‘Mother, you angel.’ Laurence took the proffered box from her and firmly closed the lid. ‘I would not dream of letting you deprive yourself of beautiful pieces, many of them of sentimental value.’
‘That, I assure you, is of no sentimental value.’
‘Nevertheless, I can’t accept it.’
‘Laurence, I insist.’
‘And I insist.’ He kissed her on the cheek as he gave her back the box. ‘Besides, what such sacrifice would realise would be insufficient for my needs. The real villain of the piece, after Wainwright, is Bart Sadler who introduced me to that rogue. By doing that, in my book he vouched for him. Yet it appears he scarcely knew him.’
Eliza looked anxiously at Sarah Jane, who nodded her head dejectedly.
‘My own brother,’ she said, ‘behaved despicably; he took no risk. I personally feel that Laurence should go and have it out with him.’
‘But what good would that do?’
‘It will at least make him feel better.’ Sarah Jane reached for Laurence’s hand. ‘He might be able to shake some regret from that insensitive man – without using violence, of course – and at least make him sorry for what he’s done.’
22
Agnes sat on the stool in front of her dressing-table mirror, gazing at the large cluster of diamonds, rubies and sapphires on her finger; Guy’s engagement present. He had presented the ring like a courtier, kneeling albeit a little clumsily on one knee. She had had to put a hand to her face to stop herself giggling; it would never have done for him to see she considered the situation farcical.
In the background Elizabeth moved about, packing her things. For she and Guy were to slip away in a few days’ time, and marry in London. They would then journey on the Continent, allowing Sophie time to move out of the house, and return for a family Christmas.
Guy was unhappy in his mind about Sophie, but she had assured him she had no wish to stay. She told her father-in-law she was thinking of moving from the district to find work, and thus pay for her children to go to boarding-school.
He wondered if George would have approved; but what could he do? He wished he could help, but explained that he was really so dependent on Agnes. So in love with her, too.
No one else seemed to matter much any more. And Sophie had long ago decided that he had practically forgotten George. It was twelve years since he had left his home, and almost five since he’d died.
‘Will there be anything else, madam?’ Elizabeth said from behind, her eyes fixed on the ring; but she had been brought up by Beth Yewell to know her place, and that included keeping one’s opinions to oneself.
‘How do you like my ring, Elizabeth?’ Agnes gave her an unexpected chance to comment.
‘Oh madam,’ Elizabeth gasped, ‘I was admiring it but didn’t like to say. It is very beautiful, madam.’
‘It is an engagement ring, Elizabeth. I am to be married.’
‘Oh madam.’ Elizabeth joined her hands ecstatically together. ‘I am very happy for you.’
‘I would like to have taken you with me, Elizabeth, but at the moment it’s not possible. My husband and I shall be taking a long honeymoon on the Continent.’
Elizabeth shyly hung her head and her face slowly reddened. ‘S’matter of fact, madam, I am hoping to be married myself.’
‘Oh Elizabeth!’ Agnes spun round and stared at the blushing girl. ‘We have both been very secretive, haven’t we? I didn’t tell you of my plan and you didn’t tell me of yours.’
‘Nothing is settled yet, ma’am.’ Elizabeth looked doubtful. ‘He has asked, and I have accepted. But he wants to get a better position, so that we can have a little house before we start a family.’
‘What does your husband-to-be do?’ Agnes asked with interest.
‘He works in a brewery, madam. He is a drayman, but he has a way with all horses. He would like something on a farm, maybe with a tied cottage.’
Agnes put a finger to her chin and looked thoughtfully in the mirror.
‘Well, who knows, if that is the case we may be able to offer both you and your husband employment in the future. My husband to be has a number of farms on his estate, and you could serve me as lady’s maid. I am to marry Sir Guy Woodville,’ she said, proudly raising her head. ‘I am to be the new Lady Woodville, just imagine that!’
‘Oh madam,’ Elizabeth cried, clasping her hands together again. ‘That is a coincidence, madam. My father used to work for Sir Guy. He married my mother who was maid to Sir Guy’s sister, then Mrs Yetman.’
‘Beth and Ted,’ Agnes murmured to herself, feeling as shocked as if someone had struck her in the face.
‘Do you happen to know my mother and father, madam?’
‘I knew of them a long time ago,’ Agnes said cautiously, ‘a very long time ago. Tell me, have you brothers and sisters?’
‘A sister Jenny and a brother Jo, madam. Jenny is older, Jo the little ‘un.’ She gave a bright, perky smile. ‘I’m the one in the middle.’
Slowly Agnes turned again, and stared at herself in the mirror as though she had seen a ghost. But no ghost stood behind her. Only her daughter, Elizabeth, to whom she had given birth in Weymouth twenty-two years before, and then completely abandoned.
***
A uniformed functionary admitted Agnes to the inner sanctum of the manager of a bank tucked discreetly off Piccadilly. It was not a quoted bank, but a private one which had links with the bank that had handled her business affairs in New Orleans. However, it was a British bank, and subscribed to the code of conduct expected of such institutions, especially in respect of the need for strict security and control over its affairs.
Agnes had met Mr Clarke, the manager, only once, on her arrival in England, when she had gone to open an account and deposit some jewellery and shares as security against her drawings. The manager, dressed in a frock-coat and striped trousers, came to the door and welcomed her warmly, his hand outstretched.
‘Mrs Gregg, what a pleasure. Do come in. How nice to see you again.’
He dismissed the functionary, who shut the door quietly and carefully before conducting Agnes to a seat opposite his desk.
‘Please sit down, Mrs Gregg. How was your journey to London?’
‘Excellent, thank you, Mr Clarke.’ Agnes drew off her long kid gloves and, laying them on her lap, managed to ensure that the brilliant sparkle of her engagement ring would not be missed by the astute man of money.
‘Are you in London for long?’ He sat down and glanced discreetly at a paper that had been placed in front of him only a few moments before.
‘I am just passing through on my way to the Continent.’
Agnes raised her head and looked the manager squarely in the eyes. ‘I believe I shall have need of further funds, Mr Clarke, considerably more than I anticipated.’
‘Ah!’ Mr Clarke gravely stroked his chin. ‘I’m glad you brought that matter up, Mrs Gregg, because we are a little unhappy about the extent of your borrowings. Don’t misunderstand me – ‘he bent anxiously over his desk towards her – ‘but I believe that the securities we have do not nearly cover the amount you owe. Also ...’ his manner became a little more agitated ‘... there’s the matter of eventually bringing your account into credit again. How do you propose to do that?’ He glanced once more at the paper before him. ‘The shares in Consolidated Rail have sunk very low in recent weeks. Are further funds expected from America, Mrs Gregg? Would you be thinking of, how shall I put it, injecting either a sum of money, or securities, to finance your borrowings?’
‘Indeed I should,’ Agnes said haughtily.
He stared up at her, his pale, myopic eyes alight with hope, his tufted moustache quivering with anticipation.
‘I’m delighted to hear that, Mrs Gregg.’ The manager dipped his pen into a pot of ink and held it poised over his writing paper. ‘May I know the source?’
‘I am to be married again, Mr Clarke, within a few days, here in London.’
‘Oh, I’m del
ighted for you, Mrs Gregg ...’ The manager sat back, ecstatic, his pen still poised in the air.
‘To a very wealthy man. You may know of him. Sir Guy Woodville of Pelham’s Oak in Dorset.’
‘Mmmmm.’ Mr Clarke shook his head, tactfully replacing his pen in its stand. ‘I don’t think ...’
‘His mother was a member of the wealthy Martyn family ... You may well have heard of them.’
‘Of the Martyn-Heering Bank?’ Mr Clarke was immediately alert.
‘Precisely.’
‘Well, of course I’ve heard of them.’
Agnes raised her hand to her hat so that he could not miss the sparkle of her sapphire, diamond and ruby cluster. ‘My husband-to-be’s engagement gift to me ... a mere part of his mother’s treasure-chest of jewels.’
She extended her hand for Mr Clarke to inspect the magnificent ring.
‘Exquisite, Mrs Gregg. Well ...’ He picked up his pen and drew a line firmly under whatever he had been reading on the page in front of him. ‘In view of what you have just told me, I feel there will be no problem, none at all, about our increasing your facility immediately, Mrs Gregg.’
‘Good,’ Agnes replied in a voice with a ring of steel. ‘And let us hope that Sir Guy does not get to hear of this encounter, or he may well advise me to place my account elsewhere, where I shall not be subjected to what I can only call an uncomfortable and inconsiderate scrutiny of my circumstances.’
Agnes rose and began drawing on her gloves as Mr Clarke crept sycophantically around his desk, his face humbled, his shoulders bowed.
‘Do forgive me, Mrs Gregg. Please forget that it ever happened. And I should also be most grateful if you would not mention the matter to Sir Guy for fear the Martyn-Heering Bank should get to hear of it.’
‘Oh, I forgot to mention,’ Agnes said in a flash of inspiration, ‘that my fiancé’s sister is a Heering, so you see he is doubly related.’
Mr Clarke seemed scarcely able to grasp the extent of such wealthy connections, and almost tripped over his feet in his anxiety to escort a lady of quality, as well as substance, to the door.
Bart Sadler invariably fell asleep after love-making. He turned on his side, emitting loud snores. Sophie, on the contrary, felt very wakeful, delirious at first with the joy and thrill of each experience. But then the sensation wore off, her flesh cooled, the beating of her heart slowed down and, with it, came altogether different and unpleasant sensations: fear, guilt, remorse.
She, Sophie Woodville, pious Christian that she was, was nevertheless a woman living in sin who, if she died, without any doubt would go straight to Hell and remain there forever.
Then the memory of the exultation vanished, and she wished that first time had never happened, or that Bart, who initially seemed to promise so much, had at least wed her before it had.
Bart stirred, his back to her, his head resting on his hand. They were nude in the bed. Once the door was shut she took leave of her senses, allowing him to undress her, to embrace and caress her everywhere, in the most intimate places. She thought that she would never know again anything like the wild abandon that possessed her then. The trouble was that, despite the intensity of the sensation, its sweetness, it was over too soon.
She stretched her toes and then crept out of the bed and started to dress.
It was one thing, Bart seeing her in the nude, stage by stage, before they made love. It seemed quite different afterwards. She never thought it was quite right, or nice. It was certainly nothing that she and George had ever done, and they had had two children. Their love-making had been conducted under the bedclothes, with the lamp or candle out, and she thought that never once had he seen her completely naked, nor would he have wanted or expected to. As for her, her first sight of a completely naked man was when she saw Bart. What would George have thought? She wondered what on earth he would have thought now.
Bart turned on his back just as she had finished putting her dress over her head, and she quickly drew down the hem as he opened his eyes, rubbed them and then gazed at her.
‘Up so soon, Sophie?’
‘I must be getting back, dear. I have so much to do in the house.’
‘They’ve gone, then?’
‘To be married in London, any day now.’ Her voice was apathetic.
‘And none of the family to be at the wedding?’
‘None. That was the way they both wanted it.’
‘I wonder why?’ Bart looked speculative. ‘You’d think they’d something to hide. Sure she ain’t still married?’
‘Oh no! It’s nothing like that.’ Sophie began to do up her hair, her pins in her mouth, as she studied herself in the mirror. ‘They just preferred it that way. It was arranged when Carson and Connie were to be married, to leave them the limelight. They felt they were older; it was a second marriage for each, and thus more decorous. They are to be married in church, I believe, though.’ She turned round and looked at him. ‘St George’s, Hanover Square.’
‘St George’s, Hanover Square,’ Bart murmured, his hands behind his head. ‘Now I’ve heard of that.’
‘Bart.’
‘Yes, dear?’ He lowered his eyes from the ceiling and looked at her.
‘When are we to be married, Bart?’
‘Oh, it’s weddings you have in mind, is it?’ he said with a chuckle, and put his arm round her waist as she came to sit on the bed beside him.
‘I’m serious, Bart.’
‘I can see you are.’ He took her hand and brought it to his lips.
‘And when is the stone to be finished? Why, you haven’t even started engraving it.’
‘Oh, it’s worrying are we now? Worrying time, is it, Sophie?’
‘I have a lot to worry about,’ she said, taking her hand away. ‘I am to lose my home. I am supposed to be out by the time they come back. I’d hoped that by this time you and I would be wed, Bart, and George’s stone, engraved, would be in place in the churchyard. That was the reason you asked me to come here in the first place, to see it. Now I think it was just a ploy.’
‘A ploy?’ He propped himself up on one arm and she averted her eyes from his nude torso, his excessively hairy chest. In and out of bed were such different things, Sophie thought: chastity and its lack. ‘What do you mean by a ploy?’
‘The day we ... went to bed together, you brought me over to show me George’s stone.’
‘So I did.’
‘I think it was primarily to seduce me.’
‘Sophie!’ Bart’s tone changed to one of menace and she felt frightened. ‘That is a terrible thing to say. Kindly apologise.'
‘I apologise,’ she said meekly, ‘if it isn’t true.’
‘It certainly is not true. I had no such intention. I thought you were a virtuous woman. Well, you wasn’t. You fell into bed real eagerly with me, Sophie. You talk of the stone, but I think it was just a pretext for you. What do you really care about your dead husband if you are so eager to fornicate without being married?’
She felt tears of shame spring to her eyes, but said nothing. He was revealing, at last, his true colours; but he was right.
‘Anyway,’ he said, lying against the pillows again, ‘what are you in such a hurry to get married for?’
‘“Hurry” to get married?’ Sophie exploded. ‘Hurry, do you say? I have been living in this sinful relationship with you for months, and now you accuse me of wilful fornication.’
‘But you like it, Sophie.’ He opened an eye and winked. ‘I never knew you were so carnal. I never would have guessed it. The Rector’s daughter, a missionary. Well, well.’
‘Carnal or not’ – she knew her face was scarlet – ‘I want now to be a wife. A lawful wife. This relationship makes me uneasy.'
‘But why does it make you uneasy, my love? You can’t tell me you don’t enjoy it.’
‘Stop teasing me, Bart. It’s wrong,’ she said stubbornly. ‘I feel unclean. It’s against the law of God and, besides, I am afraid of people finding out.
You see, I am a hypocrite as well as a wicked fornicator. I am afraid that someone might see me come in here, and see me go out, and they will know what happens.’
‘Reckon they already do.’
‘Bart!’
He smiled slyly at her, and then his features grew tense as there was a loud knocking on the door.
‘Who could it be?’ Sophie whispered, ashen-faced.
‘Dunno!’ Bart remained where he was in the bed. ‘Happen they’ll go away if we don’t move. It will be some man about some job or other.’
Bart snuggled comfortably again into the bedclothes and deliberately shut his eyes.
But then they heard the front door flung open, and steps as someone began to walk about the living-room.
‘Bart!’ a voice called. ‘Are you there, Bart?’
‘Hurry up,’ Sophie hissed. ‘It’s Laurence. He’ll come upstairs looking for you. He must not see me here.’
She felt frozen with fear, yet electrified at the same time. Rapidly she handed Bart his shirt and trousers as he tumbled reluctantly out of bed.
‘Quick,’ she said, and put her hands over her face as Bart finished dressing and opened the door a crack.
‘What do you want, Laurence?’ he shouted abruptly.
‘I want a word with you.’
‘What about?’
‘You know what about,’ Laurence replied threateningly.
‘You’ve been drinking.’
‘I have not been drinking. I don’t need beer in my gut to tell you what I think of you, or to make a man of me to administer the hiding you should have had weeks and weeks ago.’
‘Don’t be so silly. I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘The Bible says there are sins of omission as well as commission,’ Laurence said ominously.
The Rector's Daughter (Part Two of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 44