Seasons of Love

by Anna Jacobs

  Seasons of Love

  Anna Jacobs

  Severn House (2000)

  * * *

  SYNOPSIS

  There is no joy in Helen Merling's household, no love. So when she meets an actor -- a man whose profession is common and dishonest, in the eyes of her father -- Helen is swept off her feet. But Robert Perriman is nothing but a cheating philanderer and loyalty is not one of his qualities . . .

  Seasons of Love - Anna Jacobs

  Published by Anna Jacobs at Amazon

  Copyright 2010 Anna Jacobs

  Cover Copyright 2010 David Jacobs

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person.. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Chapter 1

  1835

  ‘Mr Wintermaine is coming to tea tomorrow.’

  Helen didn’t dare say anything and hoped her mother hadn’t noticed her shudder. For some unknown reason, the new curate in the next parish had fallen in love with her as quickly as she had taken an aversion to him. And the more she got to know him, the more she disliked him, particularly the way his cow-like eyes lingered on her breasts when no one was around and the dampness of his thick-fingered hands.

  Her mother looked quickly sideways at her. ‘He’s a very good catch for a girl like you.’

  Desperation gave Helen the courage to speak out for once. ‘But I don’t like him! Can’t you ask Father to tell him I’m not interested?’

  ‘You aren’t even trying to like him!’ Mrs Merling told her daughter severely. ‘And you’ll be mad to whistle down the wind the best chance you are ever likely to get of establishing yourself.’

  As Helen opened her mouth to protest, her mother added severely, ‘What’s more, if your father hears you talking like that, he will be most displeased . I do not wish to hear any more talk of that nature, thank you very much. You will be nice to Mr Wintermaine and encourage him.’

  Helen didn’t dare make any more protests, but neither did she change her mind. She could not, would not encourage a man who made her flesh crawl, and as for marrying him, she would rather die.

  The following day, Mr Wintermaine came to tea as arranged, and when her father sent her to walk round the garden with him, their visitor tried to kiss her - which made her feel quite sick with disgust.

  She pushed him away, pretending to be shocked, and he stopped trying to kiss her, thank goodness. She was very curt with him for the rest of their stroll, quite rude, in fact, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  He looked even more smug than usual as he chatted to her father at the front door before leaving. From the way their eyes turned towards her, she knew they were discussing her.

  She went to bed quite sunk in despair. What was she going to do? She’d run away, but there was nowhere to go, no one to turn to and anyway, she hadn’t even a penny of her own.

  The following week Mary, the maid-of-all-work, turned her ankle when she was fetching in some wood. The ankle swelled to enormous proportions, thus rendering Mary incapable of walking into Stowby for her mistress, which she normally did on market day.

  ‘What your Father will say, I don’t know,’ Mrs Merling complained to her daughter. ‘He has a book of sermons waiting to be picked up from the post office in Stowby and will be most displeased if someone doesn’t fetch it for him.’

  The only thing, Helen thought, which ever roused Mrs Merling out of her mild apathy towards whatever life brought her was the thought of something upsetting her husband. It worried Helen, too, for everyone in the house suffered when Father was in a bad mood.

  She knew how much he needed this new book of sermons, because she’d heard her parents talking. Squire had sent word down to the parsonage that he was tired of hearing the same old thing year in, year out, and wanted something more cheerful than sin and damnation to whet his appetite for his Sunday dinner. Unfortunately, Parson Merling’s mind did not have a cheerful turn, and he had striven in vain to compose something more to his patron’s liking. Hence the new book.

  A wonderful solution occurred to her. ‘Could I not go and fetch it, Mother?’

  Mrs Merling stared at her daughter. ‘You know we don’t like you to go into Stowby alone. A pretty girl can become the object of unwanted attentions. No, your father wouldn’t approve of you going. He hasn’t forgotten the last time you went to market for me.’

  Helen hung her head. She’d lingered far too long and not arrived home until after dark. Her father had scolded her severely for that and sent her to bed supperless, but at least he hadn’t beaten her that time. ‘I’d promise to come straight back. I’m only trying to help.’

  Mrs Merling hesitated. She, too, needed some things from Stowby, things which couldn’t be purchased in the tiny village shop. Only the linen draper’s in Stowby sold thread of the right colour for mending the fraying hassocks in church. And only in Stowby could one purchase fresh fish, to which her husband was very partial and which cost less than meat.

  ‘Well . . . perhaps I should give you another chance to show us you can behave properly.

  You’ll make nothing of the three and a half mile walk and it always exhausts me.

  Helen listened meekly to her mother’s instructions and admonitions, then escaped into the sunshine. Even when she was caught in a shower, she didn’t mind. She sheltered under a tree until it had passed, enjoying the sound of rain pattering through the leaves. What was a little summer rain, after all? Not even enough to dampen her straw bonnet. She grimaced as she straightened it. The bonnet had been her mother’s for several years and had been refurbished for Helen last year with a narrow brown ribbon to match her everyday dress. It looked old and tired, as did the dress.

  Sometimes she imagined herself wearing pretty white muslins or rosy pinks, instead of these dark colours. And dresses made in fashionable styles, like those the Squire’s daughters wore.

  They always looked so fresh and pretty. She realised she was dawdling and daydreaming, which she had promised faithfully not to do, so walked on more quickly, determined to earn her parents’ trust this time.

  When she got back home, her mother was delighted with her purchases. That evening, since Mrs Merling found herself sixpence better off than usual, she broached the idea to her husband of making the marketing a regular task for the girl. ‘I think the exercise did her good, Septimus.

  Perhaps we forget that young people need to be more active. She’s been very quiet and well-behaved ever since her walk.’

  Helen, who was crouching quite shamelessly outside the study window, since the only way she ever found anything out was by eavesdropping, held her breath and crossed her fingers while waiting for her father’s response.

  Since neither of her parents knew about the glorious half hour she had spent in the woods on the way back, paddling in the stream and just lying there, lazily wasting the Lord’s valuable time, they decided in favour of a trial period.

  For the rest of the summer, Helen made the most of her freedom, for she knew it wouldn’t continue - good things never did. One day, one terrible day, Mr Wintermaine would actually ask for her hand in marriage, then she would have to refuse him, because she absolutely could not bear the thought of spending the rest of her life with him.

  She didn’t know precisely what was involved in marriage, but if she didn’t like him to touch her now, it stood to reason that make it even worse to live with him.

  Only - it she didn’t accept Mr Wintermaine, her father would be more angry than he’d ever been before and would undoubtedly beat her severely. In addition to being a man of the c
loth, the curate apparently possessed a small private income and had influential friends who might one day do something to get him a good living of his own. Father had no influential friends, which was why he had remained in the small village of Dendleford.

  ‘The girl must have a new dress,’ her father said one day, studying her with disapproval.

  ‘That one is far too tight. It is unseemly. More expense, Mrs Merling!’ From the way he spoke, the new fullness of his daughter’s breasts was something shameful.

  Helen hid her delight. A new dress was a very rare treat.

  ‘Something dark and serviceable,’ he added.

  Helen stared down to hide her disappointment.

  The next week, her mother accompanied her to market, which meant they had to walk very slowly. They came home with a length of material in such a dark shade of blue it verged on black. ‘It’ll be very suitable for a clergyman’s wife,’ Mrs Merling said when they paused on the way home for her to get her breath back. She patted the heavy parcel which lay on top of the basket her daughter was holding.

  Helen, who had protested in the shop, said nothing, just scowled at it. ‘May I cut it out and make it up myself?’ she asked, not very hopefully. ‘You know I’m good with my needle.’

  ‘Certainly not. You would make it in a frivolous style. Your father and I have already discussed the matter. We don’t approve of these huge sleeves which are in fashion nowadays.

  They waste a lot of material. Nor do we approve of clothing which emphasises a lady’s figure.’

  Helen didn’t say a word for the rest of the walk. What was the point?

  The following day, there was talk at the dinner table of seventeen being a very good age for a young woman to marry.

  ‘It allows her husband to form her character to his taste,’ Mr Merling pronounced, dissecting his chop with his usual precision. ‘You are far too frivolous, Helen. But a husband will know how to chastise you until you mend your ways.’

  Mr Wintermaine continued to visit. They went for sedate strolls round the village together, and he brought her gifts of posies and verses from the Bible, copied out for her in a florid script.

  ‘Too mean to spend his money, that one is,’ the maid said one day in an incautious moment.

  Helen agreed absolutely with Mary, but refrained from saying so in case her mother overheard her.

  ‘Your father and I think Mr Wintermaine should propose to you on your seventeenth birthday,’ her mother remarked the following morning. ‘You can marry soon afterwards. In October, perhaps.’

  Helen tried to tell herself that her parents couldn’t actually force her to marry Mr Wintermaine, but in the cold, clear light of morning when she heard her father’s voice booming from her parents’ bedroom, she wasn’t at all sure of that.

  Would it be better to marry Mr Wintermaine?

  No. She just—couldn’t do it.

  Two months after her first outing to the market, Helen heard in Stowby that a party of travelling players was to come for three months to give a series of performances at the Assembly Rooms.

  They were fresh from triumphs in Cheltenham, and were to put on several plays - ranging from Classical Drama to Comedies.

  She knew better than to hope that her Father would take them even to a performance of

  ‘Julius Caesar’, which was surely very classical and respectable. He had never been inside a theatre and had said many times that he hoped he never would. She decided not to mention the players to him. It would only put him in a bad mood.

  She lingered beside the handbills in the linen draper’s shop window and then grew breathless with excitement when she had the good fortune to catch a glimpse of the players in person.

  Magnificent creatures, dressed in the latest fashions, peacocks to the dowdy country fowls around them. As they strolled along, they laughed and chatted as if they had not a care in the world. How beautiful they were! How bright and fashionable! And the lady players had such wonderful sleeves, such full skirts.

  With tears in her eyes, she stared down at her brown everyday dress, very tight around the chest now, with its narrow sleeves and frayed hem. How she longed for clothes more like theirs!

  But when she got home, she found that someone had already told her father about the players.

  Over the evening meal, he mentioned it to his wife. ‘I’m disgusted to think of such a - a contagion coming so close to Dendleford. Actors are all thieves,’ he lowered his voice meaningfully, ‘ and the women are worse.’

  ‘Yes, indeed, Septimus,’ murmured Mrs Merling. ‘Very shocking.’

  Her mother would have spoken in the same tone of voice if the bread had failed to rise, Helen thought mutinously. And why were the female players so shocking? What did they do that was worse than the men? She knew better than to ask. Certain subjects were not to be mentioned, but one day she would find out more about life, she promised herself. Realising her father was speaking and looking towards her, she jerked to attention.

  ‘I tell you plainly, I wouldn’t willingly have an actor step inside the door of my church, not even one foot.’

  ‘Certainly not, Septimus.’

  There was a long discussion between Mr and Mrs Merling that night, after their daughter was in bed, about the wisdom of allowing her to continue her market trips.

  Helen listened carefully, for they had no idea how sound carried in the small house, since no one else dared make any noise. She clenched her hands at her flannel-covered bosom and waited in terror for their final decision. If they stopped her going, how would she bear it? How would she bear anything if she didn’t have her Thursday outings?

  ‘I do think she’s growing more sensible. She’s nearly seventeen now, after all, and we’ve brought her up most carefully,’ Mrs Merling pleaded. ‘She saves us a lot of money at the market.

  And she’s very innocent. She’s not at all like your mother.’

  ‘A young woman should be innocent. It is for her husband to educate her as he sees fit.’

  ‘Yes, Septimus.’

  ‘I shall ponder upon it and pray for guidance.’

  That Sunday in church, Helen prayed even more fervently than usual and prayed again later, quite voluntarily, to thank the Lord for his help. Her mother had said she was allowed to continue her weekly excursions, but must not, under any circumstances, linger in Stowby or go near the players.

  The following Thursday, on her way home from market, Helen was again tempted by the long spell of hot dry weather to linger in the woods. Dreamily splashing her feet in the cool water of the stream and watching the sunlight sparkle on the droplets that were thrown up, she didn’t hear anyone approaching until a voice behind her laughingly declaimed, ‘A dryad! A nymph of the woods!’

  She was horrified at being caught with her bare limbs exposed, and jumped to her feet in a panic.

  ‘Please don’t go!’ begged the owner of the voice.

  Helen caught her breath at the sight of him, for he was the most handsome man she had ever seen in her life, with golden hair and bright blue eyes. Not tall, but with a face like the statue of a young Greek god in one of her father’s books. And he had a smile which would have melted anyone’s heart - except her father’s, of course.

  The stranger swept her a bow, which made her heart thump in her chest, for some strange reason. She hastily twitched her skirt down over her bare legs and stood there, feeling herself blushing. Her hair had escaped from its knot and was spread over her shoulders, which further added to her embarrassment.

  ‘My name is Robert Perriman.’ He executed a perfect bow.

  ‘Oh. Well, my name is Helen - Helen Merling.’

  She received another bow. ‘Helen. A perfect name for a beautiful wood nymph.’

  ‘Oh, sir! Please don’t tell anyone you saw me here!’ she begged that first time.

  ‘My lips are sealed,’ he promised gravely. ‘But won’t you tell me why you’re so worried about being seen? Are you trespassing? Will the keeper
lock you up if he catches you here?’

  It took Helen a moment to realise he was teasing her. She laughed. ‘Oh, if that were the only problem, I shouldn’t mind at all, for I know all the Squire’s keepers.’

  ‘Then what is the problem? Pray linger for a moment, nymph, and enlighten me!’

  No one had ever addressed her as nymph before, let alone bowed to her like that. She was tempted, hesitated and was lost.

  ‘The problem is my parents, sir. My father is the parson of St. Matthew’s, in Dendleford. And he - he wouldn’t like me to be here in the woods. Nor would he like me to speak to a stranger.’

  As she spoke, she began to pin her hair up in frantic haste, realising she’d lingered far too long today.

  ‘Ah, leave it down for a moment longer!’ he begged. ‘You have the most beautiful hair I’ve ever seen in my life!’

  She blushed even more violently, but shook her head and continued to subdue the hair. ‘I dare not. I must be on my way or I shall be late.’

  But the thought that someone considered her hair beautiful filled her with wonder, for her father seemed to hate the bright chestnut colour and unruly curls. He often told her to ‘tie that disgusting messy hair back’, for it would pull out of its pins when she was helping with the housework.

  ‘May I walk with you for a while, then, fair maiden?’

  She found out later that most of Robert Perriman’s flowery speeches were culled from popular theatrical farces, but she had no idea then that she was being seduced by second-hand words.

  ‘Oh, no! Someone might see us.’ The hair was up. She glanced down, wondering how she was to put on her stockings again.

  ‘Shall I turn my back while you complete your toilette?’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ She was grateful for his understanding of her predicament. What a kind person he was! A true gentleman. So very unlike Mr Wintermaine. Keeping one eye on him, she hastened to complete her toilette, but he didn’t even attempt to peep.

  ‘I - I’m ready now.’ Hair pinned up, bonnet in place, basket in hand, she still hesitated to leave. ‘I always get home before four when I go into Stowby market.’