“We don’t mention his name in this house, Uncle,” Abel said quietly.
“But he hasn’t done anything wrong,” Bart protested.
“Still, if you don’t mind, we’d rather not discuss him.”
“Heavens above,” Bart said heatedly, “Sarah Jane is my sister. I can’t abandon her.”
“Is something wrong?” Ruth asked, quickly taking the tray from the maid who had entered with the coffee. She put it on a table and started to pour.
“They are practically destitute from what Palmer told me. He has not worked since he left here.”
“I’m surprised.” Abel accepted a cup from his wife. “He is a very capable architect.”
“He says it’s almost impossible to find work. He has been everywhere, including London.”
Abel’s face was impassive as he regarded his uncle.
“Are you asking us for financial help to support Mother? In that case –”
“Of course I’m not asking for financial help. He has not asked me, and he would not take it. He wants work, and that I am prepared to offer him.”
“Where? Here?” Abel looked at him with surprise.
“I am optimistic about the future. I thought that I would like to enter the building business myself, extend my field of operations, as it were, and construct several fine houses on a speculative basis.” He paused and looked from husband to wife. “With you as the builder, naturally, and Solomon as the architect. I am prepared to finance the whole operation, which will be of undoubted financial benefit to you both. In fact I hope to us all.”
Abel finished his coffee and stood up.
“I’m afraid this proposal is not of the least interest to me, Uncle. I will not work with Solomon Palmer again. I couldn’t.” He looked at his wife, who nodded her agreement.
“We felt their behaviour was disgusting and demeaning.” Ruth walked over to her husband’s side. “And they were very deceitful and indiscreet. Why, even the servants knew what they were up to. They caused great scandal in the neighbourhood, and the whole town condemned them. I don’t think it would welcome them back.”
“Well, I think this town has no business to condemn them. Your mother had a right to her own life. She was widowed for many years. She was lonely.”
“Be that as it may, I don’t want to work with Palmer, and that is that,” Abel said. “It was bad enough having to sit with them at Aunt Eliza’s birthday party. And then Mother had to make an exhibition of herself, which shamed us all. We were horrified. No, thank you. Work with Solomon Palmer if you will, Uncle Bart, but please don’t expect me to join you.”
“Then I shall get other builders to do the work.”
“That’s entirely up to you. I’m afraid I can’t compromise. If I do, then I shall look a fool and people will think the worse of me.”
“You realise this will cause another rift in the family?” Bart said, looking closely at his nephew, “that we could well do without.”
“I agree, but the rift is of your making not ours.”
Bart had a feeling of desperation. “But I’ve already made Palmer an offer. I can’t go back on my word.”
“You only have yourself to blame, Uncle,” Abel said with an air of indifference. “You should have spoken to us first. You should have found out which way the wind blew.”
Chapter Five
August 1933
It was one of those rare things in a normal English summer: a brilliant day, the sky cloudless, the air balmy. The colours of the flowers and shrubs in the garden were of a peculiar intensity as though an artist had been round during the night and daubed them all with a fresh coat of paint. Agnes sat in the shadow of a tree in her pretty garden attempting to read a book but, in reality, seeing very little of what was on the page.
Agnes Wentworth was not by nature a restful woman. She felt life had dealt her a blow – a series of blows really – by condemning her to a life of solitude in Wenham, the small town where she had been born and which she detested.
Not that she blamed herself for the various misfortunes with which life had beset her. Agnes was inclined to blame other people and had very few friends because no one could really trust her not to say cruel things behind their backs.
However, those who were close to her, who knew her best, had a grudging respect and admiration for her, and they came nearest to loving her. They included her former sister-in-law Eliza; Sophie Turner, who had just missed being her daughter-in-law, and Lally Martyn who, as a former adventuress herself, perhaps appreciated best all the vicissitudes Agnes had suffered and her skill in overcoming them. But, unlike Agnes, Lally had for many years had a stable marriage, a beautiful home, and had wanted for nothing.
Agnes’s home was not her own. She regarded her allowance as paltry, and there were many things she wanted that she couldn’t have. She pined, above all, for that deep, unquestioning love that comes from family. This was denied her by her daughter Elizabeth, who refused to have anything to do with Agnes or allow her children to see her, except a stiff, formal visit once a year. It was very, very cruel, in one’s old age, to be deprived of the love of a family and Agnes, whenever she thought of it, which was quite often, gave herself up to waves of self-pity. She never thought to blame herself for rejecting her own daughter in the first place.
Agnes began to doze, her book fallen onto her lap. She was conscious of the pleasant warmth of the sun, though protected from its rays by the leafy branches of the chestnut tree under which she sat. Although only half awake she became aware of a presence and, expecting to see Grace hovering by, opened her eyes and looked sharply to one side.
The pert, pretty little face of Mary Sprogett was looking gravely down at her. For a moment Agnes scarcely recognised her.
“Hello, Grandma,” Mary said, laying a small parcel on Agnes’s lap. “Did I surprise you?”
“You certainly did,” Agnes said, “but it is a nice surprise.” She began to undo the gift lying in her lap. “I hardly recognised you, Mary.” Finally she removed the paper and exclaimed with delight, “Chocolates! My favourites! How thoughtful!” She put up her cheek for a kiss. “My, how you’ve changed since I last saw you. You’re quite a young woman.”
Mary smiled and slumped on the grass by the side of Agnes’s chair.
“Go and get yourself a seat child.” Agnes flapped her hand towards a pile of folded chairs beside the summer-house, but Mary shook her head and wrapped her arms around her knees.
“I prefer it here, Grandma.”
Agnes’s stony features relaxed into a smile. She had once been a beauty, but years of disappointment and frustration had left her with an almost permanently sour expression. She put out a hand and touched Mary’s head.
“It’s so sweet of you to come and see me, dear, but why did it take you so long?”
Mary shook her head, eyes downcast.
“I suppose your mother ...”
Mary suddenly raised her head and looked urgently, almost desperately, into her grandmother’s eyes. Agnes was surprised and a little alarmed, to see such an expression of timidity, almost of fear, in them.
“Grandma, I’ve run away!”
“You’ve run away?” Agnes repeated.
“From home. I didn’t know where to go and then I thought no one would think of looking here.”
“But Mary you can’t stay here if you’ve run away.” Agnes’s expression was aghast.
“Only for a while.”
“And what will you do then? You’ll have to go home some time and I will get into terrible trouble.”
Mary shook her head vehemently. “I’m never going to go home. I hate home. I hate my mother.”
“Oh, but you mustn’t say that.”
“Mummy always picks on me. I think she hates me too.”
“I’m sure she doesn’t.”
Agnes didn’t know exactly why she was defending her daughter. She supposed it was the sort of thing one did instinctively, however alienated one was.
“She hates me, Grandma.” Mary paused before thrusting in the barb. “And she hates you.”
“Oh, I know that.” Agnes put back her head and gave a melancholy laugh. “But why does she hate you?”
“She has always preferred Betsy and my brothers, especially the new ones,” Mary said on a note of contempt. “She says I am most like my father and she despised him. She said I was a snivelling brat when I was young. Now she wants to send me away.”
“But where to?”
“Switzerland.”
“Switzerland,” Agnes echoed. “But Switzerland is very nice.”
“I don’t want to go. It’s to a finishing school. My mother thinks I need to be made into a lady and I want to remain as I am. I don’t want to be a lady.” Mary derisively emphasised the word ‘lady’.
Agnes smiled and placed her hand on the child’s head again.
“I see. Your mother wants you finished off.” Agnes giggled at her own joke.
“I want to leave school, but I don’t want to go to another, especially not one abroad.”
“But what will you do, dear? It is a very sensible thing to have a good education.” She paused and sighed deeply. “Had I been better educated I would not have become so dependent on men. Men you see keep us women in subordinate positions because they know we are superior to them, and they are afraid we’ll catch them up, overtake them. You should never close your eyes to the advantages of a good education. Never. Now,” Agnes sat upright in her chair, “we shall have a cup of tea and then I shall call a taxicab and Grace will take you back to your mother who need never know you’ve run away.”
“I left her a note,” Mary said defiantly. “I have taken all my things.”
“But where are they?” Agnes looked around in dismay.
“I left them in the hall.”
“Then you must take them back. You must tell your mother you’re sorry and –”
“No, no, no.” Mary burst into hysterical tears and dramatically clutched at Agnes’s skirt. “I will kill myself if I have to go back, and you will be responsible for my early death.”
Elizabeth Temple stood at the drawing-room window looking out for her expected visitor, her hands playing agitatedly with the necklace at her throat. She recalled the awful moment when she had found the note and realised Mary had gone. Cleared out. Of course she had not slept the night before, not a wink. Graham had snored away beside her, but Graham was not Mary’s father. He was concerned, but he was an optimist, a man of equable temperament with no imagination. He was convinced that no harm had or would come to his stepdaughter. She was playing a prank.
Mother and daughter had had a great row the previous day and Mary had run away while her mother was out on an errand in Blandford. Telephone calls to her various school friends had failed to find her.
The last thing Graham Temple wanted was a fuss: a hue and cry. It was bad for business and he was a prominent and respected solicitor. Once it got out that his step-daughter had run away from home it would do his position in the community no good at all. People would suspect some sort of ill treatment. He begged Elizabeth to wait another twenty-four hours before raising the alarm. If Mary had not left a note but just disappeared, it would have been different.
Just then Elizabeth saw a car coming up the long drive to the house. She ran to the front door as Eliza got out and looked anxiously at Elizabeth, who was running down the steps.
“Any news?” Eliza asked. Elizabeth put a finger to her lips and shook her head.
“The servants don’t know. I told them that Mary was staying with friends.”
“Perhaps she is.”
“Well, she’s somewhere, the little wretch, and when I get her home I’ll ...”
Elizabeth took Eliza’s arm and hurried her up the stairs and into the drawing room.
“How hot it is!” Eliza said fanning herself with her hand. “A glass of cool lemonade, Aunt Eliza?”
“That would be lovely.” Eliza sank into a chair while Elizabeth rang the bell to summon the maid. She waited until she had left the room before speaking.
“We had a big row yesterday morning. Graham and I want her to go to a finishing school in Switzerland. Mary’s no scholar, she has no manners and her deportment is poor. Frankly, I think she’s a very lucky but ungrateful child.”
“What does she want to do?”
“God knows.” Elizabeth shook her head and helped herself to a cigarette from a box on the table. She lit it with trembling hands and threw the match into an ashtray. “She refuses to return to school to complete her education. She is sixteen and I suppose she could get a job, if she could find one. She seems to have no interest in anything and I am at my wits’ end. Now this –” She turned to Eliza but, as the maid came in with a jug of lemonade and two glasses conversation was suspended until she left. “I felt I had to ask your advice, Aunt Eliza. I know we have not always got on, but I think more of you than other members of my family, except Carson, of course, and he is away.”
“Gone to Venice to collect his children. Have you contacted the police?” Eliza asked as she put her glass to her lips.
“Certainly not! There is no need to cause such a commotion, not for the moment anyway. She left a note saying that she was running away. We are sure she has come to no harm but, to put it bluntly, is just plain naughty. It is many years since I smacked Mary but she will get the hiding of her life when she returns. I don’t care how old she is.”
“In that case she will run away again.”
Eliza looked at her niece for a long, long time aware of conflicting emotions: guilt, exasperation, even a kind of affection that still persisted. After all Elizabeth was part of Guy and she had adored her brother. But Elizabeth was vain, proud and domineering. She was in a way as damaged as her poor daughter obviously was if she hated her home enough to run away. Elizabeth was, in fact, very like her mother, Agnes.
This gave Eliza an idea.
“I’ll see what I can do,” she said. “As long as if, and when, Mary comes back there is no punishment, but an attempt at understanding. I want you to try and build bridges with your daughter. Will you do that?”
Elizabeth nodded but her expression remained defiant. She didn’t say she would and she didn’t say she wouldn’t.
Silently she saw Eliza to her car and silently Eliza drove away.
Eliza said “I don’t suppose you’ve seen Mary?” Agnes shook her head.
“She’s run away.”
“Fancy,” Agnes said, pointing to a chair close by under the chestnut tree. The good weather had continued and she spent a lot of time in her garden.
“You don’t seem surprised.” Eliza watched her closely. Devious woman that she was, it was almost impossible to fathom whether she was telling the truth or not.
“I know that Mary and her mother don’t get on. That’s why I’m not surprised.”
“I think she’s here, Agnes,” Eliza said looking round, aware of a sense of something unusual about the house. She was one of the few people who could talk bluntly to her sister-in-law. They had crossed swords many times in the past and she felt no fear of her.
“I don’t know why you should.”
Eliza was more convinced than ever by Agnes’s off-hand tone that she knew something.
“If you are close to any of your grandchildren it’s Mary.”
“Fat chance I have to be close to any of them.” Agnes sniffed.
Then, as if knowing the quality, the tenacity of her opponent, her expression slowly relaxed and a secretive half-smile played on her lips.
“All right she’s here. I made her a promise I wouldn’t tell, but I know you. You’re determined to ferret out the truth. I think you sensed it.”
“Somehow I think I did,” Eliza acknowledged. “However I think you should have let her parents know. It wasn’t kind.”
“Why should I?”
“Because they were worried.”
“Huh!” Agnes scoffed. �
�I think they would be glad to be rid of the poor child. They want to send her to Switzerland.”
“Only for her own good.”
“To get rid of her,” Agnes repeated. “I intend to keep Mary here for as long as she wants to stay.” Her expression grew soft. “I love having her. She is a dear child, a sweet girl and she loves her old granny. Elizabeth has deprived me of the company of my grandchildren and has not proved a good mother herself. I will fight to keep Mary here for as long as she wishes.”
At that moment Agnes looked beyond Eliza’s shoulder and made a beckoning gesture with her hand. Eliza turned to see Mary advancing slowly across the lawn as if rather afraid of the presence of her great-aunt. Eliza rose and, with a welcoming smile, embraced her.
“Hello, Mary.”
“Hello, Aunt Eliza.” Mary gave her a dutiful smile.
“Your parents are very worried about you. You should have told them where you were going.”
“I was afraid Grandma might get into trouble.” Mary draped her arm round Agnes’s neck and Agnes, relishing the gesture, put her own arm tightly round the young girl’s waist. Eliza felt an instinctive pity for the pair of them, as though they were orphans sheltering from a storm, both outcasts in their respective ways, both sharing the same stubborn, aggressive streak.
She saw a striking resemblance between the granddaughter, now that she was nearly grown up, and her grandmother. Agnes in her day had been a beauty: not very tall but with blonde hair and lustrous blue eyes flecked with grey. Her granddaughter mirrored her exactly. As yet, though, Mary’s eyes had the open honesty of innocence not yet lost, while Agnes’s had the quality of steel, the grey over the years seeming to dominate the blue.
Eliza stood up. “Mary I am going to see your mother to put her out of her misery. She will be very annoyed with you, also very sad. It’s understandable. After all, they only want to send you to finishing school. I would have thought you’d have liked that. If you are unhappy with your parents, for whatever reason, you would get away from them.”
A Time of Hope (Part Five of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 7