Tuppenny Times

by Beryl Kingston

  ‘I have made matters worse, I fear,’ he said abjectly. She was the nicest girl he’d ever seen, so it was really only to be expected that he would make a fool of himself before her. ‘I cannot tell you how sorry I am.’

  ‘Pray do not distress yourself,’ she said. ‘It is always happening.’ She had already picked off the spider’s web and was removing the leafmould with deft, patient fingers. What a kind young lady she was.

  ‘Would it help if I held one end?’ he offered. He had a vague recollection that he had seen two young women winding a ball of wool from a skein so he knew that it required two pairs of hands.

  ‘It would be better if you held the stocking,’ she said, ‘Thank you kindly.’

  So he held the stocking while she unravelled the knots, and they fell into conversation, which was a quite extraordinary thing, for he had never held a conversation with a young lady before. Not in all his twenty-one years.

  She told him her name was Annie Easter and he confessed to James Hopkins and the curacy of St James’ church, which did not surprise her, she said, for she attended the church every Sunday and had often seen him there.

  ‘I live on Angel Hill,’ she confided. ‘Just across the way.’ Then, since the tangles were all smoothed away, she took up her knitting again and told him that the stocking was for the housekeeper’s daughter who was called Pollyanna and was an absolute duck.

  And as she spoke a real live duck and a drake waddled towards them over the green, their plump breasts full as eggs and their heads swaying from side to side with the urgency of their walk.

  ‘How trusting they are,’ she said. ‘They see no harm in us.’

  ‘They expect us to feed them,’ he told her. ‘It is cupboard-love I fear, Miss Easter, not trust.’ But the ducks certainly did look very trusting. There was something almost dog-like about them, looking up so brightly, their round eyes like amber beads.

  ‘No sir, it is a natural trust,’ she insisted, but gently, oh so very gently and in the most womanly manner he could ever have imagined, if he’d ever had the temerity to imagine any such thing. ‘It is the natural confidence that all living creatures should repose in mankind, if only we were worthy of it.’

  ‘Oh how true!’ he said, captivated. ‘You have hit upon my sentiments exactly. We are so unworthy. We behave so badly.’ And then he blushed, realizing that what he was saying sounded as though he was finding fault with her. ‘Mankind, I mean, of course, mankind in general. I trust you do not think I was speaking in any way – er – personally.’

  ‘But are we not of mankind also?’ she said earnestly. ‘We are all to blame, I fear.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ he agreed again, more confused than ever.

  ‘Being members of one church.’

  ‘Yes indeed, of one church.’ What delicious blue eyes she had! And such an open, trusting expression.

  ‘There is so much cruelty in the world,’ she sighed. ‘I don’t have a crust for these poor birds, not a single crust.’

  ‘I could go home and get some, should you wish it.’

  The blue eyes approved. ‘Could you? Could you really?’

  Oh, indeed he could. He could indeed. Perhaps she would care to walk with him, if it wouldn’t fatigue her. It was only a step away.

  And so they fed the ducks, who pressed in upon them with beady-eyed ferocity until they were quite sure there wasn’t a crumb left. And at that point the church clock struck the hour and James realized that he was going to be late for dinner. He was very alarmed.

  ‘I must go, I fear, Miss Easter,’ he said, his ears pink because he was afraid she might think him rude. ‘I trust we shall meet again. I always take a promenade, before dinner, somewhere hereabouts, if the weather is fine.’

  ‘If the weather is fine,’ she said, looking straight into his eyes in such a charming way she made him quite breathless.

  ‘We could feed the ducks,’ he suggested. ‘Tomorrow perhaps?’

  ‘If the weather is fine,’ she repeated, blushing.

  And it was. It was. It was fine for the next four blessed days, which was long enough for the ducks to be fed to capacity and for James and Annie to establish a routine.

  Soon they were meeting to walk and talk on every day except Sunday, innocently happy in the new May sunshine and chaperoned by the eyes of his congregation. And on Sunday, of course, they would see one another in church, and he could hold her hands in greeting when she arrived, and again when she left, and spend most of the intervening service smiling at her whenever she was looking his way and feasting his eyes upon her when her head was reverently and properly lowered to read her prayer-book.

  It wasn’t long before the rector became aware of what was going on. Or to be more accurate, the rector’s wife, for he was an amiable and rather dreamy soul who might have missed the signs, but his wife missed nothing.

  ‘You must write to the Bishop at once,’ she told her spouse. ‘The good man must be acquainted with all that is going on.’

  So the Bishop was acquainted.

  ‘Wonders will never cease!’ he said to his wife when he read the letter over his breakfast. ‘It appears that Everard Emmanuel has fallen in love.’

  ‘With whom?’ his wife said, lowering her eyes suspiciously. She had a very low opinion of falling in love. It could lead to all manner of ridiculous consequences and was not a trustworthy way to find a partner.

  ‘She seems highly suitable, my dear,’ the Bishop said, returning to his kedgeree. ‘The only daughter of Mrs Easter, the London newsagent, and cousin of Sir Osmond Easter of Ippark. A goodly pedigree, you will allow, my dear.’

  ‘A pedigree is one thing,’ his wife said, only slightly mollifed. ‘But will she be able to handle Everard Emmanuel? That is the matter we have to consider. He will need a wife of some character if he is not to remain a curate all his life. You must invite her to stay.’

  The Bishop chewed over her suggestion with his kedgeree. ‘We will give a dinner party,’ he decided when his mouth was empty. ‘For Harvest Home.’

  ‘But Harvest Home is months away.’

  ‘There is no need to rush such things, my dear. If it is a passing infatuation it will have passed by the autumn. If it is not then we may hope for better things. May I trouble you for another cup of your excellent tea?’

  So in due course of time Annie was sent her invitation, and having contrived to be allowed to stay on in Bury for a week or two to nurse little Pollyanna who was recovering from the measles, she sent a polite acceptance in her very best handwriting. There was no need to say anything to her mother just yet. In fact she really didn’t want to say anything to her mother at all, just in case she was cross, for she still found her sudden temper too awful to contemplate. The thought of the visit was worrying enough without being shouted at beforehand.

  But although she and James were rigid with nerves, the visit was a success. The Bishop was quite taken with little Miss Easter, who was surprisingly well-read for a tradesman’s daughter, with an excellent knowledge of Mr Wordsworth’s poetry. And she gave a quite delightful answer when he asked her opinion as to whether a young curate should aim at a parish of his own.

  ‘Oh yes, sir,’ she said. ‘I think he should. His own flock! What a challenge that would be.’

  And James had to agree with her, his ears bright-pink with embarrassment, because a dinner party was not the place at which to conduct a discussion on the ethics of church preferment.

  Later he tried to explain things to her. ‘I wish to follow Christ in all His teachings,’ he said earnestly. ‘I cannot believe that He intended the shepherd to be wealthier than his flock.’

  ‘You have the kindest heart,’ she said, admiring him. ‘I cannot believe that you will ever be wealthy, for you will give away all your worldly goods, will you not?’

  If he’d had any worldly goods at that moment he would have given them away for the right to kiss that tempting little mouth. But it wasn’t the right moment for either. Not
yet. Not yet. Particularly as she was due to return to London in a day or two.

  ‘You will write to me,’ she asked unnecessarily when he came to see her off.

  ‘Oh, depend upon it,’ he said, loving her with his eyes. ‘Every day. You have my solemn word.’

  And so their gentle romance continued. And the Bishop and his wife waited for news. And Bessie was sworn to secrecy. And Nan remained in ignorance.

  But when another year had passed the Bishop couldn’t contain his soul in patience a moment longer and Everard Emmanuel was summoned to the presence.

  ‘Now look ’ee here,’ the Bishop said without preamble. ‘Your mother and I need to know your intentions towards Miss Easter.’

  ‘Entirely honourable Father, I do assure you,’ James said earnestly.

  ‘Tush boy. I know that. When do you intend to marry? That’s what we want to know. We have arrangements to make, you know.’

  James was so embarrassed his ears felt as though they were on fire. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘As to that, father … As to that.’

  ‘Bless me!’ the Bishop said to his wife. ‘I don’t believe the foolish creature has asked her.’

  ‘Well …’ James said, shifting from foot to foot.

  ‘Oh, bless me!’ the Bishop said again. He needed rather a lot of assistance from his Maker that morning. ‘Did you ever see such a noddle? My advice to ’ee boy is to go straight back to Bury and propose to the lady. That’s what my advice is. Oh, bless me!’

  But when poor James went trailing back to Bury and his various and difficult duties, he found his beloved sitting in the Abbey gardens in floods of tears.

  ‘My own dear love,’ he said, forgetting his caution at the sight of her distress. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Oh, Mr Hopkins!’ she cried. ‘My mother has found out about us. I have been kept to my room this last week. What are we to do?’

  ‘You must tell me all about it,’ he said, producing a handkerchief to dry her eyes.

  So she did, between renewed tears on her part and more solicitous dabbing on his, and when her tale was done it was his turn to tell her about his unreasonable parent. ‘He may be a Bishop,’ he finished, ‘but I do feel he lacks sensitivity. For truly I do feel I should be allowed to propose to you in my own good time and not his.’

  ‘How true!’ she agreed, smiling weakly at him for the first time since their meeting. ‘But what are we to do? Mr Leigh says he will help us, but I don’t see how he can.’

  ‘Who is Mr Leigh, my love?’

  ‘I blush to tell you Mr Hopkins. He is my mother’s lover.’

  ‘Dear me!’ he sighed. ‘’Tis a godless generation, I fear. My poor dear love. But perhaps he may persuade her?’

  ‘We must pray so,’ his beloved said.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, thinking how pretty she looked when her eyes were swimming with tears. Most women grew blotchy when they cried, but she was charming. He dropped on one knee before her. ‘My dear Miss Easter,’ he said with sudden gallantry, ‘I love you with all my heart. No matter what may happen, or what difficulties we may have to face, one day I will marry you, upon my word of honour, if you will have me. Oh, I will make you so, so happy.’

  ‘Mr Hopkins,’ she said seriously. ‘You are a good man, and if you are proposing to me, my answer is yes.’

  And at that and because there was nobody else in the gardens on that chilly day, he kissed her.

  When Calverley had left his comforted Annie in the gardens, he walked briskly back to Angel Square where Jericho was waiting beside the pavement and Nan and Bessie were waiting in the hall.

  ‘Well?’ Nan said, without preamble.

  ‘She is in love,’ he explained. ‘Quite wild with it. I fear you will have to let ’em marry, for she means to break her heart if you refuse.’

  ‘She can marry whom she pleases,’ Nan said trenchantly, ‘and could have known it days ago if she’d had the sense to come out of her room and talk.’

  ‘Humour her,’ he said, walking to the door. ‘Invite the young man to tea. I must go Nan, I fear. I’ve to be in Norwich by three o’clock and Jericho ain’t as young as he was.’

  She kissed him lovingly. ‘’Tis sound advice,’ she said. ‘God speed ’ee.’

  So Everard Emmanuel received a second summons in as many weeks. In great trepidation and in his best clothes he duly presented himself at Angel Hill for her inspection.

  The splendour of her drawing-room made him feel like a fly in a trifle. And the lady herself was formidable, sitting before the fire on her elegant chaise-longue with the tea things laid out neatly on a little table before her, her red gown so uncompromising, her brown eyes so direct.

  ‘Sit down, sir,’ she said, as though he were a dog.

  He sat obediently.

  ‘You will take tea,’ she ordered, in the same brusque tones.

  ‘Ma’am,’ ears glowing.

  It was uncommon difficult to take tea with Mrs Easter. She thrust the cup at you so roughly, and glared at you when your trembling made it rattle, and then just when you’d worked up sufficient courage to lift it to your lips and sip, she said,

  ‘You wish to marry my daughter, I believe.’

  His throat constricted so violently it was all he could do to swallow the tea. But he answered her bravely, ‘Yes, ma’am, I do.’

  ‘You have very poor prospects, young man,’ she said sternly. ‘What makes you consider yourself worthy of such a match?’

  ‘It is true,’ he said earnestly. ‘My prospects are poor but your daughter loves me nevertheless, and I love her with all my heart.’

  ‘Humph!’ she snorted and continued the inquisition.

  Afterwards he couldn’t remember any of the questions she asked, although they went on interminably. She was so quick, stabbing a second query at him before he’d finished answering the first, but he held on grimly, staring at the red and green threads in the carpet under his feet, and re-iterating over and over again, as his final inescapable reason, ‘I love her, Mrs Easter.’

  ‘You young things are all the same,’ she said when twenty minutes had passed and he was still saying the same thing. ‘You think you may live on air.’

  ‘God’s blessed manna fell from the air upon the children of Israel,’ he reminded them both, doggedly serious.

  There was a faint scuffling sound outside the further door, smothered voices and a furtive scrabbling and somebody giggling. Nan jumped up at once, swept across the room, skirts swishing and flung the door aside. It was such a quick movement that the listeners were caught off balance and fell into the room in a giggling heap. Bessie and Annie and little Pollyanna.

  ‘Oh, Mama!’ Annie pleaded from where she crouched on her hands and knees. ‘Pray do not be cross with Bessie, I beg you. ’Twas all my fault, although I could not help it, truly I could not.’

  Pollyanna was sitting in her mother’s tumbled lap, James had risen to his feet still clutching his teacup, and they were all looking at Nan, fearfully and hopefully.

  ‘Blamed fools the lot of you!’ she said. And to the curate’s amazement she put back her head and roared with laughter, showing her teeth. ‘Oh, oh!’ she laughed. ‘’Tis worse than a comedy, so ’tis. Oh, very well Annie, if that’s what you want you’d best marry the man, for I can get no sense out of him save that he loves you. And now get up do, for I can’t abide the sight of you grovelling upon the floor.’

  Then there was bedlam in the room as Annie ran into her lover’s arms and Bessie burst into happy tears and Calverley came rushing in through the other door loud with congratulations.

  So a second kettle was brought to the boil and a second tea taken by all of them, this time with pastries and much pleasure. And the wedding was planned. It was agreed that Annie should stay in Bury for the winter and buy her trousseau and supervise the arrangements, since, as Nan remarked ‘You can’t abide to be parted,’ and that the ceremony would be held on the first day of May the very next year, and that the Bishop would be asked
to officiate.

  And Annie asked Mr Leigh if he would ‘be so very kind as to give me away’, which pleased him so much that he lifted her clean off her feet and waltzed about the room with her, swinging her round and round until her skirts billowed like a bell.

  ‘Love conquers all, you see my dearest,’ the curate said when he parted from his beloved in a hall left tactfully empty for them. ‘It was just a matter of keeping faith.’

  ‘Now that we are engaged to be married,’ Annie said, eyes shining, ‘I suppose you may kiss me whenever you please.’

  ‘It is the custom I believe,’ he said, and proceeded to enjoy it.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  So Everard Emmanuel accepted the benefice of St Lawrence’s Church at Rattlesden from his father the Bishop, because he would have a wife to support now, and Annie Easter married her curate in the church of St James in Bury St Edmunds and a very pretty picture she made standing before the altar in her blue watered silk with a modest poke-bonnet to hide her blushes. Calverley gave the bride away, looking exceedingly handsome, and the Bishop conducted the service looking extremely grand, and the wedding-breakfast, which was held in the Athenaeum, was the biggest and most lavish that the citizens of Bury had ever seen.

  The Bishop was impressed. Whatever cobweb doubts he might still have had about the strength of his new daughter-in-law’s character or the suitability of her family were swept away by the brisk broom of her mother’s forceful personality. ‘A capital family!’ as he told his wife later that evening. ‘Capital! A lady of charm and capacity without a doubt.’

  He had been a trifle perturbed by her first letter to him, in which she had expressed her ‘very great pleasure that our two important families are to be allied’, for trade, however prosperous, could hardly be compared to the undeniable status of a bishopric. But the lady herself was a revelation, so slight and thin and yet with such force and speed, quick in her movements, her wits, her speech and her decisions. A woman of mercury, and uncommon well-dressed. The Bishop had an eye for such detail, and he missed none of it now, from the diamonds and pearls at the lady’s throat to the exquisite and costly embroidery at the hem of her gown. He liked her shrewd eyes and the dark hair springing so forcefully from her temples and that wide, uncompromising mouth. Why, she had success written all over her. Not the sort of lady to endure a mere curate as a son-in-law, nor to allow him to remain a country parson for long.