Stranger at the Manor by Mary Kingswood
20: Sunday
Saturday evening at the Manor passed off peacefully, but Peter had expected that. Lord Silberry was his usual urbane self, and the other guests were Winslades, distant relations and so not inclined to make a fuss. Peter saw them eyeing Phyllida curiously from time to time, but no one treated her in any way differently from before. As for the squire, he was so full of bonhomie and the enjoyment of a house full of guests that Peter could well believe he knew nothing of the matter at all.
But Sunday morning brought the true test — church, and the eyes and moral judgement of the entire parish. There could be no question of evading it, nor did Phyllida suggest it. There was no alternative to facing up to the worst of the parish’s condemnation straight away. Hiding away, however tempting, would only postpone the moment when they would know the numbers who might be depended upon, those who wavered but might come round and those who were implacably censorious.
Phyllida’s face was grey with tension, her lovely smile driven away by nerves, but she readied herself without undue delay, and so they were amongst the first to assemble in the Great Hall, where Lord Silberry scooped them up and into his carriage. Thus escorted, Peter and Phyllida arrived at St Ann’s, entered the portals of the church and took their seats in the Winslade pew without encountering any unpleasantness.
Gradually the church filled, well-shod feet passing softly by to the expensive pews, with the heavier boots of labourers clumping to the benches at the back. The pew walls were high enough to provide some privacy, but even so, Phyllida kept her head lowered, engrossed in her prayer book.
Turner preached a good sermon, it had to be said. He took one of the Psalms as his text, ‘Lord, who shall abide in thy tabernacle? who shall dwell in thy holy hill? He that walketh uprightly, and worketh righteousness, and speaketh the truth in his heart. He that backbiteth not with his tongue, nor doeth evil to his neighbour, nor taketh up a reproach against his neighbour.’ And in case anyone should miss the point, there was much about loving thy neighbour as thyself, and Christian forgiveness.
As the parishioners streamed outside into the autumn sunshine, Peter was aware of the looks and whispering. He tucked Phyllida’s arm firmly into his, and pressed one hand upon hers. She should not doubt his support! The congregation fell into groups, talking to friends, heads huddled together. Were they talking about Phyllida? Almost certainly. He saw the Preeces, Christian in their midst, standing near a yew tree not far away, hesitant, perhaps wishing to greet them but not wanting to draw attention. Several sour-faced matrons rushed past without acknowledging Phyllida. Truman came over for a word, with his usual unctuous smile, then moved away to talk to someone else. The squire was in a noisy group some distance away with Lord Silberry and the Broughtons, so there was no help there. Phyllida was alone with Peter, her friends deserting her.
Then came the moment they had dreaded. One large group split apart, and in the gap newly formed stood Viola Gage. She had not seen them, she was not looking, she was moving away… but then someone called her, she turned, took two steps and saw Phyllida. She stopped dead. Her face… such anger! And what had she to be angry about? How had Phyllida ever hurt her? Even then, she could have gone to the friend who had called her, pretending she had not seen Phyllida.
But she did not. Instead, her eyes narrowed and she hissed like a snake, “Sinner!”
For an instant Phyllida trembled, her head lowered, almost sagging against Peter, as if she had been dealt a physical blow. Instinctively he slipped his hand under her elbow to support her, but in that moment he could not say for certain whether she would swoon or run away if he were not holding her tight.
Peter was filled with a murderous rage. He could have throttled Miss Gage at that moment, and if he had not been fully occupied keeping Phyllida upright, he would have done it without a second’s thought, or an ounce of remorse, either. This was Phyllida’s dearest friend, who had received nothing but loyalty and devotion from her, yet who betrayed her at the first difficulty. He could not throttle Miss Gage, but he could speak.
“We are all sinners, Miss Gage.” His voice was rougher than he had intended, his anger showing through.
She looked at him incredulously. “But not like that! Not like her sin!”
Miraculously, Phyllida’s head shot up, and her back straightened. Shaking off Peter’s hold, she strode across the space separating her from Miss Gage, as Peter followed.
“I made a mistake,” she said, her voice clear and strong. “One single mistake in an otherwise blameless existence. Are you so perfect that you have never, ever erred, not even once? Mine was a grievous sin, and I have repented of it and prayed for forgiveness every single day since the day it happened, and God knows, I have paid a terrible price for it. Yes, I sinned, but I never hurt anyone but myself. I injured no one, offended no one, lied to no one. I will not lie now. I acknowledge my error openly and humbly. I have spent my life trying to atone for it, I truly repent and I believe with all my heart that God forgives me. Can you not do as much? We have been friends for twenty-six years, Viola. You were my first friend when I moved here, and the most faithful. Can you not honour that friendship and find in your heart a little compassion, a little Christian forgiveness? Must we fall out over something that happened a generation ago? May we not be friends still?”
The churchyard was utterly silent, the crowd mesmerised, waiting. Miss Gage took a step back from Phyllida’s vehemence, her face ashen and her eyes huge. She had not expected to be challenged, that much was certain. Peter wanted to cheer. That was the right spirit, not defiance, exactly, but the strength of mind to reject the unkindness of it, to stand tall and face the world without cowering. Mousy Miss Beasley had vanished for ever. Lord, she was splendid, this wife of his!
Miss Gage shook her head once, that was all. A quick movement, hardly perceptible.
“So be it,” Phyllida said, spinning round and striding away down the path so fast that Peter had to run to catch up with her.
At the lych gate, he was so exhilarated that he pulled her into the shadows out of sight of the stunned congregation, and kissed her with great thoroughness.
“Goodness!” she said, laughing, when he finally released her. “What was that for?”
“You were magnificent, my darling wife! Quite magnificent!”
In the distance, a voice was calling, feet crunching on the gravel path. “Mrs Winslade! Stay a moment, Mrs Winslade!”
They peered out. It was Lady Saxby running — running! — down the path, one hand clutching prayer book and reticule, the other holding on to her elaborate hat. Lady Saxby, who never left her chaise longue at all if she could help it, and moved at a glacial pace when absolutely forced to, was actually running after them, the flaps of her pelisse flying.
“Oh, there you are.” She stopped, bending over to catch her breath.
“Lady Saxby, whatever is it?” Phyllida cried, rushing back to her. “Are you quite well?”
“Quite well. Just… puffed. Only wanted to say… not yet congratulated you… on your marriage. Would like to call… tomorrow perhaps? Are you… at home tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow? Oh… yes… at Whitfield Villa. With Roland.”
“Of course. How is Dr Beasley?”
“Greatly improved, thanks to Dr Broughton’s care.”
“So glad. You must come for dinner one evening… in honour of your marriage. We shall fix upon a date tomorrow. Ah, here is my carriage now. Good day, Mrs Winslade. Good day, Mr Winslade.”
With the dignity befitting the relict of a baron, and as if she had not just run the length of the church yard in front of the entire parish, she proceeded at her customary stately pace to the carriage, her four daughters following behind, bobbing curtsies to Peter and Phyllida, and trying to hide their astonishment at their mother’s behaviour.
“Well!” said Susannah, coming up to where Phyllida stood, rooted to the spot in shock. “That is something one does not see every day. Whatever did she want?”
Phyllida seemed incapable of speech, so Peter said, “To congratulate us, and to invite us to dinner.”
“Heavens! Did you hear that, Dr Broughton?” she said, raising her voice. “Lady Saxby has invited Mr and Mrs Winslade to dinner.”
“How very kind of her,” her husband murmured.
“Indeed. How very kind to invite Mr and Mrs Winslade for dinner,” she repeated, enunciating every word distinctly, and again with rather more volume than was necessary. It did the trick, however. Gradually, as the congregation began to drift towards the lych gate and homewards, there could be few amongst them who did not know that, however heinous the former Miss Beasley’s crime, the highest ranked lady of the parish had no intention of snubbing her, and in fact had conferred a signal honour upon her.
The Preeces came past, among them Christian’s worried face. “Are you all right?” he whispered to Phyllida, oblivious to the rising murmurs behind him.
“Perfectly,” Phyllida said, suddenly coming to herself again to smile at him. “Will you walk down the road with us as far as Whitfield Villa? We are going to call upon my brother.”
With an answering smile, he nodded, and the three of them walked off together side by side.
~~~~~
It had been arranged that they would walk home to Cloverstone Manor that day, but not long after noon, Lord Silberry’s carriage pulled up on the drive of Whitfield Villa.
“There is a prospect of rain, and I should not like to you to get wet, Mrs Winslade,” he said.
“You are very kind,” Phyllida said. “I shall just fetch my bonnet.”
“No, no! No need to leave your brother’s side until you are quite ready to do so. I shall collect you at… shall we say four?”
“How obliging you are. Will you join us? We are just about to have some tea.”
“Thank you, but I had it in mind that I might presume upon my acquaintance with Lady Saxby to call and enquire upon her health. I was most concerned to see her running after you this morning. Ladies are not designed to proceed at a rapid pace, and I fear there may have been adverse consequences from such exertion. Until four, then. Good day, Mrs Winslade. Winslade.”
Peter laughed as the door closed on Lord Silberry, and the carriage crunched away down the drive. “There is a budding romance, if ever I saw one. Fearing for adverse consequences, indeed!”
They went back into the parlour, where Dr Beasley was sitting in a high-backed chair beside the fire, swathed in a shawl. “Who was that, my dear?”
Phyllida explained it all to him, adding, “It would be a very suitable match, if it comes off, although…”
“Although what?” Peter said, intrigued. “Do you know aught of the lady that might make him wary? Should I hint him away?”
“She is a perfect lady,” Dr Beasley said. “He could hardly do better.”
“It is true that she is most ladylike,” Phyllida said thoughtfully. “I do not fault her behaviour or her manners, but there is a want of warmth sometimes. One so dislikes to criticise, but she and Lord Saxby neglected Cass shamefully. Just because the poor girl has a limp from a childhood illness, her father deemed her unmarriageable and refused to give her a season in London or make the least push to find her a husband. Well, he was always keen to keep his money in his pocket, but Lady Saxby could have made a little more effort to mother the girl, perhaps.”
“Stepmothers always favour their own daughters,” Dr Beasley said. “That is perfectly natural. One could not expect her to have the same affection for the previous Lady Saxby’s daughter.”
“One could expect her not to show it so much, however,” Phyllida said.
“Perhaps Miss Saxby was a trying stepdaughter,” Peter suggested. “There is sometimes a little resentment of the new mama.”
“Oh no,” Phyllida said. “Cass was a very easy child, very good natured. Everybody loves her, and is thrilled that she is to be married to Mr Truman.”
“Do you like him?” Peter said, remembering him boasting of his own cleverness in keeping Cass waiting. “Is he in love with her, would you say? I cannot tell.”
“He was very distressed when she was ill last month,” Phyllida said. “That was not feigned at all.”
“Mr Truman is a gentleman,” Dr Beasley said, in reproving tones. “There is not the least need for him to be in love with his wife. She will express her gratitude towards him in caring ways, such as ensuring his favourite dishes are prepared for dinner, for ladies are affectionate little creatures. In return, he will ensure her comfort. Love is a very flimsy foundation for matrimony, and I have always been relieved that you were never so foolish as to fall in love, Phyllida. Much better to marry for sound, practical reasons, as you and Mr Winslade have done, and no nonsense about love. Now that I have had time to consider your marriage, my dear, I can see all the advantages in it. You will have someone to take care of you after I am gone, and since you are to live here until then, we shall go on just as we did.”
“That is only a temporary arrangement, Roland,” Phyllida said. “Mr Winslade and I will want a little place of our own one day, but it will still be in the village.”
“Of course, for why would you ever leave the village when you are so happy here?” he said, beaming at her. “But you will not want to leave the Villa just yet, I am sure. It is our home, after all. Is there another cup of tea in that pot, my dear?”
~~~~~
Lord Silberry collected them promptly at four o’clock, and Peter wondered if he had been at the Hall all afternoon, for he was very full of “Lady Saxby said…” and “As I said to Lady Saxby…” She seemed to have emerged unscathed from the unprecedented exertion of running for twenty or thirty yards, to judge by the number of subjects she and her lordly visitor had covered. There had been cake and Madeira consumed, and a tour of the principal apartments undertaken, and Lord Silberry’s recitation of these events became so effusive that he had barely begun to describe the delights of the library when the carriage arrived at Cloverstone Manor.
They found the squire loitering in the Great Hall awaiting their arrival. “Ah, there you are at last! Winslade, I need a word with you.”
“Perhaps at dinner?” Peter suggested tentatively. “We have to pack and—”
“Lord, Cousin, you have a wife to take care of that sort of thing. Come now, I have to talk to you at once.”
“I shall see about the packing,” Phyllida said. “Off you go.”
Lord Silberry murmured something about having letters to write, and so Peter allowed his cousin to precede him to the book room.
“I notice Lord Silberry says nothing about packing,” Peter said, as the squire poured drinks for them both. “It looks as if he will require your hospitality for a little longer.”
“Aye, I thought he might turn round and head north again the instant he had discharged his duty as conveyor of your property,” the squire said. “But no, seems he has his feet under the table now.” He laughed, passing Peter a glass. “He is a pleasant guest, and it is good for Henry to mingle a little with a man of Silberry’s standing. London polish, you see.”
Peter sipped cautiously, and his eyebrows shot up at the unexpected taste. “Brandy? Is there bad news?”
“No, no… not really. Do you dislike it? Give it to me. I can drink both quite easily, I assure you, I am so put out. That damnable man!”
“Lord Silberry?” Peter said tentatively, rather at sea.
“What? No, of course not. Saxby. Complete and utter scoundrel. I had no idea, none at all, I give you my word. Would never have— damnable fellow!”
Peter began to have an inkling of what was afoot. “Are you perhaps talking about Phyllida?”
“Yes, of course Phyllida, who else? Although I daresay there have been others. Well, I know there were, because he fiddled about with at least two of my housemaids at the London house, years ago, but not gentlewomen, and I never thought for one moment that it was true about Miss Beasley, whatever he said.”
“He told you about it?” Peter said, aware of a sick feeling in his throat. “How many people knew of it?”
“Only me and the rag-tag bunch he had staying with him that summer. Let me tell you the whole story, and you will understand. It was after Henrietta died, and Saxby took off to London to find himself an heiress, because he was always one for the money, let me tell you. He stayed with me, for I still had the house in town then. Well, the very first person he saw was Felicity Rycroft, and you know what she is like now, but Lord, she was a beauty in those days. In full bloom, she was quite an incomparable. She was not long widowed, but on the lookout for husband number two, for Rycroft had left her penniless, the house horribly encumbered and two little boys to raise. She had a few suitors, but Saxby had the title, of course, and that would be an attraction to her. It always is, to a woman — love to call themselves Lady Something, all of them. So she would have had him, and he certainly pursued her determinedly and saw off her other suitors. When he had an object in view, he was very single minded.”
The squire was well into the tale now, striding about the room with a brandy glass in each hand, sipping from first one then the other.
“But then he jibbed at the final hurdle, and came home. She wanted him to clear the debts on the house — Melverley, you know, Jeffrey’s house. Saxby would never do that, and there were the boys to raise, too. Education, and so forth. He hated to spend money, his money, that is, except for his own little projects. Happy enough to spend mine. But that is nothing to the point. He skulked about at home trying to amuse himself with a gaggle of wild types he had picked up in town, and then he got this idea in his head to seduce little Miss Beasley, and said he had done it too — in three days, if you please! I never, for one single second, imagined it was true. I was cross enough with him even to be trying it, because she, poor little thing, would probably fall violently in love with him and it was cruel, and so I told him. But when he said he had succeeded… well, I just assumed he was lying. She was such a good girl, it seemed impossible, unless he forced her.” He stood stock still, the horror on his face clear to see. “He did not… pray God he did not…”
“No,” Peter said. “He had not that calumny on his conscience.”
“He never had a conscience,” the squire muttered. “But although I knew he had had dealings with Phyllida, I never knew how far it had gone until today, after church, when someone told me about the boy. You have to believe me, Peter! If I had known—!”
“Old history, John,” Peter said. “What happened, happened.”
“True, but I would never have let him go off and leave her in the lurch like that if I had had the least suspicion. But he acted as if it were all some great lark, and next thing I know, he has collected his winnings from his friends and gone off to London again, and he must have been in love with Felicity because… Peter? Are you all right?”
“His winnings?” Peter croaked. “Are you telling me that he ruined Phyllida over a wager?”
“Oh, yes. A thousand pounds apiece from each of his four ramshackle friends, so he did well out of it. Saxby always did well out of these things. I had no part in the bet, you may be sure, and we fell out over it for quite a while, I can tell you. But off he went to London and scooped up Felicity, and brought her here. They were married within a few months. And poor Phyllida went off to Harrogate to have her child in ignominy, and I never suspected a thing, Peter. Not a thing. That poor girl! Saxby was an evil man, and that is God’s truth.”