The Rector's Daughter (Part Two of The People of this Parish Saga) by Thorne Nicola

Author:Thorne, Nicola [Thorne, Nicola]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2013-03-22T16:00:00+00:00

14

There were days for Sophie when everything seemed possible, and others when it all looked hopeless. Her moods waxed and waned like the tide, at one moment optimistic, the next sad, even fearful.

She felt that since she had returned from New Guinea she had never really found peace; nor had she succeeded in finding herself. She no longer knew who she was, or her purpose on this earth.

The God in whom she formerly placed such trust seemed to have rejected her, and she was no longer buoyed up by her Christian faith. She even found it hard to pray.

In her misery she believed that George, whose faith had been so strong, would have been disappointed in her, and even that in death she had failed him. Three years after returning from New Guinea she had put up no memorial to him; its continuing absence seemed to accuse her. Maybe that was why she had no peace.

These dismal thoughts were uppermost in her mind as she picked her way among the huge masses of Purbeck stone littering the floor of the quarry around which Bart Sadler was escorting her. Sometimes she reached out for his strong hand to steady her because the ground was so uneven. It was a few weeks after Roger’s wedding, and he was keeping the promise he had made then. He had called for her in his carriage and driven her over, saying very little on the way. He was a steely man; a man of few words. Ahead of them stretched the wide expanse of the Channel, flecked with angry waves that seemed to grow larger under a lowering, threatening sky. A few drops of rain had already spattered the ground, and she pulled her scarf more securely about her.

‘Cold, Mrs Woodville?’ She felt his hand on her back, and even such an impersonal gesture disturbed her.

Bart Sadler made her uneasy. He was a brooding, thoughtful man, and she had seldom seen him smile. He was tall and lean, with the hands of a man who laboured. Yet it was obvious that, if not a scholar or thinker, he was intelligent. She remembered what Sarah Jane had said about him; that even his family didn’t know him. She wondered if he had ever married, and if not, why not.

‘There,’ Bart said, pausing at last in front of a monolithic piece of stone which lay on its side as though it had been there since some prehistoric upheaval of the earth.

‘That?’ she enquired, pointing.

‘Oh, it doesn’t look much now.’ Bart sat on the stone and ran his hands sensitively over it. His gesture had all the intimacy of a lover. ‘But wait until I’ve hewed it and honed it. Have you any ideas for the design?’

‘The design?’ Sophie perched uneasily on the stone, taking care not to sit too close to him. Her sense of unease continued, and in many ways she wished she hadn’t accepted his invitation. But she had been thinking of George; she was sure she was thinking of George.

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