‘I think you are being kind.’
‘If that were so, it’s not before time, is it?’ His eyes, deep in his sockets, held hers.
She had to ask. ‘Did she want me? Was – was she looking forward to having a baby in spite of the circumstances, or – or was she looking at it as a burden?’
Hoping his God would make allowances, Jeremiah put one parchment-dry hand over that of his niece’s for a brief moment. ‘She wanted you so much she had returned home to make a different life for herself and her child,’ he lied softly. ‘It wasn’t to be, of course, but thankfully Esther didn’t know this.’
Sophy had shut her eyes but as a tear seeped from under her closed lids, she whispered, ‘Thank you.’
If he had been a stronger man, a better man, Jeremiah would have asked for her forgiveness at this point, but as he himself had said, it was his nature to take the line of least resistance, and in case she should refuse, he didn’t obey the prompting of his heart. Instead he described Esther as a little girl and the escapades she had got up to, painting a picture of her until the time she had run away. Sophy drank it in, asking questions about her mother she had never thought she would be able to ask.
At the end of the evening Sophy found she was able to kiss her uncle goodnight with genuine warmth as she again whispered, ‘Thank you.’
‘Oh, my dear.’ Jeremiah shook his head. ‘Too little, too late.’ He had half-turned away but then swung back on the icy doorstep. ‘She would have been proud of you, your mother. Very proud of the fine young woman you have become.’
She watched him as he tramped through the snow to where his horse and trap were waiting under the lean-to at the side of the building. The impression she’d had earlier, of a man far older than his years, intensified as he climbed stiffly into the seat and sat hunched over the reins, his black hat and coat making him appear like an ancient crow as the trap disappeared into the night.
Jeremiah wasn’t surprised to find the vicarage in almost complete darkness when he drove the horse and trap through the open gates and on to the drive. It was another of the subtle ways in which Mary delighted in showing her contempt for him – instructing Mrs Hogarth and Molly not to wait up for him. He had often thought their housekeeper was so like his wife they could have been sisters, both being without any natural human warmth or womanly softness.
After settling the horse in his stable, Jeremiah had to walk round to the front of the house again rather than entering by the immediate route, the kitchen door. He knew this would be locked and bolted. He didn’t doubt Mary would have relished bolting the front door against him too, if she had dared, but to date she had not gone this far on any of the evenings he visited their children’s homes. As he did each time he accepted an invitation from one of them, he had asked his wife if she wished to accompany him today. He told himself this was in an effort to bring about some sort of a reconciliation between Mary and her daughter and sons; not even to himself did he admit that he enjoyed letting her know where he was going, knowing it incensed her more than anything else could do. He had left the house shortly after lunch and it was now ten o’clock, and he was quite aware that Mary would have been seething all that time.
The familiar smell of beeswax and lavender oil greeted him as he stepped into the hall after scraping his boots against the thick cork mat at the entrance. At one time, so many years ago now it was difficult to remember, he had enjoyed coming home after leaving the vicarage even for an hour or two. He had been the master of an orderly and well-run ship then. The house was still orderly and well-run, he supposed, but he knew, and so did the servants, that he was no longer the master of it. Mary had emasculated him more effectively than any bullock.
Why had he put up with her behaviour? He knew men who had half-killed their wives for far less than Mary subjected him to, every day of his life. He had been made to feel a usurper in his own home, degraded, humiliated. Her every action, every look held him up as weak and spineless, and that’s what he was. He had always been afraid of her, he knew that. And although his children might have some affection for him, they did not respect him. Why would they? Yes, indeed, why would they?