‘I don’t dislike her so much,’ Carson said. ‘I simply don’t want to marry her.’
‘Maybe love would come?’ Sophie suggested. ‘They say sometimes it does.’
‘I know. Father married my mother to save the house, and he thinks I should do the same.’
‘It shows,’ she said, in an attempt at cheerfulness, ‘that marriages not always based on love can be nonetheless successful for that. We genuinely thought there was a degree of affection on your part for Constance.’
‘If there had been, I would have said so, and I didn’t even know she had money. A million pounds.’ Carson took a deep breath. ‘It’s a fortune.’
‘At least,’ Sophie murmured.
‘At least?’
‘A million is the minimum. Miss Fairchild had shares in South African gold-mines which, once worthless, have greatly appreciated. They are still rising. Is it such a sacrifice, Carson? Think of what it would mean to your father.’
‘And you,’ he said, reverting to his rough manner. ‘It’s very nice for you here, isn’t it, with maids and things that you never had before?’
‘I did have them before,’ Sophie coloured violently. ‘I have always had maids and I lived in a big house, the Rectory, which has fourteen bedrooms. In New Guinea we had plenty of native servants. Such things mean nothing to me, Carson. As I told you, I had the chance to marry Mr Turner, who is well known to be of independent means. He is no humble, impoverished clergyman. My vocation was to serve God in the missionary field. After God, my real love was your brother George, who gave up everything to serve Him. I am completely uninterested in worldly things. You must believe that ...’
‘Then why do you think I should marry a woman I don’t love, just to keep this house?’
‘Because if you don’t, the whole estate will be broken up. Your children and your children’s children will have nothing to inherit. Your father abandoned to a solitary life maybe in a foreign land. Have you thought of that?’
‘I have, and I don’t care.’
‘Really?’ She looked at him closely. ‘You surprise me. You, who so loved your mother.’
‘What has my mother to do with it?’ he asked roughly.
‘She felt passionately about Pelham’s Oak. She did so much to it.’
‘She wasn’t very nice to you.’
‘That’s not the point. She was a mother,’ Sophie corrected him, ‘to her adored eldest son. She felt I took him away and was responsible for his death. I was not; I have prayed about it and forgiven her.’
‘I can’t understand you, really I can’t.’
‘It is God,’ Sophie said. ‘He really does govern our lives. He shows us the way. Maybe if you had a little more humility He would show the way to you too, Carson.’
‘Humility?’ Carson looked bewildered.
‘Yes, humility,’ Sophie said firmly. ‘You are too proud and too selfish. Your father and mother tolerated so much from you because they loved you. You were a bad son and you know it, because you frequently show repentance.
‘You blamed yourself for your mother’s early death, and now that you have one chance to make up for all the harm you did to your family in the past, you refuse. As well as your father you would make a rather lonely girl very happy. I think Constance is very fond of you. And she brings out the best in you. Sometimes I think you are a tormented young man, yet when I have seen you together with her, you do look at her with an expression I seldom see on your face.’
‘Pity,’ Carson suggested.
‘No, it is tenderness, friendship. Connie seems to bring out your best side. She has a childlike air, but she is a woman, the same age as you. Might it not be very nice to have someone as devoted as she is by your side, loving and supporting you for the rest of your life?’
Carson put his head in his hands and, like that, as though he were in a deep state of meditation, she left him.
Carson stood at the back of the church, just inside the door listening to the pure sounds of the organ as they filtered high up into the rafters. His mind went back to a similar occasion some months before when, sheltering from the rain, he did the same thing and, taking pity on the person playing the organ, he had run through the storm to fetch her umbrella and escort her home. He wished now that it had never happened.
Through mischance, through pity, he was being driven to a much more hazardous exercise on behalf of the same person.
Just then the organ stopped, yet its notes still seemed to linger with a singular sweetness in the air. It was true, she did play beautifully. She had a gift which, undoubtedly, Sophie would have said, came from God. At that moment, completely unselfconscious and unaware of his presence, Connie stepped from the sanctuary, her sheet music as usual under her arm, and began to walk down the aisle. He banished from his mind the reflection that one day she would take the same walk on his arm, and stepped forward.
‘Why, Carson!’ Connie exclaimed, but this time – perhaps more accustomed to his presence – she didn’t blush. ‘Have you been visiting your family’s vault again?’
Carson shook his head as together they walked out into the warm summer sunshine.
As he stood at the door, his imagination returned to haunt him, as if he could see the cheering crowds press forward to welcome him and the future Lady Woodville. He shuddered, and as he turned to Connie she saw the expression on his face, and hers changed to one of concern.
‘Are you not well, Carson?’
‘I think I have a chill coming,’ he lied. ‘May I see you home, Connie?’
‘Of course.’ She nodded her head with pleasure and didn’t flinch as he took her arm and escorted her down the path to the church gate.
‘I don’t think you should take my arm,’ she whispered conspiratorially, brushing his hand away. ‘The Rector might see or, worse, Mrs Lamb.’
‘Oh!’ Carson smiled and looked up at the windows of the Rectory. ‘Does he spend his time with his nose pressed to the windowpanes to see who goes in and out of church?’
‘You never know,’ she said. ‘If he doesn’t, maybe his wife does. Since his gout got so bad he is confined most of the time indoors. They say Mr Turner has a chance of being appointed to the living in his place.’
‘Oh really?’ Carson removed his hand, which had been supporting her elbow. ‘And do you like Mr Turner?’
‘Very much.’ Connie sounded enthusiastic.
‘Oh, as much as that?’ He gazed at her with pretended concern.
‘No, not as much as that! Anyway, he has eyes only for another, even suppose I liked him in that way, which I don’t.’ Now, at last, she blushed.
‘Mrs Woodville?’ Carson stopped and, picking a blade of grass, stuck it in his mouth.
‘Oh! You know?’
‘I heard only recently he had proposed to her twice, but each time she turned him down.’
‘Indeed!’ Connie – not inured to parish gossip – appeared very interested in this information and carefully studied her feet.
‘Do you mind?’ Carson looked carefully at her face. If she was in love with Mr Turner, maybe there was hope that she would refuse him.
‘Mind? I don’t mind at all. You greatly misunderstand, Carson, if you think I care particularly for Mr Turner just because he is the curate and I play the church organ. I don’t.’
‘Could you ...’ Carson stopped by the gate and rested his arm on it. Bracing himself, he took a deep breath. ‘Could you care for me, Connie?’
Connie’s face now went the colour of a beetroot and she dropped her music with a thud on the ground.
‘Carson,’ she faltered, ‘I do care for you, but ...’
‘Not in that way?’ he asked, ever hopeful. He had never considered there was a real chance she might refuse him.
‘Oh Carson, what is it you’re saying?’
‘Look, Connie.’ He took her arm firmly again and propelled her away from the gate, and the possibly prying eyes of the Lambs, into the shadow of the chestnut tre
e. ‘I’m asking you to marry me.’ He began to stammer. ‘I don’t know if you ever considered ... that I am very fond of you, Connie. I think we suit.’
‘Oh Carson!’ The colour now drained rapidly from her face and she slumped against the tree. ‘Oh I cannot believe it.’
‘But why not?’ She was indeed an appealing little thing, not a woman, a child. Gazing at him in that startled, self-conscious way, she looked about sixteen. She had a skinny body with no bosom, and he couldn’t help a fleeting, invidious comparison with the voluptuous breasts of Prudence. Prudence, who wasn’t prudent at all. He had never even considered what he was going to say to her, a person to whom he had almost proposed.
‘I can’t believe, Carson, that you ... should wish to marry me,’ she finished with a gasp. ‘Are you teasing or pretending, Carson? If so, it’s not fair.’
‘Of course I’m not,’ he said irritably. ‘That’s a horrible thing to suggest, Connie. I would never play about with your affections. I thought you might have realised that I cared for you. That your aunt might have said something.’
‘Aunt Vicky?’ Connie put back her head and her laughter was refreshing. ‘She never notices a thing, certainly nothing like that. Oh,’ Connie put a hand to her mouth, ‘what will she say?’
‘What do you mean, “what will she say”?’
‘Well, if we ... if you are serious, Carson, and I’m still not convinced you are ... she will be all on her own.’
‘I’m sure she won’t mind that.’ Carson was unable to resist the sarcasm as he felt himself sinking lower and lower into deceit. ‘She will be very near, and as for what she’ll say, I have the impression she will be very pleased.’
‘Then you are completely serious, Carson?’ As Connie gazed at him he could see quite clearly what he had missed before: the light of love in her eyes.
‘I was never more serious.’
‘And you do love me?’
‘Of course I love you.’
‘It’s just that you never said. You never showed ... I can’t believe it really.’
‘If I ask you to marry me, you can be sure that I love you,’ Carson said vigorously. ‘Now, is it “yes” or “no”, Connie? Don’t fool about with me.’
Timidly Connie put a hand against his chest.
‘Oh Carson, “yes”. I do love you. I love you very much, but I never for a moment imagined that you could love me.’ He was moved by her words, her vulnerability. A feeling of tenderness seemed momentarily to engulf him.
He didn’t know whether they were observed by the Lambs or by any other curious member of the parish. He didn’t care.
He bent his head and kissed her cheek.
And so he became engaged to the last woman in the world he had ever expected to marry.
16
Emma ran up the steps, followed by the chauffeur staggering beneath the weight of an armful of parcels. She had shopped in Knightsbridge, Kensington, Regent Street and Bond Street. She was greeted at the door by Johnson the butler, who opened his eyes wide when he saw the chauffeur staggering up the steps.
‘You have been busy, madam,’ Johnson observed politely. And this, he thought, when she had not long returned from the extended honeymoon trip with boxes full of presents for the family.
No doubt about it, Emma was a spendthrift. She loved to shop. From her earliest years she had been indulged by her parents, and everything she wanted, she had. Marriage to a wealthy man like Roger Martyn had been a prerequisite for a girl with Emma’s extravagant tastes.
‘Is Mr Martyn in, Johnson?’ she enquired.
‘He is in the drawing-room, madam, with ...’ Johnson replied with a supercilious lift of the eyebrows ‘... an animal, madam.’
‘An animal?’ Emma cried. ‘What sort of animal?’
‘I’m afraid it’s a cat, madam.’ Johnson looked rueful.
‘A cat! That’s it!’ Emma rapidly crossed the hall and threw open the door of the drawing-room. Roger sat by the open French window, his back to her.
‘Roger!’ Emma called sharply, running across the room and standing in front of him, staring at Coral curled up peacefully on his knee. ‘I can’t have that thing here.’
‘What thing?’ Roger, imperturbable, looked up at her, his hand resting on Coral’s back.
‘That!’ she pointed.
‘That is my cat, Coral,’ Roger said coldly, ‘and you knew very well that I was going to give her a home when we returned from honeymoon. I made that quite plain.’
‘I never take you seriously,’ Emma said crossly, unbuttoning the jacket of her two-piece.
‘You must always take me seriously, my dear,’ Roger said gravely. ‘I never say anything I don’t mean.’
‘Really?’ Emma gave him a look and, removing her hat, tossed it on the sofa. ‘You surprise me.’
Roger began to stroke Coral, who stretched her paws luxuriously, digging her claws more firmly into his lap.
‘Don’t talk in riddles, Emma, and please don’t let’s quarrel so soon after our honeymoon. I would hate the servants to think ...’ He paused, as if uncertain what to say.
‘Think? Think what?’ Emma thrust her chin in the air.
‘Think … that all was not well,’ he concluded.
‘Let them think what they like,’ she said petulantly, flinging herself into a chair. ‘But get rid of that cat.’
Roger, carefully holding Coral so as to disturb her as little as possible, stood up and gently placed her again on the chair where he had been sitting. Then he put his hands in his pockets and turned with a deceptive air of nonchalance to face his wife.
‘Don’t you talk to me like that,’ he said. ‘This is my house, and my cat, and if you don’t like them you can leave.’
‘How dare you talk to me like that,’ she hissed, rising from her chair. ‘And how dare you say it is “your” house. It was bought for us.’
‘Nevertheless, it is in my name.’
‘A mere formality,’ she stormed.
‘No, no, no formality,’ Roger said coldly. ‘My uncle is a man of business, also a student of human nature. He knew exactly what he was doing when he put the house in my name.’
‘I understood the house was a wedding-present for us,’ Emma insisted, ‘and anyway, we are to share it, and I refuse to share it with that!’ She pointed a quivering finger at Coral again. ‘I can’t stand cats.’ She agitatedly began to stroke her arms. ‘I have a thing about them.’
‘I’m very sorry, Emma,’ Roger pitched his tone more sympathetically, ‘but you didn’t make your distaste clear, otherwise I should have told you about my own strong feelings in the matter. Coral has been a companion and friend to me since I was twelve. She is now a very old cat and, as Lally lives constantly in the country, there is no one in Montagu Square to take the interest in her she expects.’
‘Let Lally have her in the country.’
‘Lally accepts, and has done for some time, that Coral belongs to me. We have a bond, a deep tie of affection. I would not give up my cat for anything ... or anyone.’
Emma adopted a petulant whining tone. ‘I think you love the cat more than me, Roger.’
‘It’s a different kind of love,’ Roger said tactfully.
‘But it is true, isn’t it?’
‘It’s not true.’
‘Then why are you so cold to me and so warm to the cat?’
With a sigh, Roger sat on the arm of the chair so as not to disturb Coral.
‘Emma, you are behaving like a child. If all has not gone well with our marriage, you must give it time.’
‘How much time?’ she hissed again. ‘How much time before I know I am loved, wanted like a woman? How much time does one have to wait for that, Roger?’
Roger crossed his arms and with a look of disdain on his face, gazed at her.
‘I said if you were not happy you could go.’
‘Go? Are you serious? Go back to my father and mother?’
‘If you wish.’
‘You can tell them what you like, Emma. But you can’t blackmail me.’ He rose and, striding to the door, paused. ‘But if you do leave, you will never be welcome back, and in the eyes of society, which you seem to care so much about, it is you who will appear the fool, not I. So think about it, Emma, before you do, or say, anything you may later regret.’
The site was just north of Dorchester in the Piddle Valley, and at the moment was a field put to pasture, with a stream and woodland at one boundary, and some old farm buildings in a state of dereliction at the other. From where they stood they could see the spire of All Saints church in the High Street of the town immortalised by the celebrated novelist Thomas Hardy.
Richard Wainwright, known as Dick, was a northerner; a bluff man from the Yorkshire Dales who invented a novel and economic threshing-machine after watching the old-fashioned implement at work on his father’s farm in Wharfedale. He had gone on to invent a number of other farm gadgets and implements, so that by his present age of fifty he had become a millionaire. Some said he was one several times over.
Dick Wainwright had met Bart Sadler when he was looking for property in the West Country. He had first of all thought of building a dwelling for himself and his family in keeping with his wealth and prestige, and Bart, a fixer and dabbler as well as a stone-mason, had introduced him to his brother-in-law Laurence, who was looking for the chance to expand.
However, Wainwright wanted to build a factory to make his inventions and, as it happened, Bart Sadler had just the place – a field he had bought speculatively several years before which, since it had once contained farm dwellings, could be built on without tiresome bureaucratic wrangling.
The sale for the construction of a factory had been completed, architectural plans had been drawn up, and now, with Wainwright and Laurence Yetman, Bart was pacing the site, discussing the timetable for the erection of the factory.
The Rector's Daughter (Part Two of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 30