But more than this was the happiness of living in the house where George, husband and father, had been born, and which, had he lived, he would have inherited. That now would fall to Carson, but Sophie accepted the plan, the will of God, and had no unchristian sense of jealousy or envy. She felt that, until such time as Guy died, she would be happy in Pelham’s Oak.
She had a bedroom and sitting-room on the first floor. Next to her were the children’s rooms – they had the luxury of one each – and the room for their nursemaid. Then there was the schoolroom, freshly painted primrose. At the end of the corridor was Guy’s room and study, and on the next floor Carson’s. The servants occupied quarters in the attic, except for the groomsmen and gardeners who slept in outbuildings above the stables.
Sophie relished her role as housekeeper, and she was good at it. She was thorough and meticulous, used to giving orders and being obeyed, but in a way that was not obnoxious to the servants. She was pleasant, without allowing them to think of her as an equal. For all that, she was not very popular; she was too exact and exacting. In many ways she was herself a worthy successor to Margaret who, had she overcome her prejudice while she was alive, would have deeply approved of her daughter-in-law.
And what of Mr Turner? The more Sophie settled in at Pelham’s Oak, the less did he consider his chances. His trump card had been that she had need of him, but now that was true no longer. He continued to call and hope, but his hopes appeared to have waned.
Hubert Turner was a man almost weighed down by goodness. He was so nice and so good, so correct about everything that he could have been an obnoxious bore, the tedious sort of person that people avoid.
But no one did; everyone liked him and sought his company. He was not boring; he was jolly and intelligent, an active type who even played football.
However, it was not surprising that his nature, together with an overwhelming appreciation of the presence of God, had decided him from youth to be a priest. It was a decision he had never regretted.
Hubert was the child of rich and indulgent parents, the only son in a family of five daughters, and on the death of his father he inherited everything, as was normal. This did nothing to hinder his vocation, except to render him the antithesis of the impoverished clergyman of fiction. If he had a weakness – for it could not be called a vice – it was that he liked the good things of life.
He liked fine food, vintage wines, Gothic churches, and the comfort of grand hotels on his many holidays abroad. Above all, he appreciated beautiful women, though he had never had a love-affair or ever been in love.
Because he was a parson, and Connie Yetman was deeply religious, it was thought that they would suit. Yet this was far from being the case. On the contrary, Hubert Turner did not admire shy spinsters like Connie, but striking women with minds all their own, and as soon as he met Sophie he was attracted by her. As well as her physical good-looks, he was attracted by her age and experience; but above all, perhaps, by the fact that she’d been married.
Sophie sat at her desk in her sitting-room, from which she conducted the affairs of the large house. She was thinking of undertaking a complete process of redecoration, and had been in consultation over this matter with the bailiff, a man with whom she sometimes crossed swords as their paths overlapped. Invariably, in their battles, she won.
She looked at her watch and saw that it was nearly time for tea, which she usually took with her father-in-law, either alone or with Carson. The children had nursery tea and then spent an hour in their grandfather’s company before going to bed.
Sophie finished making the neat list of questions she wished to discuss with Ivor Wendor, the bailiff, and then looked around her pretty room with a deep sense of satisfaction. This had once been Eliza’s room, and was at the end of the house with a view across the fields to Wenham. The lights were beginning to come on in the little town, and the landscape had that crepuscular aspect of mist and shadows that was somehow inviting and mysterious, but made one grateful at the same time to be indoors.
She had had the room, and the bedroom next door, decorated to her own taste when she moved in, with pretty wallpaper and cretonnes. It had an open fire and two easy chairs on either side, a table, and the desk at which she worked. On the wall was a bookcase full of her own books, mostly works of devotion. Many of them had once belonged to George, and in them he had inscribed his name. There was, in addition, a prie-dieu where she knelt every night and morning to say her prayers, usually with the children, but sometimes to meditate on her own.
That strong and abiding sense of God that had sent her to the far-off mission fields had been sorely tested, but had never completely left her.
She rose from her desk, her notes in her hand, and switched off the main light, leaving the lamp burning on her desk. Before she left she drew the heavy velvet curtains and placed a guard round the fire; then she went out of the door and along the corridor to peep into the playroom, where nursery tea was in progress. The nursemaid got up and bobbed, and Ruth and Deborah also rose, greeting their mother respectfully.
‘Please sit down, dears, and get on with your tea,’ Sophie called out. ‘I am going to see Grandpapa, after which you may come down and play with him for a while. I believe he has a nice story to read to you tonight.’
‘Oh Mama, may we have Jonah and the whale again,’ Ruth called out excitedly, clasping her hands, while Deborah shook her head just as emphatically but had difficulty in getting out the name of the story she wanted.
Sophie smiled at the nursemaid and gently closed the door, walking to the head of the stairs, where she paused a minute, looking around as if to savour the feeling of the house, the particular thrill it gave her.
Pelham’s Oak, home of the Woodvilles for nearly three centuries. Yes, she did belong here every bit as much as the children. It was their home, and now it was hers too.
When she reached the drawing-room, Guy was already helping himself to tea.
‘I’m sorry I’m a little late, Father,’ she said, closing the door and, going up to him, kissed him lightly on the top of the head.
Guy was an affectionate man, as she had discovered soon after she had taken up residence. He liked to touch, to kiss and be kissed. He loved fondling his grandchildren, sitting them on his knees and patting their chubby legs.
Sophie, brought up by undemonstrative parents, was normally reserved in her show of affection; but in her desire to please Guy and be accepted by him she had overcome this, and now found it quite instinctive to respond warmly to her father-in-law, and she had quickly agreed to his suggestion that she refer to him as ‘Father’.
Guy had once been a handsome man, but he was so no longer. He was overweight, and the self-indulgence he had enjoyed all his life showed only too plainly. But he was a lovable man, in Sophie’s opinion, a good man; and in the time she had lived here, not only had she become fond of him but she thought her feelings were reciprocated.
She too helped herself to tea, selected a cake and went over to the fire, drawing up her chair opposite Guy.
‘Is Carson not joining us today, Father?’ she asked, raising her cup to her lips.
‘Carson has gone to Blandford,’ Guy replied. ‘He has to see about something. I’m not sure what ...’
‘Father.’ Sophie leaned over and passed him her list. ‘I thought we should start to think about redecorating the house. Some of the paint is actually peeling in the ballroom. I ...’
Guy showed no interest in her list, took it from her but didn’t even glance at it.
‘Later, dear,’ he muttered, and put it on the table by his side.
'But it is important, Father. You don’t want ...’
‘My dear Sophie, I have a lot of things to think of at the moment. Redecoration is the least of them.’
There was something about the tone of his voice – a truculence, an irritation – that disturbed her deeply and, putting her cup and saucer down, she attempted to retrieve the list so that it didn’t get bur
ied under a mass of papers, pipes and tobacco pouches, and all the paraphernalia with which Guy liked to surround himself.
‘Are you not well, Father?’ she asked anxiously. ‘You don’t seem yourself. Should I call Dr Hardy?’
Guy passed a hand wearily over his brow, and she could see the pain in his face.
‘Sophie, Dr Hardy can do nothing for what ails me.’
‘Then can I help?’
He looked across at her and reached for her hand. ‘My sweet girl, my dear daughter-in-law, how truly fond I am of you. How good you are to me, and what a misfortune it was that my dear Margaret was unable to appreciate your goodness.’
At the mention of Margaret’s name his eyes once again filled with tears and, extracting a handkerchief from a pocket, he began to dab at them. Today, however, his sorrow seemed deeper than usual; there were real, prolonged tears, and Sophie sought desperately to think of a reason for his melancholy. Relatively speaking, he was a young man; but he had not taken care of himself and had allowed himself to age. Sometimes he looked as old as the Rector of Wenham, who was twenty years his senior.
‘I do feel there is something wrong, Father.’
‘Yes, there is.’ He ponderously nodded his head. ‘But nothing, alas, that you can do anything about.’
‘But could you not tell me?’ By now she was thoroughly anxious. ‘Is something else amiss with Carson?’
‘Oh no,’ Guy managed a smile, ‘that dear boy is a much reformed character, intent on helping his papa as much as he can. However,’ – Guy dabbed at his eyes again – ‘I fear it is too late. Much too late.’
Suddenly there was a disturbance in the hall, the sound of doors opening and closing, and voices.
‘I think Carson has returned.’ Sophie raised her head, but when the door opened it was Eliza who stood on the threshold, in the act of drawing off her gloves.
‘Eliza!’ Guy said, struggling to sit upright in the chair into which he had slumped. ‘My dear, what ... ?’
‘I came as soon as I could, Guy.’ Eliza rapidly crossed the room. She still had on her coat and hat, and a servant hovered uncertainly at the door. She paused to greet Sophie, then she called out to the maid to shut the door. ‘But your coat, madam?’
‘I’ll keep it on for the moment, until I get warm,’ she said. ‘I shan’t be staying long.’ Then she turned to Guy while removing her hat, and threw it on the sofa.
‘Why did you not tell me, Guy?’
‘Tell you? Tell you what?’ Guy looked puzzled.
‘About the house. I only heard today, a few hours ago, in fact. I came straightaway.’
‘The house? This house?’ Sophie sat upright in her chair. ‘Something has happened about the house?’
‘Oh, so you don’t know either?’ Eliza sank to her knees beside Guy. ‘Why do you keep these things to yourself, Guy? Sophie is here to help you. I am here to help you. We are the people you love and who love you. Why not confide in us?’
‘Confide. Confide what?’ Sophie, seriously alarmed, stood up. ‘Will you have tea, Eliza?’
‘I’d love a cup,’ Eliza replied. ‘It is absolutely freezing in that motor, even with a rug over one’s knees.’
‘Did you drive yourself?’ Guy looked doubtfully out of the window. ‘It’s pitch dark.’
‘No, my chauffeur brought me. He knows the way blindfold. He is now in the kitchen, getting some warm tea inside him. Thank you,’ she said, taking the cup and saucer from Sophie. ‘I’m absolutely incensed by what I heard, Guy. I had to come and see you at once.’
She looked across at Sophie, who appeared to be at a loss and stood gazing at her.
‘I’m sorry, Sophie. You must be bewildered. Naturally, I thought you knew.’
‘I know nothing except that your father is obviously very unhappy, and has been for some days. I wondered if he were unwell ...’
‘Guy has been advised to sell Pelham’s Oak,’ Eliza said. ‘Margaret’s will left him nothing ...’
‘I cannot believe it.’ Sophie sat down quickly again.
‘Pelham’s Oak, our home for three centuries,’ Guy intoned. ‘Carson’s inheritance. It is all he has, poor boy.’
‘There is nothing for the upkeep.’ Eliza perched on the arm of Guy’s chair and put her arm around his neck.
‘But I thought this family was very wealthy,’ Sophie stammered. ‘I was about to bring up again the question of a suitable memorial to George.’ She stressed the word ‘suitable’ in case Eliza remembered that the deconsecrated chapel had not been considered suitable.
‘The family is very wealthy,’ Guy stuttered. ‘The Heerings and the Martyns, Carson's blood relations, are millionaires many times over; but I, also a close relation but not by blood, am a pauper, and they make sure they let me know it. I was raised a gentleman and I have remained one. I could never stoop to commerce, whereas they thrive on it.’ He raised his eyes with an expression of distaste.
‘It’s absolutely monstrous.’ Eliza bent to kiss his cheek. ‘I had sharp words with Julius today.’
‘And what did he say?’ Guy looked hopefully at her.
‘I saw a Julius I never saw before.’ There was a note of sadness in Eliza’s voice. ‘I saw a man who has made a fortune in the City several times over; but I also saw a man lacking in compassion, who was a stranger to me: a stranger and a disappointment.’
‘He gave you no hope?’ Guy shook his head wearily.
‘I haven’t finished with him, nor have I begun on Prosper Martyn,’ Eliza said spiritedly, and then she paused. ‘But I don’t hold out very much hope. The trust was drawn up by Julius and Margaret’s father Willem who, as you know, thought you spent too much money when you were young, Guy. He said you dissipated Margaret’s fortune. He didn’t want that to happen again. I am sure he didn’t mean to leave you without the means to live or maintain the house after his death. After all, your children were his grandchildren too. And I am quite, quite sure that Margaret wouldn’t have wanted it.’
‘Margaret would have been horrified,’ Guy said. ‘She loved Pelham’s Oak and wanted it for this family, her family.’
Sophie had listened carefully, her expression one of intense shock.
‘And can nothing be done?’
‘Well, obviously we have not exhausted all possibilities.’ But Eliza’s expression was not hopeful. ‘I do believe my husband to be adamant. He and Prosper have obviously thought the whole matter over very carefully. It is not an impulsive, ill-considered act; nothing they do ever is. Had Carson proved more satisfactory in the business ... Unfortunately,’ she bit her lower lip, ‘not only was he not a success, but they believe that he was a thief.’
‘I do not believe that,’ Guy said firmly. ‘Carson, a foolish boy in many ways, is not a thief. No Woodville is a thief. The idea is scandalous. Someone wanted to get rid of Carson and manufactured evidence against him. Some clerk, somebody who wanted to better himself no doubt, or who was jealous of Carson’s family connections. That’s what he thinks, and I agree. A proper enquiry should have been instituted, but the Heerings and Prosper Martyn were too eager to think ill of my boy.’ Sadly he shook his head. ‘It hastened Margaret’s end. I am quite sure of that.’
‘They think there is no future in Pelham’s Oak with Carson either,’ Eliza said. ‘They know Guy has never been interested in estate management, and Carson will be no better.’
‘But Ivor is an excellent bailiff,’ Sophie exclaimed. ‘I do battle with him, but it is only in your interests.. If anything can work, he will make it work.’
‘But it is not the same as capital,’ – Guy looked sadly at her – ‘and we have none; no savings, nothing. The kitty is empty.’
‘All they have is the house,’ Eliza nodded in Sophie’s direction, ‘and many acres of land, the farms and cottages on the estate. When realised, the sum will be sufficient to keep Guy in comfort well into his old age and maybe leave something for Carson too ...’
Sophie went over to the
fireplace and remained there for some time, gazing thoughtfully down at the flames.
‘And what of me?’ She did not look round. ‘Me and my children? We did not ask to come here, we were invited. Shall we so soon be made homeless again?’
Eliza went up to her and slid an arm round her waist.
‘Dear Sophie, you are so good and kind. You have been unlucky, and also badly used. I am sure there will be money put aside for you, enough for a little house. But you see, I myself have no money. Julius is most generous with me and I want for nothing, but he gives me an allowance which is sufficient for clothes and my small personal needs. Anything larger I have to ask him for. It would be gladly given, but it would never be enough to keep Guy.’
‘Of course, I am not his family,’ Sophie said with a note of bitterness. ‘I am only a Woodville by marriage. I am the daughter of a clergyman who has only ever had enough for his own needs.’
‘We will always look after you,’ Eliza assured her. ‘A house will be found for you on the estate.’
‘Is that fair to the wife and children of the man who would have succeeded his father had he lived?’ Sophie protested. ‘Is it proper?’
‘My dear, we all have to make sacrifices.’ Guy’s voice had begun to tremble. ‘Besides, it has not yet happened. Carson has gone to Blandford to see a man who might be able to assist us.’
‘Assist? How?’ Eliza opened her eyes wide.
‘He is a money-lender of some description ...’
‘No!’ Eliza thumped the table next to her. ‘You must not borrow money. With no income, you will never be able to repay it. You must keep out of the hands of money-lenders ...’
The Rector's Daughter (Part Two of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 24