by Clare Flynn
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Even the dearest that I loved the best
Are strange – nay, rather, stranger than the rest.
(from I Am!, John Clare)
Hephzibah had been married for three months and had lived at Ingleton Hall for a year, before Thomas finally proposed they go to watch his racehorses training on the gallops. Thomas had given her a couple more riding lessons and had accompanied her once in a hack around the estate. She had also ridden out many times with Ottilie. While she felt slightly more confident, Hephzibah was only too aware she would never make a great horsewoman and sensed her husband’s disappointment, although he never voiced any criticism and was always encouraging.
When Thomas announced the trip at breakfast one morning, Ottilie jumped up and down in delight, her face crumbling as soon as her brother told her she would not be included. While Hephzibah felt sad for the girl she was glad for her own part and excited about the prospect of spending a whole day alone with her husband.
Thomas’s racehorses were stabled about ten miles away at Lambourn on the Berkshire Downs. The village and its surrounds had grown in popularity since the advent of the railway a few years earlier, which meant horses could be transported far afield to race meetings. The dry chalky soil was unsuited to farming but perfect for exercising.
They set out on horseback straight after breakfast, and Hephzibah, after a few minutes in the saddle, began to relax as they trotted along sedately, heading north along a leafy lane. Thomas said little as they rode, but kept looking towards her, checking she was comfortable and secure. She smiled at him, happy at his concern. After a while, he turned off into some pastureland and, without warning, pushed his horse into a gallop. Before Hephzibah realised what was happening she was galloping behind him, breathless, terrified but exhilarated, feeling the wind on her face.
When they eventually pulled up, he turned to her and asked if she’d enjoyed it. She nodded then said, ‘But you should have asked me first.’
‘You’d only have said you were too afraid, Zee. The best way to learn is to do it. Come on. No time to waste. We’ll follow the old Roman road for a while. Not far to go now.’ And without waiting for an answer he was off again, with Hephzibah following behind him.
When they reached the stables at Lambourn they spent two hours beside the gallops, watching Thomas’s horses being exercised. They stood side-by-side while Thomas studied the animals through his binoculars and Hephzibah soon became bored. She had expected them to be thundering past in a race but the process of training involved lots of steady cantering up the slopes which Thomas told her was to build the strength of their muscles. It was a cloudy and chilly day for August and she couldn’t see the horses clearly from a distance. Thomas was absorbed in discussing their form with the trainer as if she didn’t exist. She wanted to share in his interests and passions but he took no time to explain and she wondered why he had wanted her to accompany him.
When at last the training session was over, they went to an inn for luncheon. At last she had an opportunity to talk to Thomas; at last a few moments when he wasn’t in a hurry to be elsewhere, when they weren’t surrounded by others, or their chance for conversation subsumed in the monologues of the squire.
She began by asking him how the training had gone but he had little to say on the subject – she sensed he felt there was little point in telling her much when her knowledge of racing was so limited. She was desperate to find a way to get closer to him, but it felt as if Thomas divided up his life and Hephzibah and horse racing were not in the same box. When it began to seem they were drifting into an awkward silence, she raised the subject of the death of Peter Goody.
‘Did you know that your father’s gamekeeper had left an old mantrap on the estate and a man died after being trapped in it? He left a pregnant wife and lots of children.’
Thomas bent his head to one side and gave her a look that betokened boredom rather than concern.
‘It happened several months ago, before we were married. I’ve been meaning to ask you about it for ages.’
‘Why? What’s it to do with me?’ He sounded bored. ‘He should know better than to poach on our land. You know what my father’s views on poaching are. Everyone knows. If that fellow was daft enough to ignore that then he got what he deserved.’
Hephzibah gasped. ‘Daft enough? Don’t you mean desperate enough? And deserved? How can you say anyone deserves to die like that, just for trying to catch a couple of rabbits?’
Thomas sighed. ‘Please don’t preach to me like a parish do-gooder, Zee. It’s such a bore. I have no interest whatsoever in the petty goings on in the village.’
Hephzibah looked at him in dismay. How could the man she loved be so uncaring? ‘You call a man’s death a petty going on?’ She put down her knife and fork, all appetite gone.
‘Of course I’m sorry the poor chap had to die and yes, I suppose it’s a bit rough on his wife, but these people do know the score, Zee. If they choose to break the law they must face the consequences.’
Hephzibah was shocked at her husband’s callousness. Something must have happened to put him in such a bad mood. It was too much for her to accept that he truly believed what he was saying. ‘It sounds like you have more in common with your father than I realised. I expected more of you, Thomas.’
She got up and ran out of the inn, then realising she had no idea how to get home, and no means of mounting her horse without assistance, she took to pacing up and down in frustration, until Thomas emerged from the building. He came up behind her and placed his arms around her waist, pulling her close to his chest. He smelled of his familiar lemony shaving balm as he pulled her around towards him and went to kiss her. She jumped apart, shocked that he wanted to kiss her in public.
‘Don’t let’s quarrel, Zee,’ he said, and lifted her into the saddle, before springing up onto his own horse.
They trotted up the lane, Hephzibah still smarting from the argument. They entered a small copse of trees, following a track through the middle. Thomas rode slightly ahead so he could hold back the overhanging branches for her as she followed him. As they passed through one low-hanging obstacle he edged his horse close to hers and leaned over and kissed her full on the mouth. She gasped in surprise, but this time did not try to repulse him. He slipped off his horse and lifted her down from hers and carried her over to a mossy bank under an oak tree.
‘I hate to fight with you, my darling,’ he said as he lay down beside her and pulled her into his arms. ‘But you’re irresistible when you’re angry.’
‘We can’t...’ she said. ‘Not here. Not like this. Someone might see us.’
‘No one will see us.’ Then he stopped her mouth with a kiss. He made love to her, there in the open air, as if they were a pair of peasant lovers. She was shocked, affronted, but thrilled to the core of her being, their argument forgotten.
As they rode back to Nettlestock, Hephzibah felt confused. Marriage was proving to be a difficult thing to get right and not at all what she expected.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
But when your heart is tired and dumb, your soul has need of ease,
There’s none like the quiet folk who wait in libraries–
(from Old Books, Margaret Widdemer, The Old Road to Paradise)
When Hephzibah had first raised the matter of the village library at dinner one evening, Thomas had been scathing about the idea, declaring it a complete waste of time and money. Hephzibah wondered if that was the only reason the squire had chosen to support it. So far, Sir Richard had been assiduous in his efforts to raise the necessary funds for the building of the permanent library, convincing most of the neighbouring landowners to donate to the cause. The building was also to incorporate a social hall for the village. The linking of the building to the memory of Queen Victoria, and the opportunity for benefactors’ names to be included on the dedication stone, had helped the money roll in fast. Work had already begun to clear the land, a small plot adjacent to
the old silk mill, and an architect from Newbury had drawn up the plans.
The afternoon of the first Sunday in September was set for the opening of the new temporary village lending-library at the Egdon Arms. Hephzibah and the parson had persuaded the squire to pay for shelves to be built inside the village inn, and the parson, the schoolmistress and the squire had all donated books from their own collections.
Most of the village turned out for the occasion, from the gentlemen farmers to the shopkeepers, the station master, the estate workers, the manager of the whiting factory, the guardians of the workhouse – which would itself benefit from a monthly loan of thirty or so books from the collection to be delivered and collected each month by the carter. A group of volunteers had been recruited by the Reverend Nightingale to offer evening classes in the pub, to assist people with their reading.
The Egdon Arms was packed to the rafters and people had spilled out into the street. In celebration of the library’s inauguration, the landlord was offering free cider to all-comers, while still making a tidy profit on the sale of beer, spirits and non-alcoholic drinks. In order not to offend the sensibilities of the parish council and the teetotallers, there was also a plentiful supply of homemade fruit cordial and ginger ale. Despite this, there were those among the population of Nettlestock who believed that a lending library housed inside a public house, even on a temporary basis, was not only a step too far, but a positive incitement for parishioners to take to drink. It had only been down to the strong advocacy of the parson and the influence of Mrs Thomas Egdon that the squire was eventually persuaded to enter the fray and weigh down in support of the project. Jacob Leatherwood, the preacher from the Nonconformist chapel had taken to his pulpit to denounce the enterprise and ban any members of his flock from attending. The previous cool but civil relationship between Leatherwood and Merritt Nightingale turned sour and the former now crossed the road to avoid his counterpart.
Despite the best efforts of the naysayers, Nettlestock had seen nothing like the library opening since the victory celebrations for the war against Napoleon and the coronation of the late queen.
Hephzibah was sitting with Miss Pickering and a group of women at a makeshift table just outside the pub, sipping their cordials and enjoying the September sunshine. She didn’t notice at first when Abigail Cake slid into the seat beside her. The young woman prodded her in the ribs.
‘Parson wasn’t good enough for you then?’ Abigail was speaking in a lowered voice but the venom in it was causing her to speak louder as she went on. ‘You know Tommy only married you for money?’
Conscious of the other village women around them, Hephzibah got up from the table. ‘I have no money and I have no idea what you are talking about, but I’m not going to stay to find out.’ She began to move towards the door of the hostelry.
Abigail took hold of Hephzibah’s arm with a grip so tight Hephzibah almost cried out. ‘Not so fast, governess. You’ll hear me out.’ She shoved Hephzibah into the crowded pub, working her way through the throng, pushing Hephzibah in front of her. Ignoring a sign on a door banning entry, Abigail propelled Hephzibah into the snug bar, which was occupied only by the landlord’s sleeping dog, seeking sanctuary from the crowded public bar.
The pair stood either side of the fireplace. The red-head had her arms akimbo. ‘You must have known Tommy loves me but you married him anyway,’ she said. ‘What you happened to see that day between me and the squire has nothing to do with what Tommy and I have together.’
‘How dare you drag me in here. I don’t want to hear anything you have to say. If you loved my husband so much you’d never have dreamt of doing what you do with his father. You’re disgusting.’ Hephzibah spoke with force, but felt sick with fear.
Abigail moved towards Hephzibah, a finger prodding her in the chest as she spoke. ‘We grew up together, Tommy and me. He saved me from drowning in the canal when were children. I held his head when he was sick after drinking the squire’s sherry when he was only a wee lad. Promised to marry me when we were six. Kissed me for the first time when we were fourteen. Took my cherry when we were both fifteen. He loves me and I love him and there’s nothing you can do about it. You may have married him but he doesn’t love you.’
Trying to maintain her dignity, Hephzibah said, ‘That’s all ancient history – even if it’s true, which I doubt. You can’t equate what children do when they’re playing games with love between adults.’
Abigail moved close to Hephzibah, crowding her space, her breath warm in Hephzibah’s face. ‘Love?’ Her voice was scornful. ‘You know nothing of love! You march into Ingleton Hall like the Queen of bloody Sheba and you’re stupid enough to think Tommy cares for you. I’ve news for you, he doesn’t give a fig for you and he never will. He might give you presents but they mean nothing.’ She pointed at the mother of pearl brooch pinned to Hephzibah’s jacket. ‘That’s payment for services rendered. And you did him a great service helping him get his hands on his mother’s money.’
Hephzibah stared at her, unable to believe what she was hearing, paralysed from responding by a need to hear her antagonist out.
Tossing back her long curls Abigail put her hands on her hips and stared at Hephzibah, a smile on her face. ‘You had no idea, did you? I get the last laugh then!’
Hephzibah swallowed, tasting bitter bile in her mouth. She stood up and raised her voice, summoning as much confidence as she could muster. ‘I’m not listening to another word.’ She stared back into Abigail’s face in defiance. ‘You have absolutely no right to speak to me like this.’
‘What? Because I’m only the bailiff’s daughter? Is that what you mean? Not good enough to address the wife of the young master? I’m every bit as good as you, governess.’
‘It’s nothing to do with whose daughter you are. It’s because you’re the squire’s … mistress.’ She hesitated a moment then gave way to her anger. ‘Nothing more than a common whore.’
Abigail stopped Hephzibah as she tried to leave the room, placing herself against the door.
‘Whore I may be, but I’m twice the woman you are. You know why he chose you? Because no other woman would have him. The word gets around in the circles he mixes in and every time he courted a girl I made sure they got to know of his ways before the engagement could be announced.’ She held her hand in front of her and counted on her fingers. ‘Let me see. There was Lady Anna Somerton, Agnes Delargy, Rosanna Bellamy, Rachel Burghley-Archer, Mary Bennett, Julia Harley-Smyth. Each of them with a fat trust fund so he’d have been sorted, until I showed them my collection of letters, the love tokens, the lock of his hair that I wear in the locket he gave me.’ She put her hand up to her neck and touched the silver locket that hung there. It’s inscribed. Gave it to me when I turned eighteen, three months after he did. Now you know why I didn’t want yours.’
Hephzibah stared at the girl, in a state of shock and disbelief.
‘I saw off all the eligible women in the county. He knew, but he couldn’t blame me. He couldn’t blame me because he was secretly glad. No matter how pretty or rich they were he always came back to me. But he needed the money badly.’
Seeing that she had the advantage over Hephzibah, Abigail reached for a wooden stool and sat on it, keeping her eyes fixed on Hephzibah. ‘It was a condition of his trust fund that he marry. Spending money has always been my Tommy’s weakness. That’s why he married you. Very clever of him. I didn’t see it coming. Never thought he’d stoop so low as to marry the governess. He usually left them to his father – but he got in fast with you – just enough of a lady to stop the squire objecting and the county talking. He would never have got away with marrying a bailiff’s daughter, no matter how much he wanted to.’
The young woman leaned over Hephzibah, her face practically touching hers, her breath hot. ‘Just remember this, Hephzibah Wildman, my Tommy will never ever love you. You’ll never really have him. His heart’s mine and always has been and nothing is going to change that. I’m his true w
ife, in every sense of the word and I always will be.’
She turned to leave, then stopped in the doorway and looked back at Hephzibah. She put her hand in the pocket of her skirt. ‘Here, you can have these back. I’ve no more use for your trash.’ She flung the green velvet ribbons into Hephzibah’s lap.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
But the voice of my beloved
In my ear has seemed to say –
‘O, be patient if thou lov’st me!’
And the storm has passed away.
(from The Power of Love, Anne Brontë)
24th May 1904
After the bailiff’s daughter told her about her long-standing affair with her husband, Hephzibah tried to convince herself it was lies and jealousy. She was afraid to confront Thomas about it, rationalising her fear as a reluctance to imply that she doubted him. Every time she looked at him she felt a longing that was like a sharp pain. He behaved to her with perfect civility, brought her gifts, apologised for his frequent absences, blamed them on business matters and, when he was home, made love to her with an attentiveness that she told herself must signify that he did indeed love her. But still the claims of Abigail Cake haunted her as the months and years passed. Abigail’s words stayed in her head where she could not shift them and repeated themselves like a rasping noise that set her teeth on edge or an exposed nerve that was raw and painful.
Whenever Thomas made love to her she searched his eyes for a sign of how he felt about her, hoping the love she felt for him would be reflected back. All she saw were the progressive stages of concentration, pleasure and release. He never opened up his heart to her; he never told her he loved her – just that he found her beautiful. He was affectionate, teasing her occasionally, bringing consolatory gifts after his lengthy absences and chatting about superficial topics such as the weather, what he read in the newspaper and the racing results. He never enquired about her life, her interests, how she spent the days and nights she passed without him. She often thought of how he had said to her, when he proposed, that they would have the rest of their lives to get to know each other – yet as the years passed she knew little more.