‘Dearest, I have told you all will be well.’ Sarah Jane frowned at him. ‘Let us apply our minds to thinking positively. Nothing was ever gained by worry.’
Laurence, however, did not appear reassured, but the subject was abandoned by general consent and he lapsed into silence.
The Woodvilles made no such claims to the production of fine food as the Martyns (who were out of the country), and the fare served at the dinner was simple: poached Scotch salmon, roast sirloin of beef, and treacle tart. Arthur had managed to find a few good bottles of claret from the diminished stocks in the cellar and, despite Laurence’s gloom and Miss Fairchild’s apprehension, the meal turned into a jolly one, with frequent bursts of laughter, especially from the doting Guy and the fascinating Mrs Gregg.
After the sweet and before the cheese was served, Guy suddenly stood up and, sharply tapping a spoon against his glass, called for silence. Agnes sat serene and composed beside him, slowly surveying the table, and then her gaze rested calmly on Guy as he began to speak.
‘This dinner is an occasion for a double celebration,’ he said, glancing first at Carson and Connie and then at Agnes. ‘It is to welcome Constance, who has consented to marry my son and given us all great joy. How pleased we are to welcome Constance, who is related to my sister by marriage, into the bosom of the Woodville family, and also her dear guardian, Victoria Fairchild, who has devoted her life to her ward.’
Miss Fairchild visibly flushed and her hand plucked at her napkin, while Connie’s eyes remained fixed on her lap. Carson could sense that she was shaking, and his hand stole under the table to clasp hers. She caught it and hung on to it, and he could feel the sticky sweat in her palm.
‘Let us drink, therefore, to Constance and Carson.’ Guy raised his glass high above his head. ‘Let us drink to their happiness.’
Everyone stood, glasses raised in the direction of the shy pair:
‘Constance and Carson, Constance and Carson.’
Then, the toast over, they resumed their seats and a buzz of conversation recommenced. But Guy had not finished. Once again he tapped his glass and, even louder, cleared his throat importantly:
‘I have yet another announcement to make, so please bear with me. Whereas Carson’s engagement gives me great joy, what I am about to say only enhances it.’ He stopped and, face flushed with the intensity of his emotion, turned to Agnes and reached for her hand. ‘I am overjoyed to tell you that Agnes Gregg, whom I have known for many years and who is now a widow, has consented to make a lonely man a very, very happy one, and to become my wife and, thus, the new Lady Woodville.’
It was hard to tell, in the confusion that followed, who was pleased and who was displeased by the announcement. Clearly, everyone was astounded. Agnes had only been in the country a few months, and yet long enough to capture the vulnerable heart of Sir Guy. In the general hubbub Eliza was the first to recover, to rise from her seat and embrace Agnes, and then everyone fell over themselves to be the next. Only Connie and Miss Fairchild seemed reluctant to leave their seats. To Carson the news also appeared to be a bombshell.
Guy had, by this time, ordered the champagne which had been kept in readiness, and there were more toasts to the happy couples, who were invited to stand next to one another: Connie shy and withdrawn, Agnes confident and radiant, clasping her hand.
Finally, pleading a headache, Connie was the first to leave, accompanied by Miss Fairchild. By now a certain degree of intoxication was evident and no one noticed them creep out except Carson, who saw them to the door.
‘A most exciting evening,’ Miss Fairchild said insincerely.
‘Very exciting,’ Carson agreed woodenly.
‘And you had no idea about this extraordinary event, Carson?’
‘None at all. I didn’t even know Aunt Agnes was back. Sophie told me a moment ago that Father has been seeing her secretly, almost every day.’
‘It’s clear he is very much in love,’ Miss Fairchild said jealously. ‘Have you considered how this will affect you and Constance, Carson?’
‘How can it affect us?’ Carson stumbled over the words. ‘I hadn’t thought of it.’
‘Do you suppose Agnes, the new Lady Woodville, will tolerate a younger competitor in the same house?’
‘I don’t see why not. It is a very large house.’
‘But has she been consulted?’
‘I must suppose she has, because my father is very keen for Connie and me to marry. Agnes is also Connie’s half-sister.’
‘That seems to me to be not such a good idea.’ Miss Fairchild, clearly put out, looked thoughtful. ‘Maybe a house on your own would be the solution.’ She brightened perceptibly. ‘For the early years of your marriage it would be more suitable to be on your own.’ She glanced down at Connie who, having hardly said a word all evening, was staring rather helplessly at Carson, remembering how comforting his hand had felt in hers, grateful to him for his kindness.
‘Come along, Constance,’ Miss Fairchild said briskly, ‘I thought you had a headache.’
‘I have, Aunt. Good night, Carson.’
‘Good night, my dear,’ he said gingerly, putting his lips to her forehead so that they scarcely touched. ‘I hope your headache will soon get better.’
He went down the steps and saw them into their carriage, and then he remained in the drive, watching them; watching and waving. But no handkerchief fluttered back.
Then, rather than join the revelry that now continued in the drawing-room, he went upstairs and, his mind a torment of confused thoughts and emotions, lay fully clothed on his bed until the small hours of the morning, taking not one wink of sleep.
Bartholomew Sadler stretched full length on the floor, pretending to be dead. Eight-year-old Deborah sat on his chest, jumping vigorously up and down and making a great deal of noise, while Ruth and Sophie laughed helplessly beside them.
Oh, the rough-and-tumble of children’s games! It was such fun, and Bart was so good with them. Better than George, to be truthful. But then the children had been so young, besides which, George had been a serious man. Bart had lots of nieces and nephews and there was clearly a side of him that enjoyed fun.
The Woodville children looked forward to his visits, and Sophie had grown a little dependent on them. That day he had arrived unexpectedly as she sat in the schoolroom where she still taught the children from ten to twelve in the morning and two to four in the afternoon. It was an arrangement that, up to now, up until the bombshell of a few nights before, had worked perfectly.
But now that Agnes was soon to be Lady Woodville, what would happen to them?
‘Peace, peace,’ Bart cried, heaving himself up from the floor as Deborah struggled to remain on his chest. ‘I give in. You’ve won, again, Debbie.’ Then, unexpectedly, he seized Deborah and threw her over his head, but gently, so that the young girl's fall was broken. For a while Deborah struggled, and then lay limp and Bart turned towards her, patting her leg.
‘That’s enough, I think,’ Sophie said quietly. ‘And we’ll call a halt to lessons for today, children. Tidy up your books and go and get ready for lunch. Playing with Uncle Bart was a special treat.’
‘Yes, Mama,’ they chorused obediently.
Bart, still sitting cross-legged on the floor, watched them as they ran out. Then he began to straighten his clothes and ran his hands through his hair.
‘Well, that was fun!’ he said, smiling, standing up and looking round for his hat. ‘What do you say to the idea that we go and look at the stone, Sophie? I want to start the inscription and it’s a fine day for a drive.’ He gestured towards the window, where outside the sky was azure-blue with hardly a trace of cloud.
‘Oh yes!’ Sophie clapped her hands together. ‘I have the inscription written out. And may we take the children, Bart? I will let them off afternoon school and perhaps we can stop and explore the hedgerows for a nature lesson.’
Bart grimaced, his head on one side.
‘I hoped to have you to myself, Sophie. We
are so seldom alone together. Besides, we might stop somewhere for a bite to eat, and it would be late getting back. What do you think? Shall we have some time to ourselves?’
‘Oh, all right,’ she said, but she felt a little guilty that she was so easy to persuade, knowing how much the children would enjoy an outing with the two of them.
She ran upstairs to get her hat and to tell the children that they would remain at home for the afternoon as she had an errand to do on account of Papa. She set them their tasks of reading and drawing, and gave the nursemaid, who could scarcely read a word herself, instructions as to exactly what to do.
She stood in front of her mirror, adjusting her hat, tucking wisps of hair beneath it, thinking she could see odd streaks of grey. Well, she was thirty-seven ... and so, nearly, was Bart.
Every time she saw him she felt an excitement sweep through her that lasted until he’d gone. She felt it again now, but more strongly. Every glance, every inflection of his voice was precious to her. And she knew that at last, after years of loyalty to the memory of George, her singular devotion was slipping away and being replaced by another.
She felt guilty and a little sad, and she drew from her bedside drawer a piece of paper on which were the words, much altered and crossed out, of the inscription she had composed to her husband’s memory.
But, that done, swiftly her mind flew to Bart again. She thought that, except for his taciturnity, a slight unpredictability, everything about Bartholomew Sadler was perfect. He was no courtier, he was a blunt man who spoke his mind, and she knew, or guessed, that some people didn’t like him. But to her he was always charming, considerate, gentle; never making demands of the kind she did not yet feel herself ready for.
Since he had made his announcement that he wished to walk out with her, she had taken it as a form of proposal, yet he had never again mentioned marriage, so nor had she. It didn’t do to force a man. She knew enough about life for that. George Woodville, so many years before, had been gently led, rather than pushed, along the path she wished him to follow.
Bart’s habit was to visit her, frequently staying to take tea and to play with the children; and then, after a leisurely walk round the gardens alone with her, he would take his leave. People now were beginning to invite them out together; they were starting to be seen and thought of as a couple, and this pleased her. The fact that he’d been invited to the dinner-party the other night and placed beside her, was at her instigation, but no one seemed to think it unusual. And, like a couple, they had witnessed the extraordinary events of the evening and shared its dramas.
Securing her hat, she cast a glance over the rest of her trim outfit and then ran down the stairs, to find Bart standing, legs apart, hat between his hands, in the hall, gazing at the oil painting that hung there of Sir Matthew Woodville, Guy’s father. Bart was stroking his cheek and his eyes were thoughtful. As Sophie came down the stairs, he turned, and when she went up to him he put an arm lightly round her waist in greeting, and smiled down at her.
It was then that she felt passion, a desire to kiss and be kissed, a stirring in her body for so many years dormant. Bart stared into her eyes for a long time as though he could read her thoughts, sense her feelings. And indeed, he did have a curious quality, almost second-sight, that was disturbing. Disturbing, frightening, but it was very exciting too.
‘Shall we go?’ he said.
‘Ready,’ she replied, and she took his arm as they walked down the steps to his pony and gig, waiting in the drive. The pony’s reins were in the hands of the groom.
‘Has Sir Guy gone out?’ Sophie enquired as she mounted the gig. ‘I tried to find him to tell him I was going on an errand, and couldn’t.’
‘He went out very early, ma’am,’ the groom replied. ‘He took his motor-car and didn’t say when he’d be back.’
Since the advent of Agnes, Guy had also acquired a car and chauffeur. Apparently his fiancée didn’t like riding about in carriages which, in America, were fast becoming curiosities, such was the speed of change.
Bart made sure Sophie was comfortable, had a rug around her waist; and then, with a light flick of his whip on the pony’s back, they set off at a brisk pace down the drive.
Just to be alone with him without talking was enough. She felt their closeness, the harmony between them that would make their union even more natural. Rude and abandoned visions, dreams, long repressed, came tumbling into her mind, and she felt shocked by them. As though, again, he could see these disturbing images, and was encouraged by them, Bart put his arm round her waist – only more tightly this time – and said:
‘I think we suit, don’t we, Sophie?’
She nodded, her heart, her mind, too full to speak.
‘What will happen to you now, with two new women moving into the house?’
‘I have not been asked to leave,’ she replied, ‘but it is true, my future is insecure, though I think Sir Guy would like me to stay on, at least to see the two ladies settled. I must say, it is rather droll, don’t you think, Bart, to have two sisters moving in as brides when there is over twenty years between them?’
‘Oh, very droll,’ Bart replied rather woodenly.
‘Sir Guy would also like to have his grandchildren near him,’ Sophie prattled on, ‘so maybe I shall have some security after all.’
‘Which is what you want,’ he said.
‘Everyone wants security, especially a widow with two young children.’
‘I’m amazed that George left you nothing.’
‘He had nothing to leave,’ she said with surprise. ‘Had his mother died before him, doubtless a sum of money would have been settled on George, but even then it would only have been a few hundred pounds and some trinkets, which was all she left Carson.’ She sighed deeply. ‘You see she never imagined, in her wildest dreams, that the Martyns and Heerings would claw back everything she had. She would turn in her grave if she knew.’
‘What they did was very base, but that’s businessmen for you. They have no souls.’
‘I believe it has caused a rift between Julius and Eliza. Did you notice the other evening how cold they were to each other?’
‘I wasn’t looking at them, but at you,’ Bart replied then, with a chuckle, ‘and the lovers. I was looking at how cheerful Sir Guy was and how cheerless his son. The one anticipates marriage with relish, the other does not. But then, for the old man all his troubles are over. Both he and his son are to marry heiresses. What a turn-round from a short while ago when the house was on the market. A curious situation, Sophie, you must agree.’
‘Very curious,’ she replied. ‘But my father-in-law is a man seriously in love, and Agnes is certainly not after him for his money.
‘But his title, I expect.’ Bart kept his eyes on the road ahead.
‘Do you think so?’ Sophie looked at him sharply. ‘Oh, I don’t at all.’
‘Then you are naive, my dear. Agnes Yetman was always ambitious, known as a little gold-digger, so my mother tells me. She didn’t find anyone in the town good enough for her. She turned her nose up at everyone who fell for her. She always had that superior air, those fancy manners. But it wasn’t money she was after, my mother says, for John Yetman had plenty. What she coveted was a title, position, to be someone of consequence in society. All this was denied her because of the humble origins of her family, of which she was ashamed.’
‘But the family were people of consequence in Wenham.’
‘Only in the first generation. They had started as estate workers at Pelham’s Oak, and only gradually began to make their way up in the world.’
Sophie remained silent, lost in thought. It was true that she scarcely remembered Agnes Yetman, who had left the district when she herself was a girl. But her mother had confirmed what Bart had just told her. Agnes had been known as restless, dissatisfied; she had first worked as a governess, her education convincing her that she was too good for the local farmers and tradesmen who might otherwise have asked for her han
d.
Well, what did these things matter now? If she made Guy happy in his final years, that was the important thing.
She realised after a while that the countryside through which they were passing was unfamiliar. They had been so busy talking, and she so preoccupied with her thoughts, that she hadn’t been looking where they were going.
But when she realised that they were parallel to Bulbarrow Hill, twisting and turning up country lanes, past Woolland, Ibberton and Belchalwell, she called out to Bart.
‘Where are we going? This isn’t the way.’
‘We’re going to see the stone, like I told you.’ He looked at her with a reassuring smile.
‘But this isn’t the Dorchester road.’
‘The stone has been moved, my dear; it’s been honed and polished and is now in the garden of my house, where I can better attend to the carving of the inscription undisturbed.’
‘Oh.’
‘I hope you don’t mind that, Sophie?’
‘I don’t mind at all,’ she said, but she experienced, nevertheless, a twinge of unease, a quickening of the heart, a supposition – but only a supposition – as to why he had not wanted her to bring the children. She sighed, and squared her shoulders. Well, she was a mature woman, a widow, and did she not know how to take care of herself?
Finally Bart turned the gig into the yard of what looked like a farmhouse. It was quite a sizeable building, with the outbuildings of the farm. It was practically right underneath Bulbarrow, and from its sloping grounds could be seen breathtaking views of the Dorset plain as far as Somerset.
‘You’ve never been to my home, have you, Sophie?’
‘No,’ she said, staring straight in front of her.
‘It doesn’t bother you at all, does it?’ He smiled at her quizzically. ‘Nothing will happen that you don’t want to happen. You know that, Sophie. But I thought ‘twas time you saw where I lived. I bet you were curious.’
Sophie didn’t reply but jumped from the gig into the yard; a few hens peered at her curiously before proceeding with their endless forage for food, apparently unperturbed.
The Rector's Daughter (Part Two of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 38