The People of This Parish (Part One of The People of this Parish Saga) Read online

  ‘And yet she is a most attractive girl,’ Willem Heering said. ‘Why do you want to be a boy, Eliza?’

  ‘Boys have more fun,’ Eliza said. ‘People think more of them. Who, in their right minds, would want to be a girl? Would you?’

  Willem Heering seemed taken aback by the remark and looked for support to his friend, who was chuckling. Taking Eliza’s hand, her uncle pressed it to his lips and smiled into her eyes.

  ‘One day Eliza will learn the great advantages of being a woman, of being loved and protected, of never having to worry or want for anything. When you are in love, Eliza, you will forget any wish you ever had of being a boy in the joy of being a wife and mother.’

  Eliza’s face flamed with embarrassment and she wrenched her hand away.

  ‘What ... what rubbish!’ she cried and went swiftly away to join the throng in the drawing room, many of whom were starting to drift on to the lawn now that the sun had established itself and the clouds had gone.

  The two men and Henrietta watched the departing figure, rather at a loss for words, and then Prosper turned and shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘She doesn’t get any better, Henrietta. You can’t have her behaving like that in public. I think she should be sent away to a finishing school to learn good manners. Willem here is a friend, he will understand. But others would be shocked. I am a little shocked myself to find her still so undisciplined.’

  ‘Is that meant as a criticism of me, brother?’ Henrietta asked, her eyes narrowing. ‘If so ...’

  ‘Not at all, my dear, not at all,’ Prosper said hastily. ‘I know you have done all you can to make Eliza as decorous and genteel as a well brought up young lady should be. In manner and looks she is the pinnacle of refinement, a credit to you and poor Matthew. But this temper of hers –’ Prosper frowned ‘– no man will tolerate it. We shall have a spinster on our hands unless something is done about Eliza.’

  Spinster – everyone shuddered at the dreaded word. What worse fate could befall a young girl than to remain unmarried? Willem Heering shuddered perhaps the longest, because he had almost despaired of finding a husband for his adored Margaret, now twenty-nine years old. Long past marriageable age. The trouble was that she had resembled her dear mother whom, although he had come to love her very much, he had married for motives that had more to do with commercial advantage than with love.

  Margaret, his only daughter. He would have done everything in his power to make her happy, and, when it came to it, he had. He had not felt demeaned at using money to buy his daughter a bridegroom. What luck it was to have chanced on the well-born but impoverished Woodville family. He had saved the Woodvilles, and they had saved his daughter from the years of loneliness, the lack of fulfilment that only unmarried women could know.

  But as he looked at the bridal pair surrounded by their friends and the Woodville relations at the far end of the room, he felt a frisson, a moment of doubt. How could such a handsome, well-born young man possibly love his daughter? Would he remain faithful to her and make her happy? Margaret was clearly in love, but was Guy?

  John Yetman had spent some time walking round the reception rooms admiring the paintings, which were old, and the splendid decorations, which were new; the painted ceilings freshly restored, gold leaf resplendent on the intricate cornice design, the lozenges, quatrefoils and heraldic emblems of the Woodville family. Some eighteen months had been spent on the restoration of the house, a fact of which he was well aware because most of the work had been done by his men. John was a master thatcher but also a general builder, though he no longer soiled his hands with the mundane tasks of his trade. Yetman’s had become the largest firm of builders in much of the district between Wenham and the coast. He had offices in Yeovil, Blandford and Poole, and his business interests crossed the county boundaries.

  A generation ago anyone connected with trade would never have been invited to a social occasion such as this. But times were changing, everyone knew that. The rich man remained in his castle, the poor man at his gate, but in between there was a mixture, a confusion of classes and class consciousness that had not occurred before.

  Even now it was doubtful whether John Yetman and his family would have been invited to the Woodville wedding were it not for the important civic positions he held in the community. He was a Justice of the Peace, Chairman of the Parish Council and patron of many a good cause connected with the community: its widows, its orphans, its malefactors – fortunately few –waifs and strays.

  Lady Woodville was tempted to take evasive action when she observed him approaching her with his family, but her brother immediately stretched out his hand in welcome and drew him by the arm towards his sister.

  ‘My dear, may I introduce Mr Yetman?’

  ‘Of course I know Mr Yetman,’ Lady Woodville said, graciously offering him her gloved hand. ‘He has several times been on inspection while his men were working on this house.’

  ‘To your satisfaction I hope, my lady?’ Mr Yetman said unctuously, propelling forward his beaming spouse and two comely young women. ‘May I introduce my wife, Mrs Yetman and my daughters-in-law, Judith and Adeline?’

  ‘How do you do?’ Lady Woodville’s touch was even lighter, her tone remote. It was possible to deduce from it that Mr and Mrs Yetman would never be invited to tea or any private social occasion held in the house.

  ‘And my sons Robert and Hesketh, my daughter Agnes.’

  Was there no end to them? Lady Woodville touched fingers, noting as she did so that the Yetmans, despite their lowly origins, had produced a fine-looking brood of children. None of them resembled country yokels who made their living thatching and toiling. Agnes was not only remarkably pretty but very fashionably dressed in the latest creations, not from Wenham or Blandford, or even Bournemouth but, surely, London?

  The family were introduced to Willem Heering who, having been brought up in the traditions of true democracy, shook all warmly by the hand and fell into an earnest discussion of business with Mr Yetman, who still retained his soft Dorset vowels.

  Willem Heering was interested in all aspects of business and so was Mr Yetman. The two wandered off, leaving Lady Woodville attempting to converse without appearing patronising with Mrs Yetman, her daughters-in-law and her daughter, while the sons discussed country matters with Prosper Martyn in an atmosphere of easy familiarity.

  ‘What a lovely bridesmaid Eliza made, my lady.’ Mrs Yetman tactfully eschewed mention of the bride. ‘You won’t have her on your hands for long.’

  ‘Alas, I’m afraid we shall.’ Lady Woodville gave a slight sigh. ‘My daughter is a tomboy. Surely you have seen her riding over the fields dressed in men’s breeches? Well, if you have not, everyone else has.’

  Mrs Yetman permitted herself a smirk.

  ‘There is talk, my lady ... but a very pretty sight, I’m told.’

  ‘You see how really pretty, how feminine my daughter can be if she wishes.’ Lady Woodville pointed across the room. ‘But what man of refinement would want to marry a girl who wears breeches?’ She then raised her hand in the direction of the French windows, where two friends of hers happened to be conversing. ‘Please excuse me, Mrs Yetman. I have just spotted some people I haven’t seen for years.’

  She bowed graciously, and Mrs Yetman and her daughter stood back, to be joined by the two Yetman sons, who appeared satisfied with their conversation with Prosper Martyn.

  ‘He’s thinking of buying a farm hereabouts,’ Hesketh, the elder, said. ‘I told him we’d keep an eye open.’

  ‘So near his sister. You surprise me,’ their mother said, but she had her eyes on Agnes, who was looking enviously at the bridegroom, circling the room with his bride on his arm.

  Agnes Yetman was one of the prettiest girls in Wenham and she knew it; but even she, pretty, accomplished, able to sing and sew, ride and dance, had never had a chance with the glamorous, dashing Sir Guy. He was known to fancy ladies, but only of a certain kind and these he met in London. Everyone
in Wenham knew that his marriage to the Dutch woman was a marriage of convenience.

  But one day she would outstrip the new Lady Woodville, Agnes thought. One day she would do even better than Sir Guy, and her house would be even bigger and finer. Accomplished she might be, but the overwhelming yearning in her heart was not simply for love. It was for power and the desire to blot out from her life the mean and humble origins of her parents, which still betrayed them by their accents, their lack of fine manners. Agnes had been sent to a good school; yet she had too many memories of her father and mother looking countrified and out of place among the well-bred and genteel parents of her fellow pupils. Oh, how Agnes yearned to be thought genteel too. One day that wish would come true. She knew it.

  Interested in everyone, everything, yet a little shy, Euphemia Monk stood on the far side of the great cream and gold reception room close to the Reverend Austin Lamb, Rector of the parish, who had performed the ceremony. He stood there in his clerical dress, complete with gaiters, a benign smile on his normally stern features, his eyes darting over the assembly as if checking on the numbers of his congregation eminent and respectable enough to have received an invitation to the grandest wedding in the district since Guy’s father, Sir Matthew, had married pretty, wealthy Henrietta Martyn.

  Euphemia Monk was also a wealthy spinster, and a regular worshipper at the church of St Mark. Her house faced the Rectory, and she was a particular friend of the Rector’s wife, whom she assisted in many parochial duties.

  She was in her early thirties, a comely and intelligent woman, but her life was almost ruined by her shyness, her consciousness of her position as a single woman who had been left a large house and a small fortune by her scholarly father, who had died the previous year. Euphemia’s mother had died when she was born, and she had therefore been particularly attached to her father, and was desolated by his early death. At that time of bereavement the Lambs had been of great comfort to her, and she became even more religious and devoted to the church.

  The invitation from the Woodvilles had been unexpected. She didn’t really know them and was not in their circle. But a number of surprising names had been included in the wedding list, as though the family wished to rid itself of its reputation for being snobbish and exclusive, to be seen to broaden its horizons.

  For weeks Euphemia had agonised about her dress, her style of hat, and now she stood wishing that she were not here but safe at home.

  The Reverend Lamb was encouraging, expansive, protective of his charge, of whose nervousness he was well aware. At the best of times he was not a very perceptive man, but he was genuinely fond of Euphemia, having known her father well. Theobald Monk had not feared God, which had worried the Rector a good deal as his parishioner drew near to death. Yet seldom had he seen a holier moment, and he had closed the eyes of the dead man with wonder in his own and a sense of bewilderment. Theobald had seldom attended church, so why had the grace of God appeared to touch him at his last hour?

  He turned to his timid charge and said encouragingly: ‘Now, Euphemia, why don’t you say hello to the Yetmans?’

  ‘I don’t really know them, Mr Lamb.’ Euphemia pressed her handkerchief to her moist palms and screwed up her eyes in agony.

  ‘Of course you know them!’ The Rector beckoned to John Yetman, who was taking his leave of Willem Heering, an expression of satisfaction on his face.

  ‘Good day, Rector.’ John Yetman shook him warmly by the hand. ‘What a very pleasant occasion, very successful if I may say so. And a beautiful sermon, Rector.’ Mr Yetman briefly raised his eyes to heaven. ‘It almost moved my wife to tears.’

  ‘Oh, and it moved me too,’ Euphemia said with fervour. ‘The passage from the Scripture was most beautifully chosen, Mr Lamb.’ Euphemia’s bashfulness had vanished as she clasped her hands together.

  “‘Who can find a virtuous woman? For her price is far above rubies,”’ the Rector intoned. ‘Proverbs chapter 31, verse 10.’ He knitted his fierce brows and looked steadfastly at the bride, who was being introduced by her husband to Lord and Lady Mount, old friends and near neighbours of the Woodville family. ‘Yes indeed. I am very surprised at Guy’s choice, but I approve of it. The new Lady Woodville looks a most worthy woman who will be an adornment to the family.’

  ‘How nice to see you out and about again, Miss Monk,’ John Yetman said, looking at Euphemia kindly. ‘Your dear father would be pleased to see you moving about in society again. How charming you look today.’

  Euphemia blushed at the unexpected compliment and put her hands to her face.

  ‘Really, Mr Yetman. When you compare my looks to those of your daughter, Agnes, there is no comparison.’

  ‘I do not compare them, my dear,’ John Yetman replied. ‘You are different types of women. But I may pay you a compliment, may I not?’

  ‘Certainly you may,’ the Rector said robustly on behalf of his timid charge. ‘But take care that Mrs Yetman doesn’t hear you.’

  ‘Oh, my wife is not jealous.’ John burst out laughing. ‘She has far too good a hold of me for jealousy to have any part. Besides, I am old enough to be this good lady’s father.’ John bowed to Euphemia. ‘I do hope we shall have the pleasure of entertaining you in our home, Miss Monk, now that your mourning is over.’

  Euphemia Monk was too unnerved to reply.

  ‘A little mouse,’ Catherine Yetman said dismissively as soon as her husband joined her, her eyes still fixed on Euphemia. ‘I never saw anyone so timid.’

  ‘She was overprotected by her father.’ John Yetman pursed his lips. ‘But for him she would have been married long ago. He never let her out of his sight. Now it is too late. Then she had to mourn him for well over twelve months and cut herself off from society completely. I like Euphemia Monk,’ he said firmly. ‘We must ask her to dinner with the Rector and Mrs Lamb.’

  ‘Very good, dear,’ Catherine Yetman said with a sigh, taking her husband’s arm. ‘I wish we could find a husband for Agnes. She looks about her too freely. People will talk.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ Yetman patted her arm as he exchanged smiles with a fellow member on the Parish Council. ‘There is plenty of time for Agnes. She should be in no hurry to find a mate. She will be well endowed and can afford to pick and choose. I would like her to travel a little, take more time for books and serious pastimes. She is too frivolous. In time, I promise you, Agnes will make a very good match.’

  John Yetman fell silent as he and his wife continued their stroll through the crowded room, conscious of the importance of the occasion, of seeing and being seen, stopping to greet the many similarly honoured guests they knew.

  Eventually the call went out that the bride and groom were cutting the cake, and everyone hurried into the dining room to participate in the joyful proceedings.

  John Yetman, who had many things to be thankful for, tried hard to forget his immediate worries and enjoy what was left of the day.

  Just after five the bride and bridegroom left to take the ferry from Portsmouth for a honeymoon on the Continent. The wedding night they would spend in Wimborne. The guests, in a flurry of excitement, had gathered on the steps of the porch and in the drive to see them off.

  Margaret had changed into a travelling outfit of green moiré silk which, though a little unsuitable for the time of year, looked attractive with a matching toque which set off the colour of her hair, undoubtedly her greatest asset. She wore a fur stole against the cold. The bridegroom wore a grey suit, stiff collar, and a pearl-grey tie, not unlike the dress suit he had worn for his wedding. He carried a top hat which he waved to the crowd as they streamed forward to throw confetti over the departing carriage.

  As the carriage rounded the drive Margaret hurled her bouquet into the throng. She had in fact aimed it at Eliza, who carefully sidestepped it so that it fell to the ground. For a moment it lay there until the youngest bridesmaid, Daisy Watmough, cousin of the Woodvilles, started forward and scooped it up, much to the amusement of the crowd.

&
nbsp; ‘It was meant for you, Miss Woodville,’ Mrs Yetman, who was standing beside her, said meaningfully. The two moved back from the crowd, some of whose members had begun to scamper down the drive after the departing carriage. ‘I noticed you deliberately did not pick it up.’

  ‘In fact the little girl who wanted it most got it.’ Eliza looked at the happy smile on ten-year-old Daisy’s face.

  ‘But surely she is a little young to contemplate marriage?’ Mrs Yetman ventured.

  ‘So am I,’ Eliza said with a bold glance. ‘I have not the slightest intention of settling down, I assure you.’ She looked around at the guests, many of whom were now strolling back up the drive having watched the carriage drive through the gates. Some were preparing to take their departure, some were accepting a fresh glass of champagne and looked as though they were settling in for the evening.

  Relations and close family friends had been invited for dinner and a dance afterwards, for which the staff were already actively preparing, bustling in and out of the great rooms, discreetly rearranging furniture and removing soiled plates and glasses.

  ‘Did Ryder not come today, Mrs Yetman?’ Eliza ventured in the tone of one who cared little one way or the other. ‘I noticed that your other two sons and Agnes were here.’ In fact Agnes had been particularly active in trying to spot the point to which the bride would throw her bouquet, but had completely misjudged it.

  ‘Oh no,’ Mrs Yetman replied with a smile, ‘Ryder doesn’t like this kind of thing. He says he can make better use of his time.’

  Much later that night, after the dinner and the dance which followed, Eliza lay awake, head on her arm, gazing at the trees of the park silhouetted against the moon. She was too nervous, too excited, too tired to sleep. Once again she had disgraced herself in public and, once again, been reprimanded for it. With justification. In her behaviour everyone saw a petulant schoolgirl rather than a young woman on the brink of adulthood. Time and time again she vowed to reform, and time and time again she failed. She was too impetuous, too wilful, too undisciplined. Unless she grew up, she realised, she would be tied to her mother’s apron strings for ever.