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

by Nicola Thorne

  It was Annie, apparently – no one could be quite sure – who passed on the information that Christopher Yetman was on the point of making Miss Fairchild the happiest of women.

  However, the rumour that went round the town about Christopher’s intentions towards Miss Fairchild might quite properly be laid at Annie’s door because she told it to Mr Hibbert the butcher, who passed it on to his son Alfred, who told his girl friend Gertrude, who told her sister Mary, who worked at the greengrocer’s. From there it circulated rapidly: to the baker’s, the saddler’s, the ironmonger’s, round the market, until finally, inevitably, it reached the ears of Lily, Miss Fairchild’s maid. Unable to contain her glee, she dropped a curtsy when she brought Miss Fairchild’s breakfast one morning, and started blushing.

  ‘Whatever is the matter, Lily?’ Miss Fairchild enquired as she opened her letters, gazing censoriously at the girl above her pince-nez.

  ‘Nothing’s the matter, Miss,’ Lily said, still giggling and blushing.

  ‘Something is the matter, Lily.’ Miss Fairchild removed her spectacles and sat back. ‘You are behaving like an idiot. Please tell me what is the matter.’

  ‘Don’t like to say, Miss.’ Lily put a hand to her mouth.

  ‘Does it concern me?’ Miss Fairchild fixed her eyes sternly on the girl, who started spluttering.

  ‘Ever so pleased for you, Miss,’ she said at last.

  ‘Pleased? What about? What on earth’s the matter? Oh!’ Miss Fairchild’s eyes suddenly lit up with pleasure. ‘Have I won the church raffle?’

  Lily thought this very amusing and guffawed afresh until Miss Fairchild once again grew angry.

  ‘Lily, please tell me what this nonsense is all about.’

  ‘They say you are to be wed, Miss.’ Lily dropped her hands and gazed at the floor. ‘Ever so pleased for you, Miss.

  ‘Wed?’ Miss Fairchild gasped. ‘To whom?

  ‘Why, to him, Miss,’ Lily said meaningfully.

  ‘Do you mean Mr Yetman?’

  Lily nodded. ‘They say he went to see the Rector about the banns – or was going to see, perhaps. I baint quite sure, Miss.’ She looked at her lamely.

  ‘Oh, can it be true...’ Miss Fairchild rose quickly from the table, breakfast and morning post abandoned completely, and then, forgetting herself, she threw her arms round the serving girl and embraced her. ‘Can it possibly be true? Where did you hear this? How long ago?’

  Lily looked puzzled.

  ‘The whole town knows about it, Miss, but I believe Mr Yetman mentioned it first to Annie McQueen at the Baker’s Arms.’

  ‘He mentioned it to her? He actually said he was going to see the Rector?’ Miss Fairchild was by now quite beside herself.

  ‘I believe so, Miss ...’ In the face of such enthusiasm Lily felt a spasm of doubt. ‘Best check yourself, Miss – but that’s what I think he did say.’

  Trembling with excitement, after all there was no smoke without a fire, Miss Fairchild managed to assume a semblance of decorum long enough to finish reading the morning letters, which still contained items from solicitors about her parents’ will. But continue with her breakfast she could not, and when Lily removed it she raised her eyes at the amount of toast that was left, the butter untouched, the top still on the pot of marmalade. Her mistress was in love indeed.

  Miss Fairchild hastened to her room where, humming under her breath Beethoven’s ‘Ode to Joy’ she discarded the prim grey blouse and skirt she had been going to wear in favour of a pretty floral print, a dress that swept to graceful folds round her ankles and was rucked at the neck and wrists, rather like an afternoon tea gown. She selected a hat which left most of her hair exposed, because Christopher had often admired what he called her ‘crown’. Once he had even touched it.

  She put her watch, and a gold necklace her mother had given her, round her neck, and then she twirled several times in front of the mirror in order to inspect her appearance carefully for what could be her day of days.

  Her cheeks were pink, her eyes shone. She knew that the love she felt in her heart for Christopher had transformed her. It had made her beautiful.

  Miss Fairchild then skipped down the garden path and walked quickly along the road that led past Miss Monk’s house, past the Rectory (she glanced in at the window in case the Rector or Mrs Lamb might be there to confirm the good news, but there was no sign of them). She walked past the church, imagining it on the day the doors would be open and she and Christopher would emerge arm in arm ... This very day, she told herself, she would have her solicitors draw up a document making him an equal partner with her in the business on their marriage.

  She turned left past the church, and hurried up a row of ancient thatched cottages where she imagined the people behind the windows all saw her pass and shared her joy. She knew them all, she could name almost everyone in every cottage or house in Wenham.

  She came to the High Street, and the butcher waved at her from behind the carcase he was carving; the greengrocer, arranging a pile of apples on the stall outside his shop, gave her a grin, and the baker looked through his window above his loaves of bread and stacks of scones, buns and cakes and smiled brightly at her.

  They knew. They all knew.

  Outside the Baker’s Arms Annie McQueen was washing the pavement with a mop that she kept dipping into the bucket beside her. Miss Fairchild paused as Annie, seeing her, leaned on her mop for a moment, a knowing smile on her lips.

  But Annie was a woman with a reputation, even if she did have a jealous husband and two children, and Miss Fairchild kept carefully to her side of the road, hurrying on until she came to her shop and, putting the key in the lock, flung open the door.

  Then she went quickly to the windows and let up the blinds. The sunlight flooded in over the display of goods in the window, the polished floor, across the counter, with all its boxes and jars, and up to the bales of material on the shelves, enhancing their brightness.

  She went into the back room, removed her hat, put on a white apron and began to dust, still humming the ‘Ode to Joy’. She had already counted the takings from the till the previous evening and put them, about fifty pounds, in a bag in the tea caddy. Removing the bag, she placed it on the table until she had time to go to the bank. Maybe then she would pop into the solicitor’s and see about the arrangement she had in mind for Christopher.

  Oh, when would he be here? All morning she looked up eagerly every time the bell rang as the door opened, but each time her hopes were dashed. Sales, however large or small, no longer interested her. Some of the customers wanted to linger and chat – oh yes, they knew, they all knew – but she was much too agitated. Besides, she was cautious by nature; who wouldn’t be in her situation?

  Feeling a little disappointed, she was about to close for the lunch hour when the door opened once more, and there he stood – a large bunch of flowers in his hand, his face wreathed in smiles.

  ‘Christopher!’ she cried, running from behind the counter. ‘I was just closing shop ...’

  ‘I hoped I’d catch you in time,’ he said, thrusting the flowers at her. ‘Unfortunately I have to go up to London this afternoon, and didn’t want to miss you.’

  ‘Oh, Christopher ...’ Now her tone betrayed profound disappointment. She couldn’t conceal it. She took the flowers, but let them hang apathetically by her side.

  ‘But what is it, my dear?’ He looked concerned.

  ‘Oh, I did so hope ... How long will you be away?’ She looked so crestfallen he thought she was going to cry.

  Christopher sighed and frowned. Upon closer inspection she thought he looked haggard, and a little drawn around the eyes as though he had not slept.

  ‘Are you unwell, Christopher?’ she asked anxiously. And then she went over to the door and locked it before returning to the counter, which she opened so that they could go as usual into the back room.

  ‘Is something wrong, Christopher?’ She stopped to gaze at him. ‘You really don’t look well.’
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  ‘My dear, I’m as right as rain,’ he said, but he was all too clearly making an effort to smile. ‘I have to go away on business I don’t quite know when I’ll be back.’

  ‘Christopher,’ Miss Fairchild said breathlessly, having scarcely given herself a moment to think. ‘There is something I wished to say to you. Please sit down.’ Rather reluctantly he sat opposite her as she continued: ‘My dear, if it’s money you’re worried about, please don’t. I have enough for both of us. I don’t need it, and if you do ...’

  ‘Oh, Victoria, you dear little thing.’ Looking genuinely moved, Christopher rose and stood gazing down at her. ‘If only I could ...’

  ‘Then do, Christopher, do.’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ he said, backing away. ‘You’re too generous, much too generous. You’re too good. You’re an angel.’ His voice faltered, but even as he spoke he saw the bag of money in front of him waiting to be taken to the bank.

  ‘Victoria,’ he murmured, glancing behind him, ‘should you not draw the front blinds? You know what the gossip is in this town.’

  ‘Oh, I know what it is,’ she said, laughing delightedly. ‘I’ll do that at once, Christopher. Then perhaps we could have a cup of tea?’

  She hurried into the shop and drew the blinds, but when she returned Christopher stood at the door of the store room, barring her way, his hat in his hand.

  ‘I must go now, my dear,’ he said urgently. ‘I haven’t time for tea. John is taking me into Blandford to catch the London train. I said I’d only be a few moments. But I did want to take my leave of you.’

  ‘Oh, you make it sound so final,’ she said, a note of anxiety entering her voice. ‘There’s nothing wrong, is there?

  ‘Nothing at all, my dear,’ he said, bending his face to hers. ‘Nothing to worry your pretty head about.’

  Then very gently, and for the first and perhaps last time, he kissed her.

  Miss Bishop sat with her arms locked tightly round the weeping woman, feeling for all the world as though she were dealing with one of her small charges rather than someone only a few years younger than herself. Indeed, she had just returned from school when Victoria Fairchild came bursting into her sitting room without even giving her maid time to announce her, and flung herself on her in a torrent of weeping.

  She had elicited the story bit by bit, as if dragging the truth from a truant schoolgirl.

  ‘It’s not the m-m-oney,’ Miss Fairchild sobbed. ‘I was going to g-give him mine , much, much more. It’s the way he did it, behind my back.’

  ‘And you’re sure there was no one else there, no other way it could have been taken?’

  ‘No other way,’ Miss Fairchild insisted. ‘The back and front doors were locked, and the money was on the table in the leather bag I always take it to the bank in. I cash up the day before, but the bank is closed in the evening. I nearly always go to the bank the following lunch time, and I can’t help thinking ... that C-Christopher ...’ Here words once again failed her, and she leaned her head against Miss Bishop’s corseted bosom clad in shining black bombazine which was already moist with tears.

  ‘He knew this, of course, and came to see you before he left.’ Miss Bishop sniffed with disapproval, though her arm tightened round the shoulders of the stricken woman.

  ‘We never went into the back room again, or I should have seen that the money was gone. He came to the door and swept me out, and we walked down the High Street almost as far as the Yetman house.’ Miss Fairchild paused at the thought of that kiss, but she did not mention it for fear of shocking her friend. Quickly she went on: ‘I was hoping that he would ... speak, you know, declare himself. But he said nothing. I thought he looked sad, and now I realise there was a note of finality in his voice. But I never guessed why. Oh, Agatha, how shall I ever live this down? What will people say?’

  ‘The people of this town will be very sorry for you, my dear. They will take you to their collective bosom,’ Agatha Bishop said gently. ‘They all knew what Christopher Yetman was like. I knew what he was like.’ Miss Bishop prised Victoria from her very gently and looked into her eyes. ‘He is a never-do-well. He always has been. There were very few people who thought that his courtship of you was genuine ...’

  ‘Because I am too old and disfigured,’ Miss Fairchild said, but even as she did she fingered the scar on her lip and recalled once again the soft touch of those other lips that had kissed it.

  ‘No! Not because of that. But you are a woman with money and he had none. His family disapproved of him.’

  ‘Then why did they keep on having him back?’

  ‘Because John Yetman is a good man and he loved him. Catherine knew better, but Christopher was John’s flesh and blood.’

  Agnes Yetman stood hesitantly outside her father’s door and then tapped on it with a diffidence unusual in her.

  It was the time of her father’s afternoon nap, and she had in her hand a cup of tea. She tapped again, and then stealthily opened the door. Her father was lying on his bed fully dressed, fast asleep. She stood for a few moments looking down at him. Always a vigorous and industrious man, busy in civic affairs, he had suddenly seemed to grow much older in a very short time after the death of his wife. He had resigned from the bench and the Parish Council; even his interest in his business had waned. He had never realised, and nor had Agnes, how much he depended on the woman who had been his companion for over thirty years.

  John Yetman stirred as Agnes set the cup quietly by his side.

  He opened his eyes, rubbed them and smiled. ‘Ah, Agnes. What time is it, my dear?’

  ‘It’s four o’clock, Father.’

  John Yetman sat up, still rubbing his eyes. Then he reached out towards the steaming beverage and put the cup to his lips. Agnes noticed that his hand was shaking, and yet he was not an old man.

  ‘Thank you, my dear,’ he said, carefully replacing the cup. ‘Excellent.’ He put his hands behind his head and stared up at the ceiling, his blue eyes wide open, their expression troubled.

  Agnes sat on the chair next to his bed and gazed at him. ‘Did you sleep well, Father?’ she asked.

  ‘As well as I could with the crimes of that blackguard of a brother of mine in my mind.’

  Uncle Christopher had left under a cloud – and what a cloud – much, much bigger than any of the ones he had left under before.

  ‘You mustn’t blame yourself, Father,’ she said prosaically. ‘You didn’t know he would steal Miss Fairchild’s money. Or that he was a bigamist,’ she added as an afterthought, as if this were the lesser of the two evils.

  ‘Fifty pounds! That was all there was in the bag, Miss Bishop told me. I would have given him that, to be rid of him. As it was I gave him money because I told him he must never come here again after he had so deceived us. Poor, poor Victoria Fairchild. I cannot bring myself to go and see her, but I must.’ John reached out and took his daughter’s hand. ‘My dear Agnes, my consolation. What would I do without the support of my children?’

  ‘Father,’ Agnes said, leaning forward with an air of urgency.

  ‘Yes, dear? What is it? You look worried.’

  ‘I am worried, Father.’ Agnes pressed her hands together in her lap. ‘I’m very worried about the presence of Eliza in this house.’

  ‘But she is your brother’s wife,’ John said in surprise.

  ‘She is not Ryder’s wife, as you well know, Father,’ Agnes replied severely. ‘I cannot think why you persist in deceiving yourself. They were married at Gretna Green, which no one regards as a legal marriage. Ryder could be locked up for what he has done if Sir Guy Woodville had a mind to it. But that is not why I am talking to you.’ She was avoiding his eyes, but her voice all the time was becoming more emotional. ‘I object to sharing a house with a woman who is notorious in this town. I scarcely dare show myself in the street.’

  ‘Come, come, Agnes,’ her father said, getting to his feet, ‘that is a very serious thing to say.’

  ‘Ne
vertheless it is true.’

  ‘But where is your Christian charity, my dear? Eliza is a sick woman. Would you put her out in the street?’

  ‘I’m not saying what I would or would not do, Father, except that I wish she were not here. I am sorry about what has happened, but she brought it on herself. It is God’s punishment for her sin. Mrs Lamb says it is no more than she deserves.’

  ‘Oh!’ John leaned back on the bed again and crossed his arms. ‘So that’s it. You’ve been talking to the Rector’s wife.’

  ‘She talked to me, Father. She left me a note asking me to go and see her, and I did so this morning. She didn’t need to tell me what people thought about us, in the town. Oh, I have suffered, Father. I have. I am mortally ashamed to be in any way associated with Eliza.’

  ‘I’m surprised to hear you talking like this, Agnes,’ John said sadly. ‘I thought you had more charity.’

  ‘Charity is not enough,’ Agnes replied. ‘Uncle Christopher made off with all Miss Fairchild’s money, and look how much charity you gave him.’

  ‘Not all her money by any means, only a part of it,’ John protested feebly. ‘I intend to make full restitution, but I cannot mend her broken heart. Ryder’s beside himself with indignation too at your uncle’s behaviour.’

  ‘He’s a fine one to talk,’ Agnes snorted. ‘As if you haven’t enough to cope with without him bringing his whore here ...’

  ‘Don’t you dare refer to your sister-in-law by that name.’

  John’s voice was thunderous.

  ‘She is not my sister-in-law.’

  ‘They did what they could by going all the way to Gretna. If the Woodvilles would only give permission for the marriage, it could be made legal. But they won’t, so they condemn them to live in sin.’

  ‘They don’t wish her to marry someone so far beneath them. The Woodvilles! You know how high and mighty they always were, despite a pressing shortage of money.’