‘I say,’ Carson said, falling again into step beside his uncle, ‘that I have never thought of it and, frankly, I don’t think I ever would.’
‘Oh come, Carson.’ Prosper’s hand again clasped his shoulder as they entered the house. ‘Don’t make a decision too rashly. Think about it.’
‘I would hate the discipline, Uncle.’ Once more Carson paused as they were about to enter the drawing-room. ‘I hate being told what to do.’
‘Don’t I know that.’ Prosper laughed a little grimly. ‘But I think it would do you good. You would have every chance of succeeding in it, of making a name for yourself before the time came to inherit. What do you say, Guy?’
Guy, hearing voices, had come to the door and took Prosper’s outstretched hand.
‘Say to what?’ Guy enquired amiably, looking disapprovingly at his son’s jodhpurs and riding-boots. ‘I do think you might have changed, Carson,’ he said tetchily. ‘You know Sophie gets most concerned about muddy riding-boots in the hall.’
‘I wiped them.’ Carson looked unconcernedly at his feet.
‘Sophie, ah yes.’ Prosper looked approvingly around him. ‘I can see her influence already. Nothing like a woman’s touch.’
‘She is an excellent housekeeper,’ Guy murmured. ‘She has transformed the place, and brought the servants to heel in no time.’
‘She’s a martinet,’ Carson said, but his expression was benign. ‘However, it is an improvement; a bit like having Mama back: meals on time, beds made, that sort of thing.’
‘A man can’t run a house, you know, Prosper.’ Guy went over to the sideboard and removed the stopper from the whisky decanter. ‘Carson and I were floundering until Sophie came to live with us.’
He poured generous measures of whisky into three glasses and handed one each to Prosper and Carson, keeping one for himself. ‘However good a butler, the servants take advantage over you, which they never dared with Margaret. No, Sophie is a blessing.’ He sat down, crossing his legs, and looked at Prosper. ‘She is also a very nice, sensible young woman. Now that I know her better, I cannot say that I blame my son for marrying her. My opinions have decidedly changed in that direction. And justice has been done,’ he added as an afterthought. ‘We should not have behaved towards Sophie as we did; but my dear wife was adamant ...’ He fumbled in his pocket and, shaking his head, drew out a large handkerchief. Both his companions knew what to expect. As soon as Guy mentioned Margaret’s name, his eyes filled with tears. He gave his nose a hearty blow before stuffing the handkerchief back into his pocket again.
That little ceremony over, Prosper put his whisky-glass to his lips, aware of a feeling of unease. As a rule he had a reputation for not mincing his words, and he relished it. Straightforward, outspoken – people knew where they were with Prosper Martyn. But ... on this occasion he found his task peculiarly difficult. These were his nephew and great-nephew, not strangers met in the course of business.
He thought he would start obliquely. ‘We were saying as we came in,’ – he casually crossed one leg over the other – ‘that a military career might not be a bad thing for Carson.’
‘A military career?’ Guy’s eyes boggled. ‘And how long do you think Carson would stand that, or they would stand Carson?’
‘Exactly what I said, Father.’ Carson looked gratified. ‘Beggars can’t be choosers,’ Prosper said severely.
‘How do you mean exactly?’ Guy, sensing Prosper’s unease, felt increasingly ill at ease himself.
‘Carson has no job and you, Guy, I’m sorry to say, have almost no money. I don’t think you can possibly realise how very grave your situation is. Margaret’s fortune, or what was left of it, has reverted to the Heering estate.’
Guy sat staring at Prosper, his mouth hanging open.
‘All of it?’
‘All of it, I’m afraid.’ Prosper uncrossed his legs, then re-crossed them. ‘You may recall that when you were newly married her father formed an opinion about you: you were too profligate with your wife’s money, having none of your own. He rearranged her affairs into a family trust. Each of your children would receive a small portion when they were twenty-one, and you and Margaret would be able to live comfortably on the rest.
‘It has taken us some time to work it all out.’ He raised his glass to his lips and finished his whisky. ‘But that is how matters stand, I’m sorry to say.’
‘I had no idea that Margaret’s money would not come to me on her death,’ Guy said. ‘And, I’m sure, nor had she. I consider it most unjust, as that undoubtedly would have been her wish.’
‘I’m sure it would have been,’ Prosper agreed. ‘But it is not what happened. What her father did many years ago is irrevocable. The Heerings, I may say, have a very different attitude from mine. I would have released some money – an annuity, say – but they will not. The leopard cannot change its spots, and you would soon whittle it away, Guy. Neither do they have any confidence in Carson after what happened in the City.’
‘I was not a thief,’ Carson said, roused by anger to his feet. ‘Was not and am not. Someone did what they did to get rid of me ...’
‘Well, we won’t go over all that ground,’ Prosper parried. ‘I haven’t come to talk about the past, but the future. All I can say is that it is a pity that what happened happened, that’s all. If, on the other hand, you were seen to be taking an active, constructive part in the management of the estate, Carson ... But you are not. It is all suffering from neglect.’
‘I do what I can,’ Carson said grumpily. ‘I wasn’t trained to manage estates.’
‘Well, you could find out,’ Guy said, leaning forward and poking him with his finger. ‘All you do all day is ride horses and drink in the local public houses.’
‘You’re always picking on me,’ Carson shouted. ‘Whatever I do is wrong. It’s unfair. I cannot be something I am not. I am not a businessman, I am not an administrator ...’
‘And you do not want to be a soldier? Not even try?’ Prosper’s tone was one of sarcasm.
‘I can hardly bring vast sums of money into the family on a soldier’s pay,’ Carson objected. ‘I believe it costs more to be in the army than to be out of it. Polo ponies can cost an awful lot of money. Mess bills are enormous. I should need a large allowance.’
‘I was thinking of a career,’ Prosper snapped. ‘Of serving king and country. Whatever happens to the house and estate, you will be provided for if you buy a long-term commission. And you would be expected to work, not play polo all day.’
‘What do you mean, “whatever happens to the house”?’ Guy’s mouth remained open in shock.
‘Dear Guy.’ Prosper thrust out his legs before him and folded his arms across his chest. ‘Your only asset is this house, and believe me, it is an asset. You have farms, cottages, and two thousand acres. There are many men in the City whom the prosperity of our times has made supremely rich. It is new money, and most of the men who have made it are socially inferior to the Woodvilles. But they aspire. They would love to own a country house and all that it entails. And they have the means. You would get a very good price for Pelham’s Oak, a price which would enable you to live in comfort for the rest of your life.’
‘And where would that be, may I ask? Since I would have no home.’
‘Well ...’Prosper produced some documents from his inside pocket and proceeded to unfold them.
‘Oh, so it’s all been worked out, has it?’ Carson sneered. ‘We might have known the groundwork would be done, Uncle.’ Then he turned to Guy. ‘Careful, Father, that they don’t bamboozle you with figures.’
‘There is no intention to deceive,’ Prosper said coldly. ‘Our only idea is to help. Having said that, however, we see no reason to bail out with our money a man rich in assets.’ He looked around him. ‘You have pictures and other pieces in this house that alone could raise several hundred, maybe thousands of pounds. I assure you that the Heerings and the Martyns, having a close interest in the welfare of this fam
ily, have gone into the details with great care. As your brother-in-law, Julius, in particular, has put in a vast amount of work. Naturally, we have the well-being of the Woodville family very close to our hearts. Now see ...’ He spread the papers on his lap and pointed with a finger. ‘You have a very fine farm at the boundary of your estate, Guy.’ Prosper then vaguely turned towards the window in a south-easterly direction. ‘It is at present put over to beef-farming and makes a profit. It has a very nice Georgian farm house with four bedrooms, drawing-room, dining-room, study. It is let to Farmer Phelps, but he is very old and his sons are not interested in farming. We have reason to believe that he will be happy to retire to a cottage on the estate, so that we can take over the house to make a comfortable home for you, Guy. After all, you are unlikely to marry again, are you, and if Carson does the sensible thing I have suggested ...’
‘Why am I unlikely to marry again?’ Guy demanded. ‘You were not so young when you married Lally. Do you suppose me to be past it, Prosper?’
‘Not at all.’ Prosper remained unrattled. ‘And if there is a lady fortunate enough to become the new Lady Woodville, I shall be among the first to congratulate you Guy, you can be sure of that. It may be that she would also find the commodious nature of Low Farm sufficient for her purposes. I dare say Sophie, who has come from a tiny cottage, would feel quite at home again too.’
During his uncle’s speech Carson had moved over to his father’s side and sat down next to him, as if to lend him support.
‘And if Father or I do not do the things you suggest, what then? It is, after all, asking us to make a substantial change in our lifestyles.’ He chuckled. ‘You have certainly been most thorough, Uncle. Oh, I can see all those overworked clerks in Threadneedle Street beavering away on facts and figures – not a stone left unturned.’ Prosper looked at him coldly and then, as if ignoring his remarks, went on:
‘If you do not agree, you are, I am afraid, on your own. The family, having done its best to help you and, as you say, worked very hard, will naturally feel it can do no more. We may even have a purchaser interested in Pelham’s Oak among our clients: a wealthy financier, a friend of the late king, who advised him on several financial matters.’
‘Oh, adding interest to altruism, Uncle?’ Carson chided. ‘What’s in it for you?
Prosper looked at his watch and stood up. ‘I do not propose to take any notice of your offensive remarks, Carson. I assure you, we as a firm are quite above mercenary transactions of that nature. Despite your sarcasm, you can have no doubt of that.’
Victoria Fairchild, though in many ways as upright and vigorous as ever she had been, and in good health and spirits, was nevertheless seventy-six years of age. She worried a good deal about her adopted daughter, Connie, and what would become of her after she died.
In the opinion of most people in the town, that time was undoubtedly a long way off. But one never knew. Sometimes people were struck down without any warning, and the older one became, the more one felt the cards stacking up against one. Any little pain or creaking joint made one conscious of the passage of time and its ultimate end.
Not that Miss Fairchild had not made every provision for Connie who, in any case, had inherited a house and a fortune of her own from her father, John Yetman. Her inheritance had been carefully invested by the same solicitor who took care of Miss Fairchild’s own not-insubstantial inheritance. Thus between them the two ladies were worth a considerable amount of money.
It was not, however, so much about Connie’s material wellbeing that Miss Fairchild was concerned, but about her emotional happiness. She would have liked Connie to marry; to have that kind of close, personal union with a person of the opposite sex that she herself had never had.
Once she had come near to it. Her heart had almost been broken by Connie’s uncle, Christopher Yetman, a fine, strapping, swashbuckling, wicked character who had kissed her on the lips. Once. It was the one and only time in her life it had happened.
Christopher had subsequently spent seven years in gaol for bigamy, and then he had disappeared to the other side of the world, never to be seen or heard of again.
But Miss Fairchild never forgot Christopher, or that brief moment of passion in the back of the haberdashery shop she used to own in the main street of Wenham. Despite the silence, the passage of years, she did not doubt that, if he appeared on her doorstep or at her garden gate, she would feel now as she had then, thirty years ago, before Connie was born, and she would welcome him as though he had never left.
To her, Connie was the daughter she and Christopher might have had. Connie was a Yetman and she looked like one; the same blood that had flowed through Christopher’s veins flowed through hers. It made her thus doubly close.
People often wondered how much Miss Fairchild’s devotion to Connie was due to the fact that she was Christopher’s niece, because, of course, her relationship with Christopher had been part of Wenham folklore; like the elopement of Eliza Woodville, and the marriage of the Rector’s daughter to Sir Guy’s heir.
Connie was by now twenty-four. She had straight brown hair without the slightest kind of a wave or a curl in it. She was myopic, and wore unbecoming steel-framed glasses. She even had a very slight suspicion of a squint. Above all, she was shy to the point of incapacity. It almost amounted to a real physical handicap. The one place where she didn’t blush continually was in her home, and even then, if someone unknown came to the door she went as red as a beetroot and rushed for cover. For her to go to parties or mix with crowds was an agony.
Connie’s shyness was a blight; it diminished her enjoyment of life. The only time she ventured outside was to creep down to the church to practise on the organ, and then scuttle home again as fast as she could. She was never seen in the shops, at fairs or any other social events unless she was in the protective custody of her aunt. In fact, if it had not been for her playing in church and the occasional recital, she would scarcely have been known at all, except as a recluse, a hermit, a creature of mystery.
Miss Fairchild fretted about Connie; but what could she do? The child – she always thought of her as a child – said she was happy. She made no complaints. She wanted nothing more in life than her music. If Miss Fairchild had been bold enough to mention the subject of men, Connie would have sunk beneath the floor. It would simply not have done.
On a cold January day in 1911 Miss Fairchild was sitting in front of the fire when her maid entered to say that Mr Potts was on the telephone. Not many people had telephones in Wenham but Miss Fairchild was one of them. She liked to keep up with business, with the stock-market and world affairs. She read the Daily Mail every day and knew what was happening. It was quite natural that a woman with such modern attitudes should own a telephone.
She heard the voice of Mr Potts, her solicitor, crackling over the wire. He wished to come and see her.
Was it trouble? She sounded worried. He assured her it was not trouble, but the very opposite. In fact he sounded most excited. Miss Fairchild suggested Mr Potts should come that afternoon, and returned to her sitting-room with a frown on her face. Mr Potts rarely displayed emotion of any kind, and she couldn’t help a feeling of mild agitation over the purpose of his visit.
Connie had heard the wobbly bell of the telephone, and came downstairs and into the sitting-room with her sheet music under her arm. The Messiah at Christmas had gone very well. The soloists were almost professional, the choir had been strong. It had made Mr Turner, who acted as choirmaster, rather more ambitious, and they were considering The Creation or, maybe for Lent, Mozart’s Requiem.
‘Who was that on the telephone, Aunt?’ Connie asked, flopping down by Miss Fairchild’s side. Truthfully, telephone calls were a rare event.
‘It was Mr Potts, dear. He wants to come and see me.’
‘Not any trouble, I hope, Aunt?’ Like Miss Fairchild, Connie was a pessimist.
‘He didn’t sound as though it was trouble.’ Miss Fairchild sounded dubious. ‘But I’m wor
ried, all the same. Europe is in a very unsettled state, Connie. Trouble in the Balkans. Trouble in Russia. The noise made by the suffragettes here does nobody a favour.’ Miss Fairchild sniffed disapprovingly.
‘Do you not think women should have the vote, Aunt?’ Connie had never before properly considered the matter.
‘Of course I think they should have the vote! A woman is just as good as a man; as a businesswoman, I know that well. We are able to look after ourselves and manage our debts as well as any man; but this is not the way to go about it, provoking public disorder. It will only put back their cause, not advance it. Now, Constance dear.’ Miss Fairchild made a visible effort to put aside her worries and smiled. ‘What plans do you have for the day?’
‘I am meeting Mr Turner this afternoon, Aunt, to discuss performing Haydn’s Creation at Easter, following our success with The Messiah.
‘Meeting? Where are you meeting him?’ Miss Fairchild asked anxiously.
‘Why, at his house, Aunt.’ Connie seemed surprised. ‘Then we are going to the church to run through the score.’
Miss Fairchild was a clever embroiderer, president of the Ladies’ Guild, and she and the ladies were working on the church vestments, replacing them one by one. It was to be their gift to the church, and she herself was embroidering an exquisite cope to be used when the new Rector was presented to the church, whenever that should be. Miss Fairchild sighed.
Now she laid aside her embroidery and took off her spectacles. ‘You must be very careful, you know, my dear. Mr Turner is a single man, and it would not do to be seen too frequently in his company. People might consider you flighty.’
‘Aunt!’ Connie said in a shocked voice. ‘Whatever are you suggesting? Who could consider me flighty?’
The Rector's Daughter (Part Two of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 21