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

by Nicola Thorne

  Victoria, however, seemed quite excited by his impromptu visit and smiled at him as she handed him his tea and offered him a biscuit.

  ‘I haven’t entertained in the back since my poor mother passed away,’ she said.

  ‘Travellers, people like that, don’t you ask them in here?’ Christopher accepted a biscuit and popped it into his mouth.

  ‘Oh no!’ Miss Fairchild looked deeply shocked. ‘People of that kind are always seen on the other side of the counter. It would never do to receive them here.’

  She helped herself to a biscuit and, as she crunched it, he could see that she was beginning to feel at ease with him. He sighed.

  ‘You must feel very lonely on your own now, Victoria.’

  ‘Oh, I do.’ The biscuit finished, she clasped her hands together in her lap and her eyes assumed a faraway expression. ‘I really don’t know what to do about the shop, whether to carry on or to sell it. You see,’ she blushed a little as she pretended to dust crumbs from her lap, ‘my dear parents left me comfortably off. As well as the shop I have investments, trusts they made on my behalf and, of course, a large house. I would like to travel and see a little of the world. I would like ...’

  ‘I am very interested in buying the shop and its stock,’ Christopher said urgently, leaning forward. ‘I would like to settle down and it would be a good investment for me.’

  ‘But, Christopher,’ Miss Fairchild’s expression was one of frank astonishment, ‘you know nothing about the haberdashery business.’

  ‘But you could advise me, could you not, Victoria? If you like we could be partners.’ He gave another deep sigh and leaned back in his chair, half closing his eyes. ‘You have no idea how a man longs to settle down after a lifetime of travelling.’

  The new Lady Woodville had no illusions that her husband had married her for love. Yet he was kind and charming, with impeccable manners, and if their relationship lacked passion, for her it was more than enough. For the plain spinster from Amsterdam had long ago resigned herself to life without a man. Her wealth, she knew, would cushion her from the harsher realities of life, but she never dreamed that at twenty-nine it would buy her a husband.

  Even to be seen with Guy Woodville made her feel beautiful. He had the presence of the true English aristocrat. People looked at him, not her; but she didn’t mind. Although there was speculation as to the reason, she was the one he’d married, and many women envied her.

  They had had a leisurely honeymoon travelling on the Continent in the style that her money was able to provide. From Venice they had crossed into the Balkans, and from there to the Levant and Damascus, where they were escorted across the desert by the Bedouin. It had been very exciting because they both loved exploring ruins and there were plenty of these. The ancient city of Palmyra at dawn or sunset was unforgettable. They found that they had more in common than they thought, and Guy, whose education had finished at Cambridge, was a delightful, knowledgeable, even erudite companion.

  As for the intimate side of their life together, Margaret had much to learn and he taught her as gently and kindly as he could. She was grateful to him, and the more her gratitude increased so did her love. She returned to England completely enamoured of her husband and determined to be a good wife. She would not nag or question him; she would let him have his freedom to spend her fortune as he wished. All she wanted was to be his helpmeet; someone of whom he could be proud. Of course she wanted to be a mother too.

  In the past eighteen months there had been so much to do. After their engagement, the wedding was postponed because everyone agreed there was much work to be done on Pelham’s Oak and the house in Chesterfield Street, Mayfair, which had been in the Woodville family for over a century. Margaret loved both houses, but especially the one in London which, in addition to its many splendid rooms full of fine eighteenth-century furniture, had a large walled garden in which a fountain played.

  Margaret loved the shops, the theatres, the hectic social life in London. As Lady Woodville she had the entree to almost every level of society, short of royalty, and although she admired the old Queen, she had little time for the raffish set that surrounded the by now middle-aged Prince of Wales.

  Yet there was much in London that distressed her. The poverty was apparent in the streets, where ragged beggars, some quite young, crouched in corners holding out their hands for alms. Fallen women paraded themselves openly along Piccadilly, or lingered in the shadows of even the most exclusive streets in Mayfair. But Guy cared very little for social reform, and she was too new a bride to wish to engage in any undertakings of which he might disapprove.

  She knew that Guy was not attracted to business, that he would rather have played the role of young man-about-town. But his uncle and her father had wanted him to work, and every day he rose, reluctantly and not too early, to go to his office in the City, where he arrived about eleven. He left at four and went to his club. Usually they dined together at eight, or sometimes he collected her to take her to the theatre and they supped at the Cafe Royal afterwards or, more usually, at the houses of friends.

  Margaret always breakfasted with Guy, getting up before him and making sure that his valet had done his job properly and that his clothes were laid out and his toilet articles were ready. She had had a bathroom with hot running water installed in the house when it was refurbished.

  When at last Guy came into the dining room to make his selection from a choice of hot dishes, she would be waiting for him to hand him the morning paper and any letters and discuss with him the programme of the day.

  They had been back from their honeymoon about six weeks and had spent a third of that time in the country and the rest in London. It was beginning to be hot and soon they would leave for the country and stay there. Guy would take a month’s holiday and concern himself with the affairs of the Dorset estate, even though a manager had now been appointed to run it for him.

  Many things were different now, and not all of them were appreciated by Guy, who for most of his life had been a spoilt young man doted on by his invalid father and adoring mother. He knew that Margaret tried hard and that the marriage had been essential. But it had certainly curtailed his freedom, and he envied his young unmarried friends who were free to please themselves. He had to resort to lies when he wished to do this.

  As Guy came into the dining room, Margaret rose and went over to the sideboard, presenting him, on the way, with the morning paper so that he could begin to read it as soon as he sat down. She liked to serve his breakfast herself, and he ate heartily while she had black coffee and toast and honey.

  Guy pecked her on the cheek and asked her how she’d slept.

  ‘As always, perfectly, my dear,’ Margaret said with a fond smile. ‘And you?’

  ‘As always, perfectly,’ Guy said, also with a smile. But he looked a little tired.

  ‘Although you were very late home, I think.’

  ‘I was playing cards at my club,’ Guy said in an offhand way. ‘The time just sped by.’

  Of course she wouldn’t dream of chiding him for not letting her know the previous day he would not be home to dinner. It was her firm intention not to nag, not to let him feel that his freedom was in any way constrained by marriage to a woman five years older than himself. In many ways at twenty-four he was young for his age, both in looks and manner.

  ‘Anything in the post today?’ Guy looked cursorily through the letters.

  ‘An invitation from your aunt to dinner next week.’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Guy sat back and shook out his napkin. ‘That is the dinner.’

  ‘How do you mean, dear?’ Margaret put before him a dish of his favourite things: fried eggs, chops and country sausage.

  ‘Don’t you know about the dinner?’ Guy’s voice had a mocking tone. ‘Aren’t you in on the secret?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’ Margaret looked mystified.

  ‘It is to introduce my wild young sister to a man my uncle wants her to marry. They haven’t a cha
nce, of course.

  ‘But I had no idea ...’

  ‘No, it’s a very close family secret.’ Guy looked with relish at his plate and rubbed his hands. ‘Mother wishes to tame Eliza and get her to settle down.’

  ‘But she is so young.’

  ‘That’s why she thinks she needs to be tamed. She is too fond of mannish activities like riding horses astride in men’s breeches – an old pair of mine as a matter of fact.’ The idea seemed to amuse him. ‘Do you disapprove of that, Margaret?’ He leaned over and looked at her, and she felt embarrassed by his gaze.

  ‘Well,’ Margaret stammered, ‘it’s not usual, but then Eliza has not had the benefit in recent years of a father to control her.’

  ‘My mother thinks she behaves like a gypsy. They are anxious to marry her to Lord Thornwell, who has vast estates, a stable and considerable wealth.’

  ‘Well ... what does Eliza think of that?’

  ‘She has never met Lord Thornwell.’

  ‘Oh!’ Margaret felt herself blushing. The fact that their own marriage had been arranged was never referred to between them, but the circumstances he was describing were very similar to theirs. The Woodvilles had wanted her money, and she had wanted a husband.

  ‘Surely she doesn’t have to marry anyone she doesn’t want to?’ Margaret ventured.

  ‘No, of course she doesn’t. I shan’t let her,’ Guy said firmly. ‘Whatever my mother and Uncle Prosper say.’ He appeared to hesitate and then went on: ‘Not that I don’t think it would be a very good idea for my sister to marry. She is headstrong and, in her way, a little eccentric. It’s not very good for a woman to get a reputation for oddness.’

  ‘I thought she only wore breeches on the estate?’

  ‘Yes, she does, but she rides like a man and as fast as a man. Sometimes she behaves like a man. She loves messing about in the stables, grooming her horses herself. When she was younger she was always hanging around at the farm. She never hides the fact she would have liked to be a man.’ Guy sighed and, for a moment, thoughtfully suspended his knife and fork over his plate.

  ‘My poor little sister. Lord Thornwell, though rich and well-born, is fifty. She is in for a shock.’

  Margaret gave a sharp exclamation. ‘Fifty!’

  ‘He is, I understand, a very young-looking fifty. But that is still thirty-two years older than our Eliza. It is a big gap.’

  ‘Does she know this?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Guy shook his head. ‘They thought it best not to tell her that, though the advantages of the marriage, from every point of view, have been outlined to her, carefully, of course. The fact is that Lord Thornwell is anxious to breed. He is a widower and had an only son who died at the age of fifteen. Who better than my nubile young sister to provide him with an heir ...’

  ‘Oh, that’s monstrous.’ Margaret looked shocked, then put a hand to her mouth. ‘I’m sorry, Guy, I didn’t wish to offend.’

  ‘You don’t offend me, my dear.’ Guy smiled at her reassuringly. ‘You have a lot to learn about our English ways. Now, how would you like to see Henry Irving at the Lyceum? I’m told his Shylock absolutely must be seen.’

  ‘Anything you like, Guy,’ Margaret said docilely. ‘Anything you wish, you know I wish too.’

  Guy looked at the clock. It was after ten and he gave a muttered imprecation and finished his breakfast. A cab would take him to his office and he would be there in twenty minutes.

  Guy hated his work. He had no interest in business, no head for it either. At Cambridge he had immersed himself in the classics; besides, he couldn’t add up. However, it was part of the bargain of the marriage contract and he would stick to it, for the time being.

  He finished his breakfast, rose, kissed his wife and went into the hall, where the newly installed butler helped him on with his coat and hat.

  ‘The cab is waiting outside for you, Sir Guy,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you, Bates.’

  Guy took his cane, tipped his hat rakishly forward on his head and ran lightly down the steps into Chesterfield Street. The cab driver removed his hat.

  ‘To the City, sir?’

  ‘Lower Thames Street,’ Guy replied, leaning forward. ‘Quick as you can.’

  Gwendoline Martyn invited to her house in Cadogan Place men and women of every description. Newly rich men of business mixed with men of ancient title and wealth. Sometimes the two were combined. Trade might not be acceptable, but business and the Stock Exchange were, and there were many who had their feet in both camps. It was no longer possible to be idle and expect to see money grow. Rich men like Lord Thornwell belonged to the old nobility and yet ran a successful business to augment the family fortunes.

  The Martyns were, quite blatantly, new money and made no secret of the fact. They had owned the house in Cadogan Place for five years and had bought it from an impoverished nobleman who had had to retreat to his Scottish estate in order to survive – a lesson to everyone, if one were needed.

  There were some people in society who would not receive, or be received by, people like the Martyns, but they were fast disappearing. New money bought, as well as property, education, manners, refinement. Gwendoline Martyn, though not an educated woman (few were, for to be educated was to court spinsterhood), was intelligent, well informed, an accomplished horsewoman and needlewoman and, now, a successful hostess. Her frequent salons were notable successes.

  Harry, fifth Baron Thornwell, was a business partner of her husband’s. He had been at Eton with Matthew Woodville and the two men had been introduced here in Cadogan Place. Edgar Martyn was even a better businessman than his younger brother Prosper, because he thought of nothing else, whereas Prosper liked to visit the theatre, to travel, to wine and dine and entertain ladies of a certain kind to intimate dinners in restaurants in Soho, Covent Garden and the Strand.

  Edgar and Gwendoline Martyn stood at the entrance to their impressive first-floor drawing room as the names of their guests were called out by the butler.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Augustus Wainwright.’

  ‘How do you do?’

  ‘How do you do?’

  ‘Sir Peter and Lady Tree.’

  ‘Lovely to see you again.’

  ‘My dear, you look so well. How was the holiday?’

  ‘Mr Prosper Martyn.’

  ‘Fancy seeing you!’ The brothers jocularly poked each other in the ribs, having been together in conference all day.

  ‘How are you, my dear?’ Prosper affectionately kissed Gwendoline, who squeezed his hand.

  ‘Lord Thornwell.’

  Formal handshake. Bows.

  ‘So good of you to come.’

  ‘Thank you for inviting me.’

  ‘Sir Henry and Lady Tarrant. Lord and Lady Fisher, Mr Michael Lowry, Sir Guy and Lady Woodville and Miss Eliza Woodville ...’

  From the end of the room Lord Thornwell turned abruptly as the name was announced and drew in his breath in admiration as his eyes fell on the tall, beautiful young woman who stood behind her brother and sister-in-law waiting to greet her aunt and uncle. She had wisely dispensed with bustle and tight corsage and was simply gowned in light yellow muslin with décolletage and short sleeves – in fact it was her bridesmaid’s dress altered for more formal evening wear. Her dark hair was caught up and fastened in ringlets at the nape of her neck, and her almost olive skin gave her a passing resemblance to a gypsy with her alluring tawny-brown eyes and straight, rather thick brows. Lord Thornwell knew that her pedigree was exceptional and she was certainly no gypsy, but from where he stood one could almost have imagined her to be Italian. There was a classical simplicity and elegance about her as she waited to kiss her aunt, who was fussing over the newly married Margaret.

  Eliza stood patiently with a pleasant half-smile on her lips, lightly tapping the fan she held in one hand against the palm of the other. But what struck him nearly as much as her beautiful features was the graceful curve of her neck, her slim shoulders above the neckline of her simp
le yellow dress. In her hair were scattered flowers that looked like primroses or cowslips, undoubtedly artificial, but cleverly woven into her coiffure to produce an effect that was at once countrified yet elegant. He found her breathtaking, absolutely breathtaking ... but, so young. She would have to be painstakingly wooed.

  Lord Thornwell stood with his back to the fireplace, a glass of champagne in his hand, and raised it to his lips in a silent toast to his prospective bride. If the wedding came off he would never forget his debt to his colleague Prosper Martyn.

  Margaret, of course, was the guest of honour. The party was ostensibly intended to introduce her to the society and business people with whom the Martyns associated.

  Gwendoline made a great fuss of the bride, bestowing only a perfunctory kiss on her niece. Eliza was thus able to take her time, standing behind her sister-in-law and surveying the elegantly gowned ladies and the gentlemen in evening dress. To her chagrin and disappointment Henrietta had had to remain behind in Chesterfield Street with a chill that she was sure she had caught in the train. But Eliza had been dragged relentlessly round the shops for stockings and undergarments, and the flowers for her hair which had to match her dress.

  Apart from her relations, Eliza didn’t know a soul in the room. She couldn’t help but be awed by the occasion, her first big social engagement in London. It was even just a little exciting to speculate about the identity of Lord Thornwell.

  Surreptitiously she looked around the room for likely candidates. In a far corner, deep in conversation, were two young men, one or other of whom she decided must be the intended suitor. One was about Guy’s age and had a look of restless energy that she found quite appealing. At that very moment the young man looked towards her, as though he were on the look-out too, and she quickly pretended to be interested in something else. But she felt a sudden sense of exhilaration: maybe the evening wouldn’t be too bad after all.