She left the house at about five and, on an impulse, continued her journey into the town. There was just time to make one last visit. She stopped her pony and trap outside Hubert’s house and, tying the reins to the garden fence, opened the gate and walked up the path. The door opened before she reached it and Hubert stood there with a welcoming smile, as if he’d been waiting for her.
‘Sophie, how very good to see you! What a lovely surprise. I happened to glance out of the window and saw you. Have you come to see your parents?’
‘I’ve come to see you,’ she said, taking his extended hand. ‘I have just heard about your extraordinarily generous gesture. I can’t thank you enough.’
‘Gesture?’ Hubert ushered her into the sitting-room, fussing about to make sure she was comfortably seated. ‘What gesture?’
‘That there is to be a subscription to the memorial window for George, and you are the first to have subscribed. One hundred pounds! It is most generous of you, Hubert.’
After she was seated, Hubert clasped his hands behind his back and stood in front of the fireplace where, as it was summer, there was a bowl of flowers in a large urn instead of a fire.
‘You know, my dear Sophie, that I was prepared to pay for the window entirely.’
‘Yes, I know.’ Nervously, Sophie studied her hands. ‘But there were conditions, were there not, Hubert?’
‘No. I wanted to marry you then, and I still do, but it was not a condition, Sophie.’ As she was about to speak he held up his hand and, hastening across the room, sat down next to her. ‘I want to marry you, as much now as I ever did. I have waited a long time and have respected your reticence. I realised that at first there was the memory of George, and then you wanted, quite rightly, to look after your father-in-law after the death of his wife.’ Hubert joined his hands together as if he were in prayer. ‘How I admired you for that. How my love and admiration for you increased.’ He lowered his gaze, and his eyes, full of love, fastened on her. Here was a woman who could have had all the comforts he could offer, and yet sacrificed herself for others. ‘I realise Sir Guy is not easy, and your position has been a difficult one. But now, my dear, the time has come to think of yourself. Pelham’s Oak is to be sold and Sir Guy is off to live in Germany. Once more you will find yourself cast penniless on a hostile world.’ Suddenly he reached out and seized her hand. ‘Dearest Sophie, believe me when I say that the passage of time has only increased my ardour. Now I feel I may speak again and ask you to be my wife. Dare I hope that you will say yes?’
Sophie was conscious of Hubert’s hand in hers, and her lack of response. She had a mental image of the strong, confident hand of Bart Sadler as he reached out to help her over the stones in the mason’s yard. How reassuring his presence had been! She knew, now, that he liked her, and she knew that she more than liked him. She had lied to the Yetmans. Yet it was, she thought, a very little white lie to pretend she was not interested in a person whose own intentions were obscure. It was a way that any woman would take to protect herself. But she knew, oh how she knew, that she had thought of very little else since that day; his face, his presence, his voice and above all his personality obsessed her. Could it possibly be ... was it love?
And Hubert was so good. Goodness shone out of him, whereas with Bart one wasn’t sure. She imagined that what she admired in Bart was not his goodness, but something else. She had been married, and she knew quite well what that something was. Bart was a strong man in the way that neither George nor Hubert were strong. She knew that she felt the heavy pull of carnal desire and wondered if it was evil in the sight of God.
If only poor Hubert Turner had known the thoughts – base ones, too – churning over in her mind, what would he have thought? It was really quite comical to be thinking of one man while being proposed to by another.
And how good Hubert was. How nice it would have been to have loved him. Everyone would have approved, but she was too honest. As it was, she suspected that no one really approved of Bart, which made her sensual feeling for him more bold, more dangerous.
She composed her features as best she could and gazed solemnly at her father’s curate, gently releasing her hand.
‘You do me a great honour, dear Hubert. I am deeply sorry to have to refuse you yet again, but you know I have a strong desire to return to the missions. The sale of Pelham’s Oak has unsettled and decided me. It is a call from God and I feel I cannot reject it.’
‘But you can’t go.’ The expression on his face was agonised. ‘You know you can’t go. You were turned down.’
‘I was turned down with children,’ she said gently. ‘But that was a while ago. The children are older, I am stronger. I have written to another society and I hope that, if I can offer myself as a single woman, they will accept me ...’
‘But the children?’ Hubert sounded desolate.
‘The children will be in good hands. They will be sent to boarding-school, and in the holidays the Yetmans have very kindly consented to look after them. I believe I shall have leave every two or three years. Dearest Hubert,’ she reached out to press his hand, ‘it is a call to which I feel I must respond.’
Hubert bent over her hand and for a moment she thought he would kiss it. She suddenly felt wretched and guilty. She was lying. If God called, and if Bart called ... She wondered to which one she would respond.
She felt like a woman cast suddenly into sin, resorting to lies and wracked by feelings of desire and lust ... but not, alas, for the good, kind man, the representative of Christ on earth, who held her hand.
***
Dear Mrs Woodville,
I am very sorry to tell you that, with reference to your recent application, the board decided, most regretfully, not to call you for interview.
This decision was taken on the most practical and compassionate of grounds, having in mind the age of your children and their need of a mother. Despite the deposition of Mr and Mrs Laurence Yetman that they would be prepared to act as guardians in your absence, to give them a home during holidays and see to their well-being, we do not feel we are justified in taking on the responsibility for the possibility that, as a result of our decision, your children might one day be left orphaned.
Believe me, dear Mrs Woodville, we think that God is asking a greater sacrifice of you than serving Him in the mission field, and we send you our blessing.
Yours devotedly in Christ,
Tristram R. Painter (Rev.)
Sophie let the letter flutter to her lap and sat for some minutes gazing out of the window. It was no less than she had expected.
But also, as the days since her application passed, she had begun increasingly to think that rejection was what she really wanted; and yet how would God reject her plea and leave her open to an occasion of sin?
For the thoughts she entertained were sinful and, maybe, that was why He had rejected her.
She had fallen, indeed, from grace, and in His wrath God had taken her faith from her.
Sophie picked up the letter again, read it through slowly and then, crossing the floor of her room, hurried down the grand staircase to where she knew Guy would have removed to his seat near the fire which was kept going winter and summer.
There Guy would sit for hours, gazing unseeingly at the embers. She knew that on his mind was the thought of leaving his home, and this dread, this fear, seemed to have brought him to the brink of senility. Perhaps after all he might not be fit to travel abroad and, housed in some kind of special dwelling, would need a nurse and companion?
She shuddered at the thought that the duty might be hers.
Sure enough, he was just where she had expected. Only this time he was sitting upright, reading the morning paper; a pile of letters, mostly bills, lay unopened in a heap by his side.
‘Good morning, my dear,’ he said as Sophie entered the room, her own letter in her hand. ‘Did you sleep well?’
‘Yes thank you, Father.’ She drew up a chair by his side and, reaching out, he took her hand.
&
nbsp; ‘How lucky you are, my dear, how fortunate to have the gift of sleep. It eludes me these days, with all the worry. The trustees are adamant I should accept the offer of this upstart, Mr Lightfoot, because my own nephew will not make up his mind.’
Mr Lightfoot. The apparently flippant name always had a deadening effect when uttered at Pelham’s Oak.
Negotiations had been edging forward for Laurence to indicate an interest in the purchase of the estate, and thus keep it in the family, when this hitherto unknown would-be purchaser had appeared. Mr Hector Lightfoot had lately returned from the West Indies, where he had made a fortune in sugar and tobacco. He wished to buy a large estate in the West Country, with the object of flaunting his newly acquired wealth. Or, at least, that was what Guy unkindly supposed.
‘Of course I need not sign with Lightfoot,’ Guy said stubbornly. ‘It is my house. I can refuse. Only he offers cash.’
‘But would it be wise to wait, Father? Laurence has still not signed his contract to build the factory. That may have something to do with it.’
‘Of course he will sign it. Even then he cannot approach the figure offered by Mr Lightfoot.’
‘And Eliza can do nothing with her husband?’ Sophie enquired.
‘Eliza is beginning to discover that the man she married is a mean-minded Scrooge – which I, of course, knew all along.’
‘Oh, surely not.’
‘A hard-headed man of business and nothing more. I worked for him, don’t forget.’
He looked menacingly at Sophie when there was a knock on the door and Arthur put his head round.
‘Come in, come in, Arthur.’ Guy beckoned to him amiably.
Arthur entered the room and, with a conspiratorial air, closed the door carefully behind him.
‘What is it, man, for goodness’ sake?’ Guy asked irritably. ‘You act like a cat-burglar.’
Arthur crossed the room, bowed to Sophie, and then approaching very close, said to Guy:
‘Miss Fairchild is in the hall, sir.’
‘Miss who?’ Guy frowned.
‘Fairchild,’ Sophie said. ‘Connie’s guardian.’
‘Oh, Miss Fairchild.’ Guy’s face cleared. ‘What on earth does that dear lady want?’
‘She appears rather agitated, Sir Guy. Maybe it is because she has called on you unexpectedly and is afraid you might be annoyed.’
‘Miss Fairchild has called on me unexpectedly?’ Guy appeared more bewildered than ever. ‘Go and see what she wants, Sophie. Doubtless collecting for some good cause or other. Tell her I am engaged and give her a shilling. No, better, sixpence seeing we are so hard up.’ He began to feel in his pocket as Arthur cleared his throat.
‘Miss Fairchild said explicitly, Sir Guy, that she wished to talk to you on a matter of some importance.’
‘Just arriving like this? Who does she think we are?’
‘Father,’ Sophie put a hand on his arm, ‘perhaps you should see her. After all, she is a person of some consequence in the town. It must be something very important for her to come like this.’
‘She said she wouldn’t detain you more than a few moments, sir.’
‘Oh very well,’ Guy sighed, ‘show her in. But say I am extremely busy ...’
Sophie rose as Arthur left the room. ‘I had better leave you alone with Miss Fairchild, Father ...’
‘Nonsense, you stay here and see what she has to say. And then make sure she goes.’
‘Oh, Miss Fairchild.’ He rose to his feet as she was shown into the room by Arthur, and ambled across the room all affability, hands outstretched. ‘How nice to see you. How good of you to call.’
‘Oh, Sir Guy,’ Miss Fairchild nervously clutched his hand, ‘I do apologise for this interruption. It is not the way I normally conduct my business, I assure you. But what I have to say is of such a delicate nature that I wished to delay it no longer, especially as I understand something very serious, very important is about to happen.’
‘And what is that?’ Guy took her arm and led her over to the chair next to him, vacated by Sophie who stood smiling at her.
‘Good morning, Miss Fairchild. I was just about to go and leave you with Sir Guy.’
‘Oh no, do stay.’ Miss Fairchild appeared more agitated and flustered than ever. She was not at all her usual self. ‘I am sure you might be able to help, Sophie. To give us the benefit of your good advice.’
‘Advice?’ Sophie found it difficult to hide her own bewilderment. ‘Are you in trouble, Miss Fairchild?’
‘In trouble?’ Miss Fairchild clutched at a navy-blue straw bag she had on her lap as if she needed it for support. ‘I am in no trouble, Sophie, I assure you.’ She turned to Guy, who was looking at her with some bewilderment. ‘I felt you were the one in trouble, Sir Guy.’
‘Oh indeed, I am in trouble.’ Guy flapped a hand in her direction. ‘But I don’t think you can help me, Miss Fairchild, alas.’
Miss Fairchild put a finger to the livid scar, where as a child she had had an operation for a hare-lip, and rubbed it thoughtfully. Sophie wondered if it still pained her, or maybe she did it unconsciously.
‘I think I may be in a position to help you.’ Her voice now had a tremor in it. ‘This is why I am here. I am, however, at a loss how to begin. It is a matter of some delicacy.’
‘Well, do say what you have to say, Miss Fairchild.’ Guy looked at Sophie for support.
‘Begin at the beginning,’ Sophie said encouragingly. ‘Come right out with whatever it is.’
‘It is this.’ Miss Fairchild’s courage returned and her voice assumed its customary timbre. ‘Together, Constance and I are worth well over a million pounds.’
‘A million pounds,’ gasped Guy.
‘Yes. I say so with some pride, as my parents’ origins were very humble. They were storekeepers, and worked hard all their lives. When they died they left me a considerable sum of money for those days, and the freeholds of two properties: the shop in Wenham High Street and the house where I live. I invested most of the money and it produced a tidy income, but recently some shares my parents purchased many, many years ago increased in value ten-fold. They were for a South African gold mine long thought to contain no gold. However, recently the precious metal was found, and in abundance.’
‘That is splendid news, Miss Fairchild, and believe me, I am very glad for you. But if by coming here so kindly your purpose is to offer me a loan,’ Guy gestured helplessly in the air, ‘I am afraid I am quite unable to accept it. I could never pay you back, my dear lady. I am utterly broke and have to sell my house.’
‘I know that, Sir Guy. I am not here to offer you a loan.’ Miss Fairchild’s voice grew more and more excited. She moved to the edge of her seat and clutched her bag so hard that her knuckles turned white. ‘I know you have to sell this beautiful mansion, this home of the Woodvilles, to a parvenu, a common creature utterly unworthy of such a prize.’
‘Utterly,’ Guy agreed, surprised that she knew so much.
‘Therefore,’ Miss Fairchild began to gabble, ‘I am here to offer the hand of my ward, Constance, in marriage to Carson. In that way I believe you will be able to keep this house. And I hope you will consider dearest Constance not unworthy of the honour of one day being its chatelaine.’
There followed a silence as Sophie and Guy tried to digest the implications of what she had said.
‘I believe the two young people are fond of each other.’ Miss Fairchild felt her uncertainty returning as the minutes passed and nothing but a stunned reaction seemed to be forthcoming. ‘Otherwise I would not have suggested it. I am not trying to buy love and position for my ward. But on the occasions when I have seen them together they seemed, if not enamoured, certainly fond.’ Miss Fairchild sat back, visibly relaxed, sure of her ground and her moral position.
Finally Sir Guy made an attempt to pull himself together. ‘I didn’t even know that Carson and Constance were well acquainted.’
‘Oh dear me, yes.’ Miss Fairchild glanced a
t Sophie, perhaps hoping for her support. ‘Much better acquainted that you suppose. Carson has occasionally had tea with us. He once was very kind and went to all the trouble of fetching an umbrella for Connie, who was sheltering in the church from the rain, and escorting her home. At the wedding of Roger and Emma Martyn he went out of his way to be kind, even asking her to dance and escorting us to our cab. We have had the pleasure of entertaining him to tea since. I can assure you I have seen glances pass between the young people, whose meaning it would not be difficult to guess. Otherwise I would, naturally, never have made this suggestion.’
‘Glances?’ Guy looked at Sophie who, however, kept her eyes firmly on the ground.
‘Have you put this to Constance, Miss Fairchild?’ Sophie finally found her voice. ‘After all, she too must be consulted.’
‘Not yet. Were it to be a flat “no” I would not wish to crush her feelings, for I know her to be extremely fond of Carson. She opens up like a flower when he is there. But I will be frank with you, Sir Guy. I am seventy-seven years of age, and though in good health and, thank God, strong in mind and body, I don’t know how long that happy state will continue. My dear parents were hale and hearty, and then they went very suddenly. It would give me the greatest happiness to know that, were I to go, the person I love most in the world would be in the safe and tender hands of a husband who also loved her and is, I believe, worthy of her. You see,’ she looked dispassionately from one to the other, ‘were I not to suggest it, it might never occur to either of them, or if it did, it might be much too late to save this beautiful house.’
‘Save the house?’ Guy stammered, as if the penny had only just begun to drop.
‘Save the house,’ Miss Fairchild nodded. ‘Because, of course, to Constance’s own not inconsiderable fortune would be added mine, to be entirely at the disposal of her and her husband.’
15
Carson lay gazing at the face of the sleeping woman and wondered if he were in love again. There had been Nelly, and Elizabeth – though that had been quickly nipped in the bud – and one or two others since; but Prudence, he thought, was different. Prudence had taken Elizabeth’s place at the Sadlers’ farm and had lost no time in letting him know she favoured him.
The Rector's Daughter (Part Two of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 28