Tonight, I fear, the answer had become all too clear.
Before leaving for Diplock Hall, I had dined lightly at four on a stew of carp, a veal pie, and a lemon syllabub, as the invitation had been for seven o’clock. Wine and ramequins of cheese were served as we arrived, for supper would not be for some two hours. We were thus a merry group of some twenty to thirty souls at this informal gathering of friends, although I noticed that Mr. and Mrs. William Dacres were not yet present. Dogs ran to sniff each new arrival, Mrs. Holby’s pet cat watched the proceedings from the safety of a cabinet top, and even a parrot was heard to squawk his approval at the jollity. I had begun to relax, convincing myself that the Dacreses were absent through some trivial happening. The squire had had the happy notion of sending for the village fiddler to play for dancing; his son came too, trundling a music box so that we should not lack for rhythm if Mr. Primose momentarily ceased for a glass of the squire’s brandy. Of which there was plenty!
“Miss Evelina,” I had remarked in admiration, “you are tonic enough for us all.”
“Even better than rhubarb, Parson?” she teased me, since my faith in this curative is well known. She was clad in a silk gown of the palest pink, with matching petticoat. A blushing Thomas was at her side, as pink as her robe, with his hair drawn back, quite in the mode. No wigs for the young of today, not even a peruke. For all that, he was a fine-looking lad, and I wished her well, assuming then that Constance, as well as William, had given them her blessing, even if a reluctant one on her part.
How could I have been so naive? William and Constance Dacres had just arrived. It was William I saw first, as the doors to the dining room opened. A quiet, solemn man, tonight he looked unhappy and strained. Then I saw the tall, slender figure of his wife at his side, who smiled as graciously as if she, and not Evelina, were the centre of today’s rejoicing. Her dress proclaimed it, too. None of our country styles here. No quilted padded skirts for Mrs. Dacres. That striped brocade gown and jacket seized the eye with their apparent simplicity, but like their wearer they were, as Dorcas would no doubt have told me, most artfully conceived.
Thomas had turned white, and so I swear did half of the gentlemen in the room, and not with admiration for Constance Dacres’s undoubted beauty. William Dacres must surely already have been well aware of his wife’s flouting of the requirement for fidelity in marriage. Dorcas told me that her current paramour was rumoured to be Mr. Christopher Collett, a learned and most serious young lawyer, and present this evening. He is married to a lady somewhat older than himself who has brought riches to the union. His predecessor in Mrs. Dacres’s “favours” was also present, Mr. Gerald Farrow, of prosperous estate and recently married to a young and pretty wife, Emily. I feared what might lie ahead. At court in London, such matters are managed — or dismissed — with more aplomb than in our little community in Cuckoo Lees.
It is difficult even now to explain what made Constance’s beauty seem as hard as the ice of winter. When I thought of the first Mrs. Dacres, I wept for what was gone and for the foolishness of men such as William who seek too quickly to replace what can never be replaced and thus fall victim to the outward show.
“So I am to have a stepdaughter.” She spoke seductively and I thought all was well as she inspected Evelina from head to toe. The unlucky girl gracefully sank to the floor in a curtsey. As she rose, however, Mrs. Dacres rapped out:
“I think not.”
“Mrs. Dacres!” her husband pleaded. “I pray you, not here.”
“And why not? It cannot be. Thomas is underage, and that is that. I am sure you would agree, Squire Holby.” The gentleness in the voice gave way to iron.
The squire grew purple in the face. “My daughter, ma’am, is worthy of the Prince of Wales himself.”
“Then let him have her.”
At this breach of courtesy, let alone justice, I waited for her husband to step forward to stop such outrageousness, and declare that Thomas had his permission to wed. To my distress and alarm, neither he nor anyone else spoke; not Thomas, not the squire. It was up to me, their parson, to speak out. I approached the witch myself, fervently wishing I had thought to pack bell, book, and candle in the gig.
“Madam, if you have just cause to speak out against this marriage, then tell us now, or let your husband speak for you.”
“Against this marriage?” Her laughter rippled out. “Parson, he is but twenty years old. To come into his inheritance from his mother, he requires his father’s permission to wed. And that he does not have.”
“Egad, is this true, sir?” the squire thundered at William Dacres. I saw him flush, I saw him step forward as though he would speak, then I saw him stare as if bewitched by his wife, as no doubt he was.
“Perhaps it is best...” He could not finish or even look at his son.
Constance laughed. “Five years, Thomas, until you are twenty-five. It will pass quickly enough.”
Thomas looked at her, and I saw hatred in his eyes. I am ashamed to say it occurred to me that perhaps the witch had flaunted herself at him, only for Thomas to reject her.
“And in the meanwhile,” she continued, not laughing now, “take care, all of you. Many gentlemen who are here tonight shall rue the day they met me, and some, Parson, will look to their livelihood.”
I was in no doubt that this was a direct threat against myself, as well as others. There was much at stake, and not only for myself. To keep its secrets, in which the squire and I are heavily involved, Cuckoo Lees depends on trust between one and another and seldom is there a cuckoo in the nest. Whatever the risk, however, this cuckoo had to be ousted. I could hear uneasy murmurings of “witch,” I could see fear on many faces. I am not a brave man, but I stood there to represent a far greater being than myself, and He will not be browbeaten.
Without ado, I stepped in front of Mrs. Dacres and took Miss Evelina’s silk-gloved hand gently in mine. Then I took Thomas’s in my other hand and joined them together with mine clasped over them.
There was total hush. “Whom God wishes to join together,” I declared quietly, “let no man put asunder.”
A tense silence, and then a roar of approval and relief from the assembled guests. Squire Holby took his cue from me.
“Music, Mr. Primrose, if you please,” he had roared, and our Evening of Conviviality staggered into life again as we hurried towards the lawns.
The rowdiness and exuberance of the dancers was unexpectedly all the greater in the face of the threat to it. We danced most energetically, we laughed, we joked, we swung our partners with enthusiasm, the squire’s dogs ran amongst us, barking with excitement as though they would join in, serving men dexterously wove their way through to bring drinks, and the fiddler played as though Rome itself burned. The minuet, even a quadrille, we attacked all the familiar dances with gusto, if not grace, for lawns are more suited to the old country dances, from The Chirping of the Lark to The Parson’s Farewell — often demanded by the squire as a jest against me.
Only Mrs. Dacres did not join in, but watched from the doorway to the house. I saw no one approach her, perhaps because no one wished to dance with her; not even her husband had requested that dubious pleasure. I thought little of it. We would dance, at nine we would take supper, and in my delight at dancing with Miss Evelina herself, I half forgot Mrs. Dacres, assuming in my foolish arrogance that I had saved the evening and the marriage.
“And now the finishing dance,” roared Squire Holby, as nine o’clock struck and the smell of hot dishes of supper began to waft out to us. He was well in his cups by now and who could blame him? “What shall it be?” he demanded.