Authors: Jane Jackson
An image of Dorcas flashed across his mind. He pushed it aside. She would understand. The mine was his life just as painting was hers. She knew how long and how hard he had struggled as disaster loomed ever closer.
Marriage to Mary meant more than survival. It meant he could build
Wheal Providence
up to rival the richest mine in Cornwall. He loved Dorcas. Nothing would change between them. What Mary did not know could not hurt her.
‘Henry?’
Jerked from his thoughts he saw shadows of uncertainty and mortification cloud her face. He reached her in two strides and caught her hand holding it between both of his.
‘Forgive me, lass. It’s just – well, to be blunt, I didn’t expect –’
‘Why should you? Do you think me shameless?’ Her smile was unforced and self-mocking. But he sensed uncertainty.
He squeezed her hand. ‘How could I?’ Then in affection and gratitude he raised it to his lips. ‘We understand one another. Mary, will you do me the very great honour of becoming my wife?’
Her eyes glistened as she smiled up at him. ‘Thank you, Henry. I will.’ There was a small awkward pause. They both spoke at once.
‘Naturally, I wouldn’t –’
‘When had you –?’
Henry cleared his throat. ‘I was thinking, if we did not wish to wait too long then –’
‘Perhaps a month or two?’
His thoughts raced. Would she make him wait for the money until after the ring was on her finger?
‘Public opinion does not concern me,’ she continued. ‘But I am fond of your family and as our decision inevitably involves them as well, I feel a short delay would be tactful. Don’t you think?’
He nodded. He had no choice.
‘A quiet ceremony in the chapel with just the family would suit me very well. It is, after all, a very private and personal matter. Meanwhile I will make appointments with my lawyers and the bank.’
‘You won’t regret this, Mary,’ his voice was thick. As he pressed another kiss onto her knuckles she shyly touched his cheek.
‘Henry, about telling the family –‘
‘Best leave it a while. Not long,’ he added quickly, not wanting her to think him reluctant. ‘But what you were saying about tact – well, it’s only a week since – You do understand?’
‘Of course. When the time comes would you rather make the announcement on your own?’
‘Good God, no! What I mean is –’
‘I know exactly what you mean, Henry.’ Her dry tone was belied by an understanding smile. ‘We’ll do it together.’
‘Mary,’ he hesitated. ‘Would you tell Grace? Privately? She and her mother – You know. I think she’d take it better from you, being another woman. Would you mind?’ He could feel himself sweating, and eased his stiff collar with a forefinger.
She pressed his hand. ‘Of course not.’
After seeing her out, he returned to his study and sat at his desk. He must tell Dorcas. But it wasn’t urgent. Right now he had more than enough on his plate. He could wait a week or two. Once the news got out the village gossips would pounce like crows on carrion. But Dorcas would understand.
Chapter Thirteen
Just after ten on the last Sunday in July, Edwin left the manse carrying an overnight bag to make the five-mile walk to Godolphin Wollas where he would preach an afternoon and evening service. Heavy dew still spangled the grass that edged the road, the glittering droplets indicating a fine day. In a bluebell sky small clouds were piling into fleecy billows that trailed shadows in their wake as they sailed high over the landscape.
From the hillside he looked down onto woodland boasting every shade of green from the dark gloss of holly to the pink-tinted jade of sycamore and the burgundy richness of an occasional copper beech.
Cut hayfields looked scalped and pallid against lush pastures where cattle grazed. Scarlet poppies dotted fields of ripening wheat and barley
like splattered blood
. The thought –a dagger thrust between his ribs – stopped his breath. He thrust it away and inhaled deeply.
Not now. Not today. Concentrate on something else.
His eye caught by two peacock butterflies fluttering above a pale green field of oats that rippled in the breeze like water, he thought of Grace.
Her portrait lay in the bottom of his bag protected by two sheets of writing paper. She had glowed that day, her lacy gown a change from her usual skirt and blouse. Even allowing that she had been her mother’s principal nurse and companion, closer to her than anyone else, bereavement had affected her more severely than he would have expected.
Now a door had closed on part of her life. What would she do with the rest of it?
How he wished…
Such thoughts were worse than foolish. She deserved so much more than he could offer. But knowing that didn’t ease the ache or stop the yearning.
It was almost eleven-thirty when he reached the farm. A broad carriage drive led up to a heavy front door, which on most Cornish farms was only ever used by the undertaker. Edwin walked round to the back.
The house was large and solid, the granite walls softened by a green tangle of ivy and Virginia creeper that reached to the eaves and fringed deep white-painted sash windows whose many small panes reflected the sun.
Following the flagged path that separated the house from the kitchen garden he arrived at the ever-open back door as his host came out to greet him.
Norman Angove was wearing his black Sunday-best suit, a starched collar, a gold watch chain looped across his waistcoat, and a broad smile.
‘How do, Mr Philpotts.’ Seizing Edwin’s hand he gave it a hearty shake. ‘Handsome day, isn’t it?’
‘It certainly is,’ Edwin smiled.
‘Surely better ‘n the last time you was here. Mind you, we needed the rain. Come on inside.’ He led the way into an airy kitchen rich with the savoury aroma of cooking. Edwin’s stomach gurgled and his mouth watered in anticipation.
‘Morning, Mr Phillpotts.’ Lucy Angove glanced up, her plump face flushed and smiling. On the top of the Cornish range three saucepans bubbled. Gripping one corner of a large roasting tin with a folded cloth, she ladled the juices over the browning meat, her frilled blouse and dark skirt protected by a crisp white apron.
As she replaced the tin in the lower part of the oven, Edwin glimpsed another on the top shelf full of golden roast potatoes. Hunger sent pangs through his stomach. Slamming the oven door shut, Lucy hung the cloth over the brass rail and wiped her hands on her apron.
‘Dinner won’t be long. I expect you’re ready for it. ‘Tis some long way from Trewartha. Norman, haven’t you offered Mr Phillpotts a drink? The poor man just walked five miles in the sun.’
‘Give us a chance, woman. Fancy a glass of apple juice, Mr Phillpotts?’
‘That would be most welcome, thank you.’
‘Fetch a fresh flagon, Norm. The boys near enough finished that one in the larder.’ She turned to Edwin. ‘Sit down a minute and rest your legs.’
Dropping his bag Edwin pulled out one of the hoop-back wooden chairs. Spread with a gleaming white starched cloth the oblong table was set for five. He gazed round and felt the welcoming atmosphere enfold him.
Above a stone sink big enough to bathe in, sunshine streaming in through the window illuminated spotless flagstones. Scrubbing had bleached the grooved wooden draining board almost white. Cheerful red-checked curtains were fastened back to allow in as much light as possible. Beneath the sink stood a full bucket of clean water drawn from the pump in the yard.
Cupboards stretched along one wall from waist height to floor. Above them on a wide shelf holding saucepans, baking tins, mixing bowls and serving dishes, a floral-painted tea caddy sat next to wide-topped stone jars labelled
salt, sugar
and
flour
. Colourful crockery was displayed on an enormous oak dresser.
Below the range, inside one end of the polished brass fender, a huge black kettle waited for space on the stove. Fire irons and a coalscuttle stood at the other end. Hauled up to the ceiling on its rope and pulley, a slatted wood clothes airer was today bare of laundry.
Though similar in size and content the manse kitchen bore little resemblance to this room. The difference was one of atmosphere. Edwin had noticed it the first day he came and on every visit since. Here he felt drawn in, welcome. But at the place supposed to be his home he felt like an interloper.
At least he had his study, a place of privacy and quiet in which to read, write, and prepare his sermons, or to talk to villagers who sought comfort or advice. Here, as on most farms, all the paperwork was done at the kitchen table.
On the mantelshelf above the range the space behind the clock was stuffed with letters. Between numerous ornaments farm bills, receipts and accounts were speared onto metal spikes with round wooden bases.
Norman returned from the dairy carrying a brown stone flagon. He looked past Edwin who heard a door open behind him.
‘Here’s Matthew and Oliver.’
Rising, Edwin turned to shake the calloused hands of two stocky young men whose suit jackets strained across shoulders bulky from hard physical work. Beneath hair combed flat their sunburned faces were freshly shaved. Both nodded and murmured a greeting.
Norman removed the flagon’s stopper. As he poured the cloudy liquid into glass tankards Edwin smelled the sharp tang of apples. On his first visit to the farm, Edwin had found the apple juice so tasty and refreshing that he had accepted a second glassful. Being Methodists the Angoves were staunchly teetotal. Condemning wines and spirits as the devil’s brew they claimed what emerged from their apple press was simply
apple juice.
Edwin was uncertain if this was genuine naivety. But weighing his responsibility as a guest to accept with thanks whatever he was offered, against the risk of slurred speech and a pounding headache, he was careful now to accept only one glass. This he sipped slowly over the course of the meal.
‘Right,’ Lucy announced. ‘Dinner’s nearly ready, so I’ll take you up and you can drop your bag.’
The room was furnished with flowered wallpaper, a big brass bed with a feather mattress covered by a blue counterpane, rag rugs on a wooden floor polished with lavender wax that faintly scented the air, and a large oak wardrobe. There was clean water in the tall china jug, a towel next to it, and a small vase of flowers on the bedside table next to the oil lamp.
‘Don’t be long now. Look like you could do with a good meal, you do.’
Recognising concern in her sharp eyes Edwin smiled. ‘The walk has certainly given me an appetite. I’ll be down again in a few minutes.’
Lucy bustled out, closing the door behind her.
After rinsing his face and hands and combing his hair Edwin returned, much refreshed, to the kitchen table. He said a short prayer of thanks. Then Norman carved thick tender slices from the roast leg of lamb while Lucy passed round dishes of roast potatoes, peas and carrots, and jugs of gravy and mint sauce.
While Matthew and Oliver focused on their heaped plates, Norman, a chapel Steward and thus responsible for the fabric of the building, told Edwin of the rot discovered in the windows.
‘We can’t leave it another year,’ he said between mouthfuls. ‘The glass will fall out. All they windows should be repainted before the bad weather set in, and the woodwork do need to be done before they can start painting. I got a couple of estimates for the carpentry and the painting. I’ll give them to you before you go.’
‘Thank you.’ Edwin was grateful. Norman’s forethought meant all he had to do was pass the estimates on to his circuit superintendent. As soon as financial consent had been given work could begin.
‘Sad about Mrs Damerel going like that,’ Lucy remarked. ‘Must have been some awful shock for Grace, dear of her. She’s a lovely girl.’
Startled to hear Grace’s name mentioned when he was trying so hard to avoid thinking about her, Edwin swallowed convulsively and choked on a piece of potato.
‘All right, are you, Reverend?’ Lucy enquired, her forehead puckering in anxiety.
He nodded. ‘Fine,’ he croaked. ‘Wrong way…’ He patted his chest, his face hot with embarrassment, eyes watering. ‘…apologize.’ Reaching for his tankard he sipped the apple juice.
‘You got them muddled, mother,’ Oliver looked up from his plate. ‘‘Tis Zoe got the looks.’
‘Looks aren’t everything, my lad,’ Lucy replied. ‘You’d do well to remember that. Zoe might be pretty as a picture, and we all know she got a lovely voice. But she isn’t what you’d call a
giving
girl. Grace now, she got a heart as big as a rain barrel. I just wish she could find a man to love her like she deserve.’
No
. Edwin’s instant and violent rejection of the very thought of anyone else loving Grace appalled him. He felt shaken and ashamed. His breathing once more under control, his appetite completely gone, he put his knife and fork together, fervently hoping his flushed and sweating face would be attributed to his coughing fit.
‘Now, Reverend,’ Lucy beamed. ‘What about some raspberry tart? Fresh out of the garden this morning they were. Here, Norm, pass Mr Philpotts the cream.’
‘Thank you.’ Forcing a smile, Edwin accepted the dish and picked up his spoon.
The next few hours were a blend of clarity and confusion. During the walk to the chapel and the opening hymns, his thoughts strayed continually to Grace.
With two services to preside over and aware that many in the congregation would attend both, he had planned his sermon to last only twenty minutes. Afterwards he was wryly amused to find his brevity praised by some but scorned by others who didn’t consider a preacher had done a proper job unless they had been harangued for at least an hour. But thundering scolds and dire warnings were not his style. God knew he had more guilt on his soul than any of those present.
As parents and grandparents headed home to enjoy an hour without youngsters underfoot, Edwin joined the children in the Sunday school. Listening to Miss Butteridge, the sour-faced elderly teacher droning on, he sympathised with the children’s boredom-induced fidgeting.
When Grace taught at Sunday school her audience was rapt and silent. She had a way of telling bible stories that brought them to vivid life. She also divided the session with short break and, if the weather allowed, sent the children outside. Giving the boys a ball to burn off their excess energy, she chatted to the girls.
His compliments on her insight and understanding had brought a fiery blush to her face. But she had refused the praise, explaining that anyone with younger brothers knew they could not sit still or attend to anything for longer than twenty minutes.
Her rapport with children made a mockery of Miss Butteridge’s stern efforts.
She
would make a wonderful mother.
Clenching his fists he struggled for objectivity. He had forfeited any right to happiness. He must think only of Grace’s well being.
Perhaps she could extend her teaching. Maybe join the staff at the village school? He would suggest it when next they met. It would give him a reason to talk to her: to help her find purpose and a new direction for her life.
By the time he got back to the farm Norman, Matthew and Oliver were doing the afternoon milking while Lucy laid out a spread of bread and butter, cold meat and pickles, saffron cake, scones with home made strawberry jam and thick clotted cream, and cups of strong tea.
Edwin walked in the garden rehearsing his next sermon while the men washed in the scullery before going upstairs to change once more into their Sunday best. Then after tea everyone returned to chapel for the evening service.
Later that night as Edwin prepared for bed he wondered what to do about Miss Butteridge. After Sunday School she had complained to him about the children. He had ventured that adding a little fun might make them more attentive. Retorting that Reverend Peters would never have suggested such a thing she stalked away, her mind as tightly closed as her thin mouth.
He wondered if umbrage might keep her from the evening service. But when he entered from the vestry she had been sitting in her usual place and glared at him, radiating disapproval, from the opening hymn until the final prayer.
Rinsing his hands he reached for the towel. As he dried himself, picturing the children’s faces, another child’s image filled his mind: a brown-skinned child with huge dark eyes and blue-black hair.
He sank onto the bed engulfed by sickening guilt as, yet again, the questions hammered relentlessly. Why hadn’t he realised? How could he not have seen? Was there something he could have done? Could he have stopped it? Had others known? But if they had then surely they would have said something?
Unless they believed he was aware and had chosen not to see.
He buried his face in the towel, lashed by crucifying self-reproach.
Like so many of the mission children, Akhil had been found on the street: a bundle of rags, starving, filthy, and covered in sores. Most children reacted to food and care with a wary greed that gradually evolved into trust. But any attempt to touch Akhil had met with thrashing feet and fists and strange inarticulate grunts. When at last a sobbing but clean Akhil was wrapped in a towel, Edwin and his two helpers were soaked to the skin.