Chapter Five

T he day is early, for Aaron left Shrewsbury shortly after a dawn breakfast, and the distance to his old home is short. It could be the early hour, with the dew on his mother’s roses not yet dissipated, or perhaps it’s the thickness of the house’s stone walls which cool the air in the dim parlour.

More likely it’s the heaviness of the hanging conversation, of what’s not being said.

Aaron perches on a tapestried chair, both himself and the chair straight-backed. Tea in a gilt-edged china cup – the ones his mother uses for visitors – rests on a table to his side. Opposite, and seemingly miles distant despite the room’s cluttered intimacy, his parents sit side-by-side on the Chesterfield. There’s a sizeable gap between their stiff bodies and the white antimacassars draped over the sofa’s back. Their gilt-edged cups are as untouched as Aaron’s.

‘Such a surprise,’ his mother says. She eyes Aaron as if to discover by sight alone what changes six years’ absence have wrought in her son.

Aaron’s smile is at odds with his heavy stomach. While admitting his dereliction, a small part of him had trusted in greater warmth from his mother. He is discomfited by the way she has distanced herself from him, has conserved her emotions for the day-to-day business of living without the drain of worry.

‘I must say –’ his father fingers his waxed moustache ‘– it’s been a long time.’

The accusatory tone rings loud in Aaron’s ears. And his conscience.

Yes, it has been too long. Has Aaron said the words out loud? He thinks not, so he repeats them. ‘Yes, it’s been too long, and I apologise sincerely.’ He crosses one long leg over the other. ‘I’m glad to see you are both well.’

The awkwardness of the following silence suggests this is not the sum of what needs to be said after six years. Yet, in this dimly hostile environment, Aaron cannot bring himself to offer the information he had promised himself he would. He won’t drag Hester, Ellen, Rose, or the cottage by the stream, or his volumes of work which amount to substantial learning, into this blaming atmosphere. Speaking of them would sully their cherished purity.

Aaron walks to the bay window with its view over the garden. The oak in the far corner, by the stone wall which separates the house from his father’s woods and fields, is no longer adorned by a swing, and the denuded branch contributes to the serene tidiness. A close-mown lawn stretches from the house to the wall along the road. Deep red, pink and white roses border the green space at even intervals, with daisies, penstemon and other decorative blooms filling the gaps. There is little here of practical use. There never was. Alongside Marianne, Aaron learned the utility of herbs and flowers from Mother Lovell.

‘The garden is lovely, Mother.’ He twists about to offer an interested face. ‘Do you spend much time there?’

His mother arches her eyebrows.

His father grunts. ‘Not as much as the gardener.’

The garden is thus exhausted as a topic of conversation. Aaron remains in the window bay, his back to the scene outside. He moves to a new topic. ‘All is well on the estate, Father?’

‘Estate?’ A meaningful humph. ‘Been selling off parcels here and there, getting excellent prices as Shrewsbury expands.’ He casts a loaded look Aaron’s way. ‘Best to be rid of the responsibility.’

Aaron agrees, managing not to shrink under the implicit blame. With no interested heir to help oversee the small estate, converting the land to cash is a sensible decision, one devoid of sentiment. Another conversation best avoided.

His father doesn’t ask what Aaron does to support himself, given the monthly allowance he sent his son ceased years ago. Returning to his chair, Aaron picks up the gold-rimmed cup, sips at the cooling tea and replaces the cup on its saucer. He briefly, wistfully, considers the wished-for vision he long held of this reunion, picturing his mother scolding, why are they not aware of his marriage, where are these new kin, her grandchildren, a daughter to welcome, assess and show off to the town? Let the neighbours curb their tongues at last, for Aaron has proved himself normal, has done with his strange ways, long absences. They will confess his mother has been right all along with her insistence Aaron will come home, with a wife and children.

His father would glower and wonder how this came about, whether the new daughter is worthy of the Appleby name, and whether Aaron and his bride plan to bless the family line with a son to carry on such name. A farmer’s daughter, Aaron would have told him without divulging all of it, and, with a conspiratorial man-to-man moue, we will do our best in the matter of the son.

The reality is like stepping from a warm hearth into a winter frost. A wash of tiredness courses through Aaron. He deserves this coldness, not the Prodigal Son jubilance he foolishly longed for. He will ask what he has come to ask and leave with promises of another visit.

‘There is something I need to do,’ he says, and is grateful for the indication of interest in the way his parents briefly regard each other. ‘I must speak with the reverend … Reverend Ward … and Mrs Ward.’

The indication of interest balloons. His mother’s eyes widen. His father’s narrow. Aaron finds a perverse pleasure in unsettling their chilly manner.

‘I need to learn where they live.’ He gestures, returns his hand to his lap. ‘I should have asked when I was last here, am ashamed I did not, and more ashamed I haven’t –’

‘You have no idea?’ his father demands in a voice like a growl.

‘They, too, have suffered your neglect?’ His mother’s indignation raises the word neglect above a level for polite conversation.

Aaron winces. His confusion deepens. Why should he have any idea? The beginnings of an answer flicker in his brain, stirred by the way his mother made a plural out of ‘your’, with its implication Aaron had no business neglecting the vicar and his wife. His attempt to capture the flickers is postponed by his father, who jerks his body from the Chesterfield to pace the Turkish rug. He pauses in front of Aaron, his moustache quivering with emotion.

‘You and Marianne destroyed that man’s life.’ Aaron recoils at his father’s cold control. ‘And you tell me she can’t bother herself to discover where her own parents live out their days?’

You and Marianne. Ah. The shards of comprehension leap together like iron filings to a magnet.

‘You believe Marianne and I have been together these past years.’ Aaron makes it a statement, which is not denied. ‘How would you think otherwise unless I told you?’ He breathes out heavily. Of what there is to tell, the barest facts can be conveyed. Doing otherwise would be like jumping into a boggy morass where he would drown, dragging Mother and Father with him, horrified and uncomprehending.

‘What are you saying?’ The question from his mother is sharp, suggesting she is unwilling to believe there could be another truth. ‘You aren’t together? She is not your wife, as she should be?’

‘No.’ Aaron shuffles forward on the tapestried seat. A surprise stab of pain will be kinder than waffling. ‘Marianne is dead, many years ago.’ He carries on over his mother’s gasp. ‘Since her death, I’ve been travelling and using my skills – those I learned from Mother Lovell – to aid the sick poor who cannot afford, or do not trust, the care of a doctor.’ And to ease the sick or injured animals whose worried owners place their faith in Aaron’s gentle hands rather than the cold instruments of fancy veterinarians.

The use of Aaron’s time is ignored to concentrate on the more dramatic revelation.

‘Dead? How?’ His father frowns, his voice suspicious.

Does he believe Aaron killed her? Aaron shivers. He believes it himself. If there’d been two of us, if there’d been twice the power , he hears himself muttering to Mother Lovell, but I failed her .

‘An accident, fire.’ He’s unable to say more, wanting to carry the conversation past his grief. For ten years he has striven to not be haunted by the visions of the dreadful All Hallows Eve night on the cliffs above the river. The night he failed.

‘Which is why I must find Reverend Ward. I have been more than remiss. They should be told their daughter’s fate.’

‘Where is she buried?’ his father asks.

More suspicion, suggesting Marianne is not dead. Why would Aaron dissemble over something so important? Except he is, at least by omission.

‘By the river, in Gloucestershire.’ His vague answer is more or less truthful. He hurries on. ‘Can you tell me where the Wards are?’

His mother wipes at a tear in the corner of her eye. ‘Poor child,’ she murmurs.

Aaron swallows an intemperate bark of laughter at how Marianne would react to this description. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Her parents should be made aware. Do you have an address for them?’

His father copies Aaron’s earlier pacing to the bay window, where he faces his son. He strengthens his glare with an admonishing wave of his finger. ‘Your mother and I bore the shame of your actions.’ A sorrowful headshake. ‘Stealing the vicar’s daughter, destroying the trust we had in you and tarnishing the hitherto unblemished Appleby name.’ His voice rises, his cheeks redden.

The room is too hot. Aaron blinks at this puce-faced man he doesn’t recognise. Father was ever a martinet, a perfectionist in matters of manners, decorum, and what he termed decent behaviour. Aaron has suffered disapproval, yes. Outright anger is not an emotion he has seen.

‘Brought shame on our house,’ his father splutters. ‘Casual as a farm hand stealing away a milkmaid.’

Hester and her cows fill Aaron’s mind, how she dashed from their lessons in the cottage – a vial hurriedly filled and left to him to label and stopper or a mortar of dried leaves insufficiently pounded – to run across the fields, late for milking. He sees himself, when this is done with, relating the conversation to her, her amusement … and catches sight of his mother on the Chesterfield. She presses a plump hand to her breast, mouth slightly open, staring between her husband and her son. The cows lose their humour.

‘It was as much as we could do to hold up our heads in the town.’ Father lowers his tone and adds an iron edge to his deliberately spoken words. ‘Reverend and Mrs Ward, however …’

‘Much worse for them.’ His mother intervenes when his father pauses. ‘The vicar! Impossible for him to command the respect of his parishioners with such a wayward daughter.’ She huffs sadly, the hand remaining in place on her chest. ‘I blame that crone in the woods for luring you both to the devil’s path.’

Her statement carries little emotion. Aaron believes it has been oft repeated, to herself and to his father. Likely to anyone who would listen. He imagines the excuses, how young he and Marianne were, how the crone had tempted them in waywardness, and how it had turned out so badly, what else could be expected? How the four parents would have prevented this reprehensible tragedy if they had been aware of the crone’s devilish machinations.

‘The crone?’ A prick of fear stabs at Aaron’s mind. ‘Mother Lovell? What has happened to her?’

Aaron’s sharp tone brings a snort of disapproval from his father. ‘You think of her above your own parents, of Marianne’s parents?’ He moves from the bay to the side of the Chesterfield, stiff-backed, a hand on his wife’s shoulder. ‘Running off together brought disgrace enough,’ he says. ‘To compound your sin by linking our name with that woman, if woman she is, was what drove the Wards from the town.’

‘What has happened to Mother Lovell?’ Aaron repeats.

‘She remains there, we believe.’ His mother removes her hand from her chest to wave it in dismissal. ‘Witches are no longer held to account in this civilised age.’ She snorts, regretful. ‘You must acknowledge how the rumours spread, of how she bewitched you both and set you on the path to wickedness.’

Aaron’s brow creases. ‘Everything you have said is ancient history.’ He calculates. ‘Over ten years. Why did you say nothing when I was here the first time?’

Father stands straighter. ‘Your mother, with Christian forgiveness in her heart, persuaded me to let things lie.’

Aaron recalls his father’s silent glowers. He also recalls his mother’s tearful pleas for him to stay, which he had refused. Urgency to reach Hester spurred his flight south. Neither had asked about Marianne.

‘I expected you to come with a wife, legitimised in the eyes of God and society.’ Mother clasps her hands, prayer-like, and nods.

There is no response to this. Not one Aaron wishes to give. His determination to leave Hester out of the conversation grows. Too many questions he cannot, does not wish to answer. Given his aim of reconciliation has failed, he vows he will achieve his second reason for being here.

‘Then you see how important it is I find the Wards.’ He pauses, sits further forward, eyes on Mother as the parent most likely to yield despite her vitriol towards Mother Lovell. ‘Where are they?’

His mother twists her fingers together, her pale face older than when Aaron arrived less than an hour ago. She glances at her husband, who gives a tiny dip of his head. Aaron will get his answer. He waits, sombre.

‘They went home,’ Mother says, ‘to the village they hailed from originally. Mrs Ward wished it, and he acceded. No more parishes, not after this …’

The look she gives Aaron contains more puzzlement than anger or coldness. He takes this as a sign of partial forgiveness and is grateful.

‘Which village?’

Mother presses her lips together and frowns, fingers to her chin.

‘Coppenhall,’ Father says. The glower in his eyes has not softened. ‘They moved to Coppenhall, near Stafford.’ He shrugs. ‘Let us pray they are alive and your news will bring the solace of resolution, if not the joy of having their daughter restored to them.’

Despite the pious voice, Aaron agrees. He pushes himself from his chair. ‘Thank you.’ He is eager to be on his way, to have the task over with. Whether completion brings the redemption he craves or not, he is desperate to be with his family by the stream with as clear a conscious as is possible for him in this life.

‘You’re leaving already?’ Mother has also stood and takes a step towards Aaron. ‘You won’t stay one night?’

‘If I leave immediately, I have the chance to be in Coppenhall by evening, given the long days.’ He meets his mother on the Turkish rug and embraces her unyielding form. ‘I am sorry, indeed, for everything.’ Holding her from him, he allows himself a rash promise. ‘I will come again, for there is more news, good news, but this is not the time.’

Leaving her wondering, he stretches out a hand to his father. Father hesitates, eyes the hand briefly, and, finally, grasps it in his own.

‘Thank you, Father.’ Aaron shakes the hand, releases it and moves to the doorway. He lifts his riding coat and the Derby from the wood-and-iron stand, grasps the strap of his travel bag and carries all outside to the stable.

He is gone from the house as the last of the dew evaporates, leaving the scent of roses on the air, and before the mid-morning sun has had time to heat the gravelled drive.