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Chapter 2

2

Nettlestock, Berkshire

Escape me?

Never–

Beloved!

While I am I, and you are you,

So long as the world contains us both,

Me the loving and you the loth,

While the one eludes, must the other pursue.

(from Life in a Love, Robert Browning)

T

he parish of Nettlestock comprised one hundred and forty-two souls, all of them resistant to change. This was despite – or perhaps because of – the fact that the village had already been exposed to significant changes in the past decades, with the coming, first of the Kennet and Avon Canal, and then the railway. Perhaps it was the village being in the vanguard of modern transportation that had caused the inhabitants to arm their defences against any further change, as they battled to keep things

“the way they’ve always been round here”

and keep the twentieth century at bay. That was not as hard as it might sound. Canal traffic passed through the locks, some of the product from the whiting factory was loaded at the dock, but otherwise these days the canal left the village untouched. The passenger trains mostly passed through without stopping and when they did stop, it was for gentry from the large houses of the surrounding hinterland, rather than for villagers, who rarely ventured beyond the bounds of Nettlestock, except for the odd trip to the nearby market town at Michaelmas and Candlemas for the agricultural hiring fairs.

Merritt Nightingale was the new incumbent at St Cuthbert’s. His predecessor, who had served the parish for over thirty years, had fallen victim to influenza eighteen months earlier. Nightingale’s youth and lack of history with the parish meant he was viewed with deep suspicion by his flock, who believed no outsider capable of melding with the customs and practices of Nettlestock and no man of such tender years – he was twenty-four – capable of understanding the parishioners and ministering to their needs. This lack of faith in their spiritual guardian manifested itself in passive resistance. They attended church services but neglected to include the Reverend Nightingale in any village activities and avoided bumping into him around the parish and thus being obliged to pass the time of day. Merritt knew this but hadn’t a clue how to go about winning their trust. When he’d raised the subject with the bishop, the latter brushed Merritt’s concern aside and pronounced that the parishioners would accept him, given time. How much time, Merritt wondered?

He hadn’t planned to enter the clergy, but inherited the living from his predecessor, who was a distant cousin several times removed. As Merritt had no particular thoughts about what profession to pursue, it appeared to be as good an option as any, affording him a comfortable place to live, a modest income and plenty of time to pursue his passion for classical literature and long country walks.

Merritt had first set eyes on Hephzibah Wildman a few years earlier, when attending tutorials with her father, the Dean of his Oxford college. She couldn’t have been more than fifteen then, but the young undergraduate had noticed her. One early summer afternoon he had watched her through the window of her father’s study while she was reading in the garden and he was translating Ovid for Professor Prendergast, who always looked distracted and rarely gave the impression he was listening to his students. Heppie had been sitting on a bench under an elm tree, eating an apple. As Merritt spoke the words he was translating from

Metamorphoses

, he imagined the girl in the garden with her apple as Proserpina eating the seeds of the pomegranate. Caught up in the moment, Merritt had paused, losing his place in the Latin text and causing his tutor to rap on the desk impatiently. Every tutorial after that he had looked through the window, hoping to glimpse the girl, but she was never there. He wondered whether Professor Prendergast was not so absent as he appeared.

After coming down from Oxford and accepting the living in Nettlestock, Merritt had occasionally thought of the young woman to whom he had never even spoken and had never expected to see again. When he heard about the tragic demise of both her parents, he felt compelled to write to offer his condolences. He’d included the suggestion of the position at Ingleton Hall with no real expectation that Heppie would take it up. When she did, he was surprised and strangely joyful. Merritt told himself it was because he would no longer be the only outsider in the village and that Miss Wildman and he would be kindred spirits ranged against the hostile Nettlestock natives. He didn’t want to admit to himself that he might have more romantic reasons, as he feared that, seeing her again after three years, he might be disappointed. He also feared that were he not to be disappointed in her, there was every likelihood that she would find little to commend in him.

When Hephzibah Wildman

stood alone on the Nettlestock station platform in the pouring rain, Merritt was overcome with embarrassment that, in his hurry to meet her, he had neglected to bring his umbrella. He offered her his coat to cover her head but realised he couldn’t expect her to hold it over her own head, as she had a cloth bag in one hand, and he couldn’t hold the coat for her without pressing up close against her. He stood in front of her, nonplussed, coat in his hand, dripping wet.

Miss Wildman said, ‘Why don’t we each take a side of your coat and hold it between us so that we’re both under cover.’

He looked at her gratefully, took her cloth bag from her and they raised the coat above both their heads like a canopy and stumbled their way, half running the few hundred yards to the parsonage.

As they went through the village, Merritt could sense, but not see, the eyes upon them from behind the windows of the cottages that lined the muddy street. It would give them all something to think about.

They arrived at the parsonage and stepped into the stone-flagged hallway. He showed her into the drawing room where, as always, there was a roaring fire. Miss Wildman unpinned her hat and looked around, and Merritt realised she was wondering where she might deposit it. Every surface was piled with books, even the chairs. He cursed inwardly. Why was he so incapable of thinking ahead? He was blind to his own surroundings, unable to picture them as others might – until it was too late. Covered in confusion and embarrassment, he rushed about the room, moving books from one pile to another. One of the resulting edifices toppled to the ground, covering the carpet and blocking Miss Wildman’s passage. Merritt rubbed the back of his neck, conscious that his ears were probably red. They’d always teased him about that at school – radish-coloured ears on a carrot-coloured head.

He bent to pick up the scattered books and looked up at Miss Wildman, who was struggling to control her laughter. Merritt wanted to kneel at her feet with gratitude and relief that she was amused rather than irritated. ‘I’m frightfully sorry, Miss Wildman. Mrs Muggeridge, my housekeeper, is always berating me for failing to confine my books to the study, but there isn’t room for any more in there.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘You mean there are more?’ She looked around her and raised her hands in mock amazement.

He rolled his eyes. ‘Every room in the house. But you must be used to that. Your late father had… I’m sorry… I didn’t mean…’

She laid a hand on his sleeve. ‘Don’t worry, Reverend Nightingale. Don’t be afraid to mention my father. It is worse when people try to avoid mentioning him or Mama. A surfeit of books is an impossibility as far as I am concerned, and yes, Papa had hundreds of them. Hoarding books is a vice to which I’m accustomed and would happily do penance for. Sadly, I no longer have any, save for my mother’s copy of

Shakespeare’s Sonnets

.’

Merritt seized the opportunity with the eagerness of a small child. ‘Then I hope you will treat my home as your own personal library. Come here to the parsonage whenever you wish. I would be delighted.’

Miss Wildman looked uncomfortable for a moment then said, ‘That is most kind, Mr Nightingale.’

There followed a silence between them, broken only by the patter of rain on the windowpanes and the ticking of the clock. Miss Wildman was still on her feet as the parson rushed around trying to liberate a seat for her.

The door opened and a small rosy-cheeked woman bustled into the room. ‘There you are, Reverend. What are you doing in here when I’ve already set up your tea in the back parlour? There’s a nice fire and somewhere for the lady to sit,’ she said pointedly, raising her chin in an effort at hauteur that somehow didn’t match her portly shape. She led them to the rear of the house, into a sparsely-furnished room. There was a fire in the narrow grate and a group of upright wooden chairs, where the parson was accustomed to receiving parishioners. Mrs Muggeridge pointed to the tray of tea and arrowroot biscuits she had laid out in readiness on a small side table, nodded, then left the room.

Merritt felt the blood rush to his ears again and instinctively his hand went up to rub the back of his neck. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Wildman. I’m not used to receiving guests, just people here on parish business and I didn’t explain to Mrs Muggeridge to ready the drawing room to receive you. Please forgive me. I hope you won’t take this as a slight.’ He motioned her to sit down.

Miss Wildman, still clutching her bedraggled wet hat, edged into one of the upright wooden chairs close to the fire. Compared to the roaring conflagration in the drawing room hearth, this was a miserly affair, and she shivered, gathering her coat around her.

Merritt sat in a chair opposite. There was another long silence, then the young woman, evidently realising her host was not about to serve the tea, set about doing so herself, pouring him a cup and taking one herself.

‘I’m so terribly sorry, Miss Wildman. I am failing every test of hospitality. What you must think of me.’

She looked at him quizzically. ‘I don’t think I have ever received so many apologies in such a brief space of time and for so little reason, sir.’ She gave him a shy smile.

Merritt picked up his teacup and looking at her sitting opposite him, her hair damp where her hat and his coat had failed to protect it, he was overcome by embarrassment again and slopped his tea over the white linen tray-cloth as he returned the cup to the saucer. ‘Sorry,’ he said.

Miss Wildman shook her head, smiled, then asked, ‘But with all those books in your drawing room, where do you sit yourself?’

Merritt looked down. ‘Mostly on the floor in front of the fire.’

‘I used to love to do that,’ she said, her voice dreamy. ‘Mama was always telling me off. My favourite thing was to lie on my stomach in front of the fire with a good book.’

He looked at her and saw this time it was she who was blushing.

‘I mean, not recently, of course. When I was a girl. I didn’t mean to imply I would still behave in such a manner.’

Merritt smiled and swallowed. Proserpina was not the lovely creature he remembered when she had sat in her father’s garden – but a woman far lovelier. As she parted her lips to eat a biscuit he felt another rush of blood to his head and a desperate desire to kiss her. He’d never felt a compulsion to kiss a woman before. He didn’t even know her. And yet it was as if he had always known her. Now that she was sitting here opposite him, he knew he wanted her always to be sitting close to him like that. Merritt watched as she brushed a biscuit crumb from the corner of her mouth and felt another inexplicable rush of longing. He had to marry her. He would die if he didn’t. He wanted to spend the rest of his days looking into those beautiful blue-grey eyes and listening to the sound of her voice.

While they sipped their tea in silence, Merritt let his mind run away with him. He was walking hand-in-hand with Hephzibah by the water meadows and along the towpath of the canal. He was turning sheet music and adding his tenor voice to her soprano as they sang Brahms duets together. He was kneeling at her feet and offering a posy of wild flowers to her. His fantasies were interrupted when she coughed.

‘You have taken a chill?’ he asked, fear gripping his stomach.

‘No. A biscuit crumb went down the wrong way. I’m sorry,’ she said.

Merritt smiled. ‘Who’s apologising now?’ Then, feeling he might have over-presumed upon their brief acquaintance, added, ‘I meant to say I am greatly relieved the wet reception you’ve received in Nettlestock has not affected your health.’

‘I’m hale and hearty, Reverend Nightingale. I’ve hardly had a day’s illness in my life and I’ve no plans to start now.’

As she looked at him, he was overcome with shyness and self-doubt. How could such a beautiful creature ever be interested in him?

Miss Wildman broke the ensuing silence. ‘I was wondering, did we meet when you were up at Oxford?’

‘No,’ he said quickly, then added before he could stop himself, ‘but I did see you once. A few years ago. You were in the college garden. I was struggling with my Latin translation. I saw you from the window of your father’s study.’ He wondered if he had given away his interest, and the fear of rejection gripped him again.

‘Fancy you remembering that,’ she said, sounding amused. ‘I hope I wasn’t climbing the tree. Mama was always cross when I did that.’

‘No, no. You were behaving with perfect decorum, eating an apple and reading a book. I remember it because I was translating from Ovid. We had reached the story of Proserpina and you eating the apple made me think of Prosperina with the pomegranate. That must be why I remember it.’

She smiled, then looked down at her hands, shivering. ‘I was so happy then. I wonder will I ever be able to feel that way again?’ She gave a little choked cry, then just as quickly pushed her shoulders back and took a deep breath. ‘Some mornings I wake up and for a moment I have forgotten that Mama and Papa are no longer here. One moment when everything is as it always was and then I remember it will never be that way again.’ She looked up at him, her face blushing. ‘I don’t know why I am telling you this, I barely know you.’

Merritt leaned forward, longing to move across the gap between them, kneel at her feet and gather her into his arms. She looked up at him and he felt light-headed.

Then she spoke again. ‘I suppose it’s because you are a parson. I imagine many people must open their hearts to you and tell you their innermost secrets. That’s one of the things clergymen are for, isn’t it?’

He felt a stab of hurt inside. But what did he expect? She saw the office, not the man. If this was love, it was the most painful thing he had ever experienced. But how could it be love when he had seen her once at a distance through a window and now had been in her presence for barely half an hour? Yet he was certain that it was.

He put down his teacup and said, ‘Alas, Miss Wildman, that is far from the case. I have become something of a pariah since I moved to Nettlestock. My parishioners almost never confide in me.’ His face flushed again, and he closed his eyes. She would think him a failure now.

‘Then I shall confide in you and set them an example. I am sure you are the most kind and caring of parsons. They should be grateful to have you. I do hope we can be friends.’ She hesitated, looking embarrassed, as though wondering if she had stepped beyond the bounds of propriety, and Merritt remembered how very young she was. She went on, ‘You are the only person here who knew my dear papa and so that makes a connection between us, don’t you think?’

Merritt felt himself melting. ‘Miss Wildman, nothing would give me greater pleasure than for us to be friends. Consider my books to be your books, my home open to you always. And next time you do me the honour of calling upon me, I will have rearranged the drawing room so you will have a comfortable seat before the fire.’

He looked at his fob watch and rose to his feet. ‘

Tempus fugit

. ‘Time certainly has wings when one is in congenial company, but I don’t mind confessing that I am a little in awe of your new employer and I would not like you to be late and hence get off to a less than perfect start. The carter should be waiting at the door.’

Miss Wildman stood and moved towards him. She stretched her hands out in front of her and clasped them around his. ‘Thank you for your kindness and hospitality, Reverend Nightingale.’

When she had gone and he had shut the front door, Merritt leaned against it, his body shaking and his pulse racing.

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