had a pleasant smile of anticipation on his lips.
He got down when he saw her, and raised his hat.
‘Any luck?’ he enquired anxiously and, as she shook her head, he took her hand and helped her up into the seat beside him. ‘I thought they’d say “no”,’ he said when he had positioned himself beside her.
‘Well, you were right.’ Sophie avoided his eyes but gazed about her instead at the people in the streets, as Mr Turner set off at a brisk trot through the town. ‘It appears the fault is that I am not single, and I am not married. The responsibilities of my children preclude me from any activity in the mission field, that is, until the children are grown up, by which time they will probably tell me I am too old.’
Mr Turner, sensing her profound disappointment, said nothing, following the progress of his pony, who seemed to know his own way through the town which was much larger than Wenham. They passed the Crown Hotel and crossed the bridge over the Stour, turning to the right just after the imposing gates to the Portman estate at Bryanston. The pace slowed as the pony began to pull the trap and its occupants up the hill. A slight breeze had sprung up, and Sophie put her hand on her hat, grateful for the silence, for Hubert’s understanding presence, so that she could collect her thoughts.
It was just over two years since she had been met at the same station by the same man on her return from New Guinea. Now, as then, the countryside looked beautiful and inviting, the greens merging into the browns and golds of autumn, the leaves forming a thick carpet on the ground, the neat fields being prepared for sowing.
Yet the golden beach at Gumbago was just as vivid to her, and the sight of the pink coral shingle mixing with the fronds of the overhanging palms, the green of the granadillas and crotons and, as a superb backdrop, the splendour of the mountains towering towards the far-off Owen Stanley range. How small and inconsequential did the undulating hills of Dorset seem in comparison to these! She looked sideways at Hubert and observed that he too appeared lost in thought. He glanced at her and smiled. She felt comforted by his presence; he was an undemanding sort of person to be with, yet loyal, reliable and true.
She wished she could love him. How convenient it would be.
When they reached the cottage, Hubert jumped down first with her overnight case and extended his hand to help her alight. She put the key in the door and turned to thank him, but saw, from his expression, that he was going to accompany her inside.
‘Will you have a cup of tea?’ she asked, unpinning her hat and putting it on the table. It seemed only polite in view of the fact that he had met her.
‘I took the liberty of putting a jug of milk in your pantry,’ Hubert said, putting her case by the table. He seemed quite at home.
‘That’s very good of you, Hubert. You’re so thoughtful.’ She secured the pin in her hat so that it would not get lost, and stood looking at it, then at him. The atmosphere seemed charged with emotion in a way she had not anticipated.
‘You know ...’ Hubert paused and cleared his throat. She noticed for the first time how prominent his Adam’s apple was. ‘You know, I made an offer to you once. Maybe it was made too early, and you thought I didn’t mean it ...’
‘Oh, but I did.’ She sat down on the chair next to the table. ‘I judged it too soon after George’s death.’
‘And now?’ He looked down at her, aware of an almost irresistible impulse to take her in his arms. It was something he had never done to a woman; didn’t really know how to do. One of the many attractions of Sophie was that she would know, and would help him. ‘But Sophie, it is nearly three years since George ...’
‘I don’t want to marry you because I have no choice,’ Sophie burst out. ‘I don’t want you to feel you must marry me out of pity, or that I should marry you solely because of need.’ She gazed at the pin stuck in the hat, which seemed to mesmerise her. ‘I am poor, it is true, very poor, but that is only because I choose to be independent of my parents. I have my pride, you know. Besides,’ she looked to one side so as to avoid his gaze, ‘I don’t love you, Hubert. Not in the way I loved George.’
‘I don’t mind that.’ He made as if to grasp her arm but she moved quickly away from him.
‘There must be many women in these parts, Hubert, who would be glad to be your wife, who would make you a much better one than I.U
‘Oh no, Sophie there is no one like you, no one at all.’ Hubert stood with his arms stiffly by his side as though afraid, now, to move.
‘But I am much older than you, Hubert.’
That is no barrier. I love you and I want to take care of you, and your children. I believe a few years separated you and your husband. I have means above my stipend and I know I can make you very comfortable. The object of my life, next to the love and service of God, is your happiness. I wish you would give me the chance to prove it to you.’
It would be so easy to say ‘yes’. And why should she refuse? She liked him; in fact, she liked him very much. But it was not love. It was affection, respect, even admiration. Yet a woman who had known passion, the true union in flesh and spirit with a man, yearned for that experience again. However much she wished it, she knew in her heart that the Reverend Hubert Turner, good, pious, worthy man though he was, would never awaken her in that way; and yet she did not wish completely to burn her boats so, impulsively, her hand reached out for his.
‘Will you give me more time, Hubert? I need it, you know, to consider my position.’
Once more, unfairly perhaps, she had given him hope.
Sophie made tea, changed her travelling-dress, and then it was time to go to Pelham’s Oak to pick up the children. Hubert appeared encouraged by her reply and she thought that, indeed, he was a man of exemplary patience, of true Christian hope and optimism.
But they said very little on the short journey; and as the pony and trap bowled up the drive to Pelham’s Oak, the front door opened and Deborah and Ruth, as if they had been looking out for her, ran headlong down the steps towards their mother. They clambered onto the cart and flung themselves into her arms, and she burst out laughing with sheer exhilaration and happiness. The love of her children, and hers for them, was very precious. Better by far, she thought, hugging them close to her, than the love of man.
Sophie felt now that the future, if not settled, was not as bleak as it had been; that even if she did not love Hubert as she would have wished – as she had loved George – he was a friend; a good and true friend who would never let her down.
Hubert too seemed quite happy at the outcome of their talk, despite its inconclusive nature, and handing the reins of the pony to the groom, he followed her into the house with a positively jaunty air.
Arthur hovered i
n the hall. He had been devoted to Margaret and had not recovered from her death. She had given him his first job as under-footman, and he had served her for her lifetime at Pelham’s Oak, a span of thirty years.
‘I hope the children have behaved themselves,’ Sophie said, looking towards the door.
‘Oh yes indeed, madam,’ Arthur smiled. ‘Sir Guy is so devoted to them. He is a changed man when they are with us. He is waiting for you in the drawing-room, Mrs Woodville, and hopes you will stay for tea.’
‘I should be delighted to stay for tea.’ Sophie looked around at her companion. ‘Hubert? Have you the time?’
‘Well, if that is all right with Sir Guy?’
‘I’m sure it will be all right with Sir Guy,’ Sophie said briskly. ‘I was merely wondering whether you were in a hurry to get back to your parish duties.’
‘I have the time.’ Hubert held out a hand to Deborah, who clutched it. Sophie knew how much her children liked Hubert, but it was still not sufficient reason to marry him.
The door of the drawing-room opened and Carson came out, dressed for riding. He smiled politely at Sophie and Hubert.
‘Hello, Sophie. Father says you have been to London. Was it a successful visit?’
‘I came away disappointed,’ Sophie said with a sigh. ‘I was hoping to return to New Guinea, but it is not to be.’
‘If that’s what you wanted, then I’m sorry.’ Carson rather astonished her by his apparent concern. ‘But I know Father will be pleased. Ruth and Deborah give him such happiness. I, by the way, I have been teaching Deborah to ride. I hope you don’t mind. I think she will be very good.’
‘Oh, do take care, he is so small.’ Sophie looked apprehensive.
‘Don’t worry,’ Carson replied soothingly. ‘She has a natural seat on a horse, and is already quite accomplished, just like her Great-Aunt Eliza. Did you ever ride, Sophie?’
‘No, I never learned.’ Sophie’s tone was offhand. ‘But do take care with my two.’
She smiled at him and proceeded past him into the drawing room, where Guy was sitting in his chair close by the fire.
He was not an old man, not by any means, but he looked like one and, Sophie thought as she sat down by his side, behaved like one.
‘How are you, Sir Guy? How were the children??
‘My dear, they are never any trouble,’ Guy said. ‘I love having them. Carson has been taking Deborah riding.’
‘So he told me.’
‘Carson is so good with the children.’ Guy sighed loudly. ‘I wish he’d have some of his own. He is too irresponsible to settle and have a family, sweet boy though he is, and a comfort to me since poor Margaret died.
‘If Carson had an interest in this estate, how much more relaxed I should feel. Compare him to his cousin Roger. Now there’s a fine young man for you. I believe he is to be made a junior partner on his marriage, and he is not yet twenty-five.’
‘Is the marriage date arranged, then?’ Sophie asked with only formal interest.
‘I believe it’s to take place in London in the spring. Her family wanted it at their seat in Leicestershire, but St Peter’s, Eaton Square has been decided upon, as that is also near where the couple are to live. Prosper and his parents have bought Roger and Emma a most handsome house in Eaton Place as a wedding present. Ali, there is no shortage of money there.’ In his frustration, Guy banged his knee. ‘Now why could not Carson have been like that? Why did he have to be like me?’
The door opened and Arthur, followed by a maid, entered bearing the tea-things.
Although Margaret, the mistress of the house, was dead, the staff endeavoured to keep up her high standards. But though she had never been there when Margaret was alive, Sophie could not help noticing a slight sloppiness in the service, the fact that the sandwiches were not as wafer-thin as they would have been, she was sure, in Margaret’s time, or the cakes quite so light.
Sophie also thought that the uniforms worn by the staff were not so crisp or correct as they would have been in Margaret’s day. As for Guy, there was a stain on the front of his jacket that, even when she was very ill, Sophie was sure his wife would not have tolerated.
To Sophie, the great house and the people in it looked as though they had lost a woman’s touch.
‘Tell me about London, my dear.’ Guy, with a trembling hand, put his cup up to his lips. ‘Did you go to shop? Who did you see?’
Sophie put her arm around the legs of Deborah, who huddled up to her. ‘I have no means to shop, Sir Guy. I went with the object of seeing if I could return to my beloved missions in New Guinea.’
‘Oh, my dear.’ Guy unsteadily put his cup down. ‘Oh, don’t tell me that now, just when I am getting to know you. And the children ... my little grandchildren. They are almost all I’ve got left and are so precious to me. Don’t tell me you are even considering taking them away.’
‘Well, not now, Sir Guy.’ Sophie, who had never enjoyed any intimacy with him before, who had not so much as pecked his cheek, put a hand comfortingly on his arm. ‘I am going to stay here in Wenham for the time being, though I may have to seek a position to bring in money. My missionary society which sent George and me out to New Guinea would not have a single woman, a lone mother. Women completely on their own are acceptable as missionaries, and we have many great and good ones in the field; but mothers with young children ...’ Sadly, she smiled and shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not.’
‘I must say, I’m glad to hear it.’ Guy pressed her hand, and she felt a curious kinship with him.
‘My dear,’ he went on, ‘I have not been a very good man in my life. I did a lot of bad things when I was young, and I have been weak. I have tried to make up for it in recent years, but not always successfully. Your father was very good to me and I quarrelled needlessly with him; I was unforgiving towards you when you took George away; and now that I am a widower, and will soon be an old man, I should like to try and make up for the harm I have done. My dear Sophie ...’ he held up his free hand and waved it around the room ‘... I don’t know how long we shall be here, or what will happen, but it will give your father-in-law the greatest pleasure in the world if, while you can, you and the dear children would consent to live at Pelham’s Oak with me. To take your rightful place as George’s widow by my side. Would you do that, dear?’
At the other end of the room, almost unnoticed by the company, Hubert Turner put his head in his hands. Once more, when it was just within sight, he felt he had been denied his prize.
But Sophie felt momentarily overwhelmed. At last she was accepted, and acceptable; a Woodville not merely in name. Here she was, being invited to live in the family home; George’s home, where he had been born. Had he lived she would have been its chatelaine, and now she was to be its housekeeper, her purpose to take care of a bereaved, perhaps rather sickly man.
No matter.
‘Of course I will,’ she said. ‘Gladly.’
It was what George would have wished.
11
Guy Woodville, despite his age, his local eminence as the holder of a title over two hundred years old, always stood in some awe of his Uncle Prosper Martyn, his mother’s brother.
He was a man who had not only once given Guy the sack from the Martyn-Heering business, but had gone on to marry his discarded mistress, Lally.
All that had happened a very long time ago, and if Lally and Guy continued to feel uncomfortable in each other’s presence, at least they did not meet very often, and then always in a room full of people.
In time Guy had completely forgotten that, for him, she had once been the most precious object in the world, that he had held her in his arms.
The Martyns and the Woodvilles, despite the fact that their houses were only a few miles apart, saw one another infrequently. There was no particular need, especially since Margaret had died, and they had little in common.
Guy had been stirred slightly by the fact that Lally had adopted a foundling, and brought him to Dorset becau
se of her husband’s apparent disapproval. It made him think a little guiltily of the child that he and Lally had had, and whom she had shortly afterwards given away. Guy’s memory was conveniently selective about certain parts of his life, and he had whole areas of total amnesia.
Prosper called at Pelham’s Oak shortly after the Christmas and New Year festivals were over. He had put off an unpleasant task, not wishing to ruin that period of blessing for Guy and Carson, who were spending their first Christmas without Margaret, and their first with Sophie and her children.
Carson had been riding before his great-uncle arrived, and when he saw his chauffeur-driven motor-car process up the drive he dug his heels in his horse’s flank and cleared a fence with ease. He galloped across the field and then turned sharply back, to find that Prosper had alighted from his car and was standing, hands joined in front of him, watching Carson with every sign of approval. It was nice, even unusual, to see such an expression on his great-uncle’s face, and Carson halted before the fence, uncertain whether to jump it again and again turn round; but one dared not be rude to Great-Uncle Prosper. It would be tempting fate, and his father would be angry.
‘Hello!’ Prosper hailed him, his hands cupped to his mouth.
‘Hello!’ Carson called back and, tapping his horse, easily cleared the fence, despite the short distance. He then rode up to within a few paces of Prosper, who smiled a greeting.
‘You’ve a very fine seat on a horse, Carson.’
‘Thank you, Uncle.’
The young man jumped down as a groom ran up and took the reins from him.
‘Tell me.’ Prosper put an avuncular arm around his shoulder as they strolled round the side of the house towards the front. ‘Did you ever think of a career in the army?’
‘The army!’ Carson gasped, stopping for a moment to stare at the man beside him.
‘I’ve been thinking, and I have reached the conclusion that it would suit you, Carson,’ Prosper continued imperturbably. ‘The army is a fine career for a man. You’ve the spirit of adventure and you like the outdoor life. You could be sent abroad to all kinds of interesting places: India, Africa, any of the colonies. The British Empire circles the world. You’re a first-class horseman. I dare say we could buy you into a cavalry regiment, and your future would be made. What do you say?’
The Rector's Daughter (Part Two of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 20