‘As well as can be expected, sir.’
‘Then she is ill?’ Guy, by now thoroughly alarmed and anxious, turned angrily on his uncle. ‘And you have been hiding it from us.’
‘It’s not as you think,’ Prosper began. ‘Your mother is not exactly unwell, but she is upset. However, I wanted us all to be together before I broke the news.’
‘What is it? What is it, for God’s sake? You will make Margaret most unwell if you keep us in suspense like this.’
‘Well, I suppose I’d better get it over with,’ Prosper said. ‘Maybe I should have told you before. The very mention of it sends your mother into hysterics. But you both looked so unwell on the quay, I wanted to give you time to recover.’ He put a hand on Guy’s arm and looked into his eyes. ‘It’s Eliza. I’m afraid she’s run off with that rogue Ryder Yetman. They have completely disappeared.’
Henrietta lay as she had for the past three days since the news was brought to her, partly on her bed and partly off it. She refused to undress and go to bed properly and be comfortable, or yet to be dressed and sit upright in a chair.
She was suffering from what was popularly known as ‘the vapours’ – outbursts of hysterical weeping punctuated by real, or simulated, fits of swooning. Her condition had given rise to some anxiety, and the doctor called twice each day.
As Guy approached her, she began to weep again, flinging her hand across her face as though to shield her eyes from the sight of him.
‘Mama, Mama,’ he cried, kneeling beside her and trying to put his arm round her. ‘You must not take on so or you will make yourself very ill.’
‘I am ill,’ Henrietta moaned. ‘In fact I think I am near death. How could my daughter do this to me, to us, to the family? How can I show my face in London, never mind Wenham, again? What will people say?’
Prosper stood anxiously behind Guy, gnawing at a fingernail. Margaret, greatly shaken by the news, had gone to her room to rest.
‘I’ll have that scoundrel hunted through England,’ Guy said. ‘I’ll have him publicly whipped. I’ll have him thrown into prison. I’ll ...’
‘If you are wise you will do none of those things,’ Prosper said trenchantly. ‘You had best put your sister right out of your mind, as though she had never existed. She’s nothing but a strumpet, a harlot.’
‘Oh, oh, oh!’ Henrietta wailed. ‘My daughter, my beautiful daughter ... How could she do this to her mama?’ She glared balefully at her son. ‘We are disgraced in the eyes of the world, of society. Do you realise that, Guy? Every time anyone sees us in public they will snigger, if not openly then behind their hands. We will never, never get over the shame that Eliza has brought upon us.’
However, the sight of her son seemed to act as a restorative to the distraught mother, who slowly realised what a ridiculous spectacle she was making of herself. Three days of grief were enough anyway. Now that she had the support of her son, his wife and her brother, she felt stronger. It was time to take stock.
She asked them to summon her maid and then to leave her. She would join them downstairs presently.
By dinner time both female members of the family were sufficiently recovered to come downstairs and join the menfolk. The meal, the first solid food Henrietta had eaten for several days, became an occasion for an account of what had happened as well as a council of war.
Eliza had been missing one morning a few days previously. Ted first gave the alarm before dawn that her horse was not in the stable. Her maid found her bed had not been slept in, and some personal items were missing. Henrietta immediately fainted and the family physician was sent for. He also gave some sound practical advice and the police were alerted. Ted scoured the vicinity for signs that there had been an accident, Lady riderless, for example; but there was nothing. There was also the fact of the missing personal items, which included some pieces of jewellery, underclothing, a dress or two, a valise.
Shortly after noon the suspense had been relieved by a letter from Eliza. This, in a voice trembling with indignation, Prosper now read to the group gathered at table, after the servants had withdrawn. ‘ “Dearest Mother,”’ (the letter ran), ‘“Because I know how anxious you will be about me I make haste to let you know that I am well. However, I have also to tell you that I have left home and gone away with Mr Ryder Yetman.
‘“He and I have met on many occasions in the last few months and came to realise that we were completely and utterly devoted to each other, and neither of us wished to have anybody else. We also realised that, because of our differing stations in life, our love was doomed. I would be sent to Holland and might never see him again.
‘“I know how much grief and pain this will cause you and my family, but I cannot live without Mr Yetman. I am sure that if you knew him as I know him for the splendid and upright man he is”’ –here Henrietta gave a fresh shriek and stuffed her handkerchief in her mouth – ‘“you would grow to like him,”’ Prosper continued, frowning at her.
‘“Please forgive me for causing you pain, Mother, but you always did say I was not like other girls. However, I have no wish to be a man. I know now that I am a woman like other women, and I am in love.
‘“Ryder and I have gone away for a time to be out of the district, but I shall write to you again in a while telling you of our plans. For the time being our address must remain secret ...”’
‘“Our address,”’ Henrietta wailed. ‘They are living together in sin. Eliza doesn’t even attempt to hide it.’
‘Hush, Henrietta.’ Prosper looked at her severely. ‘Please let me finish.’ He cleared his throat and continued: “I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me, Mother, and that shortly we shall meet again.”’
‘Never!’ Henrietta shook her head vigorously. ‘Never.’
“Your devoted daughter,”’ Prosper concluded, ‘“Eliza.”’ As he pronounced the name, he looked round the table and saw that the eyes of his companions were fixed on him, as if drawn by magnetic force.
‘Well, that’s at.’ Prosper let the letter flutter on to the table. ‘Couldn’t be clearer.’
Guy, who had appeared dazed by the news, suddenly leaned forward and laid his head on the table. Anxiously Margaret rose and went to him.
She put a comforting hand on his head. ‘I can see this has been a terrible shock to you.’
‘Terrible, terrible,’ Guy said. ‘How could she do at? We have always been so close. How could she do this and not confide in me when she knows the pain it must cause?’
No one knew the answer. Slowly Guy recovered his composure; his expression changed from despair to wrath and he banged his fist on the table.
‘It’s the fault of that man who has seduced her. He is the one to blame, not my sister ... my little sister.’ His voice faltered. ‘That brute of a man has taken her away. If he dares show his face here again I’ll have him flung into gaol. I’ll see that he rots there for ever.’ Suddenly he locked his arms around his body and put his head on the table again, as though in an agony of pain.
‘Oh, Eliza, Eliza, how could you do this? How could you inflict such a terrible, terrible wrong on a family who loved you?’
The town of Blandford stood on the River Stour at the edge of the Blackmore Vale. In 1731 it had been partly destroyed by a dreadful fire and had been rebuilt in the Georgian style. In the course of its relatively uneventful history the name ‘Forum’ had been added to it, perhaps because of the importance in the town of the central marketplace, dominated by the Town Hall and its imposing church, whose distinctive baroque cupola was a landmark for miles around.
Salisbury Street, ran out of Market Place, the main thoroughfare, up a hill and out of the town. On it stood the large and important premises of Yetman Bros (Est. 1821), the name blazoned in gold paint edged with green on the imposing front window.
Thomas Yetman had acquired the premises towards the end of his life. They had remained the headquarters of his business, though there were smaller branch offices in othe
r towns in the area.
John Yetman had worked here since he was first apprenticed to his father as a boy of fourteen. A young, beardless lad, he had started in accounts then progressed to orders and building specifications, gradually learning the practical side of the business and becoming in time a master builder.
He now sat at the desk that his father had occupied and which he had inherited on his death. It was the desk belonging to the head of the firm and of the family, and he hoped this was how it would continue to be for generations to come. He had hoped, above all, that it would suit his eldest son, Ryder; but Ryder had gone away with only the briefest of calls to inform them that he was going. He told them he would write and give them his address. He would tell them then what his plans were and when he intended to return. He had kissed his mother long and hard and gazed into her face.
His father still hoped that the deep love he had for his mother would make him return soon. Since Ryder’s departure John had been depressed and uneasy; uncertain about the future, concerned about his children Agnes and Ryder. Above all, he was worried about the health of his wife. The doctors now seemed to think that there was more wrong with her than the normal women’s problems they had dismissed as being part of her time of life.
The Yetman office was on the first floor of the building, over the main room where Herbert worked, along with a youth and two young women who attended to the clerical and secretarial side of the business.
Although Herbert was a partner and indispensable, he liked to keep at the heart of things, to see what was going on, though he had a right to his own office and would have been given one had he asked.
He frequently saw his superior in the course of a day’s work, and as his head now appeared on the other side of the frosted glass door, he didn’t knock but came straight in, a sheaf of plans in his hand.
‘I have the latest report on the new development in Dorchester, sir, and our architect there says that the proposal will be very favourably received by the Council as providing necessary homes for the poor.
‘Very good, very good.’ John waved the plans away as soon as Herbert tried to put them in front of him. ‘I leave all that kind of thing to you, my boy. I know I can trust you, and you are good at it.’
‘But, sir ...’
‘I said I trusted you, Herbert.’ John looked at him, his expression a mixture of irritation and fondness. ‘Oh, Herbert, if only you were my son. If you were to succeed me, I would be a happy man.
‘I’m sorry, sir.’ Herbert moved back a step or two. ‘I’m sure Ryder will soon be back. It’s the distress of losing Miss Brough.One can understand how hurt his feelings were.’
‘I hope you’re right, Herbert.’ John screwed up his eyes and gazed out of the window towards an identical set of buildings on the other side of the street. ‘Sometimes I think I don’t understand my son. With his mother not well you’d think he’d want to be near her.’
‘But does he know how unwell Mrs Yetman is? I always understood him to be a kind and thoughtful man.’
‘Well, she is not seriously ill. Not ill enough to detain Ryder, to be quite honest. Some days she is better than others. I dare say my real grief is that he’s left me. No, if my boy wished to go away for a time I could not blackmail him with unnecessary worries about his mother’s health to keep him here.’ John shook himself and leaned forward to examine a set of figures before him on his desk. He had already added them up a dozen times that day. ‘Now, where was I?’
‘Sir,’ Herbert tried again.
‘I said see to details of that kind yourself ...’
‘It was not about that, sir, that I wished to talk to you.’ Herbert cleared his throat loudly, and John Yetman looked up.
‘You wish to talk to me about something else? I hope to God it’s not to say you’re leaving?’
‘Oh no, sir, no. On the contrary ...’ Herbert cleared his throat again, and his employer observed a deep flush slowly suffusing his face.
‘Go on then, Herbert. It sounds serious.’
‘It is, sir, and I hope you don’t think me presumptuous. If you do, sir ...’
‘Go on, man, get it out. What is it? You’re a partner. Do you wish to be head of the company?’
‘No, sir, I wish to marry your daughter. I think you know how fond I am of her, Mr Yetman.’
Slowly John spun round in his swivel chair.
‘I’m sorry, sir. I see you’re shocked.’ Herbert began to stammer. ‘But I ...’
‘Not shocked, my dear boy – but surprised, yes. I’m surprised you didn’t ask me before. I would like nothing better than for my daughter to be married to a man of your calibre. However –’ slowly he shook his head ‘– how she will respond I cannot say. I know she likes you, but she has never confessed to any deeper emotion... but then, there is no reason why she should tell us, her parents, or wear her heart on her sleeve, is there? Maybe this is the very thing she’s been waiting for.’
John Yetman rose from his chair with surprising agility for one bowed down by so many woes, and grabbed his employee by the shoulders.
‘My dear, dear, Herbert. I feel a new lease of life. Let us hope Agnes consents. Nothing would give me greater joy, and I’m sure to Mrs Yetman too, than to welcome you as a member of this family. Indeed, as my son-in-law I should regard you as my son and would feel very happy that, whatever happened with Ryder, the business was safe and secure in your capable hands. Blessings on you, my boy, blessings. You can be sure of my support and encouragement.’
John was about to embrace Herbert again when there was a respectful knock on the door, and one of the junior clerks from downstairs put her head round it.
‘Mr Martyn to see you, sir,’ she said, passing him a card. ‘Says to apologise for arriving unannounced, but it’s most urgent.’
John Yetman gazed at the card, and immediately his face lit up with renewed pleasure.
‘Well, this is a happy day,’ he cried. ‘First I am to acquire a son-an-law I like and respect ...’
‘You hope, sir,’ Herbert murmured, but John appeared not to hear him as he walked swiftly over to the door, throwing it open just as Prosper appeared at the top of the stairs. ‘And here is my friend Mr Martyn.’ John flung out an arm in welcome. ‘Welcome, sir, welcome. It is very good to see you.’
If John was surprised by the frosty smile of greeting, he gave no sign of it – perhaps, indeed, he did not notice it – but drew up a chair for his guest as he prattled on.
‘We have not met sir, I think, since your nephew’s wedding? Then I believe you were thinking of purchasing land in this area. Is that what you have come to see me about? May I dare hope that we are to be entrusted with the building of your country home?’ John beamed and, as Prosper was about to speak, drew the bashful Herbert forward.
‘May I introduce to you Herbert Lock, Mr Martyn? He is not only my right-hand man in business but today he has asked for the hand of my daughter, Agnes, in marriage. I cannot tell you how happy that makes me.’
‘Indeed!’ Prosper’s demeanour was one of a man who had come on a grave mission, yet John Yetman still appeared not to notice it. Moreover, his guest remained standing, twirling the brim of his top hat in his hand. ‘I wish you much happiness, Mr Lock,’ he said politely.
‘Thank you, sir,’ Herbert stammered and began to back towards the door. ‘But the lady in question has yet to agree.’
‘Oh, she will, she will.’ John affably patted him on the shoulder. ‘If she has sense, she will.’ Then he thrust a bundle of papers into Herbert’s hand and directed him towards the door. ‘Now back to your plans, young man. Mr Martyn and I have work to discuss.’
‘Indeed!’ Prosper coughed, and as John, still all smiles, seated himself behind his desk, his guest tentatively took the seat that had been offered him.
‘Now, sir, how may I assist you?’
‘I see you do not know why I am here,’ Prosper said gravely.
‘No, but I can guess.’ John Yetma
n rubbed his hands together. ‘More business, eh? What a happy day this is for me. You have no idea how fond I am of young Herbert, how much I wished to have him for a son-in-law. He has a first-rate mind, but he is a diffident lad ...’
‘Mr Yetman,’ Prosper said in a voice firm and loud enough to drown the torrent o£ speech from the other side of the desk, ‘your son has eloped with my niece. I take it you do not know this, or I doubt you would be so pleased to see me.’
John Yetman’s mind still seemed to dwell on the happiness of his daughter, but at Prosper’s words he blinked rapidly and the smile left his face.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘They have eloped, gone away. Her mother is a nervous wreck, the whole family is distraught.’
‘But it cannot be.’ Slowly John rose from his desk, keeping one hand on it, however, as though for support. If you mean my son Ryder, as you must, he has only recently ended his engagement to another lady.’
‘Then he is quite a fellow, is he not?’ Prosper observed dryly. ‘I too heard he was engaged to be married, and found it hard to believe what I learned.’
‘It cannot be,’ John murmured again, as Prosper thrust the letter Eliza had written to her mother into his hands.
‘Read this, Mr Yetman.’
John fumbled for his reading spectacles and then slowly sank back into his chair. His hands, holding the letter, were now shaking.
Prosper, stern and upright, a hand on the head of his cane, watched him attentively.
After a while John let the letter flutter on to his desk and rested his chin on his hand.
‘I cannot believe at,’ he said flatly.
‘You knew he had gone away?’
‘I knew that. He said it was to get over Maude. She broke the engagement and he didn’t wish to be the laughing stock of the whole town.’
‘Where has he gone? Do you know?’
John shook his head. ‘He said he would write when he was settled. I cannot think, Mr Martyn, that when my son took his leave of me and his mother and sister this was in his mind ...’
‘Of course it was in his mind!’ Prosper leaned over and angrily banged the desk. ‘Don’t be a fool, man. He has been planning it for weeks, months maybe.’
The People of This Parish (Part One of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 14