by Jess Foley
As he stood holding his hat he realized what an unprepossessing sight he must present. With his handkerchief he dabbed at his cheeks and forehead, but he was so wet that as the minutes dragged by a small pool of water formed on the flags around his feet. He wondered again at his wisdom in making such a precipitate venture. Perhaps Abbie had been right, maybe it would have been wiser to have written a letter.
There came the sound of footsteps and the young maid was there again. ‘If you’ll come this way, sir. Mrs Carling will see you in the library.’
He thought of his boots on the soft carpets. ‘I’m wet through,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t Mrs Carling prefer me to stay here?’ The maid went away again and he waited, and after a few minutes Mrs Carling herself was coming into the room.
She was a tall, middle-aged woman with dark, greying hair, dressed in a blue housecoat. She gave him a somewhat nervous smile and asked him if he would care to sit down. He thanked her but said that if she didn’t mind he would prefer to stand. ‘You know, ma’am, why I’ve called, I’m sure,’ he added.
‘Indeed I do, Mr Morris. This incident concerning Lizzie has been a most unfortunate occurrence . . .’ Reaching into her pocket she drew out a letter. ‘I wrote to her just this morning. It would have been posted later today.’ She gestured to one of the kitchen chairs. ‘Do please sit down. It would make it –’
‘Mrs Carling,’ he said, interrupting her words, ‘my girl is not a thief. Lizzie’s a good girl. She would never dream of stealing anything.’
‘I know that, Mr Morris,’ the woman said. ‘That’s why I’ve written her this letter.’
He frowned. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand . . .’
‘No, and why should you?’ She gave a sharp little sigh. ‘Mr Morris, the missing brooch has been found.’
‘It’s been found?’
‘Yes. That’s what I’ve written to tell Lizzie. It was found last night. The clasp was not secure and the brooch had obviously come loose and fallen. I found it myself, caught on one of the cushions in the drawing room. There’s no question of Lizzie having taken it.’
Frank Morris’s sense of relief fought with his anger at the unnecessary distress that Lizzie had been caused. ‘It was there all the time,’ he said, ‘and my girl was branded a common thief and dismissed from her post.’
‘I don’t know what to say,’ Mrs Carling said. ‘This is very difficult for me. But – well, I didn’t know Lizzie. She’d only been with me a very short time.’ She gave a helpless little shrug. ‘I wish I could undo it all, but that’s not possible. Though it goes without saying that if she would care to return here then I shall of course be very pleased to take her back. If, however, she should decide that she cannot, then of course I’ll provide her with references for her next post.’
She held out the letter. ‘Please – give it to Lizzie. I’ve explained everything.’
He took the envelope, glanced at it, then put it in his pocket. ‘She’ll be very relieved. As I am.’ As he finished speaking he felt the room sway slightly and he reached out and clutched at the back of a nearby chair.
‘Are you all right, Mr Morris?’
He nodded. ‘Yes, I’m fine, thank you.’
She frowned. ‘You’re absolutely soaked. Let me get the maid to bring you a towel.’ She waved a hand back towards the deeper interior of the house. ‘There’s a fire in the library. Wouldn’t you like to get dry and rest for a while before you start for home? You’ve come all this way. I’ll have the maid bring you some tea and something to eat.’
‘No, no. Thank you anyway.’ He shook his head. ‘I must get back. I’m getting a lift at Westbury. Besides, my daughters will be wondering about me.’
‘Well, at least wait until the rain stops.’
He turned, glancing from the window. ‘It’s nothing to speak of now.’
‘How will you get to Westbury?’
‘Walking.’
‘But it’s miles. Couldn’t you take a train from here to Frome? You wouldn’t have so far to walk.’
‘Yes, that’s true, but . . .’ He shrugged, moving away, anxious to be gone. ‘I’ll manage all right.’ In the open doorway he turned to her. He felt strangely light-headed and as he wished her good day his voice seemed to come from a long way off, echoing in his head. A moment later he was turning again and stumbling away across the yard.
As he emerged into the lane beside the house he looked up at the sky. Furled, ragged clouds rolled heavy and dark, but for the moment the rain was light. He pulled down the brim of his hat, turned up the collar of his coat and started off for the main road. On reaching it he came to a stop. It would indeed be easier to take the train from Trowbridge to Frome and walk the three miles from there. But he had already made his arrangements, besides which he could not afford to throw good money away. He reached inside his coat and took his watch from his waistcoat pocket. Just after two o’clock. He had no time to waste if he was to be at the crossroads in time. Turning to the left, he started on the long and winding road that would eventually take him to Westbury.
The rain came on more heavily after a time, but he trudged on; he was still so wet from his previous soaking that he saw no point in taking shelter. As the continuing downpour turned the road into mud, his progress became slower and more difficult. The light-headed sensation that had briefly touched him in the Carling house returned, coming over him in waves, sometimes so powerfully that he became momentarily disorientated and staggered in his path. But then, after taking a few moments for recovery, he would press onwards.
A mile out of Eversleigh he left the road to take a short cut across fields, and still the driving rain came down, lashing his bent head and running beneath the collar of his coat. He had long since ceased to be aware of the discomfort it brought; he was only intent on reaching the crossroads and then getting back home with the good news for Lizzie.
The footpath he followed led for part of the route alongside a small wood where he was sheltered in part from the rain. It could do nothing, however, to diminish his growing fever, and as he made his way his walk became a staggering gait. With the sky reeling above him, he came to a halt, clutching at a tree trunk for support, and there he clung, trying to slow his gasping breath.
Pushing on once more, he took a few further staggering steps and then, catching his foot against the root of a beech tree, fell heavily onto the sodden ground. There he lay without moving, eyes closed, his only feeling one of relief at the chance to rest for a while.
It was nearly half past three when Fred Haroldson approached the crossroads. He had been delayed because of the storm. The rain had ceased now, however, and the sun had come out, burning fiercely, drying the mud of the road and drawing a fine haze of vapour from the verges and the hedgerows. Reaching the crossroads Haroldson brought the mare to a halt and looked around him. There was no one in sight. Frank must have got tired of waiting, he thought, and made his own way back to Flaxdown. After a while he flicked the reins, called out a command to the mare and the cart started forward again.
While Fred Haroldson continued on his way back to Flaxdown, Frank Morris lay beneath the beech tree at the edge of the wood. As his clothes dried in the warm sun, the bluebottles were already buzzing around him and settling on his flesh and crawling into his mouth.
Chapter Fourteen
Stooping over the grave in which her father now lay, Abbie made a final adjustment to the white roses in the little earthenware pot.
It was a bright Saturday afternoon, the last day in August. Five weeks had passed since her father’s death. When he had not returned that rainy Sunday she and Lizzie had gone out searching for him – though without direction, for they had not known the precise way he had travelled. Then, early that evening there had come word that his body had been found. The letter in his pocket, addressed to Lizzie, had quickly led to his identification.
Since that time there had been so many occasions when, finding herself absorbed in thoughts of him, Abbie co
uld do nothing but weep. She wept not only over the fact of his loss but also for his goodness, for the unrewarded struggles he had known in his life and for his disappointment in the loveless marriage he had known.
For those remaining life had, of course, to go on. The cottage in Green Lane had passed to Eddie – which, Abbie thought, was the way it should be (her father’s books Eddie had given to her – which was all that she had wanted). Lizzie too, now, was settled. She had not returned to her former position – it was too uncomfortably bound up with her father’s death – but with the aid of glowing references from Mrs Carling had found a new post – this time in Lullington – and seemed to be reasonably content there.
Now, Abbie realized as she turned from the grave, her own ties to Flaxdown were far less strong than they had been. Apart from Eddie – who in any case was immersed in his own family and his own life – she now had no real bond with the village. Beatie and her father were dead; her mother had long since abandoned all connection with the place, and Lizzie and Iris were away in service and unlikely ever to return here to live – as likewise was Jane. It was only her own work at the school that kept Abbie in Flaxdown. As she made her way between the graves onto the gravel path she had a sudden picture of herself in twenty or thirty years, a mature woman, the archetypal spinster schoolmistress. The thought filled her with a strange, vague regret.
In the schoolhouse she made some tea and read for a while, then began to work on her knitting for Violet’s coming baby. She could not relax, though, and after twenty minutes or so she put the half-finished garment in its bag and went outside. After standing at the gate for a while, she opened it and walked out into the lane.
At the end of the lane she turned away from the village, taking a narrow footpath that led across a field where sheep and cattle grazed. At the far side she crossed over a stile and followed the path beside a field of ripening wheat. She was aware of a strange restlessness within her, a feeling akin to that she had known in the churchyard earlier that afternoon. Leaving the cornfield behind her, she walked through a small thicket, coming to a halt at the far side where she sat on a stile to rest for a while before returning. As she sat there she heard footsteps approaching behind her and turned to see a tall figure coming along the path. As he drew nearer she recognized him as the man with whom she and Jane had driven back from Warminster a month before.
His smile as he came closer showed that he in turn had recognized her. ‘Well, hello,’ he said, touching his hat.
She got down from the stile and smilingly returned his greeting.
He climbed over and stood facing her. ‘It’s Miss Morris, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ She gave a shake of her head. ‘But I’m afraid I don’t remember your name – forgive me.’
‘Gilmore. Arthur Gilmore.’
‘Ah – yes.’
‘Are you well?’
She nodded. ‘Yes, quite well, thank you. And you?’
‘Oh, well enough. Are you on your way to Keyford?’
‘No, I was just about to go back to Flaxdown. I only came out for a stroll to get a little air.’
‘Good. Perhaps we can walk together. If you’ve no objection.’
She nodded – she could do nothing but acquiesce – and together they set off.
‘You’re bound for Flaxdown, are you?’ Abbie said.
‘Yes, I have an errand to do.’
‘And no carriage today?’
‘It’s not my carriage. It belongs to my landlord. He kindly allows me to use it on occasion.’
They walked on. After a while he said, ‘I’m so pleased to chance upon you like this. I was hoping to meet you again at some time.’ He paused. ‘I heard about your father. I’m so sorry.’
Looking up, she saw sympathy in his dark eyes. She nodded her thanks.
‘Were you – close to your father?’ he asked.
‘Yes . . .’
‘I’m sure you must miss him dreadfully.’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘I know how you must feel – what you’re going through. My mother died three years ago. I understand, believe me.’
They emerged from the thicket onto the path that led beside the cornfield.
‘You’ve got brothers and sisters, haven’t you?’ he added.
‘An older brother and two younger sisters. My brother’s married and lives in Flaxdown. My sisters are away in service.’ She added after a moment, ‘I have to be honest and say that I don’t envy them their work.’
‘I’m sure you don’t.’
‘No. I consider myself very fortunate to have the job I have.’
He nodded. ‘You’ll be busy again soon with the new school term starting.’
‘Just a couple more weeks.’
‘Are you looking forward to it?’
‘Yes, I am. It’s hard work but I like to be busy. What about you? Is your work going well?’
‘Oh, well enough. I didn’t expect to be staying here so long. And now there’s talk of my remaining for a year or more.’
‘How do you feel about that?’
‘I don’t mind the idea.’
Having left the cornfield behind them, they started along the path across the cattle pasture. They were close to Flaxdown now.
‘Have you heard from your friend Jane since she returned to London?’ he said.
‘Yes, I’ve heard from her. She’s well.’
They had reached the stile where the footpath emerged onto the lane, and Arthur Gilmore moved ahead of her and, murmuring ‘Allow me . . .’ stepped over the stile and reached out to help her over. She climbed up, took his outstretched hand and stepped down on the other side.
‘Where are you off to now?’ he asked as he released her. ‘Back home?’ They were heading now for School Lane.
‘Yes. But please don’t come out of your way,’ Abbie said.
‘I’ve got plenty of time.’
A few minutes later they came to the gate of the little schoolhouse. They stood in silence for a moment or two, then Arthur said, ‘I was wondering whether you would care to come out with me some day soon.’
‘Oh,’ Abbie said doubtfully, ‘I’m afraid I tend not to go out a great deal.’
‘Then it might make a nice change for you. It’s Sunday tomorrow. Perhaps I could call on you in the afternoon.’
‘Well – I’m not sure about tomorrow.’ She avoided his glance.
‘You already have an engagement?’
‘Well, no, but . . .’
‘Then let me call for you tomorrow. May I? If I can get the carriage we could go for a little drive – if you’d care to.’
She said nothing, though she knew that with her silence she was committing herself.
‘Three o’clock, then – all right?’ he said. ‘I’ll be here at three.’
The following afternoon Abbie put on her best dress and best straw bonnet, the former of dark-blue velvet, the latter trimmed with matching silk ribbon. She was so unaccustomed to dressing up, that although the garments were more than three years old she regarded them as new. When she opened the door to Arthur at three o’clock he greeted her with a smile and what was unmistakably a little nod of approval.
He had been unable to acquire his landlord’s carriage that day and so they walked, wandering leisurely along the lanes. During this time Abbie learned that he was twenty-eight years old, the son of a clergyman, now dead, whose parish had been in Clerkenwell, London. His late mother had, before her marriage, been a governess in Brighton.
In addition to Arthur’s agreeable appearance – no one could have denied that he was good-looking – Abbie found that he was well-informed and well-read, and they discovered much to discuss when the talk turned to topical matters or to various works of literature. He was interested in the theatre, too, and in the opera, and appeared to be well-travelled. Abbie, who had journeyed barely twenty miles beyond Flaxdown, listened with fascination as he spoke not only of his years in London, but also of trips to Edinbu
rgh and Paris.
Later that day, after he had accompanied her back to the schoolhouse and left her to make his return to Keyford, she realized that in spite of any doubts she had harboured she had greatly enjoyed the excursion.
As summer gave way to autumn the new school term began and Abbie found herself once again immersed in her work. And she and Arthur continued to meet. Although he was away for much of the time in the course of his duties, travelling to various factories over the surrounding areas, when he returned he would make the two-mile journey from Keyford to Flaxdown, and he and Abbie would go walking or driving. She welcomed his visits and found herself enjoying his company. For a while she had wondered why he had not married – he was obviously an attractive marriage proposition – but then during one of their meetings he revealed that in the past he had had a relationship with a young woman in London which had ended when she turned to another. He spoke little about it, however, giving the impression that it was well and truly over, and rarely referred to it afterwards. On those occasions when he had to go away in connection with his work he kept in touch by writing to Abbie, sending her short missives with brief comments on his employment and his surroundings, and occasionally enclosing a cutting from a newspaper in which he thought she would be interested.
After Abbie had written to tell Jane of her renewed acquaintance with Arthur, Jane demanded to be informed of its progress. Abbie wrote that there was nothing to report; she and Arthur, she insisted, were merely good friends and nothing more. In spite of Abbie’s protests, though, it was clear that Jane saw the relationship as the beginning of a romance – ‘For which you should thank God,’ she wrote. ‘Eligible men as handsome and charming as Mr Gilmore are scarcer than hens’ teeth.’ Abbie laughed over Jane’s words; she and Jane, she silently observed, wanted different things from life; it was as simple as that.
On the 19th of November Violet’s baby was born, a daughter whom her proud parents named Sarah. Abbie, watching Eddie as he clucked and cooed over the baby, remarked that one would think that no man had ever been a father before. Eddie, laughing, told Abbie that for all her book learning she didn’t know everything, but that one day, with luck, she would perhaps learn and understand a little more. Abbie found it a touching sight to see her brother with his small daughter in his arms; his large labourer’s hands holding her with such sure tenderness and his usual loud, boisterous voice reduced to the gentlest of tones. At such times all of Eddie’s accustomed roughness vanished as if it had never been.