Summer's End (5 page)

Caroline grinned guiltily. ‘Discussing, not fighting.'

‘Fighting,' Felicia corrected, unusually light-hearted. Normally she left her two older sisters to squabble, and Phoebe to battle with George. ‘I'll go and ask Mother what she thinks about the dress.'

There was a brief silence as she left, which Caroline broke: ‘Now we'll be in trouble. Are you sure –' She stopped, diffident about what she wanted to ask.

‘Go on.' Isabel's voice was studiedly neutral.

‘That you'll be happy?'

‘I'll be rich. I can't bear this scrimping and saving. Wouldn't you like to be rich, and never have to make home-made perfume again?'

‘Not if it meant marrying someone I didn't love.'

Isabel flushed. ‘I do love Robert.
Real
love. Not like Phoebe –'

‘Phoebe?' Caroline forgot Isabel's dexterity at switching away from unfortunate subjects.

‘You'll have to keep an eye on her when I've gone. I think she's crushed on Mr Denis.'

‘
What?
' Caroline burst into laughter. ‘He's far too sensible.' Christopher Denis was a most earnest young curate whose passions centred on Greek, not girls.

‘Perhaps, but Phoebe isn't, and I do have a position to keep up.'

Caroline mouth's twitched. ‘What as? The Rector's daughter?'

‘As Robert's fiancée. You're very sanctimonious all of a sudden, Caroline.'

‘I grew up,' Caroline replied shortly. ‘Perhaps you should.'

‘I have. I shall be sharing a bed with Robert, after all.'

It was almost, Caroline thought, as if Isabel was determined to drag the subject up. ‘Have you thought about that?' she asked tentatively.

‘Of course,' Isabel answered lightly. ‘There's nothing to it if you shut your eyes.'

‘You mean you know already?' Caroline was taken aback.

‘Of course not,' Isabel snapped. ‘Mother told me, now that I'm going to be married,' she added importantly.

Caroline didn't believe her. Mother wouldn't. Isabel must have discussed it at finishing school. Somehow marriage didn't seem much fun if all you had to do was shut your eyes. But then perhaps marriage was not meant to be fun, merely an almost necessary evil, as Aunt Tilly has once said jokingly to her. It seemed a doleful prospect.

‘I'm bored.' Phoebe appeared at her bedroom door the next morning. An open door was understood between them as signalling they were ‘at home'. ‘You all do nothing but talk dresses, invitations, and dances. Nothing
interesting
.'

Caroline was tempted to suggest she spent some worthwhile time on her appearance. Both cuffs of her blouse were misbuttoned, the garnet brooch at her throat was askew, and the bottom of her skirt suggested, first, that perhaps she hadn't abandoned tree-climbing and second, that communication between herself and a cleaning brush, and/or Myrtle, was non-existent. Although Caroline was conscious of her own imperfections in this respect, Mother's dictum that a lady is known by her shoes, gloves and hat appeared to have fallen completely on deaf ears where Phoebe was concerned. Her attractive plump, rosy looks, like a wild peony coming into bloom, owed nothing to grooming and much to her restless bouncing energy. She was going to have a shock at finishing school in September – or would the shock all be on the school's side?

‘What do you classify as interesting?'

Phoebe searched in her repertoire and found nothing she could offer. She shrugged. ‘There's something going on between Father and Aunt Tilly in his study. I think he's throwing her out.'

‘
What?
'

‘She's harmless enough,' Phoebe continued, pleased with Caroline's reaction. ‘And she does have a motor-car. She took me for a drive. It were unaccountable exciting,' she mimicked.

‘Don't mock the servants. You'll do it to their faces one day.'

‘Who cares?' Pheobe felt on safe ground where Caroline was concerned, whereas Isabel, being older, was an extension of authority. ‘Go and listen, Carrie, do. I dare you.'

‘I won't do anything of the sort,' Caroline replied heatedly. ‘I don't believe you. And what's all this about you and Mr Denis?'

Phoebe's eyes flickered. ‘What about our blessed Saint Christopher?'

‘Don't get keen on him, Phoebe,' Caroline said quietly.

‘When I get keen on someone,' Phoebe retorted rudely, ‘it'll be someone far more exciting than a mere curate.' She swept out, congratulating herself she'd handled that rather well.

Caroline was bound to admit Isabel might be right. Since Phoebe had no interests in Ashden (except the curate?) it was as well she would have Paris to distract her (and control her). She decided to go downstairs – to find Mother, she told herself. She saw Aunt Tilly coming out of Father's study, and was alarmed to see that she did indeed look distressed, her normal composure decidedly shaken.

‘Are you all right, Aunt Tilly?' she asked with concern.

Tilly opened her mouth as if to reply, then shook her head, not so much in answer to the question as in reproach at herself. ‘Quite, thank you, Caroline.'

‘You're not leaving us, are you?' Caroline asked, alarmed that Phoebe might be right. Aunt Tilly, with her quiet dry wit and observer's sharp eye, was a tonic to Rectory life in Caroline's opinion, though her younger siblings failed to agree.

‘I'm nearly better. Soon I must go.'

‘Not till the wedding, surely? You've got to stay till then.'

‘Mother –'

‘Can exist very well without you,' Caroline interrupted firmly. ‘Grandmother is a tyrant and the more you tolerate her the worse she will be.'

Tilly's eyes looked unusually moist, and, saying nothing further, she hurried past Caroline and up the staircase, muttering about changing for luncheon, a rare observance on her part.

Caroline hesitated for a moment, then walked into the study, a privilege she alone seemed to have, though there had never been a formal ban on others entering, so far as she knew. They just never did, and she rarely took advantage of her freedom either. ‘Father, Aunt Tilly seems upset.'

He was standing by the window looking out across to the shrubs that hid the coachhouse and stables. He'd chosen this room deliberately so that the view towards the distant forest should not distract him, but today the plan seemed to have failed. His face was grave as he turned to speak to her.

‘We disagreed, Caroline. It is of no great consequence.'

‘You won't let her leave us, will you?'

He looked surprised and hesitated. ‘I may not be able to prevent it.'

‘You can't let Grandmother win.'

‘If only,' he said wryly, ‘it were as simple as that. No, we disagreed partly over a village matter.'

‘Nanny Oates?'

‘She is involved.' Her father's study and ears were a confessional as private as any to be found in the church, any judgement his alone, and so she was surprised when he continued, ‘It will be public soon enough. Am I right in thinking that our parlourmaid, Agnes, has an understanding with young Jamie Thorn?'

‘Yes, they've been walking out for two or three years, and they'll be married soon, I'm sure of it.'

‘I fear not.'

‘Why?' Caroline was alarmed. They were all fond of Agnes, and Jamie, younger son of the blacksmith, was well liked.

‘Ruth Horner, who as you know is one of the Swinford-Brownes' housemaids, is to have a child.'

‘But she's not married,' Caroline said immediately, then awarded herself full marks for stupidity. Of course. That was the greatest shame even now in Ashden, though most young couples caught in such a dilemma marched themselves quickly enough to the altar.

‘No. She names young Jamie as the father.'

‘But how could he be? He loves Agnes.'

‘He denies Ruth's claim, and has refused to marry her. As a consequence the Swinford-Brownes have thrown the girl out.'

‘That's cruel and unchristian.'

‘That, as you must know, is the way of the world.'

‘Chapel-goers,' she said fiercely. The village was divided in its religious attendance, between St Nicholas and the Wesleyan Chapel in Station Road which the Swinford-Brownes attended. ‘Typical.'

‘And often church-goers too, Caroline,' he said gravely. ‘Nanny Oates has taken her in for the moment; Ruth is an orphan as you know. Nanny's cottage is too small, however, so some place must be found for her save the maternity unit of the Union workhouse, and a dismal future thereafter.'

‘What is to be done, Father?'

‘Much as I would like to, I cannot unmake an unwanted child, or
stop public opprobrium falling on the girl's head. But I can diligently seek the truth, and lead the way to compassion.'

‘Surely Mr Swinford-Browne's minister should take the matter up.'

‘His purse is too heavy for the Minister to feel eagerness at such a task.'

‘That should not weigh in the matter,' Caroline cried fiercely. In inclination she sensed her father often felt as she did, but Ashden's rules could vary from the Church's, and the Church's from his private convictions. The Rector walked a daily tightrope between leadership and respect with the chasms of alienation and compromise on either side.

‘Agnes will need our help, Caroline.'

‘But you can't mean Jamie must be forced to marry the girl if he does not love her?'

‘He should have thought of that when he took advantage of Ruth's innocence.'

‘Suppose Ruth is lying?'

‘Why should she?' her father asked gently. ‘She needs to name the father if she is to obtain a magistrate's order for support for a child born out of wedlock. But she prefers to wed him, naturally. She is not a bad girl, my dear. I will naturally talk to them both at length to be sure of the truth.' He looked tired.

‘But why is Aunt Tilly so upset?' Caroline asked.

Laurence Lilley hesitated, choosing his words. ‘She fears I may not use my influence strongly enough to force Jamie to marry the girl.'

‘She feels for Ruth, then. Is she right about you, Father?'

‘Naturally I will not press him if I can establish his innocence
without
question
. If there is doubt, then bear in mind that villagers are slow to change. Not so long ago the Ruths of this world would kill themselves, and the village folk would not lift a finger to save her. Not far from here, not long ago, people stood and watched one poor girl drown herself. Nowadays their death would be slower. In towns they go on the streets, in villages they go to the Union workhouse and afterwards they have to live like lepers, scorned by the women and men too – in their own way,' he finished diplomatically. ‘I would condemn no one to that life if words from me could change it.'

‘And what of Agnes's life, Father?'

‘A broken life against a broken heart. Broken hearts sometimes
mend, a life broken by social stigma never does. How would you weigh those, Caroline?'

The week before Isabel's engagement ball was entirely given over to the coming occasion. The warm dry weather continued and Caroline imagined Edith Swinford-Browne having put in her order to God for twelve hours of sun per day along with her order to Fortnum & Mason's. She hardly saw Father; he simply came and went on his daily routine of Matins, breakfast, church business, luncheon, parish visiting, his ‘surgery', Evensong, dinner, reading and bed. Mother gave the impression of gliding over the trials and tribulations of the week, towing her brood of ugly ducklings, one of which was turning into a beautiful swan. Caroline wasn't going to begrudge Isabel these few months of hectic attention before her marriage, though she could not understand quite why the present week should be proving so busy. The catering was very firmly in the darting, claw-like hands of Mrs Swinford-Browne, and the house was being decorated by the Swinford-Brownes (not personally, naturally). The Rectory girls had longed to help, but much to their annoyance had been refused. They had no role, yet the week was a ‘twittering one', their father's word for times when anything disturbed the measured order of his life.

They could not even discuss Isabel's own toilette, for her first visit to Mrs Hazel for a new dress for the ball had been followed by her future mother-in-law's swift intervention. She swept Isabel up to Jay's at Oxford Circus in London for their models to be paraded before her and then to Maison Nichol in Bond Street for attention to her hair. Caroline suspected she now knew the meaning of Isabel's sudden silence on the subject of Mrs Hazel. Edith had been egged on by Isabel who now spoke of ‘transformations' and ‘Nestle's permanent hair waves' with assured nonchalance until they laughed at her, and then had to soothe her wounded feelings. Meanwhile Elizabeth had soothed Mrs Hazel's feelings by assuring her the wedding dress would be hers to make,
and
those of the four bridesmaids (the Rectory girls, together with, naturally, the beloved Patricia).

Caroline was waiting impatiently for word from her father that she should talk to Agnes. Not that she was looking forward to it, but gossip could sweep through the village like wind rippling through a cornfield, and who knew when Agnes might hear of it – and
what
she would hear?

‘What's wrong with you, Agnes Pilbeam?' Margaret Dibble's voice was sharp. ‘There's Master George's clean boots still here.' That wasn't like Agnes. The sharpness disguised concern, not, it was true, entirely for the parlourmaid, but for the smooth running of the Rectory. Pale faces meant slack work, in her experience.

‘Nothing.' Agnes straightened her shoulders and tried to look as if boots were all that concerned her.

Mrs Dibble eyed her. ‘Have a cup of tea.'

‘No thanks.'