Ever since the death of his daughter, Guy Woodville had got into the habit of visiting the Rectory at Wenham every two or three weeks to seek comfort from the Rector and to try and fathom, if he could, God’s mysterious ways.
George had gradually convinced his father that the Rector was not what he seemed. Instead of an angry ogre breathing fire and brimstone Guy was persuaded, little by little, that beneath his forbidding exterior the Rector was inspired with the true Christ-like spirit. He had a deep knowledge and understanding of the ways of God, and was accordingly able to explain why so perfect a life had been snuffed out. Why had Sarah, who brought the infection, been spared and not Emily? Was God fair?
Over the months Sir Guy became well acquainted with the Reverend Lamb. He came to like and admire him, and also to depend on him. He would consult the Rector not only on spiritual matters, but also about his household, his relations with his wife and sons, with his sister and his by now very truculent and feeble mother.
Consequently the Rector got to know a good deal more than anyone else in Wenham about the Woodville family, and about the Yetmans, the Martyns and the Heerings as well. He knew almost everything that went on and, of course, he shared this knowledge with his wife in deepest confidence and within the sanctity of the marital bond. Consequently it was only to be expected that, from time to time, she would let fall a passing remark to one of her acquaintances encountered in the course of the many good works with which she filled her busy days.
In time everything that happened in any of these households became common knowledge in Wenham, so that the whole town knew about Julius’s romantic interest in Eliza almost before she knew about it herself. Why else, Sir Guy asked the Rector in the course of his conversation about the workings of the Divine Will, did Julius hang about his house but for the purpose of seeing his sister on one of her frequent visits, with or without her children?
The fact was that, in the course of that year, the Yetman children came to know Julius Heering very well; they liked him as a person and, between themselves, they agreed that they would not have objected if he took the place of the father they all still loved and venerated. They knew their mother was lonely, and that she was concealing her perpetual worry about money beneath her usual veneer of calm and good cheer.
Thanks to Guy’s friendship with the Reverend Lamb, the town also got to know that when he left school Laurence Yetman was going to be apprenticed to a builder who was none other than Perce Adams. The nephew of the snobbish, prosperous Woodvilles was going to be a mere builder’s labourer.
The good citizens also learned that Prosper and Lally Martyn had mysteriously adopted a son, who was already at school at Rugby, and being groomed for his new father’s business in the City of London. They knew that Mrs Martyn hated the country and only came there for the sake of her husband, who was a Dorset man.
In time the gossip got back to Guy who, forgetting that he was the source –indeed, in its passage around the town the truth was often embellished – would often ask the Rector where the information came from when it was fed back to him. He was particularly exercised that his nephew, who had Woodville blood in him, would, despite a good academic record, become a humble artisan, a thatcher like his father.
When he was at home George Woodville liked, if he could, to accompany his father on his visits to the Rectory because he found conversation with the Rector’s daughter even more enlightening than talking with her father. While their fathers conversed in the drawing room, the two young people would walk in the garden, among the trees in the shrubbery, or through the orchard seeking enlightenment about the ways of God and the meaning and purpose of life.
Sophie Lamb was an exceptional woman. She was by now twenty-three to George’s eighteen, and she had already undergone a course of further Bible study at a missionary college in Wimbledon, from where she had hoped to be sent abroad to spread the Word.
However, her parents, thinking, not without reason, this world to be a dark and dangerous place, full of pitfalls for the just as well as the unjust, refused to countenance the idea that their precious daughter should travel so far afield, even in the company of like-minded people; because, of course, she could not go alone.
No amount of pleading on her part would change her parents’ minds, so even though she was of age Sophie, who was an obedient, dutiful daughter who would never dream of distressing those she loved, was forced to remain in Wenham. She sought consolation by taking Bible classes, teaching at the village school and, increasingly, delighting in the company of George Woodville. Like her father, he was destined for the ministry, and in time perhaps for the mission fields where she longed so much to venture herself.
Guy Woodville became mistrustful of these encounters between George and the Rector’s daughter. Although he liked Sophie well enough, he certainly did not relish the prospect of seeing her occupying, one day, the position now held by his wife.
Yet he found it impossible to talk to George about it, and, as he dared not mention it to Margaret, he decided he would have to await events, and leave it in God’s hands.
Guy sat opposite the Rector, his friend the good Mr Lamb, discoursing with him about the ways of God and man. He had his large handkerchief ready in his hand because from time to time inevitably he had to dab his eyes. It was still impossible for him to understand why Emily had been taken: so young, so lovely, so full of promise. Impossible too, despite his efforts, for the Rector to provide him with sufficient reason, except that it lay within the great goodness and mercy of God.
‘Think of the evil she was spared,’ the Rector said, ‘the wickedness and degradation of the world. A virgin, glorious in her goodness and purity, she would have been wafted straight to the throne of the Almighty without a sin on her pure soul.’
Moved by the Rector’s words, Guy buried his face yet again in his handkerchief. Then, quite inexplicably, he suddenly thought of Agnes, a young woman (although much older than his daughter) whom he had defiled. Suddenly the weight of his guilt for that far-off sin seemed to sit upon him like an enormous boulder, and he wept again.
They were sitting as usual in the Rector’s large study, which overlooked the lawn sloping down to the river. In front of them, on a bench in the garden, George and Sophie were deep in conversation. George’s good-natured face was turned towards her, and he looked quite animated, the gold of his spectacles gleaming in the sun.
‘There there, my friend,’ the Rector said, rising. Had he been a doctor, he thought, he would by this time have sent Sir Guy quite a large bill for the number of consultations he had given him. Immediately that man of God banished the unworthy thought. He was on this earth, after all, to comfort the afflicted, not to line his pockets, though there was the fabric of the church to think of, the upkeep of the rectory and its large number of servants, the prodigious amount of entertaining he and Mrs Lamb had to do to maintain the goodwill of the wealthier members of the congregation.
‘You and Lady Woodville must come to dine with us one night, Sir Guy,’ he said, hoping to take the penitent’s mind off his misery and, although the Rector did not know it, a fresh attack of guilt. ‘I think you will find that we keep a good table.’
‘Most kind of you,’ Guy said, wiping his aching eyes. ‘Ah, dear Rector, when will God send me comfort and allow my soul to rest?’
‘In time, Sir Guy.’ The Rector looked surreptitiously at his watch. ‘Ah, I think I see Mrs Lamb out in the garden about to offer us tea. Could I prevail upon you ...’
‘That is very good of you, Rector.’ Sir Guy reluctantly stuffed his large handkerchief up his sleeve, knowing his time was up. ‘But I am to take tea with my sister today. I promised her I’d call on the way home.’
‘Then at least let us have the pleasure of keeping George with us. He and my daughter get on remarkably well.’
‘Do they not?’ Guy said, looking with dismay at the young people discoursing earnestly in front of them. Suddenly an uncomfortable awareness came to
him of the possible implications if George were to become enamoured of the Rector’s daughter, whose religious zeal was equal to his own, he and Mr and Mrs Lamb would be related. The Rector would then develop a sense of intimacy that would go beyond the bounds of his calling and perhaps become familiar; he might even wish to address him as Guy. Guy believed that every man, and woman, had a station in life, and that’s how he liked it: cloth and gentry should not mix. Much as he admired the Rector as a man of God, he would not like to be forced into too close a proximity to the Lambs.
Shaken by the thought, Guy followed the Rector on to the lawn, from where it was possible to see the slate roof of Riversmead some distance below them. A narrow path ran down the side of the Rectory towards the river, but Guy had his carriage waiting for him outside the front door.
‘George,’ he called out to his son, who leapt up when he saw his father, ‘I am going now to see your Aunt Eliza. The Rector has kindly invited you to stay for tea.’
‘Most kind,’ George said, looking gratified and bowing to the Rector and then to his wife, who was smiling broadly. An alliance between her daughter and the heir to the Woodville baronetcy was, of course, beyond her wildest dreams, their disparity in age made it out of the question, and yet ...
George saw his father to his carriage, promised that he would follow soon, taking the path by the side of the Rectory, and returned to the lawn, where a table had been laid and a delicious selection of sandwiches, cakes and biscuits were being offered by the servants while Mrs Lamb fussed over the large silver teapot.
The Rector’s wife sat there in her hat looking as though she were about to open a bazaar, though in fact she was not going out at all again that day. Sophie had her brown hair arranged on top of her head in a loose bun. Despite the fact that it was a summer’s day her long dress was fastened at the throat, though it was ruched prettily with lace at the neck and wrists and was in a summery material, softly patterned so that she did not look at all hot. One could imagine her, strong and serene, with the black natives gathered about her knees longing for the word of the Lord. George thought she looked splendid – capable and also alluring: that neat, erect bosom, just a little larger than those of most females of his acquaintance, was certainly something to give a man thought, especially at night.
‘How I grieve for your poor father,’ Mrs Lamb said, handing a cup to George. ‘I have never seen a man so bowed down by grief.’
‘And yet you, George, thanks to your faith, have come through it well,’ the Rector said, looking at him with approval.
‘I did not have the same relationship with Emily.’ George accepted the sugar bowl with a special smile from Sophie. ‘I loved her, of course, but my father worshipped her.’
‘That in itself was wrong,’ the Rector said reprovingly. ‘People are to be loved, but only God is to be worshipped.’ The Rector tucked his napkin into the top of his waistcoat and helped himself to several sandwiches at the same time. He was a heavy man and a greedy one; he suffered from gout and bronchitis, but he loved his way of life, the comforts, temporal as well as spiritual, that it brought and he was not afraid to die. ‘I think God may have used Emily to bring your father to Him. Emily is in heaven, no doubt of that, but your father ...’ The Rector shook his head. ‘He was not a God-fearing man. Now he has been touched by the hand of the Lord.’
‘How cruel, Father, to think that God would use the death of a young girl to bring about such a transformation,’ Sophie protested, largely because she thought she saw a look of anger in George’s eyes.
‘Oh no, my dear,’ the Rector said, his mouth full of sandwich as his hand reached out for more, ‘not at all. God works in mysterious ways his wonders to perform. Who are we to know the mind of God? By the way,’ he went on, looking at George, ‘I have asked your father if he and your mother would care to dine with us. We keep a good table. Of course we should be glad of your company as well.’
‘How kind of you, sir,’ George said, his smile of pleasure directed at Sophie. ‘I can think of nothing that I would like better.’
Sophie thought that he was addressing his remark to her, and her heart suddenly seemed to somersault with joy.
Guy sat with his sister on the lawn at Riversmead, enjoying almost the same view as could be seen from the Rectory, only lower down. The fare provided by Eliza was not quite so lavish as that George was partaking of with the Lambs, but Guy’s mind was not on his food. He was in a carping, rather petulant mood despite the uplifting conversation he had had with the Rector. Suddenly his mind had become strangely preoccupied with the fate of Agnes, and the child he had left her with.
But there was, as well, the question of the name of the Woodvilles and the respect in the community that had been enjoyed by them for generations.
‘Laurence may not be a Woodville in name,’ he said to his sister, coming straight to the point with the arrival of tea, ‘but he is my nephew. How can my nephew become a common labourer? Even the Rector does not approve.’
‘Oh, you talk about family matters with him too?’ Eliza gave him a scornful look.
‘I talk to the Rector about everything that concerns my soul, and daily events affect me and my spiritual welfare. I am all for giving aid to the poor, but there is also the question of the station a person occupies in life, and I think no one will deny that is right and proper. George is an Etonian. I hope Carson will follow him there too, although I must say at the moment it doesn’t seem likely.’ He paused to dwell gloomily on his younger son. ‘However, my sons have been brought up as gentlemen. How can Laurence, of whom, I must say, I have always been fond, so debase the family name?’
‘I don’t think being a labourer, as you term it, debases the family name,’ Eliza said with some asperity. ‘Even Jesus was a carpenter.’
‘My dear, that is allegory.’ Guy dismissed the notion with a wave of his hand.
‘Laurence is simply to learn from the bottom.’
‘I blame Julius, my brother-in-law, for this. He has put up some money so that my nephew can serve an apprenticeship with Perce Adams of all people.’
‘And what is wrong with Mr Adams?’
‘He is nobody. How can my own nephew possibly be apprenticed to someone like that?’
‘Because he is very good at what he does.’ Eliza pursed her lips angrily. ‘I had no idea Julius had finally put up some money.’
‘Oh yes, it is capitalised – not much, but enough.’
‘He might have had the courtesy to tell me.’
‘I think he tried, but you were against it.’
‘Using the Yetman name.’
‘Laurence is a Yetman. In a few years he will be head of the family. Yet although Julius interferes he has a good heart. He means well. He is a very good man, you know, Eliza. He has your family welfare very much at heart.’
‘So it seems.’ Eliza did not sound convinced. ‘But if your family has some money in it,’ she went on after a while, ‘I can’t see why it upsets you, Guy. That should make it most respectable. Besides, the Heering/Martyn families are in trade, and building is a trade.’
‘It is not the same thing at all,’ Guy snapped. ‘They are millionaires. They are the merchant adventurers of today, as our ancestors were in the sixteenth century. Anyway, Laurence should go to Cambridge or Oxford, I don’t mind which. He is doing well at school.’
‘We have no money.’
‘Julius would have lent it to you.’
‘Do you think I could possibly ask him?’ Eliza asked heatedly, jumping up.
‘No use coming to me,’ Guy grumbled. ‘Margaret keeps me very short. Her hand is always on the purse strings. Well ... the estate is in good order now. George will want for nothing.’
‘I would never dream of coming to you either, you know that.’ Eliza sat down again.
‘Yes, my dear, that’s all very well, but how will you manage?’ Guy looked towards the house. ‘The place is rotten. It needs hundreds of pounds spent on it. Margaret says that
she gives you clothes for the children.’
‘Yes she does, and I am not too proud to accept. They are hardly ever worn and in good condition. Dora’s I make myself. Anyway, as you say, in a few years Laurence will be a trained builder, a master thatcher like his father. He has promised to repair this house.’
‘By that time it will have fallen down.’
‘What is the matter with you today, Guy?’ Eliza looked at him keenly. ‘You seem more than usually out of sorts. I thought the Rector provided some help and comfort to you?’
‘He does, he does.’ Guy sighed loudly. ‘He is an excellent man, a true man of God. I don’t know why, Eliza, but, do you know, today I suddenly started to think about Agnes. I have committed many sins in the past, and she was one of the biggest. I think God took my Emily to punish me for that.’
‘Well, I don’t think he did,’ Eliza burst out angrily. ‘I think that is nonsense. I don’t think God works like that, not any more.’
She paused thoughtfully having long since abandoned the notion that Ryder’s death was a punishment from God: Annie McQueen had certainly helped it along.
‘But you are not a churchgoer, Eliza,’ Guy said reprovingly. ‘I don’t think you are even a believer. How do you know what God does and does not do?’
‘How do you?’ Eliza replied, looking at him.
‘Through the Rector. He interprets the will of God for me.’
‘And did you tell him about Agnes?’ Eliza asked slyly.
‘Goodness me, no! I don’t think he would consider that a sin that God would ever forgive. Do you ... do you ever hear from her, Eliza?’ His eyes watered a little as though he were again on the verge of tears.
‘Never.’ Eliza shook her head, but she found that her mind was in a turmoil; the question was so unexpected. She had often wondered what Guy would do if he knew about Elizabeth. But it had not seemed fair to burden him with her knowledge, nor was the time ever right to tell him. She had also thought it would not be fair to Elizabeth to know she had a father she could never visit, and who would never acknowledge her.
The People of This Parish (Part One of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 47