Carson tucked the letter inside his breast pocket and sighed deeply. He was very unhappy. Instinct had told him to throw away the letter, to forget about Nelly, but he could not. He would never have been able to live with himself afterwards. His conscience would have pricked him for the rest of his life.
But what to do? He had longed to confide in Connie, yet he dared not. Nor had there been the time, Dora and Jean on the verge of leaving, a dinner party for them and farewells to make. He nearly confessed all to Dora but he knew it would worry her and this was something he had to face up to himself. For Nelly was the mother of Alexander, whom he had always suspected was his son. Now he knew.
Truth will out, but for him at this moment, a worse situation could not be imagined. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, as he had had precious little sleep the night before.
Carson took a cab to the street in Stepney which contained a row of drab-looking houses, most with torn net curtains across the windows, some without. One or two had the woodwork painted and fresh curtains at the windows, but the one in front of which he stood looked forlorn and neglected. An overflowing dustbin stood outside the front door with a mangy cat rubbing itself up and down against it as if to try and appeal to Carson’s good nature for a home or, at the very least, a scrap of fish or bacon.
Carson knocked on the door, removed his hat and stood waiting. Round him gathered a crowd of curious adults and children, a couple more cats, and a dog or two. Even those with long memories could not recall the last time a cab had drawn up outside the house in the street.
The door opened a crack and a face peered round it, a rather frightened, elfin face with large hazel eyes and a pitted, unhealthy-looking complexion.
“Sir Carson?” she whispered and, as Carson nodded, she opened the door and anxiously drew him in. Then she stood for a second, bawling obscenities to the crowd gawping round the door and with a rude gesture told them to be off.
“Some people have no manners,” she said as she slammed the door shut. “You’d think they’d never seen a gentleman before.”
“Probably thought I was the rent collector,” Carson said with a smile.
“Oh no, sir. You should see the rent collector. Face like a ferret. I can tell you he ain’t no gentleman.”
“You must be Massie,” Carson held out his hand.
“It was ever so good of you to come, sir.” Massie appeared overcome with confusion and agitatedly wiped her hands on her pinafore as she led him into a small back room. “I can hardly believe it.”
“Well, I got your letter and came as soon as I could. You see,” Carson looked round for somewhere to put his hat and finally threw it on a chair which had seen better days, “I had always suspected Alexander was my son. For one thing he looks so like Nelly, and then he was abandoned at the house of my aunt which Nelly had once visited. But I could not find Nelly, though at the time I tried.”
“Alexander.” Massie’s eyes widened. “Then you do know where he is?”
“I do indeed. At this moment he is at Cambridge University, a fine young man whose adoptive mother has given him the best start in life he could possibly want. Now, where is Nelly?”
“You will be very shocked, sir.” Massie wrung her hands again.
“Is she really dying?” Carson whispered.
“It’s the tubercular, sir. She is a shadow of what she was.”
“Has she had treatment?”
Massie gave a derisive laugh.
“Well, we know what’s wrong with her, but treatment... the doctor said she was past treatment. I give her cough mixture occasionally when her cough is bad. The doctor said her lungs was like leather. Charged her ten shillings for the information too –” Massie Sniffed. “Said he wanted to see her again, but at that price ...”
“I’d like to see her,” Carson said urgently and Massie stood back to allow him to pass up the stairs. Heart racing, Carson stood outside the closed door, knocked and then pushed it open.
Nelly lay on a bed in the corner, her hands on the coverlet, her eyes closed. She seemed to Carson unnaturally still, but as he stood looking down at her she opened those wonderful dark eyes whose brilliance seemed, perhaps, accentuated by her condition.
“Nelly,” he whispered as his eyes filled with tears.
“Carson,” she said in a voice so weak he could hardly hear her. “I knew you’d come.” And, as he sat by her side, she took his hand and brought it unsteadily to her lips.
Chapter Ten
Sarah Jane Yetman sat on a stool in the shade at the back of the house shelling peas. The country was enjoying, if that was the word, a heatwave and it was nice to be in the cool out of doors. There was no breeze at all; the landscape shimmered in the intense heat of the sun, and even the birds were silent. At her feet her Labrador, Rufus, lay panting, and the cats kept to the shadows cast by the house. The air seemed strangely, almost eerily, still.
She was quite alone. The cottage at the side of the house where Ted and Beth, Elizabeth’s foster parents, used to live, was now occupied by Ruth and Abel until such time as the house Abel was building for them was finished, perhaps towards the end of the year. Her two live-in maids slept in the attic.
Carson had given Ruth and Abel a piece of land not a mile from Pelham’s Oak as a wedding present and today they had both gone to see how work on the project was progressing. The house had been designed by Solomon Palmer, in keeping with the traditional architecture of the great house on whose land it was being built. It would be a large house reflecting the style of a successful businessman in which Abel intended to live.
Martha had gone to London to work as a secretary in a newspaper office in Fleet Street, and Felicity had decided to be a nurse and was training at the ancient hospital of St Bartholomew in the City. Martha lived in a women’s hostel in Bloomsbury and Felicity in the nurses’ home. Both sisters saw each other regularly and this was a comfort to Sarah Jane who had never been to London in her life and thought of it as a large, dangerous place, especially for young women.
Sarah Jane was glad that Felicity had decided to settle down, if she had. She had tried a number of jobs and nothing appealed. In Sarah Jane’s opinion what Felicity really wanted was to get married, whereas Martha was more of a career woman and hoped one day to join the journalistic staff on the newspaper, although it was a career that offered few opportunities to women.
Sarah Jane was glad of the proximity of Ruth and Abel, though they would soon be gone, and what then? She would have a large house, with a separate cottage and outbuildings, entirely to herself except for the two maids. Time had always hung heavily upon her hands, and she knew she would be lonely. She had been a widow for eighteen years and, although she would have liked to have married again, the opportunity had never presented itself.
In many ways she was an unhappy, unfulfilled woman who had never really recovered from the shock of her husband’s premature death. Everything had seemed so perfect; everything was going so well and then – bang! It all vanished.
She knew that, although she had been a good, conscientious mother to her growing children, she had also lacked patience and, perhaps, understanding. She was critical, cantankerous, and the wonder was that they, especially Abel, remained so loyal and faithful to her. The girls had rebelled more than her sons, which was perhaps why they had gone away and he remained at home.
But not for much longer. Sarah Jane rose, straightened her back and was about to pick up the dish of shelled peas when she heard a crunch on the gravel and Solomon Palmer peered round the corner of the house.
“Oh, Mrs Yetman ...” He seemed surprised to see her. “I hope I haven’t disturbed you?”
“Not at all. Abel’s not here, I’m afraid. He and Ruth have gone to look at the house.”
“Ah!” Solomon put a hand to his mouth. “Do you know when he’ll be back?”
“I’m afraid I have no idea.” She paused and looked at him. He seemed very hot. “Would you like a cold drink? I was just
about to get some lemonade.”
“That’s very kind.”
“We could have it out here in the shade.”
“I feel I’m disturbing you,” he said.
“You’re not disturbing me at all. Do take your jacket off and roll up your sleeves. I shan’t be long.”
Sarah Jane went into the kitchen and suddenly her heart felt lighter and she began to hum a tune. It would be nice to have someone to chat to. The time went so slowly. People popped in, of course, and she went daily into the town to shop. Ruth often came over to keep her company, although these days she was so busy planning the house, the furnishings, decoration and fittings for when it would be finished. Sometimes her mother went with her and sometimes she went alone, or took a friend or her sister. Very rarely her mother-in-law.
Sarah Jane made a jug of lemonade, put some biscuits on a tray and took it back into the yard where Solomon was sitting, now in his shirt-sleeves. He was lying back in his chair, his eyes half closed. He started as she appeared and smiled rather shamefacedly.
“I’m afraid I was day-dreaming. I should really be at work.”
“Well, you rest while you can in the shade. This heat takes its toll.” Sarah Jane set the tray on a table, poured the lemonade and passed him his glass. “Of course we’re not used to it.”
“True.” Solomon nodded and, reaching for the glass, drank thirstily. “My, that was good.” He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.
“Have some more.” Sarah Jane held out the jug and refilled his glass.
“Have you seen the house?” he asked.
“Abel took me over to see it last week. It’s coming on well. It is going to be very big.”
“Maybe they want a large family?” Solomon looked at her.
“Maybe they do. I must say this house will be too big for me when they’ve all gone. I shall have to look for something smaller.”
“Oh, what a pity. It’s such a lovely house.” Solomon gazed up at the gables, baking in the sun.
“I shall be rattling around in it like a pea.”
“Hasn’t it been in the family for a long time?”
Sarah Jane nodded.
“For a very long time. It was the Yetman family home in the time of Abel’s great-grandfather, John. He was the father of the present Lady Woodville.”
“Abel’s great-grandfather was Lady Woodville’s father?” Solomon looked at her incredulously.
“He married for a second time. He was twenty years older than his wife. She died in childbirth by which time, of course, he was nearly an old man. Poor Connie was orphaned at the age of eight. But she didn’t do too badly. She was well looked after and, in time, became a very rich woman.” Sarah Jane paused thoughtfully. “Though you’d never think it.” She looked across at Solomon. “Would you, I mean? They live quite frugally. Of course the Woodvilles never had very much money. The men invariably married heiresses, so Carson made it very clear that he wanted Connie for her own sake and not for her riches.”
Sarah Jane paused self-consciously. “I’m gossiping, I’m afraid.”
“No, I really find it quite fascinating,” Solomon said. “I mean all the family connections and so on. I come from a small family. I’m an only child and my family is, frankly, suburban. Croydon,” he finished as if that word alone explained everything.
“Croydon? Where is that?”
“It’s just outside London. It’s a grey, sprawling suburb of the Metropolis. My father is an architect with quite a flourishing practice. But he is a man of very limited horizons. Our family is middle-class and rather boring.”
“But you’re not boring!”
“It’s very nice of you to say so, Mrs Yetman.”
“I don’t think you’re at all boring, and nor do Abel or any members of my family. But why did you come to a place like this? I mean Croydon may be out of the way but Wenham and Blandford ...” she finished lamely.
“Are the most delightful places!” he concluded for her. “Here we are really right in the heart of England.”
“Did you just pick a place from the map?”
“Not quite. We used to holiday in Dorset, Weymouth or Bournemouth and my father, being an architect, used to take me on excursions to interesting places, houses or churches of which Dorset has a number. I liked Blandford. Also I had friends in Dorchester who introduced me to Abel. So I stayed.”
“And a good thing you did.” The sun had begun to encroach round the side of the house and Sarah Jane moved her chair back. “Abel is very happy with your partnership.”
“And so am I. Nothing could be more delightful.”
“Shall you, do you think, settle here?”
“Oh, undoubtedly. I am in lodgings at the moment, but I am looking for a property round here, if possible. I love Wenham.”
“Well, you may be able to buy Riversmead one of these days. That is, if I decide to sell.”
“I think that would be a great shame but if it ever is on the market then, yes, I might well be most interested. Although it is a very big house for a single man.”
“I don’t suppose that will last long.” Sarah Jane laughed as she rose and took the tray. “Any number of young ladies in these parts would be only too glad if you paid attention to them. I can assure you of that. Another drink, Solomon?”
“No thanks, Mrs Yetman. I really must make a start.”
“And I must get on too. The maids have a day off.” She paused to look at him. “There is no need to call me ‘Mrs Yetman’, you know. Sarah Jane’s my name.”
“Sarah Jane, then.” Solomon returned her glance as if a new, unexpected note of familiarity had suddenly been struck between them. “I feel I’ve taken up too much of your time.” He began to roll down his shirt-sleeves.
“Not at all. I was glad of your company. You are welcome any time. Most welcome.” Her eyes lingered on him for a few seconds and, as she returned to the kitchen, Solomon leaned back and followed her progress through half-closed eyes.
It was difficult to think she was Abel’s mother, her appearance was so youthful. She was not beautiful or even pretty and probably never had been. But she was what was known as a good-looking woman who held herself well and had kept her figure. She had short brown hair and blue eyes, an aquiline nose and good cheek-bones, a firm, decisive-looking mouth. She exuded good health and a certain warm sexuality which Solomon found attractive, even exciting.
He wondered why she had remained a widow for so long as, getting up, he retrieved his jacket and followed her into the house.
“Thanks very much for the drink,” he said shrugging into his jacket.
“I enjoyed having you.” She stared at him appraisingly. “I’m sorry Abel wasn’t here.”
“I don’t mind at all.” Solomon smiled down at her. “I enjoyed talking to you.”
“And I to you.”
There was again a pause as if neither was willing to relinquish this moment of new-found intimacy.
“Do tell Abel not to forget we have people coming for dinner.” Sarah Jane made an effort to suppress this curious, rather worrying feeling of excitement as she saw him to the door by keeping her tone utterly normal, even mundane, her expression polite but vacuous.
She opened the door just as Sophie Turner appeared, walking up the lawn from the river. She stopped, as if surprised to see Solomon standing behind Sarah Jane.
“Solomon came to see Abel,” Sarah Jane explained, but she knew that her cheeks had a high colour.
“Hello, Mr Palmer.” Sophie held out her hand. “Isn’t it hot?”
“Very hot,” Solomon replied. “I was just going.”
“They say there will be thunder.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised.” Solomon turned to his hostess. “Thanks very much for the drink, Sarah Jane.”
“It was a pleasure.” She bowed her head, rather wishing he hadn’t used her Christian name in front of Sophie. “And don’t forget to give Abel my message.”
“I shan’t
.” Solomon smiled at her once more, then at Sophie and ran down the steps to his car.
The two women stood for a moment watching the car as it disappeared down the drive and through the main gates.
“He’s a nice young man,” Sophie said after a while. Then she looked keenly at Sarah Jane. “Don’t you think?”
“Very.” Sarah Jane’s cheeks still glowed as she led the way inside the house to the cool of the front drawing-room. “I think it’s cooler inside than out, though Solomon and I sat at the back, away from the sun.”
Conscious that this again might seem a compromising statement she added defensively: “He came to see Abel and I offered him lemonade.” She fanned herself with her hand and slumped into a chair. “It is so hot.”
“I wondered if you’d seen Deborah?” Sophie sat in a chair facing Sarah Jane, took off her straw sun-hat and placed it on the chair beside her. “I thought she’d gone for a walk but she hasn’t come back. It is a very hot day to go for a walk, even by the river. I’m worried about her.”
“I’m sure there’s no need to worry. She’s quite able to look after herself. Maybe she’s fallen asleep somewhere in the cool. Did you look in the boathouse?”
“Yes.” Sophie folded her hands, anxiously rubbing one against the other. “I don’t know why she has to stray away like this. It seems to have become a habit recently and I can never find her.”
“Well, she’s nothing else to do, has she?”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean that for a young woman of her age Deborah is curiously unoccupied. She has no occupation, no interests in the parish. She must be very bored.”
“It hardly becomes you to criticise my daughter,” Sophie said tartly. “It never seems to me that you have very much to do yourself, Sarah Jane.”
Sarah Jane looked sharply at the woman to whom she was now allied by marriage. She liked Sophie well enough, there was nothing particularly to dislike about her, but had never felt close to her. She was in many ways a difficult person really to know. Even after living next to her for so many years she felt she was something of an enigma. Somehow one was in awe of her, an older woman, a woman with a past, the rector’s wife.
Past Love (Part Four of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 15