The Rector's Daughter (Part Two of The People of this Parish Saga)

by Nicola Thorne

Mrs Gregg swept up the stairs to the first floor, preceded by the manager who, on the way, had collected the housekeeper who brought up the rear. He swung open the door of the suite he had reserved for the visitor, and had filled with fresh flowers. He then stood aside and bowed.

  ‘I hope this pleases you, Mrs Gregg. We are only a small market town and this is the best we have to offer.’

  Mrs Gregg looked critically round, a frown on her face. The manager winced. The housekeeper, clutching her bunch of keys, hovered nervously.

  ‘There are some very fine hotels in Bournemouth, Mrs Gregg,’ he ventured.

  ‘This hotel will suit perfectly well, for the time being. I am in Blandford for a particular purpose.’ Mrs Gregg, still frowning, turned on him. ‘You could call it business.’

  ‘Ah you have been here before, madam?’

  ‘Many years ago,’ Mrs Gregg said, as the housekeeper ushered in a girl dressed in the uniform of a maid.

  ‘This is your personal maid, Elizabeth, Mrs Gregg,’ the housekeeper said. ‘She is to look after you exclusively, and will help you in any way she can.’

  Mrs Gregg scarcely glanced at the girl.

  ‘I wish to rest now,’ she said to the manager. ‘I have had a very tiring journey all the way from Florida. I will have dinner in my room at eight.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Gregg.’

  ‘You may send up the menu now.’

  Mrs Gregg was obviously keen on her food, although her figure, slightly plump and voluptuous, was well-corseted.

  ‘Very well, Mrs Gregg.’

  ‘And you, girl, run my bath.’ Mrs Gregg appeared to notice for the first time the young woman who stood gawping at her from the far side of the room.

  ‘Yes, ‘m.’ The girl bobbed, and rushed into the bathroom to do the bidding of this mysterious and awe-inspiring stranger.

  She stood over the bath as the hot steam rose and brushed her hair back from her face.

  Elizabeth Yewell had never acted exclusively as a lady’s maid at the hotel, and she didn’t know quite what was expected of her. The housekeeper, Mrs Buttle, had run through a few formalities with her: how to fold, iron and care for clothes, how to dress a lady’s hair and prepare her toilet but, mainly, how to keep out of the way, and be seen only when needed.

  Elizabeth had been working at the Crown for some six months in various capacities, though not at the bar. Her parents had refused to allow her to work in the bar, so she spent a lot of time in the kitchen, in the laundry and in the linen-room which, in many ways, she liked best. She slept with the other staff in the attic under the rafters, sharing her room with two maids who did most of the rough housework.

  The life of a busy hotel appealed to Elizabeth. She liked being far enough away from Wenham, but not too far. She enjoyed hotel life better than life on a farm; though what she would really have preferred was a life of ease, such as Mrs Gregg seemed accustomed to.

  Elizabeth glanced through the bathroom door and saw Mrs Gregg carefully remove her large hat, then her coat, before glancing at herself critically in the mirror. Clearly she liked what she saw, hair whose colour might or might not have been natural, rather elaborately coiffured with a fringe of little curls. Her features were strong, and she had a full bust. She was about five foot five inches tall and carried herself with authority; a woman, clearly, whom it would be unwise to anger.

  But Elizabeth would take good care not to do that and, perhaps, she thought to herself idly, she might well find a permanent position with Mrs Gregg, or someone like her, and travel the world; but that would mean leaving Frank. It would be difficult to explain to Frank that she would like to see the world before settling down. Frank would most certainly not understand.

  Elizabeth bore some resentment towards her parents for removing her so abruptly from Sadlers’ Farm and forbidding her to see Carson Woodville. There had been nothing except flirtation between them.

  She was a servant-girl, this action seemed to suggest, not good enough for him. But she soon forgot him – she was like that – and Frank Sprogett, a brewer’s drayman, was just as strong as Carson and even better-looking. Anyway, to have become involved with a Woodville would have been too complicated and, essentially, Elizabeth was a simple girl who sought only simple happiness from life.

  ‘Girl!’ came the shrill tones from the next room.

  ‘Yes, ‘m?’ Elizabeth broke her reverie and scuttled through the door of the bathroom into the bedroom.

  ‘Help me undress.’

  ‘Yes, ‘m.’

  Mrs Gregg turned, and Elizabeth began to unfasten the silk buttons of her dress right down to her waist. She unhooked the whalebone brassière and tugged at the laces of the formidable corset. When this was loose, Elizabeth was instructed to fetch her gown and, in the privacy of this all-enveloping garment, Mrs Gregg completed the removal of her corset and flung it on the bed. Then with the relieved sigh of one who has unburdened herself of a horrible constriction, she went and sat on the stool in front of the dressing-table mirror and began to unfasten her earrings.

  Elizabeth gazed at her with fascination until she realised that Mrs Gregg was looking at her.

  ‘Have you done this sort of work before, girl?’

  ‘No, ‘m,’ Elizabeth murmured.

  ‘I thought not. I suppose a town like Blandford doesn’t have much call for ladies’ maids. Where are you from, girl?’

  ‘Wenham, ‘m.’

  ‘Wenham?’ Mrs Gregg paused, and seemed about to go on when there was a knock on the door. Elizabeth went to it, half-opened it, and brought in a tray on which was Mrs Gregg’s tea.

  ‘Thank heaven for that.’ Mrs Gregg stretched herself out on the bed and lit a cigarette. ‘I’m absolutely parched.’

  Elizabeth carefully poured milk and tea into a cup and, taking it over to the bedside, gingerly placed it beside Mrs Gregg. ‘Will that be all, ‘m?’

  ‘Will it be all?’ Mrs Gregg looked at her sharply. ‘I should think it would not be all. While I’m in the bath you may unpack my things, and while I’m having dinner you can press them. I’ve come a very long way, you know ... What’s your name, girl?’

  ‘Elizabeth, ‘m.’

  ‘I’ve come from America, from a city called New Orleans. Do you know how far away that is, Elizabeth?’

  Mrs Gregg put her hand over her eyes as if she was uninterested in the reply. She was clearly very tired. Elizabeth gazed with some fascination at the cigarette; she had never seen a woman smoke before.

  ‘Four thousand miles. It’s a long way.’

  ‘That is a long way, madam.’ Elizabeth, who had never been further than Bournemouth, was impressed. ‘Did you know this part of the country before, ma’am?’

  ‘I did,’ Mrs Gregg said firmly, but she seemed disinclined to say more. Somehow she was not the sort of person of whom one dared ask questions; one only answered them.

  Mrs Gregg was, indeed, an exacting mistress. She kept Elizabeth constantly at her beck and call until after her dinner when, wishing to go early to bed, she dismissed her.

  On the whole Elizabeth felt pleased with her day, and that she had acquitted herself well. She rushed up to her room where one of her room-mates was already slumbering and, tearing off her uniform apron, flung a coat over her shoulders and tumbled down the back staircase to the yard. There were one or two horses tethered, awaiting their owners, but otherwise it was deserted and, opening the back gate, she crept along the hedge that bordered the field by the river. It was a bitterly cold night and she shivered.

  Suddenly an arm shot out and grabbed her by the waist; she gave a little shriek but otherwise did not resist.

  ‘Frank!’ she gasped, ‘you startled me.’ But Frank silenced her with kisses and for several seconds they clung together, forgetful of the cold.

  Frank Sprogett then leaned her against the wall and covered her body with his while she pulled her coat around both their shoulders. It was the only way they could meet without being seen.

  ‘
Where've ye bin?’ he enquired, looking anxiously at her. ‘I was worried.’

  ‘This Mrs Gregg arrived late this afternoon.’

  ‘What’s she like?’

  ‘You can tell she’m a lady,’ Elizabeth said thoughtfully, ‘and yet there is something about her.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ Frank, using their close proximity, tried to insert his hand under her dress, but she didn’t allow that sort of thing yet, and she smacked it sharply so that, shamefacedly, he withdrew it.

  ‘Not quite a lady; it’s hard to say why. Lady Woodville and Mrs Heering – now they are ladies, or rather, Lady Woodville was when she was alive. I can tell a lady when I see one, and Mrs Gregg ...’ Elizabeth screwed up her nose, ‘... Mrs Gregg is not refined enough to be a lady. If anyone was to ask me, I’d say she was in some kind of business.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Someone who works, has a shop maybe, like Miss Fairchild used to have in Wenham. Miss Fairchild became very wealthy.’ Elizabeth’s eyes widened dramatically. ‘Very wealthy. No one had any idea she had so much money and, if you ask me, I think Mrs Gregg is like that. Maybe she had a shop and she’s sold it, and so she’s got all this money; or she had gold shares, like Miss Fairchild ...’

  ‘Well ...’ Frank, not unusually for him, was at a loss for words.

  ‘Don’t say I said, though,’ Elizabeth warned him anxiously. ‘I may be quite wrong. I’d hate to lose my job.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say a word,’ Frank assured her virtuously. ‘When can we name the day, pet?’

  ‘Oh Frank ...’ Elizabeth nestled her head against his shoulder. ‘We can’t get wed until you’ve got some more money. You’ve said it yourself.’

  Frank sighed and pressed his body up against his beloved’s again, and they both stood there, anticipating yet not daring to perform the act of being two in one flesh.

  Frank worked for the brewery up the road. He drove the horse that pulled the dray, and he had first noticed Elizabeth in the yard of the Crown one bright day a few months before.

  Elizabeth, though liking the work, found her days, but particularly her nights, at the Crown extremely dull. At weekends Ted came to fetch her and take her back to Wenham, and on Sunday nights he drove her back to Blandford again.

  Elizabeth loved her parents but she resented the tight hold they kept on her. After all, she was nearly twenty-two, and many of the women of her age she knew were married and mothers of children.

  But in Frank Sprogett she thought at last she had found someone of whom her parents – when they were eventually told – would approve. He was a year older than she was, a native of the town and a man of the working classes. He had good prospects at the brewery, and his intentions towards her were serious. He treated her with respect and, although he tried his chances, he knew he would get nowhere until a gold band was firmly around Elizabeth’s finger.

  ‘Best be getting back,’ she said to Frank, giving a huge yawn. ‘Besides, I’m frozen stiff. Mrs Gregg’ll keep me hopping about all tomorrow, that’s for sure.’

  ‘What’s she doing here?’ Frank asked idly, not really interested.

  ‘She’s visiting. I wonder if maybe she knew the Portmans, or important people like that.’

  ‘How long’s she staying?’

  ‘Indefinite, she says.’ Elizabeth paused. ‘She’s brought so much luggage that if you’m ask me she’m in no hurry to go back. Now Frank,’ she said as he refused to let her go, but he hugged her tighter.

  ‘Come on,’ he wheedled, ‘give us one last kiss.’

  Mrs Gregg had dined that night in her room: English roast beef washed down by half a bottle of wine. There had been one or two whiskies beforehand and there would be one or two after. She was a woman used to hard drink, and she liked it. But she was seldom drunk. It had been necessary all her life to have her wits about her.

  She dressed for dinner, even though it was in her room, and afterwards she dismissed the little maid Elizabeth and got into her nightgown and lay on the bed, smoking.

  After a while she got up and poured herself another generous measure of whisky. Then she drew back the bedclothes and lay there for some time, smoking and thinking.

  Wenham.

  So the little creature came from Wenham? So did she, Agnes Gregg.

  Agnes was her real name, but Gregg was assumed. There had never been a Mr Gregg, but it suited Agnes Yetman, returning to the place of her birth, to let people think that there had; to give the appearance of being a wealthy widow who had been a long time away from her native land.

  The town on the banks of the River Wen was a place she had never forgotten during all the years of her wandering, in the Middle and Far East and, finally, in the United States.

  Wenham; she had frequently thought about it, particularly in moments of stress when times had not been so good. It had seemed like a haven of rest, of peace and security; and perhaps, in the harsh circumstances of her life, she endowed it with a mystique it had never really had. It was only in recent years that times had been good, that they had improved sufficiently for her to have made enough money to be able to go home again; home, after more than twenty years, to Wenham.

  But what would Wenham say about her? Would it remember her and the events that had made her desert the town of her birth so many years before?

  That was what she did not, as yet, know.

  Miss Fairchild, normally a person so well in control of herself, appeared extraordinarily nervous. Already, when Carson entered the room, her colour was high, her hands and fingers fluttered about, never still.

  Carson had escorted Connie to her organ practice in the church and, at Miss Fairchild’s invitation, had come to tea alone in order, she had suggested, that they could get to know each other better.

  Miss Fairchild’s grey hair, rather sparse now, was carefully arranged over her head in tight grey curls, so as to disguise the thin patches where her skull showed through. Yet her eyes were as clear and as shrewd as when she had cut the cloth for the customers in the back room of her parents’ haberdashery shop; and her chin was firm,- though the surrounding skin was wrinkled into tiny folds, clear evidence of her age.

  She wore a rather pretty grey chiffon tea-gown that reached her ankles. Miss Fairchild had seldom in her life bought a dress, but had them made by her dressmaker. Never profligate, she had kept yards of material from the bales in her shop, when she had finally sold it, as a provision against hard times. Fortunately those times had never occurred, and apparently, now, never would. How little idea she had had, in those far-off days, that she would ever be in a position to save the mighty Woodvilles from the ignominy of having to sell their ancient and noble family home!

  Carson, who had on his best suit for the occasion, and had taken care to give himself a close shave – something he seldom did – stood awkwardly, aware of Miss Fairchild’s nervousness as she fussed unduly over the tea-table, giving a rapid set of instructions one after the other to the bewildered maid, then confusing her even further by contradicting them. Finally, she invited him to sit down.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Fairchild,’ Carson said. This was the first time he and Miss Fairchild had been alone since the engagement was announced. Hitherto there had always been an over-excited Connie hovering, listening, anxious that she should not be discussed behind her back.

  ‘Milk and sugar, Carson?’ Miss Fairchild enquired as a formality; but, of course, she should know. They had had tea together at least a half-dozen times in their curious acquaintanceship, but today she had forgotten.

  ‘Both, please, Miss Fairchild.’

  She passed him his teacup and the bowl of sugar, and he saw that her thin, veined hand shook.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Fairchild,’ he said, taking two large spoonfuls. She then passed him the plate of thinly cut cucumber sandwiches. He took two, and then sat gazing at her.

  ‘Well?’ he said at last.

  ‘Well,’ Miss Fairchild replied with her nervous, twittery smile, �
�this is the first time we have been alone together since you and Connie were engaged, Carson.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  She leaned forward confidentially. ‘I wanted to tell you alone how happy I am that you two dear people are to form a marriage alliance.’ She had thought carefully about how to put it, as ‘falling in love’ was a term that seemed so inexact.

  Carson nervously ran his finger round his collar, too ill at ease to reply.

  Miss Fairchild realised that she didn’t feel like eating and, leaving her sandwiches untouched, she took a sip of tea. Then, taking care her cup didn’t wobble, she carefully placed it on the table beside her.

  ‘You know, of course, Carson,’ she ventured after a while, ‘that I am settling a great deal of money on dearest Connie on her marriage.’ Miss Fairchild choked on the word ‘marriage’, as though it were one she had never dared hope to hear uttered in connection with her beloved ward. ‘In addition to which,’ she continued, since Carson still couldn’t find his tongue, ‘she has a great deal of money of her own.’

  ‘I am aware of that.’ Carson hung his head. He was not at all proud of himself, even though he had been used in the interests of the family. ‘Not,’ he added as an afterthought, ‘that it is all that important a factor in my desire to marry Connie.’

  Miss Fairchild ignored this sentiment, knowing it to be quite untrue.

  ‘Carson!’ Suddenly she threw pretence aside and leaned towards him. ‘She must never know ... You know what I mean. She must never know that I approached Sir Guy. You do know what I am trying to say, don’t you, Carson?’

  She took up her teacup again and her hand shook more violently than ever, spilling some of the tea into the saucer.

  ‘I do know what you mean,’ he said, still avoiding her eyes. It was one of the most painful occasions he could remember, and he wished he had declined the invitation.

  ‘Nevertheless,’ Miss Fairchild continued, ‘I hope you care a little for Connie. I hope you will do what you can to make her happy. She is devoted to you, Carson, and I happen to love her very much. For so many years she has been my life, and all I want is her happiness, now and when I am gone.'