The Chain Garden (23 page)

This wasn’t happening.
Henry knew he should stay calm, defuse the situation with cool detachment. But his voice emerged ragged with fear and desperation. ‘Please, I can explain –’

She continued as if he had not spoken. ‘The day you proposed to me, Henry, I told you that all I asked of you was honesty. Do you remember?’

Stunned, he stared at her.
He could hear her saying it.
He had thought she meant honesty about his financial troubles. It had never occurred to him – In any case it hadn’t seemed important, not in the greater scheme of things, not with so much else to consider and plan and arrange.

‘Yes, I remember.’ He did now. ‘But, Mary, I haven’t
lied
to you.’ The look in her eyes made him shrivel inside. Suddenly anger surged through him. She had no right to do this.

‘Not only did you omit even to mention your long-standing relationship with Mrs Renowden, it appears you intended to continue that relationship after we were married.’ She shook her head slowly. ‘You really believed you could get away with it. I find such monstrous arrogance almost impossible to comprehend.’

Guilt fuelled his rage against her. ‘You were getting what you wanted, weren’t you? It was a fair bargain.’

‘It was. But you broke the agreement, Henry.’ A spasm tightened her face, and she raised one hand, pressing her fingers to her forehead. It was the first crack in the façade, the first sign of weakness she had shown. Though she immediately regained control and lifted her chin he felt a rush of hope.

‘Mary, please, I’ll never see Dorcas again. I give you my solemn promise.’

‘You are willing to abandon the woman who bore your first son and was loyal to you for thirty years? The woman who clearly believed that after your wife died you would propose marriage to her?’

Too anxious, too reckless, he clutched at the perceived straw. ‘Yes, yes. Whatever you want.’ Immediately he realised he’d made a terrible mistake. Her expression made him feel small and ashamed. He hated her for that.

‘Do as you choose, Henry. It is no longer any concern of mine.’

This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be.
Fear welled up again. It dried his throat and filled his mouth with the hot taste of tin. ‘Maybe you would prefer not to be reminded, but
you
were the one who wanted this marriage.’

A painful flush stained her face as she recognised in his tone the implication that she had blackmailed him. It drained away almost at once, leaving her ashen. She had aged visibly since their last meeting. Yet as she met his challenging gaze her dignity was awesome. ‘True. However that was when I trusted you and considered you a friend.’ She crossed the room and tugged the bell cord beside the fireplace.

He started towards her. ‘Mary, please, I shouldn’t have said – I’ve done so many things wrong. I know I have. But you cannot imagine the strain –’

Neatly avoiding him she returned to the door. ‘We have nothing further to say to each other.’

He rubbed sweating palms together.
She didn’t mean it
. ‘No, not now. You’re upset. I can understand that. In a week or so, when you’ve had time –’

‘Not ever. I’m going away for a while.’

‘How long –?’

‘Indefinitely.’ The door opened. She inclined her head in the perfectly judged politeness her breeding demanded, now and forever a stranger. ‘Goodbye, Henry.’ She turned to the manservant who stood waiting. ‘Mr Damerel is leaving.’

Henry watched, helpless, as she walked out of his life.

Grace’s breakfast grew cold as she read then reread the two letters. By chance she opened Mary’s first. Brief, formal, it stated that she would not now be marrying Grace’s father and would be away from home for the foreseeable future. The hurt embodied in those few lines was almost palpable. Even as Grace wondered why, the answer came instant and appalling. Dorcas.

Sadness welled up as she recalled Mary’s pleasure, the glow of happiness that had brought colour to her cheeks, brightened her eyes and imbued her manner with new warmth. Grace had ignored Granny Hester’s spiteful warnings, sensing that Mary’s transformation had nothing whatever to do with arrogance or a desire to take over the household. Despite her undoubted intelligence, charm and kind nature Mary had needed a proposal of marriage to validate her as a woman.

The second letter was from Dorcas and hoped Grace would understand why she had told Mary. She wished Grace richly deserved happiness, and ended by saying that by the time the letter was delivered she would have left the village for good.

Grace turned towards the window without seeing the blue sky. Despite confusion and unease about Dorcas’s relationship with her father she had liked Dorcas as a person: finding her company both relaxing and stimulating. She had always left the cottage feeling better than when she arrived. Did that make her disloyal to her mother? She rubbed her forehead. Relationships were more complicated and emotionally confusing than she had ever imagined.

The dining room door opened and Kate came in.

‘All right if I clear away, Miss?’

‘Yes. Yes, of course.’

‘Lovely day for it,’ Kate beamed.

‘What?’ Grace looked blank.

‘The regatta. Going are you, Miss?’

‘I hadn’t – I’m not quite –’

Rising from the table Grace picked up her letters, her thoughts racing. Her parents had regularly attended chapel while hiding secrets that eventually poisoned both their lives. Richard was blissfully happy with Sophie and had quickly settled back into work at Polwellan. Bryce had changed during his years away. Returning with eyes full of shadows he had retreated behind an impenetrable wall. Only in the last few days since his announcement that he was returning to India had his air of strain begun to dissolve.

Then there was Zoe. Beautiful, talented, feted and admired, yet restless and dissatisfied. And herself, striving to win approval by fulfilling other people’s wishes, but lonely and unhappy with her enforced role.

She thought about what might have happened if Lewis’s activities had not been discovered, if he had not died. Edwin would still be in India. She would not have met the first man she had ever loved. A man she admired above all others for his courage and honesty. He had confessed to her his darkest secret and laid his heart at her feet. All her self-doubt suddenly evaporated. If Edwin loved her she must be worth loving.
Edwin loved her.

‘Yes, I’m going.’ She felt warm and quivery with excitement. ‘There’s someone I want to see.’

Henry remounted his horse. Chilling fear gripped his bowels. Mary had cut off his lifeline, his future. What now?
Dorcas.
Slamming his heels into his horse’s sides, he retraced his route. This time he kept up a breakneck speed all the way. So what if he was seen? People could think what they liked. He stood to lose everything he cared about. Compared to that, other people’s opinions counted for nothing.

By the time he reached Dorcas’s cottage his horse was lathered with sweat. Sliding off, his legs trembling from unaccustomed effort, he looped the reins over the gatepost. The hinges squealed as he opened the gate and stumbled down the path.

As he rounded the corner he saw the charred and sodden remains of a bonfire on a patch of grass between the flowerbeds.

Too intent on his purpose to wonder why it was there, he hurried on towards the closed door. Normally she only closed it when he was there or when she went out. He turned the knob. The door was locked. She probably didn’t want to see any callers. But she had to be in there. She had to. He rapped briskly then hammered with his fist, rehearsing apologies and promises.

After a minute he pressed his ear to the wood listening for a sound, any sound, to indicate a presence. There was nothing. If she wasn’t inside where in God’s name was she? He ran towards the orchard then searched the rest of the garden, peering into the shed and the wood store. He couldn’t leave without seeing her. He would have to wait until she got back.

The key: he knew she never took it with her as she was afraid of mislaying it. He looked for the flowerpot. Tipping it, he snatched up the key and fumbled it into the lock.

As he stepped over the threshold he paused. The cottage was different. There was no smell of bread baking, no tang of apple wood burning on the fire. The living room was tidier than he’d ever seen it. The usual clutter of books and papers, the vases of flowers, bits of painting paraphernalia, the faded emerald and crimson paisley shawl she sometimes wore against the morning and evening chill were all gone.

He walked quickly through to the kitchen. It was equally tidy and spotless. He raced up the narrow staircase and into the bedroom that was as familiar to him as his own. The bed had been stripped. Blankets and quilt lay neatly folded below the pillows on the bare mattress. The dressing table was bare. In dread he wrenched open the doors of the old oak wardrobe. It was empty. The room spun, blackness yawning in front of him. He staggered backwards and sank onto the bed clutching the brass rail at its foot.

He sucked in breaths, willing the faintness away. Icy perspiration soaked his clothing, beaded his forehead and dampened his palms. He pulled himself up and walked unsteadily down the stairs.

A letter: there had to be a letter. He searched: scanning every surface, opening every drawer and cupboard. All right so she was angry. But she wouldn’t have gone without a word. Thirty years had to count for something. For God’s sake it was almost a lifetime. She wouldn’t just leave. Not after all this time. Not after all they had meant to each other. Not
Dorcas.
But she had.

Chapter Twenty Three

After another restless night Edwin forced down some breakfast and left the manse at seven-thirty. Sleep would have been impossible anyway because of the noise. Preparations started early on Regatta Day.

In the village’s main street he held ladders while men tacked up red, white and blue bunting that zigzagged all the way from the top to the bottom of the road. On the open ground in front of the carpenters’ workshop he helped lay boards over the saw pit, then carried trestles and planks to form a makeshift stage for part of the afternoon’s entertainment.

At midmorning he returned to the manse, dragged a folding table out to the front gate, filled every cup and glass he could find with lemonade, and called to the sweating thirsty men. They gulped down the tart liquid with more mockery and banter than thanks as they wiped their mouths on brawny hands. He grinned, recognising approval and acceptance as they stomped away to the next task.

Down on Williams’s field where stalls were being set up he carried benches into the tea tent. Along one side of the field wagons of different sizes were being decorated with flowers and greenery ready for the carnival procession later in the afternoon. He pinned swags of dark blue cloth around the platform where the band would play and unloaded wooden chairs from the schoolroom off a cart.

At one o’clock, having worked off some of the physical tension generated by increasing anxiety, he returned to the manse to freshen up and eat cold ham and fried potatoes.

It was he who had told Grace she needed to rest and recover. It had been his idea she took time to think about what he had told her. He hadn’t realised how hard the waiting would be.

By two he was out in the street again. People were pouring in from all parts of the village. Most came on foot. But the occasional farm trailer creaked past drawn by a huge carthorse with fringed hooves the size of dinner plates and crammed with laughing youngsters perched on straw bales.

Edwin remained near the manse gate, making himself available to those who attended village functions seeking comfort and company. Most were regulars at chapel and he had come to know them well.

As usual he learned more than he wished to about various ailments, and nodded sympathetically at the latest developments in family feuds and fallings out with neighbours. While he listened, responding to the cheerful greetings of passers-by with a nod, a smile or a wave, he could not resist glancing up the street. That was the direction from which she would come, if she came.
Please let her come.
Then for a moment he was alone.

‘All right, Reverend?’

He turned. Pushing an elderly perambulator, Martha Tamblin was crossing the road from Miner’s Row. She had changed her normal working clothes for a full-sleeved cream pintucked blouse and dark green skirt. A straw boater with a faded red band shaded her eyes from the sun.

‘Good afternoon, Mrs Tamblin.’ As she drew level he looked into the pram. Baby Mark was asleep at the top end; Daniel sat at the bottom, his chubby legs dangling from the calf-length trousers of an over-large sailor suit. Walking beside Martha, Polly held her younger sister’s hand. Both girls wore frilled white pinafores over pink cotton dresses and had ribbons in their hair.

‘Hello,’ Edwin smiled. ‘You’re both looking very pretty this afternoon.’

‘We’re going to see the ‘gatta,’ Meg beamed.

‘I hope you have a lovely time.’ Digging a hand into his pocket and swiftly sorting the coins by touch, he withdrew a shilling. Looking to Martha for permission –granted with a nod and a grateful smile –he handed it to Polly. Her eyes widened and her pale cheeks turned rosy with pleasure.

‘Can I have one?’ Meg demanded.

‘Sshhh.’ Polly tugged her sister’s hand, darting a shy glance at Edwin. ‘It’s for all of us.’

‘There’s a sweet stall down on the quay,’ Edwin said. ‘Mr Benny is there with his barrow selling paper windmills.’

‘Dan’l want a windmill,’ Meg announced.

‘What do you say, Poll?’ Martha prompted gently.

‘Thank you, Mr Philpotts.’ Polly’s cheeks dimpled briefly. It was the first time Edwin had seen her smile.

‘It’s a pleasure, Polly.’

‘Bless you, Reverend,’ Martha murmured.

‘Can we go now, nan?’ Meg was edging backwards, dragging her sister away.

‘The children are looking well, Mrs Tamblin. So are you.’

Martha rolled her eyes. ‘‘Tis some job, Reverend. But Poll’s good as gold. We’re doing all right. Going down the quay are you?’

‘I expect I will later.’

‘Maybe see you down there then.’ With a nod Martha shepherded her grandchildren away.

Edwin looked up the road again.
Please, Grace. Please come.
He walked slowly down towards the carpenters’ workshop. Standing at the back he watched an appreciative crowd tap their feet and join in the chorus of popular songs from the music hall sung by Edie Banks and Stanley Bird.

Stan and Edie were popular entertainers at chapel and village functions, tailoring their repertoire to suit the occasion and the venue. This afternoon they were accompanied on an ancient accordion by Zeb Rollins who, having abandoned his crab pots for the day, mouthed ‘af’noon, Rev’rend’ across the heads of the audience; and on the violin by farmer Donald Keverne.

Edwin had only been in the village a week when he learned about Donald’s legendary gift from Mrs Nancholas, the chapel organist. Donald had inherited the violin from his grandfather who had also taught him to play. After the old man died Donald married the only child of a neighbouring farmer. This happy union had united two farms and produced three strapping sons. But Donald’s well-meaning attempts to soothe their teething or tantrums by playing his violin had the opposite effect. Eventually his harassed wife banished him to the cow byre to practise.

Donald’s discovery that the cows responded to his playing by increasing their milk yield had been met with hoots of derision from other farmers. Until a test conducted under strict conditions vindicated his claim. His status had soared. Any farmer with a decreasing yield, a nervous heifer giving birth for the first time, even a bad-tempered bull, sent for Donald and his violin.

The song ended to an enthusiastic burst of applause. As Zeb and Donald struck up a new tune Edwin turned away, looking up and down the road. Was it possible that with so many people around he might have missed her? Had she seen him talking to someone or listening to the music and been reluctant to interrupt? He would try the quay.

It was crowded. So was the water. Boats of varying sizes milled around the start and finish lines of a course marked by buoys and flags. In tiny craft little bigger than a clamshell, eight-year-olds plied the short oars like veterans. Teenagers in clinker-built randans traded insults as they rowed round each other. Further down the river a slender gig sliced through the water like a knife blade, powered by six burly men who bent and stretched in perfect unison over the sweeps.

At the back of the quay he saw Polly and Megan among the clamouring throng surrounding the confectionery stall. Another group of children gazed fascinated at the brightly coloured paper windmills. Standing upright in jars and buckets on a flat-topped wheelbarrow they hummed as they spun in the breeze.

In the water a few feet from the quay a dozen boys, supple as eels, were diving for a china plate. The watching crowd in their Sunday-best clothes laughed and clapped as the victor shot to the surface, spurting a fountain of water through his pursed lips. A grin split his face as he held the blue and white pattered plate high above his head. Then splashing his way to the quay he clambered out dripping, to claim his prize. A scolding mother wrapped a ragged towel around the hunched shoulders of another shivering urchin.

Scanning the faces, not seeing the one he sought, Edwin tried to keep his disappointment hidden as he turned away. More from habit than hope he glanced up the road towards the village. His heart leaped violently. Wearing a pale blue dress of some finely pleated material trimmed with white lace, and a matching hat, Grace was walking down towards him, apparently alone.

Immediately he started towards her. His heart gave another lurch as she gave a little wave, only to hesitate as if wondering whether she should have. The days and nights of agony seesawing between hope and dread were forgotten. As they drew closer her lashes dropped to veil her eyes and a fiery blush flooded her face.

‘You surely didn’t walk all the way?’ he blurted, concern over-riding his normal good manners.

She looked up, shaking her head. ‘Uncle John dropped me off by the school.’

As a roar of approval went up they both looked towards the quay.

‘That will be the shovel race,’ Grace said. At his blank expression she explained. ‘Each boat has a team of four. Only instead of oars they have to use shovels. It’s really hard work and always hugely popular.’

‘Would you like to watch it?’ Edwin offered instantly. ‘I’d be happy to escort you.’

Grace glanced away for an instant, clearly reluctant. ‘It’s very kind of you but I’d rather not.’

Something cold and slippery flopped over inside him. Terrified, dreading her rejection, he didn’t know what to say, what to do. Her colour deepened and she twisted the silk cords of her pale blue velvet drawstring bag.

‘Would –’ Swallowing, she moistened her lips. ‘Would you mind if we walked round to the field instead?’

Relief engulfed him like a tidal wave. ‘No, of course not. It’s quite a crush.’ The corners of his mouth turned down briefly then he smiled. ‘Noisy as well.’ He offered her his arm and felt his heart swell with delight and pride when she slipped her hand under his elbow. They started walking. ‘It’s such a pleasure to see you… looking so much recovered,’ he added hastily.
Slowly. Slowly. Don’t rush. Give her time.

She tilted her head shyly. ‘Thank you. I’m feeling very much better.’

At the junction they turned down the hill towards the bridge. Behind them, music hall singers and musicians were sitting in the sun laughing and chatting as they enjoyed a well-earned cup of tea. The audience had dispersed. For a moment the street was empty. Edwin felt Grace’s fingers tighten briefly on his arm, heard her soft intake of breath.

‘I wanted to say –’ she began. Glancing down he could see her cheeks flaming beneath the edge of her hat. ‘I can only imagine what – what it cost you to tell me. Not just what had happened, but your thoughts and feelings about it. That must have taken great courage. It seems to me those events have given you far greater understanding of – of your congregation. Surely such understanding and – and compassion – must make you a better minister? Your superiors think so. I mean –they could have asked you to leave the church. It would have been wrong and unfair, though no doubt they could have found a way to justify their decision. Yet they didn’t. Instead they moved you from missionary work to pastoral care.’ She swallowed again. ‘I’m so very glad they did. I’m glad that you came here, to Tremorvah. For if you had not, then I – we …’ She faltered, breathless with effort.

While she was talking they had crossed the bridge and reached the open gateway into the field. Stopping abruptly under the leafy canopy of the huge oak that formed part of the hedge, Edwin turned to her, his own fingers covering hers where they rested on his forearm. His hand trembled.

‘This may be too soon,’ he blurted, encouraged by her confession and unable any longer to contain his desperate need. ‘If I have mistaken your kindness for something else then I most humbly beg your pardon. But if I have not, if you do care for me –’ His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. ‘Grace, the first day I saw you I
knew.
You were the woman I wanted to spend my life with. Since then everything I have learned about you has only made me love you more.’

He watched her face change as every muscle that had been held taut by nervousness relaxed. Her flush of anxiety softened into glowing happiness.

‘You do? Oh Edwin. I wasn’t sure. I’ve waited – hoped –I have loved you for weeks. But I thought – I was afraid.’

‘You do?’ His voice jumped an octave. ‘Then would you be willing to consider – Grace, please will you do me the very great honour of becoming my wife?’

Her eyes sparkled. Her smile was radiant. ‘Yes, Edwin. I will.’

Clasping her fingers he raised them to his lips. She stepped closer and rested her cheek against his hand. He could not resist. Bending to avoid her hat he pressed his lips gently to hers. Her mouth was warm and soft and shyly responsive. Profoundly moved he drew back and looked into her widening eyes.

‘Oh,’ she whispered. ‘I never dreamed –’ As she touched her mouth her fingers were trembling.

He coughed to clear the lump from his throat. ‘I think perhaps a cup of tea?’

She nodded gratefully. ‘Yes, please.’

As he drew her arm through his she glanced up at him. ‘If we cross the field like this –’

‘The entire village will know before nightfall.’ His grin faded. ‘Would you prefer to wait until I’ve spoken to your father?’

Grace smiled up at him, her fingers tightening on his arm. ‘No, not at all. I just wanted you to be aware –’

‘I am.’ Covering her hand with his he glanced towards the women grouped round the nearest stall. All were staring in their direction. ‘In any case, it’s far too late now.’

‘Ah.’ Grace darted him a joyous smile. ‘Oh well.’

As he gazed at her his mind flashed back to the day the Elders told him he had to leave India. It had seemed like the end of the world. Yet if none of that had happened he wouldn’t be here now. God did indeed move in mysterious ways. ‘Ready?’

Beside him Grace drew a breath and nodded. ‘Ready.’

An hour later, while they watched a man dressed up in a nightshirt and nightcap expertly manoeuvring a small punt to try and evade the six-oar gig chasing him, he listened as Grace told him about her letter from Mary.

‘Apparently Dorcas went to see her.’

He looked at her. ‘The wedding?’

‘Will not now take place,’ Grace said. ‘I had a letter from Dorcas as well. She wanted me to understand that she meant Mary no harm, but believed it only right that Mary know the truth. Anyway, Dorcas has left the village.’