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Updated: June 17, 2025
Then something in Ellen's looks as she spoke to Arthur, in her manner as she spoke of him, made her suspicious and one Sunday evening, walking home from church, she became sure. The service had been at Pedlinge, in the queer barn-like church whose walls inside were painted crimson; and directly it was over Ellen had taken charge of Alce, who was coming back to supper with them.
Joanna was annoyed she could not put down his constraint to shyness, for he did not at all strike her as a shy young man. Nor was he being ungracious to Mr. Turner of Beckett's House, though the latter could not talk of turnips half so entertainingly as Joanna would have done. He obviously did not want to speak to her. Why? Because of what had happened in Pedlinge all that time ago?
Half mourning was not worn on the Marsh, so there was no interval of grey and violet between Joanna's hearse-like costume of crape and nodding feathers and the tan-coloured gown in which she astonished the twin parishes of Brodnyx and Pedlinge on the first Sunday in November. Her hat was of sage green and contained a bird unknown to natural history.
If she bought it, she would be adding more than fifty acres to her own, but it was good land Prickett was a fool not to have made more of it and the possession carried with it manorial rights, including the presentation of the living of Brodnyx with Pedlinge.
Martin's study, waiting to be sent for upstairs, but she'd only seen him once.... Then, when tongues at last were quiet in church, just before the second lesson, Mr. Pratt read out "I publish the banns of marriage between Martin Arbuthnot Trevor, bachelor, of this parish, and Joanna Mary Godden, spinster, of the parish of Pedlinge. This is for the first time of asking.
Joanna had a profound contempt of Dunge Ness "not enough grazing on it for one sheep" but Martin's curiosity mastered her indifference and she promised to drive him out there some day. She had been once before with her father, on some forgotten errand to the Hope and Anchor inn. It was an afternoon in May when they set out, bowling through Pedlinge in the dog cart behind Smiler's jogging heels.
Now" lifting a large, well-shaped hand "you needn't gainsay me, for I know what you think. You think I was middling rude to Mr. Pratt in Pedlinge street that day I first met you and so I think myself, and I'm sorry, and Mr. Pratt knows it.
Of course the neighbours disapprove, they've got very strict notions round here as to woman's sphere and all that sort of thing." "Godden? Which farm's that?" "Little Ansdore just across the Ditch, in Pedlinge parish. It's a big place, and I like her for taking it on." "And for any other reason?" "Lord, no!
Now the whole manor of Ansdore was hers, Great and Little, and with it she held the living of Brodnyx and Pedlinge it was she, of her own might, who would appoint the next Rector, and for some time she imagined that she had it in her power to turn out Mr. Pratt. She at once set to work, putting her new domain in order.
Just beyond Pedlinge it turned northward and crossed the South Eastern Railway under the hills that used to be the coast of England, long ago when the sea flowed up over the marsh to the walls of Lympne and Rye; then in less than a mile it had crossed the line again, turning south; for some time it ran seawards, parallel with the Kent Ditch, then suddenly went off at right angles and ran straight to the throws where the Woolpack Inn watches the roads to Lydd and Appledore.
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