IN THIS QUIET EARTH
(Part Three of The People of This Parish Saga)
Nicola Thorne
Publishing History
First world edition published in Great Britain in 1998 by Severn House Publishers Ltd of 9-15 High Street, Sutton Surrey SM1 1DF.
First published in the USA 1998 by Severn House Publishers Inc. of 595 Madison Avenue, New York 10022,
Unabridged Audio Edition Published in 2001 by Isis Publishing Ltd
This E book edition revised by the author in 2013
Copyright © Nicola Thorne
The author has asserted her moral rights.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Author website: www.nicolathorne.com
Cover Illustration by David Young
Cover design by Ruth Wrixton
E book preparation Witley Press Ltd, Hunstanton, PE36 6AD
About the Author
Nicola Thorne was born in South Africa and, after a spell in New Zealand with her mother who was born in Wellington, came to England as a child where her parents finally separated. She spent her youth in the North of England, where she was educated first at a convent school and then a co-educational school. After completing her education at the London School of Economics she then spent most of her adult life in London. She has made a long career as a writer and is the author of over fifty novels. For a number of years Nicola has been among the top most borrowed authors from public libraries in the UK (PLR statistics) and many of her books have been published in foreign languages apart from English. After fifteen years spent in Dorset, she now lives in Devon.
By the same author
Return to Wuthering Heights (also e-book)
A Woman Like Us (also e-book)
The Perfect Wife and Mother (also e-book)
The Daughters of the House (also e-book)
Where the Rivers Meet (also e-book)
Affairs of Love
Pride of Place
Bird of Passage
Champagne
Champagne Gold
A Wind in Summer
Silk, a novel
Profit and Loss
Trophy Wife
Repossession, a novel of psychic suspense (also e-book)
Worlds Apart
Old Money
Rules of Engagement
The Good Samaritan
Class Reunion
My Name is Martha Brown (also e-book)
In Search of Martha Brown (non-fiction)
A Friend of the Family
Coppitts Green (also e-book)
The Little Flowers (also e-book)
Rose, Rose, Where are You? (also e-book)
On a Day Like Today
The Holly Tree
The Pride of the School (e-book only)
After the Rain (also e-book)
The Askham Chronicles, 1898-1967:
Never Such Innocence
Yesterday’s Promises
Bright Morning
A Place in the Sun
The People of this Parish series:
The People of this Parish (also e-book)
The Rector’s Daughter (also e-book)
In This Quiet Earth (also e-book)
Past Love
A Time of Hope
In Time of War
The Broken Bough Saga:
The Broken Bough (also e-book)
The Blackbird’s Song (also e-book)
The Water’s Edge (also e-book)
Oh Happy Day! (also e-book)
The Enchantress Saga
The Enchantress (e -book only)
Falcon Gold (e-book only)
Lady of the Lakes (e-book only)
Synopsis
He imagined that in this quiet earth he could hear the rumblings of subterranean thunder as though the echoes of conflict would surface all over again, destroying not only his inheritance, his home and his family, but everything he held dear.
The latest volume in The People of This Parish saga, takes up the story of war hero Carson who, having inherited the title from his late father Sir Guy, returns at the end of hostilities in 1919 to find the Woodville estate once more in financial difficulties. It is deeply in debt and urgently in need of extensive repairs thanks, largely, to the excesses of his extravagant and wilful stepmother Agnes who continues to live there, eventually with a new husband – apparently a wealthy baronet, but appearances can be deceptive.
Connie, Agnes’ half-sister, once a shy, mousy eighteen-year-old whom the young Carson thoughtlessly jilted, returns to Wenham, elegant, self-possessed, and the mistress of a fortune. Carson finds himself falling in love with her for the first time – but can he convince Connie that he does not need her money and the past will not be repeated? However, the course of true love is anything but smooth.
Part I THE SURVIVOR
Prologue
May 1919
“We commend to Almighty God the soul of our servant, Guy.” With a broad, sweeping gesture the Rector made a sign of the Cross over the bier standing in front of the altar, flanked by four tall candles, and then stepped back to allow the pall bearers to shoulder the coffin. In the background the organist struck up a stirring voluntary and the funeral procession of Sir Guy Woodville, thirteenth baronet, who had died in his sleep at the age of sixty-three, moved towards the open doors of Wenham Parish Church.
It seemed that all the town had gathered to pay homage to a man who, while he may not have been universally loved, was respected as its first citizen, the latest in a line of Woodvilles who had dominated the remote area of North Dorset since the seventeenth century.
And that line would hopefully be continued by his son, Carson, who, together with his stepmother, Agnes, headed the line of family, friends and dignitaries that followed the coffin to the Woodville vault in the churchyard overlooking the River Wen from which the town got its name.
As the procession came to rest in front of the family vault Carson moved forward, waiting for his stepmother to join him before both followed the coffin into the Woodville vault. There, while the Rector intoned the prayers for the dead, Carson watched impassively as his father’s coffin was securely laid on a slab over those of his little sister Emily and his mother, who had predeceased him.
His stepmother wept silently as the brief ceremony ended, but Carson remained stiff, apparently emotionless. He had seen too many men die in the last four years to be moved even by the death of someone as close to him as his father. He doubted if anything would ever really move him again. To him it seemed sometimes as though all those previous nuances of feeling – love, kindness, compassion – had been drained away forever.
He was now a cold, somewhat aloof, passionless man.
The Rector, the Reverend Hubert Turner, finished his prayers. For a few moments silence reigned in the darkened vault. Carson looked around at the coffins of the generations of Woodvilles, now no more. One day he would join them. The wonder was that he hadn’t already or, rather, be under some unmarked grave, or part of the mud of the Somme, or the earth of Flanders’ fields.
Agnes, dressed in deep mourning, head bowed, preceded Carson and the Rector into the daylight. They both stood for a moment gazing at t
he crowd as the Rector turned and closed the door to the vault. The heavy iron bar swung to.
There was absolute silence everywhere save for the cry of the birds sweeping low as they went in search of food for their young, or the distant bleat of new-born lambs in the fields. Silence was something Carson found very hard to get used to. In his ears there was always the distant roar of heavy guns, the sharp staccato of machine gunfire or the whine of enemy aeroplanes swooping low to attack.
Dressed in uniform he was an imposing figure, over six feet tall, well-built with a striking head of closely cropped ash-blond hair, slightly grizzled at the temples. He was thirty-two but he looked much older. The lines on his face, the tough rather forbidding expression in his eyes, the resolute set of his mouth, could make him pass for forty. On the sleeves of his khaki uniform were the crown and pip, insignia of lieutenant-colonel. Above his left breast pocket the ribbons of many campaign medals included those of the Military Cross and bar.
Yes, in many ways Sir Carson Woodville, Bt M.C. and bar, had had a good war.
But now he had to face the peace and, like many other survivors of the most savage and brutal wars in history, he would find it was not easy.
Chapter One
The war had changed all their lives. Nineteen-fourteen seemed to mark the end of the old order, the old way of life. Looking round the room now, and comparing the crowd there to the throng that had gathered in the year 1880 to celebrate the marriage of Guy Woodville to Margaret Heering, it did indeed seem like another lifetime. Then she, Eliza, Guy’s sister, had been a headstrong girl of eighteen. Now she was a woman of fifty-seven, twice married, a grandmother.
And the man they had buried today had then been a young man of twenty-four, his bride a few years older. He had joyfully scooped her up in his arms and carried her over the threshold into the vast hall, newly redecorated with her money, as was the rest of the house, to greet the bridal pair.
The drawing room of the Woodville family home, Pelham’s Oak, a few miles from Wenham, in which they were now gathered, had glittered then with fresh paint and gold leaf, and was thronged with people many of whom, forty years later, were dead. Their father was dead, but their mother, Henrietta, had been there, happy to see Guy married and the family fortunes restored with the help of Margaret’s wealth, but fretful at the same time about the future and her status in the house. She had reason to be as she and her daughter-in-law never got on.
Eliza recalled that she and her mother had had a row because Eliza was anxious to shed her wedding finery and get into ordinary clothes and, rather like her daughter Dora – another tomboy – was doing now, get away from all the jollification to exercise her horse.
At Guy’s wedding there had been a marquee in the garden for the servants and the lower orders, who had driven over from Wenham in their horse-drawn carts or tramped across the fields to return the same way, very much the worse for wear. Today there was no marquee on the lawn because the war had evened things out. Class was not quite as it had been, and those same lower orders, or their progeny, dressed in their best, kept the same company as Guy’s family and friends indoors, though a little apart, standing in groups aside from the rest. Ted, the old Woodville groom, was there in a black serge suit, starched white collar and black tie with his wife Beth, who had been Eliza’s servant and beloved companion for many years. But their daughter Elizabeth was not there, maybe because she had not been asked.
So many family secrets had accrued over the years that it was sometimes difficult to remember them, or who knew what. Memory became vague and sometimes faded altogether; but Eliza thought she remembered most of the secrets because they were all linked with Pelham’s Oak and with the town of Wenham which could be seen a few miles distant perched on a hill with the church tower of St Mark, where they had laid Guy to rest, prominent for miles around.
Yes it was another lifetime, Eliza thought, turning to gaze out on the land she knew so well and loved so much, every inch of which she had walked or ridden over on horseback. When she was eighteen it was her beloved horse, Lady, who had taken her to the cottage, just discernible in the distance, where she had fallen in love with her first husband, Ryder. If only Ryder were here now, she thought, sighing, and there was a gentle touch on her arm and a voice said:
“Penny for them, Mother?”
“I was thinking of my youth,” Eliza answered taking her daughter Dora’s hand. “The day that your Uncle Guy brought his bride back here after their marriage. I was remembering the scene in this room on that very day, and the people who were alive then and are now no more.” A lump came into her throat and she paused. “But it seems a lifetime away.”
“It is, Mother, nearly forty years.” Dora gave her mother’s hand a sympathetic squeeze.
“But life didn’t seem to change very much in those days. We had the same way of doing things. We even seemed to wear the same kind of clothes. Our attitudes were the same. But now everything has changed. The war has changed all our lives, and both Ryder and Guy are dead.”
Dora instinctively threw her arms round her mother’s shoulders and drew her head down on her breast, both oblivious to the company in the room.
“Are you alright, Aunt Eliza? Would you like to lie down?”
Eliza shook her head and breaking away from her daughter, attempted to smile at Carson who was gazing at her with concern.
“Just memories, dear Carson. Memories of your father and my husband, Ryder. Memories associated with this house. Sad days like this bring such memories back.” Eliza raised a hand, her fingers delicately touching the row of medal ribbons above Carson’s breast pocket. “Your father was very proud of you.”
“He longed to see you before he died. Yet you failed him,” a voice interjected accusingly as, unseen by the little group huddled together by the window, Agnes had quietly joined them and stood listening to the conversation. Startled, they looked up to see Guy’s widow gazing at them. The false tears that had flowed so readily during the funeral had quickly dried to be replaced by the expression Eliza knew well: firm, determined, calculating, judgmental. A hard woman who, she thought, had driven Guy into an early grave.
“It would have been nice if you could have made the effort to see him, Carson,” Agnes continued in the manner of a schoolmarm addressing a recalcitrant pupil. Dressed in black she looked formidable, though still fashionable, heavily encrusted with jewellery. Agnes could turn even funereal black into haute couture. To Agnes appearance was very important, and she always took care to look her best. She was not tall, inclining now to plumpness. Her beauty was still visible but fading. The blue eyes flecked with grey, once considered so limpid and beautiful, had the quality of steel. Although Guy had continued to be besotted by her until the end, she had developed early the traits of intransigence and shrewishness until she had become somewhat frightening, a termagant whose word had to be instantly and unquestioningly obeyed. She terrified most people but not Carson who continued to stare at her unflinchingly.
“I made every effort, Aunt Agnes,” he said politely.
“I find that hard to believe.”
“Why should Carson lie to you?” Dora stared at her aunt with ill-concealed hostility.
“Ask Carson.” Agnes tossed her head and gazed defiantly back at him.
“I have no reason to lie to you, Aunt. All I can say is that it was impossible for me to reach England in time. Had you emphasised how near death Father was I might have been able to persuade my commanding officer to release me.”
“None of us really knew how ill your father was,” Eliza said in a low voice, wishing to forestall a family brawl in public. Nervously she looked round, but no one was paying them any attention. Other members of the family were circulating among the guests, but out of the corner of her eye she observed Arthur, the Woodville family butler who was making his stately way across the drawing room floor towards them.
“Sir Carson, if I may have a word?” The butler hovered discreetly at Carson’s s
ide and then murmured something into his ear. Carson nodded, looked at his stepmother, cousin and aunt, excused himself and then followed the butler through the crowd, which parted for him, and out of the door of the drawing room. In the hall a rather stout man dressed in a dark suit stood earnestly inspecting the family portraits on the wall.
“Mr Temple,” Carson strode towards him, hand extended, “I didn’t expect to see you so soon. We only today buried my father.”
Mr Temple’s expression was apologetic.
“I am sorry, Sir Carson. Had I known it was the very day of the funeral itself I should, of course, have postponed my visit. But I imagined you might be in a hurry to return to your regiment and I have to discuss very important matters with you pertaining to your late father’s will. Incidentally ...” he paused and inclined his head towards Carson. “My deepest condolences to you and your family on your sad loss.”
“Thank you,” Carson bowed politely in reply.
Preceded by Arthur, Carson and the solicitor crossed the hall towards a door which Arthur opened, standing back to let them pass into a small room which was known as the study though it was a long time since anyone had studied there. It was a small, impersonal room with a leather topped desk, behind which there was a hard chair, two deep leather armchairs and a bookcase. It faced north and, despite the mildness of the spring day, it was rather cold.
Arthur remained, hovering by the open door. “Would Mr Temple like refreshment, Sir Carson?” Carson looked at his guest.
“Well .... a cup of tea would be very nice.”
“Or something stronger?”
“Well ...” his guest indicated by a change of expression that that might be even nicer.
“I think whisky, Arthur.” Carson looked up at the butler. “I don’t know if Mr Temple has lunched, but a sandwich might be nice too.”
In This Quiet Earth (Part Three of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 1