‘I know that, but show it to me.’
Reluctantly Ethel passed her the envelope with its large girlish handwriting which Margaret had immediately recognised.
‘It is from Miss Woodville!’ Margaret cried excitedly.
‘Yes, madam.’ Ethel reached for the letter but Margaret held on to it.
‘How very exciting. Her ladyship will be pleased. I’ll give it to her and we will read it together.’
Ethel gazed at her feet, and her cheeks slowly went crimson.
‘Why, Ethel, what is it?’ Margaret looked curiously at her as, placing the letter firmly in front of her, she spooned into the chocolate a plentiful supply of cream and mixed it well into the red-brown liquid.
‘Oh, delicious,’ she murmured, tasting it. ‘Now, my good woman, you have something on your mind. What is it?’ As she again put her cup to her lips she looked at Ethel over the rim.
‘Well ...’ Ethel caught up her starched white apron and began to knead it anxiously in her hands. ‘I don’t think her ladyship will be very pleased with me, madam.’
‘Nonsense. She will be delighted to get a letter from her daughter. The family is frantic with worry.’
‘I don’t think so, madam,’ Ethel insisted, still crimson, drawing up the apron almost as far as her waist, so that Margaret, ever house-proud, cried sharply:
‘Be careful of your apron, girl! It will be unfit to wear this afternoon. Economy in all things, you know.’
Ethel knew. The whole staff knew only too well what great store the new mistress set by economy, forever counting the pieces of silver, the linen, the knives and forks, to make sure that nothing was missing.
It caused a certain amount of resentment, but in other things the younger Lady Woodville was very fair. The staff were clothed, fed and paid well; their wages were among the best in the district. If they had to live under suspicion of stealing it was a small price to pay. They put it down to the fact that her ladyship was foreign.
Ethel attempted to straighten her crumpled apron by smoothing it with her hands.
‘Sorry, m’lady,’ she mumbled. ‘May I go now?’
‘Not until you explain what you mean by saying why you think that my mother-in-law would not be delighted with this letter from her daughter.’
‘Because she has had a number of others, ma’am.’ Ethel’s voice was almost a whisper.
‘Oh, surely not, girl! She would have told us.’
‘She has had them regular, ma’am. Lady Henrietta never opens them, but keeps them in a cupboard.’
‘What nonsense!’ Margaret finished her chocolate and delicately wiped her lips on the linen napkin that had been provided with it.
‘No, ma’am, ‘tis true. She has had half a dozen letters from Miss Eliza and has opened none of them. I know because when I was sorting through her ladyship’s underclothes one day I saw them all there, unopened, ma’am.’
‘I must see this for myself.’ Margaret kicked back the stool and made a valiant effort to stand. She felt so huge and cumbersome that she nearly toppled over, and Ethel put out a hand to steady her.
‘Careful, ma’am,’ she said respectfully.
‘Take me to her ladyship’s room and show me the cupboard. At once,’ Margaret commanded.
‘I dare not, ma’am.’
‘I insist.’
‘But I like it here, ma’am.’ Ethel, who was one of thirteen children from a poor home in Cornwall, was on the verge of tears. ‘I’ve always done me duty proper and behaved well.’
‘Indeed you have, Ethel. Your position is not at all in danger, I can assure you of that.’
‘But if her ladyship knew I’d sneaked ...’
‘She will not know. I will say that I intercepted the letter and then see what her ladyship makes of this. I promise your secret will never be revealed.’ Margaret gave Ethel a gentle push. ‘Now, show me the cache, my girl, or else you may well find yourself without employment in this house.’
Henrietta, Lady Woodville, leaned back against the cushions as her carriage carried her home from a visit to Bournemouth. One hand held firmly on to the strap as the horses jogged along at a fair pace to be back before dark, while the other restlessly tapped against the rug that covered her knees.
The visit to Bournemouth this time had been ostensibly to see her aunt, her dead mother’s sister, who was in her eightieth year.
In fact she hadn’t been anywhere near Aunt Nora, but had spent the whole time doing what she always did these days on her many forays to Bournemouth: seeking a property to live in so that she could move away from Pelham’s Oak and the company of her overpowering, demanding daughter-in-law.
More than anything else she was irked by the secrecy necessary to the success of her enterprise. For she had no money – her dowry having been spent by her husband even sooner than Guy had wasted his. Prosper knew of her desire to leave Pelham’s Oak, but did not approve of it. To him, stern man of business, it was an unnecessary extravagance, and he declined to help her find the money. She could probably have raised it by selling her jewels, but this she did not wish to do. One had to hang on to one’s jewels as security against one’s old age.
Oh, if only Guy had been like the Martyns, with their gift for making money; for turning, it seemed at times, stones themselves into gold. No, he was a Woodville through and through; thriftless, a spender.
Thus, for the moment, her search was for a property that would be suitable for her station, and the only way she could do that was by finding something to rent. So far a property grand and yet inexpensive enough had not been found. Unlike her daughter, she had no intention of ending up in a cottage.
Even the thought of Eliza made Henrietta shudder. She also felt guilty. The letters put, unopened, into her linen cupboard bore the postmark Keswick. She could only guess at what Eliza was doing there, for open them she would not, could not. In the act of taking the paperknife to the first missive, delivered well before Christmas, her hand froze; since then there had been several more.
Perhaps Eliza was in need, in distress. No matter. Henrietta did not wish to know. Eliza had become a fallen woman, an outcast, someone of whom her mother was deeply ashamed.
She was glad when the welcoming lights of the house on the hill came into view. Once again her quest had been fruitless, and she was cold and tired. Someone had had the temerity to offer her a tiny house on the sea front. As though Lady Woodville could even consider such a hovel! Sometimes the humiliation was as hard to bear as the desertion of her daughter and the overbearing presence of her daughter-in-law.
Ted had driven the carriage, because the regular coachman was ill. As he brought the carriage and pair round to the front of the house, alighted from his seat, put down the steps and opened the door for her ladyship, he took off his hat and bowed.
‘Thank you, Ted,’ Henrietta said, fastening the astrakhan collar of her coat tightly around her neck and preparing to run to the shelter of the porch out of the cold east wind.
‘Is there any news of Miss Eliza, my lady ...’ Ted began, looking at her diffidently but, at the very mention of the name, Henrietta fled without even the courtesy of a reply.
Solemnly Ted drove the carriage round to the stables. As he unharnessed the horses and began to rub them down, he thought of Miss Eliza and Lady, and wondered, as he often did, what had become of them.
The footman Arthur was already helping Henrietta out of her coat when Margaret, with the slow, cumbersome walk of the heavily pregnant, came into the hall. Henrietta looked up but scarcely bothered to smile.
‘Did you have a good visit, Lady Woodville?’ Margaret enquired politely. The time had not yet arrived, nor did it seem that it ever would, for Margaret to address her mother-in-law by a more informal or endearing title.
‘Thank you.’ Henrietta acknowledged her with a frozen smile.
‘And how was your aunt?’
‘Very well. Arthur, would you see that tea is served in my room?’ Henrietta asked
the footman, rubbing her hands together. ‘I am perished with cold.’
‘I have asked for tea to be served in the drawing room,’ Margaret said pleasantly. ‘I thought we could take it together. There is a large fire and I have, in addition, some very good news for you.’
‘Oh?’ Henrietta’s face brightened. ‘And what may that be?
Come and see,’ Margaret said with a beckoning finger and a smile and, turning, she led the way.
Henrietta followed her daughter-in-law into the drawing room and, hurrying up to the fire, held her hands out to its welcoming heat.
‘Lord, I was perished in that carriage,’ she said. ‘I shall be thankful for my warm bed tonight. Now, what is the good news you have for me?’ Still with her back to the room, her hands extended to the fire, she turned and gazed at Margaret, who had resumed her seat on the hard chaise-longue at one side of the fireplace.
At that moment Arthur and one of the maids entered with the tea tray, which was put on a table drawn up to the fire.
Very correctly, decorously and slowly, Arthur poured from the silver pot into the cups of Sèvres porcelain (needless to say, part of Margaret’s dowry), while the maid added milk and handed the cups to the two Lady Woodvilles. Margaret then said they would help themselves, and dismissed them.
Henrietta rose from her place by the fire and turned her back so as discreetly to warm her behind.
‘The surprise?’ she asked again, this time rather impatiently, and Margaret produced a letter from her pocket which she held up in front of her.
‘A letter. A letter from your daughter! I wanted to give it to you myself. Is that not thrilling, Lady Woodville? Please do open it quickly.’
She was smiling eagerly as she held out the letter. Henrietta snatched it from her and thrust it into her bosom.
‘Oh dear.’ Margaret feigned surprise. ‘Do you still have no wish to know the whereabouts of Eliza, and her circumstances?’
‘Of course I don’t,’ snapped Henrietta. ‘She is no daughter of mine, and where she is or what has happened to her I care not.’
Margaret rose with difficulty from the chaise-longue and walked slowly over to Henrietta, her hand outstretched.
‘Then may I have the letter, Lady Woodville, and your permission to open it? I have a strong regard for my sister-in-law, whatever her misdeeds, and I would like to know that all was well with her.’
‘The letter is addressed to me,’ Henrietta replied obstinately.
‘Yes, but you will not open it ... nor the others that you have tucked away in your bedroom somewhere.’ Suddenly Margaret’s expression changed from one of cool calculation to outrage. ‘Do you realise that poor girl might be ill, or in need? Six or seven letters you have had, I understand, and the contents of not one of them communicated to the family.’
‘None of them have been opened.’ Henrietta stared at her defiantly.
‘Precisely.’ Margaret’s mouth snapped shut and she held out her hand again. ‘The letter please.’
‘No. Not this, nor any of the others. They are addressed to me and are my property.’
‘Then I shall summon Guy from London and demand that, as the head of the family, he procures them. I am very concerned about Eliza and her well-being.’
‘Then you should have done something to stop her leaving.’
‘There was nothing I could do,’ Margaret retorted. ‘Indeed, at the time I shared the disapproval of the rest of the family. But, as time has gone by, I should think we have all had the chance to reconsider, to feel a little less harshly about her. I for one wish her no harm, and I would dearly love to know whether she is well, or if she needs help. After all, she is still very young.’
For answer Henrietta moved away from the fire and made as if to leave the room. Despite her clumsiness Margaret managed to run ahead of her and, standing in front of the double doors to the drawing room, barred her way.
‘No. Not until I have the letter, or you will read me its contents,’ she said.
‘I refuse. Please let me pass. As soon as I’m out of here I shall tear up that letter and all the others. I would also very much like to know the source of your information, so that I can dismiss the servant concerned from my service.’
‘From my service. All the servants here, including your maid ...’
‘Ah!’ Henrietta cried. ‘It was she.’
‘I did not say it was,’ Margaret replied. ‘But even if it were, you have no right to dismiss her. I pay her wages.’
‘My son’s money pays her wages.’
‘It is my money, Lady Woodville,’ Margaret pointed out coldly. ‘Mine, or rather my father’s. Do not think he does not know in what condition the Woodville finances were, or that he will go on pouring money into an impoverished, nay, bankrupt household. I would rather live here in penury than have my father continue to pour money like an endless stream into this family ...’
‘Ha! I would very much like to see that!’ Henrietta exclaimed, tossing her head. She sank on a chair as though she were out of breath, one arm flung casually over the back.
‘My dear Margaret, you may as well know that the Woodvilles soak up money like a sponge. Matthew did, and Guy is no different from his father. With Matthew it was a ceaseless round of spa resorts, consultations with doctors, quacks of all description. With Guy, I imagine, it’s gambling or some such. The Woodville men have no concern about money and will spend all they get. In time you too will be reduced, as I have been, to an unenviable state. Why,’ she said, throwing up her arms, ‘do you not think I would love to leave this detestable house, where I have felt myself scarcely tolerated ever since you stepped through the doors? Of course I would; but I can’t. I have nowhere else to go.’
‘But you can leave any time you like, Lady Woodville.’ Margaret’s tone was icily polite.
‘Oh, but I can’t. I have no money to buy somewhere that is suitable to my station.’
Slowly Margaret sat down again, her hand pressing on her belly. Her breath seemed to be coming in short bursts, and there was a look of distress on her face.
‘Is your mind made up, Lady Woodville? Do you really not desire to live here any more?’
‘Yes, I do not desire to live here any more.’
‘Then I think the feeling is mutual.’ Margaret gave a long drawn-out sigh, but she still seemed to be in pain. ‘I am quite willing to lodge enough funds, or have my father lodge them for you, to buy a residence which, while not opulent, will enable you to live in the fashion and comfort to which you are accustomed. There is one proviso, however.’
‘Yes?’ Henrietta said, in sudden elation; aware that her heart was beating wildly. Margaret held out her hand.
‘Give me the letter and the others you have concealed. When they are in my possession I will complete my part of the bargain. Now’ – she pressed her hand to her stomach, her face once again contorted in pain. ‘Now, would you be very kind and send Ted for the local physician? I think I may have gone into labour before my time.’
At four the following morning, assisted by the local doctor and a midwife – as her own accoucheur from Holland was not due until the end of the week – Margaret Woodville gave birth to a healthy son who weighed over eight pounds. As he was ushered into the world he gave a lusty cry. In the eyes of his parents, he seemed to have the sensible looks of the Heerings rather than the dashing looks of the Woodvilles, though of course it was rather too early to tell. He was to be named George.
Meanwhile in her bedroom nearby, his grandmother sat looking with satisfaction at the grate and the ashes of all the letters from her daughter, which she had burned, one by one, still unread.
8
Titus Frith was a rough, bluff man who, like Willem Heering, had an only daughter whom he adored. His was, at only seventeen years of age, of quite exceptional beauty, and he could deny her nothing. She was never allowed to go anywhere without a chaperone. Even from the house she was spied on in case one of the farm hands was tempted to be
familiar with her. Farmer Frith was terrified that his precious daughter would fall for the wrong man; but there was little chance of any man so much as touching her, because her father scarcely let her out of his sight.
Titus Frith knew nothing of the history of the couple to whom he had rented a cottage by the shores of Lake Ennerdale, Mr and Mrs Yetman, or he might have taken even more care of his daughter than he did already, were that possible. He did not know that the beautiful, pregnant Mrs Yetman had been disowned by her family for running off with a man they considered unsuitable.
To him Ryder Yetman was an honest man he employed to do odd jobs around the farm. He could turn his hand to anything, and in the few months since the Yetmans had occupied the humble dwelling, the pair had become indispensable. Farmer Frith’s meanness, and the bleakness of life on the farm, didn’t worry them. Indeed, they seemed to thrive on their isolation, a fact which the farmer and his dyspeptic, equally disagreeable wife found curious.
The Yetmans were a self-contained couple, disinclined to socialise even in the tiny Lakeland community in which they found themselves. They had arrived there by chance on the back of Lady as the winter was settling in, looking for accommodation for themselves, and grazing and shelter for the horse.
They were almost in rags when they arrived, and the flanks of the horse were thin. But they wanted work not charity, and Farmer Frith, who found it hard to get workers because of his reputation, or keep them because of his harshness, eagerly offered it to them: a cottage and five shillings a week, part of it to be paid back as rent. In addition –a big inducement, this – there was one full hot meal a day.
The Yetmans did not feel they were in a position to bargain. The north of England was not an easy place in which to find work. Their money was almost gone and they were hungry. Both were desperately afraid of the effect this might have on the baby Eliza was expecting in the spring.
They had been intending to go south to a warmer climate when they heard of Hunter’s Hill farm and the chance of work.
Unlike her thrifty sister-in-law, Eliza had never been taught how to manage a house; she knew nothing about cooking, cleaning or laundry work, but she learned quickly. The farmer’s wife, Bessie, would tolerate no sloppiness. She was quick to chide and reprimand, and desperation made Eliza a good pupil. She knew how fortunate they were to have secured shelter, warmth and a reasonable pittance to see them through the winter.
The People of This Parish (Part One of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 17