‘Agnes!’ Her father looked at her in surprise. ‘You seem to have become very bitter. I don’t understand you. You could, for instance, ask your friend the Rector’s wife to have a word with Lady Henrietta Woodville. If the couple were wed in church the town would soon forget its disapproval, and we would all be happier.’
‘If I do it, may I go to London, Father?’
‘What do you mean, “may you go to London”?’
‘If I help, if I speak to the Rector’s wife, may I go and live with Aunt Emma?’
‘Are you serious, girl? You wish to leave Wenham?’
‘Yes I do, Father. I don’t think I will ever find a suitable husband here.’
‘Ah, that’s it,’ he said, wagging a finger at her.
‘I don’t wish to remain a spinster all my life looking after you, much as I love you, Father. If Eliza and Ryder regularise their position, maybe Eliza will stay here and help look after you while Ryder sees to the business.’
‘So that’s your plan. You have it all worked out, have you?’
‘It’s only a suggestion, Father,’ Agnes said with a slight, simpering smile on her face; but already her heart felt lighter. She could smell victory.
Miss Fairchild sat very stiffly in her chair and did not rise when John Yetman was shown in. He stood before her like a suppliant, feeling very awkward indeed, not knowing where to begin.
‘Do take a seat, Mr Yetman’ Miss Fairchild said coldly, pointing to a chair.
‘Miss Fairchild, Victoria ... We have known each other for a good many years. I think you know how I feel in my heart and why I am here ...’
He saw her chin quiver, but she gave no other sign. Perhaps she found it difficult to speak, for she merely indicated the chair again without saying anything.
John Yetman drew an envelope from his inner pocket and placed it on a small table by the side of her chair.
‘I come to make restitution, Victoria,’ he said in a humble voice.
‘If it’s money you can take it away.’ She continued to look straight in front of her. ‘I have sufficient. If he had wanted it I would have given it, I would have given him... anything,’ she burst out and, her shoulders shaking, put her head between her hands.
Swiftly John crossed the room and leaned towards her.
‘He was a bad lot, Victoria. We all knew it, but we were helpless.’
‘You mean he meant to steal from me all along?’ She gave him a stricken look between her fingers.
‘Not only that ...’ John turned away and took the seat she had offered him, avoiding her eyes. ‘Victoria, he was married. We did not know it, you did not know it. There is even a suggestion that he was a bigamist. He preyed on woman for their money. He was traced as far as Blandford by – I believe, though he did not say so – a gentleman who was a police officer. I was able to persuade him to return to London by telling him I had no idea where my brother was.’ John paused and looked at the ground. ‘Maybe I did wrong; but I loved Christopher, as I think you did, Victoria. I didn’t want him to go to prison. I think he has enough on his own conscience, but I had to tell him I knew because I felt he was pursuing you for your money and I did not want him to end up committing bigamy a second time!’
Victoria was still crying quietly, as if unable to take it all in, but John felt unable to help her, so deep was his own grief.
‘I am sure he loved you,’ he went on gently. ‘He always spoke fondly of you. But my brother was an unscrupulous man who did not know right from wrong. I’m sure of that. He is his own worst enemy. If he had confided in me I would have helped him. But we had no idea – no idea at all.’ John shook his head. Then, rising a little reluctantly, he went over to her again.
‘Believe me, I know how you are suffering, Victoria, and I shall take the blame for my brother’s deeds and carry them on my back for ever. I wish you had been my sister-in-law, because there is no nicer person in all Wenham. Now, my dear, will you regard me and my family as the relations you might have had, and always let us know when you need help, when you are lonely, or just when you want company?’
He leaned down to take her hands, and suddenly she pressed his tightly to her chest and, through her tears, nodded her head quite violently two or three times.
The following day the Rector of Wenham received an anonymous donation of fifty pounds, to be distributed among the poor of the parish.
10
Mrs Lamb considered it the duty of the Rector’s wife always to concern herself with other people’s business, and she had been one of the first to hear, through the servants, that Eliza and Ryder had returned to Wenham to live with John Yetman, newly widowed.
As news spread like wildfire in the small town, it didn’t take long for people to ferret out the fact that the couple’s alleged marriage was not in fact recognised by the law. And if the law didn’t recognise it, God, represented by the Reverend Austin Lamb, certainly would not.
Although she pretended not to listen to servants’ gossip, Mrs Lamb was well aware of what was being said. The prospect of having such immoral people for near-neighbours weighed heavily on the mind of the Rector’s wife, for her husband had assured her that the die was already cast and their souls were destined for hell.
The Woodvilles regularly attended divine service in the parish church named after the Apostle Mark, but scarcely ever all together. It was known that the new Lady Woodville, despite presenting her husband with an heir, did not see eye to eye with her mother-in-law. When Sir Guy was in London one lady or the other attended church, but not both. When Sir Guy was at home the whole family attended, including, of course, both ladies. For little George’s christening there was a full complement of relations from England and Holland, but both Lady Woodvilles kept far apart.
Like Margaret, Mrs Lamb had married late, and she and the Rector had one daughter, Sophie, who was now six. Mrs Lamb was in her mid forties. She and the dowager Lady Woodville were acquaintances rather than friends, despite having lived in the same community for most of their married lives. Henrietta considered the Rector too evangelical, in the tradition of the Wesleys. She preferred the vague and pious type of clergyman favoured by the Church of England for country livings, who did not dwell too much on the wrath of God or punishment to be endured in the hereafter.
When Mrs Lamb felt it was time to speak – and that time came quite soon after Eliza’s return thanks to the power of gossip – she drove over in her carriage to call on the fallen one’s mother in the hope that she could be induced to put an end to such a shocking state of affairs.
It so happened that the senior Lady Woodville was on one of her frequent absences in Bournemouth. After she broke the bargain with her daughter-in-law and destroyed Eliza’s letters, Margaret had not only declined to provide her with a separate establishment, but hardly spoke to her. In the large mansion the women led separate lives, one scarcely ever knowing the whereabouts of the other.
Mrs Lamb was disconcerted to find that the elder Lady Woodville was not at home, but gratified when the current mistress of the house agreed to receive her. Margaret was a member of the Dutch Reformed Church, and the tenets of the Church of England, especially as exemplified by the Reverend Lamb, did not appeal to her, though the Calvinist tradition of her church had much in common with the hellfire beliefs expounded by the Rector.
Margaret had been writing letters at her desk in the drawing room when the Rector’s wife was announced by Arthur. She went to the door to receive the unexpected guest, holding out a hand in greeting.
‘How very nice to see you, Mrs Lamb.’
‘It is good of you to receive me, Lady Woodville. It was your mother-in-law who was the object of my visit.’
‘She will be sorry to have missed you. Won’t you stay and have a cup of tea?’
Mrs Lamb appeared undecided. The subject of her call was a delicate one, and the new Lady Woodville was, in addition, a Dutchwoman. Could she be expected to grasp the nuances of the customs of her adopted l
and? Would she even understand about such matters? Yet she seemed a sensible, down-to-earth woman.
Finally Mrs Lamb made up her mind.
‘Well, that would be very nice, Lady Woodville. Thank you.’
Margaret asked her to sit down and rang for tea. The two women sat in the window embrasure commenting on the view, which was, indeed, very fine. In the distance they could see the square tower of St Mark’s Church, Wenham, and, in between, the cottage from which Ryder and Eliza had eloped. For some reason this seemed to hold both their attentions, and they were both aware of it. Then the tea arrived, Arthur bearing the tray, as usual, accompanied by a maid in starched white apron, white cap and streamers, who bobbed self-consciously when she saw the Rector’s lady staring sternly at her as if asking herself when she’d last seen her in church. Margaret, sensing that her visitor was here on an important matter, said that she would pour, upon which the servants withdrew.
Mrs Lamb sat ramrod straight, her buxom figure encased in whalebone, tightly laced. Despite her girth, she was a handsome woman, with strong features.
‘Milk, Mrs Lamb?’
‘Thank you.’ Mrs Lamb nodded her head. The town was a little mystified by this foreigner, who was not young, not beautiful, and yet had captured the affections of a young, handsome man with an ancient name. Everyone, of course, knew why, just as, in a very short time, everyone knew that the knot between Ryder and Eliza had been tied, not by a priest in front of an altar, but by the blacksmith across the anvil at Gretna Green. There was always a source, of course, but the seeds of gossip at times seemed borne aloft by the wind.
‘Was there a specific purpose to your visit to my mother-in-law, or is it rude of me to ask?’ Margaret handed Mrs Lamb her cup with a smile and then offered her a plate of small, freshly baked angel cakes.
‘Of course it’s not rude of you to ask, Lady Woodville,’ Mrs Lamb said. ‘You are quite entitled to ask. In fact, you may be able to help. It concerns your sister-in-law.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Margaret sighed and added sugar to the tea in her cup.
‘Have you seen her since she came back?’
‘Alas, I have not. I fear she may be too afraid. My husband remains fond of her – they were always very close – but her conduct was quite shocking, and he cannot bring himself to go and see her, for fear that it will offend their mother. I am hoping that in time all this will change.’
‘Of course.’ Mrs Lamb nodded. ‘We all hope that.’
‘I am, however, very fond of Eliza,’ Margaret continued. ‘But for me to do anything at the moment is difficult.’
‘You know, presumably, that she is living openly with a man to whom she is not married?’
‘I believe there was a form of ceremony ...’
‘Not recognised by God or the law.’ Mrs Lamb warmed to her theme. ‘It is in fact a scandalous situation and one that is causing grave concern. Mr Yetman’s daughter Agnes is quite distraught with shame and worry.’ Suddenly Margaret knew where the seed of this particular piece of gossip had come from. ‘The people of this parish,’ Mrs Lamb went on, ‘quite rightly expect its members to conform to the decencies of society. For an unwed woman and man to live openly together ...’
‘Then what do you want me to do?’ Margaret sighed and took a cake. From somewhere upstairs she could hear the sound of her baby crying, but she knew that one of the nursemaids would rush instantly to his side.
‘I wonder if you, dear Lady Woodville, could bring yourself to go and see your sister-in-law and prevail upon her, upon him, at least to be married in the sight of God –though, alas, I’m afraid the stigma will never leave them.’
‘But first of all my mother-in-law and husband have to give their consent. Eliza is still under age, not yet twenty.’
‘Of course they will consent!’
Margaret shook her head.
‘I think not. In their eyes she is no longer a Woodville.’
‘But they would give permission for a proper marriage and stop the scandal?’
Margaret shook her head again.
‘I doubt it.’ She got up and, walking to the window, crossed her arms. ‘I am a Dutchwoman, as you know, Mrs Lamb. We are supposed to be a stern race, but perhaps we are a little more tolerant of the failings of others. I would like to see Eliza happy and properly married.’ She turned to face the Rector’s wife. ‘However, I would offend my husband if I went to see her. I would incur his disapproval. Would you wish to displease your husband?’
To her surprise Mrs Lamb did not immediately agree with her, but appeared to consider the matter.
‘That would depend,’ she said at last. ‘Of course, he need not know. I believe Sir Guy spends much of his time in London ... and Lady Woodville is frequently away ...’
‘You mean I should go and see Eliza ...’
‘And then prevail upon your mother-in-law,’ Mrs Lamb said with a gentle motion of her head, ‘to do the right thing.’
She had returned to her beloved Wenham, yet in many ways Eliza still felt like an exile. Sickness and weariness had brought them home, yet the townspeople shunned her. Ryder, who quickly entered his father’s employment, was finding social attitudes easier; but then he was a man.
Society was much more tolerant towards the misdeeds of men than women.
Despite the generosity of her father-in-law Eliza longed for the little cottage where she and Ryder had first known of their love for each other, but that was now occupied by someone else.
Eliza had also hoped for her sister-in-law’s affection, but she did not get it. The unconventional Agnes, who spurned the local men, had turned very conventional in her attitude to her brother. Maybe she was jealous, or maybe she had an ulterior motive, using the anomalous situation to get her own way.
Nothing fell faster than an idol, and the image of the aristocratic, beautiful Miss Woodville – although she had always been considered a little eccentric with her habit of riding a horse dressed as a man – now lay smashed on the ground.
Eliza, however, went about her duties with dignity, smiling when someone smiled, which was hardly ever, and speaking when addressed. Usually it was merely ‘Good day’. The shopkeepers took her money across the counter, but increasingly she sent a maid to do the shopping.
One day Eliza was standing in the garden of the Yetman house, watching the antics of her father-in-law’s two dogs on the lawn, when she saw a carriage stop at the gate, and a woman descend and begin briskly to walk up the drive.
Margaret.
‘Oh, Eliza,’ Margaret exclaimed joyfully and took her in her arms.
An hour later Margaret sat quietly, a hand over that of her weeping sister-in-law. Her face was strangely composed though the tale Eliza had told was a chilling one. The weeping had begun with the account of the burial of the dead baby, and even Margaret, who had little imagination, could visualise the horror of that night with the wind whistling through the snow-covered valley and the new-born lambs bleating with cold.
Margaret’s Calvinist upbringing told her that Eliza was getting no less than she deserved. God rewarded the righteous and punished wrongdoing, and from the very beginning Eliza and Ryder had been guilty of sin. Yet Margaret was also capable of compassion and pity, and these emotions now came to the fore for this girl-woman still in her teens.
‘It is all over now,’ she said gently. ‘It is over. You can make a new life.’
‘Mother will never forgive me,’ Eliza murmured, shaking her head. ‘No one speaks to me in the town. Ryder doesn’t care what people think, but I have to shop around here. I am ignored or sniggered at from across the street.’
Margaret told her about the visit of Mrs Lamb.
‘Mrs Lamb came to see Mama?’ Eliza said in horror, drying her eyes.
‘Your mother was not there. When I heard what she wanted I decided to come instead, because I wanted to see you, Eliza.’ She put a hand tenderly on the young woman’s cheek. ‘I am very fond of you, you know, and what has happened has
not lessened my affection, though I must confess I was shocked. I think it is more Ryder Yetman’s fault than yours. You are only a girl, more sinned against than sinning. Are you quite certain he is the man you wish to spend the rest of your life with, dearest Eliza? Is a person capable of behaving like that the right man for you?’
‘Oh yes,’ Eliza breathed. ‘He is a marvellous man. He has such courage.’
‘And yet he seduced you.’
‘But I would never leave him. I ran away. I seduced him. We thought then that a form of marriage was better than none. We intended to return here straight away, but the weather worsened. I knew then that I was expecting a child. There was nothing we could do. Oh no, I cannot live without Ryder. He is a good man and I love him.’
‘Well, that’s it then,’ Margaret said briskly. ‘We shall have to see what we can do. I will have to try and prevail upon your brother and mother to give the marriage their blessing.’
‘Mama will never do it.’ Sadly Eliza shook her head. ‘I sent her six letters from Ennerdale, asking her forgiveness. She never answered a single one.’
Margaret sat for some time gazing ahead of her. She wore a pretty dress of blue organdie with a draped skirt and bustle, and a large cameo brooch at her throat. Her hat was made of the same material and set at an attractive angle on her Titian hair. She looked stylish, even handsome. She was one of those women who, never having been beautiful, would age well.
‘Eliza,’ she said at last, ‘there is something I feel I must tell you. It will make you unhappy, but I feel you ought to know.’
And she told her about the unopened letters and about her bargain with Henrietta and what happened on the night George was born. After she had finished, Eliza was silent for a long time, and the tears, never far from the surface, welled up in her eyes again.
‘Mama never opened my letters. Why?’
‘I’m afraid she has rejected you as a daughter. I fail to understand it, because I know she loved you. Of course I considered she had broken our bargain, and relations between us are very bad; but I will try and reopen negotiations with her. There.’ She patted Eliza’s hand once more, smiled and got up. ‘I have a plan that might succeed.’
The People of This Parish (Part One of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 22