30

Crepe (also spelled crape): a silk or wool fabric with a distinctively crisp, crimped appearance, usually woven in black and used for mourning wear.

I have often looked back on that time, those days following Ambrose’s death, wondering whether in the grief and turmoil that such a tragedy brings I could ever have imagined the astonishing turn of events that took place so shortly afterwards.

The village was thrown into mourning, of course. Louisa took to her bed and sobbed for a full night and day, and there was little that Maggie or I could do to comfort her. I feared for Peter, too, his body still weak from his own trials. Although he had previously recovered at least some of his appetite, he began to refuse food once more. He rose and dressed each day but would soon run out of energy, burning out quickly like a fire lit with fine twigs.

Several times I found him weeping. ‘I miss him, Auntie. He was always there, you know.’ Even through his tears, he managed a damp smile. ‘I didn’t always agree with him, especially all that hellfire stuff he used to preach, and I was sometimes afraid of him, but whatever will we do, now that he’s not here?’

‘He loved you very much,’ I said. It was true, I supposed, although my heart blenched at the thought that Peter might also have been on the receiving end of Ambrose’s peculiar kind of love. How many times had he too felt the hard edge of the man’s fist? I was surprised that he’d shown no curiosity at all about my bruise, nor even given it a second glance, until I began to understand that perhaps in this household such things were just too commonplace for remark.

Yes, their lives would change, with that I had to agree, but I tried to reassure him that his father would have made a will providing for the two of them. Even though they would probably have to leave the vicarage at some point, it would not be at once, and I would make sure that they were never without a home. Already in my head I was planning, working out how to rearrange the attic rooms in my shop to create a second bedroom.

The funeral took place on the third day. The bishop came from Chelmsford to take the service and so many travelled from far around to attend that there was standing room only in the church, crowds spilling out beyond the porch and into the churchyard. My sister followed the coffin, pale and dignified in her widow’s weeds, and Maggie lent me a veil and a black crepe gown that I hastily altered to fit my slighter form. Another family brought a black silk jacket for Peter that had been worn by their son after his father’s demise.

Death had stalked this village for so long that they were well provisioned for mourning.

Throughout the previous tumultuous days I had been in regular correspondence with Mrs T. and although she continued to reassure me that everything at the shop was ‘perfectly under control’ and exhorted me not to ‘fret yourself’, I would have to return to London before long or the business might start to suffer from my absence.

But abandoning Louisa and Peter in the rawness of their grief was out of the question, at least for the moment. There were numerous official meetings to be had. The day after the funeral, Ambrose’s solicitor called in to read the will. The three of us, with the curate acting as witness, were invited into the drawing room, nervously awaiting the pronouncement which would determine how they might live the rest of their lives.

The first revelation was that despite his meagre stipend, Ambrose’s frugal habits had enabled him to save the extraordinary sum of just over a thousand pounds. But what followed was less encouraging: the list of those to whom in his munificence he bequeathed sums of money and small items of property was lengthy, and I began to wonder whether anything would remain for his family. The church was to receive fifty pounds, his curate twenty, Maggie a further ten, and numerous other people and organisations with whom I was not familiar.

My name did not appear on the list, nor had I expected it. In fact it was only afterwards, when my sister mentioned it, that I even noticed. ‘I’m so sorry, darling Agnes, but I am sure he loved you even so. We shall find something for you anyway, to remember him by.’

In truth, I had no desire to be reminded. The omission only served to confirm what I have always known; that Ambrose only tolerated my existence in their lives out of commitment to my sister, and because I had provided him with the son he had always so desired.

The solicitor came to the end of his reading, and looked up with a smile. ‘Your husband was the most generous man, Mrs Fairchild,’ he said. ‘Many of these benefactors are poor people, with little else to their names. These bequests will make a great difference to their lives. But fear not, there is still the sum of eight hundred pounds, which should provide amply for yourself and your son so long as you are prepared to live modestly. If you would like any help with how to invest it to the best advantage I shall be happy to put you in contact with my advisor.’

Next day we received news that threw the household into a further fluster. The bishop had invited himself to tea.

‘However shall we manage without cook to make her famous sponge cake for him?’ Louisa cried.

‘I can produce a passable fruit scone.’

‘He hates any dried fruit, it gives him heartburn. Whatever else can we provide?’

In the end, Maggie produced a surprisingly good honey and cinnamon cake and I made scones without the fruit, served with quince jelly and clotted cream, which the bishop pronounced to be delicious. After tea he asked for ‘a few words alone with Mrs Fairchild’.

‘Whatever is he telling her?’ Peter said, once we had withdrawn to the kitchen. ‘Why aren’t I allowed to hear it?’

The darling boy! I could have wept for him. Even in his tender years he was already developing a sense of manly protectiveness, a feeling of responsibility for their future now that Ambrose was gone. His childhood was at an end.

Louisa emerged looking drawn and anxious.

‘Come, let us sit at the table and you must tell us everything,’ I said. She glanced at Peter, then at me. ‘We all need to know, Louisa. You must not hide anything from us, so that we can deal with this all together, as a family.’

And so it transpired that as I suspected they would soon have to leave the vicarage, the only home Peter had ever known, once a new vicar was appointed.

‘It’s so unfair,’ he said. ‘Why do we have to?’

‘Just think about it, dearest,’ she said. ‘If every family was allowed to stay in the vicarages around the country, the church would just have to build more and more of them, and they have no money for that sort of thing. It makes sense if you think about it.’

‘I suppose so.’ He scowled. ‘How soon do we have to leave?’

‘He cannot tell us exactly. Gabriel’s father will stand in for general services in the meantime and there will be a locum to take communion, but as the bishop says, the village deserves not to wait too long without a vicar. It may be a few weeks, two months at the most.’

‘A few weeks?’ He was trying to be strong but I could see his chin tremble. ‘What then? Where shall we live?’

‘You will never be without somewhere to live, that I promise,’ I said. ‘Perhaps you could come to London?’

‘London?’ His eyes widened, and then a shadow fell over his face. ‘But how can I leave Gabriel?’

‘That is a topic for another day, dearest,’ Louisa said. ‘Now, let us eat some more of your auntie’s delicious scones, for they will not be so good tomorrow.’

The bishop’s visit stirred my sister into a frenzy of activity. The following day I woke to hear her moving furniture. ‘Whatever are you up to, Louisa?’ I called.

‘It has to be done soon enough, if we’re to move out within a few weeks.’

Pulling on my bed gown and slippers, I followed her voice to Ambrose’s study. I had never before crossed the threshold into this formerly forbidden territory, and even now felt a small tremor of fear as I opened the door. It was a small dark room lined with shelves bowed under the weight of many heavy tomes. In the centre was a large mahogany desk almost entirely covered with books and papers. It reminded me of the merchant’s chaotic showroom.

Louisa was crouched on the floor beside a heavy wooden chest that she had pulled away from the wall – the noise I’d heard – so she could raise its lid.

‘Goodness, this is going to be a marathon task,’ I said, looking around. ‘Why don’t we wait until after breakfast, dearest, and I will help you?’

She sat back on her heels, pushing a stray strand of hair beneath her cap. ‘The bishop says I must sort through my husband’s papers immediately and send him any that I consider to be confidential, or of special interest to the diocese.’

‘Whatever can he mean?’ I asked, gesturing around the cluttered room. ‘Surely these are just Ambrose’s books and writings?’

She shrugged. ‘Who knows? My husband never spoke of his work to me. I just hope there aren’t any hidden surprises.’

‘We could just send all of it to the diocesan office, perhaps? That’d save a lot of work.’

‘And risk allowing them to see something Ambrose wanted kept private? No, I owe it to him to sort things out first.’

‘Then let me help you, dearest,’ I said. ‘For a start we could sell some of those books. I’d imagine they’re worth a few pounds.’

After breakfast, we began. While she went through the voluminous boxes of papers and notebooks, I sorted the books into three stacks: a large one for ‘sell’, a second for ‘diocese’ and a third, much smaller, for ‘keep’. Each time I consulted her she dithered, saying ‘keep’ more times than most until I reminded her that wherever she lived next might not have space for a library. After a while she simply delegated the decisions to me, which speeded up the process greatly.

We laboured for several hours. It was dusty work. ‘Let us take a break, sister, I need some fresh air,’ I said, pulling spider filaments from my sleeve.

‘Good idea. If you get the kettle on I’ll come once I’ve finished this drawer,’ she said.

After fifteen minutes she had still not emerged. I returned to find her sitting in Ambrose’s favourite chair, with a small brown cardboard-bound notebook in her hands. Tears were falling onto the pages, smudging the ink.

‘Louisa, whatever is it?’

She handed the notebook to me. Ambrose’s handwriting was scrawly and hard to decipher, but after a few moments my eyes became accustomed and I began to see that it was a kind of diary. I skipped over several short entries of little import – ‘call on Mrs Berrisford’, ‘order prayer books’, ‘write to the bishop’ – until I reached the longer one.

Dear God, it has happened again. I love her dearly but she does irritate me so with her wittering and her feminine concerns that there comes a point when I cannot help myself. An evil demon seems to take over, controlling my voice and uttering such cruel words that my beloved cowers and cries.

Then somehow, dearest Lord forgive me, the crying seems to enrage the demon so greatly that it forces me to raise my arm to her. It is as though I have acted in a dream, for afterwards, when I then see her on the floor, her cheek reddened or her lip split, I can scarcely believe that it is my doing.

She does not chide me nor complain, for where else could she go? But each time seems more violent than the last and I genuinely fear that it will one day cause her mortal injury. I love my wife, and would cut off my right hand if I felt that might stop it.

Dear Lord, have I not served you well? Have I not brought many to recognise your ways, shown many kindnesses to my fellow man? Please, I beg of you, grant me your forgiveness and guide me to greater understanding so that I may control this demon.

I pretended to continue reading for a few seconds, for the words were spinning in front of my eyes, my thoughts in turmoil. My first reaction was of astonishment, and then anger: how dare he write these words, so knowingly, so coldly? And how dare he try to deflect the blame away from himself onto some ‘demon’ acting beyond his control?

It was your fault, I felt like shouting. No one else made you do it and it was in no one else’s power to stop it unless you acknowledged responsibility for your own actions. But I held my tongue. After all, my dearest sister, still weeping at my side, was the one who had suffered the most. She should not have to answer for his sins.

‘The dear man, he knew it was wrong,’ she sobbed. I said nothing. How deluded she was; she would probably never accept the truth that he was, at heart, a violent bully. ‘He always apologised afterwards – perhaps not in so many words, but by being especially kind to us both.’

‘Both of you?’ I shouted, sickened. ‘He hit Peter, too?’

‘Oh no, my darling. But Peter knew. How could he not, being in the same household? He was always there to comfort me, the dear boy.’

Now, my legs began to tremble. I threw the notebook to the floor as though it was somehow contaminated with evil and stumbled to a chair. Ambrose was eight feet below the ground, but his malign legacy persisted. For years I’d believed that this vicarage was the perfect, stable place for my son to be raised, that he was growing up happy and well loved. But now I was discovering the conspiracy of silence into which he had unwittingly been drawn, the extent of the lies he had learned to tell, the walls of collusion that he and Louisa had created to protect the man who controlled them with fear.

Louisa began to laugh. Was it hysteria? ‘Dearest, whatever is the matter?’

‘Don’t you see? He has left me a wonderful message.’ She took the notebook up from the floor where I’d thrown it, and held it to her heart, her face illuminated with genuine happiness.

‘It must be a great relief, my darling,’ I said. ‘To be free from fear at last.’

‘You don’t understand.’ She opened the notebook and turned to the tear-stained page. ‘Look at what he wrote: I love her dearly. He really did love me, Agnes. I always knew it but, forgive me, there were times when I doubted him.’ She turned her face upwards and crossed herself. ‘Thank you, Lord, for this sign. May he rest in peace.’

Only now did I start to grasp her meaning. Deluded she might be, but it was important for her to believe – and this diary was the proof she needed – that despite his violent outbursts Ambrose had genuinely loved her, that he was truly contrite about his actions and had sought God’s guidance to try to prevent it happening again. Here it was, in black and white. Now she could say goodbye to him cherishing the best of her memories, rather than dwelling on the worst.

I leaned across, took her hand and squeezed it. She squeezed back. How I loved my sister, in that moment. In the silence that followed I sent up my own prayer of thanks to whoever might be listening. She was safe, Peter was well and Ambrose was dead, no longer a threat to anyone.