“You brought a scandal on the neighbourhood.”
“It was not a scandal. There is no harm in walking out with a woman of age who is in her right mind.”
“It was said that you promised her marriage, and for that she ...”
It was true that it was Laurence Yetman who had caught him and Sophie Woodville, then a widow, in flagrante delicto. There was no denying that he had, perhaps, treated Sophie less well than he should.
“Yes, she went to bed with me. It was her own decision. But that woman was obsessed with a sense of sin. She was hysterical. When I saw what she was really like I knew I could never have married her, and I’m glad I didn’t. Anyway, she is happy as the rector’s wife. Why rake over old sins?”
“They say that the elder boy is yours.”
“Well, they have no proof, have they?”
“Except that he has your looks and a temperament to go with it. Unruly, untamed.”
“I thought him a good-looking youth,” Bart said with an air of smugness, “but that is as far as my interest in him goes. I have no other. I think I have behaved well, and others have behaved badly.”
“Huh!” Sarah Jane snorted. “Then when you came back you had to diddle Eliza Heering out of her home.”
“It was not a diddle.”
“But it was not honest.”
“It was honest.” Bart, eyes flashing, met her gaze. “She was not honest. I had the money, why should she not sell me her house? Can you answer me that?”
“It was her right to sell it to whom she wanted.”
“She was prejudiced against me. She had no objection to selling it, apparently, to someone she had never seen.”
“Well, Bart.” Sarah Jane rose from her chair and walked to the window which overlooked the river and the wood beyond, where Laurence had shot himself that fateful November day in 1912, the memory of which still haunted her on a bad day, and there were many of those. She turned to look at him. “Well, Bart Sadler, I see you have an answer for everything. Nothing fazes you, does it?”
“I only want to be given a chance, Sarah Jane,” he pleaded. “I want to be accepted by you and your family. You are my family. I want to belong.” He got up and going towards her put out his arms. “Believe me I am not the man I was. If I was a little ruthless, a little selfish, that has all gone. I have been through many painful years. I have suffered and I have learned. Through good fortune and listening to wise advice about my investments I made a fortune. I love this part of Dorset. I am a Dorset man born and bred. I want to die here and be buried here but, hopefully,” his face broke into a smile, “not yet. I would like to marry and raise a family. I don’t think I am too old.”
“Bart Sadler!” Sarah Jane exclaimed. “You are a man of fifty-three. Marry at your age?”
“It is not too old for a man to marry. Maybe I won’t find the right woman but, whatever, I intend to make Upper Park into a fine residence, to entertain there and I would like you to be there, Sarah Jane, among my guests.”
Sarah Jane saw her brother to the door. There seemed little more to say. She was mollified by his approach, his manner, his desire to renew the bonds of family. Precious bonds. They stood at the entrance to the house facing each other. Finally Sarah Jane put out her hand, her expression gentler.
“Thank you for coming to see me, Bart. It took courage for I have not treated you very well. I will think about what you’ve said. I will think very carefully indeed.”
“Thank you, Sarah Jane.” There was an unusual note of humility in Bart’s voice.
Then he took her hand and pressed it.
Bart walked down to the bottom of the garden and stood for a while looking at the river, aware that his sister’s eyes were still on him. Then he turned back to look at the house and saw she was still at the top of the steps. He raised his hand and waved and she waved back. Then she went back inside and shut the door.
Bart stood for a while longer, hands in his pockets and, as the day was clement, the sun every now and then peeping from behind the clouds, he decided to walk along the river bank before strolling back to the market place where he’d left his car, being unsure of his welcome at Riversmead.
But on the whole he thought the meeting with his sister had gone well. He was glad that he had gone, as he had detected a softening in her attitude. And why not? She knew he was not really responsible for Laurence’s death, except in the most indirect way. It was rather like selling a man a car which subsequently ran him over. It was not the fault of the seller. It was as remote as that. Laurence was of age, a man of experience, and knew he was taking a risk.
As for Sophie Woodville, he looked towards the rectory which stood at the top of the meadow in front of him.
It was true he had treated her ungallantly towards the end when her religious scruples got the better of her and made her prone to hysterical outbursts. Besides, a marriage between them would never have done. She was far too stern and pious and if he had stayed in these parts, married to Sophie Woodville, he would never have gone abroad and made his fortune. He doubted whether he would have been faithful to her either.
At the bottom of the field, woodland lined the water’s edge and he carried along the path that led between the trees until he reached an ancient boathouse and broken jetty, now never used. There was even the hull of a rowing boat half in and half out of the water, and sitting on the end of the jetty was a woman who appeared unaware of his presence and remained where she was, her head bent, staring into the water. She had both hands on the jetty and seemed lost in reverie.
He was about to pass on as quietly as he had come when, with a start, she turned and stared at him.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, pausing. “Did I give you a fright?”
He thought for a moment she was not going to reply, but her manner made him curious and going up to her he lowered himself down to sit beside her, his feet too dangling over the water.
“I think you must be one of the Woodville girls, if I am not mistaken,” he said with a smile. “My name is Bart Sadler, Sarah Jane’s brother.”
“Oh!” the young woman replied sharply, looking at him.
“I see my name means something to you?” He gave a wry smile.
“Well, I have heard of Bart Sadler,” she admitted.
“Nothing good, I expect?”
She didn’t reply but began staring moodily again into the water. She was fair-skinned with thick golden hair which was tied in a bunch and hung untidily down her back, little tendrils clinging to her brow. Her eyes were the colour of aquamarine and her firm, beautifully moulded mouth had a downward turn which made her look rather discontented, not momentarily, but as though it was her usual expression. She gave the impression of someone who smiled little.
She was, however, extraordinarily pretty and from what he could see of her figure Bart deduced that she was tall and slim with fine long legs dangling beside his own, and with a well-developed bosom underneath her simple pinafore dress which was buttoned up to the neck. She wore woollen stockings and laced boots and, altogether, could have stepped from a painting of a young woman of half a century before, somehow old-fashioned and out of place.
Or maybe with the rectory just above her she was not out of place at all.
“I see you don’t remember me, Debbie. Is it Debbie?”
She nodded and turned to examine him, screwing up her eyes. “Yes, I think I do remember you.”
“I used to come and play with you at Pelham’s Oak.”
“Yes, I remember now.” Debbie suddenly lost her expression of discontent and grew more animated. “You used to come and play in the nursery.”
“And sometimes take you out with your sister in my pony and trap.”
“Have you come to see my mother?” Deborah asked. “I think you used to be friendly with her too.”
“I was a great admirer of your mother,” Bart said cautiously, “but who would not be? How is she, by the way?”
“She’s ve
ry well. Very busy, of course, about the parish.”
“And you? Still unmarried? I can’t believe it.”
Bart noticed a blush suffuse Deborah’s cheeks and she avoided his eyes. “No young man?” he went on. “I find that impossible. What is the matter with all the men around here?”
She still didn’t reply, her eyes remaining fixed on the swirling water below her.
“Ah, I mustn’t ask impertinent questions.” Bart rose as if to resume his walk. “And how is your sister, Ruth, if I recall?”
“She’s a teacher, She’s very well, thank you.”
Bart stood gazing down at her.
“And do you do anything?” Deborah shook her head and seemed again intent on studying the flow of the water.
“Well, I hope I see you again, Deborah,” Bart said conversationally. “Do give my best to your mother and stepfather, and sister too of course.”
Deborah didn’t reply, looking as though she had forgotten he was there, and Bart, instead of resuming his walk, retraced his steps the way he had come.
In for a penny in for a pound, Bart thought, as he walked slowly around the outside of the house which was surrounded by scaffolding, up and down which workmen of various kinds were busily scampering. The warm Dorset brick of which the house was built was being repointed, the roof was being repaired, and the white Chilmark stone, with which it was faced, was being washed and cleaned. The gargoyles, lions rampant and other heraldic figures adorning the four corners of the square house were undergoing repair and restoration.
In the extensive gardens and shrubbery more men were at work digging, hoeing, planting, and the greenhouses, the late Julius Heering’s pride and joy, were being re-glazed and repaired, with a complex system of irrigation and heating installed. It would take six months, for the inside of the house too was undergoing complete refurbishment, the wooden panels re-varnished, repaired and restored, the ancient parquet flooring scoured and re-waxed and all the paintwork renewed, while the ornate plasterwork on the ceilings –lozenges, quatrefoils, fleur de lys – were re-gilded. The huge crystal chandeliers in the hall and reception rooms were being cleaned and polished until they shone like diamonds.
Yes, it was all costing a fortune; but then he had a fortune. He, Bart Sadler, son of a tenant farmer, who had hewed stone for a living, had gone to South America a relatively poor man and returned a rich one. The money honestly made, as far as excessive profits in business transactions are ever honestly come by.
He had gone to America in 1912, the year his affair with Sophie floundered when he realised that he didn’t love her, didn’t want to marry her, that all he had intended was the seduction of a virtuous woman. Excessively virtuous and exceedingly prim. Yet how she had burned! What ardour she had shown. The memory of their fevered love-making, even after all these years, could still make a frisson of excitement run through him.
Sixteen years was a long time to be away, but he had always yearned for the cool valleys and pasturelands of his native county. At first he had toiled in the mines, but the intelligence of the people in charge was so inferior to his that he soon rose up the ladder of command until, wheeling and dealing his way around, backed by a study of the world-wide markets for copper and precious ores, he came into a position to buy out his former employers.
The war helped. He had not, as he told Sophie, tried to get home. He had no taste for battle or throwing his life away in the futile disputes of far-away countries. They were no concern of his and when, after the war, he learned the scale of the fatalities he was very glad that common sense had taken the place of patriotism.
But when he returned home there was not the welcome he expected. People had long memories. He was not liked. It had got round that he was a schemer who introduced people to dubious men of business and, indeed, he had been singularly unfortunate in his meeting with Dick Wainwright and subsequently introducing him, for what to him was a meagre profit, to his brother-in-law Laurence.
It was Laurence who had caught him with Sophie, a fight ensued and that was the last time he’d set eyes on either of them until the baptism of Carson’s daughter, when he’d seen Sophie after all these years, and also a youth purported to be his son. But if he was his son Bart had no paternal feelings towards him. He could never prove it or recognise him, and the past was the past. Over, as far as he was concerned.
But the future? He thought of the young girl sitting on the water’s edge. Happily, she looked nothing like her mother, but must have resembled her father, the saintly George, who Sophie was forever talking about and who died in some far-off place when his children were young.
Bart completed his tour of the outside of the building and was about to go inside when two men came down the steps slowly, heads together, studying a large plan or map that they had in their hands. One was the architect, Solomon Palmer, a talented young man recently qualified, who had been engaged on the recommendation of Abel Yetman, his companion on the steps. Bart hailed them and as they looked up Abel folded the plan and, saying something to his companion, ran down the steps.
“Good morning, Uncle Bart.”
“Good morning, Abel, Solomon.” Bart turned to the fresh faced young architect not long out of college. “And how is the work coming on?”
“It’s ahead of schedule, Mr Sadler,” the architect said, excited by his first important commission, anxious to please. “You will be able to move in by midsummer.”
Bart smiled with satisfaction and placed a hand on Abel’s shoulder.
“You’ve done well, Abel. To transform this place within six months is a miracle.”
“Maybe you’ll recommend us, Uncle Bart,” Abel said, pointing to his companion. “We mean to set up in a partnership to undertake house restoration, conversions and offer a complete architectural and building service.”
“That sounds a capital idea,” Bart said. “I like the sound of it.”
Solomon shot out an arm and looked at his watch.
“I must go, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen. I have another appointment.” He held out a hand. “Do go inside and look round, Mr Sadler. I’m sure you’ll be pleased with what you find.”
“I’m pleased already.” Bart vigorously shook his hand. “I think you’ve got a great future ahead of you.”
He stood with his nephew as Solomon Palmer got into his car, which was parked in front of the house and, after performing a U-turn, disappeared down the drive.
“A fine young man,” Bart said approvingly. “How old is he?”
“He’s younger than I am, Uncle. About twenty-four. He only qualified last year.”
“Have you known him long?”
“No. The architect I worked for on my last house was retiring, and I looked around for another. Someone knew Palmer who had recently come to the town. He was looking for work and I was in search of an architect. This is our second job. The first one was much smaller, but we worked very well together. Solomon specialises in the restoration of old buildings, but of course he is quite happy to work on new ones.”
“Now, young man,” Bart put an avuncular arm through his nephew’s as they started up the steps to the hall, “tell me about Deborah Woodville.”
“Deborah Woodville?” Abel seemed surprised by the question. “What do you want to know about her?”
“Why is she not married? She’s a very pretty young woman. Some might even call her beautiful.”
“She is very comely,” Abel agreed rather woodenly. “I prefer her sister.”
“But the two are alike, are they not? The beautiful Misses Woodville. I knew them quite well when they were small.”
“Did you? I didn’t know that.”
“I was acquainted with their mother. She was a very handsome woman, but different from the girls. I imagine they took after their father,” he glanced at Abel, “your saintly Uncle George.”
“Whom I didn’t know at all. I was only three when he died. Actually, Uncle, I am very interested in my cousin Ruth. She is n
ot only beautiful but she is kind, good and intelligent.”
“Ah!” Bart seemed interested in this news. “She’s a schoolteacher I believe?”
“Of course we grew up together ...”
“And is she as interested in you as you are in her?”
The young man blushed. “I think so, Uncle.”
“Why then that is very good news. We might have a wedding in the family.”
“Oh, nothing is arranged,” Abel said hastily. “But ... well,” he studied his feet, “I can but live in hope.”
“And why did Deborah not appeal to you?” Bart halted in the middle of the stairway and looked closely at his nephew. “She is very beautiful too.”
“It is Ruth I prefer,” Abel said and paused. “Deborah is, well ... she has a past, you know, Uncle.”
“Oh, has she?” Bart looked immediately interested. “Do tell me about it.”
“I shouldn’t.”
“Oh, but you should.” Bart engaged his arm with his nephew’s again, as they proceeded up the steps. “I love gossip. It just so happens that I went to see your mother this morning and after I went for a walk along the river bank. I came upon the elder Miss Woodville sitting on the jetty, her feet nearly in the water. I thought she had a very sad expression. She was not at the christening last year, was she?”
“She seldom goes out.”
“Because of her past?”
Abel nodded. “It is something to do with that. She has a child, Uncle, out of wedlock. He is now about seven years old.”
“And who was the father?”
“Some workman, not a local man. She ran off with him and disappeared for six months. When he knew she was having a baby he deserted her. She was found by Uncle Carson and for a time she went to live with him until the baby was born. Now she lives with her mother, but she never goes out. She is never seen in the town. She still thinks people talk about her.”
“And where is the child? Does he live with his mother?”
“He is being cared for by a relative of Mr Turner who lives in Bristol. He goes to school there and is well taken care of.”
“And does his mother ever see him?”
Past Love (Part Four of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 9