by Janet Woods
‘You’ve never been easy in the presence of faith, have you?’
‘The dogma of the church annoys me. I’ve seen too many innocents die of disease brought about by lack of food, hygiene and shelter. There is too much hypocrisy in this good Christian country of ours.’
‘Man is born of sin and you’re angry because you’re unable to acknowledge your own hypocrisy. Siana is part of you. She’s the beat of your heart, the warmth in your arms, the fire in your loins. Siana loves you. Don’t throw that away, Francis.’
Francis managed a smile. ‘I didn’t realize you were prone to such poetical turns of phrase, Richard. But please, kindly keep your parson’s nose out of my personal business and concentrate on regaining your health.’
Richard chuckled. ‘You don’t fool me, Francis. And since the Lord has me marked, I will disregard your advice by saying exactly as I please. I must admit, though, it’s gratifying to discover you’ve regained some of your fight.’
‘Such pride, and from someone who professes to be but a poor servant of the Lord,’ Francis mocked. ‘If God exists, I doubt whether you’re that important to him, my friend.’
‘I doubt it too, but I prefer to believe in life after death, then I’ll know my time on earth counted. Rest assured, when I arrive at my destination I’ll tell Maryse your grief for her was so profound, it excluded those who loved you most.’ With that, Richard’s eyes drifted shut and he began to gently snore.
Francis said softly, ‘Dammit, Richard, I’ve never been able to win an argument with you. Don’t do me any favours, for I’m doing a good job of pricking my own conscience at the moment.’
He didn’t win that argument either. Richard died peacefully in his sleep a week later.
The new incumbent appointed by the bishop arrived in time to conduct Richard White’s funeral. He was to be buried next to his wife.
Reverend Samuel Brannan was thin and upright. He had a kindly smile, a plump, pious-looking wife, two daughters and two sons.
The whole parish attended the funeral. After the funeral service the new reverend smiled benignly at the congregation. ‘It seems my predecessor was well loved in his parish. So if any would like to speak on his behalf, please come forward.
Rudd Ponsonby shuffled self-consciously from his seat. ‘I don’t be much of a speechifying man, but I’d like to say my piece. The reverend was a right nice gentleman. Kind and helpful he was, to me and my family both. I hope God has a special place for him in his heaven.’
‘Amen,’ someone in the pews shouted out. ‘The reverend give me some coal from his own cellar when I didn’t have a ha’penny to my name.’
‘And he gave me a dinner every night, when I was alone with the horses at Cheverton Manor,’ a tall young man said, determined not to be outdone. ‘Up till then I was eatin’ oats and straw.’
‘Didn’t do thee much good, did it?’ someone said. ‘You’m be as tall and as thin as a willow stick.’
‘I hears ’im neigh when the moon’s full, Rob. And ’is eyes be all of a pucker.’
‘It must have been all the horse manure he was standing in that done it. Some say ’tis good for making roses grow, but ’e don’t look like a rose, do ’e, Tom?’
‘Not ’zackly, lessen that bit of fuzz be a flower blooming on his upper lip.’
The tall young man sat down, flushing to the roots of his hair.
‘Now ’e looks like a rose, don’t ’e?’ Rob said.
Francis smiled when the congregation began to laugh uproariously.
The new reverend rose hastily to his feet, saying authoritatively, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I would ask you to show respect for the dead. Pall bearers, perhaps it’s time to take the coffin to the graveside.’
Mrs Brannan sniffed, shepherded her children in front of her and headed back towards the rectory, a determined look on her face.
So many lives gone, Francis thought a few minutes later, gazing around him at the several Skinner headstones, a family to whom Siana claimed kinship through Josh and Daisy. In the fenced-off area, there were Siana’s first husband, Edward Forbes, and young Ashley, the son Siana had borne Edward. How it must have torn her heart out to have lost that son. And their daughter, Elen, buried on the Welsh hillside where she’d been born.
His own daughter Maryse was with her mother. A sob caught in his throat. For years he’d mourned his first wife, despising his own inability to save her life. It was Siana who’d brought him back to life. Her devotion to her sister and her brother, in spite of the despair of her destitution, had filled him with an admiration which had swiftly turned to love.
Siana had strength. She would still have that strength as she waited for word from him to come home. But would she come home to him now, after all this time? His woman had a mind of her own and acted on it. And there was Marcus to think of, a man of singular attractiveness, with whom Siana had formed a strong bond of friendship. How she’d laughed off his jealousy when he’d mention it. But would she still be laughing now?
The graveside prayers had been said, and a fine drizzle drifted down from a grey sky. People set off on wagons, horses and by foot, to get home before darkness fell. The road would be churned up by nightfall.
Someone pulled at Francis’s sleeve. It was Richard White’s lawyer.
‘There will be no formal reading of Reverend White’s will,’ he said. ‘He didn’t have a great deal, but his late wife’s dowry had been invested since their marriage and has grown into a useful sum. There are only two beneficiaries. One is Bryn Matheson. Richard suggests the legacy either be used for a decent upbringing and education, or be held in trust until the boy comes of age. The decision is yours to make. I’d be much obliged if you would step into my office the next time you’re in Poole, Dr Matheson, so the sum can be handed over.’
‘And the other legatee?’ Though Francis didn’t really need to ask.
‘Your wife, Siana Matheson. The reverend has left her his entire library. He said he couldn’t think of anyone better able to appreciate his books. You should arrange for their removal from the rectory as soon as possible.’ Tipping his hat, the lawyer hurried off towards his rig, leaving Francis staring after him.
So, Richard had allowed him the last word on Bryn, after all, and in more ways than one. But Francis wasn’t sure he was ready to pronounce it.
On the way home he stopped to pick up Rosie, who was struggling along the road hefting a heavy bag.
‘That new reverend’s wife couldn’t wait to get rid of me,’ she said. ‘Packed my bag herself, she did, and left it in the porch. She said she and her daughters are quite capable of doing the housework and it was best I leave now. That be after making me scrub the house from attic to cellar last week and polish all them windows. She didn’t even pay me my wage. Bleddy hippocratics, that’s what they be.’ Sitting on her bag she buried her head in her hands and wailed, ‘What’s to become of me?’
Jumping down from the rig, Francis helped her to her feet then picked up her bag and threw it into the buggy. ‘I’ll make sure you get your wage, Rosie. And you’ll come home with me, where else would you go?’
14
It was the end of November before Goldie had the strength to leave her bed. Escorted by Daisy she walked across the room on thin, wobbly legs, grinning with the triumph of the challenge.
‘Good,’ Francis said, smiling himself, for Goldie’s hair was a mass of bobbing, reddish gold curls where her hair was beginning to grow back. ‘Don’t overdo it. You must rest every afternoon until I say otherwise. And you need to gain some weight, so I expect you to eat all your meals.’
Rosie beamed a smile at the girl. ‘Don’t you fret, Dr Matheson. I’ll make sure she eats every morsel.’
‘Can Goldie move out of the sickroom now, Papa?’
‘Haven’t you got some lessons to do, Daisy?’
‘You gave Miss Edgar a day off so she can go into Poole to do some shopping.’
‘So I did. I don’t see why Goldie can�
��t be moved. I’m sure Rosie has seen to it that her bed is properly aired. But don’t tire her out.’
‘I won’t.’ Daisy sent a loving smile Goldie’s way. ‘I’ll read you my journal, then you can see how we found you in London. I might write a play for when you’re better. Papa gave me an idea for the title, The Amazing Adventures of Daisy Skinner in London. We can pretend to be famous actresses, then.’
With a title like that, Miss Daisy Skinner is bound to be cast as the heroine, Francis thought wryly, as he went down to the drawing room where Pansy was playing the piano. She stopped playing when he entered, gazed up at him and offered him a smile when he kissed the top of her head.
‘Keep playing. That’s a pretty piece.’
‘It’s a sonata by Franz Schubert. Aunt Prudence taught it to me.’
When she finished playing it he sat next to her on the piano stool and murmured, ‘Do you remember this?’ He started to play Maryse’s favourite song, by the same composer.
Her head resting against his shoulder, Pansy began to softly sing, ‘Who is Sylvia? What is she when all her swains commend her . . .’
They gazed at each other when they finished, appreciating this shared moment of closeness. Pansy kissed his cheek when he pulled her against him in a hug. ‘Will we ever get used to Maryse leaving us so cruelly, Papa?’
‘We’ll have to. I’m glad to have you and the girls back, though. I’ve been remiss in my parenting, and for that I’m sorry. Everything came as such a shock and I thought of nothing but my own grief when, of course, you were grieving too.’
‘Dearest Papa. You have been through such a lot. I forgive you . . . we all do.’
‘And Siana,’ he said heavily. ‘Will she forgive me too, do you think?’
‘She may, as long as you haven’t broken her heart completely.’ When Pansy stood and shook the creases from her skirt, Francis knew his daughter had left much unsaid. She was wearing a gown of pink watered taffeta topped by a fur-trimmed velvet jacket. Her hair was in ringlets, her eyes shone and roses bloomed in her cheeks. She was all woman now, as if Maryse’s death had wiped away every trace of her childhood.
‘You look beautiful today. Is something special happening?’
‘Oh, Pa. You know very well that my . . . that you’re to have a visitor today.’
‘This swain of yours . . . he’s waited a long time to declare himself to me.’
‘He wanted to wait until Goldie had recovered, so you could pay proper attention to his suit. He’s also a little . . . shy.’
Though Francis knew exactly who her intended was, he couldn’t help but tease her. ‘I don’t see why you can’t tell me who this mysterious man is. Are you ashamed of him?’
‘Certainly not.’ She shrugged. ‘But he’s uncertain of his status and wants to speak to you himself, so he can convince you of his worthiness.’
‘Pansy, my dear, I trust your judgement in this. I want you to know how sorry I am that I ignored your feelings when I tried to press you into a match with Alder.’
‘You’re my father and sought only to do what you thought was best for me. I can understand that.’ The glance she gave him was full of appeal when they heard the sound of a horse and buggy outside. ‘Please be kind to him, Papa,’ she said, and turned to leave. As he heard her footsteps patter up the staircase there came a knock on the door.
Francis’s eyes widened in shock when he opened it. ‘Giles Dennings?’ Surely not! ‘But I thought . . . ? You’d better come through to my study and take a glass of sherry with me, Giles.’
‘Thank you, Dr Matheson. That’s very kind of you.’
He couldn’t allow it, Francis thought, pouring the golden liquor into glasses and handing one to Giles. He gazed at him over the glass. ‘I’m prepared to give you a fair hearing, Giles, but I’ll tell you straight away, I’m not in favour of a marriage between you.’
Placing the glass back on the table, Giles stiffened. ‘Why is that, sir?’
‘She’s far too young for you.’
‘But Sylvia is only a few years my junior.’
Francis stared at him. ‘Sylvia?’
‘Sylvia Edgar.’
‘You mean you’re here to ask me for the hand of Miss Edgar in marriage?’
‘No, Doctor. I don’t need your permission.’
Francis began to laugh. ‘Forgive me, Giles. I’ve made a blunder. I thought you were here to request the hand of my daughter.’
‘Miss Matheson?’ Giles’s eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hairline. ‘Good Lord! I’m old enough to be her father. I’m here to collect Miss Edgar and take her into town.’ He picked up the sherry again, sipping it appreciatively. ‘It’s Sylvia’s hand I’m after. If she accepts me I shall be the luckiest man alive and I’m afraid you’ll have to find yourself another governess.’
‘Accept my best wishes, then.’ Francis glanced at the door when there was a tentative knock. ‘Come in.’
Miss Edgar peered inside. She was handsomely turned out in dark blue. Her demure bonnet was trimmed with a posy of silk flowers and she carried a fur muff to match the trim on her jacket.
‘How becoming the ladies of my household appear today,’ Francis murmured, astonished to discover that his jaundiced view of everything had changed, so his surroundings and everyone in them appeared in a quite different light.
Surprise came into her eyes. ‘Thank you, sir. Have you seen Mr Dennings?’ She blushed when she saw her intended standing to one side. ‘Oh! There you are, Giles.’
‘Would you like a glass of sherry to ward off the cold, Miss Edgar?’ Francis offered.
‘No, thank you, sir. I rarely drink alcohol at this time of day.’ Her glance darted towards Giles, her expression slightly schoolmarmish.
Smoothly, Giles informed her, ‘Neither do I. However, on some occasions one cannot avoid being sociable.’ He grinned as he swallowed the last of his drink. ‘Thank you for your best wishes, Doctor. I must be off.’
Francis smiled and nodded to him.
‘Best wishes . . .?’ Miss Edgar was saying curiously as the door closed behind them.
Josh felt as if he was in a muck sweat. Running a finger under his cravat, he lifted each foot and polished the toes of his already immaculate boots on the back of each leg.
His double-breasted frock coat was of the latest style, with gathered sleeves and shaped back panel. Donkey brown in colour, it toned nicely with the fawn of his braided trousers.
His man, Mr Bentley, had advised him on the outfit. ‘Very understated, sir, as befits a successful gentleman of business. We don’t want to appear flamboyant now, do we?’
Who would have thought he’d come to this, proposing marriage? Siana, that’s who. ‘The women will be after you like a flock of seagulls,’ she’d once told him.
Although that wasn’t exactly the way things had been, there had been one or two women to show him the way of things, and several more who’d been attracted by his wealth. None of them could measure up to Pansy Matheson, who was gilt-edged in his book.
Mr Bentley had still been handing out instructions as Josh had left the house. ‘Now don’t you go fidgeting with yourself, sir, for a more turned-out gentleman you couldn’t wish for. You’re a real credit to me, even though I say so myself. Remain polite, but be a bit humble as you state your case, for the young lady is well-bred and her father will want only the best for her. A gentleman doesn’t forget to remove his hat. Hand it with your coat and gloves to the servant in the hall.’
‘What if there isn’t one?’
‘Then be positive and lay them on the hall stand. Have you got your gift for the young lady, sir?’
Josh patted his breast pocket and grinned. This was one surprise Pansy wouldn’t be expecting.
‘Giddy-up, Alder,’ he’d said, and the horse had tossed its head, then given a spirited whinny and high-stepped towards the gate, taking Josh towards his future, he hoped. The beast had been springy with pent-up energy and he’d taken a firm grip o
n the reins, cautioning, ‘Whoa, boy. Your former master has already given me a tumble I won’t forget. As soon as we’re out in the countryside I’ll let you stretch your legs.’
He’d enjoyed the journey as much as the horse had. Now he stood outside of Francis Matheson’s study, cleaning the dust from his boots on his trousers and feeling extremely nervous.
‘Come in, won’t you?’ Francis called out impatiently, for the second time.
Josh sucked in a deep breath and opened the door. As he removed his hat and placed it on the chair, he groaned. He’d forgotten every one of Mr Bentley’s instructions.
Francis rose quickly to his feet, concern on his face. ‘Are you ill, Josh?’
‘Who me? I’ve never been ill in my life, ’cepting when that damned fool nephew of yours tried to break my neck. Now, his horse is trying to do the same. I named it Alder, after him. It gives me great satisfaction when I have to lay the crop across his contrary arse.’ That’s right, Josh, make a good start by criticizing the man’s nephew.
But Francis just smiled. ‘The horse is a thoroughbred, he’s bound to be mettlesome.’
‘Whereas a non-thoroughbred is just troublesome, aye?’
Francis was not about to be drawn, and merely nodded. Josh cleared his throat and decided to get straight to the point. ‘I have some business to discuss with you, Dr Matheson.’
‘Would you like a glass of sherry first?’
‘No, sir. I’m not partial to the stuff. I might need a brandy afterwards, though.’
‘That bad, is it?’
‘What is?’
‘The business you intend to discuss with me, Josh.’
Josh gave an audible gulp and his words came out in one breathless rush. ‘Ah that . . . it’s about Miss Matheson, I intend to marry her if she’ll have me.’
In the ensuing silence Francis picked up a paperknife and tested the blade against his thumb, saying softly, ‘Do you . . . do you indeed?’
Josh kept his eyes on the knife, wondering if it was sharp. Francis was reputed to have a deft touch when it came to surgery. ‘What I mean is, I’m here to ask for permission to marry your daughter, if you’ll allow me. And if she’ll have me, of course, so much the better.’