by Clare Flynn
‘Nonsense. I intend to make you a good horsewoman.’ He fixed his blue eyes upon her. There was something about Thomas Egdon that dissolved any possibility of dissent.
After he had added a bowler hat and a riding crop to their purchases, Egdon suggested they take a last turn around the fair, to Ottilie’s evident delight. The crowds in the street were thinning, most of the people moving now to the common land where a funfair was doing a brisk trade. There was an even larger crowd there as the horse dealers and buyers were joined now by agricultural workers, their day at work done, treating their sweethearts to a ride on the merry-go-round, a piece of gingerbread or a bag of hot chestnuts. The sound of music filled the cold winter evening – fiddles, flutes and drums to keep the beat. They walked through the throng, pausing to watch some folk dancers and a troupe of morris men. Many of the stall holders were gipsies and the common land was edged with brightly coloured wooden caravans.
Hephzibah was conscious of the advancing hour and suggested they think about getting back to Nettlestock as it would soon be past Ottilie’s bedtime.
Thomas looked at her and laughed. ‘You have no sense of adventure, Miss Wildman. We need to encourage your governess to let her hair down, don’t we, Ottilie?’
A sudden feeling of annoyance gripped her. She didn’t like the way he was trying to use her pupil to influence her. He was undermining her authority. Just as she was about to tell him as much, he seemed to read her thoughts and said, ‘You’re quite right, Miss Wildman. You’ve had enough excitement for one day, little sister. Time to go home.’
They moved back in the direction of the town when, out of the darkness, a gipsy woman stepped into their path. She grabbed Hephzibah’s hand and said, ‘Read your palm, Miss? Tell you your fortune?’
Hephzibah jerked her hand away but the old woman grasped hold again, her bony hands squeezing tightly and looked towards Egdon. ‘Let me read the young lady’s fortune, sir. She won’t regret it.’
Thomas Egdon laughed. ‘Go on then.’ He pressed a florin into the gipsy’s hand.
Hephzibah felt as though her day had been stolen from her. This man thought he could do as he wished and she would happily go along with it. Then he looked at her, his blue eyes filled with concern.
‘Don’t be annoyed, Hephzibah. It’s just a bit of fun. You don’t have to take it seriously.’ He made a face at her, like a naughty boy and she couldn’t help but laugh.
She turned back to the old woman. ‘Very well but you need to be quick. We have to get home.’
Hephzibah knew it was ridiculous. Apart from the fact that she didn’t believe in fortune-tellers, the words the gipsy spoke were so ludicrous they couldn’t possibly be true. The gipsy led her inside a tent, which was so dark that Hephzibah could barely see the old woman. The fortune-telling was brief. The Romany traced the lines on Hephzibah’s palm as though she knew where they were without looking.
‘You’ll be wed before the summer comes.’
‘That’s not possible.’
‘But it’s true.’
Hephzibah withdrew her hand, then the woman added, ‘Two men will love you. Both will pay the price for it.’
Hephzibah laughed. ‘That’s ridiculous. There’s no one.’
‘You’re wrong about that, Miss. And you’ll be wrong about a lot more afore you’re done. Mark my words. Two men will be destroyed by loving you.’
Hephzibah turned away and began to walk towards Thomas and Ottilie when the old lady caught hold of her arm. ‘Your parents met a violent death. But they’re at peace now.’
She gasped in surprise, then pulled her arm away.
The old lady snatched Hephzibah’s hand back and pressed something scratchy into it. ‘Take this. It will protect you. It’s lucky for brides. Carry it in your posy when you wed.’
In her hand was a little sprig of white heather. Hephzibah stuffed it into her pocket and ran over the grass to join Egdon and his sister.
Later that night when she was in bed, she couldn’t stop thinking about what the woman had told her. All the way home Thomas and Ottilie had pestered her to reveal the fortune, but there was something that made her hold back. There was something about the quiet but insistent voice in which the old gipsy conveyed her message. And how could she have possibly known about the tram accident? Back in her bedroom Hephzibah put the sprig of heather at the bottom of her drawer.
The following morning, Hephzibah’s thoughts of the gipsy’s prophecy vanished in the face of the uproar she encountered at the breakfast table. Ottilie was in floods of tears while Sir Richard paced up and down, hands behind his back and an expression of righteous indignation on his face.
‘Were you a party to this foolish purchase?’ he asked. ‘My son is a blessed idiot. Ottilie’s just shown me the horse he bought for her. Utter waste of money. He’s fallen for the oldest trick in the book. That old nag is probably already long past her twilight years and is halfway to horse heaven.’
Ottilie was sobbing, so Hephzibah put a comforting hand on her shoulder. ‘The horse appeared very lively yesterday when Mr Egdon purchased her. In fact I was worried she might be too much of a handful for Ottilie. She was hopping about as though ready to break free of her halter and race away. She certainly didn’t seem to be half dead, quite the contrary.’
‘Ginger.’ The squire’s response was almost a grunt. Seeing Hephzibah’s puzzled expression he added, ‘Ginger under the tail. Works every time. Has a horse hopping about like a damned kangaroo. Anyone with half a brain would know that. Especially at a horse fair. All kinds of villains and tricksters there. Must have seen my fool of a son coming a mile off.’
The squire pulled out his chair and sat down at the table. ‘Besides, he’s no business buying Ottilie a horse. That’s my responsibility. No wonder the man’s run up so much debt.’
Hephzibah picked up a piece of toast then put it down again, her appetite deserting her. Why had she allowed Thomas Egdon to buy her the riding habit? Should she tell the squire about that too and risk an escalation of his anger? She would offer to pay Egdon back. It would take her many months, maybe as much as a year, but she must do it. She swallowed and cursed her own stupidity. She didn’t even like riding. How would she explain to Sir Richard that she had felt powerless to stop his son? Thomas had brooked no opposition. And she had been mesmerised by him.
The squire was acting in a particularly callous manner that morning. ‘Only thing that nag is good for is feeding my dogs. I’ll have to send her to the slaughterhouse.’
Ottilie wailed.
Hephzibah again felt obliged to mediate. ‘Is the horse so bad that she can’t be ridden? Isn’t it better for Ottilie to have a mount that’s quiet than one that’s too frisky? She is only ten after all. And she does love Bess, don’t you Ottilie?’
The little girl nodded. ‘Please, Papa. Don’t kill her. I promise to be good. Let me take care of her. I love her. I really do.’
The squire leaned back in his chair and frowned, but Hephzibah could see that his anger had already dissipated.
‘No complaining that’s she too dull a ride for you.’
Ottilie nodded, but Hephzibah knew that the child’s relief at the horse’s reprieve was mixed with disappointment that her new mount was not the lively creature she had thought her to be.
CHAPTER TEN
Christ leads me through no darker rooms
Than He went through before;
And he that in God’s kingdom comes
Must enter by this door.
(Traditional Hymn – words by Richard Baxter)
Merritt couldn’t concentrate. The words kept dissolving on the page as he tried to read them. He kept going over the same piece of text, unable to take it in or make sense of it, his mind drifting away to conjure images of Hephzibah.
He was relieved when Mrs Muggeridge appeared at the door of his study and told him it was time to deal with enquiries from parishioners. He put aside the work he was doing to come up with a serm
on for the following Sunday and made his way to the back parlour.
The number of needy parishioners who queued up to seek his help each day was increasing. These visits were not what he’d expected before he took on the parish. Yes, there was the odd request for marriage banns, christenings or funeral arrangements, but lately for the most part his audiences were with the poor and needy. It depressed him to know how little he could do to help them.
Times were hard throughout the whole country and getting harder. The price of grain and produce had plummeted, the tenant farmers were facing higher rents and in consequence were paying lower wages and so more people were turning to the parish for help.
The first person he saw was a widow, twenty-eight years old, whose husband had drowned when he fell into the canal after a binge on the cider.
‘I’ve not a penny to put food in the mouths of my little ones and I’m weak myself from lack of eating. My eldest is just twelve and works in the whiting mill. I have to send her off to work a twelve hour day with nothing in her stomach but a crust of bread. What am I to do, sir? What am I to do?’
Merritt avoided her gaze and studied the cracks on the tiled floor as he struggled to find some words of consolation. The trouble was there was nothing he could do, short of advising her to throw herself on the mercy of the guardians at the poorhouse. He had already taken up her case with the charitable aid society the previous week, but they had questioned her respectability. Mrs Bellamy, the postmistress and a vocal member of the aid society, had claimed that she entertained men in her house when her children were in bed. He tried to break the news to the widow as tactfully as possible.
‘Mrs Budd, the Society has reviewed your circumstances and questions have been raised regarding your... character. Under the circumstances–’
‘My character? My character? What about my character?’
‘I’m sorry but my enquiries raised questions about your respectability. The Charity Society will not sanction payments to anyone whom they believe to be of less than unimpeachable morals.’
‘Talk proper will you. I don’t know what you’re on about.’
Merritt coughed and asked himself how he had ever thought the profession of clergyman would prove a worthwhile occupation. ‘There has been talk that you... that you may have other sources of income. That you have visitors who may be contributing to your household income for services that the parish cannot condone.’
‘What you trying to say? What you accusing me of? I’m a decent, hard-working woman and anyone who says otherwise is lying.’
‘It’s not up to me, Mrs Budd,’ he said. ‘I’m only the messenger.’
‘They’re just saying that so they don’t have to pay out. I’m a respectable widow. I’d never go with another man, even now my Malcolm’s gone.’
Merritt shook his head and avoided her eyes. He didn’t know whether to believe her or not, but even if she were entertaining men for a few extra crusts to eat, the odd log for the fire and a bit of warmth in bed at night, who was he to judge or blame her? Then he reminded himself that as a parson he was expected to do just that. Another reason why he was sure he was in the wrong job.
‘So what am I to do?’
‘Can you find some work?’
‘Work!’ Her voice was sardonic and bitter. ‘I’ve a child that’s still crawling. How can I work?’
‘Could you take in a lodger?’
‘I already have two lodgers. Why else do you think there’s all the tittle tattle? And how else do you think I have what little we have got? One of them has been laid off so I’ve told him he has to go and the other barely brings in anything since he’s had his hours cut.’ She gave a little strangled sob. ‘What will I do, sir? What will become of us?’
He swallowed and averted his eyes from her evident pain. ‘Then I can only suggest you find another lodger – or enter the workhouse. At least you and your children would have food and shelter there.’
‘I’m not going up there. I’d never see my older children. I’m not breaking up our home. Please help me.’
In the end he agreed to take up her case with the society again, but held out little hope.
Mrs Budd was replaced by a woman in an advanced state of pregnancy, clutching the hands of two small children. She told him her husband had broken his ankle and was unable to work for another three weeks. The family income was now entirely based on the few pennies she made from mending, so she was seeking a referral to fund her care during her forthcoming confinement. Merritt was relieved to be able to write the required reference and hoped that the Charitable Society guardians would be willing to grant her the assistance of a midwife.
The rest of his visitors consisted of an elderly widower who had been evicted from his home by his daughter and son-in-law, a desperate young mother unable to care for her child with rickets, and an elderly woman who wished to arrange for the funeral of her husband who had died after three years confinement in the mad house and whom she didn’t want consigned to a pauper’s grave.
When they had all gone and Merritt was served with a hearty stew by Mrs Muggeridge, he found his appetite had deserted him. He would gladly offer his own food to some of these needy parishioners but he knew it would be scratching the surface of the growing levels of deprivation, destitution and despair.
Back in his office, Merritt tried to pick up where he had left off in his preparations for writing his sermon. His intended theme had been the darkness of winter and the need to have hope for the eventual arrival of spring. What was the point? What did they have to give thanks for? The harvest had been a disaster last year and the majority of his parishioners wanted nothing but food in their bellies, a roof over their heads and some wood for the fire. It was bitterly cold and signs of spring were months away. One of the old fellows who had visited the parsonage that morning told him he’d known it was going to be a long harsh winter as his onions had all had thick skins. When he mentioned it to Mrs Muggeridge she had muttered, ‘There were plenty of acorns on the ground too. I’ll not be holding my breath for spring this year.’
When the Reverend Nightingale climbed into his pulpit the following day, the first person he saw in his congregation was Hephzibah. A shaft of winter sunlight came through the east window and the rays landed on her head, giving her an angelic aspect. Her hair spilled out from under her bonnet and the light caught her eyes. He was confused, staring open-mouthed at her, watching the dust motes dancing around her head like a halo. Someone in the back of the church coughed and Merritt grasped at the sheaf of papers on which he had scribbled his sermon. In his confusion, he knocked them off the lectern, forcing himself to scramble around on the floor of the pulpit to retrieve them. As he struggled to reorder the pages he was conscious of murmuring and suppressed giggles spreading around the church. He cleared his throat and was rewarded with silence. He glanced towards Hephzibah who was looking straight back at him, her beautiful face, expectant and open. Don’t look at her. Address the sermon to someone else. He looked around the church in rising panic, spotting Mrs Budd and her children. This is for Mrs Budd, he told himself. Speak to her. No, that wouldn’t be right. She would think he was criticising her when all he wanted to do was offer some comfort. He took a big gulp of breath. Now. Slowly. Look around. Look at everyone except Hephzibah.
‘My sermon today is about temptation,’ he began.
He spoke of Adam and Eve’s failure to withstand the guile of the snake and how all mankind suffered from the same weakness from time to time. There was a murmuring of assent in the little church and, his confidence growing, he went on. ‘As a man, even Jesus was vulnerable to temptation. He was made human by his father and sent to save us and so it was inevitable that he too must suffer from that terrible affliction. When he fasted in the desert for forty days and forty nights, as Moses had done before him, the devil taunted that starving man to use his heavenly powers to turn a stone into a loaf of bread. Imagine how easy it would have been for Christ to do just that. Imag
ine his hunger. The pain of not eating for a full forty days.’ He stressed the words forty days.
‘How easy would it have been for Jesus to fill his belly and sate his hunger?’ Merritt flicked his fingers and saw the congregation jump in their seats in unison. ‘As easy as that.’ He paused for effect. ‘But he didn’t do it. And God, his own father, could have stepped in to help him. But he didn’t. He sent no miracle to help his only son. So why then would he send one to us?’
He looked around the church, his gaze met by a sea of faces, hanging on his next words. ‘We must follow the example of Christ and remember His words: “Man does not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceedeth from the mouth of God”.
‘We must remember that where we suffer, Christ has already suffered before us and he shares our suffering with us now. So when temptation comes our way, whether it be to set a trap for a rabbit, steal a loaf from a neighbour or succumb to other temptations to earn an extra crust’ – don’t look at Mrs Budd – ‘we must neither blame God nor doubt him, but instead trust in him and follow the example of Jesus Christ. Now let us all sing the hymn, Christ leads me through no darker rooms than he went through before.’
The sermon over and the singing hearty, Merritt allowed himself some satisfaction that his homily had struck home. But as he looked around the congregation he felt a growing unease. These people were genuinely suffering. Christ had also fed the five thousand with miraculous loaves and fishes. Who would feed these people here? Christ’s fasting had lasted forty days and forty nights whereas some of these people went hungry month after month with no sign of any improvement in their fate. And Christ suffered alone. Mrs Budd’s hunger was not just her own, but that of her children. He looked towards her and saw the skinny twelve-year-old daughter who slaved away for long hours in the whiting mill on an empty stomach. Hadn’t Christ also said, ‘Suffer the little children to come unto me’? Before the winter was out many of the members of the congregation in front of him now would doubtless be returned to join Christ – victims of hunger, cold and disease. He felt ashamed, hypocritical. Who was he to lecture these people? He who would eat a hearty meal this evening, who had never known what it was to go hungry. Then he told himself that even if today he had given them a few minutes of false comfort it was better than nothing at all. He was powerless to change the conditions these people lived in, so what was wrong with offering them some small salve, however slight or temporary?