The Rector's Daughter (Part Two of The People of this Parish Saga)

by Nicola Thorne

  Carson got out of bed and sat on the side, hands clasped in front of him. He must go away, right away from the temptation offered by Emma, and only think of returning when she was safely back in London.

  He had a bath, shaved and dressed in a shirt, his riding breeches and a thick sweater. He would go for a long ride, maybe to see Eliza who was always full of good advice. He might invite himself to dinner with his aunt, and thus avoid seeing Emma again. Late in the night, he would return, and first thing the next morning he would pack his bags, leave Lally a note and get the train from Blandford to London. He might even go to France.

  Cheered by his resolution, Carson had a sandwich and a glass of beer, put on his riding-boots and walked from the cottage over to the stables to get his horse. He was waylaid by one of the footmen.

  ‘Excuse me, Mr Carson, Mrs Martyn would like to see you in her room, sir.’

  ‘Oh? I was just about to go riding.’

  ‘I think it might be urgent, sir. Mrs Martyn feels unwell and would like to ask a favour of you.’

  ‘Unwell?’ Carson said with concern. ‘I am sorry about that. I’ll go at once.’

  He retraced his steps and went into the house by a side entrance, and then through the hall and up the main staircase, looking for Lally’s room. He was not quite sure which one it was until the footman, who had followed him, pointed it out. Carson tapped on the door and was told in a muffled voice to enter, but as soon as he had, Lally cried: ‘Don’t come any nearer,’ and he saw, at the far end of the large room, her diminutive figure in a huge double bed, holding out her hands as though to ward him off.

  ‘Aunt Lally,’ he cried, ‘whatever is the matter?’

  ‘I have the most terrible cold, Carson. I felt it coming on last night, which was why I left you. I do hope you and Emma don’t get it. I must have been breathing germs on you both during the evening. I hope you were not too bored with each other.’

  Carson couldn’t determine from her expression whether or not she was serious, and he merely smiled and replied:

  ‘No, not at all. Emma loves to dance. It was a good idea of yours.'

  ‘Oh yes, she does,’ Lally replied in a thick voice. ‘And poor Roger hates it. I knew she would find you fun, Carson, and I think you like her too, don’t you?’

  ‘Very much, Aunt.’ He tried to keep his tone impassive.

  ‘Well then, dear, the favour I am going to ask you won’t seem such a chore, in that case.’ She raised herself against the pillows and gave him her most winsome smile. ‘Dearest Carson, I wonder, in return for the favour I have done you, would you look after Emma for me until I’m better? Paul has sent for Dr Hardy.’ She put a hand to her flushed cheeks. ‘I think I might even have influenza, so I shall keep well out of your way ...’

  ‘But Aunt ...’

  ‘Yes, Carson?’ she said, but began to sneeze, and did so several times before he could reply. ‘Oh dear,’ she said, ‘oh dear.’

  ‘Do you think it’s wise, Aunt?’

  ‘Wise, dear?’ She looked at him from behind her handkerchief. ‘I don’t think I understand you.’

  ‘Well, if Roger ...’

  ‘My dear, Roger is your cousin, in a manner of speaking, and Emma is his wife. There is absolutely no question of impropriety, is there, Carson? I am only asking you to entertain her for a day or two, until I am well again, otherwise the poor girl will get so bored she will go back to London. Roger wouldn’t like that at all, and I am so attached to my daughter-in-law that I too would hate it to happen. I see little enough of her as it is. So, will you do me a very big favour and entertain her for me? She loves riding and, as you know, dancing. She said she was a country girl, though I find it hard to believe, she is so fond of life in town. However, she might like to go walking too, and I will ask chef to prepare specially delicious meals for you both, to while away the evening. It’s not too much to ask, is it, dear, to entertain Emma?’

  ‘No, Aunt.’ Carson carefully studied the shining tops of his boots.

  ‘It will be a pleasure.’

  ‘And on your walks you could perhaps take Alexander ...’

  ‘That will be a pleasure too.’

  ‘You are such a good boy, Carson,’ Lally said emotionally. ‘Sometimes I think those who speak harshly of you are so unfair, and that no one really understands you but me.’

  ***

  Between them, Alexander, clearly delighted at being with his hero, kept on running ahead with his little steps, and then running back again. They were all wrapped up against the cold, and had kept to the shelter of the house so that if it started to rain on this cold January day, they could quickly retreat inside again.

  Emma, who had also slept late, seemed to be delighted with the suggestion that she and Carson should take Alexander for a walk, and not at all depressed to hear that her mother-in-law was ill, though the doctor had now been, and a bulletin issued that Mrs Martyn did not have influenza, but a heavy cold that should respond to treatment in a day or two.

  ‘What a really charming little child he is,’ Emma said, watching Alexander, who clearly enjoyed showing off.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘You do seem extraordinarily attached to him, Carson.’

  ‘I am.’ For a moment Carson was almost tempted to tell her about Nelly, a temptation he was happy, later, that he had resisted.

  ‘I suppose you’d like children, Carson, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘One day,’ he answered casually.

  ‘You seem awfully good with them.’

  ‘And you?’ He looked at her.

  ‘Yes, I’d like children one day, naturally; but I’m still very young.'

  ‘Of course you are. I expect you and Roger want to have a good time first.’

  ‘I expect so,’ she said. Then: ‘Were you very upset about the break-up of your engagement?’

  ‘Yes, I was.’ Alexander ran up to him again and, to hide his confusion, Carson lifted him up, raising him above his head while the child kicked and screamed with delight. ‘I was very upset because I hurt someone very much. I like Connie, but I didn’t love her.’ Gently he put Alexander down again, and there was a tragic expression on his face as he looked at Emma.

  If only it had been her.

  Lally didn’t recover from her cold as quickly as expected, and Carson and Emma began to get into a routine which they both enjoyed. Carson realised that, in a remarkably short time, he was becoming dependent on her company for the joy it brought to his day. They did not breakfast together, but met at about eleven. Then they rode, or took Alexander for a walk. They lunched together, then rode or walked again, and once they visited Sarah Jane and the children.

  Each night they dined à deux, looking at each other across the candles on the table. And afterwards they danced, linked in each other’s arms, until they had played all the records that Lally had. Then they began to play them all over again.

  But the bad news, finally, was that Lally was getting better. After four days confined to her room she announced her intention of coming down to tea, and maybe having dinner with them as well.

  On the morning of the announcement that Lally was returning to civilisation, they met as usual, Emma already in her riding outfit, as they had agreed the night before. Carson was waiting for her with her horse saddled in the yard; she came out of the side-door, swinging her crop, and hailed him cheerfully.

  ‘Lovely morning,’ she said.

  ‘Lovely,’ he cried, thinking the loveliest part of it was her. ‘But it’s cold. Jump up, Emma.’

  The groom appeared to help her into the saddle, and then she and Carson rode slowly out of the yard, round the back of the house towards the wooded banks of a small tributary of the River Stour.

  ‘Mother-in-law is much better,’ Emma said.

  ‘I know, isn’t that good?’

  ‘It’s splendid; but ...’ Emma stopped her horse, and Carson rode on for some moments before he realised she was behind him. Then he looked round and c
antered back.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I shall miss you, Carson. It’s only been a few days ... I think I should go back to London.’

  ‘No!’ he said. ‘No. I know what you mean, but I’ll go. I was going to go anyway. Lally wants you to stay on here for company.

  ‘Then can’t we just go on as we were?’

  You know we can’t,’ he said. ‘You know something is happening that is wrong.’

  She came up to him, and when her horse was alongside his, she leaned across and touched his knee.

  He also leaned towards her, reaching for her hand. Then he kissed her.

  ***

  It was dark in the room when Carson woke; but that was only because they’d drawn the curtains against the pale wintry sun. He looked at his watch and saw it was about three in the afternoon. They’d missed lunch, but they must not miss tea because Lally would be there and expecting them.

  He looked at her back, and ran his hand along it very tenderly, a little fearfully. Then he lay against her, gently encircling her body with his arm so that he could touch her breast. He could feel her chest heaving gently, and realised that she was not only awake but weeping. He took his hand from her breast and touched her face.

  ‘Emma,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t cry.’

  He tried to turn her to him, but she refused to move. He got out of bed and, throwing on his dressing-gown, went round to her side and knelt on the floor beside her. He reached out and gently stroked her brow, smoothed her beautiful blonde hair away from her forehead.

  ‘I’m very, very sorry,’ he said.

  ‘It’s quite all right.’ She tried to smile through her tears, and put out a hand to take his.

  ‘I didn’t know you were a virgin, Emma. I never dreamt it. You should have told me.’

  ‘It’s a very difficult thing t-to t-tell anyone,’ she stammered, ‘when you’ve been married nearly two years.’

  ‘And Roger never ...?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘He can’t. He wants to, but he can’t. It’s awful for him as well as for me, and because we can’t talk about it, it’s made us strangers. But now I’m glad, Carson.’ Her smile this time was more successful, her flow of tears ceasing, and she began to stroke his hand, ‘I’m really glad. You can’t realise the frustration of sleeping with a man who doesn’t want you as a woman.’

  Carson rose to his feet and, sitting beside her on the bed, cradled her head on his lap. How beautiful she was. He couldn’t believe it: her hair, her mouth, her nose, everything was perfect. Her breasts were like soft, ripe fruit.

  ‘I love you, Emma,’ he said.

  And he knew, without any doubt at all, that this time it was for real.

  Sophie walked slowly through the rooms of Pelham’s Oak, thinking that maybe she would never see it again. She intended not just to cross the Dorset border, but to go right away, miles and miles; to Scotland, maybe, or some remote part of Wales where she could cover up her past, change her name, and no one would know who she was or where she had come from.

  She had spent the last weeks while Agnes and Guy were on their extended honeymoon, supervising the cleaning of the house from top to bottom. All the curtains had been cleaned, the carpets shampooed, the upholstery of the furniture made to look like new. The servants had been kept busy scrubbing, cleaning, washing, polishing.

  And now the whole place shone, a welcome-home for the new bride.

  Sophie only did it out of a sense of gratitude to her father-in-law, not out of any love for Agnes, the woman who had peremptorily ordered her out of the house. Some people, out of spite, might have left at once, taking their things and leaving it as it was. With no supervision, the servants would have lazed their days away. But Sophie was a perfectionist, and not someone who would ever care to appear to be motivated by revenge.

  Sophie looked for the last time at her bedroom, a room in which, on the whole, she had been happy, except for her guilty dreams and fretful nights. Now it was empty, immaculate, ready for the next occupant, whoever that might be.

  Before she left she looked out of the window, across the fields to where Wenham stood on the hill surmounted by the square tower of the church. Very soon she would be living in its shadow once again; but not for long. She had a sense of time passing, and she had to move quickly.

  She shut the door firmly behind her and walked along to the children’s rooms; they had had one each, the first time in their short lives they had had this luxury. Next to them there had been the nanny. There was no nanny now. Those times had gone. She had been dismissed, and had returned to her parents’ home somewhere on the coast of Kent.

  There had been a rocking-horse and rows of teddies in Deborah’s room, blocks and toys and balls upon the floor. Ruth’s dainty little room had dolls and pretty bows and feminine things, lots of dresses in the wardrobes, and books everywhere. Ruth, already fond of reading, was a bluestocking in the making.

  On the other side had been the schoolroom. It had been painted a pretty primrose colour, with the letters of the alphabet, carefully painted by the children under Sophie’s supervision, arranged around the wall. Six letters on three walls, eight on the fourth. Their little desks were still there, the chairs they had sat on, and a larger one for Sophie. But the cupboards were bare of drawing-paper and exercise-books, and the abacus on which she had taught them numbers.

  And then the tears came to her eyes and she wept. It had, after all, been a brief stay. At one time she had thought it would be for life. That she would live there at least until Carson succeeded his father. What would he have done with her then, she wondered?

  But she would not allow her mind to dwell on the fact that things would have been so different had George survived. One day, on the death of his father, they would have returned from the missions as Sir George and Lady Woodville, and in all probability she would have lived here until she died.

  In many ways the Woodvilles had been right. She was to blame for what had happened; but for her, George would never have gone to the missions. She had been the driving force, and had she not pushed him, he would undoubtedly have been alive now.

  She paused for a moment and looked out of the window at the sky. Maybe someone up there was paying her back for what she’d done, and her present predicament was the price exacted from her.

  But enough. Sophie dried her tears and shut that door behind her, then she continued slowly along the corridor, down the great staircase to the hall where, beside their luggage, Deborah and Ruth sat patiently waiting for her.

  Deborah was nine and Ruth was seven. Deborah was to go to boarding-school as soon as a suitable one could be found for her, and Ruth would follow. Sir Guy had now agreed to help with the fees and there was also help from the missionary fund which, from time to time, sent money to Sophie.

  The children rose when they saw their mother, their little faces sad. They loved Pelham’s Oak, the freedom, its sheer size that had enabled them to run around inside the house, sliding along the corridors, across the vast rooms, in and out. She held out her arms and, with one accord, they ran towards her, and for a moment mother and children, a sad, dispossessed little group, stood hugging one another. Once again the tears were not very far away.

  ‘Come on now,’ she said as she unclasped them. ‘There’s no time to linger. The coach won’t wait forever.’ Kind Hubert Turner had offered to pick them up, but at the last minute he had been unexpectedly called to Salisbury for a diocesan meeting. Instead she had had to call a cab.

  It was very unlike the day she had arrived. However, she was always telling the children that it was no use crying over spilt milk, bemoaning and bewailing the past, and as they clung to her she looked around for some help to get the luggage into the cab.

  But, unlike the day she had arrived, there was no one to be seen, no eager servants to scurry down the stairs, anxious to do her bidding as the daughter-in-law of the master. They all knew now that she had been told to go; dismissed. Once aga
in she was nobody, nothing, and doubtless they were lurking in the servants’ hall, sniggering at her misfortune because, although she was fair, she had been a hard taskmaster, and had made them work as they had not worked since Lady Woodville died.

  ‘Mama, must we go?’ Ruth asked petulantly, her finger in her mouth.

  ‘Yes, we must,’ she said. ‘Grandpapa has a new wife and he wants to be alone with her.’

  ‘She’s horrible,’ Deborah said with a grimace. ‘Fancy choosing her.’

  Sophie looked round anxiously. It would never do for the servants to hear her criticise her step-grandmother.

  ‘Hush, you mustn’t say things like that,’ Sophie said with a warning finger on her lips. ‘She is your new grandmamma and you must be very nice to her. Then she will invite you to come here often, and if you say nasty things about her, she won’t.’

  She went to the green baize door and put her head round it. She could hear voices from the servants’ hall, and went along the corridor and down the stairs to the basement. She opened the door of the hall and, suddenly, there was silence, and the dozen pairs of eyes in the room stared sullenly at her.

  ‘Could someone help me with the luggage?’ she called. ‘And I would like to thank you all for looking after us while we have lived here, for being so kind to the children and to me. And I want to wish you well.’

  There were a few mumbles and bowed heads, but no one said anything, not even Arthur, who she thought might have said a few words. But she had corrected him about his drinking, his stealing of Guy’s brandy and cigars while he was away, and she knew that, like the rest of them, he had no real feeling for her. What they were all looking for was a big tip, but she had no money, nothing left to give.

  ‘Could someone help me with the luggage?’ she asked again. ‘I’d be most grateful.’

  ‘Henry, you go,’ Arthur said, nudging one of the sullen footmen.

  ‘Why should I?’ Henry exclaimed. ‘It’s my lunch-time. Egbert, you go.’