‘I wonder then that she is not married. I suppose there are few men around here who appeal to her.’
‘She’s been a governess in London.’
‘Really? And yet her father’s a man of wealth also, I understand.’
‘It is her choice. She doesn’t want to be idle.’
‘That’s why she had a book in her hand. A bluestocking, I expect, though she does not look like one.’
‘She is not a bluestocking, but she likes to read. Why must you put labels on people, Guy? I was a fallen woman ... Agnes is a bluestocking.’
‘Oh, I put labels on women, but not people in general.’ Guy gave her a teasing smile, and she remembered how they used to banter when they were younger, each trying to score points off the other.
‘I don’t know what Ryder will say about this,’ Eliza said after a moment’s thought. ‘I must be honest.’
‘About what?’ Guy reached towards the fire and warmed his hands.
‘About our reconciliation.’
‘You mean he might not want me in his house?’
‘It’s possible. He’s a very determined man.’
‘And also, I hear, a very rich one. Congratulations, Eliza, on making such a good match. As I told Mama, times have changed.’ He crossed the room and sat down next to her. ‘It is not enough now to be a gentleman. One has to work, and I was not brought up to work. If it hadn’t have been for Margaret’s fortune, its true, we would be in a very sorry state at Pelham’s Oak ...’
‘Which brings me to your news,’ Eliza said, ‘that you are no longer to work in the City. It disturbs me.’
‘Why does it disturb you, my dear? My fellow partners recognised that I was not a man of business. Margaret’s brother Julius, who is a very considerable and successful one, takes my place on the board. I am absolutely delighted with the arrangement.’
‘But what will you do, Guy?’
‘I will enjoy myself the way I was meant to.’ Guy looked towards the door. ‘Will Miss Yetman be joining us again, do you think?’
Guy had gone by the time Ryder returned home, and Eliza did not quite know how to tell him the news. As it was, the matter was taken out of her hands, for as they sat down to dinner Agnes said:
‘How excited you must have been to see your brother today, Eliza. It is some years since you last saw him, is it not?’
Ryder, who was holding Eliza’s chair out for her, paused and looked at her.
‘Is it true? Guy was here?’
‘Yes, dear.’ Eliza cast a reproachful glance at Agnes.
‘But why did you not tell me?’
‘I was about to. Agnes took the words out of my mouth.’
‘Oh, so he has forgiven you then, has he?’ Ryder’s voice was heavy with sarcasm as he walked round to his own chair and, sitting down, shook out his napkin.
‘Don’t take it like that. Much water has flowed under Wenham Bridge since I ran away from home, and I think it is time for forgiveness. Besides, he is my brother, and my mother wishes to see me too. I didn’t think you would be exactly pleased, but ...’
‘I am very displeased, Eliza,’ Ryder said wrathfully. ‘Have you no pride?’
‘I cannot continue to be alienated from my family, Ryder.’ The colour rose in Eliza’s cheeks.
‘But you have a new family now – one that has loved you and always accepted you.’
‘Agnes did not accept me ...’ Eliza began.
‘Oh, but that was a very long time ago.’ Agnes sounded agitated.
‘It is only recently that you have started to visit again, and to see your father, I think, not us.’ Eliza gazed calmly at her husband’s angry face. ‘We must all learn to forgive, Ryder. I have.’
‘It is true that I have a new family, and I love them dearly, you above all. But Guy and my mother – all my childhood memories are of them, and my dear father. Now that our relationship is restored you must realise how much pleasure it gives me.’
‘Well ...’ Ryder leaned back in his chair and thoughtfully tapped his fork on the table.
‘You must see Eliza’s point of view,’ Agnes said, glancing at her sister-in-law. ‘I think Sir Guy is delightful. How fortunate she is to have him as a brother.’
Guy lost no time in arranging the meeting between his sister and their mother, and a week after his reconciliation with Eliza he called to take her and the children to Bournemouth.
While he waited for them by the carriage he walked up and down, smoking thoughtfully. As Eliza appeared with the two eldest children, and Beth behind her carrying the baby, Guy threw away his cigarette and went to greet them, kissing his sister and then each of the little ones.
‘No Miss Yetman today?’ he asked casually, looking round.
‘No.’ Eliza was surprised. Handing up Laurence first, she started to climb into the carriage. ‘Did you expect her?’
‘I thought she might come to help with the children.’
‘She went to see about a situation. The Mounts are in need of a governess. Margaret seemed to think Agnes might be suitable.’
‘Well, that is very convenient,’ Guy said with a smile, jumping up to sit beside his sister.
‘What do you mean, “convenient”?’ Once they were all seated and the coachman up on his box, Eliza looked at him sharply.
‘The Mounts are such great friends, aren’t they? That will mean we shall see more of Agnes. As well, of course, as more of them. How pleasant.’
He called out to the coachman and the carriage began to wend its way along the drive, out of the gate and down the road towards the river.
It was quite a long drive to Bournemouth, and by the time they arrived the children were tired and the baby crying.
Eliza saw her mother’s face at one of the windows of the house, but as soon as Henrietta saw her looking up, the face withdrew. Eliza felt a constriction in her chest and wished she had not come. But in the hubbub of arrival, the children’s relief at being out of the cramped conditions of the carriage, she had no chance to be nervous and was swept along by the excitement of arrival.
The door was opened by the butler, and a liveried footman appeared on the steps to help with the children. Beth bustled about in the background while the coachman sprinted after Laurence, who had made straight for the garden, from which he could glimpse the sea.
Guy took Eliza’s hand and, smiling comfortingly at her, led her up the steps.
‘Lady Woodville is in the drawing room, Sir Guy,’ the butler intoned but, at that moment she appeared, standing in the hall as still as a statue, as if frozen into immobility.
Then, as she spontaneously opened her arms, Eliza opened hers, and the two women flew towards each other and embraced.
‘Oh, Mama!’ Eliza at last rested her chin on her mother’s shoulder.
‘Eliza,’ Henrietta said caressingly, stroking her daughter’s beautiful hair. ‘Oh, my dear daughter, my darling child. Can you forgive me in your heart?’
‘Can you forgive me, Mama?’ Eliza took a tentative step backwards and studied her mother’s face.
‘You have given me three beautiful grandchildren.’ Henrietta indicated the two elder ones, who stood shyly with their fingers in their mouths gazing at her, and at little Hugh, fast asleep in Beth’s arms. She took a peek at the baby first, kissed his forehead, and then threw out her hands, which were immediately clasped by Laurence and Dora. Guy and Eliza, exchanging happy glances, took their place in the procession, bringing up the rear. There was a lot to talk about. Seven years was nearly a quarter of Eliza’s life, and she was no longer the girl she had been. Henrietta too had changed. She was smaller, she was more wrinkled and, though she would never let her hair go grey or her cheeks remain untouched by rouge, she was beginning to look her age.
Towards the end of the visit she took Eliza alone into the garden, and as they sat on a bench surrounded by wisteria and roses, clasping hands, they felt instinctively that they were closer now than they had ever been.
‘I so regret the
past,’ Henrietta said. ‘Had I not been so stupid I would still have been in my home.’
‘Maybe it’s not too late to return?’
‘I would never return to Pelham’s Oak,’ Henrietta said proudly. ‘You I love because you are my flesh and blood. I can never love Margaret, and she will never love me. No, I learned from my mistakes too late.’
‘But what I did at the time was very wrong, Mama,’ Eliza said with unaccustomed humility. ‘I see it now, and I realise why you behaved as you did... but still I am glad I did what I did.’ She turned large, wondering eyes to her mother, who thought that Eliza had never looked more beautiful. ‘I have a wonderful husband, whom I love. We have three adorable children. And Mama –’ Eliza put her arm round her mother’s neck and her warm tears stung her cheeks ‘– the joy of being reconciled with you again almost makes the misery of our parting worthwhile.’
Prosper Martyn stood outside the stage door of the Alhambra looking carefully at the faces of the people as they emerged. It was very late and the alley was a dark one. In twos and threes the artistes hurried away, and as they were reduced to a trickle Prosper wondered if his quarry had left by another door. But suddenly there she was. Glancing to right and left, she began to raise her umbrella against the fine drizzle before making for the direction of the square with its welcome lights.
‘Mrs Bowyer?’ Prosper said, stepping forward and quickly holding his own umbrella over her head for protection.
‘Oh! You startled me.’ Lally’s hand flew to her breast.
‘You startled me too,’ Prosper replied. ‘I thought that you had left by another way. I see you don’t remember me?’
‘I have never seen you before in my life, sir.’ Lally looked closely at him.
‘I think you have, but you have forgotten. May I give you supper, Mrs Bowyer, and then perhaps escort you home?’
Home was not the house in the Vale of Health, which had been sold after Guy left town. She had been given one week to quit, and the day she moved out the furniture removal van arrived and the place was stripped bare. From Guy she had heard not a word. He had said he would provide for her, but he had nothing to provide her with.
She was very lucky to find work again so soon to give her money with which to support her child. She thought that if the year did not go well she would be forced to put him in a foundlings’ home and that would be that.
Lally was almost permanently hungry, and she hurried through her dinner saying very little. The meeting with the gentleman who called himself an old admirer was a mystery; but there was no doubt that a gentleman was what he was. He also had an air of great wealth, which was especially attractive to a woman on the verge of destitution. Lally took Prosper up the creaky stairs of her former lodgings in Drury Lane, only this time she had a slightly better room on the second floor. As she flung open the door she declared:
‘It is not what I am used to. I had a beautiful home in Hampstead and was protected by a titled gentleman.’
‘And what happened to the gentleman?’ Prosper enquired politely, removing his hat.
‘He abandoned me. He had no money. His wife controlled the purse strings.’
‘How very unfortunate.’ Prosper gave a convincing shudder. It was true that the beautiful face he had glimpsed once and remained haunted by ever since was a little more lined, more careworn. Her figure was fuller, but she was still beautiful. However, if she were not careful she would soon lose her job as a dancer. Whereas before she had been in the front row of the chorus, now she had been relegated to the back.
He had given her a good dinner, and she had told him a little about her life. They talked mostly about the theatre. Maybe the wine had had an effect, because as soon as she had removed her coat she raised her leg as if also to remove her stocking, lifting her skirt up over her knees.
‘Oh, please, madam.’ Prosper stretched out a hand in alarm. ‘Please don’t misunderstand me. I am not here to take advantage of your situation.’
‘Oh!’ Looking confused Lally replaced her garter and hurriedly pulled down her skirt. ‘What are you here for, then?’
‘I am here to offer you protection’ Prosper took out his cigar case and slowly, with an expansive smile, lit one. When it was drawing to his entire satisfaction he blew out the match and threw it away. Then he leaned back on the rickety chair and gazed at her. ‘I would like to take the place of the man who treated you so badly, Lally, and provide a home that is fit for you to live in.’
13
Newman’s the saddlers had been in the High Street ever since Wenham had begun to evolve from a village into a town, probably some time in the middle of the eighteenth century. The skills of saddlemaker had been passed from father to son, and Albert Newman, the latest heir to the business, was well on his way to becoming a master saddler like his father.
Albert used to sit in the room above the shop where the stitching was done, ostensibly working the machine that sewed the pieces of leather together, that joined the thongs to the buckles and stirrups, but he spent more time than he should have looking out of the window in the hope that his eyes might alight on that woman who so inflamed his senses: Beth.
Beth had no surname. If she arrived at Farmer Frith’s with one she had long since forgotten it. For legal purposes she was known as Beth Yetman, but everyone just called her Beth.
Beth had settled down in the Yetman household and had immediately assumed the role of faithful servant, companion and even friend to the inmates of the house. She was especially devoted to Eliza.
Treated with kindness and no longer half starved, Beth was very different from the pathetic little creature who had come from Ennerdale with Ryder when he brought back Lady. She possessed a sexual allure that, while it would have astonished her betters, was well understood by the young men of the parish. She had developed a big, provocative bosom and wide hips, and the thought of what lay between them stirred the blood of the many males who lusted after her.
Beth’s reputation was well known in a town where most of the unattached young men at one time or another tried to engage her favours, which was not difficult. By some stroke of luck she had escaped the consequences of her behaviour, and ever since Eliza had given her a talking to and threatened to send her back to Cumberland, she generally avoided the ultimate act by a mixture of teasing and banter which drove all the young men mad. She was also a swift runner, so that her encounters in the dark passages of the town or among the bushes by the side of the river were seldom consummated.
Albert Newman was an impressionable lad who had taken Beth more seriously than most of the others, with the exception of Ted. Albert, the son of respectable parents who were ardent Methodists, and Ted, the groom at Pelham’s Oak, were thus the most persistent suitors of this unlikely creature who had the morals of an alley cat; and between them there grew up a rivalry, the flames of which Beth undoubtedly enjoyed fanning, dallying first with one, then with the other.
In time Albert’s father realised that his son was neglecting his work at the sewing machine. He was forever glancing out of the window hoping for a glimpse of Beth coming up the hill, her heavy bosom swaying, her basket tucked comfortably over her arm against her generous hips.
No amount of common sense could be talked into Albert. He could not see the damage that would be done to the good name of the family should the stupid girl agree to marry him.
He grew more careless about his work, more and more obsessed with Beth, more jealous, until he took to avoiding Ted, with whom he had always been friendly since they were schoolboys together. They had boxed, played cricket and rugby, enjoying all forms of sport, as both were well-built, strapping men, fond of country pastimes.
On a fine morning in June Albert was sewing together some reins that were to be delivered eventually to Lord Mount at Moreton Park. He had been told to take extra care with the job as his lordship was very particular and only the best was good enough. At last, his eyes sore and his limbs aching, he went over to the w
indow to smoke a cigarette. He stood for a few moments puffing away, observing the people passing the ornate wrought-iron drinking fountain outside the shop, which had been erected in place of the village pump by Albert’s grandfather, William, to mark the accession of the Queen in 1837. This was still much used by horses and the thirsty cattle who were driven through the town on market day.
Albert saw the new bank manager, Mr Troup, in his dark pin-striped suit, a gold watch and chain strung across his stomach, about to enter his bank. Mr Troup almost collided with Miss Fairchild, who had a leather bag in her hand, and they stopped on the steps to pass the time of day before the manager gallantly stood back and, opening the doors for her, begged her to precede him into the bank.
She was followed by the butcher, presumably also with the takings from the day before. Then Annie McQueen appeared as if on cue in front of the Baker’s Arms, as she invariably did just before opening time, to make sure that the pavement was clean. After a careful look round, she applied herself vigorously to her task with the aid of bucket and mop.
In accordance with the strict Methodist principles of his family, Albert was a teetotaller, but his other passions were not so restrained, and Annie McQueen, with her fine looks, her generous and mature curves, did much to stir a young man’s fancy. As if reading his thoughts, she looked across the road, caught his eye and waved. Albert blushed and backed into the room, pretending he had not been looking. Had he gone a step or two further he would have missed the sight of Ted, who rode up the brow of the hill and paused for a moment or two to give his horse a drink at Newman’s fountain.
Albert hurried over to the window and, throwing it up, was just about to hail Ted when he saw Beth, her basket on her arm, hips swinging, strolling along the pavement in Ted’s direction. Trust her to choose that time.
‘Hello!’ Albert called in an attempt to divert Ted’s attention in the forlorn hope that Beth would pass by. ‘How is it with you Ted?’
‘Oh, hello, Albert,’ Ted doffed his hat. ‘I’m just getting some last minute things before the christening today. Cook has run out of sugar. A great “do” we’re having up at the big house.’
The People of This Parish (Part One of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 28