Guy fell to his knees and, the tears streaming down his face, began to intone the words of the Lord’s Prayer.
Silently George dropped down beside him and joined his hands together, convinced he was witnessing a miracle.
Prosper Martyn loved his beautiful wife, and he dearly wanted her to bear his child. Yet after several years of marriage their union remained fruitless, and he was no longer a young man, though Lally was still young enough to bear children.
His marriage coincided with a burst of expansion in the Martyn-Heering business, which was growing into one of the great institutions of the City, employing several thousand people worldwide. There was trade with the East Indies and the West Indies, the Indian subcontinent, Russia and the Baltic States. Ships from the Martyn-Heering fleets sailed to North and South America, and as far away as Australia and New Zealand. The warehouses on the Thames were bursting at the seams, and the bank in Threadneedle Street had expanded so fast that already they were looking for larger premises.
Julius and Prosper were partners, equal in seniority, neither of them young and both without an heir. But as they were both religious men they kept their grief to themselves, ascribing it to the will of God.
In every other way Lally was the perfect wife for a man who had married late, who was settled in his ways, already wealthy, and wanted an intelligent partner, a woman of the world, rather than the plaything that many men seemed to like their wives to be.
So completely successful had been her transformation into a lady that he had almost forgotten that she had once graced the boards of the Alhambra, and walked the streets of Soho and Covent Garden selling her body.
Those days were long past; he seldom thought of them now and as he let himself in through the front door of the house in Montagu Square, after another successful trip abroad, he felt it was good to be home. He relished the idea of dinner alone with his adored wife and then early retirement to the raptures of bed.
It was late afternoon, he was earlier than expected, and the hall was in semi-darkness. It was the time when the servants were usually allowed to rest before preparing the evening meal, though there had been a light in the basement and he knew that Cook would already be at work in the kitchen, labouring for the master of the house. Perhaps Lally, too, was upstairs resting, or making one of her visits to her furrier, her dressmaker, milliner or jeweller. He put down his valise and, on top of it, his hat and coat and, smoothing his grey hair, went into the drawing room to order tea.
In the corner of the room he perceived a youth sitting in a chair caressing Coral, Lally’s cat, who showed every sign of enjoying the attention, stretching out her claws in ecstasy and almost smiling in Prosper’s direction. This in itself was unusual enough, for if Prosper attempted to touch the cat she leapt a mile and, with an indignant squawk, either rushed out of the room or took cover.
Coral was lying in the boy’s lap and the boy was stroking her, apparently unaware of Prosper’s presence until he coughed. The boy looked up at last and, quickly putting Coral on the floor, stood up, brushing his thick blond curls away from his forehead.
He was an extraordinarily handsome youth, lithe and tall; one day he would be taller than Prosper. He wore a grey suit with an elegant thin pinstripe, a white shirt with a stiff collar and a tie. He looked embarrassed as he stood gravely contemplating the newcomer, and as he came over to him he put out a hand.
‘Good afternoon, sir,’ he said. ‘You must be Uncle Prosper.’
He spoke with such an atrocious Cockney accent – an accent that completely belied his appearance –that Prosper winced. Apart from this disadvantage the effect that the boy made was charming.
‘And who are you?’ he asked pleasantly, taking the boy’s hand. ‘I was not aware ...
‘Mrs Martyn is my Aunt Lally.’
‘Indeed?’ Prosper, feeling thoroughly confused, crossed to the fireplace and rang the bell for tea. ‘This is a surprise to me, I must say. Maybe she will ...’
At that moment there was a commotion in front of the house as the carriage appeared and Lally jumped out before the coachman, or the footman from the house, had time to open the door. She was laden with parcels, and there were more to follow. He could hear her chattering all the way until, obviously seeing his things in the hall, she gave a small scream and he heard, ‘Oh my goodness!’
She then came rushing into the drawing room, still in her coat and hat, and threw herself into the arms open to receive her. ‘My darling,’ she cried, ‘you’re early.’
‘I caught an earlier train from Dover, my dear,’ he said, smiling tenderly into her eyes.
‘And there was no one at Victoria to meet you,’ she pouted.
‘I caught a cab, and –’ he turned towards Roger, who was standing, hands shyly clasped in front of him, a few feet away ‘– what a surprise awaited me. A nephew! Fancy.’
‘Oh dear!’ Lally looked embarrassed and confused, but still very charming, her high colour accentuating her blonde beauty.
‘I had meant to prepare you, dearest. You knew absolutely nothing about Roger.’
‘Absolutely nothing. But we have introduced ourselves,’ Prosper said calmly.
‘He is my nephew,’ Lally explained hastily. ‘I had an unexpected call from my sister.’
‘I didn’t know you had a sister, my dearest Lally.’ Prosper carefully helped her off with her coat. ‘You have never mentioned her before.’
‘That’s why I wanted to see you, dearest, to explain. Oh!’ She threw herself into his arms and hugged him tightly. ‘Please don’t be cross with your Lally. Roger is a dear, dear boy and I already love him. So will you.’
‘Your cat certainly loves him too.’ Prosper gently disengaged himself from his wife’s embrace. ‘That is most singular. I think it even makes me a little jealous. Do you know,’ he said, to draw Roger into the conversation, ‘that animal never even lets me touch her.’
‘She does love me, sir,’ Roger said with a remarkable lack of tact, and, to demonstrate it, he picked Coral up and pressed his face against hers. ‘And I love her.’
‘I can see your nephew was deprived, Lally dear,’ Prosper remarked after studying him thoughtfully for a moment. ‘You must tell me all about him. Incidentally, how long is he staying?’
‘That is what is not certain, dear,’ Lally said a little timorously. ‘I thought I would discuss it with you.’
‘Well, if he is to stay with us for any length of time he will have to get rid of that appalling accent,’ Prosper said sharply. Then as the footman came in he gave orders for tea.
Roger stood stroking the cat, aware that Aunt Lally was lying; that she was hiding something, possibly quite mysteriously to do with him and that, despite his politeness, her husband was displeased. Roger, who knew all about this kind of thing, could sense a row in the air.
He suddenly thought of his adoptive brothers and sisters and the warm, ramshackle house in Kentish Town, and he felt a wave of nostalgia overwhelm him.
He liked his aunt, but his uncle was a man to whom he was not drawn and, he was sure, who was not drawn to him despite his politeness. He could sense a rivalry for the affections of his aunt, and he wondered how secure he was in a place he admired but did not love.
Roger felt like a branch cut off from a tree; a possession who was dressed up, admired for his looks, mocked for his accent and, he feared, could be punished at the whim of his uncle or aunt.
It was a dangerous, insecure feeling, and he sat down again clutching the cat, as far away as he could from his uncle, who was opening the mail, still with an expression of displeasure on his face. Aunt Lally, meanwhile, disappeared to change into yet another tea gown – she wore a different one every day – to repair the ravages to her complexion after a day out of doors, and maybe to have a word with Cook about the evening meal.
While she was out Uncle Prosper said nothing to Roger but opened the envelopes, with care, one after the other, briefly perusing the contents before discardi
ng the letter on to a table and opening another.
He suddenly stood up with a sharp exclamation and, as Lally entered and put on the lights, looking fresh and beautiful, a bright smile on her lovely face, she saw his expression and stopped, a hand flying to her mouth.
‘Is it bad news, Prosper? Your face looks quite awful. You are ashen, my dear.’
‘Oh, Lally.’ Prosper reached out to the mantelpiece and leaned heavily on it. ‘What terrible, terrible news.’ He pointed to the letter in his hand and fluttered it in front of her. ‘My poor little great-niece, Emily Woodville, is dead, suddenly carried away by the scarlet fever.’
20
Emily was only twelve years of age when she died. She could be said to have made no mark in life except in the hearts of her sorrowing family, especially her father, who was nearly demented by her death. It had happened suddenly in the middle of the night, when she was thought to be getting better. Even her mother had gone, at last, to her bed to rest. She was awoken by a maid, but it was too late.
Ironically, Emily’s friend, Sarah Wills, from whom she had caught the illness, made a complete recovery, but was considered too upset to attend the funeral.
Once again the people of Wenham had gathered in the streets, listening to the muffled tolling of the bell, as yet another member of the Woodville/Yetman families made her last voyage to the family church, struck down before her time.
Emily had been too young to be well known by the people of the town. Those who did know her considered her a little too haughty, even for a Woodville, but what did that matter now? Life had been snuffed out, and with it her potential, so that no one would ever know what sort of person she might have become.
She was young, too young to die, and she was mourned. Her only memorial would be the marble figure of an angel in the churchyard with folded wings, gazing in perpetuity towards the family vault.
Eliza felt, as she followed the coffin into the church and then afterwards to the Woodville vault for the committal, that she had seen too many funerals in too short a time. There were too many sad things in her life; too much had gone wrong. Next to her was Guy, shoulders bowed, who seemed in a few short days to have aged ten years. On the other side George, with his strong Christian faith, was endeavouring to give him the strength that only he seemed to be able to give. Margaret, though grief-stricken, was erect, noble and dignified. Eliza thought, as she clung tightly to Dora’s hand, that one could not imagine anything happening that would cause that rigid façade to crack.
It was summer but it was bleak; a bleak English summer’s day with everyone well wrapped up against the biting wind that blew on the hillside as Emily’s coffin was placed in the family vault above that of her grandfather.
The Woodvilles were the only family in the parish with their own vault, which was a huge stone edifice with an iron door that remained barred between burials, and surrounded by a wrought-iron rail.
The Woodville mausoleum housed the remains of the first Woodvilles, their bones now reposing in urns, which was the fate of all the skeletons after a suitable period of time to ensure that there was room for members of the family who followed them.
The names of the interred were engraved on the outside of the mausoleum, the first being Christopher Woodville, followed by his two wives (one after the other); then Pelham, his wife and daughter, and Charles, who completed the magnificent house begun by his father. Then others, the last being Sir Matthew, the engraving looking quite new, and the next name would be that of his young granddaughter who did not live to grow old.
Margaret and George followed the coffin into the vault to see it into its place, while Guy remained sobbing in his sister’s arms.
Julius Heering, standing next to Eliza, observed her distress at being unable to comfort the grieving father. He caught Eliza’s eye, and she saw in his eyes an unexpected depth of sympathy that was directed not just at Guy, but at her too. He was a man who had known grief, he seemed to be telling her, and he understood not only about Emily, but about everything that had gone before. She looked quickly away, recalling the last time they had spoken, the abrupt way she had terminated their interview.
On her other side, tightly clutching the hand of Miss Fairchild, was Connie, not understanding about death but knowing that she would never see Emily again. She hung her head as the coffin was borne aloft into the vault, and wept bitterly.
All the young relations attended the funeral, and all of them, except Connie, managed not to cry, perhaps because they were, by now, getting used to death. Connie had attended neither Ryder’s nor her father’s funeral and, protected by Miss Fairchild, she was ushered away before the orderly withdrawal from the cemetery began.
After the interment Eliza sent her children back home while she rode with Margaret and Guy in the family carriage to Pelham’s Oak. Guy leaned back against the seat sobbing, his eyes closed, his lids swollen with tears. Next to him Margaret held his hand, pressing it from time to time in a mechanical fashion as though she knew it was impossible to comfort him.
The whole house was shrouded in funereal gloom, with blinds drawn and black ribbon and crepe draped everywhere. Feeling the beginnings of a headache, Eliza turned and saw Julius by her elbow.
‘I think you have not forgiven me,’ he said, handing her the cup of tea which he carried in his hand. ‘You seem to be avoiding me.’
‘Oh thank you, that’s just what I needed,’ Eliza said with a wan smile. ‘It has been such an awful day that I have a headache.’ Thankfully she drank the tea and then, giving the empty cup to a passing footman, looked at Julius. ‘Why should I be avoiding you?’
‘I think you know why.’
‘That was a while ago. I’m sure you meant no harm.’
‘I didn’t, but I was clumsy. My greatest grief is that I offended you, because I have such a high regard for you, Eliza.’
‘Please ...’ she said looking at him, the strain on her face showing all too clearly.
‘I assure you –’ he put out a hand ‘– it is not my intention to refer again to anything that might distress you, and today is certainly not the day, so soon after the loss of darling little Emily. The house still seems full of her. I can’t believe she’s gone.’
‘I don’t think any of us can.’ Eliza felt a lump come to her throat. ‘That she should be taken so suddenly is too cruel. I can’t think what it will do to Guy. He adored her.’
Julius stood looking awkwardly at Eliza as if he didn’t know how to continue. He was used to meeting people of all kinds and at ease in any company, yet Eliza made him feel tongue-tied. There was something about the composed, dark-haired, dark-eyed woman with her unconventional past that he found increasingly attractive. He wanted to communicate to her some sense of his own needs and desires; to tell her that he thought of her almost every day and often dreamt of her.
If he could have got close enough to her, he would have told her that he thought he was in love with her. But he doubted that she could ever feel the same about him.
‘I shall be going away soon,’ he said suddenly. ‘There is much business in the Far East, particularly in Hong Kong and Shanghai, and I intend to spend some time there; maybe acquire a home and settle.’
‘And not live here in the beautiful house you built?’ Eliza looked surprised.
‘Do you blame me?’
‘I don’t think Ryder’s death should deter you from living there. It was not you who brought that about.’
‘You really feel that, Eliza?’
‘Yes, I do. If anything, I think he would want you to live in the house he built, the last thing he did before he died.’ She spoke without emotion.’ He would want you to appreciate all the hard work he put into it.’
At that moment Prosper and Lally appeared from the crowd, kissed Eliza, acknowledged Julius, and began to talk mournfully about Emily.
‘She was such a favourite of mine,’ Prosper said sadly. ‘I cannot believe it. As for Guy, he will never recover ...’
She was a simple woman who liked things to be simple too. She wanted people she liked to get on well, people she didn’t like to be mutually antipathetic. Lally’s world was full of clear colours, there were no in-between shades of grey and brown.
Lally had been glad to get away even for a funeral, and then she had started to weep all over again at the sight of the sad cortège and the stricken faces of Emily’s family.
She threw herself into Eliza’s arms as though she were the one who had been bereaved, and Eliza offered her comfort, soothing words, as she had to the various members of the family in the days since Emily’s death.
Prosper was looking at Margaret moving quietly among the crowd of people pressing forward to offer condolences.
‘She is such a brave woman,’ he said. ‘She seems intent on giving consolation to others, with never a thought for herself.’
‘My sister has very great powers of self-control,’ Julius said a little sadly. ‘People sometimes think that she herself feels nothing, but of course she does. She has to be strong today, especially, because Guy is weak ...’
‘Guy is not weak,’ Eliza exclaimed furiously. ‘He is a completely different sort of person from Margaret. He is nervous and highly strung, and he especially adored Emily as his only daughter. If you had one of your own perhaps you’d know how Guy feels.’
As soon as the words were out of her mouth she clapped a hand to it as though she regretted what she’d said. ‘I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have said that.’
‘I know what you mean,’ Julius replied, ‘and I shouldn’t have said what I did. Maybe we’re quits?’ Looking at her beseechingly, he whispered: ‘And, once again, may we be friends?’
The People of This Parish (Part One of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 45