Regret to Inform You... (6 page)

‘Look, sticky buds. I remember as a child I once collected some, took them home and gave them to mother. Strange, I hadn't thought about that until just now.'

Eleanor ducked under a low, almost horizontal branch on which many children had swung, stretched out her hand and took Arthur's and guided him underneath. Like the many young lovers who had walked hand in hand along this stretch over many years, they rejoiced in each other's company. ‘Damn the dean,' thought Arthur.

As if reading his thoughts, Eleanor returned to their earlier conversation. ‘If the dean should ever question you again about my support for the suffragettes, suggest he and I meet. Perhaps I can persuade him to change his views. I just cannot believe that God plans for people to have different rights; surely he is a God of equality.' Quickly realising that she had, perhaps, unwisely returned to this theme, she pointed to some small yellow flowers on the nearby bank.
‘
Aconites or celandine, I can never remember which. I really ought to know.'

They wandered on a further half mile, stopping to look at some lonely violets, a few late snowdrops and a cluster of rooks' nests in the tall beech trees. ‘I think we must turn back as it will be dark in thirty minutes or so.' Reluctantly at first, but then more eagerly gaining pace, they turned and retraced their steps along the same path. A pair of bickering mallards and a late-calling blackbird which flew angrily across their path were the only sounds. Now they held hands even on the narrower parts of the track. Arthur opened the gate and together they went in to the vicarage, took off their coats and wellington boots. It was as if each knew how the walk would end.

A few minutes later they were in their bedroom. Eleanor had slipped off her outer clothing. She held out her arms, Arthur crossed to her and they embraced. Their embracing became more passionate as each undressed the other. They stepped a shade apart and gazed at one other. Arthur could not believe how beautiful she was, she of how aroused he was. Arthur, a full foot taller, stooped and kissed her firm breasts and hardened nipples with much gentleness. She lowered one hand and held his manhood. They kissed again, almost fiercely. They fell, rather than being led by each other, on to the bed. In a moment Arthur was astride his love, she so ready to receive him. They were drawn together as magnets. The rhythm of their loving equal only to the way they understood the rhythm of each other's lives. In a single moment of joy, their lovemaking reached wonderful heights and they were spent. Their love for each other was immense: Arthur, unable to understand how he deserved such a beautiful and loving woman after all that he had done; Eleanor, with equal love, had one remaining thought going through her mind: God, maybe this time.

S
EVEN

Morning, Wednesday, 3 April

A week later, the first Wednesday in April, sunrise was shown in Arthur's diary as six o'clock, but the sky suggested another overcast day. He had been up for almost an hour, for much needed his attention. Having lit his table lamp, he was planning three services: Maundy Thursday, Good Friday and Easter Day itself. He knew he could leave the choral parts in the hands of Rita Small and the choir which was blessed with some good voices, not least those of Eleanor and young Albert Jones. Encouraged by the school, Albert had been auditioned by the cathedral choir, but had felt that he belonged in Rusfield; his voice had easily changed from a boyhood soprano to a rich baritone.

Starting with a time of prayer, Arthur's thoughts were now fine-tuning the sermon for Good Friday. Rereading the story of Christ's suffering and death, he prayed that he could somehow convey this central tenet of the Christian faith to his congregation, which he knew would be considerable. The day before, a letter from his parents had announced they would call in on the Saturday. He knew that calling in meant a three or four-day stay and so some of his parishioner calls would have to wait until Charlotte and Hector Windle returned to Dorset. It would be good to see them.

Around
the village, a few other lighted windows showed up. The Johnson family had long started their day, as Ruby needed to be up at the manor to light fires for the de Maine household and, whilst her brother, Willy, officially started work an hour later, he chose to walk with his young sister on these grey mornings. They had both got up as quietly as possible, but with Frank, Harry, Robert and David sharing Willy's room and Ruby sleeping alongside her mother and Rachel, it was almost impossible not to trip over someone or knock something over. Washing downstairs in the small scullery with water drawn the night before and dressing from already prepared clothes, Ruby and Willy were soon ready. After a hurried slice of bread with some of their mother's rich plum jam along with a mug of tea made from the ever-simmering water on the wood-burning stove, they reached for their outdoor coats and stepped outside into Meadow Way.

As they turned from Pond Street to face the slightly uphill ten minutes' walk to the manor, the sky began to lighten from its iron grey. Whilst not being able to see his face which was partly covered by a hood, they knew it was Racer setting out on the rather longer journey to Spinney Farm. As ever he was moving at a fast trot, not through any lateness, but to help keep his body finely tuned for the approaching running season. They exchanged waves.

The path, flanked by mainly bare hedges on either side, was wide and well worn. It led not only to the old manor, but eventually to Wensfield four miles away. Halfway up the slight hill, Willy took his sister's arm and whispered: ‘Stop a moment; I want to show you something. Look over there, see the large oak tree?'

The ever-faithful Ruby followed his instruction, though her puzzled look showed that she had no idea what she should be seeing. ‘It's hard to see now, but in the vee from the main trunk you should be able to see a dark shape.' After a few minutes Ruby was able to make this out. ‘Well,' explained Willy, ‘that's almost certainly the buzzard's nest, a big one
made
of sticks. If it's really come to stay it should be laying as many as four eggs in the next week or so: might even have already laid one or two.'

Ruby smiled at his words. ‘You're so good at these things, Willy,' marvelling at her brother's knowledge.

‘Well, I just try to keep my eyes open. Now don't ever go closer than we are now, but have a look each day on your way home. Keep an eye open for the adult bird sitting on its eggs and later feeding the young birds, but sadly, they probably won't all survive.'

They reached a fork in the path, taking the right one which led slightly downwards to the wooded dell where they could make out the high chimneys of the manor. The dark-haired Willy had approached this late sixteenth-century house from the same track on many occasions, but he never ceased to be enchanted by its appearance. To him it was perfect, rising seamlessly from the surrounding land, its stone walls almost growing out of the earth.

By now the sky had considerably lightened and there was promise of a better day. They reached the barred gate over which they climbed. Old Peter was under close orders to lock the slightly dilapidated wooden barrier at night to deter poachers from stealing any livestock, though such attempts were not always successful. From the gate, the way to the house became well defined, as vehicles needed a good surface before entering the road off to Steepleton.

‘When is Master Lionel getting home?' Ruby rather suddenly asked, enquiring about the nineteen-year-old younger son of the de Maines.

A slight frown came to Willy's face; he had little time for someone whom he thought arrogant, rude and a little untrustworthy. Turning to his sister, he replied, ‘Any time now he'll be back from Cambridge. I heard the major mentioning this to Florrie, but why do you want to know?'

‘I just wondered. Nothing, really.' The interest of Ruby
rather
puzzled Willy. He looked at her and realised how grown up she was now: pretty, if slightly overweight, with a sweet face. One part of him was pleased as her question suggested she was beginning to become interested in boys for, which he thought, it was about time. But the other half wished that the haughty Lionel had not been the first youth about whom his sister should pay attention.

The well-dressed track led towards the large, centuries-old oak door, above which the date of the original building was clearly shown, 1583, along with a family heraldic crest; it was inside that evidence of the repair work that was needed showed itself. Willy and Ruby had been surprised to see an upper room on the south side well lit and Peter confirmed the early rising of his master and mistress. Indeed, Florrie had been summoned to serve tea just before half past six, a most unusual occurrence. When Willy asked Peter if his master and mistress were leaving the house, his reply was that he knew of nothing to give rise to an early morning start. ‘In any case,' went on the balding Peter, who certainly looked the elderly retainer that he had been for nearly fifty years, ‘you know about the party over at Mister Mansfield's farm tonight? Well, it seems he has invited all of us there as well and so the major is providing all the beer and Elsie has already started some baking to take over there.'

‘I didn't know that. That's something of a last minute arrangement, isn't it?' replied Willy. ‘I'm already going, as Racer who works there, has been allowed to invite a few friends as well. Ruby, I expect you can go as well.'

‘That's lovely, but I won't have time to get ready,' blushed Ruby.

‘Well, that's no real problem,' added Peter. ‘Mr Mansfield is letting everyone at Spinney Farm off at five o'clock so they have time to go home before the party. Bit of a surprise that the major is doing the same, although just recently it seems he does whatever he can to please Mr Mansfield.'

In
their large bedroom which displayed a certain faded elegance, Isabella and Sebastian de Maine were deep in a conversation, their serious expressions reflecting more than a casual conversation. They sat facing each other, Isabella on the soft green covered chaise longue, her husband on an equally graceful, though well-worn stool.

‘Seb, I know you want to keep the status quo, but some things just have to change. Times are different now and, in truth, have been since your father lost so much in the seventies.' Her husband sighed, finding it difficult to admit that anything needed to change. However, he knew his wife was right as was nearly always the case in financial matters, small or large.

‘No one's to blame,' encouraged Isabella, ‘but we were fortunate that Jack Mansfield loaned us enough to cover the cost of the new tractor. Without that we really would be in trouble with the bank. Such a kind man.'

‘Indeed he is and I know he will keep things to himself. But what are you suggesting Isabella?'

‘Well, at the moment there's no way we can increase the farm income except by raising the rents of the farm cottages or the four cottages in Meadow Way and I know you won't do that.'

‘You're right. I know a lot of people around here see me as a Victorian-style landowner who is only interested in making money and shooting, but we have a responsibility. Our tenants can hardly get by anyway and I would like to increase their wages, not raise rents.'

The delicately-featured Isabella knew he was right in his understanding that villagers viewed him as reserved, even aloof, but she also knew he had a deep, if largely hidden sense of responsibility to his workers, indeed to the whole village. She knew how much these difficult financial times upset this strong feeling of responsibility, upon which his sense of pride was built. Both knew that much repair work was needed both
to
the inside and exterior of their home, but Isabella was too sensitive to raise this matter.

‘Well, let's think of money going out,' she suggested. ‘We really could manage without both Florrie and Elsie. Let's also think about some of the village things we support. It was a lovely idea of yours to send money to Peter for the village reading room, just as it is to provide the beer for tonight's party at Jack's farm, but these things do cost money and maybe we could ease up a little, at least for the time being. Perhaps wheat prices and prices of some of our other products will soon go up a little.'

The dapper Sebastian flinched at some of the points she had made, but deep down he knew that something needed to be done. ‘I'm not sure about some of these things you mention,' responded her husband, ‘but, I agree we need to think about them.'

‘I know, my darling. And I love you the more for not wanting to hurt anyone. Another way of looking at things has to be about raising some money. Might we not be able to sell the parcel of land butting on to the Steepleton Road? The brewery could well be interested; they seem to be doing very well and wishing to extend all the time. What do you think?'

Sebastian pondered deeply before expressing any thoughts. ‘It's hard to know which crops and animals produce the best return and I guess we may have gone on for too long just doing the same thing. Jack Mansfield is doing very well at Spinney Farm and when we were all at Sir Lancelot's place last Christmas, Jack and I were talking and he said he was carefully weighing up the benefits of moving more towards cereals. Let's see what advice we might get from Jack. Perhaps we could invite Mabel and him to dinner. But what really worries me,' he went on to say, ‘is what of the future? I'm lucky in that I keep well, although this damned leg troubles me at times. We had both hoped that either young Ralph or Tobias would take over, but they both seem to be going in very different
directions.
I was really quite saddened to hear Ralph talking about going off to America to further his career in finance and Tobias has never really shown any interest in the farm.'

‘All too true, which just leaves Lionel. Can you see him running the place?'