‘And why return now?’ Sophie asked.
‘Because there is business to be done,’ Agnes said. ‘Unfinished business, you might say. I also understand that Sir Guy is now a widower?’
‘Yes, indeed,’ Mrs Lamb sighed sadly. ‘Lady Woodville passed away eighteen months ago.’
‘Do give him my condolences.’ Agnes extended a hand first to the mother and then the daughter. ‘And be sure to let him know that you saw me.’
She then inclined her head in the manner of one about to pass on, but Mrs Lamb impulsively put a hand on her arm.
‘Agnes, do get in touch with us. We are still at the Rectory and my husband will be overjoyed to see you. I assure you, everyone would – your sister-in-law, your brothers in Bournemouth. All the people of the parish would welcome you back. And Sophie –’ she turned to her daughter, ‘married Sir Guy’s son, George. Alas, she is now a widow ...’
‘So sorry,’ Agnes murmured.
‘It happened years ago,’ Sophie said with a rush. ‘We have two children and live at the Oak.’
‘How very interesting.’ Agnes looked speculatively at her. ‘Remember, then, to give Sir Guy my warmest regards. Now don’t forget, Sophie.’
‘Oh, certainly I shall,’ Sophie assured her. ‘I am sure he will be delighted to hear of your return.’
Sophie and her mother talked of nothing else on the way back but the person they had seen and, above all, why she should be there in such mysterious circumstances, and so unforthcoming and mysterious herself.
‘Why did she go away, Mama?’ Sophie asked, her eyes gazing appreciatively out of the window at the beauty of the passing scene.
‘I never knew the truth,’ Mrs Lamb replied. ‘Certainly your father and I were never told it. But there were rumours ...’
‘What sort of rumours?’ Sophie looked curiously at her mother.
‘Rumours ... You know what rumours are; and one should be wary of listening to, never mind believing, parish gossip. Agnes was a discontented girl, dissatisfied with her lot, jealous of Eliza and Ryder. She went to work for Lord and Lady Mount as a governess and stayed there, apparently happy enough, for several years. Then she left without a word of farewell.’
There was an speculative light in her mother’s eyes.
‘You can’t wonder the gossips started. But my dear ...’ she placed a hand on Sophie’s arm ‘... at the moment I am more interested in a remark you made just before we bumped into Agnes. You said that you might be thinking of marrying again. Can it be true?’
‘Oh, I wasn’t really serious, Mother.’ Sophie, wishing she had never made such a flippant remark, gazed at the floor of the swaying carriage. ‘There may be someone. I can’t be sure.’
‘Oh Sophie.’ Mrs Lamb’s clasp tightened. ‘I do hope you are serious. There is nothing in the world that would give your father and me more pleasure, I assure you. We feel we have grown away from you in your sadness, that we have not been of sufficient real help to you. We so long for you to be happy again.’ She put her head on one side and gazed speculatively at her daughter. ‘Dare one hope that it is dear Hubert Turner? He is so devoted to you, and we to him. You have so much in common. Besides, Hubert may well be your father’s successor.’
‘Is it decided?’ Sophie looked surprised. ‘Has he been offered the living?’
‘When your father hands in his resignation the post becomes open, and is given at the discretion of Sir Guy and the bishop. But we so hope that with our influence Hubert might be appointed to take the place of your father.
‘There are difficulties, because he is still a curate, but they may be overcome. Oh my dear, how much joy there would be in our hearts if our daughter were to be the wife of the next Rector of Wenham, as you assuredly would have been one day had poor dear George been alive.’
18
Guy Woodville, with an air of scarcely suppressed excitement, walked into the lounge of The Crown in Blandford and, taking a seat, stretched out his long legs encased in the trousers of his best suit, and spats. It was mid-morning, and he had announced his intention of visiting Agnes by telephone the day before. She would not speak to him directly, but the hall porter as intermediary had confirmed that Mrs Gregg would receive him the following day at precisely eleven.
Guy was even a few minutes ahead of time.
Agnes. How his mind flew back to those days more than twenty years before. After a three-year affair she had been spirited away to a secret place to have her baby, the fruit of her shame. As a married man the whole affair had been hushed up and, as far as he was concerned, best forgotten. Conveniently for everyone Agnes had vanished after abandoning her unwanted child in Bournemouth.
It had been several years after Agnes’s disappearance that Guy had realised that Elizabeth, adopted daughter of Ted and Beth Yewell, was their child. He had known about Agnes’s pregnancy but he had thought the child had been adopted, like his son by Lally.
Guy had been irresponsible, as a husband, a lover and a father; yet in his way he had cared too much, and grieved for the consequences of his behaviour. In his middle-age this had turned him to religion, and love for his lawful wife.
But God was a vengeful God, and had punished him by depriving him of the two children he loved best: dearest Emily and George.
No use dwelling on the past. Guy had produced a handkerchief for the anticipated tears and then thought better of it and replaced his handkerchief in his pocket. It would never do for Agnes to see him weeping, or with so much as a trace of tears on his face.
He had loved Lally and, in the end, he had loved Margaret. There had been other women too, but there had never been anyone like Agnes.
The door opened and he rose quickly to his feet. But it was the hall porter again.
‘Mrs Gregg will be down in a few minutes, Sir Guy.’
‘That’s perfectly all right, my good fellow.’ Guy felt a little deflated, though he didn’t quite know what he’d say to her when she appeared. He felt as nervous as a kitten.
Twenty years. More. It was a long time. Then he had been thirty-six and in good condition. Now he was nearly fifty-six and the condition was not so good. A long time. A long, long time.
The big clock on the wall ticked and the minutes seemed to pass slowly – very slowly in Guy’s opinion. He had spent a lot of time on his toilet, his selection of clothes, aided by Sophie; what suit to wear, what shirt, which tie. But Sophie was not in the know about his illicit relationship with Agnes, so she couldn’t possibly be expected to understand why he was so excited, hopping first on one foot then the other, like a schoolboy.
He rose from his chair and began slowly to walk round the room, to ease the tension he felt at the prospect of seeing Agnes again. Why had she come to Blandford, of all places? Mrs Gregg. Where was Mr Gregg? Who above all was Mr Gregg? What was Mr Gregg? Agnes had appeared to Sophie and her mother to be a woman of some consequence, maybe of wealth. Yet her father had left her nothing when he died. Agnes had disappeared, and John Yetman’s whole estate had gone to her half-sister Connie.
Guy began impatiently to examine the prints on the wall and was halfway through when he heard the door slowly open. His heart did a somersault, but when he turned to face the door he saw the hall porter again.
‘Mrs Gregg sends her apologies, sir.’ The minion bowed, but he had a smirk on his face. ‘She hopes to be with you very soon.’
‘Thank you,’ Guy said, pointedly looking at his watch. ‘It is twenty minutes since I arrived.’
‘Mrs Gregg has been very busy on the telephone, sir. To London,’ he added, as though few things could be more important than telephonic contact with the capital.
Guy completed his tour of inspection of the prints and then sat down again. Ten more minutes passed, slowly. Agnes was paying him back. Maybe this was the beginning of a slow retribution for the way he had left her with child all those years ago. Was he, after all, wise to have come? His boyish enthusiasm began to ebb. There would be more to the
ir meeting than mere waiting. He began to be sure of that.
Finally, after the passage of another half-hour, Guy was about to return to the hall with a message that he was going when the door opened again and a handsome woman he didn’t recognise stepped in. His disappointment and chagrin returned.
The stranger wore a simple beige two-piece suit, the hem down to her ankles, and high-heeled shoes. Her belt was slightly below her waist and there was a large jewel at the neck of the white blouse she wore under her suit. Her shoes were dark brown and so was her hat, from which two large ostrich feathers, dyed beige, projected at an angle. A fox-fur was slung over one arm as though she had been, or was about to go, walking, and she carried a large dark-brown leather handbag.
Guy bowed slightly, murmured a polite ‘good morning’ and continued on his way to the door, past the woman who had stopped and, with an expression of tolerant amusement on her face, was staring at him.
Guy had just reached the door when a voice behind him called out:
‘Guy!’
He turned and looked more carefully at the stranger. Could it be? But no. There was no resemblance between this elegant but amply-proportioned matron and the slight, initially shy young woman he had once introduced to the arts of love.
‘Guy,’ the stranger said in a rather deep, melodious voice, ‘it is I, Agnes.’ Suddenly she threw the fox-fur onto the leather covered sofa and went towards him with a mysterious, slightly teasing smile on her face.
‘I don’t believe it is Agnes.’ Yet Guy clasped her hand between his, almost mesmerised by her stateliness, the flinty quality in her eyes and the subtlety of her smile.
‘Twenty years is a long time,’ he muttered suddenly, letting go her hand and sitting down. Taking out a handkerchief, he began to mop his brow. ‘I didn’t recognise you, Agnes. You must forgive me. I am altogether bouleversé.’
She sat with equal care on the edge of the sofa next to him, gently placing a gloved hand on his.
‘I didn’t mean to give you such a shock. Are you quite well, Guy?’
She saw, indeed, somewhat to her dismay, that he was not the man he had been; that handsome, even elegant figure from her past. He was the man she had dreamed all her life of marrying, even when she was a girl and there was no possibility, no hope at all. As long as he was married to another she had continued to dream.
The Woodvilles, even with no money, were so much grander than the Yetmans who had plenty. But what was money made through trade compared to centuries of tradition and breeding? So the noble family of Pelham’s Oak had dominated her entire life and, in the interval since she had left, she had never forgotten them or her ambition: one day to be Lady Woodville, wife of a baronet.
Guy sat patting his forehead, almost breathless with emotion. ‘Oh yes, I am quite well,’ he said at last. ‘As well as can be expected. Margaret left me, you know...’ He sighed deeply. ‘Died of a disorder of the blood. I relied on her a great deal, more than I knew.’ He shook his head. ‘I am, sadly, not the man I used to be.’ He sighed again. ‘Emily was taken from us. Then George. I often wondered if God was punishing me. I reformed, Agnes. I came close to God. Oh dear.’ Guy violently blew his nose as the tears, long held back, trickled resolutely down his cheek. ‘What a fool I am making of myself ...’
‘You mustn’t say that,’ Agnes said in that gentle, melodious yet almost motherly tone. ‘We are very old friends; much time has passed. I want you to feel free to talk to me just as you wish, to say whatever you like. After all, dear Guy, what are old friends for?’
Feverishly Guy clasped her hands. ‘Oh Agnes, you are so good. I know you understand. I can’t tell you how much I wanted to see you when Sophie told me you were here. I was beside myself with eagerness to renew our friendship. I have been very ... lonely, Agnes.’
‘Poor Guy!’ Agnes gazed thoughtfully at him as he sat dejectedly staring at the ground. ‘I can see you are lonely, and neglected ...’
‘And sad, Agnes.’ Soulfully he raised his eyes to meet hers.
‘And sad,’ she echoed. ‘With only Carson, Sophie and her children for company.’
‘No one really to love ... and no money. The fates have turned against me, dearest Agnes. I was to lose my house, but Carson has found an heiress to marry, so once again we are to be saved, as my dear Margaret saved us all those years ago.
‘History repeating itself,’ Agnes murmured.
‘Indeed ... And the heiress is your half-sister, little Connie.’
‘Constance to marry Carson?’ Agnes looked astounded. That was one piece of information that had escaped her.
‘She was made Miss Fairchild’s ward. She is worth a million pounds! Imagine that.’
‘And she is to live at Pelham’s Oak. Dear, dear.’ Agnes did not sound at all pleased at this news.
‘About our baby, Agnes ...’ Guy began, but her attitude suddenly changed and he felt her figure, partly encased in whalebone, stiffen beside him.
‘Guy, I must make one thing clear. I never want that matter referred to, ever, do you understand?’
‘But Agnes ...’
‘Never, ever ... If we are to be friends, and I hope we are, that must be quite clear. The chapter is closed. It is in my past and I want no reference to it.’
‘Very well, Agnes.’ Guy bowed his head. ‘It shall be as you wish.’ He gave her hand a compulsive squeeze. ‘How long are you going to stay here for, my dear?’
‘As long as it suits me,’ she replied, still rather horrified at the news about Connie. ‘I may move from this place; but for the time it suits me. I may even consider purchasing property in Dorset, but I haven’t decided. I, too, am newly widowed, Guy.’
‘Oh my dear, I’m so sorry.’
‘Yes.’ She gave a realistic sniff and applied her handkerchief to the tip of her nose. ‘As you know, it leaves one feeling so sad, so bereft. One longs for roots, which is why I came home – though not knowing how I would be received, having neglected my family for so long.’
‘You will always be welcome with me, Agnes.’
‘Thank you, my dear.’ She gave him a melting glance. ‘Happily, my late husband, Wendell, was a railroad millionaire and left me well provided for. Sadly, we had no children, but in my old age I shall have sufficient means to live most comfortably.’
‘Oh Agnes!’ Guy fervently pressed her hand to his lips. ‘How good it is to see you again. I believe God has meant us to be together.’
‘I’m sure of it, dear Guy.’ Agnes, who had never entered a church since she left Wenham, uttered a pious sigh. ‘I am sure that it was meant by One on high.’ And then she bent her face towards him and allowed him to kiss her cheek.
Guy lost little time in spreading the news about Agnes. From that moment he was a changed man. He became obsessed with the idea of seeing her, and arrived at The Crown almost daily at about eleven in the morning to take her out to lunch. There were occasions when she went up to London for a day or two, and he fretted until she returned, always meeting her at the station.
It was soon quite obvious to Sophie that her father-in-law was deeply in love.
It was now only a few weeks before the marriage of Carson and Connie, and there was a good deal of excitement in the town. Connie had been several times to Bournemouth, and once as far as London to choose a trousseau. Her wedding-dress was being made from silk woven in Siam, a gift from Lally and Prosper Martyn. The banns had been called three times, Connie and Carson sitting side by side in the church, self-consciously listening to their names being called, the whispers of the congregation. How awkwardly they walked from the church, in dread of the gazes of the curious. Indeed, they were a curious couple themselves; shy, secretive and oddly insecure.
They had had a solemn talk with the Rector on the singular grace conferred by the state of matrimony, their responsibilities and duties in the matter of bringing up children, as well as towards each other. Each had listened gravely, as if they were embarking on an onerous task rather t
han an adventure of the heart and spirit.
The reception was to be at Pelham’s Oak, and already the invitations had been sent out to the lucky ones – half the people of the parish, and many others:
Miss Victoria Fairchild requests the pleasure of the company of
on the occasion of the solemnisation of the
marriage between her beloved ward
Constance Euphemia Yetman and
Matthew Julius Carson Woodville
on May 15 1912 at St Mark’s Church Wenham at 11.15 a.m.
and afterwards at Pelham’s Oak.
RSVP.
The cards were beautifully embossed and, as a sign of the importance of the occasion, Miss Fairchild had addressed every envelope by hand. In fact she felt that she had never known such happiness as she had in those weeks preparing for the nuptials of her beloved companion. Nor, she felt, had she ever seen Connie so pretty.
Away from Carson, Connie was joyful; but when the pair were together she seemed subdued. Miss Fairchild felt that Connie was still overawed by her future husband, but that once they were married tenderness and love, she was sure, would replace her understandable anxiety, even fear.
As Connie could not play the music at her own wedding, she coached Jasper Pringle, the organist of a nearby church, in the task, and she spent her days running happily backwards and forwards; rehearsing, planning, and trying on the beautiful clothes her aunt was buying her. Yes, Connie had every reason to be happy.
‘Beautiful,’ Aunt Vicky sighed as the wedding-dress itself was pinned to Connie and, slowly, she revolved around the room. The dressmaker, her mouth full of pins, knelt on the floor critically regarding the creation she herself had designed from the wedding-dress of one of the royal princesses.
Connie certainly looked nice in it; a little drab, but still a bride. Well, who had ever seen a bride who wasn’t beautiful? It was unthinkable, even with Connie. Her veil would disguise her timidity, and her long train, carried by six bridesmaids and two pages – the little Woodvilles and Yetmans among them – would enhance her confidence.
The Rector's Daughter (Part Two of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 35