to Robert, who would be scandalized. I was less inclined to doubt this after a tour of the estate with him, during which he speculated on increasing the rents in such an unthinking manner that I detected a hardening of his attitudes with age, or perhaps with marriage, that disturbed me. He was appalled by my hints of a 70
R O B E R T G O D D A R D
coming clash with the Lords over the Budget and I subsequently said no more to him of such matters.
For all that, Robert was charmed by Elizabeth, as was my mother. I think she recognized in her such energy and intelligence as she might once have aspired to herself had she not accepted rural seclusion with my father. They made an instantly sympathetic pair, the elegant old lady and the vibrant young one; perhaps Elizabeth saw something of Hardy’s poetry in my mother’s soul. If so, it was a great deal more than she (or I) saw in Florence’s paintings, which I found festooning the house to my considerable irritation. Elizabeth proved more adept than I in displaying some admiration for them, but even this could not endear her to my sister-in-law.
A central purpose of any sojourn at Barrowteign was to remind myself of all the doings in the constituency, to visit and advise those with a problem and to show myself in the area. In this Elizabeth proved a great aid. Her beauty dazzled many, her wit drew out others, her grace soothed the pugnacious few. At her behest, I played in Dewford’s last cricket match of the season , which impressed the villagers almost as much as the rounds I stood them at the inn afterwards. At my behest, she accompanied me on a visit to the poor quarrying districts south of Barrowteign and there conceded that old age pensions and Lloyd George’s national insurance schemes ought perhaps to take priority over suffrage reform. We continued, in short, to be as good for each other in Devon as we had been in London. Even Flowers, my assiduous agent, was heard to mutter that Elizabeth for a wife would enhance my standing in the constituency.
Not that it was Flowers’ typically blunt calculation that set me thinking of matrimony. That was born of the affection that I felt deepening into love. September passed as an idyll of growing happiness and hope. Fine weather attended our weeks at Barrowteign and I often took Elizabeth out onto the Moor or down to the coast, indulgences in the beauty of nature which she had not known since childhood. So far from London and my career, it was easy to forget the difficulties attendant upon our association. Insofar as I bore them in mind, it was only as a minor problem easily overcome.
Much more significant so far as I was then concerned was whether I
P A S T C A R I N G
71
could persuade Elizabeth to agree to marry me. I doubted not that, if I could, it would assure my future happiness.
Michaelmas was that year a peerless day of autumn brightness, every tree and every stone at Barrowteign picked out by sharp shadows in the clear sunlight of a cloudless sky. The house was quiet, with Robert off on his quarter-day tour of the tenant farms, Mother along with him to see for herself that all was well with those whose welfare was always close to her heart, if not always that of her son. Florence had gone to visit her family in Dartmouth for a few days, taking Ambrose with her. Elizabeth was eager to escape into the sunshine and I was free to indulge her eagerness.
I drove the car up into the foothills of Dartmoor that lie between the Teign and Bovey valleys and stopped where the lanes became too rough and steep for further progress. We continued on foot, I carrying a picnic luncheon in a haversack whilst Elizabeth set a disarming pace and navigated expertly by one of my brother’s maps. So it was that she brought us to Blackingstone Rock, that great node of granite atop the hills above Moretonhampstead, and led the ascent. I was more breathless than she when we reached the flat top of the rock and sat down to take the
R O B E R T G O D D A R D
coming clash with the Lords over the Budget and I subsequently said no more to him of such matters.
For all that, Robert was charmed by Elizabeth, as was my mother. I think she recognized in her such energy and intelligence as she might once have aspired to herself had she not accepted rural seclusion with my father. They made an instantly sympathetic pair, the elegant old lady and the vibrant young one; perhaps Elizabeth saw something of Hardy’s poetry in my mother’s soul. If so, it was a great deal more than she (or I) saw in Florence’s paintings, which I found festooning the house to my considerable irritation. Elizabeth proved more adept than I in displaying some admiration for them, but even this could not endear her to my sister-in-law.
A central purpose of any sojourn at Barrowteign was to remind myself of all the doings in the constituency, to visit and advise those with a problem and to show myself in the area. In this Elizabeth proved a great aid. Her beauty dazzled many, her wit drew out others, her grace soothed the pugnacious few. At her behest, I played in Dewford’s last cricket match of the season , which impressed the villagers almost as much as the rounds I stood them at the inn afterwards. At my behest, she accompanied me on a visit to the poor quarrying districts south of Barrowteign and there conceded that old age pensions and Lloyd George’s national insurance schemes ought perhaps to take priority over suffrage reform. We continued, in short, to be as good for each other in Devon as we had been in London. Even Flowers, my assiduous agent, was heard to mutter that Elizabeth for a wife would enhance my standing in the constituency.
Not that it was Flowers’ typically blunt calculation that set me thinking of matrimony. That was born of the affection that I felt deepening into love. September passed as an idyll of growing happiness and hope. Fine weather attended our weeks at Barrowteign and I often took Elizabeth out onto the Moor or down to the coast, indulgences in the beauty of nature which she had not known since childhood. So far from London and my career, it was easy to forget the difficulties attendant upon our association. Insofar as I bore them in mind, it was only as a minor problem easily overcome.
Much more significant so far as I was then concerned was whether I
P A S T C A R I N G
71
could persuade Elizabeth to agree to marry me. I doubted not that, if I could, it would assure my future happiness.
Michaelmas was that year a peerless day of autumn brightness, every tree and every stone at Barrowteign picked out by sharp shadows in the clear sunlight of a cloudless sky. The house was quiet, with Robert off on his quarter-day tour of the tenant farms, Mother along with him to see for herself that all was well with those whose welfare was always close to her heart, if not always that of her son. Florence had gone to visit her family in Dartmouth for a few days, taking Ambrose with her. Elizabeth was eager to escape into the sunshine and I was free to indulge her eagerness.
I drove the car up into the foothills of Dartmoor that lie between the Teign and Bovey valleys and stopped where the lanes became too rough and steep for further progress. We continued on foot, I carrying a picnic luncheon in a haversack whilst Elizabeth set a disarming pace and navigated expertly by one of my brother’s maps. So it was that she brought us to Blackingstone Rock, that great node of granite atop the hills above Moretonhampstead, and led the ascent. I was more breathless than she when we reached the flat top of the rock and sat down to take the
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