Sophie raised her head, the expression in her eyes unfathomable.
She gave them no clue.
Chapter Eleven
The little town of Wenham was plunged into gloom by the disappearance of the popular Rector’s stepdaughter, its inhabitants shocked. For the most part because, human nature being what it is, there were some who were more titillated than others when a possible explanation for the disappearance became apparent: the fact that eighteen-year old Deborah may have run off with a man; an itinerant, uneducated workman to boot.
Those with long memories recalled the elopement of Deborah’s great aunt, Eliza, with Ryder Yetman, in similar circumstances except that Eliza did not keep her own mother ignorant about her fate. But after the runaways returned and, indeed, were respectably married, it took a long time for her family to forgive her. In fact her mother never did, and the townsfolk never forgot.
Of course these were modern times, a dreadful war had been fought, and views about morality had undergone a profound change. Women, though not all, now had the vote; they were admitted to universities, though not on the same terms as men. Yes, but ... there was still a definite stigma attached to immoral women – far more than to immoral men – and, doubtless, that would rub off on Deborah and her family, were she ever to return to Wenham.
There were those who thought there was bad blood in the Woodville family and now, as these things do, it had come out again in the apparently innocent, virginal daughter of the saintly George Woodville who had given his life for Christ in the missions in far away Papua, New Guinea.
Wenham was a cheerful, friendly town where people stopped in the streets to pass the time of day and bid each other “good morning” or “good afternoon”. It had changed little in the last hundred years, advanced only slowly with the times. The store that Connie’s guardian, Victoria Fairchild, had taken over from her parents and run until her retirement still occupied a central position in the High Street between the bank and the solicitor’s. Opposite was the Baker’s Arms, the local public house and, next to that, the butcher. A little further on, the greengrocer, the saddler, a hardware store and the bakery clustered round the market cross.
One big change that had occurred in the last few years was that the pigs, sheep and cows that used to throng the street on market days had been transferred to a new location on the far side of the town from which, however, their mournful cries could still be heard on market day. The Women’s Institute had also taken up a stall in the new market from which it sold freshly baked cakes and bread, cheese, home-cured ham and home-reared chickens, flowers and home-made jam.
A good deal of talk concerning Deborah Woodville naturally went on among the women who ran the stall, and those who purchased goods from it. There was some criticism but much kindness too. Sophie Turner was seen as an irreproachable mother without a stain on her character, but maybe she had been too preoccupied with church affairs to consider what her nubile, attractive daughter’s needs were in the modern world. Having been allowed to leave school, maybe some occupation should have been found for her, some form of training, if not for the church like her parents, then maybe as a teacher or a governess. Deborah had been allowed to do as she pleased while her parents got on with their busy lives. Idle bones led to idle thoughts, and with the proximity of some virile young workman, well ... no wonder.
However these very same people who speculated, sometimes unkindly, also bombarded the rectory with gifts: cakes, pots of jam, chickens, fresh eggs and so on. Some were simply left on the steps or at the gate, some were handed in by those hoping for up-to-date news which they could pass on to their friends, with the cachet that it had come straight from the horse’s mouth.
Despite her affliction, Sophie felt surrounded by love, sustained by the power of prayer as the days passed and no news came of Deborah’s whereabouts, until she began to wonder if her daughter had first been abducted and then done away with by the man who had made off with her.
The day after the disappearance, Carson and Jean Parterre had set off to look for the couple. They had absolutely no clues and no idea where they should start. Instinctively they chose to go west because the remoteness of Devon and Cornwall might have been thought to offer some protection. Their hunch seemed to have paid off because, while making enquiries at Yeovil station, they heard by chance that a young couple had been seen there the day after Debbie disappeared and there had been something about them, the girl’s obvious youth, a certain furtiveness about the man that had attracted the attention of the station porter. It was then ascertained that the train they had boarded had been en route for Exeter so, with hope in their hearts, Carson and Jean Parterre set off in the same direction.
In the circumstances, Connie was as much affected by the tragedy as any member of the family, despite the fact that Debbie was no direct relation. She abandoned her plans to return to Venice to stay with Eliza, who was the girl’s aunt, and even to comfort Agnes who somehow, and erroneously, felt a responsibility for what had happened.
She had been close to Guy’s granddaughter who was pretty and entertaining, and the two got on well. In some ways she reminded Agnes of her youthful self; someone who was rather restless, frustrated by the circumscribed life of the parson’s daughter. In the painful hours she had had to reflect, the hours that seemed especially long and tormenting at night, Agnes wondered if maybe she had fed the young girl’s mind with thoughts of flight by expressing too vigorously her criticism of the provincial nature of the town in which she now felt herself imprisoned? She would entertain Debbie with tales of continental travel, the delights of London, the opportunities offered by the outside world, and contrast it with the dismal prospects one could expect if left forever in Wenham.
Debbie had loved these stories, her eyes had lit up as she egged on her step grandmother to tell her more and, delighted to have an audience who appreciated her, on Agnes went, and on and on: stories of the grand hotels she and Owen had stayed in on the continent, the sumptuous restaurants where they had eaten, the sights they had seen: the Forum in Rome, the Colosseum; the Arc de Triomphe and the Eiffel Tower in Paris; the huge palace built by Louis XIV in Versailles; the Bay of Naples; the Matterhorn glimpsed at sunset from the balcony of a Swiss hotel ... it was endless. It fed not only Debbie’s desire for fantasy, but Agnes’s too and it also expressed her frustration, her despair at being trapped in a place she disliked so much. Maybe she had unwittingly engendered a similar dissatisfaction in the heart of an impressionable and imaginative young girl?
Oh yes, Agnes felt guilt, terrible guilt, but she didn’t tell Connie or the rest of her family the reason for it; she couldn’t confess to them how she had fed the young mind with dreams and perhaps, thereby, helped to corrupt it.
Agnes became something of a changed person after Debbie disappeared. She forgot her many grievances and stopped complaining about her lot and thought of someone else instead. She thought particularly of Sophie who she had always regarded as a rather stuck-up, pious prig, considering herself better than other people. She knew that Sophie had very little time for her, considering her spoilt, interfering and demanding. It was Agnes who had been responsible for forcing Sophie and her children to leave Pelham’s Oak after her marriage to the children’s grandfather. Nor did Sophie approve of all the time Deborah had spent in her step grandmother’s company but, being such a busy person helping her husband to run the parish and looking after her two little boys, there was little she could do about it.
Every day after Debbie disappeared, Agnes would call at Sophie’s to see if there was news, ask if there was anything she could do and, generally, try and make herself useful. She would take the boys for a walk, entertain them in her home, being careful not to fill their youthful hearts with the same sort of discontent she suspected she had inspired in Debbie. Instead she read them wholesome tales from Beatrix Potter or other suitable writers of children’s stories, and culled her long memory for childish games or educational and instructive
things to do.
A week passed. There was no news of Debbie. Carson and Jean Parterre had not yet returned, extending their search throughout the West Country. The town grew restless, fears deepened. On both Sundays the church congregation swelled to embrace those who scarcely ever passed its portals. It was not only for news or out of curiosity, a nose for notoriety even, although there was some element of each, but also out of a profound and genuine desire to express hope and solidarity with a well-loved parish priest and his family.
Agnes closed the gate leading to her house, having thoroughly briefed Grace and left her more than enough work to keep her out of mischief, and made her way through the churchyard to the Rectory. The crocuses were out, interspersed among the graves, and she always considered this a harbinger of spring, although it was a good way off. Would Debbie be back by the spring? Would they ever see her again? Sometimes in her heart of hearts she felt that the answer would be “no”. Debbie was not the sort of girl to inflict such misery on her mother. If she was still alive, ashamed of herself she might have been, but surely, surely, she would not have put her mother through the torment she was enduring now? Surely, in that case, she must be unable to communicate; kept a virtual prisoner or, to think the unthinkable, dead.
Agnes was admitted by the maid, Bessie, who confessed that Mrs Turner was not in the best of health. She was up and dressed, but had cancelled her programme for the day and remained in her small sitting room which was off the main hall. Agnes was asked to wait while Bessie went to see if Mrs Turner felt fit enough to see Lady Woodville, but she returned with a smile and said the Rector’s wife would be glad of her company.
When Agnes entered the room Sophie was standing by the window, her face half hidden by the shadow formed by the curtain. When she turned to greet and embrace Agnes it was plain to see that she had been crying.
“No news?” Agnes asked, taking Sophie’s hand and leading her to the sofa and the comfort of the warm fire.
“No news.” Sophie shook her head and wiped tears from her eyes. “I had a terrible night during which I had visions of Deborah ... of my darling ...” momentarily she broke down, “dead. I saw her poor little white face ...” She then stopped altogether and her shoulders heaved in silent weeping. Agnes put her arm round her and, drawing her head upon her matronly breast, tried to comfort her as she would a small child.
“There, there,” she said patting her gently. “There, there.” She thought it best not to voice her own strangely similar fears. Maybe they both had a premonition that some harm had, indeed, befallen Debbie?
Bessie popped her head round and asked if Mrs Woodville and her ladyship would like coffee? Sophie wiped her eyes, blew her nose and gave a tremulous smile. Yes, she thought they would, and when Bessie returned a few minutes later with a pot of coffee on a tray together with a plate of little cakes she thanked her for thinking of it.
“I don’t think you’d eat or drink at all, mum,” Bessie said reprovingly. “If the matter was left to you or the Rector you’d starve.” She then bobbed, smiled and excused herself.
“So kind.” Sophie swept the hair back from her face and began to pour the coffee. “Everyone has been so kind. Our servants have grieved as much as we have. The people of Wenham, oh ...” she paused and handed Agnes her cup, “it’s been unbelievable. It has restored my faith in the goodness of God, and I must say,” she paused again to stir her coffee, and sighed deeply, “that has been sadly tried these past two weeks. I think,” she bent her head thoughtfully, “I think that God is punishing me for my past sins ...”
“But you have not committed any sins!” Agnes exclaimed in astonishment. “You have been an exemplary person, a most devoted wife and mother. You were even very nice to me when I was so horrible to you before I married Guy.” In her turn Agnes bowed her head in shame. “Do you not think, dear Sophie, how I grieve on account of the way I behaved? This tragedy to Debbie has made me see myself for the single-minded, selfish creature I am, or was. But you ...”
“No I have sinned,” Sophie insisted. “And this is the punishment. It is called Divine retribution.” She gazed fearfully at Agnes, her eyes puffy, her face streaked with tears. She was an attractive rather than a pretty woman – her character more than her looks had always been considered her strong suit – but now she appeared plain. It also seemed to Agnes that she had aged suddenly, and there were grey streaks in her rich brown hair that had not been there two weeks before.
“My son, Sam, is not Mr Turner’s child ... that was my sin.”
Agnes looked at her in amazement.
“But you were married to Hubert when your child was born!”
“But not when he was conceived,” Sophie whispered. “I had a liaison of which I am deeply ashamed.”
“Does Hubert know?” Agnes stammered having suffered a profound shock, not in the sense of disapproval, someone with a history like hers could hardly feel that, but because it was a situation in which it was almost impossible to imagine the virtuous Sophie.
“The man concerned was unworthy,” Sophie continued tremulously. “I became obsessed by him. He promised to marry me and I anticipated the marriage act. He then abandoned me and ...”
“Does Hubert know all this?” Agnes asked again.
“Oh yes.” Sophie gazed at the floor, involuntarily clenching her fists. “He had already proposed to me but, thinking myself in love with this other ... person, I declined. I was about to leave Wenham so that my parents would not know of my shame, when Hubert asked me to marry him again. I had already told him everything.” She dashed the tears away from her eyes once more. “I can’t tell you how much I owe to the goodness of that man. He has become a real father to my two girls, he loves them like one. He is the most considerate and thoughtful of husbands ... and yet now we find it difficult to reach out to each other, to comfort each other. I think Hubert blames me for not keeping closer control on Debbie. He says I abandoned my parental role. Maybe he also recalls my own sin and thinks too that this is God’s punishment. It is also my fear we are becoming estranged, and that he feels, as I do, that God has abandoned me for the sins of my past.”
She suddenly threw herself once more into the arms of Agnes, who did her best to comfort her. But it was hard for her to know what to say. For she herself was a woman who had sinned and was only rarely visited by any sense of guilt. When this came it was in the dark hours, depriving her of sleep until dawn. Such guilt as she had was not on account of her past life as a woman of easy virtue, because to her sins of the flesh were venial.
Her real sin, the unforgivable one, was that she had wantonly abandoned her own daughter who now lived not a dozen miles from the mother she would not have recognised. Agnes had tried to put this out of her mind but, with advancing years, it became harder and harder because she realised that she was a woman with few friends, whom no one really liked. Now that Owen had deserted her she so longed for someone she could truly call her own; who would love, protect and look after her.
But she had no one.
Eliza also found it very difficult to know how to occupy her time in those first weeks after Debbie went missing. Although she felt no responsibility for the tragedy – how could she? – she knew that it had awoken memories in people of her own elopement forty years before. Even those who didn’t remember it, who were too young or not yet born, were told it by older relatives who did. Some learnt about it for the first time: that Eliza Heering, pillar of society and respectability, had once run away with a man to whom she was not married.
Eliza was aware of the glances she got when she went into the town, knowing sniggers behind raised palms. It revived painful memories of long ago. But now it no longer worried her as it had then; she was far too old, too seasoned, too inured to tragedy and unhappiness to care.
It was, however, extraordinary how vivid the past could be, and how easily she could recall her emotions that time so long ago when she herself was eighteen, and she and Ryder had eloped with only the
ir horses to carry them and trekked all the way up to the Lake District. She recalled the baby she had lost, eight weeks’ premature and stillborn, and which Ryder had buried by the light of a hurricane lamp in the hard, snow-covered ground because they could not afford a proper burial. Eliza had watched from their tiny cottage, her heart breaking, her face swollen by tears. They had called the baby Thomas.
She often thought of that small, unmarked grave deep in the Lakeland hills. She knew that even if she wished she would not be able to find it now. Since then another grave had taken another of her sons, Laurence, a loving husband and father of three who had been driven to suicide at the age of thirty. She had buried a husband, a mother and brother, and lost a beloved nephew, George, whose daughter had now added to the family’s suffering by her strange disappearance.
It was mid-morning and Julius was pottering in his greenhouses while Connie and Dora were walking the dogs in the woods beyond the house, well wrapped up against the cold. The two, who had not been very close as children, now got on well. Both had changed, but particularly Connie who seemed to Eliza like a butterfly who had finally emerged from its chrysalis. Dora had also matured. She had been deeply affected by her experiences in the war, but she had always had self-confidence, self-assurance and a degree of charm which disarmed those critics who thought she was too aloof, perhaps a touch haughty.
Eliza stood by the window drinking coffee, looking out upon the landscape and the light covering of snow that had fallen overnight and had now frozen hard. She wondered where poor Debbie was at this moment and tried not to think of her sheltering, perhaps, from the elements or even lying somewhere under the white landscape in an unmarked grave like her poor little Thomas.
She went back into the room and threw some logs on the fire. Despite the heat she felt chilled and desolate, and wished she could find something to do, to occupy her mind. In the afternoon they planned to visit Sophie, and these visits gave a focus to days that were largely without meaning. Eliza thought that disappearance was worse than death. Whether alive or not it would be far better if Debbie were to be found.
In This Quiet Earth (Part Three of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 18