“My dear we must fly home and change,” Edith exclaimed as if she too hadn’t realised the time. “Remember we’re dining with the Woods, and afterwards at the Embassy Club.”
“I hadn’t forgotten.”
“We’ll pick you up, dear.” Edith looked at Michael Stansgate who nodded his confirmation. “At about eight?”
Agnes rang the bell, and a moment later the door was opened by Edward the butler, who stood back to allow the company through. Agnes and Sir Owen brought up the rear. In the hall the ladies were handed their sun parasols and one or two parcels they’d been carrying, the men their hats, Sir Owen his cane. He stood slightly apart from the others and looked at Agnes.
“Thank you so much, Lady Woodville, for a most delightful and instructive visit.”
“It’s a pleasure, Sir Owen.” Joining her hands together, head to one side, Agnes gave him one of her most charming and practised smiles. “I do hope we meet again.”
“I do hope so, Lady Woodville,” Sir Owen said fervently. “I hope we meet again very soon.”
“Telephone for you, madam.” Stella, Agnes’s personal maid, popped her head round the bedroom door. Agnes grunted and her face appeared above the sheet.
“Who is it at this hour?” She looked at the clock on her bedside table.
“Sir Owen Wentworth.”
“Tell him to ring again. It’s much too early.”
“It’s nearly midday, madam.”
“Do as I say, Stella.”
“Yes, madam.”
Stella was about to withdraw but Agnes called her back sharply.
“Say I am engaged. Don’t tell him I’m in bed.”
“Of course not, madam.”
“And tell him to ring back in an hour.”
“Yes, madam.”
“And run my bath.”
“Yes, madam. Shall I bring your breakfast madam?”
“You can bring me a cup of tea.” Agnes glanced again at the bedside clock. “I’m lunching out. I shall be late.”
Once again Stella withdrew and Agnes, now fully awake, stretched her arms above her head and gave a luxurious yawn.
Sir Owen Wentworth. There was something parvenu about him, not quite right. She couldn’t exactly put her finger on it, but did it matter? She knew he had been taken by her, she was far too experienced in the ways of the world, and particularly the habits of the male sex, not to know that. She had known a number of men like Sir Owen during her many years in America where she ran a business specifically for the entertainment of the opposite sex.
Sir Owen seemed to her like a middle ranking businessman perhaps, she would have said, had she still been in America, something to do with railroads or commerce of some kind. Yet he said he was a tea planter from Assam. Perhaps.
She got out of bed and went and stood at the window of her bedroom, which was above the drawing room, overlooking the street. There were very few people about at noon. She went over to her dressing table and, sitting on her stool, gazed at herself long and hard in the mirror.
She was fifty-eight. Sir Owen was probably quite a bit younger, not much more than fifty; but then she knew she didn’t look her age. She’d taken great care of herself except, perhaps, for being a bit careless about her diet. But then she liked food, and she liked to drink. She imagined that Sir Owen, with his slightly florid complexion, liked to drink too. Probably little else to do in India. All those tea planters drank. But those tea planters were also usually very rich. They’d nothing to spend their money on and, if there was something about Sir Owen that made Agnes think he lacked breeding, there was also about him the whiff of money, perhaps a lot of it, a commodity of which she was greatly in need.
Agnes got into her bath which Stella had by now run, as well as delivering her tea, and wallowed there for some time. Then she got out, dressed, did her hair and made herself up with her usual care and, just as she finished she heard the phone ring and a moment later Stella popped her head around the door again.
“It’s Sir Owen, madam. Shall I tell him ...”
“No,” Agnes said sharply and, crossing the room, picked up the telephone by her bed.
“What a nice surprise, Sir Owen!”
“I hope you don’t mind me calling you so soon, Lady Woodville?”
“Not at all.”
“It was such a pleasure to meet you. I wondered ...”
“Yes, Sir Owen?”
“I don’t suppose you’re free for dinner this evening are you? I thought the Trocadero ...”
“Oh!” Agnes gave an exclamation of regret. “I’m so sorry. Not tonight.”
“Of course I understand, your diary must be very full. Perhaps tomorrow?”
“How about Thursday?” she said, mentally counting the days on her fingers. Thursday seemed just about far enough away to show distance without rebutting him. One didn’t want to appear too keen. In a game played for high stakes timing was essential.
“Thursday? Thursday is fine.” Sir Owen seemed to swallow his disappointment bravely. “Shall we say eight o’clock, Lady Woodville? I’ll call for you, of course.”
“I’ll look forward to seeing you, then. Goodbye Sir Owen.” She gently replaced the receiver and remained staring at it for some time, aware of a sense of anticipation, of excitement such as she hadn’t felt for many years.
If she had been a religious woman she might have thought that, just possibly, Sir Owen would be an answer to her prayers.
***
Carson Woodville stood on the brow of the hill, arms akimbo, hat on the back of his head, watching with satisfaction as on one side of the field the hay was baled after scything by the workers on the other. And how they’d toiled! Many farm workers had not returned from the war and a whole new army of helpers, men, women and children, had been recruited to help with the haymaking.
Carson worked with them too from early morning until dusk and his reward was to see the neat bales of hay that would be used to feed the cattle through the winter.
Scything, however, was hard work, his hands were blistered and his back ached; but hard work of this kind was sheer joy when he recalled that this time last year he had been engaged in fierce, sometimes close, combat with a still stubborn foe, inching up on swampy ground near the town of Neuvilly as the near victorious allies pressed determinedly across northern France, at last driving back the enemy.
The Crook family had been tenants of the Woodvilles for generations and ran the farm nearest the house, supplying them with eggs and milk. Old Martin Crook had never forgotten the kindness of Carson’s mother when she helped to restore the farm and put it on a sound financial footing after years of neglect. The farm was now run by Martin’s son, David, and his wife, who also made delicious bread which she supplied to the big house. David had not gone to the war because his work as a farmer was of national importance, but his brothers Sam and Ned had gone and neither of them had come back. Almost every family, every community in the district had lost someone in the war. A whole generation had been almost obliterated.
At the moment it was difficult to know for what, Carson sometimes thought, as rumblings of discontent continued even after the peace. Had all that sacrifice really been worthwhile?
Below him in the valley David Crook looked up and, seeing him, waved. Carson waved back and was about to continue his descent to join him when he heard a voice hail him and, looking back, saw his Uncle Julius striding across the lawn towards him.
It was such an unexpected sight, Julius was such a rare visitor, that at first Carson was apprehensive that something had happened to his Aunt Eliza, but Julius reassured him.
“No, your aunt is perfectly all right. I wanted to see you and have a chat.”
“Oh I see,” Carson tipped his hat back and scratched his head. “I was about to return to the fields, Uncle. We want to get the hay in before it rains.” He looked doubtfully up at the sky. His uncle grunted his approval.
“You’ve been taking a hand cutting hay your
self have you?”
“I learned to use a scythe in the old days when I worked at Sadlers’ farm. I don’t think I’ve lost the knack.”
“I’m sure you haven’t.” Julius laid a hand on his nephew’s shoulder in a gesture of approval. “You’re a good lad, Carson. I think you’re more of a Heering than a Woodville. You’ve inherited your mother’s temperament.”
“I suppose that’s meant to be a compliment, Uncle Julius.” Carson looked at him good-humouredly.
“Of course it’s a compliment. Your mother restored the fortunes of this place. In the years that have elapsed since her untimely death they’ve gone downhill again, that is until your return.” Again he looked at Carson approvingly. Then he turned to take in the aspect around him. “What a fine sight it is. The bales of hay drying in the sun. The fertile land of England, at peace once again, thank God.”
Carson looked curiously at his uncle. “If you’ve something to say you’d better say it. I’m needed down there.” And he pointed to where David Crook and his helpers were hard at work. “I don’t want them to think I’m shirking.”
“Well, I’ll not keep you.” Julius glanced around. “I’d quite like to sit down. I’m not a young man, you know. Shall we go inside?”
“By all means.” Carson led the way indoors to the study which he now used as an office. “Excuse the untidiness,” he gestured round clearing a space on a dusty chair for his uncle.
“I see you’ve been busy.” Julius nodded towards the ledgers on the desk, the clutter of paper on either side.
“I’m trying to do a complete inventory of our assets and liabilities. This includes the farms on the estate, various tenanted properties, rents receivable and so on.” He pointed to an open ledger in front of him.
“It seems unbelievable but these were last brought up to date by my mother not long after she married Father. She went round every property promising to do them up providing the farmer could guarantee a good yield. Old Martin Crook says he has never forgotten her kindness or the way she helped him keep the family home.”
“It’s a great pity your mother was taken so young,” Julius had a catch in his voice. “She would never have let the estate go to ruin.” He looked meaningfully at the paint peeling from a corner of the ceiling.
“No, Mother’s death was a tragedy in more ways than one. But we now have to make the best of it.” Sadly, Carson shook his head. “However, with the best will in the world I don’t think I can hang on here, Uncle Julius. There is too much to do. I thought maybe I would move into one of the farms and manage that. I’ve always liked the land, and after the war I appreciate it more than ever.”
“You really are serious?” Julius kept his eyes on Carson as he pulled a ledger towards him on which there were rows and rows of neat figures. Then he turned the ledger towards his uncle.
“Look, Uncle: credit and debit. What we owe and what we’re owed. Add this to Aunt Agnes’s extravagance, the bills that were laid at Father’s door. It all shows I could never make ends meet.”
“Not even if someone took care of her debts?” Julius, who was a tall man, stretched his legs and gazed at his boots.
“Who would do that?”
“I might.” Julius’s gaze travelled slowly from his feet to his nephew’s face. “I have reconsidered what I said to you a few months ago. No no ...” he held up a hand, “your aunt had nothing to do with it; but I have searched my conscience and found it wanting. It is quite true that had I offered Laurence more help he probably would not have taken his life ...”
“I have no intention of taking my life, Uncle, I assure you.”
“No, I’m sure of that. But I could have been more understanding, more humane. Anyway, it caused a rift between your aunt and myself that has never been repaired. I do this partly for her. She was born in this house and it and her family mean a lot to her. But it would be a foolish gesture – and everyone knows I am not a man to throw his money about – were I not so impressed by what you have done since your time here. It has not gone unnoticed, I assure you, how hard you have worked. All this,” the sweep of his hand included the papers and ledgers round him, “is a credit to you; but with your father’s debts you are shackled. Would it be possible, for instance, for you to carry on if I relieved you of that burden? After all, they’re not your debts, nor are you in any way responsible for them. If I settled the bills run up by Agnes do you think you would be able to avoid selling up? Obviously,” looking round the room Julius shook his head, “I can’t take over everything for you. This house needs a fortune spent on it; nor, I’m sure, would you want me to. But if you go carefully, taking one step at a time in the cautious, careful way you are, you might be able to preserve the home you love so much, which your Aunt Eliza loves and which you deserve to keep.”
For a long time Carson sat silently, staring at his uncle while warring thoughts raced through his mind. It was difficult to think that Uncle Julius would be capable of an act of such altruism were not Aunt Eliza at the back of it. On the other hand he had always known Julius to be a straight man, mean but honest. He didn’t think he’d lie to him or dissemble. Without the burden of Agnes’s debts it might be possible for him to contemplate the future with more optimism.
“I can’t promise you you’ll be all right,” his uncle said as if he was aware of what Carson was thinking, “but at least you’re in with a sporting chance.” He looked at his watch and made as if to get up. “By the way any news of Agnes? I don’t think she’s been here all summer has she?”
“She’s travelling on the continent I believe,” Carson said offhandedly. “I think she’s keeping out of my way in case I try and get some money out of her. She’s also nervous about my plans for the London house.” Carson ran a hand through his hair. “So far I have been too busy to think of it, but it is in my plans and it will come to a sale, very soon, I’m determined on that.”
Julius got to his feet and shook his head. “That woman will always be a problem. Sometimes I think it almost seems as though the Devil himself has got into her. Somehow she makes me more nervous when we don’t know what she’s up to than when we do. Travelling on the continent, indeed!” He then turned towards the door but Carson stopped him and held out his hand.
“Thank you, Uncle Julius. I can’t tell you what this means to me. Ever since I came home I’ve seen nothing but clouds. Now at last I feel I see some sunshine between them.”
Chapter Four
Suds up to her elbows, her hair plastered over her forehead from the rising steam, one child tugging at her skirt while the baby howled in its basket on the floor, Elizabeth Sprogett felt close to breaking point.
“Frank,” she bellowed, “Frank.” But Frank, she knew, would not budge. He remained all day either in the bedroom gazing at the ceiling or in the front room staring at the floor.
The bright lad she’d married in 1913, only twenty-four years of age, who had gone so enthusiastically at the call to arms, willingly to serve King and country, had returned in 1916 a broken reed. Badly gassed, suffering from shell-shock, Frank, the cheerful brewer’s drayman, was scarcely recognisable. He was treated in hospital, discharged from the army and sent home to the ministrations of his wife. It seemed that the army didn’t really care about soldiers from the rank and file. They took much more care of officers, cosseted them and put them into convalescent homes where they were ministered to by doctors and psychiatrists, fellow professionals from the upper classes.
It was very difficult not to feel irritation with someone who seemed to make no effort to help himself. Sometimes he didn’t even want to dress, but just dragged himself around puffing on endless cigarettes and gasping for breath. He also had a hacking cough and was almost blind in one eye.
How Elizabeth rued that day, so full of promise, that she’d married him.
They lived in a house in Blandford that had belonged to the brewery and still did. Theoretically they could be asked to leave at any time, but Frank’s former employers
had shown themselves to be generous to an ex-serviceman and allowed the couple to stay on. It was a small house built on a sloping road leading out of Blandford with two bedrooms, a sitting room and kitchen, no bathroom and an outside lavatory.
Blandford was a pretty country market town, much larger than Wenham, surrounded by beautiful countryside, and so much more attractive than areas of the industrial north or large cities to which so many wounded veterans returned.
It was possible to go out of Blandford to the country, to Elizabeth’s mother and father who still worked for Mrs Heering and lived in a pleasant cottage on the Heering estate about ten miles away.
Mrs Heering had been kindness itself about Frank, had even offered them a cottage near Elizabeth’s mother and father; but people had their pride, and Elizabeth didn’t want to go back to a state of dependence on her parents and their employers unless she had to, though she sometimes wished that Frank would go back to his and she could start all over again.
But with three children that was clearly an impossible situation. Elizabeth loved her children and was a good mother. And although she had once dearly loved Frank, or thought she had, it was a stranger who had come back from the war, a man whose constant whining, complaining and cantankerous moods had turned him into someone she no longer loved and couldn’t even like.
It had been a white wedding at Wenham Parish Church which had been packed with family and friends, there to wish the handsome young couple well. Sir Guy and his new wife had not attended and nor had Carson, but then one would not expect them to. But Mrs Heering was there with her daughter and son, Elizabeth’s proud parents with her elder sister Jenny and younger brother Jo, Jenny’s husband Clifford and assorted relations. Mrs Heering had had a reception at the big house and her wedding gift had been a honeymoon on the Isle of Wight, which was the happiest time Frank and Elizabeth had ever spent together and where little Jack, now five years old, had been conceived. Mary, now tugging at her skirt, had come along a year after Frank got back from the war, and the baby, Betsy, bawling away in her cot was nearly nine months old.
In This Quiet Earth (Part Three of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 6