Laurence sat beside her and took her in his arms.
‘Let’s put business out of our minds for the moment,’ he said, ‘and think of something else.’
After they left the house, Sophie and Bart Sadler drove for some moments in silence. It was just light enough to see the way ahead, but in any case Sophie felt very comfortable and secure sitting next to the driver. She was happy, almost light-headed; a quiet exhilaration possessed her, and she had not felt like this since she had known that George loved her. But Bart seemed unmoved. He sat with the reins in his hands, his hat pulled down well over his forehead, and a scowl on his face.
‘So you don’t mind coming alone with a man?’ he said suddenly, as if to tease her.
‘Of course I don’t,’ Sophie replied spiritedly. ‘Why should I?’
‘Some people would mind.’
‘Maybe a young girl, and in that case it would not be wise. But I am a married woman, a widow. Why, I daresay I’m even older than you are. There is no harm in that, is there? Surely no one would talk.’
‘You never know with folk,’ Bart muttered. ‘Specially hereabouts. I’m thirty-five.’
‘And I’m thirty-six.’
‘Are you now?’ He didn’t look at her, but went on gazing steadily in front of him. ‘A good-looking woman, so you are, Sophie Woodville. Pleasing to the eye.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, grateful for the cover of twilight because she imagined a blush was stealing up her face.
‘Your husband George now, was he a good-looking man?’
‘Oh, I thought so,’ she replied. ‘Yes he was; but,’ – she wanted him to be quite clear about this – ‘he was also a godly one. He was a saint, a martyr.’
‘I see.’ Bart appeared to ruminate on this for a moment or two, and then he said:
‘I appreciate your words of religion, Mrs Woodville, but your God hasn’t been very kind to you lately, has he?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘I mean,’ Bart said slowly, ‘it seems to me He left you destitute, without a home. I hear you’re to be made homeless again. Now He’s not looking after you. Is He?’
‘Well,’ she paused, ‘it’s not quite decided.’
‘But you wouldn’t want to stay on when the newly-weds move in, would you?’ Bart glanced quickly at her and quickly glanced away again.
‘I don’t think so,’ she replied cautiously. ‘I don’t think it would be very wise. The late Lady Woodville never hit it off with her mother-in-law. Not that I am in a similar relationship to Connie, but I’m sure she will want to establish her own rules ...’
‘Huh!’ Bart laughed out loud, and his tone was not kindly.
‘Why do you laugh?’ Sophie gave him a reproving look.
‘I can’t see that young woman establishing anything. Now that is a misalliance if ever there was one – that’s if you’re asking me.’
‘I am certainly not asking you.’ Sophie’s tone was cold. ‘And I don’t think it’s an idea you should put about. As far as I am concerned, having observed them together, I feel they are two young people who are indeed very fond of each other. I’m sure Connie would make an excellent Lady Woodville when the time came. Of course we must all hope that will not be for many years.
‘I hear Sir Guy drinks,’ Bart said, ‘and is not a well man. If you ask me, Carson will inherit the title sooner than he thinks.’
‘You do seem full of a lot of misinformation, Mr Sadler.’ Sophie’s observation was caustic. ‘I think Sir Guy has many years’ life left in him yet. And to be well looked after by his son and daughter-in-law will be an excellent arrangement. I shall not be needed.’
‘“Arrangement”. That’s the word. That’s ‘zactly what it is. An arrangement.’ Bart suddenly stopped his horse in a wide bend in the road so that if there were any traffic following them, it could pass. As it was nearly nightfall this seemed unlikely, and the reins remained loosely held in his hands while the horse began to munch the leaves of an overhanging tree.
‘I hear there is a lot of money involved,’ he said darkly, as if he were discussing a crime.
‘I never thought of you as a gossip, or likely to listen to it,’ Sophie said derisively, but even in the dusk she saw his eyes flash and moved nervously along the bench away from him. He placed an arm loosely round her waist to restrain her.
‘Sophie.’
‘Yes, Mr Sadler?’
‘I think you’re trembling.’
‘I am not. It is merely getting a little cold.’ She pulled her shawl more closely around her shoulders. ‘Do please drive on.’
‘I can’t drive on and say what I want to say,’ he murmured huskily. ‘But I can tell you, you won’t come to any harm with me.’
‘I should think not.’ She raised her chin in the air and gazed boldly and defiantly at him.
‘I want to tell you that I do like you, Sophie. I want you to know that.’
‘Oh ...’ She did not know how to proceed.
‘I like you very much. Do you like me?’
‘I do, a little,’ she ventured, and Bart flung back his head and laughed heartily.
‘Only a little? Those are not the signals I feel I have been getting from you.’
‘I’ve given you no signals.’ She pursed her mouth prudishly.
‘Oh yes you have, maybe without realising it. Men and women send signals to each other when they’re interested, just as the animals do. Surely you must have been aware of that, even with the saintly George?’
‘I don’t like the way you refer to my late husband,’ she replied stiffly.
‘But you said he was a saint. You told me that yourself only a few minutes ago. I don’t connect saints with fleshly matters.’
She was silent. His hand tightened round her waist. She felt the pricking of desire that she thought only engaged or married people felt, or should feel, when they were close to each other. She wanted him to take her and hold her, to lie down with her and love her, and almost immediately she felt sickened and ashamed of her thoughts and tried to banish them with a quick mental prayer.
‘Oh Lord, take these evil thoughts and temptations away from me and leave my heart pure for thee.’ But the prayer remained unanswered. She felt his breath against her cheek, his mouth on her mouth, and she surrendered herself to blind, overwhelming passion of a previously unknown intensity, even when she was married.
When eventually he released her, it was quite dark. He placed his hand on her bosom but she brushed it angrily away.
‘We can’t stop here,’ he protested.
‘We can,’ she managed to reply, shaken by the rapid pounding of her heart. ‘Please, Bart.’ The pleading look she gave him was anguished. ‘Please drive on.’
‘But nothing is decided.’ He reluctantly released her and, moving away, took up the reins.
‘How do you mean, nothing is decided?’ Her voice shook, so complete was her feeling of disorientation.
‘Well.’ He flicked the reins and the sleepy horse trotted slowly out on to the road. ‘I would like your permission to court you, Sophie.’ Slowly he turned his face round to gaze solemnly at her. ‘With a view eventually to making you my wife.’
Gerald Becket had worked his way doggedly up the bank’s hierarchy from being a junior messenger-boy at the age of sixteen. He was thus very proud of his position as manager even of a branch as small as Wenham, where, besides himself, there was one cashier.
But Mr Becket was not yet forty and he was intensely ambitious, firstly for a bigger branch, then, maybe, an administrative position with head office. After that, who knew? It was not beyond the bounds of speculation that he might end up on the board.
The Two Counties Bank of Dorset and Somerset – to give it its full title – was a private bank which had been started in the middle of the nineteenth century when Great Britain stood on the crest of a wave of optimism and prosperity. Queen Victoria was securely on the throne, unlike some Continental monarchs whose base
s were often precarious. The government and the opposition had much in common, so that when one succeeded another in power, nothing much changed. They were all gentlemen. Disraeli, Gladstone: who could tell the difference except the dear Queen, who loved one as much as she hated the other?
To some extent this euphoria, despite one or two hiccups, had continued during the reign of good old Teddy. But the death of that jolly monarch had really seemed to mark the end of an age. There were rumblings abroad; anxiety was in the air. The working-classes in England were beginning to chaff against restraint, and in London the suffragettes carried unrest into the streets.
But Dorset, sleepy for centuries, scarcely seemed to have woken up. The poor continued poor and the rich were very rich. The country folk were stalwart, conservative, and upholders of the status quo.
Gerald Becket fitted in well with this philosophy and the rural environment. He was a Wiltshire man, who had married the comely daughter of the landlady whose lodgings he occupied in Dorchester where he was training.
They had been married after a courtship of several years, when Mr Becket was twenty-five and had been made head cashier. He had also saved prudently, with a fervour that was akin to meanness. He was a careful, cautious man, as became an official of the bank. Even his wife was thrifty. She had trained as a seamstress, and was able to mend his clothes, make his shirts and, eventually, all the clothes for the three children with whom in time they were blessed.
Mr Becket’s appearance was an uninspiring one, except to the eye touched by love; or to his employers, who discerned in his very lack of looks or personality those qualities which were deemed important in a custodian of the fortunes of the bank.
He was of medium height, with a lean, cautious-looking face, a narrow, parsimonious mouth that would give nothing away, and small pig-like eyes that would guard closely the bank’s secrets.
His thinning hair was obvious testimony to his lack of vanity, and his dress was sombre and restrained, though not restrained enough to make people lose confidence. Nothing about Mr Becket was flamboyant, colourful or extravagant.
He was the perfect bureaucrat, created, it might have seemed, in his mother’s womb. He had made his way to the top not only by the correctness of his presentation, but by using the right amount of fawning and cajolery to impress his superiors.
Naturally, because marital harmony was seen as an asset, Mr Becket was a devoted family man, a church-goer, and quickly became a supporter of several local causes: treasurer of this society and that. In short, a pillar of the community where he had now been for about three years, having bought the house which had once belonged to Miss Bishop, the village schoolmistress, now dead.
Mr Becket was standing at the counter counting a sheaf of notes when Laurence Yetman entered the bank one morning not long after his conversation with his wife.
‘Good morning, Mr Yetman,’ Mr Becket cried genially, and leaned across the counter to shake his hand. ‘Not often we have the pleasure of seeing you personally in here.’
‘Well, there is a purpose for my visit today.’ Laurence decided to come to the point at once. ‘I wonder if I could have a word in private with you, Mr Becket?’
‘Most certainly.’ Mr Becket opened the gate in the counter and beckoned Laurence through. Then he turned to his assistant and said: ‘Nigel, will you take over, and if anyone asks, say I am engaged.’
‘Yes, Mr Becket,’ Nigel said with the deference due to his superior.
Laurence followed Mr Becket into a tiny room behind the bank, whose single window, high up in the wall, was protected by iron bars. In the corner was a large safe, beside which there was a desk and two hard chairs. It was not the sort of place, Laurence thought, sitting down, where one would be inclined to linger: state your business and be gone, it seemed to say.
‘Now,’ Mr Becket sat down at his desk and clasped his hands together, ‘to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?’
‘I am here to see you,’ Laurence leaned back with the ease of a man come to bestow a favour, ‘on a matter of business.’
‘Just let me see.’ Mr Becket got up and went to a drawer from which he produced a thin folder. This he took back to his desk and, on resuming his seat, opened it.
‘Your account is naturally in good standing, Mr Yetman. How are we able to assist you?’
‘I am about to embark on one of the most ambitious and important projects in my life,’ Laurence said. ‘It could well make me a fortune.’
‘That is excellent news.’ Mr Becket rubbed his hands as though anticipating a share in that good fortune – for his bank, of course. ‘Please tell me about it.’
Laurence then went on to explain about Mr Wainwright, the factory, the development near Dorchester, and the prospect of more. As he continued, Mr Becket’s face grew thoughtful.
‘I see,’ he said when Laurence had finished. ‘It is a very big project indeed.’
‘So I shall need a bank facility,’ Laurence concluded, ‘or I shall have to take my business to some other bank.’
‘Oh, there is no need for that.’ Mr Becket was at pains to reassure his client. ‘I am sure that this branch of the Two Counties Bank would be delighted to accommodate you.’ He reached for a piece of paper and, his pencil poised over it, gazed at Laurence. ‘Let me see, what facility would you be requiring?’
‘About ten thousand pounds. Maybe fifteen.’
Mr Becket appeared unperturbed and scribbled a note on his piece of paper. ‘As much as that?’
‘Maybe twenty,’ Laurence said assertively.
‘Well!’ It was a large sum for such a small branch to deal with, and Mr Becket could be seen to be under some stress.
‘I shall have to refer this to head office, Mr Yetman. However, I am sure that I can say there should be no difficulty for a person of your standing and consequence in this community.’
‘Thank you.’ Laurence was about to get up. ‘When will I know for sure?’
‘Oh, in a day or two. Tell me, Mr Yetman, I suppose you have no doubt as to the credit-worthiness of your client?’
‘None at all,’ Laurence replied robustly. ‘He is a millionaire who has had dealings with the Martyn-Heering Bank.’
‘Ah, the family business.’ Mr Becket’s ambitious eyes brightened. ‘Tell me, did you never think of approaching them for such a large facility?’
‘I never deal with the family bank,’ Laurence replied abruptly. ‘It would involve my mother and I have my pride. However, I am sure I could provide a reference as to Mr Wainwright’s credit-worthiness.’
‘That would be useful.’ Mr Becket, growing in confidence by the minute in his ability to handle business of such magnitude, doodled on his blotter. ‘And it would strengthen your case, certainly with my superiors, if you could put up your own private account, and your house, as further security. Then I think,’ he finished with a charmless smile, ‘there will be no problem at all.’
‘My house?’ Laurence looked startled.
‘It is owned by you outright, is it not, Mr Yetman? There is no mortgage on it?’
‘No, it is mine outright. The deeds were a wedding-present.’
‘Why, that’s excellent. If you have every confidence in your client, and with this extra security we have every confidence in you, it should produce a very happy partnership. Don’t you think, Mr Yetman? And then, once the job is finished and you have made what you expect to be a very nice profit, you will doubtless use this to finance further projects, and then we can relinquish the deeds of your house.’
Part Three
The Power of Money
17
The carriage drew up at the door of the Crown Hotel and the head porter hurried out to open the door. Having been warned in advance of the importance of the visitor, he was followed by an assistant porter and a boy. For a moment they all stood gazing up at the window of the carriage which had brought the distinguished visitor from Blandford Station, while she remained for a moment looking down at t
hem.
She was not young but neither was she old. At one time she might even have been a beauty. But it was difficult to tell because her face was partly obscured by her hat. It was, however, possible to see her eyes, which were undeniably compelling. As the door was opened and the steps put down, and she began to alight, one thing was certain: the visitor was a very fine lady, a woman of consequence. There was no doubt about that at all.
She wore a hobble-skirt dress with a matching coat, and a large picture hat which turned up at the back, with a long ostrich feather sweeping over the brim. She held on to it tightly with her gloved hand as though she were frightened it might fall off.
It was difficult to tell how old the lady was exactly; maybe forty, maybe fifty, not more. Her face had a few lines, but her complexion was clear, and her eyes, dark blue flecked with grey, were surmounted by a pair of pencil-thin, imperiously arched eyebrows. She smiled graciously, even regally, around her and, as the manager came to the door, extended a hand over which he bowed low. ‘Welcome to the Crown Hotel, Mrs Gregg. I trust you had a good journey?’
‘Passable,’ Mrs Gregg murmured in an accent which was hard to place. ‘Passable. The English trains are so dirty compared to those in America.’
The manager looked crestfallen, as though it was his personal responsibility.
‘I hope we shall make up for the discomforts of your journey from Southampton, Mrs Gregg. Your suite is prepared and your personal maid is waiting for you.’
‘Good.’ Mrs Gregg again smiled graciously, beginning to remove her gloves as they entered the lobby of the hotel. ‘Please have tea sent up to my room immediately.’
‘Immediately, Mrs Gregg.’ The manager snapped his fingers at the underlings and began barking orders.
‘Mrs Gregg’s luggage up to her room ... A tray of tea for Mrs Gregg with hot buttered toast. She is tired after her journey.’
The Rector's Daughter (Part Two of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 32