‘Did you ever ask yourself why God took Ryder from me?’ Eliza was anxious to divert her brother’s mind from the subject of Agnes.
‘No.’ Guy shook his head morosely. ‘Why do you ask?
‘Well, you seem to have a lot of answers. I wondered if you had the answer to that.’
Again Guy shook his head.
‘I don’t have all the answers, my dear sister. I became very fond of Ryder. It was a cruel blow and may have seemed to you at the time most unjust. But we do not question the whys and wherefores of God. We ...’
He stopped abruptly as a child came running around the house, scampering after a puppy who bounded in front of her. In the rear steamed Beth, out of breath with running. Just as the girl reached the lawn Beth caught her by the ribbons that flew behind her from her dress and sharply arrested her flight.
‘Now, missy,’ Beth said crossly, looking apologetically at Eliza and Guy, ‘I told you not to let that puppy out. He is untrained and will fall in the river. Then what will you do?’
Elizabeth put a fist in her eye and began to cry. She tried desperately to get away from the firm grip Beth had on her sash, but the more she pulled the harder Beth held on to her.
Elizabeth was strong willed and liked her own way. She stamped and bawled and, finally, looked up as Guy who had stood up at her outburst as one mesmerised. He walked over to her and, crouching by her side, put a hand round her waist.
‘Now, my little darling, what is it?’ he asked.
Elizabeth stopped immediately and looked at him in surprise, her eyes wide open, the tears glistening on her lashes like tiny pearl drops.
‘The puppy will fall in the river, as your mother said. Is that what you want?’ Guy sounded eminently reasonable.
‘No.’ Elizabeth put her arms trustingly round him, and pressed her face close to his.
‘Then go back with Mother,’ he said gently as, evidently deeply impressed by this spectacle and Guy’s undoubted authority, the puppy obediently wriggled over to him on its stomach in the hope of a pat on the head.
For a moment Guy clung to Elizabeth while, in the background, Eliza and Beth could merely watch. It was a moment, somehow, frozen in time and they would not forget it.
Then as Elizabeth, released from his embrace, ran back to Beth and disappeared round the corner of the house, Guy slowly returned to Eliza. Sitting down heavily, he leaned his head back and shut his eyes.
‘I often wondered why you gave that child a home,’ he said without looking at his sister. ‘Why you gave her a home, and fed her, when you had so many other mouths to feed ... He opened his eyes and looked at Eliza long and hard until the tears that had welled up started to run down his cheeks.
‘Now I know,’ he said in a weak voice. ‘She is Agnes’s daughter. For the first time I had the chance to look at her very carefully today and I saw it in her eyes.’
21
Guy returned home very much shaken after meeting for the first time a daughter who had been living for so many years within a few miles of him.
If he had ever doubted the working of the Divine Will, his doubts vanished forever that day. God had inspired him, had put the thought of Agnes into his mind and then had produced her daughter. Guy had even felt himself propelled out of the chair towards the little girl as she ran after her dog, and he had looked into her eyes, blue flecked with grey, just like Agnes’s. Then he knew.
It was a miracle, indeed, but not one that the recipient wished to be noised abroad. It was a secret which he was forced, for the moment, to share only with Eliza for, however understanding, he could not expect Margaret to receive in her house his daughter born out of wedlock to another woman.
Guy had grown to love his wife in a way he could never have imagined possible when he had married her eighteen years before. Margaret was like a rock: enduring, steadfast, dependable. She had turned the Woodville fortunes round, transformed Pelham’s Oak into one of the grandest as well as one of the most gracious, most tastefully furnished houses in the county, and she had made her husband content.
She was as much affected by their daughter’s death as he was, yet she didn’t show it; her many tears were shed in the privacy of her bedroom at night. People thought her hard, but she wasn’t; by her practical common sense she was felt to support the family when they needed her, even through that most painful time.
There was one aspect of family life, however, in which Margaret Woodville did consider herself a failure. She was unable to understand or control her younger son, Carson. He was naughty, he was wayward and yet his charm was so compulsive that even she was hardly able to believe the things she knew he was capable of: the pranks, the escapades, the downright wilfulness.
She daily expected to hear he was being sent home from the prep school where the Woodville sons had been educated for generations; but she knew that he was kept in check by the number of thrashings he got, and the undoubted influence over him of his housemaster. The holidays were a nightmare. He harried the servants, was rude to the maids, broke all the rules of the countryside in his reckless daredevil rides over farmland. He consorted with the gangs of unruly village boys and seemed to go from bad to worse.
Only Guy seemed unperturbed, remembering his own youth and how much he had changed.
‘He is a good boy,’ he would say. ‘You’ll see.’
Margaret noticed that her husband was preoccupied after his visit to the Rectory; but she imagined it was to do with the constant exposure of his grief, his embracing religion in a way that she considered excessive.
She thought there probably was a God and that he kept a benevolent eye on His creation, but her faith had been shaken by Emily’s death whereas Guy’s had been strengthened. It didn’t make sense to her.
‘Julius was here today,’ she called across the long table where they dined every night, regardless of who was there.
‘He comes and goes a lot,’ Guy said morosely.
‘Always hoping to see your sister.’
‘Eliza?’ Guy appeared to be having trouble with his hearing and leaned forward, cupping an ear in his hand.
‘He is very much in love with her. He told me all about it this afternoon while you and George were out.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘He has gone to Bournemouth to see the Martyn family. Julius says the company has so much money they don’t know what to do with it. They are going to start making charitable donations to worthy causes.’
‘Pity he doesn’t give some to Eliza,’ Guy observed grumpily. During their meal à deux the servants left the room and were summoned back instantly by the ringing of a bell which Margaret kept at her side.
‘He would gladly give it to Eliza,’ Margaret said, ‘but she will not have him.’
‘Has he asked her?’ Guy looked at his wife with interest. ‘She’s very proud.’
‘He has not properly asked for her hand in marriage because he is sure it will be refused.’
‘But why should she refuse Julius?’ Guy appeared quite cheered up by the news. ‘He is an admirable man. Eliza should consider herself very lucky and not be so choosy. Ryder was hardly a fine match.’
‘For her Ryder was a very fine match.’ Margaret’s reply was spirited. ‘He was ideal. Julius, of course, is my brother and I’m prejudiced. I think he and Eliza well suited. He would give her stability and protection, and of course his fortune is immense. Why is she offhand with him? Could you ask her, Guy?’
‘No, I could not,’ Guy said firmly. ‘I couldn’t ask her that sort of thing. Eliza is a law unto herself and always has been. Laurence is going to be a labourer, and she can see no harm in that! Sometimes I think Eliza’s priorities are completely wrong.’
‘He’s only going to labour to learn the business,’ Margaret said, ringing the bell. ‘That seems to me perfectly reasonable. I only wish that Eliza would see sense and allow Julius to help her. It is all he wants.’
Guy said nothing but, elbows on the table, continu
ed to stare morosely in front of him as the retinue of servants cleared the plates of the master and mistress of the house and swiftly served the next course.
As soon as they had withdrawn, Margaret leaned across the table and said: ‘Is anything the matter, Guy? You seem out of sorts today. I think you see too much of the Reverend Lamb. Too much religion is bad for you. I hope you don’t mind my saying so but I think it. I do.’
‘I do mind you saying so,’ Guy said sharply. ‘He is an excellent man, and no man, or woman, can have too much of God.’
‘You and George are always traipsing over to the Rectory. Tonight he is there yet again, at a Bible class.’
‘My dear, it was you who persuaded me not to raise any objection to George becoming a minister,’ Guy replied. ‘Why should you object to his attending Bible classes?’
‘Because I think you know why he goes to them.’ Margaret gave him a level look. ‘It is not only the Bible that is the attraction, in my opinion.’
‘My dear, if you are talking about Sophie you are talking nonsense,’ Guy said uneasily. ‘He could not possibly be interested in someone so much older than he is.’
‘My dear, I am older than you,’ Margaret replied. ‘I think you forget that, Guy.’
‘I do forget it, my dear,’ Guy said tenderly, gazing across at her. ‘To me you have never looked younger. The thing is,’ – Guy pushed aside his plate, on which dessert had been served, and walked along the table to stand by her side and place a reassuring hand on her shoulder – ‘the two young people are drawn together solely by the love of God. I am sure there is nothing of a carnal nature between them.’
‘I sincerely hope there is not!’ Margaret sounded shocked. ‘They can still be brought to love each other through the love of God, however. And would you really wish the future Lady Woodville to be the Rector’s daughter? I’m sure you don’t, if I know you, Guy.’
‘Then what shall we do?’ Guy slumped dejectedly down in the chair next to her. ‘I confess the idea has occurred to me already, though I refuse to entertain it.’
‘We must contrive to send George away for the rest of the vacation,’ Margaret said firmly. ‘I have given some thought to the matter, because it has been disturbing me. Then, before he goes up to Cambridge ends he can take Carson on an extended tour of the Continent. That young man has been disturbing me too!
They can begin in Amsterdam and then make a leisurely tour of Europe – just as gentlemen used to do in the old days.’
‘My dear, how clever you are,’ Guy said admiringly, clasping her hand and bending over it. ‘Indeed, a pearl of great price.’
Eliza stood looking at the wallpaper in the corner of the drawing room which hung halfway down the wall, displaying a patch of damp right overhead.
Beside her, clucking sympathetically, stood Beth.
‘Dear oh dear, ma’am,’ she moaned. ‘The whole thing will have to come down and be done again. It’s not just here either. The bedrooms in the attic are unfit for occupation. I think you ought to get Perce here. Charity begins at home.’
‘But we’re not talking about charity,’ Eliza said, folding her arms and sinking on to the great, rather uncomfortable sofa that had been part of the furnishings of the house since the days of Ryder’s grandfather. ‘If Perce works here he is not making money. I cannot possibly allow it.
‘Then what will you do, ma’am?’ Beth knew her well enough by now to think nothing of sitting down by her side without being asked. She sank on to the sofa also, her arms folded.
‘I think we’re going to have to move, Beth.’
‘Move!’ Beth cried, looking deeply shocked. ‘Move, ma’am, did you say?’
‘Some time ago Miss Fairchild offered me Connie’s house. She knew that this place belonged to the Yetman brothers, and that they could turn us out any time. Well, let us go voluntarily and they can sell it, though who would want it in this state I don’t know.’
‘You want it, ma’am,’ Beth said firmly. ‘It is your home, the place where your children were born, where you lived with the husband you loved ...’
Eliza got to her feet and, arms akimbo, began pacing round the room, her eyes on the floor as if seeking inspiration from those well-worn carpets which had seen the feet of so many generations of her husband’s family tread over them. Suddenly she turned to Beth, who was watching her in bewilderment and, pulling up a footstool, crouched at Beth’s feet, her arms still folded.
‘I have never told you, Beth, my dear companion and friend of so many years, that, since the death of my husband, I have been nursing an even greater sorrow.’
‘Oh, ma’am, whatever can that be?’ Beth said anxiously, moving closer to the edge of the sofa.
‘My husband, Ryder, your beloved master, was not faithful to me, Beth.’
‘Oh Lordy, ma’am,’ Beth put both hands over her ears as if she wished to hear no more.
‘I only discovered it by chance, by hearing a rumour as one does in a small place such as this. This information was that he had a child by another woman, and I have not found it in my heart to forgive him as I wish I could; as, for instance, I have forgiven my brother for the birth of Elizabeth. For me it is too personal, too hurtful, and I cannot forget it, try as I may.’
Eliza rose and recommenced her walk back and forth across the worn carpet. ‘For the years I was married to my husband I was totally faithful to him and believed he was to me. But–’ she gave a helpless shrug ‘– the evidence points to the contrary so, although I love this house and thought I would end my days in it, it is too closely associated in my mind with Ryder and his deception. I feel that once I have gone from here I can begin life again. As for you and Ted, dear Beth, there is no need at all to worry. I –’
Beth jumped up, surprising Eliza as she seized her by the arm and said: ‘Ma’am, you must tell me who this woman is with whom the master is supposed to have deceived you.’
‘No, Beth, I cannot.’ Eliza shook her head vigorously. ‘If I could take anyone into my confidence it would be you; but I have kept this secret to myself, and I intend not to reveal it to a soul.’
Beth let go of Eliza’s arm and turned away from her, clenching and unclenching her hands. Then, her eyes lowered, she said: ‘Mrs Yetman, I think I know who you’re talking about, for I too heard the rumour, ma’am, but kept it to myself for fear of distressing you. I thought that if you had heard it from someone else you would ask me, but you never did. But I can tell you one thing, ma’am: you is quite mistook. If you saw the child you would know who his father is, with his bright orange hair and green eyes. He could only have one father, ma’am, and that is the man Annie married shortly after your husband died, and who she has lived with ever since. He is her husband Philly O’Shea, ma’am, a drover who runs the cattle to the market on Thursdays. You have only to go there for yourself to see and, oh, ma’am,’ she cried, going up to Eliza and stroking her arm like a baby, ‘put your poor, tortured mind at rest. If you had confided in me I could have saved you the doubt, the suspicion as has gnawed at your soul all these years.’
On market day Wenham, which was a small town well off the beaten track, away from the main roads and with no railway, came into its own. It had a cattle market of great renown, and beasts were driven from all over the countryside to be bought and sold in its main thoroughfare every Thursday. The pens for the cattle stretched the length of the main street; horses for barter were tethered to the railings, and on either side of the High Street were stalls selling every variety of goods and produce that could be imagined: fresh farm products – cheese, home-cured hams, bacon and newly laid eggs, freshly butchered beef, lamb and pork. There were tinkers’ stalls, a haberdashery stall, stalls that sold china and porcelain, fresh fruit and vegetables, clothes of every description new and old, boots and shoes, farming and gardening implements and plants, flowers and shrubs.
The plaintive bleating of sheep and mournful cries of the cattle mingled with the shouts of the vendors, each one t
rying his best to outdo the others. The good-natured throng who came from miles around jostled with one another along the thoroughfare and pavements, and the Baker’s Arms was full to bursting point.
Eliza, wearing a headscarf and a drab coat, the collar turned up, picked her way among the crowd, looking past the cattle pens to the men who stood nonchalantly around, smoking, bargaining, prodding the unfortunate beasts with their sticks or simply passing the time of day.
Thankful for the light drizzle which meant she could disguise her face, Eliza walked from one end of the market to the other scrutinising each pen – the drovers, the buyers and the vendors – but there was no sign of a man with bright orange hair and a child that looked like him.
Of course, it was possible that, for once, they were not there. With sinking heart she made her way back again and then recommenced her tour, stopping longer at each point in the market, but still finding no one who stood out from the crowd in the way described by Beth.
It was nearly lunch time and she thought she would go home and send Beth up to see if she had more luck. She had left her behind, fearing that, together, they would have been too recognisable.
Eliza was about to pass the Baker’s Arms, when the doors were flung open and a good-natured crowd issued forth. Eliza stopped in the shadow of Miss Fairchild’s old shop and, to her amazement, she beheld straight in front of her a cheerful looking ginger-haired man, his eyes as green as a cat’s and one hand tightly holding that of a boy of about three, who looked just like him. Behind them stood Annie McQueen, who appeared to be taking leave of her father and her mother who still ran the public house. In her arms she carried a baby of about six months, the spitting image of its father and brother. Behind her were three older children, all alike, the former issue of her marriage to the man who had once deserted her.
Eliza bent her head to hurry on but, just then, Annie turned her head and their eyes met.
The People of This Parish (Part One of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 48