Stranger at the Manor by Mary Kingswood

19: Saturday

Peter reached the village still undecided whether he would tell Phyllida of the rumour or not, but it occurred to him that perhaps he could take steps to ensure that one part, at least, of Lord Silberry’s predictions would come true — that Phyllida’s friends would rally round her. His acquaintances were not so numerous as to make this an easy task. With the Saxby family, he was barely past first bows, and the Gages might be hostile, given Miss Gage’s wrath merely at Phyllida’s marriage. Dr Beasley, who might have been depended upon to support his sister, was recovering from his seizure. There were the Broughtons, however. Surely Susannah would be sympathetic?

The parson… now there was someone who could influence his flock, if he chose. Peter dredged around in his mind for some memory of the parson. Young… handsome… an air of self-importance. Too fashionably dressed for a clergyman — Peter preferred his clerics reassuringly dowdy, with a darned surplice and a moth-eaten wig. One trusted the sermon from a man who looked as if he had not two farthings to his name. Whereas Truman looked down on his parishioners from the height of his pulpit with a degree of superiority, he felt.

But would he be censorious? There was only one way to find out. As he entered the village from the river footpath, therefore, he did not turn left to Whitfield Villa, but crossed the road to enter the parsonage grounds. A gardener hard at work scything the lawn paused to doff his cap, then leaned on his scythe to watch as Peter made his way up the drive.

As he approached the house, he heard the notes of a pianoforte emanating from a ground floor window. Did Truman have a lady guest? Or was he himself a performer?

The door was answered by a smartly-dressed manservant, who showed him into a small but elegantly appointed parlour. Moments later, the music stopped and Truman himself appeared in the doorway, too well-bred to show surprise. Now that he saw him in his setting, Peter could appreciate Truman a little better. In his church or on the street, he looked overdressed for a clergyman, but in this tasteful setting, he fitted perfectly.

“Your home is lovely,” he said. “You have worked wonders on what was a very shabby parsonage, from what I recall of it.”

Truman made a small bow. “Thank you. I confess, I like to have beautiful things around me to nourish my soul. One’s surroundings can lift one up or drag one down, and I prefer to be lifted up.”

“By music, too? Was that you at the instrument?” Peter said. “You play well.”

He bowed again. “I practise regularly, just as every well brought up young lady is exhorted to do,” he said, with a sudden smile that made him look less supercilious and far more approachable. “There is no substitute for daily practice, and I find it most soothing. But pray be seated, Mr Winslade. Madeira? Canary? Port?”

“Madeira, thank you.”

“My felicitations on your marriage. I have never met anyone who was married over the anvil before. A rather informal ceremony, but perfectly legal, of course. We recognise Scottish marriages just as they recognise ours.”

“Oh, I know. I would never have entered into it otherwise, and Mrs Winslade has the marriage lines to prove it took place.”

“Ah. So that is not what brings you here. Then how may I help you, sir?”

Peter took a sip of the Madeira to fortify himself. “It has come to my attention that there is a certain… rumour circulating regarding my wife. Perhaps you may have heard something of it at the Manor last night?”

“One or two of the ladies were speaking on the subject in my hearing, but one takes no notice of such gossip, naturally.”

“I am glad to hear it, but nevertheless the story may become more widespread. If that should happen, then your influence as clergyman would be instrumental in discouraging it.”

“You may depend upon me to do so. I can produce a suitable sermon on the subject, I believe. Job, perhaps. ‘ My lips shall not speak wickedness, nor my tongue utter deceit.’ Or Peter. ‘Laying aside all malice, and…’ Hmm, something about evil speakings. I shall find a suitable verse, never fear.”

“You are very good,” Peter said, rather startled. “There is nothing more you need to know?”

“Nothing, for a scurrilous rumour that blackens the reputation of a respectable, indeed a virtuous woman, is as foul a deed as any brought before the judges at the Assizes. And even if this tale were to be true, and I neither know nor wish to know whether it is, but if it were so, then my sympathies would be even more engaged. So many a young woman is caught in just that way — a plausible young man who pays court to her with every appearance of seriousness, and yet his only intent is to steal away her virtue, the one commodity above all others that gives her a footing in society, until she marries. A young woman is sheltered from the world, Mr Winslade, as innocent as the day she is born, and one would not wish it otherwise, but it makes her vulnerable to a man who smiles and pays her compliments and looks at her with ardour in his eyes. A little, a very little such attention will win her affection and then she is his. And if he is an honest man, it is well. Perhaps the lovers jump ahead of themselves, and come to me rather shame-faced to have the banns read as soon as may be. The marriage is brought forward a little, with no harm done. But a man who has no honour in his heart, who has nothing but wickedness to despoil the maiden and bring her to ruination — for him I have nothing but contempt, for he is the worst kind of scoundrel on earth.”

Peter was surprised at his vehemence, but it seemed that he would be able to depend on Mr Truman’s support, so he thanked him and rose to take his leave.

“And I must away, too,” Truman said. “My betrothed has been awaiting me this hour or more.”

“My pardon for detaining you when you must be longing to be with her,” Peter said.

“It does a lady no harm to be kept waiting, to be a little in doubt of a man,” Truman said, with a smirk. “The anticipation only serves to heighten her ardour. I always see Miss Saxby on a Saturday while she reconciles her accounts, and we take sherry together and a little something baked by my own hand. It is very pleasant and she looks forward to the occasion, but she does not know the hour when I will arrive. It makes her properly grateful when she sees me.”

He chuckled, but Peter made his farewells with some indignation for poor Miss Saxby, anxiously watching the clock and wondering… when will he come? Will he even come at all?

Peter walked the short distance to Whitfield Villa, where the manservant let him in.

“Dr Broughton’s gone to Woollercott to see to old Mrs Ryder, sir,” he said, as he took Peter’s hat and cane, “but Miss Winslade and Miss Beasley are here— I mean, Mrs Broughton and Mrs Winslade, begging your pardon, sir. Mrs Winslade is sitting with Dr Beasley in his bedroom, sir. Miss— I mean Mrs Broughton is below stairs with Mrs Haines. The housekeeper, sir,” he added, seeing the blank expression on Peter’s face.

“Thank you, I shall—”

At that moment, Susannah rushed into the hall. “Oh good, it is you. A word, Cousin, if you please. We can use Samuel’s consulting room.” She thrust open a door and ushered him through. “Have you heard what is being said about Miss Beasley? That she had a child out of wedlock! As if she would do any such thing! But this young man you brought back from Yorkshire… and she stayed some months in Harrogate many years ago… and you know what people are like. What a ridiculous… what a… Oh, Peter, never tell me it is true!”

“Does Phyllida know aught of this?” Peter said tiredly, sitting down with a whump on the nearest chair.

“Not from my lips, you may be sure, and she has been with Dr Beasley all morning, and no one attending them but Samuel or myself or Mrs Haines. Dr Beasley is coming along so well, but this—! I dare not think of the consequences, a man in his fragile condition. His heart is not strong, and such news— Still, we can keep it from his ears, at least until he is a little stronger. Peter, do you have an explanation that we may spread abroad to quieten these rumours?”

He shook his head. “I do not know what to do,” he said despairingly. “Lord Silberry said to ignore it all, but it is too serious for that. Phyllida would be devastated if her friends turn away from her.”

“Well, here are two who will not,” Susannah said stoutly. “Samuel and I talked about it after the ball and agreed that we will judge Miss Beasley— I mean Mrs Winslade by what we know of her. To me she is something of an idol, did you know that? She has always been so put upon, so taken for granted by the whole village and yet she has never complained, not once. I have tried to model my behaviour on hers, not very successfully, it must be said. So whatever she may have done twenty years ago, I shall stand by her.”

“I spoke to Mr Truman, and he said the same. He is to preach a sermon on the subject.”

“That is all to the good, but no one takes any notice of the parson,” Susannah said. “Nor of me, for that matter. If there is one person who leads the parish women in matters of morality, it is Viola Gage. If she is on your wife’s side, she is safe. But if not…”

Peter shivered.

~~~~~

Phyllida walked back to the Manor sunk in the most gloomy thoughts. Beside her, Peter was equally silent. He must know, then. He would not cast her off, of that she was certain, since he had known all her circumstances before they had married, but he had never imagined that her sin would become public knowledge. And now the whole world knew of it.

Taylor, she supposed. He would have whispered it to Becky, and she would have told… well, everyone. Even Matilda. Phyllida had gone down to the kitchen to make a posset for Roland, and Matilda had squealed and cried, “Oh, Miss Beasley, it’s not true, is it? That you had a child out of wedlock, just like Molly Vale and Betsy Wheeler?”

Mrs Haines had slapped her briskly and told her to keep her mouth shut, but words once spoken cannot be unheard. Molly Vale was the farmer’s youngest daughter, who had been packed off to cousins in Cheshire, leaving her baby to be raised by her older sister, as if she had not enough of her own. Betsy Wheeler was not a local girl, but perhaps she came from the workhouse in Market Clunbury, as Matilda did. There must be many such girls who ended up there, as Phyllida herself might have done if Aunt Margery had not been kind to her. A dreary thought, to add to the multitude of dreary thoughts clouding Phyllida’s mind.

The walk to the Manor, normally such a pleasant one, seemed interminable, and a light rain began to fall as they crossed the river and began the climb through the park. Had she been wearing her usual clothes this would not have mattered, for they were chosen with the weather in mind, but her borrowed finery was designed for carriage wear. The bonnet that now adorned Phyllida’s head was decorated with scraps of lace and ribbon and two excessively pretty green feathers which would now be totally ruined. Somehow, that felt appropriate. A ruined bonnet, a ruined reputation.

It was getting late, so they went straight to their room and silently dressed for dinner. Then Phyllida sat on the edge of the bed while Peter tied his cravat, and wondered how on earth she was to get through the evening. There were still a number of guests staying on after the ball, and then tomorrow there was church to be got through, somehow. Everyone would stare, there would be whispers, no one would speak to her. The blessed comfort of her friends was now lost to her.

Cravat tied, Peter came and sat beside her on the bed, one arm around her waist. “Who told you?”

“Matilda. Such a silly girl. At least no one will tell Roland... I hope. He would be so upset, and another seizure on top of the last one…”

“No one would be so foolish as to tell him,” Peter said quickly. “He seems to be recovering well.”

“He is getting along much faster than last time,” she said. “I believe he will be back on his feet in no time. Dr Broughton and Susannah are taking good care of him. Peter, I know Susannah offered us my old room to live in, but I was not sure… if she knows. She may not want me.”

“She knows,” he said quickly. “She assured me today that she and Dr Broughton will stand our friends, and that they would still like us to live there, just until we find a place of our own.” He added tentatively, “We are agreed it would be convenient, are we not?” She nodded and he went on, “Then why so glum?”

“I am afraid, Peter,” she whispered. “I am so very afraid.”

“What do you fear?” he said gently, tightening his arm around her waist a little.

“That I shall be an outcast. My friends, people I grew up with, people who have known me for twenty-six years will turn their faces away from me in the street. I shall be excluded from society, invited nowhere, left out of every celebration or festival. Mothers will hurry their daughters away from me, fathers will point at me and tell their sons to beware, even the tradesmen will refuse to supply me. I cannot live like that, Peter. It would be unbearable. I have tried so hard to be a good person, a good neighbour and friend, to help the poor and the sick, and not put myself forward. I believed I would never marry and have a family of my own, but that never mattered because the parish was my family. I rejoiced in every wedding and new child, I grieved for every death, I was there to help with all the big festivals — Easter, May Day, Midsummer, Michaelmas, Christmas. I was a part of everything, and that was fulfilment enough. All I ever wanted was to be respectable, to belong, to be a good Christian and to atone in some small way for my great sin. I could not suffer to be ostracised. I would rather be dead.”

“And do you imagine for one moment that I would allow my wife to be treated that way?” She could feel him shaking with indignation.

“You cannot prevent it.”

“No,” he said, suddenly deflated, “but I can take you away from such ill-mannered and uncharitable people. We could go to Leeds, or to Harrogate. Or somewhere altogether new — what say you to Scotland? Dr Broughton says Edinburgh is very civilised. Or there is America, a whole new world of people. That would be an adventure, if you like. What do you say — you, me and Christian, forging a new life together. You have given so many years of your life to Great Maeswood, and it really does not deserve you. Well, now you may give the rest of your life to your husband and son and whatever new friends we make wherever we go.”

“I could not leave Roland behind. He is the last link to my family.”

“We shall take him with us,” Peter said stoutly. “He is retired from medical work now, after all, and if he does not wish to come… if he blames you in the slightest for what Lord Saxby did to you, then he does not deserve you, either.”

With a sigh, she laid her head on his shoulder.

“Ah, Peter, you are always so reasonable, so optimistic. Nothing ever gets you down, does it? Or not for long, anyway. You always make me feel better. When we are here together I feel completely safe, as if nothing can hurt me. There is a wall around the two of us that shelters me from every storm. But out there in the world, there is no wall to protect me. I am terrified of people looking at me, disapproving of me. It makes me feel so exposed and alone.”

“But you are not alone, my dear one. You have me now — that wall around us is always there, even if it may be hard to see sometimes. That is what marriage is, a wall sheltering us both, binding us together for ever. You and me against the world. My name is yours now, Phyllida. You are not mousy Miss Beasley any longer, you are Mrs Peter Winslade, the respectable matron. You know,” he went on thoughtfully, “it may not be as bad as you fear. The Broughtons will stand by us, and Truman is sympathetic, too. Besides, I doubt anyone will dare to disparage you to your face. If we can get through tonight and tomorrow, we may find it plain sailing after that.”

“Viola will dare,” she said sombrely. “She sets the highest moral standards, and anyone who falls short is beneath contempt to her. She was shocked to the core that we married in such a harum-scarum way, over the anvil in Scotland like runaway children instead of soberly in the parish church after the proper reading of the banns. This news will put me quite beyond the pale, and where she leads, every other lady will follow. I shall not even be received, Peter, and no one will call on me. Would you really go to America to escape the tattle-tales?”

“To the ends of the earth, my love, if it would spare you pain,” he said, gazing at her with such warmth that she coloured up like a girl. “I would fight dragons for you, and defend you with every breath in my body. I would die to protect you, Phyllida, and if my love could shield you from the storm, you would never know a moment’s uneasiness. But in this I am as helpless as you. All I can do is to stand proudly beside you, so that we face our troubles together, unflinching.”

She lifted her face with a smile. “Kiss me, Peter.”

“My pleasure,” he murmured with a smile.