On the rim of the pond before them two young boys came, one of them pulling along a little wooden boat, drawn by a string. They chattered excitedly as they moved, concentrating on their task, seemingly without a care in the world. Dully, Lydia watched them go past, then said softly:
‘I – I almost did something dreadful yesterday . . .’
‘Oh?’ Mr Canbrook gazed at her, watching her profile against the green of the sward.
‘I – I was so desperate . . . not knowing what to do.’ She shook her head distractedly, still facing out across the pond. ‘I can hardly say it – but I went to see a woman – a particular woman – in Merinville.’
Canbrook was at a loss. ‘Who? What for?’
‘It doesn’t matter who she is. It’s what – it’s what she does.’
‘I don’t understand . . .’
‘She – she’s a midwife, but she doesn’t only deal with – with births.’ She hung her head. ‘I’m ashamed to tell you this.’
After some moments he gave a slow nod, followed by a little groan. ‘Oh, God – I think – I think I understand what you’re saying.’
‘I didn’t go through with it,’ she said, whispering so
faintly that he could barely hear her. ‘At the last moment I found I couldn’t.’
‘Thank God for that,’ he said. ‘I’ve heard of such women. And I’ve heard of what other women go through – the ones who seek their help.’ He reached out and briefly laid his hand on her wrist. ‘Dear God – going to see a woman like that – you could have died.’
She nodded. ‘Yes, I know.’ She looked round at him now, and the shine of tears came into her eyes again. ‘I gave her my mother’s watch,’ she said, her voice breaking, and now the tears welled and overflowed and ran down her cheeks again. ‘I treasured it. I treasured it so, and I gave it away.’
Suddenly she turned and leaned towards him, and his arms came up awkwardly and held her. His touch was tentative at first, but then as she lay more closely against him he held her tightly. She cried brokenly against his shoulder, ‘I’ve made such a mess! I’ve made such a mess of my life.’
He continued to hold her, and gradually her sobbing eased and stilled, apart from a little catching of her breath. She leaned with her head against his left shoulder and his right hand lay gently on her back. After a while, when she had grown calmer, he said softly:
‘I would have loved it if we could have had a baby – my wife and I. It’s what we wanted, what we prayed for. We’d have given anything. It was the only thing in the way of our complete happiness. But it never happened. Though we tried everything we could think of.’
The two little boys came back, dragging their small boat through the water at the margin of the pond. Mr Canbrook waited until they had gone past, then said, almost whispering the words, a little urgency in his tone:
‘Marry me, Lydia. I want you – you and your baby. Marry me.’
She was silent, unmoving as the words sank in, then she lifted her head from the shoulder of his tweed jacket.
‘Are you serious?’ She could hardly take in his words. ‘Do you mean it?’
‘Oh, I mean it. I’ve never been more serious in my life.’
‘But – but the baby, my baby –’
‘It will be
ours
.
Our
baby. I told you – I always wanted a child.’
‘You would do that? Marry me and take the child as yours? Give it your name?’
‘Oh, I would,’ he said with a note of passion in his voice. ‘I would love you both, and care for you both. To have you – and a child to call my own – it would make my life complete.’
The Canbrooks’ house in Merinville was named Ranleigh. It stood back a little from the road behind a green lawn with a crescent-shaped carriage drive. The house was of three storeys and though not huge, was relatively spacious, comprising some ten rooms. It had a white façade, the rest of the walls being in yellow brick. On this autumn afternoon it was in the drawing room on the ground floor where Lydia sat, writing at the little table that had, since the start of her residency, become her own. Near her feet lay Tinny, her almost constant companion when he was not accompanying Alfred on his short journeys to the shop. Lydia’s south-facing view as she sat, looked through a tall window on to green lawns and herbaceous plots. Out of her sight, beyond the formal design, the kitchen gardens stretched away to an orchard which ended on the banks of the river Merin. The only flowers visible on this early October day were a few late blooming roses. She had been married now for just over five weeks.
She sighed and put down her pen and looked around her. Sometimes it hardly seemed possible that she was here. Could it be? Was it really so? Oftentimes such questions rattled through her mind and she was almost required to take stock of her surroundings and her situation and tell herself yes, indeed, it was true. Following Alfred’s proposal they had been married a week to the day later, the ceremony performed at the register office in Redbury. Once the matter had been
decided, there had been no point in delaying matters; indeed, it was essential that they move quickly, and so they had. During the week leading up to the wedding, Lydia had worked her final day at Seager’s and had moved her few things from Mrs Obdermann’s and gone into a small hotel in Merinville. Ironically, her morning sickness had eased during that week and eventually had faded altogether. After the wedding she and her new husband had gone to London for three days, three days during which they ate in restaurants and went to the theatre and the opera and the Aquarium, and visited the British Museum. Although Alfred had visited London twice in his life before, it was to Lydia a completely new experience and she had been in awe and wonder at the sights and sounds around her, though she could not help but also be very much aware of the grime and soot. It was not a place to live in, that much she was sure of. This place, on the other hand, was ideal, this spot on the northern edge of Merinville, with the quiet river drifting by, and the meadows beyond where the sheep and cattle grazed. If she could be happy anywhere, she thought, then surely she could be happy here.
After a moment more she took up her pen again. She was writing to Ryllis, having that morning received a letter from her. Sadly, her sister seemed no happier in her situation. If anything she was even more unhappy. She had written to say that Thomas was still working in London, and could not say how long he would continue so. He had returned home to Barford only once since his departure in mid-August, and that had been for a very brief visit, during which he had seen Ryllis for not more than an hour. As for his letters, he rarely wrote at all, Ryllis said. He had never been one for letter-writing, but even so she had expected more than the three or four she had received.
When Lydia had finished she addressed the envelope and sealed the letter inside. She had been able to offer no comfort, and did not see how she could do so. She had never had positive thoughts where Ryllis and Mr Thomas Bissett were concerned, and could not see things changing for the good in the near future. She could only say to Ryllis that she hoped things would work out, and exhort her not to be too low in her spirits. She could not tell her that as far as she could see, the writing was on the wall, and there would be no joy in the outcome.
Pushing the letter to Ryllis aside, she took up her pen and began to write again, this time to her father.
How difficult it was to know what to say. Although Ryllis had managed to be at the wedding in Redbury, her father had refused to attend. In fact, he had not spoken to Lydia, nor written her a word, since she had told him of her intention to marry.
‘You’re going to be what?’ he had said.
‘I’m going to be married. This coming week.’
She had gone to Capinfell to see him and give him her news, though dreading the moment that she would do so. She had not been surprised at his reaction. He had stared at her, frowning, his mouth open.
‘
When
did you say?
This coming week
? But you haven’t known anyone long enough to think about taking such a step.’
She had kept silent at this, trying to think of words to say, words that would not heap more fuel upon the flames.
‘Is it someone you’ve met in Redbury?’ he had said. ‘It must be. There’s no one here in Capinfell I could think of in a hundred years.’
Then it was that she had told him that her bridegroom was to be Alfred Canbrook. He had been stunned, and continued disbelieving. ‘How can it be? The man is as old
as I am. Has he been calling on you in Redbury? Is that the picture?’ He had spoken in a low voice, but the flesh around his mouth was bloodless with anger. ‘I expected better from you, Lydia,’ he had gone on to say. ‘For you to go and ally yourself with a heathen – I’m bitterly disappointed in you – but you always were one to go your own way.’ He was hurt too – that Lydia should have taken such a step without even consulting him. ‘Which church are you to be married at?’ he asked. Her reply that she was to be married not in a church but at the register office in Redbury had been the last straw. He had turned his back upon her, refusing to say another word.
And this was how the situation with her father had remained. She believed that he would come round in time, but at the moment his silence was painful and she wanted it ended as soon as possible.
Now, in her letter to her father she wrote that she was well, and hoped that he was also. She went on to say that she wished he would visit them soon, and assured him that he would always be welcome. Also, she said, she and Alfred would like to visit him in Capinfell when it was convenient.
When the short letter was finished and sealed in its envelope she got up from her seat. As she did so the dog lifted his head, looking at her expectantly.
‘Yes,’ she said to him, ‘I’m going out to the post box. Are you coming along for the stroll?’
Tinny rose at once, tail wagging, and then followed Lydia to the door. Moments later, her hat on her head, and her cape around her shoulders, she and the dog left the house.
She posted the letters in the box in the churchyard wall and then, with a word to the dog: ‘Shall we go and see your master? See if he needs a hand in the shop?’ continued on. It was after six now and the late afternoon was fading. For
a short while they walked beside the slow-flowing river. The water was as clear as glass, and the long tendrils of water weeds waved languidly in the current. On the bank the elderberries were rich upon the stems.
Some little distance on they left the river footpath and branched off to take the short road that led into the town. It took just fifteen minutes to reach the market square and the shop.
The eyes of Alfred and his assistants looked up as she went in, her entrance causing the bell to ring, and Alfred smiled at her over the shoulder of the woman he was serving. When the customer had gone, Lydia told him that she had come out to post letters and had decided to take a longer stroll.
With Tinny in the back room out of the way, Lydia took off her hat and coat and set herself to help in serving. The shop would not close until eight o’clock, and business was fairly brisk. Lydia had got into the habit over the last two weeks of coming to the shop and helping out where she could, and as she learned, so she was becoming more efficient.
At last eight o’clock came round, the
Closed
sign went up on the door, and the counters and other displays were covered with their cotton drapes to keep out the dust. The assistants wished Lydia and Alfred a good evening and left for the day. Not long afterwards Alfred himself was ready to leave, and soon he was locking the door behind them and they were starting through the square.
‘What did you do with yourself today?’ he asked as they walked side by side, Tinny trotting two paces ahead.
Lydia replied that she had worked on some sewing and mending, and in the afternoon had written letters to her father and Ryllis.
‘Still no word from your father?’ Alfred asked.
‘No, nothing.’
‘You’ll hear,’ he said. ‘You’ll hear before too long.’
‘But it upsets me, this estrangement.’
‘I know it does, but he’ll come round. Give it time.’
When Samuel Halley returned home from work early on Saturday afternoon he found Lydia’s letter waiting for him. Of course he recognised her handwriting at once. After reading it through he put it up behind the clock on the mantelshelf. She had written to him several times over the past weeks. He had not answered any of her letters.
Guy Anderson caught the train from Redbury that Saturday afternoon. He got off at Merinville and went outside the station to where the local fly-driver waited with his cab. After ascertaining that the cab was available, Guy said he wanted to go to Capinfell and, further, that he wished to go to the house of the Halley family. The driver replied as he unhitched his horse that he was not familiar with the names of the residents of Capinfell, and added, ‘But it’s a small place, sir, and I don’t doubt you’ll find your party without too much trouble.’
Guy climbed aboard and they set off. He had never been to Capinfell before, and the road leading to it was also unfamiliar to him. They drove between fields stripped bare by the harvest, and through some areas where the stubble had been burned. He took in little of the scenery they passed by, however; he was preoccupied with his own thoughts. Lydia had been on his mind so much lately, increasingly, to the point where she had haunted him in the days and had tapped into his dreams at night.
He had not written to her as he had told her he would, and his guilt and regret had grown with the passing time. Over all those weeks in Italy he had kept close to him his late father’s exhortations – and those of his mother – and had tried to put Lydia out of his mind. For part of the time
such action had not been too difficult. For one thing, he had been frantically busy. First, following the death of his father, there had been the funeral to arrange, and after that had come the far from easy task of disposing of the textile business. What should have been a comparatively simple matter had proved problematic and had dragged on and on before its eventual resolution.
At last, though, everything had been settled, and Guy had left Florence to return to Redbury, there to take up the directorial reins of the newspaper that had been his father’s great love. Apart from the business that had required his attention, his mother too had needed him. After Mr Anderson’s burial in Florence his widow had returned alone to Redbury, and there had settled into a depression that Guy, on his later return, had almost despaired of banishing.