When he got the report from his solicitors, he reflected that he had already known the answer for some time. His brother-in-law, as well as everything else, was an adulterer. It did not surprise him. The investigations were now proceeding into ‘Mrs Bowyer’. Every little fact was being dredged up because the Dutch were a thorough people, though, rather like the Reverend Lamb, they would not be among those to cast the first stone.
But when as much as was known was revealed at a secret board meeting held in Threadneedle Street, with only the senior partners present, Prosper Martyn was able to supply the additional information that Lally was a former music-hall artiste, a dancer. He had only seen her once, years before, but he had not forgotten her face.
It was curious that no one found out about the baby, who had been spirited away to a small house in Kentish Town to the care of Abby’s sister, already the mother of five and in need of extra cash.
The decision was taken to tell Margaret about Guy’s liaison; after all, she had surely guessed enough already. The facts should be laid clearly before her and she should be permitted to make the decision. Did she want to live with an adulterer, or did she want a divorce? Did she somehow wish to punish her husband and his mistress, or was she the type to forgive?
Julius pondered the question as he made his way to Dorset at the beginning of 1887. It was not the sort of mission he liked to be entrusted with, but it was decided that he was the only one to do it.
Brother and sister were near to each other in age and had always been close. Julius had been against her marrying Guy, even at the risk of her remaining a spinster. He was a careful man who did not wish to see Margaret’s wealth melt away, as he knew it would. But his father and he had devised a scheme to ensure that Guy didn’t get it all. Now, with the advent of the new Married Woman’s Property Act, Margaret was more in command of her own fortune.
He didn’t think she would be too surprised by what he had to tell her. But she was. She lost her breath and seemed unable to speak.
Julius, who had left the announcement until they were seated by the fire after dinner, got up and tried to make her comfortable on the sofa, putting a cushion under her head and unbuttoning the top of her dress.
Then he knelt by her side and stroked her brow anxiously.
‘Shall I call the doctor?’
‘Fetch the laudanum,’ she gasped. ‘There is some in the drawer of my bedside table.’
Seriously alarmed, Julius ran through the silent house, up the stairs and down again when he had found what he was sent for. Back in the drawing room he put a few drops in her handkerchief and held it under her nose.
‘Margaret, my dear. Had I known ...’
She took a few rapid breaths, blinked her eyes several times and then, opening them, gave a great sigh and her breathing became more regular.
‘An attack of palpitations,’ she said, clutching her chest.
‘I was much too blunt, too abrupt ... But did you never suspect? I thought I was merely confirming something you guessed already.’
‘Never!’ she said, fluttering her handkerchief in front of her face.
‘But what did you think Guy did with his time, his money?’
‘Never with a woman! I never thought, you see ...’ Her face crumpled, and her expression, usually so self-confident, strong, and sometimes even arrogant, looked like that of a lost child.
‘He is always very attentive to me when he is with me. You understand what I mean?’ She coloured slightly as he nodded. She then laid her hand on her stomach and, looking at the ceiling, closed her eyes. ‘I am once more expecting a child. How could I suppose ...’
‘Oh, my dear. I am so very sorry.’ Julius got up and stared into the fire. Had he known the circumstances, he thought, he probably would not have told her. But it was too late.
‘Guy must get rid of that woman,’ Margaret said with sudden, unexpected firmness in her voice. ‘And you must dismiss him from the business.’ She sat up as if she were her old resolute, decisive self again.
‘Are you serious, Margaret?’
‘You know he is useless at it. Tell him to come and live back here where he belongs, and you can be very sure that I will keep an eye on him. Very, very sure.’
‘You could divorce him, return to Holland.’
‘And be an object of pity?’ She gave her brother a withering look. ‘No, thank you. I would rather live here as Lady Woodville than admit I couldn’t keep my husband. I would rather live in enmity with Guy than suffer the humiliation of returning to my father’s house. But I do not intend to live in enmity with Guy.’ She rose and looked at her reflection in the beautiful gilt Empire mirror over the marble mantelpiece. ‘I will be a good wife. I am a good mother. We shall enjoy the delights of country life together: hunting, visiting, entertaining. I think Guy is getting off very lightly ...’
‘Oh, very lightly,’ Julius said with heavy irony. ‘How fortunate he is to have you as a wife.’ He leaned towards the fire and, taking a spill, lit a cigar.
‘Fortunate indeed. He may realise that. Guy has a duty to me and our children. Had he spent his money, my money, on anything else I don’t think I should have minded so much. As a matter of fact,’ Margaret turned her back to the fire and gazed at her brother, ‘I thought he was a gambler – I didn’t approve, of course – but a womaniser ... never!’ She crumpled her handkerchief in her hand and her expression was spiteful. ‘Let him pay for it.’
‘He might not agree.’
‘What do you think he would do?’ Margaret’s tone was contemptuous. ‘Live in sin with her? Never. She’s penniless, don’t forget. Guy likes his comfort. He does not like work and never has. He was not brought up to it. I intend to make it very agreeable for him to live here. He will have everything he wants, all the comforts, but he will have to account to me for every penny he spends, and every move he makes.’
‘I don’t think you will keep him very long,’ Julius said quietly.
‘You don’t know Guy,’ Margaret replied with a confident air. ‘Not in the way that I do.’
Guy said: ‘My dear, that is absolutely splendid news,’ and blew his wife a kiss.
‘I’m so glad you’re pleased, Guy.’
‘Of course I’m pleased.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘To be the father of a large family is admirable.’
‘Then we may have more?’ Margaret lowered her eyes modestly.
‘Most certainly.’ He looked across the dinner table at his wife. ‘Don’t you wish it?’
‘I do not wish to kill myself, like poor Sofia.’
‘My dear, she never had a living child. You are very good at it.’
Guy seemed very satisfied with himself, and after dinner he took her arm as they strolled along the hall to the drawing room, where a large fire leapt up the chimney.
‘I’m thinking of retiring from the business.’ Guy’s voice was low, his manner offhand as he began to light his cigar.
‘Really?’ Margaret pretended to be surprised as she took her seat by the fire. ‘Is that wise?’
‘I think so. It is not something I enjoy, you know.’
‘Oh, I know that,’ she said with a smile.
‘As it was your brother Julius who suggested it,’ he looked at her sideways, ‘I thought you might already know.’
‘I knew he was to spend more time in London.’
‘He is going to live in London permanently. He is already looking for a house. In fact,’ Guy tipped the ash of his cigar into the fire, ‘one might almost think you’d planned it, Margaret.’
His pleasant smile had gone and the expression on his face was enigmatic.
‘That’s most unlikely.’ She began to feel uncomfortable.
‘But you do know about my friend ...’ It was almost as though he were accusing her.
‘Your friend!’ Margaret leaned her head back. ‘That’s a nice thing to call her. I’d like to know her name.’
‘I wonder you don’t – you know everything el
se. You, your brother and my uncles have conspired against me. Well, if you think it makes me feel foolish, it doesn’t.’
‘I never meant it to do that, Guy,’ she said quietly. ‘I merely wished to remind you that you are married to me and we are a family. We have two children and are to be the parents of another.’ She held up a hand, but he didn’t take it, remaining cold and aloof. ‘And besides, how can I countenance your continuing to see another woman?’
‘I was tired of her anyway, to tell you the truth,’ he said in a voice that was suddenly weary, seating himself opposite her and thrusting out his legs. ‘I’m glad that the deception is over and that everything is out in the open, I truly am. She – I shan’t tell you her name, it’s unimportant now – was a pretty little thing I picked up, and she had become a burden to me. The business, as you know, I have never been suited to. Now, if your father and brother want to pay me to stay at home, I shall. Gladly.’
He reached over and gave her his hand.
Tentatively, Margaret grasped it. Now that she had him, she wasn’t quite sure it was what she wanted after all. She had thought she had him in the palm of her hand – but had she? Life would never be quite as simple and carefree again.
Early in the new year Euphemia Monk, spinster of the parish, became a married woman. She was nearly thirty-nine and, in deference to her age, she didn’t wear white or drive through the town in an open carriage.
The wedding was a quiet, dignified but very happy affair, and the reception was held at her husband’s old home, which he had now made over entirely to his eldest son.
Margaret Woodville used her pregnancy as an excuse not to attend, but all John Yetman’s children and grandchildren were there, including his daughter, Agnes, who, despite much earnest endeavour, was still unmarried.
Agnes had soon tired of living with her aunt. When she had first gone to London, five years before, it had seemed like the adventure of a lifetime; but her aunt seldom moved outside the house, preferring to entertain at home, and finding it necessary to be attended by Agnes at all times. Agnes’s chances of finding a suitable mate were even more remote than they had been in Wenham. Finally, she went to a family as a governess and, to her surprise, found she enjoyed the work.
The Agnes of today was not the Agnes of yesteryear. She was twenty-seven, an age at which most women considered themselves completely on the shelf if they were not married. Agnes had never thought it would happen to her, but it had. Instead of despairing about her situation, however, she became cynical. She would go to great lengths to make herself attractive, to ogle surreptitiously the husbands or elder sons of her employers. Thus, inevitably, she found herself changing her employers at an alarming rate.
One advantage of her growing cynicism was that Agnes had become less censorious about the weaknesses of others. With hindsight, she decided that, in her place, she might have done what Eliza had done. Indeed, given half a chance she might do it even now.
Agnes returned home as though she had never been away; never acquired a niece and two nephews, or a new stepmother. If Eliza remembered why she had gone away, she appeared conveniently to have forgotten it. The two women got on so well that Agnes decided to stay a while and see what opportunities, if any, presented themselves. Maybe she would not look so askance at some clodhopper of a Dorset farmer now.
One day about a week after the wedding, Eliza was busy grooming Lady in the stables at the back of the house, and thinking about the events of the week, when there was a movement behind her, so stealthy that it startled her. She turned quickly to see the tall figure of her brother standing in the doorway gazing at her. How long he’d been there she didn’t know.
‘Guy,’ she gasped, ‘you startled me. How long have you been there?’
‘A few minutes,’ he said, advancing diffidently into the stable and removing his hat. ‘How are you, Eliza?’
‘As you see,’ Eliza said, the grooming brushes still in her hands.
‘You look very well. It’s been a long time ...’
‘You can’t blame me for that.’ Angrily Eliza turned back to Lady. The horse seemed to recognise Guy; she gave a whinny of greeting and stamped a hoof on the ground.
‘Hello, Lady,’ Guy said affectionately, throwing his arm round her neck. Lady nuzzled him, and with a note of triumph in his voice he cried: ‘She remembers me, she remembers me, Eliza!’
Eliza’s emotions were in such turmoil that she could scarcely speak. She and her brother had not met for over six years. They had once been good friends, confidants. Now they were like strangers.
‘You know I’m back for good?’ Guy said.
‘No more City of London?’ Eliza looked surprised. ‘Did they kick you out?’
‘More or less, thank God,’ Guy said with a laugh. He sat down on a bale of hay and seemed more at ease. ‘I have been sent to look after my estate in Dorset.’
‘I thought Margaret was doing that most efficiently?’
‘She is having another child. The truth is,’ Guy continued after a pause, ‘I am not suited to City life. I never was.
‘Then what life are you suited to?’
The hostility still in his sister’s eyes surprised him.
‘Why, Eliza ...’
‘We can’t just continue where we left off, you know, Guy,’ she said angrily. ‘I was eighteen and I am now twenty-four. You abandoned me, denied me access to my home. My mother ignored my letters and then burnt them.’
‘You shamed your family.’ Guy’s voice was reproachful. ‘That made Mama ill. It has taken us a long time to get over it.’
‘It has taken you ... what about me!’ Eliza threw the brushes down on the floor and, folding her arms, gazed defiantly at him.
‘My dear sister, you were the one who offended. What you did was something few people would be prepared to overlook, or forgive – ever. Now I have come here, though it is hard for me to do so, because I really want to be friends. I have missed you ... I love you. I have forgiven you completely now.’
‘But have I forgiven you?’ Eliza retorted.
‘My dear Eliza.’ Guy got off the bale of hay and dusted the seat of his pants. ‘Please don’t throw the olive branch which I hold out to you back in my face. I know you like Margaret and you see a lot of her. If I am to live here permanently and you and I are not on speaking terms, it will be hard for her. I think it will also be hard for you.’
He looked so earnest, so sincere, that she remembered the brother she had loved so much, and because she was an impulsive, generous woman she suddenly held out her arms. Brother and sister embraced, each close to tears, and for a long time they said nothing.
‘I have missed you,’ she said at last, leaning against his shoulder.
‘And I you. I have always asked Margaret for news of you. Besides,’ he paused and glanced quickly down at her, ‘I did want to see you years ago. I wanted to forgive and forget. But Mama made me promise ...’
‘And what made you change your promise now?’
‘I think Mama would like to see you too.’ Guy’s voice had a wistful note. ‘She is not a young woman any more, Eliza. Would that be possible, for you and Mama to forget the past and forgive each other?’
‘I would like to see Mama again.’ Eliza, overcome by emotion, was on the verge of tears. ‘More than anything.’
‘She wants to see her grandchildren, and I my nephews and niece. We have so many things to talk about. Oh, Eliza, may we bury the past?’
‘Let it be buried,’ she said. ‘Everything, except our happy youth together, will be forgotten. Now, come up to the house and meet the children.’
Eliza seized Guy’s hand, and together they walked across the yard and into the house by the kitchen door.
The cook, standing at the table rolling pastry, stared at the gentleman but went on with her work. Beth stood at the sink, suds up to her elbows, washing the pots and pans from the morning’s cooking.
‘This is my brother, Sir Guy Woodville.’ Eliza l
inked an arm through his, and Cook curtsied, while Beth, in her confusion, lowered her face so that her nose nearly hit the water.
Guy and Eliza passed through the green baize door into the hall. Just as they were about to enter the drawing room Agnes, reading a book, emerged from the library and almost cannoned into the animated pair.
‘Oh, pardon!’ Agnes swiftly removed the gold-rimmed spectacles through which she was perusing the printed words. ‘Why, Sir Guy. It is Sir Guy, isn’t it?’
‘It is indeed.’ Guy, a pleasant smile on his face, extended his hand.
‘How do you do, Miss ...’
‘This is my sister-in-law, Agnes Yetman.’ Eliza told him. ‘She was at your wedding.’
‘Of course.’ Guy did not attempt to conceal the admiration with which he was regarding Agnes.
‘You would scarcely remember me, Sir Guy, on an occasion like that.’ Agnes’s tone was a little coquettish.
‘I never forget a pretty face, Miss Yetman,’ Guy replied. ‘I hope I see you again.’
‘Agnes will soon be going back to London,’ Eliza said. ‘She has been staying with us for her father’s wedding. But I dare say you will be down again in the summer, won’t you, Agnes?’
‘Perhaps,’ Agnes said nonchalantly and, with another glance at Guy, made her way along the corridor to mount the stairs.
‘What a charming girl,’ Guy remarked as they reached the drawing room. He stationed himself with his back to the fire and rubbed his hands. ‘This is a very cold house, Eliza. Did you know we now have heating installed throughout Pelham’s Oak?’
‘Yes, you have to thank Margaret and her fortune for that.’
Guy missed the significance of her remark. He still seemed preoccupied by the pleasant Miss Yetman.
‘Tell me, she is not married?’ he asked.
‘Who? Oh, Agnes? No.’
‘She looks about thirty.’
‘She is a little older than me, twenty-six.’
The People of This Parish (Part One of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 27