Eliza said nothing, but her rapid breathing grew slower, calmer. She opened her eyes and they were moist with tears.
‘It is the most perfect thing, being with you,’ she murmured. ‘I will never leave you, Ryder. Never.’
‘Even if your brother comes after me with a whip? Even if he has me thrown in gaol for corrupting a minor?’
‘Let’s get married,’ she said, eyes suddenly wide open. ‘Let’s get married now and nothing can ever separate us.’
‘My darling,’ he replied, ‘no one would marry us, because you are too young.’
‘We can go to Gretna Green,’ she said.
He lay on his back. It was quite impossible to believe in such passion and to know that, with her, it would happen again and again. He would never let her go either. He could never let her go.
‘Are you serious?’ he said at last. ‘It is not recognised in law. It can be undone if we get married at Gretna.’
‘Not by us. I will never return to have my brother or mother undo our marriage, even if we never see Wenham again.’
‘You wouldn’t like it as a wanderer, a vagabond, my Eliza.’ He pulled aside her shirt and gazed at her breasts. She lay exposed, lewd, legs outstretched. Her dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, and desire still glowed in her eyes.
Could such happiness last for ever?
‘We can work,’ she suggested, putting her hand over her eyes to keep out the sun.
‘What work can you do?’ His tone was gently mocking. ‘You were brought up as a lady.’
‘I can ride. I can break horses. We can be like gypsies. Ryder!’ Suddenly she turned on her stomach and leaned on her elbows. ‘You can thatch. We can travel the country with Lady and Piper. I would like to be a roving gypsy.’
‘You would not, my darling,’ he said emphatically. ‘You would hate it. But ...’ Reluctantly he sat up and dragged on his breeches. His action made her aware of her nakedness and she quickly covered herself too. ‘My Eliza, we are running out of money. I have to find work or we can’t pay the rent of the cottage. If we have nowhere to sleep and not enough to eat you will soon get tired of this wandering life. You will begin to hate me and want to go back to Mama.’
‘Never,’ she said. ‘Never.’
Ryder knew she meant it, but he was worried. Their impulsive act had weighed on his conscience ever since the night they became lovers. It had been useless to try and pretend he didn’t love her, especially when she made so clear the extent of her affection for him: that she was prepared not only to sacrifice her virtue, but her reputation, her upbringing, her position as a Woodville.
She had admitted to loving him completely, and he returned that love.
A few days later, spurred on by the knowledge that she was about to be sent to Holland and that no time must be lost, they slipped away.
They left before dawn with the minimum of belongings and taking only their two horses, Lady and Piper, with them and, skirting Wenham, made their way over to Sherborne, where they stayed in a hostelry for a week as man and wife. There Eliza sold some of her jewellery.
From Sherborne they went to Yeovil and then they looked round for a cottage to rent. They found one near the small stone-built village of Montacute, which surrounded the beautiful ancient house of that name, seat of the Phelips family, but gradually crumbling into a ruin because, like the Woodvilles in another valley thirty or so miles away to the east, the Phelipses had not husbanded their fortune carefully enough.
Ryder got occasional work on one of the farms; but it would soon be winter and Eliza might soon be pregnant. For all they both knew she was even now.
That night, over their supper of freshly baked bread and ham cured at the farm, they talked seriously about the future. Eliza was happy enough simply to be with him; she seemed unwilling, or unable, to see into the future. But she was only eighteen and inexperienced.
Ryder, on the other hand, was older and had known many women. He had behaved irresponsibly with Eliza, though by nature he was not an irresponsible man. He had fallen deeply, responsibly in love, and he wished to make Eliza aware of the consequences.
They had not set out on an easy path. He knew that if she tired of the life, she would tire of him. She might dress like a boy and behave like a boy, but she was a woman, a gently reared woman. Above all, she was a lady accustomed – however much she might rebel – to comfort, luxury, servants to do her bidding. The harsh cold nights would be too much for her; the rough life would, perhaps, make her ill.
‘If you are serious,’ he said when she had demolished all his arguments, ‘we could go to Gretna and have the blacksmith wed us over his anvil.’
‘Oh, Ryder, I am serious,’ she cried, jumping up and rushing round the table to hug him.
‘We have a bond as it is,’ Ryder said gravely, putting his arm around her waist. ‘And for me it’s for life; but for you, Eliza. You’re much younger than I am. You’re from a different station in life ...’
‘I want to hear no talk like that,’ she cried, flinging her arms round his neck. ‘We have a bond and we always will have. We know it.’
‘The way I reckon is,’ Ryder said slowly, ‘that, although it won’t make the marriage legal, it is a marriage. It might make a difference to how your mother and brother felt about you.’
‘You know that I don’t care at all how they feel about me,’ she cried, falling on to his lap.
‘Now you don’t, but later on you will.’ He put his hand up and stroked her cheek, gazing into her luminous eyes. ‘You will tire of poverty and the wandering life, my Eliza. Maybe we will have a child, and you’ll want a home for it and security ...’
‘Oh, don’t think of things like that,’ she burst out. ‘Don’t even say them. It is too late. What’s done is done.’
She was right. It was too late – far, far too late to repent of their action. Now they had to face the consequences, but with their mutual love, and her ebullience, perhaps they would win in the end.
The journey to the Scottish Borders took much longer than they expected. Autumn was approaching and the weather was wet and cold. Gallant Piper and Lady struggled along uneven, poorly made roads, but feeding them was costly and shelter hard to find. Near Appleby in Westmorland they sold Piper to a band of gypsies.
It nearly broke Ryder’s heart, but it was better to sell Piper while he could still get a good price. He was a young horse and, despite the journey, in fair condition. He knew that Eliza would never part with Lady, and for the rest of the journey he walked beside her leading the horse.
Finally at Gretna, over the blacksmith’s anvil, they became man and wife. Their new life together began.
From the window of the small cramped room at the top o£ the warehouse in Lower Thames Street Guy had a splendid view downstream past London Bridge. All day long the river traffic plied up and down, loading and unloading goods at the wharves which lined either side of the Thames.
Though he did not appreciate the view, Guy spent a lot of time looking out of the window, far more time than he did bending over his books, his ledgers, his stocktaking cards and the firm’s accounts.
Guy hated work. He hated the warehouse and the dingy room that the senior partners had allotted to him, which was a steep climb up more than a hundred stairs. He felt that it was a punishment intended to demean him, for the main offices were in Threadneedle Street, five or ten minutes’ walk away. They were attached to the Martyn-Heering Bank, were sumptuously appointed in mahogany. In the dining room an excellent lunch was served, and business was discussed over port afterwards with the many foreign bankers and men of affairs whose trade was expanding like that of the astute Heerings and Martyns.
But Guy was scarcely ever invited to lunch. Instead he ate in a chophouse along Lower Thames Street, or in one of the many winding lanes that ran like capillaries around the teeming, bustling body that was the City of London.
He knew he was on probation, carefully watched, his figures gone over in minute deta
il. Sometimes he spent hours in the wind and rain, supervising the unloading of the barges that lumbered slowly up the Thames from the ports at the estuary. Sometimes he felt he stank of spices, and he would go thankfully home at night and, after a bath and a change of clothes, go to his club until it was time to pick up his Lally from the stage door of the Alhambra.
It would soon be Christmas, and a thick fog hung over the murky reaches of the river, the hooting of the barges punctuating the eerie stillness. Although it was eleven o’clock in the morning it was almost dark, and he worked by lamplight. There was a tap on his door, and when he called ‘Come in’ Uncle Prosper put his head round, smiling cheerfully. Guy got reluctantly to his feet. He blamed Prosper for this state of drudgery to which he – a baronet of the realm –had been reduced. He knew that Willem was no admirer of his, but Prosper could have done much to make his lot an easier one.
‘Good day, Uncle,’ he said stiffly, pointing to a rickety chair by his desk. ‘Please sit down. Be careful, it’s very dusty.’
Prosper looked carefully at the seat of the chair, and before sitting down lifted the tails of the morning suit he always wore for business.
‘I see I do not find you in a very happy frame of mind, Guy.’
‘What would you expect in a place like this?’ Guy said with a shiver as he glanced towards the pale embers in the grate. ‘It is like something out of Dickens.’
‘Come, come, it’s not as bad as that!’ Prosper protested. ‘At least you have a future, a home and a title. The young men in the novels of Mr Dickens had none of these. You are serving your apprenticeship, Guy, learning the business the hard, and proper, way. Your future will be a bright one, if you work hard. You are shortly to be a father. Surely you have pleasure at least in that achievement?’
‘Of course.’ Guy’s reply was perfunctory, unenthusiastic.
‘And how is dear Margaret?’
‘Quite well, I think.’
‘Then you do not see her very often?’ His uncle looked at him shrewdly.
‘My dear Uncle,’ Guy burst out petulantly, ‘as I am made to work so hard, when do I get the chance to see my wife? Besides, these days she spends most of her time in Dorset, while I, as you know, am forced to waste my time in this pitiless hole.’
He stared round bitterly, and Prosper leaned forward, his face grave.
‘My dear Guy, I feel it is my duty to urge you to be serious about your work, and about your marriage. I have often called to see you late at night in Chesterfield Street and you have not been at home.’
‘God in heaven,’ Guy cried, looking up at the ceiling and slapping his forehead, ‘do I have to account to you for how I spend my spare time as well as my working time?’
‘Of course not, my dear boy,’ Prosper replied, leaning back and gazing at his watch suspended from a gold chain across his waistcoat. ‘I am merely commenting on the fact. People who go to bed very late do not work well. Sometimes it was well after midnight when I called.’
‘Then what were you doing up at that time, may I ask?’
Prosper tilted his chin and stared down his nose at Guy.
‘My dear boy, I consider that remark impertinent. I am forty years of age. I have served my apprenticeship. I have made a lot of money and helped to boost the fortunes of the firm. I am a senior partner. I am talking to you now as your uncle, a close relation. I hope you also regard me as a close friend, one who has your interests and those of your family at heart. Talking of the family –’ Prosper examined the tips of his well-manicured fingers – what news, if any, of Eliza?’
‘None that I know of.’
‘None at all?’
‘No.’
‘She never writes?’
‘Not to my knowledge. Not to me.’
‘Are you not concerned about her?’
‘I’m very concerned about her, but I am also disappointed. I thought Eliza above that sort of behaviour. She was, after all, born and brought up a lady, and Yetman is undoubtedly a rogue – seeking to better himself at the expense of my sister.’ Guy shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I have to tell you, Uncle Prosper, that if my sister ever came back to Wenham, I feel I could not receive her at Pelham’s Oak. That would look like condoning her behaviour. She has humiliated us, made us a laughing stock and, because of the harm she has done to my mother and our family, I could never allow her access to the family home again.’
‘I find you a strange man, Guy.’ Prosper looked perplexed.
‘And I find you a strange man, Uncle.’ Guy rose to his feet again and, crossing the room, stood gazing out of the grim, curtainless window, turning over the loose change in his trouser pocket. ‘I am a man of twenty-four, a baronet. I have been well brought up, accustomed to the highest standards. I am well educated, my father was a scholar.’ He turned and looked accusingly at his uncle. ‘Yet he was an invalid and our financial affairs declined. For this reason I am penalised and, I must tell you frankly, I resent it. As you yourself observed, I am a married man, and my wife is shortly expecting a child. I find it humiliating that I am not only spied on in my personal life, but am reduced to the circumstances of an impoverished clerk in order to learn the business. A business, incidentally, in which I have absolutely no interest.’
‘That is quite obvious,’ his uncle said, shaking his head. ‘What are we to do with you, Guy?’
‘What do you mean, “we”?’ Guy turned slowly to face him.
‘My fellow partners and I. We can see you have no interest in the business, no head for figures. In many ways all the hours you spend here are a futile waste of time.’
‘Good! Then may I go?’ Guy said, snapping shut the ledgers which lay piled on top of one another on his desk.
‘And do what?’
‘What I am accustomed to do, what my father did ... be a gentleman.’
‘And keep a mistress?’ his uncle interjected quietly. ‘Is that what the money is going on?’
Guy sat down abruptly. Then he drew a case out of his pocket and, lighting a cigarette, blew a stream of smoke arrogantly into the air and crossed his legs.
‘My wife is scarcely a beauty. Even you will admit that.’
‘Still, she is a good woman, a clever woman.’
‘I do what I can by her. I have fathered a child.’
‘Isn’t it a little early in your marriage to take a mistress, Guy?’ Prosper leaned forward, the expression on his face not unfriendly.
‘How did you find out?’
‘I happened to be passing the stage door of the Alhambra and saw you coming out with a remarkably pretty girl on your arm.’
‘And what was your business in passing the Alhambra, may I ask?’
‘Very similar,’ Prosper replied with a smile. ‘I was in the vicinity of Leicester Square. But I can afford my pleasures. Look, Guy’ – he got to his feet and, in his turn, took his place by the window, gazing down into the murky waters of the Thames – ‘I am here to help you. I am your uncle and I love you. As you know, I have always regarded you and Eliza as my own children. That is why your apparent indifference to Eliza distresses me. For all we know she might be dead.’
‘I’m sure we would have heard if she were.’
‘What I can’t understand is your attitude towards your sister.’ A frown crossed Prosper’s face. ‘She only did what you are doing; she fell in love. She with a farmer, a thatcher, you with a dancer.’
‘It’s quite different and you know it,’ Guy replied tetchily. ‘A man is permitted a lover. A woman, especially one as gently reared as Eliza, is not.’
‘Well, I want to find Eliza.’ Prosper wandered from the window and resumed his seat. ‘I thought by now she would have written. As for you, young man –’ he gazed solemnly at him ‘– I am keeping a very careful eye on you. We will not continue to employ you if you do not work harder. I doubt if even a wife as besotted as Margaret will continue to worship an indifferent husband who does not work, and yet keeps a mistress solely upon her fortune
.’
‘You would never tell her, Uncle!’ Guy gasped. ‘You would never dare.’
‘I would dare, but it would distress her too much. However, I have no intention of blackmailing you. I will continue to treat you as one man of honour treats another.’ Prosper rose and clapped an avuncular hand on his nephew’s shoulder. ‘You must show more mettle, Guy, more spirit, or, believe me, you will lose not only your wife but your mistress as well.’ He removed his hand and straightened up. ‘No woman wants a man without a fortune – unless perhaps it is your sister Eliza – and in her spirit, her disregard for wealth and position, her defiance of convention, I find much to admire.’
Margaret Woodville lay on the chaise-longue in the drawing room, her back supported by a pillow, doing her tapestry.
Unlike most of the women of her time, she did not enjoy sewing. She had been carefully trained in the domestic arts, to perform each task correctly – sewing, cooking, embroidery, dressmaking –but she did not enjoy them. What she preferred were organisational skills – managing a house and seeing to the accounts, ensuring that everything worked and ran well, allotting servants their tasks and generally taking charge; but the minutiae of domestic life bored her. She had rather large, clumsy hands and was not deft enough to be a good needlewoman.
However, while awaiting the birth of her baby, there was little else to do on a cold February morning, with her mother-in-law absent and Guy, inevitably, in London.
There was a tap on the door of her sitting room, and her maid entered with a tray on which there was a cup of hot chocolate. She also dropped some letters on the table by Margaret’s side, retaining one in her hand. Margaret glanced at it curiously.
‘What is that, Ethel?’
‘It is a letter for her ladyship,’ Ethel said, tucking it under her arm as she carefully arranged the chocolate with a pot of thick cream beside it. The odour was enticing; but Margaret was intrigued by something about the letter and peremptorily held out her hand.
‘Let me see it, Ethel.’
‘It is for her ladyship, ma’am.’
The People of This Parish (Part One of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 16