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

by Nicola Thorne

  ‘I care a great deal about Connie.’ Carson was aware of a constriction in his throat. ‘I really like her.’

  ‘Oh, you do?’ Miss Fairchild prayerfully clasped her hands together. ‘I was sure you must. I was convinced that her feeling for you could only be reciprocated. She is a dear girl. She is unique.’

  ‘I will do everything in my power to make her happy,’ Carson said solemnly. Then he heard the front door open, and someone carne flying along the corridor, bursting into the room where they were sitting.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Connie seemed dismayed to see them. ‘Did I interrupt anything?’

  Miss Fairchild, by now perfectly composed and equal to the occasion, patted the place beside her, gazing reassuringly into Connie’s anxious face. ‘We were talking about when the banns should be called, matters like that. There are all sorts of things to consider when you are about to be a married woman. There is the date, for instance. That is very important.’

  She put an arm around Connie as if to protect her from the harsh facts of life, even though, sooner or later, she must know them. Then she proceeded to pour her a cup of tea which she passed to her.

  ‘Did we not think May a good month, Carson? If so, the banns had better be called now.’

  ‘May?’ Carson gulped. ‘Is it not a little soon?’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘To arrange everything.’

  ‘Not soon enough to arrange everything.’ There was a peculiar emphasis in Miss Fairchild’s voice, which Carson took to refer to the financial arrangements between her and his father. Creditors were beginning to press on the master of Pelham’s Oak, who kept on fending them off with promises.

  ‘Quite. May it is. Is that all right, Connie?’

  ‘May.’ Connie seemed afraid of the proximity too. ‘There is so much to be done, Aunt. How can I ever get everything done by May?’

  ‘Such as what, my dear?’ Her aunt’s tone was mild, assured. ‘I, who have so little to do, will see to everything for you. Never fear that.’

  ‘And the music for the wedding ...’

  ‘Well, you certainly won’t be playing that.’ Carson was eager to break the ice.

  ‘Oh no, of course I won’t.’ Connie smiled too, and the love in her eyes showing plainly, continued, ‘I can’t really believe I shall be the next mistress of Pelham’s Oak.’

  ‘And there is a lot for you to look at there.’ Carson stood up abruptly. ‘My father asked me to invite you and Miss Fairchild to lunch. Should we say next Wednesday?’

  ‘That seems most suitable,’ Connie replied, aware of her dignity as a soon-to-be-married woman. ‘Is that all right for you, Aunt?’

  ‘Wednesday is most suitable,’ Miss Fairchild replied, rising to her feet. ‘Won’t it be exciting?’

  Then, Miss Fairchild’s arm still tightly round Connie’s waist, they escorted Carson to the door, where he stood for a moment before turning abruptly and walking briskly along the garden path.

  His horse was tethered to the fence outside, and he unfastened the reins with a preoccupied expression on his face. He then swung himself onto his horse and, without looking at the house again, cantered down the street. Connie remained looking after him, her hand half-raised in farewell. But when he didn’t respond she lowered it, crestfallen, to her side.

  Miss Fairchild tried to draw her back into the house, her arm still round her waist, but Connie remained stubbornly where she was.

  ‘Come in, dear,’ Miss Fairchild urged, releasing her grip. ‘It’s a touch draughty with that door open.’

  Reluctantly Connie turned, shut the door and followed her guardian along the passage.

  ‘You didn’t finish your tea, Connie,’ Miss Fairchild admonished, glancing at her cup. ‘I expect you were too excited. Would you like me to have some more freshly made?’

  ‘No thanks, Aunt.’ Connie slumped into the chair and gazed morosely at the pot.

  ‘Connie, what is it, dearest?’ Miss Fairchild enquired uneasily, pouring herself a cup, though she knew that by now it would be cold.

  ‘He didn’t look back to wave.’

  ‘Oh my dear, don’t be silly! That’s of no importance.’

  ‘He looked as though he’d completely forgotten me as soon as his back was turned.’

  ‘My dear.’ Miss Fairchild perched on the arm of her chair and began to stroke the hair back from her forehead. ‘He has so many things on his mind, a young man on the verge of matrimony. It’s a big step.’

  ‘It’s a big step for me too, Aunt.’ She looked up with eyes that were full of doubt and pain. ‘It is a very big step for me.’

  ‘I know, dearest, I know.’ The movement of Miss Fairchild’s hand became rather more agitated, as if expressive of her own inner turbulence. ‘But, for a man introducing a new woman to his home, it is a very big step. Carson may well be rather reluctant to give up the carefree ways of a bachelor ...’

  ‘Then why is he doing it?’ Connie’s tone betrayed her bewilderment.

  ‘Well, my dear, because he loves you ... of course.’

  ‘Do you really think he loves me, Aunt?’ Connie’s voice was flat, her expression as she looked at her guardian searching.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure of it,’ Miss Fairchild said with emphasis.

  ‘Did he tell you?’

  ‘Not in so many words, but I wouldn’t expect him to.’

  ‘But he didn’t tell me either, and I would have expected that. He has never told me he loves me.’

  ‘But, my dear, he is shy. Men are shy creatures. They may not appear to be, but they are. Of course Carson loves you. Why else would he marry you?’

  ‘Why else indeed?’ Connie said, but from her expression it looked as though she were asking a question to which she did not know the answer.

  ‘My little chick ...’ Miss Fairchild squatted with difficulty by her side ... ‘don’t be unhappy when such a glorious event is about to befall you. Why, you should be ecstatic! You are about to be the mistress of Pelham’s Oak. One day you will be, Lady Woodville ... Who would ever have imagined that? Little Connie Yetman.’

  ‘The shy spinster with glasses who blushes at the drop of a hat,’ Connie said bitterly. ‘Who, indeed, would have imagined it – particularly when Carson Woodville is so handsome and so much sought-after.’

  Miss Fairchild rose to her feet as if in despair and, turning to Connie, tapped her gently on the wrists.

  ‘Enough of this, my girl! You are being morbid, and also very silly. Carson is devoted to you. He told me.’

  ‘“Devotion” and “love” are not the same thing.’

  ‘They are, Connie, they are. People have different ways of showing their emotions. Now don’t you be getting silly thoughts about your marriage, or I shall be very cross with you. In fact, the sooner the banns are read the better.’ She looked at the clock on the wall, and the notion of the passage of time seemed to confirm her resolution. ‘I shall go and see the Rector this very moment and discuss it with him.’

  Mrs Lamb went once a week to Blandford to do her shopping in the market. The shops in Blandford had a better variety than those in Wenham, and the market was also larger.

  Mrs Lamb was in her middle seventies, and although a brisk and active woman, and in much better shape mentally and physically than her husband, she was beginning to feel her age. Sometimes Sophie accompanied her and sometimes she went alone. She enjoyed the company of her daughter because they met so seldom. Their relationship, strained since Sophie’s return to England, had grown worse because the Lambs had become jealous of her attachment to Guy, and the fact that their own grandchildren now seldom visited them.

  On this day, however, Sophie had called for her mother in Sir Guy’s coach, and the Rector’s wife was ready and waiting as it drove up to the door.

  ‘Won’t you come in and have a word with your father?’ Mrs Lamb gestured indoors. But Sophie, who had not got out of the coach, replied:

  ‘I have to get back, Mother. We have an
important luncheon tomorrow and I have much to do. Tell Father I’ll pop in and say “hello” when we come back. I’ll have time for a quick cup of tea.’

  ‘Oh, very well, dear.’ Mrs Lamb, who already had on her coat and hat, turned to the servant who stood by the door.

  ‘Tell the Rector Mrs Woodville will be back for tea. And make sure he has that cold pork for lunch.’

  ‘Yes ‘m.’ The maid bobbed, and ran off to give the message to her master before she forgot it. Mrs Lamb herself closed the door behind her and walked to the coach, which stood right outside the door.

  She was helped up the steps by the coachman, who then folded the steps, put them inside the carriage and firmly closed the door. He got into the driving-seat and took up the reins of the two bays, who knew practically every inch of the way between Wenham, Pelham’s Oak and Blandford.

  ‘Whoa there!’ the coachman cried, flicking his whip lightly across their backs while he turned in the square outside the church, then trotted off down the main street towards the bridge.

  Mrs Lamb found her daughter preoccupied as she studied a long list of purchases and errands in her hand.

  ‘Who is coming to luncheon tomorrow, Sophie? May one ask?’

  ‘You may certainly ask, Mother. Connie and Mrs Fairchild.’ Sophie busily ticked one of the items with her pencil.

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought that was so important. I should consider someone like the mayor, or the chairman of the parish council, more important.’ She sounded disappointed.

  ‘Connie and Miss Fairchild are very important,’ Sophie corrected her mother. ‘Connie is going to marry Carson and this is her first official visit to the house since they became engaged.’

  ‘I can’t imagine that funny, spinsterish little girl as mistress of that huge house.’ Mrs Lamb shook her head. ‘I can’t understand it at all.’

  ‘Mother, don’t call her a “funny little girl”.’ Sophie sounded irritated. ‘She is a woman of twenty-four years of age. She is a very special person.’ She looked sideways at her mother. ‘I thought you always liked Connie Yetman?’

  ‘Oh, I do like her,’ Mrs Lamb protested, ‘I like her very much; but as the wife of Carson Woodville ...’ She shook her head. ‘It beggars the imagination; unless, as some people are saying, there is an ulterior motive,’ she suggested darkly.

  ‘And what can you mean by that?’ Sophie still sounded cross.

  ‘Money. Money is a singularly potent factor, is it not?’

  ‘Mother, I do think that is unworthy of you.’

  ‘I am human, and I am not a fool,’ Mrs Lamb continued. ‘A few weeks ago Pelham’s Oak was for sale. Everyone knew that. Now Carson is to marry someone he hardly knows, who happens to be the plainest girl in town, but wealthy and with prospects of more wealth; and the house is no longer for sale.’

  ‘That’s a cruel insinuation, Mother.’

  ‘Nevertheless, it is true.’ The Rector’s wife was quite firm about this. ‘Good and sweet Connie is, a wonderful musician, but plain. You cannot deny it, Sophie. The last woman in the world for a man of Carson’s reputation.’

  ‘Maybe Carson sees a beauty in her that you don’t appreciate,’ Sophie observed tactfully as the coach drew towards the town.

  ‘You must know the reason if anyone does.’ Mrs Lamb looked at her suggestively. ‘If anyone knows what goes on at Pelham’s Oak, you must. Wasn’t it sudden? Wasn’t it unexpected? And now there is this terrible rush to call the banns. Miss Fairchild came running round to see your father last week at five in the afternoon!’

  ‘What’s wrong with five in the afternoon?’

  ‘Nothing is wrong with the time. It’s the state she was in. I don’t suppose there’s any chance the marriage act has been anticipated?’

  ‘That is a most disgraceful suggestion!’

  ‘It’s usually the reason for such haste. But in this case I favour money over fornication. “Oh, Rector, they must be called quickly,” she insisted. “There is no time to lose ...” I never heard such a carry-on. Perhaps it was because she was afraid Carson would change his mind.’

  ‘I don’t think there’s any chance of that. Carson and Connie are quite devoted to each other. Now, Mother,’ Sophie briskly patted her mother’s arm, ‘forget about all this gossip and ill-informed speculation. Concentrate on your shopping list, otherwise you’ll forget something and then you’ll blame me.’

  ‘Besides,’ her mother went on grumbling, taking no notice of Sophie, ‘what is to become of you? Have you thought of that?’

  ‘I have been told I am welcome to stay in the house. Sir Guy was at pains to assure me on that point.’

  ‘And what will Connie have to say about that? She, after all, is to be the new mistress.’

  ‘We shall see, Mother.’ Sophie looked skittishly at her mother. ‘After all, I may not want to stay for very long myself. I too may have other plans.’

  ‘Plans? What plans are you talking about?’ Mrs Lamb turned on her sharply.

  ‘You never know whether I may be thinking of marrying again.’ Then, with a mischievous smile, Sophie opened the door as the carriage arrived in the market-place, and quickly jumped out.

  Blandford Forum on market-day was a bustling place. The people came in from all the villages around to buy and to sell, to beg and to barter. There was a steady procession of carts, carriages and horses through the main street, accompanied by a general cacophony of abuse, exhortation and encouragement, the cries of children and the barking of dogs.

  Agnes Gregg had been woken at dawn by the noise and had sent for her maid to find out what was happening. Market-day, Elizabeth, bleary-eyed, explained. Of course, how it brought back memories. Nostalgic memories.

  Agnes had had her morning tea early and then dressed and breakfasted in the dining-room where, as usual, she didn’t talk to anyone other than those who served her. But she was always an object of considerable interest wherever she went.

  At The Crown she was already regarded as a woman of some mystery, and it was a reputation she enjoyed cultivating. The fewer people who knew her business, to her mind, the better. But market-day. Oh, that was the day she used to drive into the town on various errands, sometimes with her mother, sometimes with her sister-in-law Eliza, sometimes alone. There was the hilarious occasion when she had been propositioned by Herbert Lock. How she’d teased him! How angry he had been. But oh, there were far, far bigger fish to fry now.

  Agnes had already, in the days she’d been in Blandford, walked the streets – pausing outside the offices of Yetman Bros Ltd in Salisbury Street, which she thought continued to look prosperous even though her brother Ryder was long dead. She guessed his son, Laurence, ran it now.

  On this morning Agnes left the hotel early and went to the market, pausing at the stalls to examine the glass and the objets d’art, for she was an ardent collector of bric à brac.

  She felt an unusual sense of excitement, as though there was something in the wind, something untoward and interesting about to happen. She wore the fashionable outfit she had worn the day she arrived, and it drew a number of glances from jealous females and one or two catcalls from lewd men which she ignored. Leaning on her parasol, she realised she felt completely at home as she stopped before one stall and then another, inspecting the wares.

  She saw the carriage in the market-place stop and the doors at each side open as the two women emerged. One she didn’t recognise, but the other ...

  She tried to move out of sight, but there was no refuge except the gutter. The elder woman, who was handed down by the coachman, stopped for a moment or two to give instructions, and then turned in the direction of the market and found herself looking straight into the eyes of Agnes Yetman.

  For a moment it seemed as though she was about to pass on. But Mrs Lamb and Agnes Yetman had been well acquainted, even friends – that was, until Agnes mysteriously disappeared, never to be heard of or seen again until this moment: the object of much rumour and speculation.
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  Mrs Lamb gazed at Agnes as though searching the deep recesses of her memory. Agnes, having recognised her immediately, returned her gaze, but with a mocking smile, as though wondering if the Rector’s wife would penetrate her mask perfected over so many years. The two women stood gazing at each other.

  Sophie, after also instructing the coachman, came and stood behind her mother, and she appeared also to join in the guessing game, even though she had been a girl of fifteen when Agnes vanished.

  ‘Agnes!’ Mrs Lamb said suddenly. ‘Agnes Yetman. I do believe it is Agnes Yetman.’

  ‘Mrs Lamb!’ Agnes put out a strong, confident hand. ‘And don’t tell me behind you we have little Sophie?’

  ‘Little’ Sophie, vaguely amused by the adjective, also extended her hand.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d recognise me, Miss Yetman ... Is it still Miss Yetman?’ she ventured, glancing at the gloved hand.

  ‘No, it is not,’ Agnes said, the tone of her voice faintly American. ‘Mrs Gregg. Mrs Wendell Gregg.’

  ‘Mrs Gregg.’ Mrs Lamb clasped her hand affectionately. ‘Well, Agnes, you look a very fine lady indeed. One who has made her mark in the world. I would certainly not have recognised you except, perhaps, for your eyes. They give you away. But no one told us you were home.’

  ‘No one knows,’ Agnes said conspiratorially. ‘I have not been back to Wenham, but wished to spend a few quiet days in Blandford familiarising myself with the scene of a county I had almost forgotten.’

  ‘I can tell by your accent you’ve lived abroad,’ Sophie said.

  ‘I made America my home and have lived there nearly twenty years ...’

  ‘Your family will be thrilled to see you again.’

  ‘Will they?’ Agnes sounded sceptical. ‘I understand my father and my brother Ryder are now dead. That his widow, Eliza, is married to a very wealthy man. No one told me these things or, as far as I know, tried to find me. For twenty years I have been cut off. Naturally, I feel hurt.’

  ‘Maybe you cut yourself off?’ Mrs Lamb suggested. ‘Personally, I should love to have heard from you.’

  To this Agnes made no reply, the difference between her former life and that of the virtuous wife of the Rector seemed so marked.