Carson saddled his horse himself, an old favourite called Pulver, who was a direct descendant of his Aunt Eliza’s horse, Lady. Most of the horses divided between Riversmead and Pelham’s Oak were related by blood.
Pulver welcomed his master with a whinny and trotted along the bridle path that led through the fields to a copse by the stream running along the bottom.
While Pulver drank thirstily Carson sat gazing up at the house which, from a distance, looked rather splendid, its blemishes invisible in the sunlight.
Strictly speaking the correct name of the ancient home of the Woodvilles was Pelham’s Court, named after Pelham Woodville who had started the house in the reign of Charles I in front of a great oak tree. Legend was that this too had been a refuge of Charles II before his final escape to France after his defeat by the Cromwellian Army. Pelham’s son, Charles Woodville, was ennobled by the grateful monarch after the Restoration and gradually the house became known as Pelham’s Oak in his honour.
Originally it had been constructed of Dorset brick, but in the eighteenth century one of the descendants of Pelham and Charles had wanted to flaunt his wealth by owning a much larger mansion, rebuilt in the Palladian style and faced with Chilmark stone.
Over the centuries the Woodvilles had undergone mixed fortunes. Some made money, others had difficulty holding on to it, but with Carson’s grandfather, Matthew, the rot had really set in. He had been a sickly, scholarly man with no interest in, or aptitude for business.
Much land had been sold off and the house had gone into steady decline until Matthew’s son Guy, no better equipped than his father at managing money, had married Margaret Heering, an heiress from Holland. It was her fortune that had been spent on restoring the house to its former splendour as one of the finest in the county.
Thank heaven for that, Carson thought, as Pulver finished his drink, and after circling the copse he turned the horse back up the hill towards the house again. Had it not been for his mother the house would by now have been a ruin. But her family had soon reined in her money after observing her husband’s tendencies towards dissipation and extravagance. After Margaret’s death it appeared that what was left of her fortune did not belong to her husband or children, but reverted to the Heering family.
Once again, destitution threatened and Carson was about to marry a woman of fortune, whom he did not love, when Aunt Agnes, who had mysteriously left this country twenty years before, appeared on the scene and dazzled his father enough for him to wish to marry her. Thankfully Carson thus felt absolved from his obligation to marry for money, and his father married Agnes. Less than two years later Europe was engulfed by war and, in comparison, all these family matters seemed rather trivial.
But not so now. Carson rode up to the house with a heavy heart. Many burdens pressed down on him. Not only was he grieving his father, but he was facing a problem of enormous debts, the possible loss of his home, an ongoing struggle with his stepmother and the uncertainty of his place in the affections of a woman who continued to mesmerise him: Emma Martyn, widow of his adoptive cousin Roger, who had been killed in the war.
But when he had first loved Emma she was married, a rather feckless, yet incredibly beautiful, young woman of twenty-one. All at once the war, that had loomed so large, seemed, now that it was over, to recede. Reality was the present, and what could happen in the future.
At the top of the hill Carson stopped his horse and listened.
The silence, the stillness, was profound. Pulver was listening too, sniffing the air with that peculiarly heightened sense that all animals seem to have.
Yet despite the splendour of a May morning in England, in peace-time, a chill ran through Carson. 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.
Chapter Two
There was no love lost between stepson and stepmother. Almost from the beginning Agnes and Carson had never got on. Carson had transferred himself to a cottage on his Uncle Prosper’s estate to be out of the way of Agnes who, even before her marriage to his father, had swept into the house like a tornado, unsettling the staff by her brusque and imperious manner, impetuously throwing out some of their best antiques on the grounds that they were old fashioned, and ordering refurbishments which were never carried out when she subsequently transferred her interest to the London house.
Not long after the marriage his father had a heart attack and slowly sank into invalidism, worn out by worry about the war, the fate of his son and members of his family, the future of his house and estate, and the absence of his wife who preferred to spend most of her time in London while the bills for her extravagance came flooding back, to be hurriedly stuffed by him in a drawer.
Carson had never been intimidated by his stepmother who was also a distant relation by marriage. Her brother, Ryder, had been Aunt Eliza’s first husband. He had been killed in an accident when Carson was about eight, but he still retained affectionate memories of him.
No one seemed to retain happy memories of the youthful Agnes. She had been a troubled, troublesome and difficult young woman and Carson was a small child when she had disappeared, no one seemed to know why, to resurface twenty years later as a lady of consequence. Agnes was thus a woman of some mystery and she seemed to revel in this role. On the third day after his father’s funeral Carson had been informed that she would see him, precisely at eleven o’clock in the morning, in the drawing room.
As usual he had gone riding first thing, and he’d been aware of her looking at him from the window of her bedroom. She’d watched him for a long time, but he gave no sign that he was aware of her somewhat malevolent presence looking down. When he returned for breakfast Arthur gave him the message that Lady Woodville wished to see him.
As for Carson, he very much wished to see her. He still had on his riding clothes and Agnes gazed at him disapprovingly.
“I do object to riding clothes worn indoors, Carson,” her eyes travelled to his feet, “particularly boots.”
“I’m sorry, Aunt,” Carson said without the least trace of contrition, “but this is my house and I shall do as I like in it.”
“Oh really?” Agnes had been drinking coffee and now, pouring another cup, passed it to him. Carson noticed that suddenly she appeared agitated and her hand shook.
“You surely know it is my house, Aunt Agnes. It is passed from eldest son to eldest son or, in my case, the surviving son. George of course would have inherited had he not died, or had he had a son it would all have been his. However,” he took the cup from her and, looking round to find himself a seat, sat down. Balancing his cup carefully in his hands he crossed his legs with every appearance of a man at ease with himself. “However, Aunt Agnes, I am hoping to return to the army and remain there at least for the next few years so I am happy for you to continue to live here for the time being, provided,” he drank from his cup, put it on the table at his elbow and took a leisurely look round the room, “that you do something about restoring it.”
“Restoring it?” Agnes exclaimed. “Restoring this wreck of a place? Are you mad?” She too swallowed her coffee and replaced the cup on a tray.
“My dear Carson I intend to spend not a moment longer here than is necessary. As soon as the formalities about your father’s death are completed I shall be returning to London, and staying there.” Her tone was at its most haughty and imperious, its most authoritative and unbending. “Big as this house is there is not room for both of us, and I dare say you will be returning to it from time to time.”
Carson rose and, turning to the window, remained for a few moments gazing out of it, his hands clasped behind his back. He then addressed her, his back still to her.
“My understanding, Aunt Agnes, is that when you married my father you undertook to cover the cost of repairs to this house. Even then, two years before the war, they would
have cost thousands of pounds.” He swung round and gazed at her. “I went over the estate the other day with Ivor and our estimate is that, due to neglect, the cost, including a new roof, has risen to many thousands of pounds.”
Slowly Agnes rose to her feet and faced him. She looked pale but she had discarded her widow’s weeds for a light, summery dress in fashionable crêpe-de-chine and her fair hair was arranged in an Edwardian roll that was by now rather old fashioned, but which suited Agnes and which, together with her high-heeled shoes, gave her much needed added inches.
“Then if that is what you understood, Carson, you were either deceived or you deceived yourself. I never undertook any such thing. I have never particularly liked this house nor the town of Wenham, considering it too small and parochial for my tastes. Frankly, I feel stifled here and your father knew it perfectly well when he married me.” She leaned forward and stabbed an accusing finger at him. “Maybe it is on your conscience Carson that, instead of marrying poor Connie Yetman, who loved both you and the wretched house, and who had ample means to repair it, you jilted her, ruined her life and deprived yourself and your father of, if I understand the situation correctly, much needed funds with which to restore your patrimony.
“I believe Miss Fairchild bribed Sir Guy into persuading you to offer marriage to my poor half-sister in order to get hold of her fortune. I never gave any undertaking of any sort I can assure you. I had far too much sense than to offer Guy what money I had to throw away on a white elephant like this. You should have been more careful, the pair of you, father and son, not so greedy and, believe me, in view of what has happened the two of you deserve what you got. The only person who did not deserve what she got was Connie whose life was ruined by your treatment of her. The only consolation that I can see for that sadly deceived girl is that Miss Fairchild left her so well off it has cushioned her life against predators such as you and your father. She will never have to marry for money, and I hope to God that the poor dear has the good sense to see off any more fortune hunters who may come her way.”
“I find your words very unjust, Aunt Agnes,” Carson said bitterly. “I was sincerely attached to Connie, but I was too young to marry.”
“Don’t try and deceive me my dear young man,” Agnes said witheringly. “I got the whole story from Guy on our honeymoon. The poor fool had not the sense to see that I had no intention of throwing what money I had away on him or his house.”
“So that, of course, you married my father for love.” Carson’s tone was sarcastic. “We all know that. There was no question in your mind of acquiring a title or respectability, was there, Aunt Agnes?” and before she had a chance to answer he went on: “As soon as you were ‘Lady Woodville’ which, my informants told me, was all you ever wished, you virtually left my poor, sick father to his own devices while you rushed up to London where you spent a fortune on certain items that you did not pay for, for all your alleged wealth. I wonder how much of it there really was?” From an inner pocket Carson now drew a sheaf of bills and hurled them on a low table placed between them. “These, Lady Woodville, were sent to my father for settlement while he was a very sick man already worried to death about his health, the war, mourning the deaths of so many members of the family and his friends, to say nothing of his loneliness at the absence of someone who, for all her faults, he undoubtedly loved. How he could forgive you I will never know, for I never can.”
Silence fell between the two antagonists while Agues stared at the bills lying untouched on the table and Carson, hands in his pockets, teetered backwards and forwards on his heels, gazing at her. “Look at them, Aunt,” he commanded.
“I know what they are.” Primly joining her hands Agnes turned fastidiously aside as if the sight affronted her, as well it might. “Do you think for a minute I would have run up these bills without your father’s knowledge and consent? Do even you, so eager to condemn me, think I would have had the London house redecorated had he not wished it? Does any self-respecting woman buy herself jewels? No she does not. Your father urged me to enjoy myself, knowing that he was not well enough to join me. He was a generous man.” Momentarily she paused and, real or false Carson had no means of knowing, tears came into her eyes. “He was a generous man to a fault. I did not know he had not the means. I did not realise – though I should have – that marrying for money was a Woodville trait.” She angrily brushed the tears away and her voice took on a hard note. “I did not realise that your father hadn’t a penny to call his own, though I should have. For a so-called woman of the world I must seem to have been naive. After all I knew he was on the verge of selling the house before I appeared on the scene, and then the strange engagement of yourself and Connie was talked of by everyone. A couple more unsuited it was hard to imagine: a shy, timid little virgin, plain as a pikestaff and the local stud who had never done an honest day’s work in his life –” She stopped suddenly holding up her hands, as though to shield herself, as Carson advanced towards her his fist raised threateningly. In the nick of time he took himself in hand and stopped, knowing he could not have answered for the consequences. He began to sweat freely at the thought of what might have happened if he had struck his stepmother: cashierment from the army would surely have followed, his medals stripped from him, perhaps a prison sentence had she suffered serious harm. Disgrace, dishonour, ruin, the end of all his dreams. What an irony it would have been to have survived the war only to have forfeited his freedom in this way.
He felt himself beginning to shake violently, and sat down heavily, wiping his freely perspiring brow with a handkerchief. Agnes too seemed glad to resume her seat, probably equally terrified of the consequences of what might have happened to her looks, if not her life, had her stepson lost control.
“I think I had better leave,” Carson said after a moment while he recovered, his voice unsteady. “As you say, this house cannot contain us both. I will have to decide what to do.” He got unsteadily to his feet and gazed down at her. “Plans are already forming in my mind, but I will have to discuss them with Aunt Eliza. All I know is that, whatever has happened in the past, things have got to change.” He pointed to the table between them. “These bills have got to be settled as writs have been issued and the creditors are being kept at bay. I cannot help thinking, Aunt, that they are your responsibility and not my father’s.”
“Then let the estate pay.” Agnes gave an airy, dismissive wave of her hand. “Surely there is money there to take care of them? And, talking of the estate, Carson, what of your father’s will? Should I not be in on it? Do not I, his widow, have a share? I am presuming that is what kept you so long with the solicitor the other day. I heard he had called. Unfortunately I had my migraine coming on so felt unable to cope with more worry.”
“You more likely probably guessed about these bills, Aunt Agnes,” Carson said angrily. “You’re no fool. As for the will ...” he felt inside his inner pocket once again and produced the parchment document which he handed to her. “You may read it, for it is not very long. My father said he had provided for you ...”
“Huh!” Agnes snorted and, shaking open the will, leaned back in her chair to peruse it. “Guy never provided a thing for me in his life except for some jewellery left to him by his mother and...” she stopped and, with an exclamation, brought the document closer to her face. Carson guessed that, but for her vanity, she should be wearing reading spectacles. “What is this ... ah, I see.”
“Elizabeth Yewell is a strange bequest is it not, Aunt?” Carson was watching her reaction keenly.
Agnes merely shrugged, closed the document and put it back on the table. “It is of no consequence,” she said offhandedly. “So much for my folly in marrying into the Woodville family. He chooses to leave money and jewellery to servants.” She rose and squared her shoulders as if she herself were trying bravely to face an uncertain future.
Momentarily Carson felt a stab of pity for her. Much as he disliked his aunt there was something vaguely heroic about her. In a
way she was an adventuress, as he had been an adventurer. They seemed to understand each other. The war and its aftermath – particularly its aftermath – had changed them both, brought them down to earth. What did he really know about his father’s widow, her way of life, her circumstances or the extent of her fortune, if any?
“I shall leave here today to stay with Aunt Eliza,” he said. “We can communicate through solicitors. But before you go rushing back to London, Aunt, I must tell you that it is my intention to put the London house on the market as soon as possible and,” he allowed himself a sardonic smile, “as you have spent too much of my father’s non-existent money doing it up, it should now fetch a very good price.”
Carson had very little to pack. He still had the instincts of a soldier and travelled light. In fact Carson had very few possessions. Unlike most of his brother officers he did not even own a car. Carson had always been very close to the land and remained at heart a country boy. He had never been attracted by the sophistication of the city, and held himself aloof from the bright lights of London or Paris.
Yet, despite his attachment to his roots, the past four years had brought about a considerable change in him. He had learnt to kill, to ambush and to maim. He had learnt to harden his heart against the sights of suffering and pain, the cries of anguish, the screams of the dying; to leave a man when he knew that nothing could be done. Once or twice he had administered a lethal shot to a badly wounded comrade begging to have his misery ended. Carson was aware of an emptiness of soul as he rode Pulver cross-country to his aunt’s house about ten miles away. He felt, now that his father was dead, that he no longer belonged. Although he had a fierce pride in and loyalty towards the ancient home of the Woodvilles it was a long time since he’d really lived there. When Agnes appeared on the scene he moved to a cottage on Uncle Prosper’s estate, and soon after that came the war and a succession of camps and billets in a number of different countries for almost the next five years.
In This Quiet Earth (Part Three of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 3