Sarum - Edward Rutherfurd [592]
He returned the paper to her with a smile. As he did so, she noticed for some reason the sound of his frock coat brushing against the leather of the chair. Why did that please her?
“I must go to Barford now, to see the children.”
“Of course.”
It was only minutes after he had left that she stepped outside into the close; and she had hardly gone ten yards before she met Mr Porters. His face was troubled. She had not seen him so agitated since he first proposed to her.
“Ah, Miss Shockley. You have had, ah, a visitor.”
She gave him a pleasant smile.
“Yes indeed. How did you know, Mr Porters.”
He blushed.
“I . . . could not help observing. I happened to be passing.”
“And you are still here.”
She gazed into his embarrassed, anxious eyes.
“I was . . .” his voice trailed off. “Miss Shockley, the man who visited your house is Jethro Wilson, I believe.”
“Yes indeed.” She saw no reason to explain any further.
“If you will permit me . . . please do not think me impertinent . . . I am aware from Mr Mason that you have been most kind, most generous concerning him and his unfortunate children.”
“Mr Mason and I believe he is somewhat reformed.”
“Somewhat?”
“I think myself, Mr Porters,” she considered, without disapproval she realised, of Jethro’s free and heathen spirit, “that with a man like Jethro Wilson, complete reform is out of the question.”
“Ah. Quite so.” He looked relieved. “His visit to your house was unusual,” he ventured.
“Most.”
“Quite so,” he repeated. “You would not be aware, of course,” he was struggling to find his way into his normal, more comfortable advisory role, “that this Wilson has . . . something of a reputation.”
“Really?”
“Yes indeed.” He paused. “The two children, for instance, may not be his only ones.”
“Ah yes.” It would not surprise her in the least. She thought of his eyes, sometimes mocking.
“One must be careful in one’s dealings, I think, with such a man.” And he made her a little bow, as if he were a schoolmaster giving advice to a favourite but erring pupil.
“Why, thank you, Mr Porters,” she said, with a brilliant smile.
And she walked towards the High Street, half amused, and feeling the warm, damp April breeze on her cheek.
The farm began to prosper that summer – modestly, tentatively, and certainly not sufficient for the money she had put into it to bring any return; but like a small flower, it was at least showing some signs of life in the wilderness. Jethro seemed contented. Once or twice when she went there, she was not invited in, and she had thought she had caught a glimpse of a female face at an upstairs window; remembering what Porters had said she paid no special attention: she supposed that was his business.
But sometimes, as they spoke together and she saw his eyes resting quietly on her she wondered: did he feel anything for her?
There were many times when, as she left the city for the glorious ride over the high ground, she would have liked to bring him presents. Occasionally, if she were to spend a few hours there, she brought some delicacy that she could eat herself and then leave at the farm. To do more than this seemed improper, but the children were a different matter and often, when she knew he was due to visit them, she would bring some small present that he could take with him. All these he accepted, sometimes with a shrewd look, but with good grace.
“He really is like a cat,” she thought to herself good-humouredly. “They never refuse cream, but they never need you either.”
Sometimes, as she rode back to Sarum after one of her visits, she would allow her mind to dwell upon those faces she thought she had seen at the window. What were they like, Jethro’s women, she wondered? Village girls, farmer’s wives perhaps?