Agnes took a step towards Elizabeth and held out her hand. Instead of embracing her, Elizabeth took her hand and shook it. She had no inclination to fling her arms round her, on the contrary.
Agnes invited her rather formally to sit down. Tea was brought in immediately by Grace and served in silence. Agnes, pouring tea, observed that she thought it was going to be a very fine summer. Elizabeth thought so too. As if struggling to find words they both looked out of the open French windows into the garden. The lupins were a splash of bright variegated colour and the equally tall delphiniums with their gentler shades of blue and purple were in bloom. Agnes handed her her tea and they looked at each other over the cup before Elizabeth took it and set it on a table by her side.
“This is very awkward,” Agnes said at last. “There is a lot to talk about. I am almost entirely in the wrong.”
“‘Almost’?” Elizabeth smiled for the first time since she’d entered the room. “Isn’t that an understatement, Mrs Wentworth?”
Agnes bristled at the title but maybe no one had told her that, as she had wished, she was now known as Lady Woodville. Or was Elizabeth being deliberately malicious? Agnes studied her daughter carefully. She was basically very attractive, with a potentially good complexion, but a lot more could be made of her. She looked tired and run down. She was certainly not as Agnes remembered her when she first set eyes on her after the passage of many years in 1912. Then she had been a fresh-faced young beauty.
Now she was thirty-one and her best years were behind her. She had been brought up by servants and her manner was slightly common; she had a strong regional accent.
Yet, for all this, Elizabeth was her daughter; her flesh and blood. Would that something about Elizabeth might encourage her to take her in her arms, but there was nothing, no hint of warmth. Elizabeth’s expression was cold and unforgiving, and Agnes began to feel that, whatever Eliza had said, and she had talked to her for many hours, the meeting was a mistake. Elizabeth began to think so too. She put down her cup, having finished her tea, declined a cake and looked hard and long at Agnes. When she spoke it was almost as though she had read her thoughts.
“I am thirty-one, Mrs Wentworth. I was brought up as a servant by servants. Yet my father, who was a baronet, lived but ten miles away, and my aunt, his sister, who lived next door to me, knew it. Everyone deceived me for all those years. I married a man of very low rank who drove a brewer’s dray, and no one tried to stop it. It was all right for me because at the time I expected nothing better. But you would have thought that those who knew, and they all knew – Mrs Heering, you, Mrs Turner, Mrs Yetman, my adoptive parents – might have thought it an unsuitable match for the daughter of a baronet. Yet I was an outcast, born on the wrong side of the sheets, so what did it matter?
“I married Frank, a man I thought of my own station, and had we continued like that I might have lived quite happily for the rest of my days, knowing no better.
“But now not only do I know better, I have had five extremely hard years. My fine, healthy young husband who went eagerly off to the war returned a nervous and physical wreck. He could not earn a living. I had to take in dirty washing belonging to other people.”
“You could have asked,” Agnes burst out unable to endure any longer this string of accusations. “Eliza told me that you always refused offers of help.”
“That was you in me, wasn’t it, Mrs Wentworth? Stubborn, hard. I didn’t want pity. I don’t want it now.”
“Then what do you want, Elizabeth?” Agnes’s tone of voice was so low that the woman next to her hardly heard it.
“I want justice, Mrs Wentworth. I deserve it and so do my children, your grandchildren, and those of Sir Guy. I want them brought up as I was not. Sent to good schools. I want a house of my own with a garden, maybe a servant or two. It is no less than I deserve. I think the Woodville family owes me this, Mrs Wentworth, for what it did to me, and as for you...” she paused and gazed scornfully at the woman who had borne her thirty-one years before, “I suppose you expect me to be grateful? You, who rejected me all those years ago, I suppose you now feel I should love you, as though nothing had ever happened? Do you?”
Agnes, who had been looking straight ahead into the garden, her ears buffeted by the justified reproach and recriminations of her daughter, didn’t reply for a long time. Somehow, now that the past had caught up with her, it all seemed so cruel, so undeserved, so very unfair, because she too had had a hard life, even if much of it was her own making.
Now just when she needed the love of a daughter she would find hatred, resentment and revenge instead. She wished now that the truth had never come out. She had been right all along. Elizabeth, knowing no better, should have been left to her hovel, her stupid working class pride. If only Guy had not left her that legacy. It was his way of getting his own back. And yet ... Elizabeth was her daughter; her children too were her flesh and blood, the only grandchildren she would ever have. What joy Eliza got from hers! It was lovely to make them clothes and give them gifts, take them out for treats. Two girls and a boy. She had never seen them. Maybe, if their mother didn’t love her, they would?
Perhaps it was time to woo Elizabeth, to try and make amends?
“I do not expect you to love me, Elizabeth,” she said, “though I would like nothing better, and I would return that love a hundredfold, believe me. I only beg you to try and understand, and forgive me.”
She then lowered her head and uttered a deep, heartfelt, sigh which, as it happened, left her daughter completely unmoved.
Carson looked round at the small, rather dark room. At one end there was a range, the fire now out. The window, looking on to the street, was grimy as though it was a long time since it had been cleaned. There was a strong smell of washing and, through the door leading into the kitchen and washroom, he could see rows of clothes lines in the back yard where she’d once hung out all the sheets, shirts and goodness knows what else belonging to people who were better off than she was. The damp, soapy smell still permeated the house.
Elizabeth stood dressed in her best hat and coat, her cases at her feet, the children, also neatly dressed, at her side. Carson had never even met them. He had greeted the little girl, kissed the baby and gravely shaken hands with Jack who, with a well-scrubbed face, gazed hopefully up at him.
“I feel ashamed,” Carson said continuing to look round.
“I don’t blame you, Carson.” Elizabeth placed one hand protectively on Jack’s head. “You’re as much a victim as me. You didn’t know. It was kept from you too. Remember when we worked at Sadler’s Farm?” She gave him rather a flirtatious, decidedly unsisterly smirk.
“I remember,” he said. “I fancied you.”
“And I fancied you. No wonder they separated us.”
“We should have been told then. It was wrong. What my father did was wrong. I can’t defend him, but my mother was alive and he didn’t want to hurt her.” Carson looked earnestly across at Elizabeth. “But he loved you, Elizabeth. Aunt Eliza said he knew who you were and he left you something, which maybe was his way of hoping that, in the end, all would come right.”
“You think it’s come right, Carson?” She put her head on one side and he saw how coarse her skin was. In her teens she had been stunning. But now fine lines were etched down each side of her eyes and mouth. She didn’t look her age. She looked much older and they, the Woodvilles, shared a collective burden for this grave injustice that had been committed against her.
Aunt Eliza said that she was very bitter. The meeting with his stepmother had not gone well. There were no more plans to meet.
Aunt Agnes had wept the rest of the day, and the day after that. In the end the doctor was sent for and gave her a sedative. Instead of being a happy, joyful time at the reunion with a sister, Carson could see it would be fraught.
He looked towards the door.
“Connie’s waiting for us in the car,” he said. “You know we’ve become engaged?”
“Again?” Elizabeth smiled. “No I didn’t know. I hear she’s quite a beauty. It’s amazing what money can do, isn’t it, Carson?”
“It’s not just money. It’s self-confidence. She was held back, kind as Miss Fairchild was to her. Like you, Elizabeth, Connie suffered but in a different way.” He stood aside to let her pass, saying gravely: “We were all changed completely by the war.”
Carson opened the door and the little procession trooped out on to the street. This time there was a scattering of onlookers who had ventured from their homes to watch the departure of a woman who had become both notorious and a celebrity. No one had ever liked her very much with her sharp tongue, the manners of a fishwife yet, at the same time, the airs and graces of a woman of quality. Quite a contradiction. Now everyone knew why. She was a Woodville, a bastard, but a Woodville nevertheless; a name to be reckoned with in the neighbourhood, second only, perhaps, to the Portmans.
Connie jumped out of the car when she saw the procession exit from the house. She felt rather shy, a little awkward, and held out a hand as Elizabeth came up to the car.
“Hello Elizabeth,” she said. “I suppose you can say that it’s been a long time.”
“It has, Connie.” Elizabeth looked at her and then, impulsively, leaned towards her and kissed her, “I hear you’re to be congratulated. Second time around?”
“Exactly!” Connie blushed, self-consciously. “This time for keeps, I hope.”
Mary and Jack stood by their mother’s side looking awkward and Carson held Betsy in his arms. She was a very beautiful, contented looking toddler with golden curls and bright blue eyes. Connie leaned towards the two youngsters and said “Hello”. They looked at her but said nothing. Elizabeth gave Jack a cuff on the back of his head, and he said “hello” very quickly, Mary rapidly following suit to avoid similar chastisement.
“Where’s your husband?” Connie looked towards the house, the door now shut.
“He’s gone to stay with his brother while we get sorted out. I wish he’d stay there for good. Too much to hope for, I expect.”
Connie glanced rather helplessly at Carson, who opened the back door of the car and said to the two children standing on the pavement, “Hop in.”
They gazed with awe at the big car. “You ride in front, Elizabeth,” Carson said. “I’ll keep the children in order in the back.” He then put the children into the back seat and put Betsy between them while he went back for Elizabeth’s cases which he stowed in the boot.
He then saw Elizabeth to her seat next to the driver and, shutting the door, got into the back with the children. “Next stop Pelham’s Oak,” he said.
As Connie pulled away from the house and drove up the street a few people waved, but Elizabeth ignored them, eyes straight in front.
This time there was to be no turning back.
The air about them was quiet. Most of the family had left and Elizabeth was upstairs, her children in bed. It had been a day of great excitement, and everyone was tired. There had been much emotion, a few tears. All the family except Agnes had been gathered to greet the new member, even though they had all known her since she was a baby. It was different getting to know her as a Woodville, someone who had been shamefully treated for many years. There was a lot to atone for, much to be done.
Yet, unlike her meeting with her mother, Elizabeth charmed the family with her graciousness, her pleasure at being among them. She seemed to harbour no ill-will towards them at all. That she reserved entirely for her mother.
Everyone had been there: Eliza, Dora, Julius, Lally and Alexander, Sarah Jane and her three children, Sophie with Ruth, Ted and Beth but not Jo or Jenny. It was now six months since Debbie had disappeared and Sophie had aged visibly, her lustrous brown hair generously streaked with white. She was reconciled to the fact that she might never know the fate of her daughter. Reconciled, but she would never be the same again.
Hubert was not at the lunch either. A normally cheerful, extrovert man, he had been driven into himself by the tragedy, unable to share his grief with his wife. Even though Debbie was her daughter, not his, he had loved her dearly. Except for their duties in the parish Sophie and Hubert led almost separate lives; Debbie’s loss had created a complete chasm between them.
After the main party had left, Dora and Jean had gone for a long ride together. For them there was sadness too. Jean had recently told her that his work at Pelham’s Oak was done for the time being and he was to return home.
Dora had become so used to him as a companion that the news was shattering. No more rides, no more long talks over cigarettes late at night. A friendship which had begun in Cumbria had turned into a platonic love affair, rewarding and fulfilling in itself. Now they sat on the terrace, smoking, waiting for the others to join them for supper.
“What an extraordinary day,” Dora said, tossing back her hair. “I must say I thought Elizabeth was splendid. It must have been an ordeal for her.”
“But didn’t you always treat her as a member of the family?” Jean, who was in love with Dora, stole a glance at her splendid profile, in the shadows as twilight fell.
“Well yes, in a way. I mean she lived next to us and we played together. Mother always took a great interest in her. Now we know why.”
“And your mother never told anybody?”
“Never.”
“Do you think it was wrong of her?”
“I wouldn’t condemn my mother.” Dora, still in her jodhpurs, stretched out her legs before her. “She did what she thought was right. She protected Uncle Guy, and we didn’t know where Aunt Agnes was anyway. I think she thought she was protecting Elizabeth too. I must say I think Elizabeth has taken it all very well, except for her attitude to Aunt Agnes, but that will take time. Understandable.”
“Quite.” Jean paused. “I shall miss you a great deal, Dora.”
“And I’ll miss you.” She held out a hand and he clasped it. “We’ve become great pals. But you’ll come back?” She looked anxiously at him. “Won’t you?”
He wrinkled his nose. “I’m not sure. I could get to like being here too much.”
“Then why go back?”
“Because I must. Dora ...” he paused.
“Yes?”
“Come with me?”
She looked at him, amusement rather than surprise showing on her face. She let his hand drop.
“Are you serious?”
“Perfectly. Come as my wife.”
“Your wife?” She sat up abruptly and the happy, amused expression on her face turned to bewilderment.
“Yes. I’m asking you to marry me.”
“But I told you ...”
“I know. I’m prepared to go along with you.”
“A marriage without sex?”
“If you like, if it’s what you want. You see I love you, Dora, and it’s not just physical love. I want to be with you and have you near me. You never know, you might change your mind ...” As she tried to interrupt him he held up a hand. “Please don’t speak, just yet. I shan’t pester you; but I can’t live without you. I can’t bear the thought of being separated from you. We’re such good friends.”
“The best,” she said softly.
“We are happy together.”
“We are.”
“It’s terrible to think I might never see you again.”
“Then stay here.”
“I can’t. I have business interests in France, an estate.”
“An estate? You never said.”
“I put everything behind me to try and forget: the break-up of my marriage, the war. Now I’ve recovered, but I’ve fallen in love.”
“We can stay best friends,” she protested.
“It will look better if we’re married. Your mother would like it,” he added slyly.
“Oh, my mother would like it very much.”
“Then let’s do it.”
“I’ll have to think about it,” she said reflectively. “I want to make sure that you’ve thought a
bout it too, and the consequences.”
“Oh, I have. I have never been more sure of anything in my life.”
“No babies?”
“No babies. I’ve got two anyway. I just want you.”
They linked hands again, just as Carson and Connie wandered on to the terrace, also hand in hand. They too looked very happy. The engagement had been a low key affair only known to the family, although it had slowly got round the town. Connie didn’t wear a ring. At the time it had seemed wrong to celebrate so close to Debbie’s disappearance; but now, as the weeks turned to months and time had passed and there was no news, they were tentatively planning a quiet autumn wedding.
Jean rose to greet them and gave his chair to Connie.
“Did we interrupt anything?” Carson asked.
“No, we were merely saying what an extraordinary day it’s been.” Dora, feeling very happy, leaned back in her chair clasping her hands behind her head.
“It has been extraordinary.” Carson flopped down next to Connie.
“How long is Elizabeth staying?” Jean asked curiously.
“As long as she likes. There’s plenty of room ... that is until the wedding.” Carson looked hastily over at Connie. “I don’t think Connie wants to share the house with Elizabeth.”
Connie didn’t reply but sat looking across the countryside she loved so much, towards Wenham where the lights were just beginning to appear as pin-pricks at windows and on the streets of the town.
Sometimes she thought of Venice, but not in the way she’d thought of Wenham when Venice was her home. Her roots were here, as much as Carson’s, and it was here she wanted to be. However, she wished he’d let her do more to help, but he wouldn’t. Pelham’s Oak still needed a lot doing to it, but there was no more money to pay Jean, who now felt the call anyway to return to his home.
But that was not the only complication. She could live anywhere with Carson, but with Elizabeth too?
It would be nice to say that she was drawn to Elizabeth. She wasn’t. She never had been. They were very different people. When they were very young she knew Elizabeth, only three years younger, looked down on her, considered her bookish and frumpish. Elizabeth had been a little madam, always trying to draw attention to herself.
In This Quiet Earth (Part Three of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 23