Chapter Nineteen

W hen Mrs Appleby and Ellen are out of the room, Hester dares to catch her father-in-law’s eye, to find he is watching her. His lips are pressed together, in bemusement not anger.

‘I am sorry,’ Hester begins, negating her earlier determination to not be sorry.

He cuts her off with a wave of his hand. ‘My son is the one who should be sorry. I’m grateful to you, Hester – I may call you Hester? – for fulfilling the duty he should have filled.’ He leans forward. ‘Which leads me to ask, belatedly, why is he not with you? And why did he not tell you of his visit here at midsummer?’

Hester exhales heavily. ‘Because,’ she says, ‘I have not seen Aaron since he departed with the intention of coming here, after which …’ She bites her top lip, carries on. ‘After which he wished to find Reverend and Mrs Ward to make them aware of Marianne’s death.’

‘You’ve not seen him in over two weeks? A letter?’

‘One,’ Hester says without hinting at the missive’s contents. ‘Written the day before he hoped to speak to the Wards. Nothing since.’

Mr Appleby rises as Mrs Cooper enters the room with a tray which she sets on a side table. ‘Thank you, Mrs Cooper. We can manage from here.’

When the housekeeper is gone, Mr Appleby paces to the window and draws the curtains. Sunshine lightens the room, gleaming on the heavy dark furniture and the dull landscapes to give them the illusion of life. Hester blinks in the brightness, grateful. Through the tall side window of the bay, she glimpses Mrs Appleby and Ellen in a corner of the garden by a broad-girthed oak tree. Mrs Appleby gestures at the branches and Ellen skips, tossing her head, animated with pleasure.

‘Could he be with the Wards?’ Mr Appleby says.

Hester presses her lips together. ‘I have no idea, sir, whether he found them or not.’ She reaches into her coat pocket, touches the letter she has brought with her. She doesn’t bring it out. ‘He wrote from an inn named the Royal Oak. Sadly, I have no idea where this hostelry can be found. I was hoping you would be able to tell me where Aaron had gone to search for the Wards.’

Mr Appleby, re-seated, pulls lightly at his beard. ‘He might be with them,’ he says, as if this would explain all, and satisfactorily.

Hester holds up her palms. ‘Maybe. I worry, of course, why he hasn’t come home or, if he has been delayed, why he hasn’t written.’

‘Hmm.’ Mr Appleby eyes the tea and Hester takes the hint, moving to pour the hot liquid into two cups while her father-in-law says, ‘We sent him to Coppenhall, near Stafford, where we believe the Wards are from originally. We understood they moved there following … the difficulties.’

Hester hands him a cup which he takes with a short nod of thanks. She collects her own tea and sits on the sofa. ‘Then I must look for Aaron in Coppenhall.’ She sips the hot drink, wondering where Coppenhall might be and how she should get there. And if there is a Royal Oak in the town, or village.

‘Coppenhall is not large, and neither is it far.’ Mr Appleby rests his tea on his lap and harrumphs. ‘One day’s travel there and back on the train.’

‘One day?’

‘You and Ellen will be our guests tonight. Tomorrow, you and I will go in search of my errant son. Ellen will remain here for her and her grandmother to become better acquainted.’ Mr Appleby clears his throat. ‘If you are willing?’

‘Ah.’ Hester considers this clutch of offers and finds she is willing. A day trip, and a gentleman to ease her way with enquiries. ‘Thank you, sir.’ She smiles. ‘I’m truly appreciative.’

***

My dear Catherine ,

Hester dips her pen into the ink bottle and stares over the writing desk through the open window of the Appleby’s guest room. The oak tree in the corner of the moonlit garden is a darker shadow against the shadowed wall, rising into the sky as a wide silhouette. She glances at her sleeping daughter, arms and legs splayed under a light counterpane in the middle of the big bed. The girl is worn out from the newness and from listening to the stories of her Papa which her grandmother pours into her willing ears. Including his favourite place, a swing hanging from the sturdy branch of the oak. Hester would giggle at the idea of long-legged Aaron on a swing, except the anxiety knotting in her throat is a stopper to frivolity.

Ellen is content to allow her mother to be absent for one day, in the expectation that when she returns it might – Hester has been careful with her promises – be with Papa. Hester bites her top lip and dips her pen afresh into the ink bottle.

We found our way to Mr and Mrs Appleby after a wearying but uneventful journey. Our welcome was initially unfavourable, until, as expected, Ellen worked her magic. Mrs Appleby in particular is taking a delight in learning about her new family. Or, rather, about her new granddaughter. I have told them something of our life in Barnley, how Aaron is respected as an apothecary (omitting mention of my own work) and also of Rose, explaining she is a foundling whom we adopted. For which Christian gesture, Aaron and I have been given much credit.

Christian gesture. Hester pauses to blot her words with the paper she found, together with the pen, ink, and fine notepaper, in the drawer of the desk. Pressing the thick pad to the letter, she sends another of her silent thank yous to whatever forces saved Rose. Although she doubts they were Christian, she will allow credit to be given where it best smooths the past and enhances the future.

Tomorrow, Hester writes, Mr Appleby will accompany me to Coppenhall, a day’s journey there and back, in order to find Reverend and Mrs Ward. Pray to your God, Catherine, we also find Aaron. I will post this in the morning and write you tomorrow to tell you the outcome of our endeavours.

‘Let there be an outcome,’ Hester whispers, reading over her brief note. She dips the pen.

I trust our Rose is a well-behaved guest and you are restraining your spoiling. Otherwise she will never be content at home and you will have to add her to the number of your own children. Kiss her for me, and also from Ellen, and tell her we love and miss her.

Much love to you my friend also.

Hester

Hester allows the letter to dry, reads it over and addresses an envelope. Ellen shifts in her sleep, flings an arm out wide.

‘Sweet dreams,’ Hester murmurs, and kisses the smooth skin of her daughter’s forehead.

Her own sleep is unlikely to be as restful.

***

Mr Appleby offers his arm to Hester as they leave the busy station at Stafford. There is no relief from the day’s humidity under the great iron and glass roof. The structure traps the steam from the engines and the hundred breaths of sweaty, busy people to further moisten the already damp air. Pigeons flap among the great beams, and on the ground sparrows peck at cake crumbs, skipping between heedless legs.

Hester, whose expectation of a restless night was more than met, is hot and sticky, and they have yet to go on to Coppenhall and back to Shrewsbury.

‘A village,’ Mr Appleby told her as they sat in the luxury of a first-class carriage on the train from Shrewsbury. ‘A simple enough matter to find the Wards.’

There had been little more conversation on the two hour journey. Three middle-aged women shared the carriage, gossiping about this acquaintance’s shocking sense of fashion, another’s renowned inability to retain a cook, and a third’s extravagant preparations for a daughter’s wedding. Hester was content to watch the fields pass by, and grateful for Mr Appleby hiding behind a copy of The Times purchased at Shrewsbury Station while Hester posted her letter to Catherine.

They eat a quick lunch in the imposing and relatively cool dining room of the Station Hotel. Fed, watered and having bathed her face, Hester is eager to carry on with their mission. Mr Appleby summons a hansom cab to carry them to St Lawrence’s church in Coppenhall and to wait for the time it takes them to make their enquiries. Hester nestles into the cab’s corner, wrinkling her nose at the scent of old tobacco and warm wool imbued in the cracked leather. They are on their way. She allows herself to kindle a spark of hope.

Hester’s spark fades when they talk with the vicar, found in his vestry. He is welcoming, bids them sit on wooden chairs opposite his paper-strewn desk, and is intent on Mr Appleby’s request. A young man ignorant of the history of the village he is, however, adamant no Reverend and Mrs Ward have retired to his parish in recent years.

‘Has a gentleman been here recently asking after them?’ Hester says.

The vicar is sorry, he’s not aware of any gentleman seeking this information. Hester’s spark of hope would have crumbled into ash, except for the gentle blowing on the embers afforded by Mr Appleby.

‘Could the Wards have been here and moved on?’ he suggests.

The vicar expresses his apologies all over again, frowning his unhappiness because this time his negative response is owed to his newness to the parish.

‘The sexton has been around forever. Let’s ask him.’ He leads his guests outside the welcome chill of the church to the bee-buzzing graveyard where the stooped, grey-haired sexton supervises the digging of a new grave by two younger, more sturdily built men.

Hester’s heart goes out to them, having to labour in the thick mid-afternoon heat. She is unsurprised when they take her and Mr Appleby’s interruption as a valid reason to rest in the shade and avail themselves of whatever is contained in the stone bottles they retrieve from the grass.

‘Ward?’ The old man scratches his long beard. ‘Cos I remember the Wards, youngsters they were, with a babe, a girl, when they come here to Coppenhall.’ He swings his rheumy gaze to the vicar. ‘A couple of vicars ago,’ he says, excusing the man’s ignorance. ‘Didn’t stay long. The reverend impressed those higher-up and was rewarded with a promotion to a place less … rural.’ He gives the vicar a sideways leer, suggesting he is aware of the young man’s similar ambitions. ‘West,’ he finishes.

Mr Appleby glances around at what can be seen of the village. ‘Yes,’ he confirms, ‘to my own town, and there they stayed until …the reverend’s well-earned retirement.’

Hester has caught the sexton’s comment about how the Wards arrived with a baby girl. ‘They weren’t from here?’

‘No, Ma’am.’ The sexton blinks an acknowledgment of the question and continues before Hester can ask. ‘From further north, I’m thinking.’ His wrinkles deepen in concentration. ‘Old brain’s forgotten what it musta known once.’

‘Ah.’ Hester chews her lip, disappointment settling solid in her stomach. One more chance. She glances at her father-in-law and to the sexton. ‘Is there someone in the village who might remember?’

The sexton tugs harder at his beard, casts his eyes to heaven for inspiration. ‘There was old Mrs Bell, ’cepting –’ he points to the freshly dug grave ‘– we buries her on the morrow.’ He shrugs. ‘Anyone else hereabouts in those days be already gone to their rest, God bless their souls.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Hester murmurs, taking in both the village’s and her own loss. ‘We have no answer here,’ she says to her father-in-law.

‘I’m sorry, Hester.’ Mr Appleby’s furrowed brow confirms his statement. ‘At least we can be sure Aaron didn’t come here. It’s something, I suppose.’ He grasps his fob watch and narrows his eyes. ‘We can be on the next train to Shrewsbury if our cab driver is willing to push his horse.’ And to the vicar, ‘I will leave my card with you, sir, and would be grateful if you could make enquiries among your parishioners. There might be one who remembers the Wards’ home village.’

The sexton grumbles he doesn’t think so. The vicar takes the offered card and slips it beneath his robes.

‘May I ask, sir,’ he says, ‘the purpose of your enquiry?’

‘You may.’ Mr Appleby inclines his head. ‘We have news for them. Of a personal nature.’ His careful tone is an effective barrier to further questioning. ‘Come, my dear.’ He offers his arm to Hester. ‘Let us see if we can be in time for this train.’

***

Dear Catherine ,

Ellen sleeps in the big bed. Tonight she is restless, frowning at her dreams, unhappy with the news Hester brought, sceptical of reassurances that even now Papa may be on his way to them, and they will go home to Barnley tomorrow and wait.

A drizzly, warm rain falls onto the moonless garden, hiding the oak. Hester listens to the slide of soft drops on the verandah roof below her window. Does Aaron experience this same rain. Or is he far from here? And why?

She lifts his letter from where she laid it on the writing desk. She has no need to hold it to the lantern light to read. Its contents are engraved on her mind and her heart.

… idling my time away. A matter I need to talk through with you. More I need to do, more expected of me. Will you be patient, as ever?

What is this more he needs to do? Why didn’t he pursue the Wards to Coppenhall? Hester sits up straighter. What if he did, and by dint of good fortune spoke to another there – this Mrs Bell being buried tomorrow, say – to discover what she and Mr Appleby discovered today? With the helpful addition of where the Wards came from. Is the answer to the riddle that Aaron has pursued Marianne’s parents elsewhere, is searching for them still?

Her body slumps. If such is the case, why not do her the courtesy of telling her? Anger scratches at her throat. Hester tamps it down. There is a reason for Aaron’s silence, and it is not a lack of willingness. A new idea comes to her, one she will need to explain to Ellen.

She continues her letter.

Dear Catherine,

Thank you for your note assuring me my Rose is a perfect guest, which I doubt but will take your generous word. Also to know she is welcome in Shiphaven for as long as is needed.

For my part, today has been a fruitless day. I am no closer to finding my husband than when Ellen and I left Barnley. I fear you are right, my dear friend. An accident has fallen my beloved, else why hasn’t he written or sent word? I will tell you all, such as it is, when I return in a few days’ time. For there is another task I need to do before I leave this area. I am grateful for your willingness to extend Rose’s stay, and please assure her Mama will be home soon. Should she be concerned when she is being fed by Mrs Bryce and entertained by your boys! Kiss everyone for me.

Your friend,

Hester.