The People of This Parish (Part One of The People of this Parish Saga)

by Nicola Thorne

  Now today she had sought him out. He was sure of that. Incredibly his feelings were reciprocated; but what could he do about it?

  Cigarette in hand, Ryder went slowly up the stairs and into the room that was to be his bedroom. He stood by the window and let his finger run along the sill that she had touched.

  Then he turned and imagined, as she had (only he did not know this), the great bed in the middle but, instead of Eliza lying beside him, there would be Maude.

  Maude Brough, twenty-six years old, a clever woman, a schoolmistress and not unattractive. But there had never been a spark between them as there had been between himself and Eliza. He could imagine himself allowing his arm to encircle her waist as she stood by the window; he would gently bare her shoulders and then her breasts, and he would ...

  Ryder put his hands to his eyes, and his shoulders heaved in a great sigh of loss, of desolation.

  Ryder knew what people said about his Uncle Christopher and himself – that they were alike. He didn’t mind being compared to his uncle physically, because he was a fine-looking man and, in many respects, his nephew liked him. But he knew that Christopher was an idler, a loafer, and it was this aspect of the comparison that annoyed Ryder, who knew he would always work for his living and never be afraid of working hard. His uncle, on the other hand, was a sponger who was always asking anyone who would give it to him for money. But work for it? Never.

  Ryder sat across the table from his uncle, listening to him as he entertained the company with tales of his recent adventures. These included a visit to the Continent, and an escapade with a beautiful woman in Rome, a widow, he said, with a fortune.

  ‘But she was too quick for me,’ Christopher Yetman concluded with a smile and a wink. ‘She wished to hang on to her money if not her virtue, and while my back was turned I’m damned if she didn’t pack her bags and leave. Left me to pay the bill too. But while she went out of the front door I nipped smartly out of the back, and as far as I know the hotel bill is not paid to this very day.’

  ‘Really, Christopher!’ Catherine exclaimed indignantly. ‘Have you no shame, repeating such a story in front of my young daughter ...’

  ‘Oh, Mother, I am not as young as that,’ Agnes protested. ‘I am quite well aware that these things happen.’ She looked pertly at her mother and only momentarily lowered her eyes.

  Agnes was, in fact, twenty, and very well aware of the things that happened in society and out of it. The baby of the family, a pretty girl, but not particularly good-natured. However she had an allure, a quality that attracted men, though so far she had always kept them at a distance, finding none of them good enough for her.

  ‘That may be,’ her father said sharply, tapping his spoon on the table. ‘But your mother is right. Christopher, you will kindly keep your bawdy stories for the smoking room, if you please, and not entertain us with them at table.’

  But even he could scarcely suppress a smile, so good-natured was his brother, so comical in his attempts to improve his situation, which invariably ended in disaster. Christopher with his charm and his looks, his air of breeding, which contrasted with his own homely countrified air, could get away with anything.

  If Agnes felt too worldly-wise to appear embarrassed, the man sitting to her right did. As the story progressed he had lowered his face and, as the outcome became more certain and the story took on a note of ribaldry, a flush slowly suffused his cheeks. His employer, noticing his discomfiture, gave him a good-natured smile.

  ‘Come now, Herbert, you’ve heard worse tales than that, haven’t you? You’re a grown man, Herbert. Come now,’ he said.

  Herbert Lock fumbled with his napkin, and Agnes turned provocatively to him, eyes wide open.

  ‘Why, Herbert, you’re blushing!’

  ‘There now, look what you’ve done to our guest,’ Catherine chided her, vigorously ringing the bell to summon the maid. ‘Spare his blushes, if not Agnes’s.’

  ‘I assure you I’m not blushing, Mrs Yetman,’ Herbert stammered, giving a realistic cough while he held his throat and swallowed hard. ‘A piece of bread went down the wrong way.’

  ‘There, you’ve shocked Herbert!’ Agnes pretended to frown disapprovingly at her uncle.

  ‘Really, Agnes, I am not shocked.’ Beside himself with confusion, Herbert thumped his chest and took a large gulp of water from the glass beside his plate as if to prove his point. ‘I...’

  ‘I won’t repeat any more tales then,’ Christopher promised. ‘I’ll save them, as you say, John ...’

  ‘But won’t Herbert be in the smoking room?’ Agnes looked at him archly. ‘You are old enough to smoke, Herbert, aren’t you?’

  ‘Please don’t tease Herbert,’ Catherine Yetman commanded sharply. ‘He is one man we could not do without.’

  ‘And I will second that,’ Ryder said. ‘Without Herbert the business would collapse.’

  It was true. Herbert Lock had come to the Yetman business in Blandford as a callow youth of sixteen and now, twenty years later, he was one of the mainstays of the entire operation. All the accounts were under his strict control, and he knew everyone and everything; not an item escaped his sharp nose or enquiring eye. He could ferret out theft, deception, late payers and defaulters. So indispensable had Herbert become that John Yetman had made him a partner, with overall financial control of the business.

  So, in a sense, Herbert was part of the family rather than a guest; yet the Yetmans always felt on formal terms with him. He always called them Mr and Mrs Yetman and referred to John in the office as ‘sir’. He had begun as an inferior and seemed in his own estimation to have remained one.

  Herbert was reserved, shy, pious and, until recently, he had lived with his widowed mother in an old Georgian house in the centre of Blandford. But his mother had recently died, and not only the house but the large legacy she’d left were his. All his, and no one to share them with: the money, the pretty house, his prospects at the still relatively early age of thirty-six.

  Many a young woman in Blandford or thereabouts would have been glad of an offer from Herbert. Shy and pious he might have been, even withdrawn; but he was hardworking, presentable, not good-looking but not too bad and, of course, he was careful with money and had plenty of it to spare. Quite a prize, quite a catch. There was, however, one insuperable obstacle: hitherto Herbert was unknown ever to have shown any interest in women, and it was assumed that he would remain a bachelor to the end of his days.

  After dinner the party went into the drawing room for coffee, where Catherine Yetman excused herself on the grounds that she had a headache and would go early to bed. Ryder accompanied her to the door and then stood looking anxiously into her eyes.

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right, Mother? I have not thought you looked well for some days.’

  ‘I am quite all right, Ryder,’ she said, smiling at him and briefly touching his cheek. ‘Now, you have a good time and don’t worry about me. What a pity Maude couldn’t be here tonight.’

  As Ryder, saying nothing, took her arm to escort her to the stairs she looked anxiously up at him.

  ‘Things are all right with Maude, aren’t they, Ryder?’

  ‘Of course, Mother, why should they not be?’ Ryder let go of her arm and leaned against the newel post. Dressed in a suit with a clean white shirt and tie he looked so handsome that his mother wondered how he had escaped marriage for so long. But that was the trouble: Ryder was so hard to please.

  ‘Are you still unsettled, Ryder?’ she asked.

  ‘What’s the matter with you tonight, Mother?’ Laughing, he touched her arm. ‘You seem over-anxious.’

  ‘Of course I’m anxious. My other sons are happy and settled. I want you to be happy and settled. Only, all the time ...’

  ‘Yes, Mother?’

  ‘I worry about you, Ryder. Fancy taking that little cottage when you were on the verge of getting married.’

  ‘When I took it I didn’t know I was going to ask Maude to marry me,’ he sa
id carefully.

  ‘Then you should have got rid of it immediately. But now you’re doing it up! Your father says you spend hours there, sometimes days. You neglect his work for yours. He’s unhappy about you too. We don’t want you to be like ...’

  ‘Oh, I shan’t be like Uncle Christopher, Mother. I’ll always earn my bread, never fear.’

  Catherine stood on the bottom step of the winding staircase and, putting both hands on his shoulders, looked earnestly into his eyes.

  ‘Tell me, my son, is there something wrong?’

  ‘Nothing wrong, Mother.’ Ryder put his hands in his pockets and gazed at the floor. ‘Nothing wrong ‘zactly ...’

  ‘You don’t love Maude, do you?’

  Ryder didn’t reply but traced a circle on the stone flags of the floor with his toe.

  ‘She would be more suited to Herbert than me,’ he mumbled.

  ‘She’s such a nice girl.’ Catherine wrung her hands. ‘But I have thought, watching you, she was not the one. You are not right for each other.’

  ‘Then what must I do, Mother?’ Ryder spread his arms out helplessly. ‘She will sue me for breach of promise if I ask to be released – not that I mind that so much ...’

  ‘Your father would mind,’ his mother replied quickly. ‘He would hate the scandal. So would I. Maybe if you talked to her ... maybe she feels as you do?’

  ‘I don’t think Maude loves me, but she wants to be married and settled. I can understand it. She is twenty-six. She will not let me go so lightly, I can tell you!’

  ‘Then maybe we should introduce her to Herbert.’ His mother appeared serious, but Ryder only laughed.

  ‘Mother, have you not noticed that Herbert has eyes only for Agnes?’

  ‘Agnes?’ Catherine looked startled. ‘Oh, Agnes would have nothing to do with Herbert. What an idea!’

  ‘I like Herbert,’ Ryder insisted. ‘Frankly I think he would be good for Agnes. We don’t want Agnes getting desperate, like Maude...’

  ‘Agnes is too like you,’ his mother replied. ‘Hard to please. Restless ... unsettled. Oh, why are my oldest and youngest not more like my middle children?’

  Suddenly Catherine staggered slightly and, her face very pale, leaned against the banister.

  ‘Mother, what is it?’ Ryder demanded. ‘You’re not well, are you?’

  ‘My dear, I am just tired,’ she said firmly, drawing herself up. ‘It has been a very busy time. The Woodville wedding was exciting. I had to see to my clothes, and Agnes’s. We had to look right as it was such an important occasion. It was an honour to be asked to the wedding. Even if you did not think so, we did, and we had to make a lot of preparations for it. I shall now rest up for a few days and I’ll be as right as rain.’

  She bent forward suddenly and kissed him gently on the brow. ‘You sort out your own problems, my lad, and don’t worry about mine.’

  Then, briskly refusing his offer of help, she turned and went heavily up the stairs, while Ryder remained in the hall staring anxiously after her.

  Back in the drawing room he found his father and uncle sitting by the fire smoking. Of Agnes and Herbert there was no sign.

  ‘Gone for a walk,’ his father said winking.

  ‘Oh, you’ve noticed it too.’ Ryder smiled and helped himself to coffee and brandy. ‘Father, is Mother all right?

  She has a headache ...’

  ‘I know, but she hasn’t looked well for a while. She’s lost weight and she’s too pale.’

  ‘It’s her age,’ his father said sagaciously. ‘It comes to all women sooner or later, my boy.’

  ‘Oh, is that all?’ Ryder looked relieved, if a little unconvinced, and slumped in front of the fireplace.

  ‘Christopher was asking me if there were any rich widows in the district.’ John Yetman, with a smile, began to fill his pipe. ‘He’s thinking of settling down.’ John chuckled as if amused by the idea and began slowly to draw on the tobacco. ‘I told him, you see, I couldn’t give him any more money. I can’t go on supporting him when I have four children, two of them still unmarried.’

  ‘But Ryder’s getting married,’ Christopher said. ‘Couldn’t I take his place, Brother? Father left us both money, you know.’

  ‘But you spent all yours.’ John Yetman looked earnestly at his brother. ‘You wasted your substance, Christopher, whereas I husbanded mine. Husbanded it and made it grow. You sold your shares in our father’s business and threw away your money. Even if I could help you any more I wouldn’t ...’

  ‘Oh, Father, that is harsh.’ Ryder jerked himself out of his reverie.

  ‘Not harsh at all,’ John replied. ‘Now, if your uncle could put a hand to the business ...’

  ‘I am not fitted for it, Brother.’ Christopher accepted one of the cigarettes Ryder held out to him. ‘I can’t add up a column of figures.’

  ‘Herbert adds up the figures ...’

  ‘I couldn’t put one brick on top of another. I haven’t Herbert’s brain or Ryder’s practical skills ...’

  ‘There is no rich widow,’ Ryder said as if thinking aloud. ‘But there is a lady in the parish who has recently come into a lot of money. Am I not right, Father? Miss Fairchild.’

  As he looked at his father for confirmation Christopher slapped his knee and roared with laughter.

  ‘That old spinster with the hare lip? Do you think I’d so much as look at her?’

  ‘That’s a cruel thing to say,’ John said disapprovingly. ‘You could do worse. For one thing she’s not old. But she’d be a fool if she had you, or the likes of you. She has such a sweet disposition that, frankly, I never notice her disfigurement. She is a kind and generous-hearted woman. Yet it is true she has just been left very well off by the death, one after the other, of both her parents, with the shop and all its stock at her disposal.’

  ‘Euphemia Monk,’ Ryder said thoughtfully. ‘Another one with plenty of money.’

  ‘Now she would never look at your uncle,’ John said firmly. ‘She is much younger than Miss Fairchild; besides, Euphemia’s good-looking and has plenty of time to find a suitable man. But Miss Fairchild –’ he tilted his head ‘– I’m afraid that poor woman, good though she is, will never be wed.’

  As the bell on the inside of the door jangled, Victoria Fairchild turned sharply and seemed to hesitate, like a rabbit caught in a beam of light, uncertain whether to retreat into the safety of the back of the shop or stay where she was. When her parents had been alive she had seldom been seen in the front of the shop, preferring to remain in the storeroom at the back which was her domain. Here she had sole responsibility for the inventory, measuring out and cutting cloth, making the Dorset buttons for which the haberdashery shop was renowned, and keeping the books of the prosperous little business which her parents had run since the early days of their marriage in the 1830s.

  Christopher Yetman, dressed in his best suit and carrying a top hat and cane, closed the door carefully before turning and peering into the gloom of the shop. Behind the counter bales of material of all kinds – cottons, poplins, silks, bombazines, worsteds, wools – in a variety of textures and widths, rose to the ceiling, while on the counter neatly arranged in boxes were spools of thread, ribbons, buttons, needles and pins.

  Everyone used to laugh at Victoria Fairchild at school, until finally she was removed by her parents and educated privately. For Victoria had been born with a hare lip and, even though a compassionate and skilful surgeon had managed to repair much of the damage, the scar remained, giving her a slight speech impediment. But the scar left on her mind went much deeper.

  Christopher had only seen her about three times in the last twenty years, but they were the same age, forty-five, and he remembered her very well. He bowed solemnly towards her as her hands flew to her face and her eyes opened wide in surprise.

  ‘I do believe it is Christopher Yetman.’

  ‘You believe right, Victoria,’ Christopher said smoothly, advancing into the shop. ‘I am paying a visit to my b
rother and sister-in-law, and when I heard that your dear mother and father had passed away I wanted to call and offer you my condolences.’

  ‘Oh, Christopher!’ Miss Fairchild let her hands fall from her face and, hesitantly, came round the counter towards him. ‘How very kind of you. Such a kind thought.’

  ‘You will miss your parents, Victoria.’ After placing his hat on the counter Christopher put both hands on top of his cane and looked at her gravely.

  ‘Oh yes. Yes, I do. Very much. They went within a year of each other, and I am quite lost without them. They were so dear to me, so good.’ The suspicion of tears lurked behind her eyes and she went on: ‘Would you care to come in for a minute and sit down in the back, Christopher? We have comfortable chairs there and should not be disturbed.’

  ‘Why that’s very nice of you, Victoria,’ Christopher said heartily. ‘It would be good to have a chat with you again, about old days, eh?’

  Victoria said nothing, but as she locked the front door and led the way through the shop she grimaced to herself. The only memories she had of Christopher Yetman were of the way he used to lead the bullies who mocked her in the playground and forced her parents to remove her from the local school. But that was a very long time ago, and she was touched by his generous impulse in coming to see her.

  Christopher now looked approvingly round the back room, noting how neat everything was, how perfectly and meticulously kept. There was an air of diligence and prosperity about the place which appealed to him. On either side of the fireplace were two chairs, and on the hob a kettle boiled.

  ‘I was just making tea,’ Miss Fairchild said. ‘May I offer you a cup, Christopher?’

  ‘You may,’ Christopher said, making himself comfortable in one of the chairs and undoing the middle button of his jacket. ‘How kind.’

  As Miss Fairchild bustled about, warming the pot before spooning the tea into it from a large caddy, putting out two cups and saucers, a plate of biscuits taken from a tin, he watched her appreciatively. Really, had it not been for the vertical scar between her lip and nose, she would have been considered comely. But no one had ever noticed her violet eyes, her peach-coloured skin, her shining golden hair and slender waist. All they noticed, those cruel children, was the one minor blemish that divided her from the bulk of her fellows. Even now he remembered with a sense of shame how he used to taunt her in the playground, and he shifted uncomfortably.