The Ugly Sister (22 page)

My reception at Place, and at Tregrehan had been anything but warmly welcoming, and it was pleasant to feel one was returning to kindly companionship and the familiarity of a known and appreciated home. My feelings for the Canon were warmer by contrast than they had ever been before. Here at least was one unvarying and reliable man. He was old but I enjoyed his company. And he did mine.

It occurred to me, not for the first time, that my failure to respond to his offer of marriage must have hurt him and hurt his self-esteem. However unimportant I might be in the general scheme of things, I had youth, some intelligence, health and strength, and while giving him the general benefit of them I had refused to accept his name and his hand. I thought to myself rather suddenly that perhaps I ought to reconsider. No one else had any use for me. My mother had remarried, and my sister had made her rejection plain. As Mrs Robartes I should, as he said, acquire a different position; and among those people I had come to know in the area of Bodmin – particularly Caroline Collins – this would be a great advantage. Socially, of course, but also in a companionable sense. I should be not just a visiting niece acting as housekeeper; I should become one of them. I would become one of the relatively unchanging gentry peopling the countryside. Mrs Collins had already suggested that we might ride to hounds together. I was not at all certain I could ride well enough: I was more used to boats than horses, but if I were the Canon's wife I would certainly have the confidence to try.

As I came near to Blisland the clouds broke and a weak sun fell on the fields and moors. It was a welcome. A welcome home.

I thought not to mention it this evening, but perhaps tomorrow. When we're having tea together. Apologize for having been so long in making up my mind, saying I wanted to be sure. Now I was sure. We'd be married in early December before the busy rush of Christmas began. Because of my friendship with them I should like Caroline's cousin, the Reverend Frederick Collins, to perform the ceremony.

What a strange occasion it would be! In my childhood before the extent of my disfigurement came home to me, I used to have dreams of a white wedding to a handsome but vaguely anonymous young man in a naval officer's uniform, and after it we would take a honeymoon in Bath and then settle somewhere by the sea in Cornwall and live happily ever after.

This was reality. To an old clergyman, in a windswept granite church, to marry him in order to care for him and to continue to live in this draughty rectory where for the last few years I had already made a home, and hoped to make it now for probably many years to come. Yet it did not depress me. I had grown very attached to the Canon. I enjoyed talking to him, reading to him, singing to him. This might be a million miles from the nerve-stretching, exotic sexuality of that single night with Bram, but I had grown out of that, I no longer wanted – or needed – its return. I loved Francis – as I supposed I should have to start calling him – in quite a different way. If there was no element of passion there was companionship, warmth and understanding. I would be happy to accept that.

A man called Greg Glanville, who worked at the tanners, was standing on the green as I reached it. He gave me a smile and tipped his cap, then slouched off towards his cottage. Two women looked up from tilling their gardens and nodded in a friendly way. Then I had crossed the grass and crunched up the short drive and came to the front door of the rectory. I went in.

It was quiet. Possibly the Canon was out, or he had already got his tea. The three servants usually took half an hour off at this time and had a cup of cocoa and a chat. I did not go into the kitchen, but dumped my bag in the hall and went up the stairs. Halfway up I met Hester Tremewan, who stared at me in surprise.

I had completely forgotten she had come in for the week, and I laughed at her surprise. An anxious expression crossed her face.

‘Hush, please: your uncle is gravely ill.'

S
HE WHISPERED
: ‘The doctor says it be apoplexy. Wednesday afternoon I took in his tea and he says: “Mrs Tremewan, I can't hold my cup,” he says. We got 'im to bed before doctor come; he could just manage the stairs; 'tis 'is left side that have been struck. Doctor say complete quiet. Oh we sent for you; first thing Canon d'say when he speaks again is “Send for Miss Emma.” I was surprised you got 'ere so soon. Did you come back by the trap?'

‘I did not get your message. I had moved to St Austell. It just happened that I came home early.'

‘Well, God be thanked, I was never one for nursing, and I knew so soon as you come back things would be for the better.'

‘Is he conscious?'

‘Oh yes. I sat up with him most of last night and he was dozing on and off all the time. Sometimes he would talk to me – 'twasn't that it was nonsense but I couldn't make much head or tail. I'm not book-learned and you have to be book-learned to follow what he was saying.'

Dusk had not yet fallen but his bedroom was shadowy. The pieces of old furniture leaned about making the room dark.

He was half sitting up, propped by four pillows, his eyes closed, but as soon as he heard movement he opened them. It took several seconds to focus them, then he smiled.

‘Why, Emma …'

I bent and kissed him – not something I usually did – he had not been shaved today. His black satin nightcap was at an unusually rakish angle, one side of his mouth was drawn down; he smelt of tobacco and wine.

‘Good of you to come back so soon …'

‘I am very distressed to find you like this. Have you had tea?'

He shook his head. ‘ Not thirsty.'

‘I will get Mrs Tremewan to make you some.'

‘You – have it with me?'

‘Of course. Has the doctor been today?' This was addressed to Mrs Tremewan as she was about to leave.

‘Yes, miss. And will come tomorrow. He bled the Canon this morning and he says no solid foods for forty-eight hours, then a very light diet of bread and milk.'

My uncle said with a wry smile: ‘This is in accord – with the tenets of my faith. Perhaps it is time – I paid more heed to them.'

When Mrs Tremewan had gone I took his left hand and held it for a moment. ‘Can you feel that, Uncle?'

‘Very little. But it pleases me to see you doing it.'

Tears welled suddenly into his eyes and dripped down his plump cheeks. They brought a response from me, and I gulped into my free hand.

‘My handkerchief,' he said.

I brought him one and removed his glasses. He dabbed at his eyes and I at mine. Sitting on the bed I stared at him feeling sick at heart and lost.

Presently he extended his right hand for his spectacles and carefully put them on again.

He sniffed. ‘Enough, my dear little Emma. I shall not do that again. A cardinal sin is being sorry for oneself. You may cry for me if you wish, but I must at all costs avoid self-pity. After all, this is only a small attack. We must carry on as if nothing had happened. Just hold my hand a moment or two longer.'

So we sat silent in the gloomy room until Mrs Tremewan arrived with candles and the tea.

T
HE
C
ANON
'
S
left leg was paralysed, as partly was his left arm. He had little difficulty in speaking but his words were sometimes slurred.

After about a month he began to move his leg, so I devoted time to massaging it and getting him in and out of bed. Presently he came to walk with a stick; at first he needed a friendly arm but later he learned to get about the house on his own. We ordered a Bath chair, and with this I pushed him around the village to visit his parishioners. On Advent Sunday he took the service at the church. It was not a great success but it marked the peak of his achievement.

Visiting clergy kept the Sunday services going, and after the morning service they came to lunch. The Canon insisted I should be present – indeed for some meals it was essential to be there in order to cut up his food.

So I came to know many more of the local clergymen, who treated me as if I were the Canon's daughter. Meeting them was an interesting experience: most of them were simply concerned with the gossip of the day – you could have found no more trivial conversation at a country fair – but one or two were of a different calibre, and arguing or talking about the
Codex Alexandrinus
or Paul's
Epistle to the Philippians
brought colour to my uncle's cheeks and a sparkle to his eyes.

I could not ever mention marriage to him now, for it would look as if I were suggesting it for the small legacy he would leave me. I knew in any case he would instantly reject the idea. There were conditions he would impose on himself, and this apoplexy put it right out of consideration.

I had a letter from my mother from Scotland. Her husband was half-Scottish and had relatives there. She wrote from Edinburgh, full of praise of the city, which she had, she said, failed to appreciate on her two previous visits. Knowing actors, it occurred to me that perhaps this was because Edinburgh on her previous visits had failed to appreciate her. She said she had not heard from Thomasine for over three months. She had had a letter from Anna Maria saying that Samuel had now resigned from the Navy but was proposing to live in London to be near Westminster. By the time this letter reached me Anna Maria was likely to have been brought to bed with her fifth. So far they were all boys. They both now wanted a girl. Did I see, by the way, in the
West Briton
– which she had regularly sent her – that Abraham Fox had unearthed a big smuggling swindle and several men had gone to prison. ‘ I would never have believed him capable of such fervour in the cause of law and order.'

It was the first time she had mentioned Bram in a letter to me.

The Canon had a slight backsliding in December, so a relief clergyman took the attenuated services in the church. We had a late supper, Uncle Francis and I, that Christmas evening. He seemed depressed, and after it he said:

‘D'you know, Emma, if I do not get better I shall have to resign the living.'

‘I do not think you need to at all. Most of the services have been maintained, and you are still able to get around the parish.'

‘I have duties in Bodmin. We'll see until Easter. If I am not well by then I think the Bishop will expect it.'

‘That would mean leaving the rectory?'

‘Oh yes.'

‘Where should we go?'

He was a long time answering. He had lost a stone or so in weight, but still kept the colour in his cheeks, and most of the distortion of the mouth had gone. The solitary candle flickered in a wayward draught.

‘Thank you,' he said, ‘for the “ we”. Where would we go? Probably we could find comfortable lodgings in Bodmin. Of course I should be without my stipend but there would be some accommodation granted me.'

I said: ‘ Let's face that when it comes.'

He sighed. ‘D'you know, Emma, I am glad that you did not agree to marry me, though I took it hard at the time. It would not have been fair to you.'

‘I did not refuse you,' I said.

‘No, but you should have. In spite of your handicap you are so young and vital. Now that I have had this stroke it emphasizes the tremendous gap between us. Had you been tied to me now I should have felt gravely to blame.'

‘I think I am tied to you, whether or not.'

We had opened a bottle of wine for supper, and he reached over and filled my glass.

‘That is the kindest thing you have ever said to me. Tell me … I have hesitated to ask – is your eye no longer bloodshot? Have you treated it with something?'

‘No, it has just happened. Sometimes it comes back for a day or so but mostly it is quite gone. Of course the lid is still so badly drawn down.'

‘And you will stay with me even if we have to live in rooms in Bodmin?'

‘Yes, I will stay with you.'

‘Surgeon Smith,' he said, ‘ tells me I should not drink wine. I trust he will forgive me on this cold Christmas Day.'

‘I'll make up the fire,' I said.

‘Emma.' He had used my name three times tonight. ‘Even though we are so different in age, in learning, in character, I think I am more deeply fond of you than of any other persons I have known in my life. I would trust you anywhere, at any time. So when you say you will stay with me to the end, I believe you totally.'

I patted his hand as I passed. ‘ Why talk about ends? Christmas is a time of beginnings.'

‘Now you teach me my own faith.' He hesitated, fumbling with his collar.

‘Does that fret you?'

‘No. Indeed not. But may I be permitted to talk about death for a moment or two more?'

‘A moment or two only.'

He waited till I came back from the fire.

‘I am, I trust, a fully committed Christian pastor. To believe in God the Father, God the Son and God the Holy Ghost, to believe in the resurrection of the body and life everlasting – these are the central tenets of the Church, and to them I subscribe from the very depths of my soul. I have believed them all my life and have spent my life teaching and promulgating this faith to all who will listen. I have tried in my preaching but much more in my writing to penetrate to the depths of the ultimate meaning of life and death and the great Hereafter. Virtually all my intellectual time has been spent in such study. As you know, I have a more material side which has enabled me also to take an active interest in the development of rail communications in this country, and in all things mechanical and scientific. That has not been in any way a rival to my primary ecclesiastical interest. How could it be? Similarly, you more than anyone, because I have been more often in your company than ever before, must know of my enjoyment of some of the more mundane aspects of life. The food you cook for me, the wine I drink, the jolly songs you sing.' He stopped suddenly. ‘Why am I saying all this to you?'