‘Not even a say in my husband’s business?’ Eliza asked angrily. ‘One I helped him build up, encouraging him all the way?’
‘Alas!’ Robert shook his head in an unconvincing attempt at sympathy. ‘None at all. However, we will be generous with you, you can depend on that. We intend to make you an allowance and let you keep this house, for the time being ...’
‘It is a house my own wife was always fond of.’ Hesketh looked around him casually. ‘She thinks a lot needs doing to it, but ...’
‘Don’t you dare try and take my house from me,’ Eliza stormed, jumping to her feet. ‘The house belonged to John Yetman, who gave it to us when we married.
‘My dear sister-in-law,’ Robert said in a patronising tone, ‘it was not Father’s to give. The house belongs, and has always belonged, to the company. In the early days, when the business was not doing too well, it was used as security against a loan at the bank. That was never revoked. The house belongs first to the company and then to the bank, that is how things stand. Father could have had the house back once the company was in profit, but he never asked for it. Pity.’ Robert examined his nails again. ‘Had he done so it would have been his to give. He can’t have realised the situation, and I don’t suppose poor Ryder even knew it.
‘The house now effectively belongs to us, but we have considered the matter compassionately and we have decided that you may continue to have the use of it, at least until the children are a little older. It would be unfeeling to ask you to leave now. There, we can’t say fairer than that, can we? Everything else is controlled by us, and we move into the main office in Blandford tomorrow with our advisers.
‘I’m afraid there is very little you can do about it, my dear. Ryder, of course, never thought he would die. If he had, he would have left a much cleverer, more sensible will. You never know the hour, nor the day, do you?’
Henrietta Woodville led a solitary, and somewhat bitter, existence in the house that was not too big and not too small, not too humble and not too grand, overlooking the sea at Bournemouth. All winter she had been ill, troubled by her chest and a number of interesting ailments which the doctors put in the category of ‘nerves’.
Lady Woodville’s ‘nerves’ were a great source of revenue to the Bournemouth physicians who were called upon to attend her regularly, and they took them very seriously. She was continually being prescribed various pills and potions that necessitated a visit from the doctor and a new prescription each time. It all amounted to quite a lot of money, and the Bournemouth physicians blessed the day that her ladyship had come to live among them.
Henrietta was a woman who found it hard to live alone, and in her isolation she had taken refuge in the hypochondriacal symptoms which were such a source of revenue to the doctors of Bournemouth. Illness made people take notice of one to whom independence had never been attractive. The Martyn relations danced attendance, physicians came and went. One was never alone when ill, or even pretending to be ill.
She was, in a sense, her own worst enemy, because she was not yet old and still had the beauty and the wit to attract people and make friends; but she did just the opposite. Except for her long-suffering Martyn relations she scarcely saw anybody except Guy, who made regular and dutiful calls with his children and, occasionally, Eliza’s.
Eliza saw her mother only a few times a year. On each occasion it was like a solemn religious occasion, and about as mournful. She usually called on Henrietta’s birthday and stayed a short time, just long enough for her mother to upbraid her, and unleash on her all her pent-up misery and frustration that instead of being allowed to grow old in Wenham she had been condemned to a life of boredom in provincial Bournemouth.
Margaret never saw her mother-in-law at all. She had none of the ties, the dutiful feelings that still bound Eliza to her cantankerous parent. So when Henrietta did see her daughter she had to listen to a double lot of complaints; about Margaret and about herself.
When she returned home it was invariably with a headache, and Ryder would upbraid her for her sentimentality, disguised as filial affection. Ryder had hated her mother and never spared her. Now he was gone.
The letter arrived not long after she had got over the shock of the visit from Ryder’s brothers. Reluctantly, knowing from whom it came, she sat down and opened it:
Dear Eliza (it ran),
I write to you to offer my condolences on the death of your husband. I would have attended the funeral as a mark of respect and to show the family solidarity, which is always expected of the Woodvilles, but I was too ill. My chest has been troublesome and I have pains in my legs. Dr Worsthorne forbade me to travel and has instead prescribed rest, new medicines and, perhaps, when I am fit to travel, a visit to Bath to take the waters.
My dear Eliza, in my mother’s heart I grieve for you, knowing only too well what it is like to lose a husband in the prime of life. But my husband, your dear father, was a good man who never did a bad deed in his life.
Maybe I should not say it but, as I am your mother, I must tell you frankly that I feel Ryder’s death is a judgement from God for transgressing His laws. You may have thought you made up for it; but God’s judgement is always there. His vengeance. He ...
Eliza read the letter with mounting horror. Then she screwed it into a ball and threw it violently into the fire, watching the flames slowly consume the paper, the rest of her mother’s words forever unread. Beth, coming in a short while later, found her in an uncharacteristic pose: sitting sobbing her heart out.
‘Oh, ma’am, what is it?’ Beth sank to her knees beside the weeping woman.
‘It’s my mother,’ Eliza sobbed. ‘She has written me the most awful letter. She says Ryder’s death was a punishment ...’
She raised her tear-stained face and, drawing Beth close to her, buried her head on her shoulder while Beth put her arms tightly round her as though she were a child.
‘There, there, ma’am,’ she said ‘don’t take on so. You’ll make yourself ill ...’
Eliza gazed at her again, her face still stricken.
‘Beth, sometimes I have nightmares. I feel my mother may be right... What we did was wrong, and in the end we were punished for it.’
PART THREE
The Fabric of Society
17
Maybe it was because of her happy childhood, the love lavished upon her by her parents, that Victoria Fairchild had been able to overcome – not at once, but eventually – her disappointment over the treachery of Christopher Yetman. For many months following the dreadful revelation of his character she had scarcely known how to cope, had gone about her tasks mechanically and slept badly; but, aided by her friends Miss Bishop and Mrs Lamb, she had survived. Indeed, the Rector’s wife had shown qualities of understanding and compassion that surprised all those who up to then had considered her a rather hard, unemotional woman, following the letter of the law rather than its spirit.
But Miss Fairchild realised eventually that, whatever the healing benefits of work, she was tired of the life of drudgery at the shop. Some part of her life had gone out of her – maybe because of the hope she had long ago cherished of sharing the business with Christopher. In due course she sold the shop to the Goodisons, retaining, however, the freehold. Mr Troup, the banker, gave her excellent advice and she thus found herself a woman of means; but she had no heir, no one to leave it all to. When she died her fortune would probably be dispersed among the people of the parish who were in most need.
The Yetmans, and John and Eliza in particular, had not abandoned Miss Fairchild after the sad affair of Christopher. But a needless feeling of responsibility for what had happened made them reticent, and it was only gradually that Miss Fairchild plucked up the courage to return their hospitality, to reciprocate their good intentions.
John Yetman was particularly kind to Victoria, but after he became a widower again he felt a little nervous. Enough harm had been done to that good woman already by his family, and he did not wish to encourage he
r into thinking she could one day take Euphemia’s place.
However, encouraged by Miss Bishop, whose house she used frequently to visit, Victoria began to form an attachment to little motherless Connie Yetman, and the bond grew stronger as the years passed. In time Miss Fairchild began to see in Connie the child that she and Christopher might have had. In appearance his niece resembled him, and the older she grew the more the likeness fascinated Miss Fairchild.
This bond was strengthened by a mutual love of music, for which Connie showed talent at a very early age. She could play simple pieces on the piano from the age of three, and at five began to learn the violin.
As Victoria had whiled away many lonely hours in the comfort of music and playing the piano, she was delighted to find someone so gifted who could not only play duets with her but sing with her too. They both sight read, and Miss Fairchild had a beautiful voice, so that when she sang not only her voice but her heart, her soul, were lifted and she could imagine those soaring notes reaching to the heavens where everyone was beautiful and there were no physical blemishes or imperfections or people with hare lips.
Once or twice a week, Connie began to go to Miss Fairchild to make music, and in time an affection developed between the two that was not unlike that of mother and daughter. Over the years Miss Fairchild watched Connie blossom into an accomplished vocalist and pianist and she was proud of her. She also realised something more: she loved her.
This feeling was given some substance by a sad event which occurred only a few months after Ryder’s death.
John Yetman, who had been ailing since his son’s sudden departure, died in his sleep. The servant coming to wake him in the morning found him lying peacefully, with a smile on his face as though God had taken him in the middle of a happy dream.
Little Connie was now an orphan, and Miss Fairchild decided to do something rather bold; to take a step that she would never have dreamt of taking before. After allowing the family time to come to terms with their loss, she made an appointment to see Eliza.
Eliza came to the door to welcome Miss Fairchild and, after shaking hands, took her over to the fire because it was a cold day.
Miss Fairchild had not seen Eliza since John Yetman’s funeral, and her appearance shocked her. Her face was pale, her fine eyes too hollow. Always slim, she now looked unbecomingly thin. She could have been called haggard. Eliza drew a hand across her brow and gave her a wan smile.
‘I know what you’re thinking, Miss Fairchild,’ she said, sinking into a chair and inviting her guest to do the same. ‘But I am not ill. It is simply that life has not been too kind to me since my husband died, and there are occasions when it shows.
‘I have so many responsibilities that sometimes I wonder how I cope, yet I do. It is the coping that makes me tired, and of course the death of my father-in-law, a man I loved and respected, has been a grave setback. In addition there is the worry about little Connie. She can’t stay alone in that big house, and yet she refuses to move. We would gladly have her. She is looked after by her old nurse and a small staff. What am I to do with her? A girl of eight is completely unfit to live on her own. She is, of course, a strange child. She has always been solitary, a bookworm, musical as you know.’ She paused to look at Miss Fairchild, who had become rather agitated, playing with her bag, dropping her gloves and fiddling with the large hatpin stuck through her hat.
‘May I offer you tea?’ Eliza asked, thinking she had forgotten something.
No, Miss Fairchild would not accept tea. She was too nervous, too excited on account of what she was about to say; a momentous decision for her, for any woman in her sixties who had never been married or had a child and who had spent the last twenty years on her own. And Mrs Yetman, all unknowingly, had prepared the way for her. She moved to the edge of her chair looking like a small, bright bird on a branch.
Her manner worried Eliza more and more.
‘Is anything wrong, Miss Fairchild?’ Eliza asked, leaning anxiously forward.
‘Nothing w-wrong,’ Miss Fairchild replied, stumbling over the word. ‘Not w-w-rong,’ she repeated herself. ‘I do not quite know how to put this, and I must confess that I’m nervous, because what I have to say is quite i-im-portant. I think, dear Eliza, that you know I am very fond of your little sister-in-law.’
‘And she of you,’ Eliza assured her. ‘I have always regarded her with a special love because of the circumstances of her birth. She was not expected to live, you know, Miss Fairchild, and I held her tightly in my arms wishing, even praying, that I could breathe life into her inert little body ... And then, suddenly, she coughed, and the doctor said it was a miracle.’
‘Oh!’ Miss Fairchild’s eyes suddenly filled with tears. ‘What a beautiful story. It explains so much about her. She is like a gift from God. But–’ she paused dramatically, one of the beautifully kept fingers held high ‘– a very lonely young girl, in that large house, as you say, all by herself.’
‘Well, she won’t come and live with us,’ Eliza felt a little annoyed, as if Miss Fairchild had come to reproach her. ‘I have asked her, begged her. She prefers to live there in the care of her old nursemaid and a handful of servants. I ...’
‘I would like to take care of Constance, if you would permit it, Eliza.’ Miss Fairchild’s speech impediment was more pronounced when she was excited, and now she stumbled over almost every word. ‘I would like her to come and live with me. I have a house large enough for both of us, and I am lonely too. Connie and I understand each other very well. There is such a bond between us.’
Suddenly she looked self-consciously at her polished black shoes, and her pale face grew a little pink.
‘I think you know, Eliza, that I was once very fond of Connie’s uncle.’ Bravely she lifted her head and met eyes which were brimming with sympathy. ‘Many people thought me a fool, doubtless a silly old fool, to be taken in by a charmer who was after my money ...’
‘Oh no, Miss Fairchild, really ...’ Eliza began, but Victoria held up her hand.
‘Let me finish what I have to say, Eliza. I fell in love but once and was kissed but once. Christopher Yetman brought a new happiness into my life. He gave me a taste of what – had things been different – I might have known. He was a man of great charm, and for a while he made me feel beautiful, wanted for myself as a woman, like other women.’
Eliza found herself fighting back tears and, crushing her hands in her lap, she nodded.
‘In a strange way, although I would have been too old to have children even had I married Christopher, I have come to think of Connie as my daughter. Even before her father died I felt a strong affection for her.’
Miss Fairchild sadly shook her head.
‘I have never lost my affection for Christopher, and if he were to appear on the doorstep I might be as silly as I was years ago. But I know he will not. He is in New Zealand, isn’t he?’
‘Somewhere like that,’ Eliza murmured. After leaving prison Christopher had fled the country because the many creditors seeking him might have attempted to put him behind iron bars again.
‘No matter.’ Miss Fairchild gave a dismissive shrug. ‘It is with Connie I am now concerned, not her uncle.’ She clasped her hands together, and there was in her eyes the expression of one who has been vouchsafed a glimpse of the divine. ‘I think she would be happy with me, and I know I should, I should be ecstatic. It would at long last give some meaning to my life.’
Eliza, feeling absolutely dumbfounded, gazed at her visitor, wondering if she could possibly be serious. But of course she was. A woman like Miss Fairchild would never be anything else in a matter of such importance.
‘Have you spoken to Connie?’ she asked after she had recovered from her surprise.
‘Oh, of course. I would never have dreamt of approaching you otherwise. I asked her if she would like to come and live with me. She replied that she would, very much. If you would permit it I would like to adopt her as my ward, as she is an orphan, and make her my hei
r. I would leave her my house and all my money. My fortune is not insignificant,’ she said with some pride. ‘My parents’ business was a good one, and I sold it at a profit, retaining the freehold of the shop, valuable property in the High Street. I have never been profligate with money ...’
‘Miss Fairchild,’ Eliza interposed gently, ‘please don’t think for a moment that I consider you incapable of looking after my sister-in-law, or that your fortune is of any importance. It is Connie’s happiness that counts. If Connie is happy to come and live with you, if it’s what she really wants, then, as her legal guardian, I can see no objection. Whether it would be wise for you to adopt her officially I am not sure. I should have to take advice.’
‘Of course.’ Miss Fairchild leapt to her feet, clasping her hands in front of her as if in prayer. ‘Oh, thank you! Of course I understand, and whatever is right for Constance shall be our only consideration.’ She went towards Eliza and grasped her hands. ‘My dear, dear Eliza, you have no idea how happy this makes me. I have always longed for a daughter. This, really, must be the happiest day of my life.’
Connie moved into the home of her adoptive mother within a very short time after Miss Fairchild’s conversation with Eliza. There was, after all, no impediment. The legal situation had yet to be thoroughly thrashed out with lawyers, but in the meantime everyone was happy; above all, Connie was happy.
Connie was a precocious, rather delicate child who, having been used to the protective love of one person, had felt very deprived since the death of her adored father. She loved Eliza but she did not fit in very well with her rather boisterous nephews and nieces, who were all older than she was, and she had been given to bouts of melancholy and weeping until Miss Fairchild had had her first serious talk with her, and then another, and had then put the matter to Eliza. Now Connie had found someone who would cherish her as her father had done. Make her the most important person in her life..
The People of This Parish (Part One of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 39