‘They are not threats,’ Guy muttered. ‘I simply will not have my eldest son, my heir, corrupted by the Church.’
‘I am not being corrupted, Father.’ George’s voice grew heated too. ‘I am answering a voice, the voice of God, which has been speaking to me persistently for a number of years.’
‘Rubbish,’ Guy said and, picking up his book, pretended to read even though it was upside down.
‘You must listen, Father, because I am going to do it.’ George, driven beyond endurance, snatched the book out of his father’s hands.
‘You can’t without my permission,’ Guy said, trying to snatch it back.
‘After I am twenty-one I can do what I like.’
‘You will be very foolish if you do, my son. I can make life very unpleasant for you. The Woodville fortune is not as clear-cut as you might think. Much of it remains in the hands of the Heering family ...’
‘Who, I’m sure, would support me being far nearer to God in their estimation than you, Father.’
‘Don’t you dare be impertinent to me, sir.’ Guy jumped with surprising alacrity out of his seat. ‘I’m telling you you cannot be a vicar. I do not want you to be one, and you must put such a ridiculous notion from your mind. Sir George Woodville, a parson!’ Guy snorted with laughter and abruptly sat down again.
‘Anyway, dear, you are going to Cambridge,’ Margaret said a little nervously, surprised by her husband’s vehemence. ‘You are studying Classics, and that will give you time to think about it. You may feel very differently in a few years’ time.’
‘I should hope so,’ Guy said, appearing mollified.
‘I thought I’d change my studies to include Theology, Father,’ George said boldly.
‘Well, you won’t,’ Guy snarled. ‘Classics it is, and Classics it will remain. Now let’s stop this conversation, George, and please don’t ever bring it up again. Get rid of the notion once and for all, or you will no longer find yourself welcome here.’
The girls, who had moved with their hoop and a ball to the end of the field, were now seen walking slowly back towards the house. Sarah looked as though she were tired, or had somehow been hurt, and Emily’s arm was around her protectively. Her governess, who was still reading under the tree, put down her book and went quickly over to her charges. She put her head close to Sarah’s, who appeared to be weeping, and began talking to her earnestly.
Margaret put aside her tapestry and went over to the girls, leaving the men staring stonily ahead, mouths tightly pursed as if all communication between them had ceased.
‘What is it, Sarah?’ Margaret asked anxiously.
‘Sarah is not very well. She says she has a headache,’ Emily said.
‘Oh dear.’ Margaret put her hand on the girl’s brow and then rapidly withdrew it.
‘Goodness me, she is very hot. We must take her home at once. I’m sure she has a high fever. Did you not feel well when you came, dear?’
Sarah shook her head, but seemed disinclined to say anything more.
‘She likes coming here,’ Emily explained. ‘She thought her mother might stop her if she said she had a headache.’
‘Well, that’s very silly of you, Sarah,’ Margaret chided the stricken girl. ‘Anyway you’ll soon be home.’ She looked up at the governess who had closed her book and appeared concerned.
‘Would you go with her, Miss Phillips, and tell Mrs Wills I think she should call Dr Hardy? I fear Sarah has a very high temperature indeed.’
Margaret and the governess, supporting the by now weeping girl between them, went rapidly back to the house, while Emily resumed her game with the ball and, throwing it high in the air, began dancing about the lawn, her terrier Spot yapping excitedly at her feet. She was such a picture of joy and innocence in her pink dress, long white socks and white shoes, her fair curls blowing in the wind, that Guy’s parental heart filled with love for his darling; someone he knew would never fail him or distress him, as George had. He wished that she would never grow up, and remain as she was now: a lovely young girl, neither a child nor a woman.
‘Come over here, darling,’ he called out to her, and she ran happily over to him, and flinging her arms around his neck.
‘You would never upset your papa would you, darling?’ he asked, looking into her eyes.
‘Never, Papa, never,’ she said smiling. ‘Why?’
‘George wishes to be a minister.’
‘A what?’ Emily’s voice seemed to throb with amusement.
‘Like the Reverend Lamb.’
‘Oh that!’ Emily put her hand to her mouth and, trying unsuccessfully to suppress her giggles, looked askance at her brother. ‘The Reverend George Woodville,’ she said in a mocking tone, and began to laugh so much that her father joined in. To the sound of their cruel, echoing laughter, George rose abruptly and made his way across the lawn towards the stables in order to saddle a horse that would take him to his aunt’s house in Wenham.
‘I’m sure your father will come round to the idea,’ Eliza, said, looking at George with sympathy as she passed him a plate of cakes across the table of the conservatory where they were having tea.
George and Eliza had always enjoyed a close relationship. From childhood he had been a sensitive soul, rather a difficult boy to understand and although she knew Guy loved him, he didn’t always see eye to eye with him.
‘Your father loves you very much,’ she said. ‘I wonder he didn’t think you might enter the Church before.’
‘Why?’ Guy looked at her in surprise. ‘Did you?’
‘Yes, I did. You have always been religious, gone frequently to church, got high marks in Bible studies. I am not the least surprised you consider you have a vocation. I am only surprised your father didn’t think of it before.’
‘I only realised it myself this summer,’ George said. ‘I have been feeling I had a call for a long time, but Mr Lamb helped me. It was he who encouraged me to confide in Father and Mother.’
‘Oh!’
‘You don’t like him very much, do you, Aunt?’
‘I don’t consider him the most saintly of men,’ Eliza said, ‘but what he did to me was a very long time ago. I am sure he has changed since then, and his sermon at your Uncle Ryder’s death was very fine ... a great comfort to us all ...’ Her voice trailed off, and her expression was one of grief. George leaned towards her and grasped her hand.
‘That is what I want to do too; to be of service, bring comfort to the afflicted ...’
‘And I am sure you will do it very well, George,’ she said gently. ‘Now why don’t you go for a ride with your cousins? They see little enough of you, and they admire you. And would you tell Connie to come in and see me? You might find her in the orchard playing with the others, and George –’ she let go his hand as he stood gazing down at her ‘– cheer up. I’m sure it will all come right.’
From inside came the sound of the piano, a piece by Mozart or Schubert, Eliza wasn’t sure which, played expertly, even thrillingly, and she could imagine little Connie’s long, beautiful fingers running with mesmerising speed up and down the keys.
‘Oh no,’ she said to George, ‘she has started her piano practice inside.’
It really was a miracle to have such gifts, Eliza thought, watching George go round to the stables in search of a cousin to go riding with, and then she turned to enter the house, walking slowly in the direction of the music room while all the time the music grew louder and louder.
She stood for a while on the threshold watching the little girl – for she was still only ten – perched on the high piano stool playing without music, the stand empty in front of her. Her little head followed the direction of her skilful fingers – to the right towards the high notes, left towards the base.
Suddenly Connie seemed to sense that someone was watching her, and she stopped, her hands still poised over the keyboard, her face turned towards the door.
‘Oh Eliza,’ she cried, jumping off her stool. ‘I’m sorry, I sh
ould have asked permission.’
‘But you don’t need permission to play the piano in this house,’ Eliza said, stooping towards her. ‘Please don’t stop. What is it?’
‘Sonata in C by Mozart. One of my favourite pieces.’
‘And you play it so beautifully, Connie. You have a great talent.’
‘A gift of God,’ Connie said, a pious sentiment of which George would have approved. It was all the more remarkable because Miss Fairchild was not a regular churchgoer. It was suggested that she blamed God for her affliction and didn’t see why she should spend her life on her knees thanking Him for it.
Connie, however, did go to church and was a particular favourite of Mrs Lamb, who was musical too, teaching her to play the organ. Connie, with her lovely voice, sang in the choir and was often given solo soprano parts.
‘Go on playing, Connie,’ Eliza urged, giving her an encouraging push towards the piano, but Connie shook her head.
‘I just wanted to play a few bars. Aunt Vicky will soon be here to fetch me.’
‘Come and have a cup of tea in the conservatory. Maybe Miss Fairchild will join us when she arrives.’
That seemed to satisfy Connie, who, although she was shy, retiring and undersized, was possessed of a formidable will of her own. However, when they reached the conservatory George had returned and was sitting by the tea tray. The sight of him seemed to throw Connie into immediate confusion, and she turned to go back into the house again.
Eliza held out her hand, which Connie quickly grasped, and as she drew the young girl gently into the conservatory Eliza thought that the trouble with living in such close proximity to an elderly spinster was that one became like one, especially a young, withdrawn, socially unaware child like Connie. Clearly she was frightened of men and didn’t mix easily with her young relations.
‘Hello, Connie,’ George said rising as the two females entered the conservatory. ‘I heard your playing. It was magnificent.’
‘Thank you, George.’ Connie blushed to the roots of her hair and stared fixedly at her shoes.
‘Shall you take it up professionally?’
‘Oh no,’ Connie said hastily. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘You mean she could teach the piano, George?’ Eliza enquired, pouring fresh tea.
‘Or play it,’ George said, resuming his seat. ‘Clara Schumann was a very accomplished pianist who performed in public.’
‘Oh, I don’t think I should like that!’ Connie said, nervously screwing up her handkerchief in her hands.
‘But why not?’ George asked kindly.
‘I’m too shy,’ Connie replied. ‘I hate playing at school, or singing solo in the choir. I hate it, but sometimes I must do it.’
‘That’s a good child,’ George said gently, and then he sat looking speculatively at her for some time as though seeing aspects of her he had not been aware of before.
Connie was no beauty; she took after her mother, whose looks had not been her strong point. She had straight brown hair which her maid nightly put into rags in order to try and beautify her. She wore steel-rimmed spectacles and yet her eyes were perpetually screwed up as though the optician had prescribed the wrong prescription and she couldn’t see properly. The consequence was that her face wore an expression of perpetual bewilderment which made her seem dull, or even slightly retarded, which was far from the case.
‘Aren’t you riding, George?’ Eliza enquired.
‘None of them want to come, and I have to return home soon anyway.’
‘Oh well, I’m sure your father will have got over the shock and you will find him in a better disposition.’
‘I hope so.’ George drained his cup and got up. He bent over to kiss Eliza on the cheek and then turned to Connie, who shrank back in her chair.
‘Goodbye, Connie.’ George didn’t attempt to kiss her but stood gazing at her again. ‘You know that “Amadeus” means beloved by God? I’m sure it applies to you as well as to the divine Mozart, whose second name it was.’
At this compliment Connie blushed violently, and squeezed her eyes together as though she could obliterate herself from their sight.
Eliza gave George a knowing smile – Connie’s bashfulness was well known in the family – and, rising, took his arm as she saw him to the door.
‘Sometimes she’s so nervous and bashful I fear for her. Even the company of her contemporaries upsets her.’
‘That’s why she’s so happy with Miss Fairchild,’ George said. ‘She is no threat to our dear Connie, who is so unaware of her gift that she feels threatened by other children. I’m afraid she will be a spinster like Miss Fairchild, but who knows? I am very fond of Connie and wish I could draw her out more.’
‘Maybe when she’s older you will,’ Eliza said encouragingly, patting his lapel. ‘Now don’t let your father upset you.’
‘I’ll be going to Cambridge next year anyway.’ He stood with her at the front door, his hands in his pockets. ‘Mother insists on that, and I agree.’
‘You will definitely drop Classics for Theology?’
‘Yes I will, or I may combine both. A knowledge of the Scriptures in the original languages will be of great benefit to me. Thank you for your support, Aunt Eliza.’ He kissed her again.
‘I’ll have a word with Guy if I get the chance,’ Eliza said, and as Ted brought round George’s horse she watched him mount it and ride away.
When she returned to the conservatory Connie appeared to have recovered her composure and sat there drinking tea.
‘What is George afraid of?’ she asked, looking at Eliza.
‘He wishes to become a minister of the Church and his father is unhappy about it’
‘Why?’ Connie chose a cake from the plate, carefully examining it with her myopic eyes as if inspecting it for imperfections. She seemed quite happy and at ease now that she was alone with her sister-in-law.
Eliza resumed her seat next to her. ‘He is his father’s heir. One day he will be Sir George.’
‘But he can still be a minister, can’t he?’
‘Oh yes; but supposing he is sent to an industrial parish or somewhere far away, perhaps overseas? I think it likely that, by the time his father dies, George will be quite happy to serve in the parish of his ancestors. Guy is a comparatively young man.’ Eliza suddenly looked as though she had had a good idea. ‘I shall put that to Guy when I have the chance to speak to him. It doesn’t mean that George will leave Pelham’s Oak for ever, or be unable to look after the estate. Guy was very young when he inherited. Our father was a sickly man, but Guy is robust. For that reason George may be quite old when he succeeds to the title.’
Connie screwed up her eyes as if choosing her words with great care. ‘I find it very difficult, Eliza, to think of you as a Woodville, growing up in that huge house.’
‘Why is that?’ Eliza said laughing, but she could already guess the answer.
‘You are so unstuffy. I like Lady Woodville well enough, and she is always most kind to me; but I can never forget who she is or where she lives. With you I never think of it. But I love you,’ she added, and the spontaneity of the remark went straight to Eliza’s heart. She leaned across and took Connie’s hand in hers.
‘And I love you,’ she whispered. ‘Tell me, are you happy, Connie? Are you really happy with Miss Fairchild?’
‘Oh, I love Aunt Vicky,’ Connie cried, clasping her hands together. ‘I am very happy with her. But,’ she folded her hands, and her eyes filled with nostalgia, ‘but I do so miss Papa I loved him very much and no one will ever take his place.’ She gave a deep sigh and her expression became practical again. ‘Aunt Vicky may look odd, and she does speak in a peculiar way, and has a funny lip, but she is the most beautiful person inside. Besides her goodness, she is full of fun and understanding.’ Connie paused and her expression changed. ‘And she is very good to me. She understands me. Not many people do.’
‘Oh, Connie,’ Eliza said, abashed.
‘You do, Eli
za,’ Connie hastened to reassure her, ‘but you and Aunt Vicky and Mrs Lamb are about the only ones. Miss Bishop is kind, but none of my school friends understand me. In fact I don’t think I have any. I never invite them home to tea, and they never invite me.’
‘Well, perhaps you should invite them and they’ll invite you back,’ Eliza said encouragingly.
‘But I don’t really like them. I think they’re childish and silly.’
‘Well, that’s it then, isn’t it? They realise that.’
‘Do you think they do?’ Connie turned to stare owlishly at her.
‘Oh yes, without any doubt. They may be a little afraid of you, and ... Oh, but here is Miss Fairchild.’ Eliza got quickly to her feet as Miss Fairchild, driving her own pony and trap, stopped in front of the porch.
She was already standing on the ground dusting herself energetically when Eliza arrived, but even then Connie was there first.
‘Oh, there you are, dear,’ Miss Fairchild said, her thin lips breaking into a smile, and as Connie rose on tiptoe to kiss her Eliza realised the strength of the bond was certainly that of mother and daughter.
They had, indeed, found each other.
‘Will you come in and have a cup of tea, Miss Fairchild?’ Eliza asked, pointing towards the conservatory. ‘My nephew George Woodville has just left us, and Connie and I were having a chat.’
‘Well, that’s very kind.’ Miss Fairchild turned to the stable lad who was patiently holding the pony. ‘Maybe you’d look after him for me, would you, while I accept Mrs Yetman’s kind invitation? And maybe Connie will go with you?’
‘Certainly, ma’am.’ The boy led the pony and trap round to the back of the house while Connie, sensing that Miss Fairchild wished to be alone with Eliza, trotted obediently after him.
‘That seems a nice young man,’ Miss Fairchild observed as she followed Eliza into the conservatory. ‘I don’t think I saw him before?’
The People of This Parish (Part One of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 42