‘It is a nice place,’ she said, looking up at the house covered with climbing roses and clematis not yet in bud.
‘I’m glad you like it.’
‘Now, where’s the stone?’ she asked briskly and, without another word, Bart led the way round the side of the house to one of the outbuildings, which he appeared to have turned into a workshop. There were several large lumps of stone in various shapes, sizes and degrees of finish; but there was one piece of brown-veined Purbeck marble which stood out. It tapered to the top from the base like an obelisk, and had been honed and polished until it shone.
Sophie took out a handkerchief and blew her nose loudly. ‘It is very beautiful,’ she murmured, taking a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket and handing it to Bart. Solemnly he read out:
Sacred to the memory of
George Pelham Woodville
1881-1907
whose body is buried in
Gumbago, New Guinea, but whose
spirit rests forever in his
County of Dorset.
And to those who were martyred
with him, in particular his
beloved servant Kirikeu.
All rest in the bosom of God.
‘Those are beautiful words too,’ he said softly. ‘I like the reference to the servant. Very noble.’
‘It was George’s wish.’ She blew her nose again and he put an arm round her shoulders.
‘You have the permission of the Rector to place it in the churchyard?’
Sophie nodded. Seeing the stone, George’s memorial, had affected her.
‘And Sir Guy?’
‘Sir Guy doesn’t know it’s ready, but when it is he will agree. Besides, he has his mind on other things at the moment.’
‘Oh yes. Love.’ Bart started to laugh and then, seeing Sophie’s disapproving gaze, corrected himself.
‘I’m sorry, my dear, I didn’t wish to be offensive.’
‘It’s not that you’re offensive,’ Sophie assured him, ‘it is simply that at a moment as solemn as this I don’t think one should be light-hearted.’
‘Of course not.’
‘I meant that Sir Guy’s marriage, and Carson’s, naturally, preoccupied him; but he has never been enthusiastic about a memorial, otherwise we should have had one long ago. It is almost as though ...’ she paused and then rushed on ‘... he does not wish to be reminded of George.’
‘Or the circumstances in which George died.’ Bart watched Sophie as she slowly circled the monument, running her hand along the shiny surface of the plinth.
‘It is so beautiful,’ she murmured again. ‘Thank you, Bart.’
She turned towards the door and went into the yard, where she stood looking at the gig, and the pony which had its nose in a bag of oats, as if she were uncertain what to do.
‘Will you come in and have a bite to eat? I suggested it, you remember.’
‘I didn’t think you were referring to your home.’
‘Sophie.’ He stood before her and looked squarely into her eyes. ‘You’re not by any chance afraid of me, are you? You told me the first night I drove you home that you were not at all afeared to be alone with a man. I admired that spirit of independence.’
‘That was different,’ she said, feeling strangely unsure of herself. ‘Here, with George’s stone ... it is as if his presence were here too. I feel irreverent ... to think other things.’
‘But my dear, he wouldn’t expect you to be a widow all your life, would he? What, is it over four years since you were widowed? And a desperate time you’ve had of it, too, going from pillar to post, rejected first by this person then that, without money. What sort of future do you really imagine you have now? If I know the reputation of Agnes Yetman, she will have you out of the house in no time, no time at all.’
‘But Sir Guy would never ...’
‘Sir Guy will do what she tells him. He is besotted. If ever I saw a woman having dominion over a man, that woman is Agnes Yetman, or Gregg as we must call her now.’
Casually Bart put his arm around her waist and drew her towards the house. The door led directly into a large living room and kitchen, which had a tiled floor scattered with rugs. It was a functional, bachelor-style room, sorely in need of a woman’s touch. There was a large sofa, some comfortable chairs, and a table in the middle which was already laid with a cloth and knives and forks.
‘It seems I was expected,’ Sophie said with a trace of amusement, feeling more relaxed as she entered the house.
‘I have only very simple fare, some home-killed and home-cured ham, some pickles, cheese and bread. Oh!’ He went into a larder off the kitchen and after a few minutes returned with a jug. ‘Some ale. Good Dorset ale, straight from the barrel. Will you have a glass, Sophie?’
‘I’ll try a little,’ she said cautiously. ‘Just a taste. You know I’m not a drinker.’
‘But it’s not against your religion, is it?’
‘Oh no,’ she said quickly. ‘Drinking too much is against our religion, but certainly not a glass from time to time. However, I do regard drink as a demon and incline to teetotalism. Just half, please, Bart,’ she said anxiously as she watched him pouring. He then passed her the half-full glass and, filling his to the brim, put it to his lips.
‘Cheers,’ he said.
‘Your health,’ she replied primly.
It was a pleasant enough room, even though the main windows looked directly out on to the side of Bulbarrow and not the glorious view in front. Farmhouses were functional buildings constructed to protect humans and animals from the wind, rather than for the advantage of the view.
Bart produced a side of ham which he sliced with professional skill, and the pickles in a large glass jar. The bread he appeared to have bought in Wenham because it was freshly baked and tasted delicious. For a while they ate in silence. Bart finished his glass of beer, rather too quickly in Sophie’s opinion, and fetched another.
‘The cheese is made from the cows on my brother’s farm,’ he said proudly, pushing it towards her. ‘You know I have two brothers who farm?’
‘Of course I know. Carson worked there for a time. Did farming never appeal to you, Bart?’
‘Not as a living,’ he replied, leaning back and lighting a cigarette after finishing his cheese. 'I was going into the building business when I was a boy, and was first apprenticed to a builder. Then I became interested in stone, especially the qualities of the marble from our own Isle of Purbeck, which is sent all over the world. At one time they used to haul the stone down from the cliffs and send it by sea to various parts of the country. Now it mainly goes by rail.’
‘I would have thought, in a way ...’ Sophie didn’t quite know how to proceed and played with a spare knife, her eyes on the white tablecloth’... I would have thought you were a more ambitious man.’
‘Ambitious?’ He seemed surprised. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Maybe like Laurence, with a big firm ...’
‘Oh, too many risks in that,’ Bart replied. ‘I don’t like having too many workers, big overheads. My small stone-mason’s yard is enough for me, and the two men I can lay off if times are bad. And I tell you, I suspect I make more money than Laurence does.’
‘Oh! How?’ She looked surprised. ‘He employs about fifty men.
‘And I employ none.’ Bart stood up and leaned against the high slate mantelshelf. ‘Only casual labour. Every penny I make, I keep. You see, you don’t have to have a large organisation, offices here and offices there, to run a business. I make a bit of money out of my yard, but it’s largely by buying cheap and selling at a profit, or making introductions, like Wainwright. I introduced him to Laurence. He paid me for it.’
‘Really?’ Sophie felt a sense of shock. ‘But why should he do that? Surely there are plenty of builders ...’
‘Oh yes, but Wainwright is a speculator. You see, he doesn’t really have the resources behind him he says he has, so he needs people who will give him credit and not ask
too many questions ...’
‘Oh, but that is awful!’ Sophie started to protest. ‘Poor Laurence is already alarmed.’
‘It’s not awful at all.’ Bart’s brow clouded. ‘My recommendation is good enough for both of them without going to any middle-men. There is no need for Laurence to be alarmed. You should see the size of Wainwright’s house. You’ll see, they’ll both make a handsome profit, and I haven’t done so badly either. But I have taken no risk; Laurence has, so he will get more ... and deserve it, too.’
‘Are you sure?’ Sophie still looked doubtful. ‘I thought Laurence looked unhappy at the dinner the other night, when both you and Julius Heering were anxious to distance yourself from Wainwright.’
‘I made no attempt to distance myself. I said I hardly knew Wainwright, which is true. But his plans seemed good enough to me. He started to talk to me about the manufacture of agricultural machines. He had vision, his eyes on far horizons. I thought Laurence would be prepared to take a risk.’
‘But Laurence didn’t think there was a risk. He asked Prosper Martyn and Julius Heering.’
‘Oh no.’ Bart shook his head very firmly. ‘I don’t think he asked them. I don’t really think he asked their bank, either, for a proper reference, though I s’pose he should have done. But you see, my dear, if you don’t take no risks, you don’t get no reward.’
He threw his cigarette in the empty grate and, going over to her chair, stood behind her and put his arms around her neck, his face pressed close up to hers, his hands making towards her breasts.
‘Now, my dear,’ he murmured caressingly, ‘what say we take a risk?’
‘A risk?’ She tried to turn, but he held her fast.
‘You know what risk I mean.’ His breath was hot on the side of her face. ‘The risk of love. Come, Sophie Woodville, you’re no maiden, no virgin. Didn’t you ever feel those womanly yearnings in recent times?’ He thrust his hand inside the front of her dress. ‘Don’t you burn inside for a man? Isn’t it a long, long time – too long, my dear, since you last had one? ‘Sides, you know you like me, Sophie.’
‘I do like you.’ She tried to prise his fingers away from her breasts, but maybe she was too half-hearted because she didn’t succeed.
‘Well then? What’s stopping you?’ He gripped a nipple and rubbed it until it was hard like his finger, calloused and roughened by his trade.
‘But I could never ... Not until we were married.’
‘My dear, if we wait that long the fires I feel burning inside you might go out altogether. Don’t dampen the flames.’ He rubbed her nipple even harder and she could feel the sensation of opening and closing just on the inside of her thighs. ‘Besides,’ he whispered, close to her ear, ‘after being so good all these years, so Christian, would it not be exciting, just for once in a while, to do something the world – but not I, mind – might consider wicked?’
20
Carson found it very difficult to get so much as a sight of, never mind an interview with, his father in the days following the announcement of his wedding. Guy was off at first light and returned either in the small hours or, sometimes, it had to be confessed, not at all.
Carson had eventually to write him a note to ask for a meeting, and now at last he stood in his father’s study, waiting for him to make his appearance after breakfast, which he always took in his room.
Having shaved carefully and dressed in a suit, Carson wished to present a good appearance to his father. He had rehearsed to himself over and over again what he was going to say; but even so he felt nervous and unsure of himself when his father entered the room, a smile of greeting on his face.
‘My dear boy,’ he said, coming up to him and clasping his arm. ‘Isn’t it terrible that a son should have to write and ask his father for an interview? Dear, dear, I feel ashamed.’ He then released Carson and went and sat on the sofa, patting it so that Carson should sit beside him. ‘But you know, times are not what they were. My dearest Agnes has transformed my life.’
‘I can see that, Father,’ Carson observed drily, but taking care not to sound too cynical.
‘She is such a darling,’ Guy went on, heedless of Carson, ‘such a gadabout and spendthrift. I can’t keep up with her. She is going to do up this entire house inside – which, of course, makes fewer demands on Miss Fairchild, who is already paying for the outside, so we can leave that to her. The inside Agnes will take care of.’
Guy rubbed his hands together as though he had achieved something singular, as perhaps he had, in getting two women to pay for the refurbishment of his home.
Carson had not joined his father on the sofa and stood, instead, with his back to the fireplace in which a fire had been lit, for it was a cold spring day.
‘I think you should have told me first, Father.’
‘Told you what, Carson?’ Guy looked puzzled.
‘That you were to marry. It was a great shock ...’
‘It was a shock to me too, my darling boy,’ Guy chuckled happily. ‘A very pleasant shock, though. I only knew myself a few days before. Dearest Agnes begged me not to announce it until we could tell everyone together. She wished, for some reason, that it should be kept secret, bless her heart. Shyness, I expect,’ he concluded, with the expression of a man clearly besotted by love.
‘Shyness is hardly the word I would use about Agnes, Father. I never saw a woman quite so bold.’
‘Carson, please do not speak in that flippant manner about my intended.’ Guy’s tone was suddenly severe. ‘I cannot allow it.’
‘But Father, she is not shy. It is the last thing she is. She is a woman of the world, anyone can see that ...’
‘Is it possible that you do not like my darling Agnes?’ Guy asked suspiciously. ‘Or that you are even a little jealous, maybe? To me she is the most beautiful, the most divine woman in the world.’
‘I can see you are in love, Father; but to me she appears in the guise not of a woman in love, but a schemer.’
‘A schemer! For what?’ Guy wrathfully drew his brows together again. ‘How dare you suggest she is a schemer! I haven’t a penny. I have confessed this to her and told her the extent of my misfortune. Do you call her generous response to me scheming? I have nothing and she has everything, and is prepared to place it all at my, at our, disposal.’
‘Are you sure she has the money?’ Carson put his hands in his pockets and stared hard at his father.
‘Of course I am sure she has the money!’ Guy said coldly. ‘She lives in some style and has been looking at enormous country mansions to purchase. Her late husband left her his entire fortune! But please do not assume that I am marrying Agnes solely for her money. Our relationship goes back many years. Once upon a time ...’ his voice broke slightly with emotion ‘... I loved Agnes.’
‘Ah!’ Carson said with a note of triumph. ‘Now we know that she was one of your women.’
‘Don’t you dare use that phrase,’ Guy snapped. “‘One of my women” indeed. I was in love with Agnes, and she with me ...’
‘While you were married to Mother, I suppose,’ Carson sneered.
‘Carson, I shall discontinue this conversation if you insist on proceeding in that tone,’ his father said. ‘I have no need to listen to a young puppy like you.’
‘As you wish, Father.’ Carson bowed his head to hide his smile.
‘And don’t you ever speak disrespectfully of her again, or you and I will cease to communicate.’
‘I merely thought she might be after your title, Father.’ Carson assumed a tone of humility. ‘My concern was solely for you. Many women pretend to have money to gain some advantage – or so they say. But if you think not ... If you’re happy ...’
‘After my title?’ Guy thundered. ‘What rubbish! You think a little thing like that matters to someone as divine as Agnes? I’ll have you know, my dear boy, I had to get down on my knees and beg her to marry me. I had to plead with her. Even then she wasn’t sure, the sweet, bewitching, beguiling darling.
’ Guy joined his hands together in a paroxysm of emotion which only left Carson feeling renewed disgust at his father’s capacity for self-deception.
‘Well, if you’re happy, Father,’ he said, finally sitting by him, ‘then I am happy. It also makes what I have to say to you easier.
‘Good, good.’ Guy, never a man to bear a grudge, put a hand over Carson’s. ‘I want you to be happy here, my dear boy, with your little bride. Agnes and I were only talking about it the other day. You shall have your own suite of rooms. We, both being older people who have been married before, would not wish to interfere with young lives.’
There was a pause during which Carson appeared lost in thought.
‘Do you like that idea?’ His father looked at him anxiously. ‘There is no need to make up your mind until you have discussed it with Connie. You may prefer to live in a house on the estate for the first few years. The Richmonds in Lostock Manor Farm are very old. Perhaps I could persuade them to leave for somewhere smaller, a cottage nearby. The house is in good repair, not too large, the animals long dispersed. Is it the fear that there may be some antipathy between Connie and Agnes that worries you?’
Carson ignored his question and asked instead:
‘When will you be married, Father?’
‘As soon as we can, but certainly after you. We have no wish to steal your thunder. We may well slip away and tie the knot somewhere else. My darling is extremely fond of London and she wishes the London house to be reopened, to have new furnishings and wallpaper.’ Guy rubbed his hands together again, like a miser savouring a fortune. ‘Oh, I assure you, Carson, we shall have two very fine houses that will recall the Woodville family at its peak.’
‘Father,’ Carson said in a tense tone of voice, ‘now that you are to be married to a woman who you admit has vast wealth, there is no need for me to marry Connie.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Guy looked so shocked that Carson had to repeat his statement.
‘You now have the money you need to keep Pelham’s Oak – if you are sure Agnes has the money, and is not just pretending to be rich to ensnare you ...’
The Rector's Daughter (Part Two of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 39