The Green Ribbons

by Clare Flynn

  Merritt felt unsteady on his feet. His face burned and he knew his complexion must be as flushed as the colour of Hephzibah’s dress. He stammered his congratulations, his throat dry and his hands shaking. How was this possible? Hephzibah had given no sign that she was courting Thomas Egdon – apart from the way she had allowed him to monopolise her at the squire’s dinner party several months ago. But how could they have been courting when Thomas had barely been in Nettlestock? He sipped the champagne but felt it catch in his throat. Speak, man. Say something. You must. They’re all looking at you. All except her. She has eyes only for him. Breathe. Slowly. Now swallow. Now say something.

  ‘This is all very sudden. I’m afraid you have taken me by surprise. I’m lost for words.’ He tried to laugh, to make light of the situation, to disguise his embarrassment. His hand went to the back of his neck and he could feel his skin hot under his fingers. He ran his hand through his hair and tried to find something else to say, but it was as if his brain had been scrambled. He was delivered of his mortification and confusion when the doors opened and they were summoned into dinner.

  Merritt tried not to look at Hephzibah during the meal, but it was no use. His eyes were drawn to her like the incoming tide to the shore. He struggled to eat, grateful that the squire’s venison was at least tender, as the effort of chewing would have defeated him – but it still was hard to swallow. Hephzibah’s eyes shone with happiness and he cringed to think he had imagined that they might one day gaze upon his own in just the way that she was looking at Thomas Egdon. Merritt was oblivious to everything else in the room, then realised the squire was speaking to him. He apologised, citing a headache that had beset him earlier that afternoon and had returned to torment him now. He sipped his water and waited for the squire to speak again.

  ‘My daughter-in-law has offered to continue with Ottilie’s education. I’m not convinced it’s a good idea, Nightingale. Not now she’s a member of the family. What do you think?’

  Merritt caught a fleeting expression of annoyance on Hephzibah’s face and said, ‘If Hep... Mrs Egdon wishes to continue with supervising Ottilie’s education I can see no reason why not. Unless...’ He glanced at Thomas.

  Thomas said, ‘I think it’s a good idea. It will keep my wife occupied when I’m away. At least until she has other things to distract her.’

  ‘Other things?’ said Merritt.

  Thomas leaned over and planted a kiss on his new wife’s head. ‘Children of her own, of course. I hope it will not be long before she is kept busy on that score.’

  Merritt looked down at the remains of food on his barely touched plate. Why had he allowed himself to walk into that? He felt his stomach lurch and he struggled not to gag. He put his hand over his mouth and turned away from the table, coughing.

  ‘I’m sorry. I think I may have picked up a chill today when I was out and about. Please excuse me.’

  Hephzibah looked at him with sympathy and his heart jumped again and he wanted to get up from the table and run out of the house. It was unbearable. Images filled his head of Thomas Egdon holding Hephzibah in his arms, kissing her, touching her, taking her to his bed, making love to her. He felt sick.

  Merritt knew Hephzibah had made a mistake in marrying Thomas Egdon. Not just from a selfish point of view. It was apparent that while she was undoubtedly in love with the man, her feelings were not reciprocated. It was not just wishful thinking on his part – he had watched the way they looked at each other. There had been undiluted joy in her face, an unashamed pleasure in looking at her husband that pained Merritt like a knife slicing between his ribs. She was captivated, entranced, enthralled by Egdon.

  Thomas Egdon looked at his wife with a different kind of pleasure. There was a sense of smugness about him, a proprietorial self-satisfaction and Merritt had not failed to notice that Thomas looked as often towards his father as at his wife, as though putting on a display for him. Merritt had an urge to punch the man in the face. Instead, he endured the spectacle and cursed his own stupidity for ever thinking that Hephzibah might feel for him the love she was showing to her new husband.

  Thomas Egdon was a bounder, but probably no more so than many of his peers. He was one of a breed that Merritt despised – a vain man with no sensibilities, wasting his time gambling, drinking, and pursuing amorous adventures. For Hephzibah’s sake, Merritt hoped that her influence would bring about a reform of his character, but he doubted it. He predicted that before long Egdon was likely to break her heart into as many pieces as his own was in now.

  Squire Egdon presided over the dinner with increasing sullenness, occasionally throwing a barbed comment in the direction of his son, but mostly sitting in silence, watching everything from under his hooded, vulture’s eyes.

  ‘Reverend Nightingale, I do hope that you will let me accompany you again next time you visit the workhouse in Mudford,’ said Hephzibah. She turned to her husband in explanation. ‘We had a most interesting visit there and since then I have had an idea. It came to me the other day when I was visiting Miss Pickering and we were talking about books. I’d like to set up a lending library at the workhouse. I realise that not all of them will be able to read but it would be a wonderful opportunity to teach them. We could organise volunteers. What do you think, Reverend? I know those poor people have precious little spare time, but I’d like to think that their days might be lightened a little if they had something to take them out of themselves, something that would allow them to escape into another world. I was even thinking we might also set up a lending library here in Nettlestock for the villagers to use. Those able to read that is.’ Her voice trailed away as it became clear that both the male Egdons were looking at her in horror.

  Thomas turned to Merritt. ‘You took her to the workhouse? You let my wife be exposed to those pestilential people? The place is packed with vagrants, drunks and lunatics and full of disease. Are you mad, man?’ Thomas thumped the table, rattling the cutlery and the glassware.

  Merritt felt the anger rise in him but before he could speak, Hephzibah answered for him. ‘I persuaded the Reverend Nightingale to take me. It was my choice. He warned me that it might upset me, but I insisted on going and I’m glad I did. I learned so much. The people in there are not bad, just unfortunate. Many have lost their jobs and struggle to feed their families. There are widows with no means of support and there are over eighty children. They need your help not your disgust.’

  ‘They should lock ’em all up and throw away the key. They’re a bunch of wasters and ne’er do wells. They certainly took you in, Hephzibah,’ said the squire with a snarl.

  ‘But you, sir, are one of the guardians,’ said Merritt, struggling to control his anger. ‘You must know that most of the inmates would far rather be in their own homes and earning their keep by the sweat of their own brows and by doing work that’s more meaningful than picking oakum and breaking stones.’

  ‘They’re idle. Happy to live off the parish. They don’t deserve to be supported. They’re vermin,’ said Sir Richard.

  His son interjected. He took Hephzibah’s hand in his and bent his head and kissed it. ‘Enough of this. I’d like you to promise me, Zee, that you won’t go back to the place again.’

  Hephzibah pulled her hand away.

  Thomas Egdon smiled. ‘I can see we will need to talk about this later, my darling.’ He turned to the parson. ‘I am sure you meant well, Nightingale, and of course we were not married then, but I am trusting you never to take my wife to the workhouse again. I hope we understand each other?’

  Merritt looked him in the eye and nodded. He realised that he hated Thomas Egdon with every fibre of his body. This emotion was only less than his feeling of shock and disbelief that Hephzibah had not only married the man but, based on the way she looked at him, was deeply in love with him.

  The evening dragged on interminably and after Ottilie had been dispatched to bed, the squire insisted, over Merritt’s protests, that the parson join them in a game of whist.r />
  They had played only a few hands when, impatient at Merritt’s lack of attention and their losing streak, the squire yawned and got to his feet. ‘That’s enough. I’m going to bed. I can’t abide to play with a partner who doesn’t care about winning.’ He chugged back the contents of his glass then refilled it from the decanter beside him. ‘A nightcap. Now if you’ve any sense you’ll take your wife to bed, Thomas. Do your duty and give me a grandson.’ He gave a coarse laugh.

  Merritt wanted to punch him. He looked at Thomas, expecting him to say something, but the man appeared immune to the ribaldry of his father.

  Hephzibah however was blushing to the roots. When the squire lurched out of the room, limping on his bad leg, she immediately changed the subject. ‘How are you to get back to the parsonage, Reverend Nightingale? Thomas, can we sort out the carriage?’

  ‘No need,’ said Merritt. ‘A brisk walk will do me good.’

  ‘I won’t hear of it,’ she replied, looking anxiously at her husband. ‘You have caught a chill, sir. You can’t possibly walk back to the village. There’s a heavy frost. Thomas, can you summon the carriage, please?’ Her voice was hesitant.

  Merritt could tell Hephzibah was uncomfortable and uncertain in her new role, catapulted from governess to member of the family, while unaware of the workings of the house and unused to the role of hostess. He started to say that walking would be a pleasure, when Mrs Andrews entered and asked whether now would be a good moment to send the carriage round for the parson. Merritt saw the relief on Hephzibah’s face and noted that Thomas was already walking towards the hallway, evidently eager to see the back of their guest.

  Taking advantage of a moment alone together, Merritt took Hephzibah’s hand and pressed it. ‘I hope and pray that you will be happy, Mrs Egdon.’

  As he climbed into the carriage and set off for home, Merritt acknowledged that he had just passed the worst few hours of his entire life. When he retired to bed he clutched the pillow and groaned. ‘Oh, Hephzibah, my sweet girl, what have you done?

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  [Ganymedes] was the loveliest born of the race of mortals, and therefore

  the gods caught him away to themselves, to be Zeus’ wine-pourer,

  for the sake of his beauty, so he might be among the immortals.

  (Homer, Iliad Book XX, lines 233–23)

  The curtains were open and the sunlight came through the windows and dappled the bedroom floor like a mosaic. Hephzibah turned over and looked at Thomas asleep beside her. She remembered what he had said about their having the rest of their lives to get to know each other. Watching him sleeping, she was filled with an overpowering tenderness. She had not believed she would ever find the capacity to feel love again after the death of her parents, but this was different. The love she felt for Thomas was like nothing else. It consumed her. It burnt inside her, filling her with a longing and desire she had never experienced before. She would walk to the ends of the earth for him. She prayed he felt the same, and was terrified that he might not.

  The night before, after the departure of Reverend Nightingale, Thomas had led her by the hand up the stairs and she had followed him, weak with desire and nerves. He had thrown her across the bed and taken her quickly, shooting a sharp pain through her that dissolved into a sensation of pleasure which ended too soon. She had lain underneath him, pinned to the bed like a specimen butterfly.

  Lying now on her side, she examined his face. So handsome, beautiful even. She searched for a fault. If she could find one it would render him human, whereas now he was like an angel who might disappear as if in a dream. His features appeared carved from marble by a sculptor seeking to create perfection – a Ganymede, too beautiful for mortal life. She wanted to run a finger along his dark eyebrows, but feared waking him. His nearly-black hair was tousled on the pillow, soft to the touch and she remembered how last night she had known what it was to tangle her fingers in it as he made love to her. And his mouth. It was slightly hard about the edges so that he often appeared preoccupied and serious – until he turned his smile upon her and her world lit up. She wanted his kisses to go on forever. His eyes. When he had moved inside her, the limpid blue of those eyes clouded over and lost focus as he looked down at her, before he closed them and let out a long sigh. A shiver of desire went through her as she thought of the moment when he had entered her, taken her, and she had given herself to him.

  She felt an unexpected rush of sadness. What they had done together in the night was not as much as it might have been. She knew nothing of such matters, but sensed that she had disappointed him in some way. When he was done with her, he had rolled off her and fallen straight to sleep, leaving her with an unfulfilled longing and a strange melancholy. She had lain there in the dark for hours, staring up at the ceiling, consumed with anxiety. Was he already regretting his hasty choice? Was he thinking of Abigail Cake?

  She should have asked Thomas about his relationship with Abigail before she agreed to marry him, but she had been too afraid of what he might say. She had rationalised her decision by telling herself that the Ribbon Thief’s conduct with the squire indicated that she was a woman of loose morals and doubtless Thomas had merely dallied with her. After all, hadn’t his own father said that his son had slept with half the county? She had not liked hearing that, but brushed it aside. Most young men were inclined to sow their wild oats before choosing a wife. And it was, after all, she, Hephzibah, he had chosen. She was the one he had fallen in love with. Wasn’t she?

  Then her thoughts went back to the dinner and Thomas’s anger that she had visited the workhouse. She was baffled and disappointed by his reaction but took some consolation that he must have wanted to protect her.

  Thomas opened his eyes. He looked at her with a momentary expression of surprise, as though he had forgotten he had married her and had not expected to find her lying beside him in his bed. He leaned over and kissed her briefly then yawned and groaned and moved to get out of the bed. He fumbled for his watch on the night table. ‘Gone eight o’clock already. Damn it.’

  Hephzibah reached out for his arm, to stay him. ‘Why the hurry? Don’t let’s get up yet.’ She wanted him to make love to her again so that this time it would be better. This time she would know what to expect. This time she would try harder to make him happy. Maybe she could even ask him what she could do, how she should respond to him, how she could make herself more in tune with him.

  He leaned over and dropped another kiss on her forehead and smiled at her. ‘I’ve got to go, Zee. I have to be in town for lunch. I need to make the nine-thirty train.’

  She sat bolt upright. ‘The train? Why? Why do you have to go to London? I will come with you.’ She swung her legs over the edge of the bed.

  ‘You can’t. I will be staying at my club. They don’t permit women there.’

  ‘You’re staying up in London?’

  ‘Just for a few days, a week at most. Don’t fret, my darling, I’ll make it up to you when I return. Perhaps then we will go away for a few days. Have our honeymoon.’ He came back to the bed, leaned over her and tilted back her head by the chin. ‘Yes, my wife is the prettiest woman in Berkshire. Now get some rest and take care of my little sister.’

  When he was gone, Hephzibah began to panic. Didn’t he love her? Had he only married her to anger his father? Was he planning to meet Abigail Cake rather than going to London? Did he have other mistresses? Was this the way things would be from now on?

  Hephzibah had no way to answer these questions. She could barely remember her own father and had anyway been too young to know what kind of relationship he had had with her mother. She did remember though that he was away from home frequently on his botanical expeditions. Often for months. Her mother and stepfather had been inseparable though. Even in death. She gave in to the tears that had been threatening to come all night.

  Merritt stared at his reflection in the mirror as he shaved. As he carved a path through the shaving soap he felt his emotions ri
sing. Since he had walked into Ingleton Hall and faced the newly-wed couple, his world had crashed apart, as if he were being drawn into a vortex, spinning around, drowning, having his soul sucked out of him. A little blossom of blood spread into the foam on his cheek. He scraped at the last of the stubble then flung the razor into the basin and dabbed at the spot where he had nicked himself. His eyes stared back at him. Hollow, raw, empty, bloodshot. He couldn’t go on. He couldn’t continue to live here, to look upon Hephzibah each Sunday as he delivered his weekly sermon.

  Last night had been a journey into hell. Her face swam before him now, her eyes filled with love and happiness directed towards that wretch. It was like a death. A death of his hopes, a killing of his soul, the destruction of all his dreams. Yesterday morning he had been working on his translation of Ovid – Philemon and Baucis, the old couple who loved each other so much that rather than be parted in death they had chosen to die together and the gods had transformed them into a pair of trees. As he had worked, his mind had filled with the idea of a life with Hephzibah, having children together, then growing old together. He had imagined taking her to Rome for their honeymoon, helping to assuage the pain she had suffered at the loss of her parents just before their planned trip there. He had pictured her walking hand-in-hand with him through the ruins of the Forum, exploring the narrow streets of the city, eating dinner together in some quiet hostelry off the beaten track, paying homage at the Spanish Steps.

  Two hours later he was shown into the bishop’s study.

  ‘I want to give up my living. I have made a mistake. I’m not cut out for the ministry,’ said Merritt after pleasantries had been exchanged.

  The bishop peered at him over the top of his half spectacles but evinced no surprise. ‘What has brought about this sudden epiphany?’

  Merritt looked away.