by Clare Flynn
‘No I can’t stay with her now. Not after what you’ve done. Not after what you made me do to her.’ He looked down at her, his eyes narrow slits of anger. He removed her arms from behind his back and pushed her away.
‘Don’t be like that, Tom. Don’t let that woman get to you. You only married her so you could get your inheritance. You’ve always wanted to be with me. I’ve been patient. I’ve waited for you. I love you. You love me too. Now’s our time.’
He grabbed her arm and jerked her towards him. ‘I don’t love you. I never have. We had some good times, but that’s all it ever was. You were always good in the sack, Abigail, I’ll give you that. But that’s all. It was only sex.’
She looked at him, her eyes wide open in horror.
Egdon twisted her arm and practically spat his words at her. ‘I broke you in, like a colt, when we were fifteen and I’ve always loved to ride you, to thrust myself into you, to make you scream, like the little slut you are. And don’t think I didn’t know that you did it with Roddy the night before he went to war. And with my father. You’re just a good-time girl. An empty vessel to give men pleasure.’
He walked away along the platform to the far end. She ran after him, clinging to him like a limpet to a rock.
‘You don’t mean it, Tommy. You’re only saying it because you’re angry about what’s happened. But once she and her bastard child are gone we can be together. We can get wed.’
He turned back. ‘Do you honestly think I’d ever marry you? A village girl. A trollop who sleeps with any man who looks at her, even it’s been said, her own father.’
Tears were flowing down her cheeks now and she wiped the snot from her nose and grabbed hold of him again. Thomas stood rigid as a rock. ‘I married Hephzibah Wildman because I wanted her. Wanted her like I’d never felt before. I ached for her, lusted for her, couldn’t wait to have her in my bed. She is a lady. Something you will never be. I suspected that child wasn’t my own, but I said nothing, did nothing, because it suited me, because I didn’t want to face the fact that my own wife had been with another man. Now I have faced it and I know she’s as much of a whore as you are. You made me face that, Abigail, you made me see what I’d chosen not to see. But you made the whole damned village see it too and I will never forgive you for that as long as I live.’
The approaching train whistled in the distance. ‘I’m going to London,’ he said. ‘I’m going to stay there and I won’t be coming back to Nettlestock. My father has barred me from my own home. This is your doing and I never want to see you again.’
A number of people had arrived on the platform and were standing some yards away from the pair, keeping their distance while watching the unfolding spectacle. Abigail was hanging onto Thomas but he was unmoved, a statue of indifference.
The train slowed down as it approached the station. The waiting people began to spread themselves out along the platform.
It happened so fast that no one afterwards could be quite sure whether Abigail Cake slipped or jumped deliberately. They couldn’t agree either whether Thomas Egdon had reached out in a vain effort to save her or whether she had pulled him over the edge of the platform with her. The whistle sounded its high pitched alarm and there was a crunch and a scream of brakes as the driver tried to pull up short. They had given him no room to stop, slipping over the edge in the split second the train was passing and their bodies were dragged under the wheels.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
It is only when one has lost all things, that one knows that one possesses it
(from De Profundis, Oscar Wilde)
Miss Pickering arrived at the back door of Ingleton Hall in a pony and trap that Mrs Andrews had sent to fetch her. The housekeeper explained what had happened to Hephzibah and asked the schoolmistress if she was willing to take her in for a while.
‘It’s just till things are sorted out. Mr Thomas must have struck her several times. I don’t think there’s any real damage but she’s got some nasty cuts and her face will likely be very bruised. The squire has told her she can stay here but she won’t hear of it. I think she’s afraid of Mr Thomas coming back. She says she wants to go away, back to Oxford and take the boy with her. But she’s not fit to go anywhere yet.’
‘Of course I’ll take her in. Edwin too. But please don’t tell Mr Egdon where she is. I don’t want him hammering at the door in the middle of the night. Does the squire know?’
‘Not yet. He’s gone into the village to try and calm things down. When I left they were gathering on the green ready to march on the parson’s house.’
Miss Pickering said, ‘The parson’s alive, thank God, but only barely. A mob surrounded the parsonage and dragged him outside and beat him.’
Mrs Andrews gasped and put her hand to her mouth.
‘He’s alive thanks to the squire. Sir Richard took him to the doctor’s first and then to Reading to the hospital. Poor Mr Nightingale looks in a very bad way. And that Leatherwood claims to be a man of God.’
‘Is the squire with the parson now?’ said Mrs Andrews.
‘I imagine so. It will take a while to get to Reading and back.’
The housekeeper shook her head. ‘I had no idea. I don’t condone what must have gone on between the parson and Mrs Egdon, but the rule of the mob is no rule at all.’
‘Mr Carver and the blacksmith helped the parson to get away from the green and back to the parsonage. Then the trouble began when that Leatherwood man stirred the crowd up. Poor Mrs Muggeridge was in a state of shock. They dragged the parson out of the house in front of her.’
‘No man deserves to be hunted down in his own home, Miss Pickering. No matter what he’s done.’
Thomas’s funeral took place three days later. The service was conducted by the temporary vicar, who had been drafted in to replace Nightingale. Everyone in Nettlestock was in shock at what had happened on May Day and the church was packed. One notable absence was Hephzibah. Despite the urging of Miss Pickering, she refused to attend, caring not how people might interpret her nonappearance.
Abigail’s funeral was held not in the parish church, but in Leatherwood’s Nonconformist chapel. Ned Cake had long been a follower of Leatherwood and, while Abigail had remained a parishioner of Saint Cuthbert’s, Cake was determined her daughter would not be laid to rest in the same place as Egdon, the man Cake held responsible for her death.
Hephzibah hadn’t spoken in days and hadn’t touched a morsel of food. Not even Edwin could revive his mother’s spirits. She remained in her bedroom, or sat in the parlour, staring out of the window, and went for solitary walks, refusing company, even Edwin’s.
This withdrawal and isolation worried Miss Pickering, who blamed herself for Hephzibah’s state. Hephzibah had listened in silence when Miss Pickering told her what had happened at the railway station. She remained silent when her hostess told her that after the crowd pelted Nightingale with rotten vegetables, Jacob Leatherwood had incited them to riot and they had broken into the parsonage, dragged him out and beaten him savagely on the lawn. It was only the intervention of the squire that had prevented him being beaten to death.
‘Thank heavens the squire got there in time,’ said Miss Pickering. ‘Sir Richard had him taken to Reading and admitted to hospital. He’s paid for his treatment but told the doctors that should he recover he must be told he would not be welcome again in Nettlestock. But I understand that the prognosis is not good.’
These tidings appeared to pass over Hephzibah’s head. She continued to stare blankly into space and passed no comment and asked no question.
Miss Pickering sought the help of the squire, who called at the house. When he was shown into the parlour, Hephzibah was sitting beside the window staring blankly at the lawn, where a strong wind had shaken all the petals off the dog roses that grew against the garden wall.
‘Miss Pickering tells me you’ve stopped eating,’ he said. ‘You can’t go on like this, Hephzibah. Come back to Ingleton Hall. Mrs Andrews will take
care of you. You and Edwin will always have a home there with me.’
It was as if she hadn’t heard him. She just sat there, hands in her lap while he paced up and down.
‘You must stop blaming yourself. None of this is your fault. You did what you did because you thought it was right. You married Thomas because you loved him. You conceived a child with Nightingale because you thought it would help Thomas. If anyone’s to blame for the whole damned mess it’s me. I was the one who put it in your head that Thomas would be disinherited. It was I who kept taunting him. It was I who was looking for an excuse to deprive him of his inheritance. I never forgave him for the fact that he wasn’t my own son, I never forgave him for the fact that my wife loved him more than she loved me and I never forgave him for the fact that he blamed me for his mother’s death.’
Still she sat in silence, her hands fiddling with the fabric of her dress, her eyes empty of all emotion, seemingly deaf to his words.
Sir Richard pressed on regardless. ‘Did Thomas tell you that Ottilie is my daughter?’
She remained unresponsive.
‘It’s true. I slept with my wife’s sister. I suppose you might imagine it was a kind of belated revenge on Jane for her past infidelity, but it wasn’t like that. I don’t think Jane ever knew. Her sister died a few years before she did, when Ottilie was a baby. We only did it once. After a shoot. Jane didn’t like shooting parties and always stayed at home, but Edith, her sister, was a bit of a crack shot. Her husband was away. He was in the army and was overseas a lot of the time. I don’t know how it happened really. We were probably both excited. Full of adrenaline after bagging a lot of birds. We got separated from the rest of the party and found ourselves by the old ruined chapel beyond the carp ponds. I only meant to kiss her but somehow one thing led to another.’
He took a cigarette out of his breast pocket and lit it, inhaling deeply. ‘When Edith died, Jane suggested we adopt the girl, as Ottilie’s father showed no interest in her and was always away with his regiment. My feelings for the child were the opposite to what I’d felt with Thomas. As she grew older I felt a growing conviction that she was mine. It’s impossible to explain. When Jane died and then my firstborn son, Samuel, caring for Roddy and Ottilie kept me going.’
He lapsed into silence then moved across the room and sat down. ‘You can’t blame yourself for what happened to Thomas and the Cake girl. They had a history. He used her for years. She was convenient – whenever he was at Ingleton she was ready and waiting for him. Before he married you, of course.’
She turned back to look at him and spoke at last. ‘You used her too.’
He looked down. ‘I’m not proud of that. But she was there and she was willing. I’ve always had a weakness for a pretty face and that girl certainly had one. I’ve told you before, Hephzibah, a man has needs. It’s like an itch and I need to scratch it.’
She looked at him, her eyes cold. ‘You’re a hypocrite. Don’t try to justify yourself to me. You’ll have to justify yourself to God one day.’
The squire coughed then decided he could put off the inevitable no longer. He had agreed with Miss Pickering that he would break the news to her. It was better coming from him. And better to get it over with quickly so that once Hephzibah came to terms with it she might eventually agree to come back to live at Ingleton Hall.
‘There’s something else you need to know, Hephzibah. It’s about the Reverend Nightingale.’
She didn’t move.
‘It’s bad news I’m afraid. He didn’t make it. His injuries were too severe. I’m sorry.’
Her face showed no emotion.
‘Please, Hephzibah, will you reconsider and come back to live at Ingleton? Ottilie misses you and Edwin. She is devastated by her brother’s death. She has lost three brothers and now you have taken Edwin away from her too. The poor girl doesn’t deserve that. With Thomas gone and Nightingale too it’s time you thought of Edwin and what’s best for him.’
‘Don’t tell me what’s best for my own son. I will be the judge of that. And what’s best for him is that he never sets foot in Ingleton Hall again.’ She paused. ‘I’m sorry about Ottilie. But she will be grown up soon. All this will pass.’
‘Very well.’ He gave a long sigh of resignation. ‘I understand that Miss Pickering is happy for you and Edwin to stay on here indefinitely, but I beg you, Hephzibah, please stop blaming yourself. Everything you did, at the time you believed to be right.’
She looked at him for a moment, then got up from her seat. ‘The road to hell is paved with good intentions,’ she said and left the room.
The day after Sir Richard’s visit, Hephzibah went to visit her husband’s grave. It was dusk and there was no one around to witness when she entered St Cuthbert’s churchyard. Thomas’s grave was under a ewe tree at the side of the church, close to the path down to the canal. It was immediately evident as it was still piled high with floral tributes. She stood in front of the stone headstone and placed on top the sprig of white heather given her by the gipsy at the Mudford horse fair. The gipsy had been right about her marrying before the summer came and right about the rest of her prophecy. She played the old woman’s words back in her head over and over. Two men will love you. Both will pay the price for it. The pain and grief at Merritt’s death was mingled with the constant torment that it was all her fault. She had been the cause of their deaths and indirectly the Cake woman’s. Miss Pickering had told her that Abigail Cake’s baby had died too. Abigail had told no one, but buried the child in a shallow grave which the dogs had dug up soon after Abigail died. Everyone in the village said that grief at the death of her child caused Abigail to throw herself under the train. Hephzibah was unconvinced. At the May Fair she had looked anything but grief-stricken. It was possible that the baby had died after Abigail’s death and been buried by Ned Cake.
Hephzibah stared at her husband’s grave. Was she cursed? What was it about her that everyone she loved died? Her mother and Professor Prendergast, Thomas, Merritt and even her own father. Death seemed to follow everywhere she went. Try as she might though, she couldn’t find it in her heart to forgive Thomas. It was impossible to believe that he had ever loved her after what he had done to her after the May Fair and choosing to marry her to get his hands on his inheritance. She couldn’t blame him for her falling in love with him. That was her own immaturity and susceptibility. She had mistaken physical attraction for love and only discovered the difference when it was too late. It seemed to her that life and human relationships were more unfathomable than ever. Everyone dissembled in some way. Everyone had secrets. Dirty little secrets. Was she any worse than anyone else?
Walking away from the country churchyard, Hephzibah came to the conclusion that no one was blameless. Everyone had played a part in the tragedy that had led to the deaths of Merritt, Thomas and Abigail Cake. The only innocent in all of this was Edwin. He was also the greatest gift she had ever received. Hephzibah increased her pace as she thought of him waiting for her back at the Pickerings’ house: his chubby face, his emerging freckles, his reddish blonde hair, his winning smile. While he was in her world she had everything to live for. She would protect her boy with her life. She was determined that he would grow up in a way that would have made his father proud. They only had each other. Hephzibah had an overwhelming need to shelter him from the vicissitudes of the world. They would present a united front.
That evening Hephzibah started to eat again. Every time she looked at Edwin she saw some aspect of Merritt’s features gazing back at her and was stabbed by love and sorrow. She thought of their last time alone together on the towpath when they had quarrelled. She would give anything to be able to relive what passed between them and make it different this time. She struggled to believe why she had been so angry then. It was so trivial in comparison with what had happened since. Was what Merritt did so bad? He had known he loved her before she had known she loved him. Had she been in his place, wouldn’t she have done the same? It was too
late now to tell him she forgave him and to beg him to forgive her. He was dead and it was her fault. She had brought about his downfall, cost him his life and, even in death, his good name.
Knowing she was unable to make things right for Merritt, Hephzibah determined to try to make things a little better for others around her.
The first day she went to visit the workhouse in Mudford was a sunny one. She walked hand-in-hand with Edwin along the empty road, past meadows bright with poppies. There was a light breeze and the whole countryside looked fresh and new and bursting with life, as though challenging Hephzibah to raise her spirits. She pulled a little hat onto Edwin’s head to protect him from the sun, although she no longer needed to hide his pale coppery-golden hair. The secret of his parentage was widely known and she no longer cared for her own part, but she worried increasingly for Edwin. It would not be long before he must attend school and she was afraid he would be the object of taunts and abuse. If only she knew how to protect him. If only she had somewhere to go where no one would know either of them and they could begin again. As she trudged along the road she told herself that as soon as she had fully regained her strength she would seek a post somewhere else in the country. But what kind of position would be open to a widow with a small child?
It took them almost an hour to reach the grim-faced workhouse building. When she arrived and asked to speak with the matron she was shown into the same meeting room she had visited before with Merritt. Hephzibah went to stand again at the same window and a wave of loneliness washed over her. She turned back into the room, half expecting to see her lover once again sitting at the table, deep in conversation with the Master, but there was only Edwin, waiting patiently.
Her request to be considered for the part-time role of assistant teacher at the institution met with disapproval from the matron, who had evidently heard about what had happened in Nettlestock.