Arthur bowed and, leaving the men to their deliberations, withdrew, quietly shutting the door behind him.
Carson pointed to one of the leather armchairs facing the window. He himself leaned against the desk, arms akimbo, feet on the floor.
“I can’t get used to being called ‘Sir Carson’,” he said with a note of amusement in his voice. “Whenever I hear it I think it refers to someone else.”
“It is indeed an awesome responsibility,” Mr Temple agreed looking up briefly from the unwieldy stack of papers he was drawing from his briefcase. He was a youngish man with a moon face, slightly flushed, gold-rimmed glasses and the preoccupied air of someone with rather too much to do, whose mind was always on the task ahead of him. Streaks of blond hair fell untidily across his shiny brow, and his pale blue eyes blinked rapidly. He was a relatively junior member of the firm that had looked after the Woodville family’s affairs for generations, and his duties lay heavily upon him. Towards Carson he was at once deferential yet familiar, as though in acknowledgment of the fact that they were of an age.
He was also clumsy. A batch of loose papers fell on the floor and, as he bent to pick them up, Carson leaped off the desk to help him.
“Here, you’d better put these on the desk,” he said, gathering up a sheaf which he looked at with some anxiety. “Are these all pertaining to my father’s will?”
“In a sense.” Mr Temple coughed nervously.
“But they look like bills.”
“They are bills.” Mr Temple transferred the rest of the contents of his briefcase to the desk and sat on the hard chair behind it. “And they do, I’m afraid, pertain to the estate of your late father.”
He began to sort through them, to put them in some kind of order, when there was a knock on the door and Arthur entered followed by a footman bearing a tray on which there was a bottle of whisky, two glasses and a plate of sandwiches.
“On the desk if you please,” Carson cleared space on the side and then shook his head as Arthur attempted to unstopper the bottle and pour the whisky into a tumbler. “I’ll see to that thank you, Arthur. See that we’re not disturbed, will you?”
Arthur bowed and, preceded by the footman, withdrew.
By this time Mr Temple had restored some order to the masses of loose papers putting them all into neat piles. In front of him a large parchment document, undoubtedly the will, occupied pride of place.
“You see the reason for this haste,” Mr Temple nervously cleared his throat again, “is that the late Sir Guy left a mountain of debts and here,” he indicated the imposing document before him, “is his will.”
As if a solemn moment had approached Mr Temple adjusted his spectacles and grasped the will firmly in both hands, elevating it a little above the desk and staring at it fixedly. Reacting to the solemnity Carson sat in the chair facing the desk, resting his hands on its arms, his expression grave and thoughtful.
“This is really a very short document,” Mr Temple said glancing at the date. “It was made by your father, doubtlessly anticipating his death, in the last twelve months. Your father, in fact, had very little to leave. The estate is entailed through the male line, although in certain circumstances it may be broken up or sold. So the house and all the land and dwellings, including the London house, go to you, as doubtless you expected. Unfortunately, Sir Carson, there is very little else to inherit. Your father was practically impoverished at his death. He did, however, leave some items of jewellery that belonged to his mother to his sister, Eliza. He left some very small bequests to other people. Fifty pounds each to the butler Arthur and the bailiff, Ivor Wendor, and,” he paused and looked across at Carson, “the sum of one hundred pounds and a diamond and sapphire ring that belonged to his mother, to Elizabeth Yewell, lately of Riversmead and now, I believe, going under the name of Mrs Frank Sprogged, resident in Blandford, and the mother of two children.”
“Elizabeth Yewell?” There was a note of surprise in Carson’s voice as he leaned forward, gripping the arms of his chair.
“Yes, Elizabeth Yewell.” The solicitor glanced again at the document. “Now Mrs Sprogett.” He looked curiously up at Carson. “Was she of any special significance to your father?”
“She is the daughter of two former servants of my family, Ted and Beth Yewell. Ted used to be a stable lad here and Beth was brought from Cumbria by my Aunt Eliza and Uncle Ryder.”
“Well,” Mr Temple drummed his fingers on the table, “maybe this was some way of saying ‘thank you’ to them?”
“Well, it’s a very curious way of saying thank you. I simply don’t understand it. My father knew Ted well, but hardly his wife and daughter.”
“Maybe your Aunt Eliza can help?” Clearly the lawyer was anxious to get on. “But the point I am making, Sir Carson is that there is very little cash left in the bank, scarcely enough to take care of the legacies, never mind death duties. All we have,” he clamped a hand firmly on one of the piles of paper, “are a mass of debts.”
“But how?” Rising from his chair Carson poured the solicitor a drink, passed it to him and offered him a sandwich.
Mr Temple was hungry as well as thirsty and eagerly seized both to refresh him from his labours. For a while there was silence while he drank and munched, staring ruminatively at the will as though trying to plumb its depths. Carson remained standing by the desk, now a glass in his hand, looking thoughtfully at the reams of paper that littered it.
“It seems that your stepmother was a very extravagant lady. Many of these are two or three years old.” Mr Temple spoke between mouthfuls indicating with a flourish of his sandwich the largest pile. “On learning of your father’s death, some who have been owed money the longest have issued writs.”
“And my stepmother is not mentioned in the will?”
“In the preamble Sir Guy says she is well provided for. I must say there is no doubt of that. There are bills for jewels purchased in Bond Street, clothes bought at various expensive London stores. The milliner’s bill alone is enormous. There are bills from the furrier, a shoemaker in Jermyn Street, haberdashers, decorators ...”
“Decorators?” Carson exclaimed throwing up his hands. “But this house looks as though it’s falling to pieces.”
“It seems they were engaged on the London house. This seems to have been completely redecorated, restored and, possibly, refurnished in the past two or three years. It would seem that your stepmother spent a considerable time there. There are also bills for purveyors of fine foods and wine, so evidently she did a lot of entertaining. I may say that all these bills were made out in your father’s name and sent to Pelham’s Oak.”
“But my father was a very sick man. He has had a bad heart for years and was practically bedridden.”
The solicitor shrugged his shoulders, and gave Carson a knowing look. “What can I say?”
“Have another sandwich,” Carson said passing him the plate and adding a couple of fingers of whisky to his near empty glass.
Carson scooped one of the piles of bills towards him and began examining them one by one. Finally with an exclamation of disgust he pushed them away and, going to the window, stood for a few moments staring out, as his aunt Eliza had an hour or two before, at the familiar scene before him, every bit of which he too knew as intimately as she did. In the distance her daughter, his cousin Dora, the tomboy, had shed her funeral garb and was putting a horse through his paces over a series of makeshift jumps in the field.
Before him stretched meadow after meadow interspersed with copses, streams, farm dwellings, plump healthy cattle contentedly grazing on the green pastures.
His land. But for how much longer? Carson turned again to see Mr Temple watching him with what could have been an expression of pity in his eyes, as if he knew what was going through his client’s mind.
“Have you private means, Sir Carson?” the solicitor enquired. “I mean I have no idea how you are situated financially. I know you have had a very distinguished war record ...”
“Apart from my army pay and a few items of clothing I haven’t a bean.” Carson made the gesture of one ruefully emptying his pockets. “For the last four years I have been fighting so I dare say much of my pay has accrued in the bank, but it would not amount to more than a few hundred pounds. This woman,” his tone of voice was contemptuous as he looked once again at the bills on the desk, “appears to have got through many thousands.”
“Then maybe she has private means?”
“I always thought she had. That she was a widow of great wealth.” Carson looked around him at the shabby, poorly furnished room. “I always understood as well that some of her wealth was to be used to restore this house, but as far as I can see nothing has been done to it for years. The whole place seems to be falling apart.”
“And have you spoken to your stepmother about this?” Carson shook his head.
“Lady Woodville and I are not on the best of terms. Apart from making arrangements for the funeral we tended to keep to our quarters. There was a great deal for me to do in a short time. Comforting my Aunt Eliza, for instance, who was devoted to my father.”
“I can understand that.” The solicitor’s tone was kindly. “Nevertheless, Sir Carson, I think you and Lady Woodville should have a very long talk to see if you can save your inheritance from going under the hammer in order to pay your father’s debts. Although the estate is entailed I believe that there is provision for it to be sold if the upkeep proves impossible.”
When Carson returned to the drawing room most of the guests and a few family members had departed. A worried looking Eliza remained, talking to the rector’s wife, Sophie Turner, while Prosper and Lally Martyn looked on. Small groups of guests lingered, interspersed with servants in the process of clearing up. Agnes was nowhere to be seen.
A sudden silence fell upon the room as Carson appeared and went immediately over to the family group. Then, among those left, desultory conversation resumed.
“I’m terribly sorry,” Carson said.
“But what kept you?” Eliza sounded concerned. “Is something wrong? Is Agnes ill?”
“Agnes?” Carson shook his head. “I haven’t seen her.”
“She said she was not feeling well and went to her room.”
“I have been closeted all afternoon with the solicitor,” Carson’s expression was grim, “concerning the contents of my father’s will and other matters which I cannot go into now. We’ll have a family conference in a day or two. First of all I have to speak to my stepmother.” Carson looked restlessly around him. Then his eyes alighted on his great-aunt by marriage, Lally Martyn, a former dancer, still a beautiful, beguiling woman, though in her late fifties. Since her marriage to Carson’s Great-Uncle Prosper, she had figured significantly in the Woodville family fortunes.
“Has Emma gone?” he asked.
“Emma took Alexander home,” Lally replied. “He was very tired, poor lamb. I did wonder whether we should bring him.”
Carson grunted. Lally’s beautiful, widowed daughter-in-law had been avoiding him. Every time he tried to catch her eye in church she had looked away. When he took her hand in the reception line, she had hurriedly removed it and passed on.
At that moment some more guests decided it was time to go and came up to take leave of Carson and the family. They were local people from Wenham, some tenants of the Woodvilles: farmers, shopkeepers, the bank manager. They were dressed in their best and their expressions were sombre. Carson had a kind word for them all, and then they talked to Eliza and there was much tutting and shaking of heads, as though Sir Guy’s passing had been a sudden event, when everyone had been expecting it for years. The whole group then, including family, moved towards the door, but Carson stopped for a moment by the window and his aunt paused with him.
“She’s a fine horsewoman,” Carson indicated his cousin still practising her jumps in the field.
Eliza nodded.
“What will Dora do now that the war is over? Will she stay nursing?”
Eliza shook her head. “No, she can’t wait to get away. I think she’ll come home and take up her life here.”
“No men in Dora’s life?” Carson looked quizzically at his aunt who shook her head.
“I think there may have been someone, but he was killed.”
She looked anxiously up at Carson, and then at the backs of the guests and remaining family members disappearing through the door.
“What made Mr Temple detain you for so long? Is everything all right?”
“Father left nothing but a mountain of debts,” Carson hissed at her. “Debts run up by Agnes. Thousands of pounds. You see why I must talk to her first. Also,” he looked closely at his aunt, “he left a bequest and a piece of jewellery to Elizabeth. Elizabeth Sprogett, you know who I mean?”
“Of course I know who you mean.”
“Does it make sense to you, Aunt?”
“It makes sense,” Eliza looked hurriedly at the door where the family lingered waiting for them. “But I can’t tell you now. I’ll explain it to you one day. Let’s go and get Dora.”
That night and the day following, Agnes stayed in her room. She sent a message through her maid that she was unwell, did not wish to be disturbed, and her meals were sent up to her. Carson felt that she knew about the lawyer’s revelations and was avoiding him. The following morning he was awake early, breakfasted alone and then summoned the bailiff Ivor Wendor saying that he wanted to do an inventory of the estate. Ivor had been with the Woodville family for many years, knew every inch of the place and loved it.
“The last time anything was done here, Sir Carson,” Ivor said looking up towards the roof and scratching his head, “was when Mrs Turner, Mrs Woodville as she then was, came to look after your father after your mother died. Although little was done about repairs Mrs Woodville kept the house in tip-top shape.” Ivor paused and sighed. “It was as if the poor lady hoped she would be able to live forever in the house that, had her husband not died, would have been hers. She had a real fondness for the place, Sir Carson.” A blush stole up Ivor’s grizzled cheeks rather as though he felt he might have spoken out of turn. “That is not to say ... what I mean is ... you are the heir now, Sir Carson. The rightful owner of Pelham’s Oak. I didn’t mean any disrespect ...” He paused awkwardly, as if thoroughly confused.
“My dear man,” Carson gave a laugh and threw an arm round the shoulders of his good servant and old friend, in whose company he used to carouse in the taverns when he was younger. In those days there was no exaggerated respect shown to the surviving son of the house who was known as a tearaway with a reputation for hard drinking and chasing the women. In those days it was simply Carson, one of the lads, no ‘Sir’ or ‘Mr’ about it.
Carson’s elder brother George had died abroad when Carson was twenty and nothing much changed in the way Carson was regarded by the locals until the war came and he enlisted in the Dorsets and was sent immediately overseas. He returned a few times in the course of the war, twice with superficial injuries that needed hospitalisation first and then periods of rest. But gradually his old boon companions, those who remained behind and had not gone to the war, usually older men like Ivor, realised that a change had come over their rabble-rousing companion. He had become quieter, less boisterous, almost contemplative. They understood that this was because he had at the time seen too much of death and destruction to be able to let go. They hoped, however, that after the war, should he survive, he would be returned to his old self. But they had reckoned without the death of his father and his elevation to the baronetcy that had been in his family for three centuries.
For some time Carson and Ivor continued their walk round the estate looking at the house from all angles while Ivor made extensive notes, pausing every now and then to chew his pencil or shake his head.
“In fact the whole place has not had the attentions of a builder since my father married my mother nearly forty years ago,” Carson said, once their inspection was completed. They
were leaning over one of the fences surrounding the paddock.
Ivor nodded. “And even then they left the roof. The roof definitely needs doing, Sir Carson. We have leaks in the servants’ quarters, and the structural damage the rain will do will make the work even more expensive and prolonged when it does take place.”
“It’s going to cost thousands of pounds.” Carson shook his head wearily.
“And then some more.” Ivor snapped his book shut and stuck his pencil in the top pocket of his jacket. “After the reroofing the entire outside needs repainting and repointing, the stone repaired where it has been worn by the weather. As for indoors ...”
Carson held up a hand as if to block his ears. “Please don’t start about indoors,” he begged. “I’ve had enough bad news for one day. I think I’ll take a ride and try and clear my head.”
The two men walked towards the house, and before they parted at the junction of the path to the stables, Carson faced Ivor and put his hands on his shoulders.
“Thank you, Ivor, for all you’ve done, looking after the place while I was gone. My father has left you a very small sum of money to mark his gratitude ...”
“Oh ...” Ivor blushed again and lowered his head in embarrassment. “That weren’t necessary.”
“It’s not very much. A mere fifty pounds. However I hope to restore the house and our fortunes and I want you to stay on and also, Ivor, to do as you used to do and call me Carson. I like it that way. I prefer it.”
Ivor looked at him and ruminatively scratched his cheek. “Don’t know how as I can do that now, sir. Things have changed.”
“I’d like it. I really would.”
But, still embarrassed, Ivor abruptly turned and stalked back towards the house leaving Carson to wonder if his attempt to democratise the situation had been the right thing.
Didn’t country folk, after all, prefer the old ways, and weren’t they, perhaps in many ways the best? He would not refer to the question of the name again, but accept his new status as gracefully as he could.
In This Quiet Earth (Part Three of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 2