Shadow of the Past (4 page)

She clicked her tongue. ‘As if Tobias could ever cause offence. I know how much from your kitchen finds its way to the tables of the poor – I honour you for your generosity! – but here you must indeed eat your fill. Indeed you must, out in all weathers as you are.’ It was not only I who usurped Edmund’s role as physician.

‘No more than Edmund,’ I parried.

‘But you do not have a wife to look after you.’

Despite her kindness, I shook my head, staring dismally at my plate.

She poured herself more chocolate, then leant forward animatedly. ‘Now, if a woman might offer a word of advice on this matter of the heart, it is that you should say nothing of your former love to this new object of your affections. A lady does not like to think she is competing with the dead.’

My blush was painful. ‘Nor is she. I have scarce met her.’

‘She has clearly made a deep impression on you,’ she laughed. ‘Her blue eyes, pink lips, clear complexion and lustrous hair – she must indeed be a paragon.’

‘A paragon? But true beauty lies in the soul,’ I insisted, as I had to her ladyship, ‘not in such outward show. Truly, Mrs Hansard, with one word you have opened my eyes to my folly. It lies not only in thinking myself unfaithful to Lizzie, but in imagining I could have fallen in love on such superficial acquaintance.’ I smiled across the table at them both. ‘Thank God I am blessed in my good friends. And yes, if I may, I will have another slice of this excellent ham. And that beef too.’ As she heaped my plate, however, another thought occurred to me. ‘But I still find it hard to believe that the first sound I heard was a cow. If it was not ghostly moaning I heard, what was it?’

‘That is a question I can take more seriously,’ Dr Hansard said. ‘Indeed, when I go on my rounds today, I will ask everyone I see. But I think the answer is not in your ears, Tobias, but what lies between them – your over-fertile conscience and imagination.’

Despite my parish work and the brevity of our acquaintance, try how I might I could not keep Lady Dorothea out of my mind. Sir Marcus had promised a morning visit for the following day, but none came, nor on the day after. Though I flatter myself that no one would have noticed from my demeanour, I blush to confess how disappointed I was.

However, I was no child to be in a sulk, so I went about my Master’s work with the lightest heart I could manage. One of my daily delights was to pray in our ancient church. On this occasion, however, the cold and damp almost bit into me – and I was not of a rheumatic disposition. I looked about me. The ancient stone almost bled moisture. I must remind Simon Clark, the verger, to bring in braziers on Saturday night to take the edge off the chill in preparation for the Sabbath’s divine worship. It might be the only warmth my poor parishioners enjoyed that day, or indeed, any other, till the weather eased.

Chafing my hands and trying in vain to ignore a vicious chilblain, I heard voices and – God forgive me – I almost ran
to the door. Even as I approached, it creaked open to admit Sir Marcus’s party. It included, to my delight, Lady Dorothea, who smiled at me with every appearance of pleasure.

Our breath billowed and wreathed about us as I ushered them into the nave, ensuring that the heavy door closed behind us. If we had no form of heating, at least we could be spared the wind driving rain right through the porch. Truly, if the gale shifted but a degree to the north, I feared the rain would be transformed into snow.

Lady Dorothea, wrapped in dark furs, looked as charming as I had hoped, her golden curls peeping from a flattering hat. But I was in the House of God, and must turn my thoughts from the earthly to the spiritual. Smiling impartially at the Bramhalls, I spread my arms expansively. I had, after all, the care of a most lovely building, and felt something of the pride I fancy a mother might feel for her child.

‘As you can see,’ I began, ‘the building itself dates back to the days before the Conquest—’

‘This is the sort of organ that Mr Handel played in London,’ she exclaimed, darting forward impetuously, and indeed, far more abruptly than etiquette demanded. ‘And in a church as poor as this!’

But I was not offended. Indeed, much as I might have wanted to extol its more obvious wonders, such as the solid Saxon pillars and the wonderful stained glass the Almighty had somehow defended against Puritan forces, I smiled at her enthusiasm.

‘It was a very generous gift from a friend of – of the family.’ I did not wish to mention the missing heir’s name and stopped abruptly. ‘We still have a talented band of villagers who play in the gallery up there when there is no organist – or no one
to operate the bellows, which is often the case.’ I did not add that it was often I who had to take my place at the instrument.

No one seemed to notice either her faux pas or my indulgence.

‘I told you she knew her music,’ Sir Marcus declared, his voice echoing robustly in his pride. ‘Did I not, Campion? As excellent a musician as you’d find.’

Perhaps regretting her impulse, she shook her head delicately but firmly. ‘I may be knowledgeable but I am not at all accomplished.’

The distinction interested me. Surely it showed a fine mind. My next words came unbidden. ‘But you do play?’ Images of evening entertainments sprang unbidden to my mind. We might even be partners in a duet!

‘I sing a little. But I do not play nearly as well as my
sister-in
-law,’ she declared with a kind smile at Lady Bramhall.

‘Lady Chase has already extolled your talents, Lady Bramhall,’ I said kindly.

She blushed and fluttered her hands deprecatingly. For the first time I realised that they looked as strong and capable as mine.

‘If I worked the organ bellows, you would favour us with a little music?’ I asked Lady Dorothea, contriving now to ignore, as I was sure she wished to be ignored, the older lady.

‘Not unless I could play without removing my hands from this muff!’ she laughed.

How stupid of me. I bowed. ‘Another day, perhaps?’

‘Another,
warmer
day,’ she agreed, with a smile.

If I had been charmed by what I imagined she was, how much more was I attracted by the real lady. With a tact surely showing an elegance of mind, she turned to the body of the church, stopping before the altar steps and pausing for several
moments, head reverently lowered. I did not interrupt her prayers, and occupied myself pointing out to her brother and sister-in-law a couple of the older monuments. At last, as she raised her head and looked about her, I joined her. With an impish smile, she surrendered the comfort of her muff long enough to trace the diapered incisions on one of the older family tombs. I allowed myself to point out the squint, and the remains of what seemed to be wall-paintings, crude daubs perhaps but of interest to those who considered themselves connoisseurs. I know that when I had suggested whitewashing them, Dr Hansard showed an anger that surprised me, threatening – in jest, I trust – to box my ears if I ever mentioned the idea again, and promising to bring a friend with antiquarian interests to see them.

Having shown the party the Lady Chapel and the crypt, I returned by way of the font.

‘Dr Hansard believes this pre-dates the present church, old as it is,’ I murmured, fingering with reverence the huge granite basin and its heavy oak lid, its fantastical carving rising to a pinnacle like a cathedral spire. ‘The cover is a fifteenth century addition,’ I added.

‘It must indeed inspire great solemnity, to baptise an infant using a receptacle so ancient.’

I smiled. ‘Indeed, Lady Dorothea. But I fear that the recipients of the holy water do not always appreciate it – not if their cries are to be believed.’

She was gracious enough to laugh at my weak joke, and, heaven help me, all I could do was admire her beautiful white teeth.

Again it occurred to me that I was host not merely to her but to her brother and his wife, whom I was somewhat
neglecting. One would be pleased, the other markedly less so. I was anxious, too, to prolong the visit. ‘Might I offer you all refreshment at the rectory?’ I asked.

Pulling a flashy timepiece from his pocket, Sir Marcus shook his head in a decided negative. ‘I fear not, not today. We have promised to call on Sir Josiah Benton over in Leamington, but my sister would insist on seeing the church since we had to pass it.’

‘Then you do me extra honour, to spend so much time here.’ I opened the door for them, the ghastly squeal of the hinges reminding me to ask Simon yet again to oil them.

Lady Dorothea shivered. ‘What a dreadful wail.’

Lady Bramhall caught her arm. ‘Tell me, Mr Campion, do you have ghosts in your churchyard?’

Sir Marcus spun round as if the gargoyles had spoken. ‘What foolishness is this?’

Quickly, to cover the moment of tension, I said, ‘To the best of my knowledge, we are blessed with a quiet graveyard, all the souls at rest till the Day when we shall all be judged.’ Curiosity, however, overcame me. ‘Why, ladies, do you ask?’

‘Foolishness, sheer foolishness,’ Sir Marcus said.

To my surprise, Lady Dorothea persisted, but as if to deflect attention from her sister-in-law. ‘My dresser said that she had heard noises. Moans – moans and sobs and—’

I thought of the nocturnal sounds that had so disturbed my journey. ‘When did—?’

Sir Marcus interrupted me. ‘She probably heard a cow or some other creature. Now, it is far too wet to stand here talking such folly. Into the carriage, for goodness’ sake, wife. And you, Dorothea. We have left these horses standing overlong already.’

It fell to me to hand in Lady Bramhall. I pressed her fingers reassuringly. ‘I’m sure Sir Marcus is right. Pray, do not worry.’

It was easier to offer such advice than to take it myself, however. Following Dr Hansard’s bracing words, I was perhaps more inclined to attribute the unearthly sounds to an earthly cause. I must nonetheless make inquiries myself: sometimes people would admit fears to a foolish young man like myself that they would conceal from the wise physician who could have helped them.

Simon Clark, the verger, was inclined to dismiss Lady Bramhall’s fears as her husband had done, but agreed to question his fellow villagers.

‘Should we do more than that, Simon?’ I pulled my scarf more tightly as we huddled under the lych-gate. Despite the Hansards’ bracing words, I still had a remnant of foolish anxiety. ‘Should not you and I perhaps go and see if there’s—’

Simon sighed as if personally affronted, his whole thin frame shaken by the effort. His wife had died earlier in the year, and though no stranger would have detected other signs of grief, this deep, racking exhalation had become habitual. ‘In all this rain, Parson? When you and the good doctor are telling us all we should keep warm and dry?’

‘All the more need if someone is lying out there in distress.’ But I would not press him. Who could have lived after three or four days and nights of weather like this?

He clearly saw that I was weakening. ‘Poor Mrs Kemp, God rest her soul,’ he continued. ‘About her funeral—’

‘What about it, Simon?’

He sighed again. ‘It’ll be right hard, burying her, that is. The ground’s so wet the grave’ll likely flood. She can’t lie where
she is any longer, poor lady. What are your wishes?’

I knew my place. ‘What do you usually do in circumstances like this?’

‘Line the grave with planks so the sides don’t fall in. Takes a lot longer, that’s your problem.’ He looked expressively at the sky.

‘Then you must start straight away. Secure a couple of stout men to help you, Simon, so that no time is lost.’ I wondered why he had needed to raise the problem, one he must have dealt with times without number. But his confidence had gone into the grave he’d dug for his wife. ‘Now, remember, Simon, there must be braziers in the church on Saturday night.’

‘What about other nights too? Those old pictures Dr Hansard’s so taken with – they’ll be peeling off the wall if we’re not careful.’

I nodded. Perhaps as Hansard always insisted, we had a duty not just to our own generations but to others in the future. ‘Could you undertake to keep them lit all the time?’

‘I may have to if the brook bursts its banks, as they say ’tis like to do. Because that’d take out all Marsh Bottom, and where would the poor folk live then but here?’

‘You know Lady Chase is expecting to accommodate people rendered homeless in her barns and even the Hall?’

‘No one would want the Marsh Bottom type in their byre, let alone their barn. And as for the Hall, I reckon his lordship’s death must have turned her head. Isn’t natural, folk like that living same as decent gentry. Old vicar, he always used to say people should be put in the workhouse, but they say the ground floor’s under three inches of water already.’

‘The church it is, then,’ I said mildly, worrying all the same about the fabric of a building, the heart of my first cure of
souls, I loved dearly. ‘And most important, Simon! – whoever asks for alms, none shall be turned away. Lady Chase will provide whatever I cannot.’

‘As long as she’s the Duchess,’ he hissed, ‘not the Dowager Duchess. That there Sir Marcus won’t be so free with his brass. You mark my words. He’ll be too busy spending it on himself.’

‘Come, man – where is your Christian charity?’

He hawked and spat. ‘Christian is as Christian does. You can tell a man like that. Just by looking at him. And,’ he conceded, ‘by talking to his servants. Anyway, braziers I suppose you shall have. I’ll get on to it now…’

Lady Chase’s open-handedness to the village was matched only by the anxiety of her steward, Furnival, who could not have been more careful if it had been his own money he was trying to save. In her personal life, too, her ladyship was generous, overcoming her reluctance to pass her time with Sir Marcus, and regularly joining his family for dinner – though mercifully without the freezing preamble in the hall. I too was frequently invited, and was delighted if my parish duties permitted me to accept.

Lady Bramhall would play the harp, and Lady Dorothea sometimes sang to my all too inadequate accompaniment. Much as I would have loved to prove her wrong, Lady Dorothea was accurate in her estimation of her talent. She knew much about the works she sang, and was a mine of biographical information about their composers. Nor was there any doubt that she loved her music. Her voice, however, was very uneven: her head and chest notes alike were sound, but there was very little in between. If only she
had had the benefit of the sort of master who had taught my sisters.

‘But you, Mr Campion,’ she was pleased to say, ‘are a wonderful accompanist, knowing when to play
pianissimo
to support my voice and when to play
fortissimo
to drown my weaknesses. I would sing with you every evening of my life.’ Realising the implications of what she had said, she covered her mouth with her hand, retired to the sofa nearest the nursery party and understandably refused to converse with me alone for the rest of the evening – not, of course, that I would have said anything to put her to the blush.

At a click of Sir Marcus’s fingers the governess slid silently on to the piano stool, flexing and chafing her fingers either with nervousness or to restore the feeling after sitting so long in the circle further from the fire. If my word to Mrs Sandys had improved her comfort in the house, I had done nothing to ameliorate her life with the family. By now at least I knew her name to be Anne Southey; I judged her to be in her
mid-twenties
. The modest black gown she wore was not kind to her colouring or complexion, and her eyes, which I suspected were her best features, were always kept demurely lowered. Politeness rather than personal interest made me offer to turn her pages, a suggestion she accepted without any prevarication that might draw attention to her.