Sarum - Edward Rutherfurd [596]
She wanted none of those things. They filled her with a sense of horror. It was as though she had stepped out, over a vast chasm, as in a dream, and managed to get back. But from now on, she vowed, she would be circumspect.
For three weeks she did not go back to the farm.
When she did, he seemed to understand. He was exactly his normal self, touched his hat in front of the farmhand and his boy, and he could discern nothing in their glances that suggested they had any inkling of what had passed.
Alone with him for a moment she said simply: “It must be forgotten.” And he nodded calmly and said nothing more.
But when later he took her foot as usual to lift her into the saddle, she found that she was trembling.
The rest of that year went quietly by. She went to the farm only every two weeks now, and spent less time there. The thatch was not mended. But at the cattle sales in December, Jethro did well again, and with luck the lambing season would bring a goodly addition to the new Hampshires as well.
During the month of January, when there were snows, she only visited the place once, and in February, another of Stephen Shockley’s solemn flirtations with death took place and kept her in the city throughout the month.
Yet all that winter, alone in her room at night, she would lie awake and think of Jethro and admit to herself frankly: I ache for him. More than once she had decided on impulse to ride out to the farm and reached the door of the house – once she had even ridden to Old Sarum and the edge of the high ground – before deciding sadly to turn back.
In the first week of March, Stephen Shockley, was, reluctantly, nearly well again, and since the lease on Jethro’s farm was due for renewal at the end of the month, she had decided to make a long visit there at the end of the second week.
Before this, however, there were other things to think of. For that spring, an important and joyful event took place in England, which necessitated a considerable celebration in the town: this was the wedding of Queen Victoria’s eldest son, the Prince of Wales, which was to be celebrated with feasts and a grand parade on March 10.
It was on the morning of that day that Jane went out for one of her customary walks around the cathedral and the cloisters. She was interested that day to find the door of the chapter house open and one of the canons ushering Bishop Hamilton himself and a group of men she did not know out of the place. After saluting the bishop as he passed, she paused, looking curiously into the chapter house.
“Do you know who that was, Miss Shockley?” the canon asked.
“No.”
“The great Sir Gilbert Scott, who is undertaking the restoration in the cathedral. He was seeing what Clutton did in the chapter house. Do you want to come in?”
It was some time since she had entered the fine octagonal building with its slender central column and huge windows. She admired it. Clutton had done his work so well: as she walked around and surveyed the wall carvings, she could not help smiling at the scenes so densely crammed with action between the severe arches: even their slightly foreshortened, clumsy figures had, she thought, an archaic grace, and gave her a hint of the former, medieval Sarum that she thought was almost gone. The figure of Adam and Eve in particular caught her eye. Adam’s head had been beautifully restored, and his little body and Eve’s remained just as they had first been carved. She smiled, and thought of Jethro.
She was walking from the north door of the cathedral towards the choristers’ green when she met Daniel Mason. He bustled up to her.
“I have a commission to you, Miss Shockley,” he announced. “The money owed you by Jethro Wilson. With, I believe, some interest.” He smiled with satisfaction at this last proof of the drunkard’s reform. “I told him five per cent was acceptable.”
She stared at him, bemused. What was he talking about?
“Have you not heard? He is