by Clare Flynn
He noticed, and slipped the jacket he was carrying over her shoulders. ‘I suppose you get along with all your relatives?’ he said.
‘I have none left to get along with. My parents died two months ago.’
Egdon looked away. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, eventually. ‘Did you get along with them when they were alive?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘And I miss them both every single day.’
He was silent for a few moments then said, ‘I missed my mother when she died. I still miss her. Badly. That’s why I hate my father so much. I hold him responsible for her death.’ His voice took on a quiet, angry tone. ‘He left it too late to summon the doctor. By the time he did, she was too far gone. He’s always been a miser. Unless it’s to keep his wine cellar stocked.’
‘I’m sorry about your mother. Apart from Ottilie, do you have any brothers and sisters?’
He sighed. ‘I had two brothers. One older and one younger. The younger one, Roddy, was killed last year at Magersfontein. Samuel died six years ago. Sam was my father’s favourite.’ He looked at her, his eyes narrowing and his expression closed. ‘Shot himself. Father has never got over it. Every time he looks at me it’s as if he’s wishing me gone and Sam or Roddy here in my place.’ He picked up a twig from the path and snapped it, casting the two pieces into the grassy meadow.
‘And your sister?’ she asked.
‘Ottilie’s not my real sister. She’s my cousin. Father adopted her after her mother died. My mother and my aunt both contracted tuberculosis. My aunt soon after Ottilie was born, my mother a few years later, just before Sam killed himself. It was Mother’s dying wish that Father take Ottilie in. She’s like you – an orphan.’
‘How terribly sad. I had no idea Ottilie wasn’t Sir Richard’s daughter.’
‘Why would you?’ He bent down and picked up another twig to snap apart. ‘Father has always treated her as though she were his own daughter. I wouldn’t even be surprised if she were. He’s always been a womaniser. I doubt the fact that Ottilie’s mother was the sister of his wife would have held him back.’ He turned to look at her. ‘You’re shocked, aren’t you, Miss Wildman?’
She didn’t know how to respond. What kind of place was Ingleton Hall? What kind of morality did the occupants live by? It was very different from her own.
‘And your uncle? Didn’t he object to the squire adopting Ottilie when his wife died?’
‘You ask a lot of questions, don’t you, Miss Wildman?’ He smiled at her and she felt herself blushing again.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s none of my business.’
‘He was in the army. He wasn’t around. Barely saw Ottilie. Then he was killed at Magersfontein too. He was the damned fool who persuaded Roddy to join up. Same regiment.’
‘Does Ottilie know all this?’
Egdon shrugged. ‘I doubt it. She was only a baby when her mother died and four when my mother passed away. The squire is the only parent she remembers. She was very close to Roddy though. Cried for days when she found out he wouldn’t be coming home.’
Before Hephzibah could ask anything else, Thomas Egdon stepped in front of her, blocking her way. ‘You are an uncommonly pretty woman, Miss Wildman.’ He reached a hand out and tucked a stray curl behind her ear. ‘Yes, uncommonly pretty.’ He tilted her chin up and examined her face. Running a finger down her cheek, he said, ‘I know my father tried to touch you at lunch today.’
Hephzibah felt her face burning. Thomas looked into her eyes. ‘I know him of old and I could see the expression on your face. You showed remarkable self-control not to cry out.’
‘I was in shock. I didn’t know what to do.’
‘Yes, that’s what he relies on. Tell me if he tries to touch you again – and I’ll kill the bastard.’
Thomas set off without another word, walking briskly away from the path, cutting across the long grassy meadow towards the distant Hall, leaving Hephzibah in a state of confusion.
When she got back to the house, she found Mrs Andrews placing an arrangement of flowers in the hallway. Hephzibah realised she was still wearing Thomas Egdon’s jacket.
‘I hope you enjoyed your walk, Miss Wildman?’
Hephzibah was relieved at the absence of sarcasm in the woman’s tone. ‘I did. The countryside around here is beautiful.’
‘You think so? A bit too flat for my taste, but then I come from the West Riding of Yorkshire. I like a few rugged hills to look at. Look at only, mind. You won’t catch me traipsing around the countryside in all weathers.’ The older woman paused as though weighing something up, then said, ‘Would you care to join me for a cup of tea in my parlour, Miss Wildman?’
Surprised but pleased, Hephzibah mumbled her thanks and followed Mrs Andrews back to the rear of the building, where the housekeeper’s parlour was next to the kitchen. As they entered the room Mrs Andrews stretched out her hand in the direction of the jacket and said, ‘I’ll take that, shall I? I’ll give it a brushing and see Master Thomas gets it back.’
Hephzibah felt herself blushing but handed over the garment without a word.
Once they were seated with cups of tea in a pair of uncomfortable chairs either side of the small unlit fireplace, Hephzibah took the opportunity to satisfy her curiosity. ‘There was a woman at church this morning whom I’ve seen about the estate. She has copper-coloured hair and I was wondering who she might be, as I’ve not seen her among the servants here.’
The housekeeper nodded her head slowly. ‘Abigail Cake. The daughter of Ned Cake, the squire’s bailiff.’ Mrs Andrews pursed her lips. ‘Why are you asking?’
Hephzibah hesitated, then decided not to tell her about the missing hair ribbons. Instead she said, ‘I noticed her in church this morning. Her hair is such a pretty colour and with those curls she looks like a girl in a painting by Titian.’
Mrs Andrews sniffed. ‘I wouldn’t know about that. I can’t say as I’ve ever seen a painting by Tish... whoever you said. But she is a pretty girl, I’ll grant you that. Too pretty for her own good, if you ask me. Too handy with her favours. Down to the lack of a mother, I suppose. Hers died ten years ago and the lass has had to be mother to her brothers and sisters. Eight of them there are.’ She sipped at her tea, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin. ‘Abi comes up to the Hall once a week to polish the silver. She’s been doing that since she was a little girl.’
The housekeeper looked thoughtful and shook her head slowly. ‘Ned Cake is a hard man. Can’t be easy for Abi. I may not approve of her behaviour but I can’t criticise her hard work. She also works as a seamstress – takes in mending, as well as looking after her father and those wild children. And still finds time to help others who need it in the village. No, I’ll not be one to judge the girl.’
Sipping her tea, Hephzibah was glad she’d refrained from mentioning the ribbons, but she couldn’t help thinking about how Thomas Egdon had kissed the girl with such passion. Was that what Mrs Andrews meant about her being too generous with her favours? Or did that mean Thomas was one of many of Abigail’s admirers? And was she one of many of his?
Lying in bed that night, Hephzibah tossed and turned, unable to sleep, her brain in a turmoil. In just a few months her whole world had changed and she felt ill-equipped to deal with this new reality. She thought of the three men she had met since coming here: the kindly parson, the lecherous squire and the handsome troubled Thomas. The vicar had extended the hand of friendship and his company was not uncongenial. He knew a lot about the parish and was undoubtedly intelligent and well-read, but Hephzibah suspected she might find him dull with further acquaintance. The squire was definitely a man to be avoided – especially when he was drinking. She shuddered to think of that hand on her thigh and the ominous tone he had used when expressing his intent to marry again. She told herself it was said just to annoy his son: he couldn’t possibly have had her in mind.
And then there was Thomas, handsome Thomas, who made her both afraid and excited. She had never felt tha
t way about a man before – when she had first seen him it was as though moths were fluttering in her stomach. At the thought of him kissing that Cake woman she was riven with jealousy. She wondered what it would feel like to be crushed against the trunk of a tree, to feel his body pressing against hers, to have his hands tangled up in her hair, to feel his mouth on hers, to have those icy blue eyes looking into hers. Stop it! He loves someone else. The way he had been kissing the woman, wrapping his hands in her hair, sent a signal that he must care for Abigail Cake. On the other hand, Sir Richard had said that Thomas had seduced half the women in Nettlestock. The red-haired woman had been in one of the bedrooms with him. Perhaps he didn’t love her but was using her? Either way, he was not a man of honour. And not the man for her. As she said this to herself she groaned. She wanted him. Wanted him in a way she had never wanted anything in her life before. It was a desperate, all-consuming desire. She wanted him to be lying here beside her now.
She asked herself how she would have felt if the hand on her thigh under the table had been Thomas’s. She moved her own hand there and gave a little gasp as she ran it up her leg and touched herself. Hephzibah had no knowledge of men, had never held a man’s hand or been kissed. She turned onto her front and buried her head in the pillow as her fingers moved between her legs. She tried to imagine the fingers touching her were Thomas’s and began to moan softly. It felt strange, thrilling, as little ripples of pleasure ran through her body. Excited, but ashamed, she abruptly pulled her hand away, shocked at herself and her lack of control.
Her last thought as she fell into a deep sleep was of Thomas Egdon, his blue eyes locked onto hers, his hard mouth moving towards hers, his arms crushing her against him.
The next morning at breakfast she discovered he had already returned to London.
CHAPTER SIX
I dare not gaze upon her face
But left her memory in each place;
Where’er I saw a wild flower lie
I kissed and bade my love good-bye.
(from I Hid My Love, John Clare)
October 1900
The autumn sun reflected off the water and the wind rustled through the branches of the willow trees that lined the banks of the canal beyond the towpath. There was a sharp chill in the air. The summer was now a distant memory.
Merritt walked briskly, trying to keep warm. He was still smarting from the standoffish reception he had received from most of the parishioners he had called on that morning. No matter how hard he tried, they were willing enough to seek help for financial problems, to arrange for their babies to be baptised, for the banns to be called or their dead to be shepherded into the next world, but inviting him to cross their threshold was still a step too far. Was he destined always to be an outsider, a cuckoo in the Nettlestock nest?
The parson’s heart lifted when he saw a distant figure sitting on a style. Hephzibah was motionless, staring out over the fields watching a gang of agricultural workers, mostly women, digging turnips.
Merritt came up beside her and asked if he might join her, suddenly heedless of the cold. She motioned for him to sit beside her. ‘I stopped to watch the workers. It’s bitterly cold and the ground looks hard as stone. What a miserable way to make a living.’
The clergyman nodded. ‘It’s unpleasant work, but at least it’s dry today and the sun is shining. It’s must be much worse in the rain. And they have to get the turnips in before the heavy frosts.
Hephzibah looked at the gang as they worked, a frown creasing her brow. ‘Some of them are still children. They should be at school, not standing bent double in a freezing field picking turnips. The accident of birth is a cruel thing. I have never had to lift a finger in labour but have been privileged to be taught, to study, to read. Those girls probably know nothing of the world, of the magical places they can visit through books. I can’t begin to imagine what it would be like to do what they are doing, day after day, no matter what the weather.’
‘Many of them would disagree with you. They would see a classroom as akin to a prison and long to be out in the fields. It’s a matter of what one’s used to.’ Merritt shivered, less from the cold than from her proximity. It would be so easy to stretch out and touch her cheek or stroke her hair, but he kept his hands clamped tightly to his knees. ‘At least now and in winter, though the weather is cold, the daylight hours are shorter. In summer they are in the field from dawn until dusk.’
‘Would you care to walk a while with me,’ she asked, her voice hesitant. ‘Unless you are about your parish business?’
In response, Merritt jumped to the ground and held out a steadying hand to help her down from the style. ‘It would give me great pleasure.’
They skirted the turnip field and took a stony track down to a stream that fed the water meadows. For a while they walked in companionable silence, until Hephzibah broke it with a question. ‘Last time we went for a walk you told me you never planned to become a clergyman. What did you want to be when you were a boy?’
He looked at her, surprised but flattered by her interest. ‘A bargee,’ he said.
Hephzibah raised her eyebrows.
Merritt told her of his childhood near Birmingham and how he had loved watching the bargemen taking their craft through the locks. ‘I’d spend many a happy hour helping to open the gates and never got tired of seeing the locks fill up and empty. So many times I wished I could jump on board and sail down the canal on one of those barges – floating away to wherever it carried us. What about you? Did you always want to be a governess?’
Hephzibah looked at him, her eyes sad. ‘You must know I didn’t. The thought didn’t enter my head until you wrote to me and suggested the position at Ingleton Hall.’
Merritt felt his face reddening. He muttered an apology. What an idiot he was to so tactlessly remind her of her parents’ deaths and how that tragedy had radically changed her life and her expectations.
‘When I was a child I wanted to be an explorer,’ she said. ‘My father was a botanist and spent a lot of time in Africa.’
‘Dr Prendergast?’ Merritt asked in surprise.
‘Dr Prendergast was my mother’s second husband. My real father died when I was a small child. I don’t remember him at all but I used to look at all the maps and books in his study. I thought that might make me feel closer to him, since I never knew him. I would dream of visiting all those faraway places, like Mungo Park or Livingstone and Stanley.’
Her eyes looked up, as though trying to conjure up the memory of her childhood self. Merritt studied her profile as they walked along. She turned to face him. ‘If you could go anywhere in the world, Merritt, where would you go?’
He smiled. ‘That’s an easy choice. It has to be Italy. Rome. I would dearly love to walk the remains of the streets where Ovid once walked. To stroll along the Appian Way. To stand on the Capitoline Hill. To watch the sun setting behind silhouetted cypress trees and know that I was gazing at the same vista that the emperors looked upon.’ He blushed again and rubbed at the back of his neck. ‘One day, Hephzibah, I will do it.’ He paused a moment then said tentatively, ‘I suppose you would choose Africa?’
She shook her head. ‘Certainly not. Now that I’m older and wiser I know I wouldn’t like Africa at all. Like you, I wanted to visit Rome. In fact I would have been there now had my parents not died.’
She paused and Merritt felt a surge of joy – they had so much in common. Then she spoke again and his heart sank. ‘I will never go now – I wouldn’t want to – not without Mama and Papa. It would be unbearably sad. I’d spend the whole time feeling lonely without them and imagining how different it would be with them there. No. I will never go to Rome. It’s ruined for me.
A horse whinnied and they heard the clopping of hooves behind them on the hard track. They moved apart, off the centre of the footpath to allow the horse room to pass them. Instead the rider pulled his horse up and jumped off. It was Thomas Egdon.
Merritt raised his hat in greeting, b
ut Egdon ignored him, turning to Hephzibah, whom he greeted effusively. ‘Miss Wildman, what an unexpected pleasure. Please allow me to accompany you back to the Hall.’
Hephzibah gave the briefest of glances towards Merritt and the slightest of hesitations, before replying that, yes, she would be delighted if he would walk back with her as the afternoon was growing late and it would save Reverend Nightingale having to make a diversion. She turned then to Merritt. ‘Thank you so much for accompanying me this afternoon, Reverend Nightingale. It is always a pleasure to have a companion when walking and you know so much about the area. We must do this again.’
Egdon gave her a beaming smile. He wished a good day to Merritt and set off on foot, leading his horse, with Hephzibah walking beside him. A despondent Merritt headed back to the village in the opposite direction, seething at the way Egdon had treated Hephzibah as though she were his personal property and Merritt himself as if he were invisible and inconsequential.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Say what strange Motive, Goddess! cou’d compel
A well-bred Lord t’assault a gentle Belle?
Oh say what stranger Cause, yet unexplor’d,
Cou’d make a gentle Belle reject a Lord?
And dwells such Rage in softest Bosoms then?
And lodge such daring Souls in Little Men?
(from The Rape of the Lock, Alexander Pope)
Three months after Hephzibah had arrived at Ingleton Hall, she and Ottilie were in the small drawing room that they used for daily lessons. The nursery was cold and sparsely furnished and Mrs Andrews had suggested that they make use of the little room that overlooked the formal gardens at the side of the house. While referred to as the “small drawing room” it was far from small, except in comparison to the much grander rooms on the front elevation. There was a pianoforte, a mahogany table where they could work on lessons, and a comfortable sofa where they sat for the last hour of study every day, so Hephzibah could hear Ottilie read.