by Clare Flynn
He had not planned to enter the clergy, but inherited the living from his predecessor, who was a distant cousin several times removed. As Merritt had no particular thoughts about what profession to pursue, it appeared to be as good an option as any, affording him a comfortable place to live, a modest income and plenty of time to pursue his passions for classical literature and long country walks.
Merritt had first set eyes on Hephzibah Wildman a few years earlier, when attending tutorials with her father, the Dean of his Oxford college. She couldn’t have been more than fifteen then, but the young undergraduate had noticed her. One early summer afternoon he had watched her through the window of her father’s study while she was reading in the garden and he was translating Ovid for Professor Prendergast, who always looked distracted and rarely gave the impression he was listening to his students. Hephzibah was sitting on a bench under an elm tree, eating an apple. As Merritt spoke the words he was translating from the Metamorphoses, he imagined the girl in the garden with her apple was Proserpina eating the seeds of the pomegranate. Caught up in the moment, he had paused, losing his place in the Latin text and causing his tutor to rap the desk impatiently. Every tutorial after that, he had looked through the window hoping to catch a glimpse of the girl, but she was never there. He wondered whether Professor Prendergast was not so absent as he appeared.
After coming down from Oxford and accepting the living in Nettlestock, Merritt occasionally thought of the young woman to whom he had never even spoken and had never expected to see again. When he heard about the tragic demise of both her parents he felt compelled to write to offer his condolences. He had included the suggestion of the position at Ingleton Hall without any real expectation that Hephzibah would take it up. When she did, he was surprised and strangely joyful. He told himself it was because he would no longer be the only outsider in the village and that Miss Wildman and he would be kindred spirits ranged against the hostile Nettlestock natives. He didn’t want to admit to himself that he might have more romantic reasons, as he feared that, seeing her again after three years, he might be disappointed. He also feared that were he not to be disappointed in her, there was every likelihood that she would find little to commend in him.
When Hephzibah Wildman descended from the train in the pouring rain, Merritt ran towards her then was overcome with embarrassment that, in his hurry to meet her, he had neglected to fetch his umbrella. He decided to offer her his coat to cover her head but realised he couldn’t expect her to hold it over her own head, as she had a cloth bag in one hand, and he could not hold the coat for her without pressing up close against her. He stood in front of her, nonplussed, coat in his hand, dripping wet.
Hephzibah said, ‘Why don’t we each take a side of your coat and hold it between us so that we are both under cover.’
He looked at her gratefully, took her cloth bag from her and they raised the coat above both their heads like a canopy and stumbled their way, half running, the few hundred yards to the parsonage.
As they went through the village, Merritt could sense, but not see, the eyes upon them from behind the windows of the cottages that lined the muddy street. Give them all something to think about.
They arrived at the parsonage and stepped into the stone-flagged hallway. He showed her into the drawing room where, as always, there was a roaring fire. Miss Wildman unpinned her hat and looked around, and Merritt realised she was wondering where she might deposit it. Every surface was piled with books, even the chairs. He cursed inwardly. Why was he so incapable of thinking ahead? He was blind to his own surroundings, unable to picture them as others might – until it was too late. Covered in confusion and embarrassment, he rushed about the room, moving books from one pile to another. One of the resulting edifices toppled to the ground, covering the carpet and blocking Miss Wildman’s passage. Merritt rubbed the back of his neck, conscious that his ears were probably red. They’d always teased him about that at school – radish-coloured ears on a carrot-coloured head.
He bent to pick up the scattered books and looked up at Miss Wildman, who was struggling to control her laughter. Merritt wanted to kneel at her feet with gratitude and relief that she was amused rather than irritated. ‘I’m frightfully sorry, Miss Wildman. Mrs Muggeridge, my housekeeper, is always berating me for failing to confine my books to the study, but there isn’t room for any more in there.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘You mean there are more?’ She looked around her and raised her hands in mock amazement.
He rolled his eyes. ‘Every room in the house. But you must be used to that. Your late father had... I’m sorry... I didn’t mean...’
She laid a hand on his sleeve. ‘Don’t worry, Reverend Nightingale. Don’t be afraid to mention my father. It is worse when people try to avoid mentioning him or Mama. A surfeit of books is an impossibility as far as I am concerned and yes, Papa had hundreds of them. Hoarding books is a vice to which I am accustomed and would happily do penance for. Sadly, I no longer have any, save my mother’s copy of Shakespeare’s Sonnets.’
Merritt seized on the opportunity with the eagerness of a small child. ‘Then I hope you will treat my books as your own personal library. Come here to the parsonage whenever you wish. I would be delighted.’
Hephzibah looked uncomfortable for a moment then said, ‘That is most kind, Mr Nightingale.’
There followed a silence between them, broken only by the patter of rain on the windowpanes and the ticking of the clock. Hephzibah was still standing as the parson rushed around trying to liberate a seat for her.
The door opened and a small, rosy-cheeked woman bustled into the room. ‘There you are, Reverend. What are you doing in here, when I’ve already set up your tea in the back parlour? There’s a nice fire and somewhere for the lady to sit,’ she said pointedly, raising her chin in an effort at hauteur that somehow didn’t match her portly shape. She led them to the rear of the house into a sparsely-furnished room. There was a fire in the narrow grate and a group of upright wooden chairs, where the parson was accustomed to receiving parishioners. Mrs Muggeridge pointed to the tray of tea and arrowroot biscuits she had laid out in readiness on a small side table, nodded, then left the room.
Merritt felt the blood rush to his ears again and instinctively his hand went up to rub the back of his neck. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Wildman. I’m not used to receiving guests, just people here on parish business and I didn’t explain to Mrs Muggeridge to ready the drawing room to receive you. Please forgive me. I hope you won’t take this as a slight.’ He motioned her to sit down.
Hephzibah, still clutching her bedraggled wet hat, edged into one of the upright wooden chairs, close to the fire. Compared to the roaring conflagration in the drawing room hearth, this was a miserly affair and she shivered, gathering her coat around her.
Merritt sat in a chair opposite. There was another long silence, then Hephzibah, evidently realising her host was not about to serve the tea, set about doing so herself, pouring him a cup and taking one herself.
‘I’m so terribly sorry, Miss Wildman. I am failing every test of hospitality. What you must think of me.’
She looked at him quizzically. ‘I don’t think I have ever received so many apologies in such a short space of time and for so little reason, sir.’ She gave him a shy smile.
Merritt picked up his teacup and looking at her seated opposite him, her hair damp where her hat and his coat had failed to protect it, he was overcome by embarrassment again and slopped his tea over the white linen tray-cloth as he returned the cup to the saucer. ‘Sorry,’ he said.
Hephzibah shook her head, smiled, then asked, ‘But with all those books in your drawing room where do you sit yourself?’
Merritt looked down. ‘Mostly on the floor in front of the fire.’
‘I used to love to do that,’ she said, her voice dreamy. ‘Mama was always telling me off. My favourite thing was to lie on my stomach in front of the fire with a good book.’
He looked at her and
saw this time it was she who was blushing.
‘I mean not recently of course. When I was a girl. I didn’t mean to imply I would still behave in such a manner.’
Merritt smiled and swallowed. Proserpina was not the lovely creature he remembered when she had sat in her father’s garden – but a woman far lovelier. As she parted her lips to eat a biscuit he felt another rush of blood to his head and a desperate desire to kiss her. He’d never felt a compulsion to kiss a woman before. He didn’t even know her. And yet he felt he did. It was if he had always known her. Now that she was sitting here opposite him he knew he wanted her always to be sitting close to him like that. He watched as she brushed a biscuit crumb from the corner of her mouth and felt another inexplicable rush of desire for her. He had to marry her. He would die if he didn’t. He wanted to spend the rest of his days looking into those beautiful blue-grey eyes and listening to the sound of her voice.
While they sipped their tea in silence, Merritt let his mind run away with him. He was walking hand-in-hand with Hephzibah by the water meadows and along the towpath of the canal. He was turning sheet music and adding his tenor voice to her soprano as they sang Brahms duets together. He was kneeling at her feet and offering a posy of wild flowers to her. His fantasies were interrupted when she began to cough.
‘You have taken a chill?’ he asked, fear gripping his stomach.
‘No. A biscuit crumb went down the wrong way. I’m sorry,’ she said.
Merritt smiled. ‘Who’s apologising now?’ Then, feeling he might have over-presumed upon their short acquaintance, added, ‘I meant to say I am greatly relieved the wet reception you’ve received in Nettlestock has not affected your health.’
‘I’m hale and hearty, Reverend Nightingale. I’ve hardly had a day’s illness in my life and I’ve no plans to start now.’
As she looked at him he was overcome with shyness and self-doubt. How could such a beautiful creature ever be interested in him?
Hephzibah broke the ensuing silence. ‘I was wondering, did we meet when you were up at Oxford?’
‘No,’ he said quickly, then added before he could stop himself, ‘but I did see you once. A few years ago. You were in the garden. I was struggling with my Latin translation. I saw you from the window of your father’s study.’ He wondered if he had given away his interest and the fear of rejection gripped him again.
‘Fancy you remembering that,’ she said, sounding amused. ‘I hope I wasn’t climbing the tree. Mama was always cross when I did that.’
‘No, no. You were behaving with perfect decorum, eating an apple and reading a book. I remember it because I was translating from Ovid. We had reached the story of Proserpina and you eating the apple made me think of Prosperina with the pomegranate. That must be why I remember it.’
Hephzibah smiled then looked down at her hands, shivering. ‘I was so happy then. I wonder will I ever be able to feel that way again?’ She gave a little choked cry, then just as quickly pushed her shoulders back and took a deep breath. ‘Some mornings I wake up and for a moment I have forgotten that Mama and Papa are no longer here. One tiny little moment when everything is as it always was and then I remember it will never be that way again.’ She looked up at him, her face blushing. ‘I don’t know why I am telling you this, I barely know you.’
Merritt leaned forward, longing to move across the gap between them, kneel at her feet and gather her into his arms. Hephzibah looked up at him and he felt light-headed.
Then she spoke again. ‘I suppose it’s because you are a parson. I imagine many people must open their hearts to you and tell you their innermost secrets. That’s one of the things clergymen are for, isn’t it?’
He felt a stab of hurt inside. But what did he expect? She saw the office not the man. If this was love it was the most painful thing he had ever experienced. But how could it be love when he had seen her once at a distance through a window and now had been in her presence barely half an hour? Yet he felt certain that it was.
He put down his teacup and said, ‘Alas, Miss Wildman, that is far from the case. I have become something of a pariah since I moved to Nettlestock. My parishioners almost never confide in me.’ His face flushed again and he closed his eyes. She would think him a failure now.
‘Then I shall go out of my way to confide in you and set them an example. I am sure you are the most kind and caring of parsons. They should be grateful to have you. I do hope we can be friends.’ She hesitated, looking embarrassed, as though wondering if she had stepped beyond the bounds of propriety and Merritt remembered how very young she was. She went on, ‘You are the only person here who knew my dear papa and so that makes a connection between us, don’t you think.’
Merritt felt himself melting. ‘Miss Wildman, nothing would give me greater pleasure than for us to be friends. As I said before, consider my books to be your books, my home open to you always. And next time you do me the honour of calling upon me I will have rearranged the drawing room so you will have a comfortable seat before the fire.’
He looked at his fob watch and rose to his feet. ‘Tempus fugit,’ he said. ‘Time certainly has wings when one is in congenial company, but I don’t mind confessing that I am a little in awe of your new employer and I would not like you to be late and hence get off to a less than perfect start. The carter should be waiting at the door.’
Hephzibah stood and moved towards him. She stretched her hands out in front of her and clasped them around his. ‘Thank you for your kindness and hospitality, Reverend Nightingale.’
When she had gone and he had shut the front door, Merritt leaned against it, his body shaking and his pulse racing.
CHAPTER THREE
“You shall no more be termed Forsaken, and your land shall no more be termed Desolate, but you shall be called Hephzibah, and your land Beulah; for the Lord delights in you, and your land shall be married.”
(Isaiah 62. iv)
Hephzibah had never travelled with a carter before. Nettlestock was proving to be very different from Oxford. The carter, who was wearing a yellowing smock covered with darning, had a large brimmed felt hat pulled low on his head so that most of his face was hidden from her view.
She felt uncomfortable, perched above the bed of the cart beside this clay pipe-smoking stranger. As the parson waved goodbye, she was grateful that at least it had stopped raining. Any worries as to how she would make conversation with George Baverstock, the carter, soon proved needless, as he puffed on his pipe in silence and acted as though she wasn’t there.
The driveway to Ingleton Hall was long and lined with lime trees. As they turned a bend she saw the hall in front of her, a large brick-built structure with a classical stone portico in front and a flight of steps up to the door. Hephzibah swallowed, suddenly nervous. She looked up at the arched windows above the portico and felt herself shrink, her mouth dry. A wave of loneliness washed over her and she wished she could ask Mr Baverstock to turn around and take her back to the village and the next train to Oxford. Running away was a tempting thought. The Hall looked so grand. Terrifying.
The driver flicked his whip lightly at the carthorse and the wagon made a turn into a roadway that led along the side of the manor and round to the rear, into a large area with stables and outbuildings.
‘End of the line,’ he said.
Hephzibah realised he expected her to get down from her perch without assistance. ‘Where do I go?’
He shrugged and pointed at a doorway. ‘Kitchens are through there.’
She gathered her skirt about her, fought her irritation and threw her cloth bag down onto the flagstones. Sliding off the seat, she landed in the yard, hoping that no one was looking and able to see the expanse of calf she must have revealed. Without another word, Baverstock flicked his whip, turned the cart around and drove back towards the main drive.
Hephzibah made her way to the back door and knocked timidly. After about a minute during which she felt a rising panic, the door opened and a tall, thin, middle
-aged woman looked her up and down.
‘Who are you?’ the woman said, her tone conveying a mixture of suspicion and disdain. Her expression was severe, accentuated by hair scraped tightly from her forehead into a small grey bun.
‘I’m Miss Wildman, the new governess for Miss Egdon.’
The woman’s expression relaxed. ‘Good gracious! What are you doing at the kitchen door? How did you get here? I was about to send Evans down to the parsonage to fetch you in the carriage.’
‘I came with Mr Baverstock on his cart. The Reverend Nightingale arranged for him to come back to the parsonage to collect me after he brought my luggage here.’
The woman shook her head. ‘That young man is clueless. Heavens above! Expecting a lady to travel with the carter. Bags are one thing, a governess is another. Whatever was he thinking! Dear, oh dear. Better not let Sir Richard know. He has little enough time for Reverend Nightingale as it is.’
Hephzibah imagined how the clergyman would be blushing to the roots of his hair if only he could hear what was being said about him. She felt a sudden urge to defend him. ‘It was rather an adventure. I’ve never travelled that way before. I’m sure Reverend Nightingale meant no harm.’
The woman went on. ‘Leaving you at the back door! It won’t do at all. Anyway, come in, Miss Wildman. You look as though you’ve had quite a soaking. Thank heavens it wasn’t raining when you were on that old cart. Come in. Give me your coat and hat and we’ll get them dry for you. Your bags are already upstairs in your bedroom, but I’ll take you up there later. The squire hates to be kept waiting. Come with me.’
Hephzibah followed the woman through the kitchen and into a long, stone-flagged corridor which led to the front of the house. They arrived in a double-height hall with a marble floor and a collection of busts of ancient Roman dignitaries on columns around the perimeter.
‘By the way,’ the woman said, ‘I’m the housekeeper, Mrs Andrews, but we’ll have time for all that later. In here.’ Then she added in a whisper as she knocked on the door, ‘His bark’s worse than his bite, but you’d do well not to be alone with him if you can help it.’