“She is.”
“But that is not very friendly.”
“Mother loves you, but she has a special bond with Connie. She feels protective towards her, in loco parentis, if you like.”
Carson’s tone became petulant. “Then your mother should have spoken to me to find out my intentions. Really, Dora, when I think Connie is on the verge of returning to Venice amid all this misunderstanding I could ... why, I could weep.”
Dora’s expression as she looked at him was one of pity mingled with amusement.
“I can’t see you actually bursting into tears, whatever the cause.” She paused briefly for a moment. “Carson, I think you ought to know there is someone else, someone in Venice to whom Connie is very attached. He writes to her a lot. That being the case I think she would not wish to deceive you, so thought it best to stay away. It may be also that she cannot forget the past, when she was so hurt. Anyway in a week or so she will be gone and that might help to put you out of your misery.”
“Put me out of my misery!” Carson exclaimed between clenched teeth. “It increases it tenfold.” He drew Pulver closer to her. “Dora you must help me to explain myself to Connie before it is too late. I beg of you, because of the love we have for each other, to help me.”
Dora glanced anxiously at her watch and then towards the house. “I’ll do what I can,” she said. “I must get back or it will be dark. Mother worries if it gets dark and I’m in the car.”
Carson nodded and they rode in silence back to the house. Just as they reached the stables they saw Jean Parterre talking to one of his workmen. He raised his hat in greeting and, going over to Dora, reached up to shake hands.
“Good day, Miss Yetman,” he said politely.
“Good day, Mr Parterre,” she replied, smiling at him.
“Had a good ride?”
“Very,” She looked down at her horse. “Carson is going to let me keep Molly.”
“She’s a fine horse,” Jean nodded his agreement, then looked across at Carson.
“Carson, your Aunt Agnes is creating about the state of one of the bedrooms. Apparently water is coming in through the roof. I said I’d go over and look at it.”
“Please don’t mention that woman’s name to me,” Carson said irritably jumping off his horse and, after unsaddling him, he began energetically to rub him down.
Jean glanced at Dora who shook her head.
“Can I give you a lift to Wenham?” she asked, indicating her car in the drive. “I’ll drop you off at Aunt Agnes’s.”
“Well, that’s very kind, but I’m not sure how I’ll get back.”
“I’ll pick you up,” Carson said. “I’ve got to come over later on and see that woman. There’s something in particular that I want to say to her.”
***
At first neither Dora nor Jean spoke during the drive back to Wenham. Dora felt rather uncomfortable with this man she scarcely knew sitting beside her, and rather wished she hadn’t offered him a lift. To her he was a complete enigma; lean, stern, taciturn, iron grey hair cut en brosse, thin unsmiling lips, deep lines creasing the corners of his mouth and eyes. These now stared straight in front of him and, as he clutched his hat on his knees, she noticed his knuckles were white with tension.
“Does my driving worry you, Mr Parterre?” she asked sarcastically.
“Not at all, Miss Yetman.” He shifted awkwardly in his seat, but didn’t take his eyes off the road.
“You seem rather ill at ease?”
“Oh?” He glanced quickly at her and she saw anxiety in his steady grey eyes.
“Maybe you don’t approve of women driving?”
“On the contrary. I think they can do as they please. It is simply that I myself am not used to automobiles. I don’t possess one. I can’t drive one, so it makes me a bit nervous.”
Dora was disarmed by this confession and grinned at him apologetically.
“I’m sorry. I thought that, with the war ...”
“I was in the cavalry. Now, a horse I can understand.”
“Oh, you were in the cavalry?” Dora exclaimed delightedly. “You know I adore horses?”
“I do too.” He briefly shifted his gaze from the road. “And I’ve seen you riding. You’ve a splendid seat, Miss Yetman, if you don’t mind me saying.”
“Thank you.” She felt herself blushing like a schoolgirl who had received an unexpectedly good report.
They fell silent while she again considered the man beside her, who suddenly seemed to have intruded on her consciousness. She realised she had scarcely ever been greatly aware of him, regarding him as someone who was a cross between a friend and an employee of Carson, someone vaguely there in the background when she visited Pelham’s Oak which was, after all, mainly to ride. She wondered why Carson never asked him to join them.
“Do you and Carson ride together often?” she asked after a while.
“Together?” He shook his head vigorously. “I am an employee, you know, Miss Yetman. Carson has been good enough to give me a home and a wage, a job to do.”
“And you do it very well.” She stopped suddenly thinking that, perhaps, she sounded patronising. He didn’t reply which confirmed her suspicion.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Why should you be sorry, Miss Yetman?” His gaze was amused, quizzical.
“I hope I didn’t sound offensive. I mean, about you doing it very well.”
“On the contrary, I’m flattered.”
Silence again. Then:
“Shall you settle in England do you think?”
“Oh no.” He appeared amused by the idea. “I am a Frenchman. But I will stay as long as Carson wants me.”
“You seem to do jobs for all the family.”
“Quite.” His mouth now set in a thin, humorous line. He appeared more at ease and she noticed as they crossed the bridge and drove up the street into Wenham that his hat sat on his knee, and, his hands no longer clenched, rested at ease in his lap. He seemed a very content, self-contained, philosophical man. Now that she knew him a tiny bit better she felt very glad that Carson had saved his life.
The hands of the church clock pointed towards four when Dora stopped outside Agnes’s house. It was a dark, lowering January afternoon and the light was fading. Dora was surprised to see that the house was in darkness, so she turned to Jean Parterre, who had put his hat on and was about to get out of the car.
“Did Aunt Agnes know you were coming?” she enquired.
“Oh yes. She told me to be here about three.” He paused and looked at his watch. “I’m late. Maybe she couldn’t wait.”
“Funny.” Dora shook her head and climbed out joining Jean on the pavement outside the gate.
“Maybe she fell asleep?” Jean suggested opening the gate, allowing Dora to precede him up the path to the front door.
After knocking twice Dora turned the door handle and the door swung inwards. She peered along the hall and saw that everything was in darkness. There was no sign of Grace, the maid – Connie had drawn the line at a butler – and the sense was that the house was deserted.
“Aunt Agnes!” Dora raised her voice. “Grace!” No reply.
“Well, I’m very sorry.” She turned to Jean who had stepped in after her. “Aunt appears to be out. How very annoying for you.”
Jean removed his hat to scratch his head. “Never mind, I’ll wait for Carson.”
“But Carson will be ages.” Dora looked at her wristwatch.
“I’ll find something to do.” He seemed perfectly composed, apparently neither surprised nor annoyed by the vagaries of her aunt. He went back to the door and put on his hat preparing to go back down the garden path.
“Tell you what, I’ll run you back,” Dora said coming after him and pausing to close the door.
“No, really, it’s not necessary. I’ll find something to do in Wenham. I’ll go and see what my men are doing at the church, they’re working on the belfry. Then I have a few errands to do.�
� He removed his hat again and ran his hand over his scalp. “Maybe I’ll have a haircut.”
“Well, if you’re sure.” Dora stood at the gate looking dubiously at him.
“Perfectly sure, Miss Yetman, and thank you for the lift. I ...”
They both turned at that moment as Grace, the maid, came running along the path past the church leading from the rectory. Although it was bitterly cold she wore only her uniform, a long grey dress over which there was a white pinafore. On her head was a plain white cap. She was clearly agitated and she gestured theatrically towards Dora who went anxiously up to her.
“Grace what is it?”
“Oh, miss ...” Grace clutched at Dora’s arm.
“Something has happened to Aunt Agnes?”
“No, miss.” Gulping, Grace shook her head. “It’s that they can’t find Miss Deborah, miss. She’s been gone since this morning and her mother’s out of her mind with worry. Mrs Turner came over to find out if she was with her ladyship, but she said she hadn’t seen her since yesterday. Mrs Turner was that upset that Lady Woodville went back to the house with her.”
“Well, maybe she’s with a friend?” Dora took Grace’s arm to try and soothe her and began to walk back with her towards the rectory. Glancing round she saw that Jean was following them.
“They’ve been all over the place, miss. Servants and people have gone in all directions. They fear that something may have happened to Miss Deborah.” Grace flung out her arm dramatically. “That she’s had an accident, fallen into the river or ... been kidnapped.”
But they didn’t kidnap rectors’ daughters, quiet respectable young girls who never left home without telling their mothers where they were going. It wasn’t reasonable.
Kidnap seemed fanciful, alarmist. An accident, alas, a distinct possibility.
It was Jean Parterre who, once the situation had been summarised for him, took charge. He sent his men who were working on the belfry down to the river with instructions that, despite the cold, they were to wade in and search for the missing girl.
Deborah’s absence had first been really noticed at lunch, which the family took together. It was always served at noon and was never missed. The Rector liked his midday meal and it was something of an occasion. Afterwards he went to his study, ostensibly to read or prepare a sermon, but Sophie had good reason to think he also combined these worthy tasks with a nap.
For one who was prone to hysteria at the least opportunity, Agnes had been surprisingly calm, a bulwark of solidarity and good sense. The first to assume a real crisis, she had made practical suggestions as to Deborah’s possible whereabouts, and the servants were despatched to explore various possibilities. But by five, darkness having set in, of Deborah Woodville there was no sign.
When Carson arrived Jean Parterre’s men had still not returned and there was now an awful feeling that the worst had happened, that, somehow, Deborah had lost her way and fallen into the river. Such a long absence was unique.
She had last been seen at breakfast after which the various members of the household went about their tasks: Hubert on a series of parish visits, Sophie to take a Bible class and attend a meeting of the Ladies’ Guild. Deborah was keen on painting, but it was somewhat difficult to find an occupation for her. There were few young women of her age about in term time, and she showed none of her parents’ interest in parochial affairs or the life of the church.
Despite her sadness at losing her father at an early age, Deborah Woodville had always been a spirited girl, rather wilful, quick-tempered and with her mother’s stubbornness and liking for her own way.
Before her mother’s second marriage she and her sister had lived for some time at Pelham’s Oak looking after her grandfather and Debbie had never really forgotten that, but for her father’s death, it would have been her rightful home now. She had the airs and tastes of a lady, which was perhaps why she got on so well with her step-grandmother, Agnes, with whom she spent a lot of time and who was an influence on her.
Sophie Turner was a devout, deeply religious woman who believed firmly in divine justice and the will of God. In the course of her life she had sinned, but God had been good to her. She had not deserved a second chance, but He gave her one: a good, devoted husband and two more children.
During the last few hours she had had to summon all her energy to avoid a hysterical outburst, to remain stoical and calm. She directed the servants and friends who came to call and offer help, despatching search parties to various parts of the town and to villages in the surrounding countryside. She did her best to calm her husband, who had almost lost control of his own emotions, so fond was he of his stepdaughters, reminding him of the innate goodness of God and His mercy.
But by late afternoon, with the earth blanketed in darkness, and bitterly cold, in her innermost heart she felt the deepest foreboding.
A silence had fallen with an awareness of what might have happened as the company sat round the fire drinking tea and talking in subdued tones. Every now and then they were interrupted by the return of one of the search parties, or a telephone call to report that another blank had been drawn.
Sophie stood by the window looking out at the darkening landscape. Even then the scene, familiar to her since childhood, was etched on her mind. She had been born in this house and lived in it until her marriage. The daughter of the Rector of Wenham, she had never thought she would marry his successor and one day preside as mistress of the house like her mother before her. Below flowed the River Wen which ran past Riversmead, where Sarah Jane lived with her children, past the Rectory higher up and past the church which stood on the brow of a hill. Opposite was Wen Wood where she’d walked and played as a child, learnt about nature, observed the birds and various forms of animal life.
In the wood and fields surrounding the Rectory her children played, innocents as she had been, and it would have been natural for Deborah to wander down by the river. But what had happened then?
As the church clock began to strike six she moved restlessly to rejoin the group huddled by the fire when the door opened abruptly and Jean Parterre, grim-faced, appeared with a man they recognised as one of those working on the belfry. He looked dishevelled and his clothes were soaking.
Sophie, fearing the worst, instinctively put her hands over her face and Carson jumped up and put his arm round her. Breathlessly they waited for Jean to speak.
“It is not what you think,” he said at once. “We have not found a body.” Sophie gave a loud sigh and sank into a chair. Hubert went and sat next to her, taking her hand.
“We may, however, have a clue as to Deborah’s whereabouts,” Jean continued. “If it is true it is not exactly good news, but I think it is better than thinking she is dead.”
“What do you mean?” Sophie clutched at her breast and looked up at him.
“This is Bob Trotman,” Jean pointed to the dishevelled workman standing beside him, clearly ill at ease in the exalted company in which he found himself. “He is a stonemason working on the belfry.” Jean cleared his throat awkwardly. “Well, Bob tells me that Deborah was in the habit of visiting the belfry site almost every day, sometimes several times a day. She seemed to have a special interest in one of my workmen, Michael Stansgate, and he ...” Jean looked over at Sophie, “seemed to return that interest. When I went over today to ask for the help of the men I noticed that Michael was not there, but didn’t think to enquire. With casual labour you have people coming and going. In the last half hour Bob has told me that it would not surprise him if they had gone off together ...”
“Impossible!” Sophie said sternly. “Deborah would never –”
“That’s what you might think, my dear,” Agnes moved across to sit on the other side of Sophie, “but I have noticed recently that dearest Debbie did seem particularly animated, and I jokingly asked her only one day last week if she was in love.”
“And ... ?” Sophie asked raising her head.
“She smiled and said nothing,” Agnes
replied.
Jean waited politely for Agnes to finish and then continued: “Bob says that yesterday Deborah came over several times and she and Michael went off together and huddled in the churchyard. He had to call him back to work.” He paused as if to allow the meaning of his words to sink in.
“Where did this Michael live?” Sophie’s voice was flat, unemotional.
Jean turned to Bob Trotman, who scratched his head and mumbled.
“That’s the point, Mrs Turner, no one seems to know.”
“He is an itinerant worker,” Jean explained. “They travel around the country doing odd jobs. He arrived in Wenham about two months ago looking for work and I took him on as a carpenter. He worked first at Pelham’s Oak and then I transferred him to the belfry. He was a very capable workman.”
“And what age is he?” The Rector finally found his voice.
“About twenty-five, Reverend,” Bob muttered.
“And had you any idea where he came from?”
Bob shook his head and shuffled his feet. “None of us had, sir.”
“It seems extraordinary to me,” Agnes burst out indignantly, “that you can employ a workman without knowing anything about him.”
“Well, you can,” Jean replied. “They are taken on, paid and that’s it. They have to find their own board and lodging. Some stay for a long time, weeks, months, years. They might settle down in the locality, or they might just decide to move on without notice. They like this kind of life. One day they’re there, the next day they’ve gone.”
“In other words,” Carson intervened, “it might be impossible to trace him, or know the truth, whether Debbie is with him or not.”
Silently Jean nodded, and Agnes turned to Sophie and grasped her hand. “Debbie would never do a thing like that! If she has eloped she will get in touch with you. She would never make you suffer.” Agnes bent towards Sophie and impulsively kissed her cheek. Then she leaned back still holding her hand. “My dear, even if Debbie has run off with this man surely it is better to know she is alive than ...”
Her voice trailed off. There was a profound silence in the room. It was impossible for those assembled to guess whether Sophie Woodville, a woman of great piety and principle, would prefer her beloved daughter to have suffered death or dishonour.
In This Quiet Earth (Part Three of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 17