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

by Nicola Thorne

  He gave the judge a knowing look, as one man of the world to another, and Lord Mount appeared somewhat mollified. Finally he sat down inviting Guy to do the same, his temper abating a little, and began tapping his knee with a finger.

  ‘What is to be done, Guy?’ he asked.

  ‘I will, of course, make provision for her.’

  ‘She cannot stay with us a moment longer – it is out of the question. I dread even the thought of my young daughter learning of the situation.’

  ‘Naturally.’ Guy drummed his fingers on his knee too. ‘My sister,’ he said, with the expression of one suddenly inspired, ‘Eliza will know what to do. Eliza is, of course, Agnes’s sister-in-law.’

  ‘What a good idea.’ Geoffrey Mount also looked relieved. ‘Eliza is a very clever woman. She will know what to do.’

  ‘But word of this must never reach the ears of my wife,’ Guy murmured sotto voce. ‘I cannot answer for the consequences if it does.’

  ‘As long as the matter is quietly and compassionately dealt with, your disgraceful secret will be safe with me,’ Lord Mount said in his most judicial tone of voice and, rising, he extended his hand to Guy. ‘I leave it in your hands.’

  ‘I will deal with it immediately.’

  Riversmead was a sanctuary of domestic felicity and security. It was ten years since Eliza and Ryder had eloped, and it was difficult now even to think of that event, or the trouble it had caused. Their children were aged eight, six and five. There had been no more, but Eliza was quite happy with two boys and a delightful girl, Dora, whom her father idolised. Laurence, the eldest, was wiry and clever; Hugh the antithesis. He was tall for his age, well built rather than tubby, and at ease with the world. It seemed that, unlike his brother, he would never be competitive, and he was universally popular, whereas Laurence made youthful enemies by virtue of his cleverness.

  Dora was like a fragile doll, as fair as her mother was dark. Both boys took after Eliza, with olive skin, brown eyes and black hair, but Dora was a Yetman, fair-haired with bright blue eyes.

  Eliza had become the pivot of much that went on in Wenham. Except that she eschewed anything to do with the church, she was into everything else. There was a Townswomen’s Guild which she presided over, and many charitable causes devoted to the care of the poor, the sick and the elderly. If anyone was in trouble they went to Eliza. It was thought that, as she had had her share, she would lend a sympathetic ear and, invariably, she did.

  Everything that happened in Wenham Eliza either knew about or was consulted about. She could hardly walk in the High Street without being stopped by a dozen people. It was by now almost completely forgotten by the people of the parish that she had been born a Woodville, so completely had she become one of them. She was loved, and Ryder was respected.

  Beth had by now been happily married to Ted for three years and was the mother of a little girl, Jenny, who was two. Beth had entirely forsaken the ways that had earned her such a deplorable reputation, and had become not only an exemplary wife and mother but an even better servant than before. She no longer went into fits of giggles or hysterics at the least provocation.

  Beth had matured into a person with responsibility. She had assumed the role of housekeeper and ran the house under the guidance and direction of Eliza. She was younger than most of the staff, yet she bossed them about. She had acquired an authority which might have seemed incredible to those who had known her a few years before.

  Eliza loved her and took her into her confidence over every issue that concerned the house, the children or various souls in difficulty who had come to her for help.

  And now in this, the biggest crisis in her married life, worse even than the death of Euphemia, Eliza once again turned to Beth for help.

  ‘Oh Lordy,’ Beth cried, putting both hands to her head, when the story was finished. ‘Oh, that wicked brother of yours, ma’am. What shall the poor girl do?’

  ‘Poor girl, indeed.’ Eliza rose sadly to her feet. Crossing her arms, she went to the window and, for a few moments, watched the river rolling by on its slow, timeless course to the sea, taking with it the flotsam and jetsam that had been flung into it by the winds. It was a bleak March day and it seemed to augur a bleak future. Bleak for poor Agnes, who was about to be cast adrift.

  ‘We cannot possibly have her here.’ Eliza turned a tormented face to Beth.

  ‘Of course not, ma’am. It would be scandalous.’ Beth pursed her mouth with all the virtuousness of a former sinner.

  ‘It would have such a bad effect on the children,’ Eliza went on. ‘It would get us all talked about in the town. And of course it would get to the ears of my sister-in-law, and Guy is quite terrified of that.’

  ‘Do him good,’ Beth muttered. ‘Get him flung out on his backside, I don’t doubt.’ The idea seemed to give her some satisfaction.

  ‘No, she wouldn’t fling him out. I doubt if she’d even leave him. She must know what he’s like – everyone else does. But who would ever have dreamed that Guy would have gone after Agnes, or that she, who was so censorious of me and Ryder, would have succumbed?’

  ‘It’s always them that knows best as behaves worst,’ Beth said smugly.

  ‘“He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone,”’ Eliza murmured almost to herself, thinking how awful those words had seemed nine years before but that now, in another context, they seemed curiously apposite. It had been Agnes then who had been so disapproving, who had told her father that she could not live in the same house as her sister-in-law. Well, Agnes had learned something from life. If nothing else, it might have taught her some charity. ‘Beth,’ she went on, ‘I am going to ask a great sacrifice of you.’ She walked over to the woman she considered a friend rather than a servant and put a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘And what is that, ma’am?’ Beth asked cheerfully.

  ‘I want you to look after Agnes.’

  ‘Oh, ma’am, how can I do that?’ Beth put a hand to her mouth.

  ‘It will only be for five months as she is four months gone, or thereabouts. I know I am asking a sacrifice of you. It will mean leaving Jenny and Ted for a while ...’

  ‘Oh, ma’am, I could never ... even for you.’ Beth regretfully shook her head.

  ‘If you like you may take Jenny with you,’ Eliza insisted. ‘I am only asking you to go as far as Weymouth. We have had a long family conference – Mr Yetman senior, my husband, Sir Guy and myself – and we have decided that the best thing is to send Agnes away. We shall take a house for her where she will live until she has had her baby. But you see, Beth, she needs company. She does need you.’

  ‘But, ma’am, is there no one else?’ Beth screwed up her face in anguish. ‘Ted ...’

  ‘Ted will be all right. He will go down and visit you. It’s not far. But we want to send Agnes away before the news gets out, and you are the only person we can trust. Will you do it, Beth? If Ted agrees, will you do it?’

  ‘Oh, Ted will agree,’ Beth said as if she had suddenly become conscious of the responsibility her employer was giving her, and was even flattered by it. ‘Ted will do what I say, ma’am. And I will do what you say.’

  ‘Oh, Beth!’ Eliza exclaimed, throwing her arms around her. ‘You are so marvellous. You are the only one I could turn to, and I knew you wouldn’t let me down.’

  ‘Never, never, ma’am,’ Beth assured her and, for the first time in her life, she returned her mistress’s hug, embracing her too. She felt now that she was no longer a mere servant but a fully-fledged, trusted, responsible member of the family.

  Agnes Yetman left Moreton Park, which had been her home for three years, without saying goodbye to anyone except Lady Mount, who professed to forgive her indiscretion and even to have some affection for her.

  ‘What you have done under the roof of people who were so hospitable to you was a dreadful thing, Agnes,’ Eleanor told her, more in sorrow than in anger. ‘But I want you to know that I was fond of you, I remain fond, and I’m
grateful for what you did for Laetitia over three years. I wish you well.’

  She then gave the departing governess a chilly peck on the cheek, after which one of the footmen took her luggage to the carriage where Beth already awaited her.

  There was no farewell to Laetitia, who had been sent to stay with an aunt the moment the news became known, as if the susceptibilities of one so young might be corrupted by the mere proximity of the sinner.

  Eliza had previously gone in person to Weymouth to find a suitable house to rent – for her widowed sister-in-law, she told the estate agent. So tragic, so sudden: a young husband lost at sea.

  The agent quickly gave the news to the neighbours, who were sympathetic too, so that when Agnes arrived dressed in deep mourning, her maid similarly clad, they all peeped from behind their curtained windows to take a look.

  Weymouth was a resort on the south coast not far from Dorchester, and much favoured by sick or elderly people for the mildness of its climate, its bracing sea air. There were rows and rows of detached, or semi-detached, houses which all looked alike. The people who lived in them were mostly of the lower middle class and worked in the town as shopkeepers, sales assistants, insurance brokers, bank officials, solicitors’ clerks, corporation officials. With their wives and families, and possibly one maidservant, they led sober and respectable lives and would do so, uneventfully, until the end of their days.

  Not so Agnes Yetman. She seethed with rage at what had happened to her: her betrayal by Guy, her ignominious expulsion from Moreton Park, her strict segregation while family councils took place without her to decide her fate.

  Eliza had been the nearest, and the warmest, the most sympathetic; but her father had been chilly, too incredulous to believe such a thing of his daughter, and there had even been glances of disapproval from Ryder. What a short memory he had.

  Agnes Yetman was a proud, complex young woman who, having gambled with fortune, felt she had lost. What name she had was now ruined. No one would marry her, even for her money, were it known that she had borne a child out of wedlock.

  She felt no love for the baby in her womb, and had she known how to rid herself of it she would gladly have done so. As it was, she had to endure what she had to endure, this agony of shame and rejection, until she gave birth to a child she already hated.

  As one who was, ostensibly, in mourning, Agnes found it easy to keep away from the neighbours. She knew, from the tone of the district, she would heartily dislike them, and their prying eyes and false, sympathetic smiles were a source of intense irritation to her.

  She was a difficult charge, and her innate snobbery prevented her from making a friend of Beth, who was strictly confined to the kitchen and to the cold, bleak room set aside for the servant in the attic. There had been no question of her being allowed to bring Jenny.

  Every morning just after eleven, and every afternoon at about three, Agnes used to emerge, warmly clad against the cold, and walk down the road which led, ultimately, to the sea front with its hotels and its boarding houses, most not yet open for the season.

  It was a desolate time of year to be in Weymouth, and the grey seas and chill winds did nothing to cheer Agnes’s dejected spirits. She would sometimes have a cup of tea or coffee in the lobby of a hotel, but even then she was stared at: a pregnant woman out on her own? Not done, not done at all. Soon she could no longer stand the icy stares she got from the other patrons in their comfortable twos and threes, the familiarities of the waiters, so she gave up taking tea or coffee and confined herself to walking along the promenade to the end and then back up through the town to the dreary little house where Beth would be awaiting her, full of warmth and cheerfulness, despite the way Agnes treated her.

  One day as Agnes reached the door after her customary afternoon walk Beth flung it open and cried: ‘Oh, Miss, I have a surprise for you.’

  ‘A surprise?’ Agnes’s heart gave a great leap of joy. The only surprise she longed for was a visit from Guy. It had been hard for her to admit that she still loved a man who had behaved so badly to her, who had abandoned her without a single word of remorse. But she did. She loved him and she missed him. A single moment in his arms, and everything would have been forgiven, especially if he had whispered that he loved her and would leave his wife to marry her. She put a hand to her belly. Then, then she might come to feel affection for that thing inside her. But even as her thoughts ran on, her hopes were dashed.

  ‘Mrs Yetman is here, Miss. Your sister-in-law.’

  ‘Oh!’ Agnes’s brief feeling of elation turned to apathy, and she put her hat and gloves on the hall stand. When she looked round Eliza stood in the doorway, her arms extended.

  ‘Agnes!’ She moved as if to embrace her sister-in-law, but Agnes merely brushed past her and, going into the cheerful drawing room, bent over the fire to warm her hands.

  Beth, with a knowing look to Eliza, said: ‘I’ll just fetch the tea, ma’am, and leave you two to chat.’

  ‘I’m sorry you don’t seem very pleased to see me.’ Eliza closed the door and took a seat opposite her sister-in-law.

  ‘Why should I be?’ Agnes replied. ‘It was your idea to send me to this dreadful place.’

  ‘My dear –’ Eliza gazed at her solemnly ‘– what alternative was there? You couldn’t stay with the Mounts. For obvious reasons you couldn’t come to us. What else could we do?’

  ‘I could have gone to my aunt in London.’ Eliza shook her head regretfully.

  ‘No, I’m afraid you could not.’

  ‘Surely Aunt Emma didn’t refuse?’

  ‘She did. You must remember a woman of her age is very easily shocked. She said she would prefer not to have the responsibility.’ Impulsively Eliza got up and, crossing the room, knelt on the floor beside Agnes and put a hand on her arm. ‘I do think we’ve done the right thing. This is a congenial house, and Beth is a dear ...’

  ‘Beth is only a servant with whom I have nothing in common,’ Agnes burst out. ‘I’m nearly going mad, here on my own. There is no one to talk, nowhere to go. I can’t even have a cup of tea or coffee at the hotel because people stare at me. I ...’ Suddenly her face crumpled and she burst into tears. ‘I hate it here, Eliza. Please, please take me away.’

  Eliza took her in her arms and cradled her head on her breast, stroking her fine, silky hair. Her heart went out to her in pity and also, to her surprise, a feeling of love.

  ‘My dear, dear Agnes,’ she murmured, ‘don’t think I don’t feel with you in your predicament.’

  ‘How can you? You’ve never been in it.’ Agnes sobbed as if her heart were breaking.

  ‘I have in a way. I never told you before but when Ryder and I were in Ennerdale I was expecting a baby.’

  Agnes gave a choking sound and her tears stopped abruptly. ‘You what? What happened to it?’

  ‘“It”!’ Eliza too seemed to be choking back tears. ‘It was a boy, who died at birth. He was not, however, a full-term baby. We baptised him, but we had to bury him in unconsecrated ground. In the condition I was in then, I could never have come back to Wenham, so I do know how you feel.’

  ‘But you h-h-a-ad Ryder.’ Agnes started to sob again and feebly clasped at her sister-in-law’s chest.

  ‘Yes, I did. Thank God for that and, believe me, I wish I could be here with you ...’

  ‘Then ... st-stay.’

  ‘I can’t, my dear.’ Eliza leaned back and looked at the tear-stained face in front of her. ‘I really can’t. Little Hugh isn’t well, and now Connie has the measles. Your father can’t really look after his little girl on his own, you know, and he needs me to go up to the house several times a day.’

  ‘Serve him right, getting married at that time of life,’ Agnes said spitefully, and with a pang Eliza thought how very much her poor sister-in-law still had to learn.

  ‘Well, right or wrong he has got a little girl whom he loves. We all adore her, as you know, but she does need a mother ...’ Gravely Eliza looked into Agnes’s eyes. �
��Just as yours will, Agnes dear. Have you thought of that?’

  Whether or not Agnes had given the matter much thought, she looked disturbed. She pushed Eliza violently away from her.

  ‘How do you mean? You don’t expect me to keep the baby, do you, Eliza?’

  ‘But what will happen to it?’

  ‘There are many people seeking to adopt children.’ Agnes’s tone was defensive.

  ‘You don’t mean you would let it go to an orphanage? Your own flesh and blood?’

  ‘Where else is there for it to go? I shan’t want it. It will ruin my life.’

  Slowly Eliza, who was still on her knees, rose, and then she too went over to the fire and warmed her hands as though the chill outside had entered her soul.

  ‘You never really thought that I would keep a bastard child foisted on me by your brother, did you, Eliza?’ Agnes burst out, her tone so harsh, so ugly, that Eliza found it almost impossible to control her own anger. She spun round to face Agnes, her hands on her hips.

  ‘Please don’t let me hear any more stupid talk like that, Agnes. My brother was certainly at fault, but so were you. You were not a young woman. You were gently reared and well educated, and if anyone should have known better it was you. You were also very prudish. Look how you behaved towards Ryder and me. You didn’t want to live under the same roof, you said.

  ‘You have abused the hospitality and trust of the Mounts, and you have embarrassed us. There now, I’ve said it and I’m sorry, but really, Agnes Yetman, you are in many ways the most ungrateful creature I have ever known.’

  Later, on her way home, Eliza had time to reflect on her outburst and regret it; but by then it was too late to go back.

  In midsummer Agnes gave birth to a baby girl at the house in Weymouth. It was a swift, easy birth with only Beth and the midwife in attendance.

  She was such a beautiful baby that Beth adored her from the moment she saw her; but when she tried to put her in the arms of her mother, Agnes refused to let her.

  ‘I want absolutely nothing to do with it,’ she said. ‘Take it away!’