‘Oh Mrs Martyn, I am so sorry, ma’am,’ she cried, hand to mouth, as Alexander with a cry of delight saw Carson and toddled over to him. ‘I tried to stop him, but he ran away from me. Here, young man.’ Just as Alexander reached Carson, his nursemaid caught him and leaned forward to scoop him up into her arms, but Carson, intrigued by the smile on the toddler’s face, leaned over and picked him up, placing him on his knee.
‘Now then, young Alexander,’ he said with mock severity, ‘we can’t have you behaving like this.’
For reply, Alexander reached out and grabbed the tip of his nose.
‘It’s you, sir,’ the nursemaid said shyly. ‘As soon as he knew you were here he was determined to see you.’
‘He is very fond of you.’ Lally laughed indulgently. ‘You must have a way with children, Carson. When he knows that you’re living at the cottage he will never leave you alone.’
‘Young scamp,’ Carson said, looking into the beautiful brown eyes that looked so trustfully up at him.
He took Alexander’s hand from his nose and held it tightly in his, and a curious feeling overcame him. He looked searchingly into the child’s eyes and imagined for a moment that in them he saw the eyes of Nelly. He realised at that moment what it was about the child that had reminded him of someone else; someone he’d known, but whose name had eluded him. Now he knew who that someone was.
They cuddled and played for a while, until Alexander began to yawn and the nursemaid prised him away from Carson and took him off for his rest.
‘See you later,’ Carson said, reluctantly relinquishing his hand.
He gazed after Alexander as his nursemaid carried him out of the room and, after the door had closed behind them, he remained silent.
‘Penny for them, Carson?’ Lally had been watching him. ‘Are you thinking, perhaps, that by abandoning the marriage you have missed children of your own?’
‘Not at all, Aunt.’ Carson jerked himself back to reality. ‘I should not particularly have liked children from Connie, and I do not exclude the fact that I may have them in the future, as I am still a young man. It is simply that baby Alexander reminds me very strongly of someone. How do you say you came by him?’
‘He was left on our doorstep in London.’
‘Good gracious!’ Carson exclaimed.
‘You must have heard the story, surely.’ Lally smiled with amusement. ‘Perhaps you have forgotten it.’ And she told him about the discovery of Alexander and the note pinned to his robe. ‘In fact I still have it,’ she said, jumping up and going to her bureau. ‘I keep it as a treasured memento.’ And, opening a drawer, she produced a box of memorabilia, at the bottom of which lay the crumpled note with its pathetic, almost illiterate, message. ‘I thought to myself that one day, when Alexander knows the truth, he will be grateful to his mother – poor woman, whoever she was – who was unable to keep him and hoped that, by leaving him outside a well-to-do household, he would have a better future than she could give him, or he would find in an orphanage.’
Carson held out his hand for the note and, his expression deeply thoughtful, studied it.
‘“I know as how you are a good wimmin”,’ he read, and then looked up at Lally. ‘How did she know?’
‘I have no idea.’ Lally shrugged her shoulders. ‘Prosper thought she could have meant anyone; it was a way of softening the heart. But I felt it was directed at me by someone who did know me, or knew about me.’
Once he and Nelly had indeed discussed the goodness of Lally as they lay in bed together in the attic room in Carter Lane, Carson recalled. Nelly had been avid for news of him and his family. He was reluctant to tell her too much about himself, but the romance of the dancer who had married a millionaire had appealed to a girl as deprived as Nelly.
Perhaps that was why she had chosen Lally, simply because she knew she was good, and that her instincts, born of her own humble origins, would tell her to keep the baby and not abandon it.
Carson handed the note back to Lally.
‘Keep it,’ he said solemnly. ‘It is indeed a very precious, almost priceless possession. And I think you are right, Aunt Lally. I too think Alexander was meant for you.’
But he did not add aloud: ‘And maybe for me, too.’
‘And that can go, and that and that,’ Agnes pointed with an imperious finger at various pieces of furniture in the room that displeased her. She had walked for some time round the vast drawing-room filled with antiques which had been purchased in happier and more affluent days by a Woodville ancestor. ‘And that,’ she added, indicating a Louis Quinze bureau which somehow failed to find favour.
Guy had trailed round after her with an ingratiating smile on his face, like a dog who, even though it knows it is to be whipped, somehow contrives cheerfully to wag its tail.
But then, he was a man in love.
Every day Agnes arrived at the house in her chauffeur-driven car and began to give orders. This must be done, and that changed or altered in some way. Now she wanted the furniture removed, and replaced by something more modern.
‘Who wants this old rubbish, my dear?’ she observed to the man she was shortly to marry.
‘It is very old, dearest,’ Guy ventured cautiously. ‘The eighteenth-century stuff is supposed to be quite valuable.’
‘Send it to the auction rooms then,’ Agnes commanded, ‘and maybe we shall get something for it which will pay for its replacement.’ Suddenly she threw up her arms as though she were invoking the help of the gods. ‘Whoever let this place get into such a state? It is like a museum. I want freshness and light and modern furniture ...’
‘My dear,’ Guy grumbled, ‘I’m still endeavouring to find ways to pay off Miss Fairchild for what she spent on the outside of the house, or she says she will take me to court.’
‘She would never do such a thing,’ Agnes said dismissively.
‘I think she would. She is out for revenge for the slight cast on her ward.’ Guy looked around with a worried frown. ‘There was talk of a breach of promise action, but no one wanted the publicity, Connie least of all. But Miss Fairchild wants her money back with interest, or she says she will charge me with fraud and deception ... Ridiculous, really.’ Despite his attempt to look cheerful, he was pale with anxiety. ‘It amounts to several thousand pounds,’ he added weakly.
‘Clever old thing.’ There was a note of admiration in Agnes’s voice. ‘Who would have thought that a warped old spinster like that, with parents who were mere haberdashers, could be so clever with money?’
‘I should never have called Miss Fairchild a warped old spinster,’ Sophie’s voice broke in acidly from behind. ‘On the contrary, she has always been clever with money just on account of the fact that she and her parents were shopkeepers.’
‘No one asked your opinion, Sophie.’ Agnes turned sharply to her, eyes glinting. ‘In fact, I did not even know you were there. What is it you want, snooping around?’
‘I was not snooping, Agnes,’ Sophie retorted heatedly, ‘I was merely passing and overheard your unkind remark.’
‘But it still does not make it your business.’ Agnes gave a dismissive wave of her hand as though to usher Sophie towards the door, but she stayed her ground while Guy anxiously gnawed at a finger, his eyes darting from one powerful woman in his life to the other.
But he knew who would lose. Agnes had money and Sophie did not. The power of money was ruthlessly discriminatory. In the end, it was all that really counted.
‘I’m sure we can come to a compromise,’ Guy muttered, ‘about the furniture.’
‘There will be no compromise, Guy,’ Agnes said firmly. ‘Don’t be such a weakling. I am to live here, after all ...’
‘Sophie has to live here as well. As George’s widow she may well have a claim on some of that furniture.’
‘Is that so?’ Agnes said in a tone of deep sarcasm. ‘How very interesting. Then perhaps she might like to take it with her.’
‘Take it with her?’ Guy blink
ed. ‘I wasn’t even aware Sophie was going.
‘My dear Guy,’ Agnes began to tap her toes impatiently on the floor. ‘You must know, and Sophie must know, that she cannot stay here with a newly married bride and groom. I’m sure she would not want to, she is far too sensitive and sensible a person. Carson had the delicacy to remove himself, and I am certain Sophie feels the same. Don’t you, Sophie?’
Sophie’s flushed face and the angry light in her eyes told a different story.
‘I hadn’t thought about it until you mentioned it, Agnes.’
‘But I was sure you’d feel de trop,’ Agnes went on in steely tones. ‘I most certainly would not want to be in that situation, intruding, as it were, upon married bliss.’
‘I shall certainly not wish to intrude,’ Sophie said. ‘Besides, it is a very large house. There is also the question of the children to consider.’
‘Of course I shouldn’t throw you out. Indeed, I don’t think I have the power.’ Agnes glanced at Guy, who had endeavoured to hide his embarrassment by turning to gaze out of the window. ‘I thought, anyway, that you yourself might have plans to remarry?’
‘Oh?’ Guy looked up with interest. ‘Surely not, Sophie? I was sure you would be faithful to the memory of George.’
‘Don’t be silly, Guy.’ Agnes marched over to him and gave his shoulder a playful tap. ‘A woman cannot expect to remain single forever. It is nearly five years since your son died. Besides, I believe Sophie has a gentleman caller; someone she is seen with quite regularly. You must be careful of your reputation, Sophie,’ she said, addressing her directly. ‘You don’t want to get talked about, to be the subject of speculation and gossip – you, a Rector’s daughter of all things! Do you now?’
Though she put on a bold front in the presence of Agnes, and had marched from the room following her tasteless remark, Sophie felt far from brave inside. Her heart was full of dread: uncertainty about the future, the welfare of the children now that their hold on Guy’s affections had diminished in the presence of a woman who was clearly determined to dominate him much more forcefully than his late wife ever had.
But more than either of these was her disgust with herself, her guilt about the fascination that Bartholomew Sadler exercised over her, every bit as irrational and obsessive as that which Agnes wielded over Guy.
She, Sophie Woodville, whose life had been dominated by her Christian zeal, her love of the Lord, her fervour for the gospel and devotion to good works, was engaged in a carnal relationship with a man whose motives she had come increasingly to suspect.
It was carnal, and it was wrong, but she warmed herself at the flame of love like a frozen soul lost in a snowstorm. She could never have enough of it, even though she knew that instead of gaining Bart’s love and respect, she was demeaning herself. She could see it in his eyes, even as she craved him and sought his kisses.
There had been no more talk of marriage.
That night Sophie could not sleep, but tossed restlessly in her bed. Through her mind the events of the day tumbled like the slips of paper in a tombola: her hatred of Agnes, her fear of the future and, above all, Bart. Bart. Bart, who had taken her and loved her ruthlessly, passionately, and had made her feel a woman in a way she had never felt with George.
She realised that, for the first time, she had learned the true nature of passion, and that, as well as good and beautiful, it could be evil.
But apart from her guilt about her undoubted sin, what worried her were the rumours about Bart: rumours, whispers, suggestions that he was not all that he should be, that there were other women dotted conveniently around the country. And now there was the suspicion that he had lured Laurence, his own brother-in-law, into a trap over Mr Wainwright, who had sold up and vanished without trace. Consequently, the threat of bankruptcy loomed over Laurence, but not Bart. Had he not told her that he had made money out of the deal? He had not been an innocent bystander as he pretended.
Her knowledge, her guilt, her passion, made her sometimes feel as though she was stoking the flames of everlasting fire.
Sophie tumbled out of bed and threw herself abjectly on her knees beside it.
‘Oh God,’ she cried, ‘be merciful to me, a sinner. Show me the way, dear Lord, out of my torment ... and give me the strength to abandon this rapid descent into Hell.’
A place, she knew, from which there was no return.
Laurence felt that Mr Becket had grown at least three inches since he had last seen him. He had had the idea that he was a smallish man; small and mild-looking. But now he appeared much taller than before, even fierce and forbidding, as he stood four-square behind his desk and, without a smile or offering his hand in greeting, invited Laurence to be seated.
Puzzled at this curious change, Laurence sat, and when Becket sat down opposite him he seemed the size he had been before, the same mild-mannered man. But there was still no smile and, in a business-like fashion, Becket undid a bulky file he had on his desk, withdrawing from it a bundle of documents over which he pored for several seconds, as if with the deliberate intention of keeping Laurence waiting.
‘Yes, Mr Becket?’ Laurence said at last impatiently. ‘You wanted to see me? You sent for me on a matter of urgency?’
‘Indeed I did, Mr Yetman,’ Becket intoned, leaning back in his high chair in a supercilious manner, his thumbs in the pockets of his waistcoat. ‘And I expect you know why.’
Then at last he smiled, but it was a malevolent rather than an unctuous smile, that seemed to indicate a decided change of attitude. The tables had been turned.
‘I expect it’s to do with the factory,’ Laurence said laconically.
‘Yes it is.’ Mr Becket, relishing his power, peered at the paper before him. ‘And a matter of some thirty thousand pounds outstanding. You are in debt by that amount to the bank.’
‘It is a large sum of money,’ Laurence murmured. ‘I hadn’t realised it was quite as much.’
‘We banks, you know,’ Mr Becket said pompously, ‘are not philanthropic institutions. We lend money to make money, not to lose it.’
‘I can understand that.’ Laurence refused to be intimidated. ‘But still, you have ample security. I am actively seeking a new buyer for the factory, and it would be foolish to abandon it half-finished.’
‘Nevertheless, that is what you must do,’ Mr Becket said severely. ‘You must abandon it or find a buyer very quickly.’ He leaned over his desk, staring hard at Laurence. ‘Or else you will lose your house, sir, and everything you own.’
‘You must give me time,’ Laurence said angrily. ‘You know Wainwright has decamped.’
‘I do know he has decamped. Indeed I do ... And owing money right, left and centre. Yet he seems to have got off scot-free, but you would appear to have lost everything.’
‘Not yet,’ Laurence said firmly. ‘I intend to sue Mr Wainwright.’
‘When you can find him.’ The manager’s tone was sarcastic. ‘Do you have any idea where he is?’
‘No, I do not.’ Laurence was overwhelmed by a feeling of helplessness. Sarah Jane had told him not to worry, but it seemed she had been too optimistic. ‘But the estate agent who is handling the sale of his house must know where he is, and I intend to force that knowledge out of him.’
‘How?’ Mr Becket briskly tapped his fingers on his desk.
‘Through my solicitor.’
‘And how long do you think it will take, Mr Yetman?’
‘I have no idea. Look, I’ve had quite enough of this inquisition.’ Laurence tried to pick up his hat and prepared to rise, but once more Becket leaned across the desk, and put a hand firmly on the hat to stop Laurence from moving it.
‘Don’t think of leaving yet, Mr Yetman. We have not concluded our business.’
‘I am a private citizen and you’ve no right to detain me,’ Laurence protested. ‘I am well known in this town. In five or ten years’ time, if all goes well, I shall be mayor.’
‘“If all goes well”,’ Mr Becket
mimicked, his eyes again on the bulky file. ‘But all is not going well, is it? You are practically bankrupt, sir, and I doubt if the people of this parish will want a bankrupt mayor.’
Laurence reached for his hat, wrenched it from Becket’s grasp, and stood up.
‘I don’t like your tone, Becket. I don’t like anything about you. I can’t believe you are the same person I saw only a few months ago. Some devil has got into you. You are here to help me and you should be giving me a chance. I intend to raise that money, I can assure you, and find a purchaser for the factory.’
‘Yes,’ Mr Becket’s tone was soft, almost appealing, ‘but how soon? Because I want the money very soon, or rather, the head office of the Two Counties Bank would like to see it very soon. If they don’t, my head might be on the block, and yours certainly will be.’ He stood up and put out a hand.
‘Good day to you, Mr Yetman. I hope when your account is once more in credit we shall again have the pleasure of doing business with you.’
***
Eliza stood at the window of the drawing-room, watching the figure of her husband as, hands deep in his pockets, he strolled briskly through the grounds with his dog Snap at his heels.
Snap was well named, and everyone who knew him kept clear of him. He liked nothing better than getting his teeth into a pair of ankles or a trouser-leg, and once or twice Julius had had to pay financial compensation to an angry and wounded victim of Snap’s lawlessness.
It was very odd, Eliza thought, that he hung on to an ill-tempered little mongrel like Snap, because he was costly, and Julius hated parting with his money. Yet the dour, rather solitary Dutchman, head of the great Martyn-Heering combine, and the elderly, choleric little dog, seemed well-suited and happy together. Perhaps, after all, they were rather alike.
Eliza went over to the drawing-room fire and pulled her cardigan round her shoulders. A typical English summer was drawing to a close, with rain driving against the windows and a wind roaring down the chimneys, scattering the flames and causing clouds of smoke. It was a large, difficult house to heat, and yet Julius permitted no heating in the summer months, in the interest of economy. During the winter he went round checking all the fires, putting out unused lights and making sure the central-heating system was turned down to minimum.
The Rector's Daughter (Part Two of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 42