by Jude Thomas
It is warm in the parlour, but once they have left that cosy room the temperature slaps them at two degrees above freezing. Dashing towards the stairs, the sisters know their beds will have received hot stones to warm their feet.
Then Eveline reels on the landing, gasps and clutches her belly – too much contraband pudding earlier in the day no doubt, left over in the pantry.
‘Evie, are you unwell?’ Florence twists on the upper stairs to see her younger sister bent double.
‘Yes, no – just a little indigestion, I think,’ laughs Eveline, climbing the remainder of the flight more slowly.
The stairs at Royal Terrace are a gracious feature, with imported heart-oak for treads, but gleaming kauri for the balustrade. When the house was being built Elizabeth insisted on using native timbers as much as possible. And Elizabeth’s inspiration has proved well, as usual; the kauri glows like polished amber, modest, yet gracious.
‘Evie, I think you are getting much too plump, and this makes you out of breath. You know, these past weeks I have wondered if fifteen is too long to wait before getting you into stays.’
‘Stays! Those frightful, boned cages – I don’t know how you manage, Floss!’ gasps Evie.
‘It isn’t a question of managing. It’s just proper. And it gives one the silhouette required to become a woman,’ replies Florence earnestly. ‘Honestly, Evie, it is so important to show a small waist – you’ll see.’
Evie gasps again but regains her composure. She will be a young woman soon. She will put up her hair and lengthen her skirts, but she will not give in to inconveniences. She undresses quickly and slides into a thick flannel nightgown, and the sisters kneel at their high beds to say the Lord’s Prayer in rapid unison; the floor rugs give futile warmth to their knees. Once in her feathered bed, feet upon the hot stone vessel and layers of eiderdowns comforting her, Evie relaxes into a cosy trance.
Until a sharp pain makes her intake her breath. Then it happens again.
‘Bother, why did I eat all that pudding earlier, Floss? And I had some plums too.’
Twenty minutes later a similar dagger seems to plunge into her lower back, then ease off, and she floats back into sleep. Once more the agony wakens her, fiercer and deeper.
‘Florence, Floss, oh! Oh sister, it’s a terrible pain!’
‘I shall run to get Mother!’ cries Florence.
‘No, no, please don’t – you know Father will be furious to have his evening interrupted. I am sure it’s just those plums and tomorrow it will have passed!’ begs Eveline between gasps. ‘Please, please don’t go down.’
But then a violent wave returns and Evie moans through gritted teeth until it subsides. Ten minutes later it overtakes her once again. Then again. And again, thrusting and raking like a maddened serpent. Now Florence rejects her sister’s pleas as she throws a wrap around her nightgown and dashes down the stairs. Mother and Father are preparing to depart the drawing room for their own night’s rest before a busy Saturday spent directing the maid and ensuring all is achieved before the Lord’s Day on which there will be no cooking, cleaning or work of any kind.
‘Mother, come quickly. Evie is very indisposed and – ’
‘Wheesht!’ Donald rises. ‘How dare you burst in without knocking! Calm yourself, Florence and do not raise your voice in this way. Your sister has eaten too much, as usual, and is probably out of sorts.’
‘No, no, Mama, please do come directly! Evie is very ill!’
Leaving Donald to puff and snort about females – everywhere females, just to irk him – Elizabeth snatches the hallstand candelabra and surges towards the room that Florence and Evie have shared for many years.
Once a nursery, it is now transformed into a young ladies’ boudoir, the walls papered with a pattern of soft grey trellis and dusky rambling roses. The grey jacquard curtains are full and graceful. A chaise padded with mauve brocade invites leisure by the western wall; a matching chair and inlaid table are set before the window. The twin bedheads are intricately inlaid with rosewood and mahogany. Fat mauve eiderdowns enhance the room’s grace.
But the covers on Eveline’s bed are in disarray. Her legs are awry. And there is a gaping sphere between Evie’s pale thighs and she is screaming and screaming and screaming. The rapidly escalating pain has given way to an unbearable, searing agony. ‘Oh, Mother, Flossie, help me, help me! I am surely being split in two!’
Elizabeth and Florence are transfixed by shocked revulsion – Elizabeth with dawning recognition of the impending event, Florence in terror of the gleaming wetness, and both knowing it must surely be a nightmare.
Eveline is pushing, pushing, gasping, shrieking. At last, with a piercing, primeval howl and a pulsing gush of crimson, she expels a sodden lump. It is blue and still.
And then the tiny thing moves. It utters the faintest croak. The newborn jerks its scrawny limbs and establishes a high, indignant wail.
Chapter Three
3rd September 1858
‘Slattern! Trollop!’ roars Donald. ‘She must arise and be gone!’
‘But, my dear, we must think carefully,’ implores Elizabeth.
The birth of Eveline’s baby has delivered a seismic jolt to life at Royal Terrace.
Eveline has been confined to the room she has shared with Florence for many years. Florence has been removed to share another room with May, and despite all coaxing she remains withdrawn. May has been told that Florence has a case of nerves and must stay quiet, and to please take her noise elsewhere. Jean, Isobel and baby William continue their daily routine with Donald’s sister and governess.
Donald and Elizabeth have spent two days alternately clinging to one another and disputing what is to happen now. The doctor has not been called. No one has come or gone from the house except the butcher’s boy at the servants’ gate.
‘I’m sure Doctor Prichard would be discreet and find a placement for a childless couple,’ pleads Elizabeth.
‘I cannot abide the notion of his involvement,’ shouts Donald.
‘Then perhaps sister Prudence who lives such an isolated life in the Maungatua hills might be persuaded. I know she loves company, especially when the men are away droving, and a baby might – ’
‘I will not hear of it!’
‘Then I believe there is an orphanage up north where the nuns take in foundlings, so perhaps – ’
‘Papists! Never will my family have such a blemish upon its future! But no, that child is not of my family, never again. Whore! Strumpet!’ And Donald staggers to the chesterfield, for his legs will not hold him up.
‘Donald, my dear, we must think clearly, and pray to our Lord to help us find a way.’
‘Pray? Pray, Mrs Fraser? I am at a loss to know why the Lord has forsaken me and my prayers!’
‘Forsaken you? Forsaken you? Donald, for shame!’
‘You dare speak against me, woman? For shame yourself!’ Donald leaps from his prone position as if to strike his wife.
Immediately he stops, his arm suspended high. Never in his life has he struck a woman, although aye, there are many who do. Many who consider women, wives in general, to be worthy of striking in order to make them know the path of righteousness, the way of submitting to the man who is the head of the household and to be obeyed. But Donald vowed from an early age, after witnessing the beatings of his father upon his mother whom he revered, that he would never ever strike another, let alone a woman and especially a wife.
He crumples towards Elizabeth’s arms. ‘Oh, wife, if only the Lord would strike me down,’ he cries, then almost immediately regains composure and draws himself up. ‘But no, it is she who has conspired with the devil! She must be cast out!’
‘No, no! Please, my dear husband, this is your beloved daughter who has been wronged.’
Donald’s wild eyes focus on yet another internal combustion. ‘Wronged? Wronged! And if I ever catch the scoundrel who has wronged her I shall shoot him immediately. Or I shall shoot myself! Or I shall shoot her! B
ut first I must find the brute, the mongrel, the – ’
‘Calm yourself, Donald, we must be calm.’
‘Calm – yes, yes, let us pray for calm amidst the storm, let us pray to be relieved of this abomination. Let us pray, Elizabeth!’
And so the perpetual, revolving tableau continues. Donald seems alternatively to have lost his wits, or become focused on retribution, or sink into his chair in a deep state of melancholy. He will not leave the drawing room; will not take respite in his bed. Elizabeth moves around the house, endeavouring to keep regularity with her children, and reassuring the household that all will be well directly.
Elizabeth visits Eveline and her infant on the hour, and gently guides the routine. Eveline’s budding breasts have been bound and her body cleansed with carbolic soap, something Elizabeth’s women friends have discreetly discussed as being a valuable item not only for the kitchen. The scrap of a thing is sucking well on the bottle and Evie seems to be either in a state of unfathomable daze or blissful dote. Perhaps, thinks Elizabeth, she believes it is a doll.
The window curtains are drawn, with only a chink for daylight. The heavy door drape is pulled across, and an enormous draught-stop pushed against the gap to muffle the inevitable newborn cries.
‘Baby will soon be leaving,’ mother says quietly to daughter.
‘Baby leaving?’ Eveline is vague.
‘And it shall not be spoken of again.’
‘Not be spoken of, not be spoken of … ’
It is noon on the third day and Elizabeth once again descends the stairs. She is exhausted with lack of sleep. Exhausted with worry about Evie. About Florence, who still wakes screaming and sobbing, then falls back into a swoon. Exhausted with Donald’s refusal to agree to any of her suggestions of dealing with the situation. She clutches the landing banister and squeezes her eyes against the world, against the newborn, and against Donald’s increasingly demented moods.
Clearly, it would be sensible to engage Doctor Pritchard’s knowledge of these things and find the babe a home with some deserving couple. This, she is confident, would not be the first time he would have been thus engaged. But Donald will not hear of it.
Alternatively, it would not be difficult for Elizabeth to increase the padding of her body and dress, and infer she is with child once more. William is three now, and it would be perfect timing to have a new one in the family. In a couple of months or so she could be confined and delivered of a bonnie wee girl. This ruse, she is aware, would not be the first time that a baby has to all intents and purposes emerged from a convenient womb. Donald is appalled by the hint of this notion; he has never heard of such a thing.
But then again, it would be normal that Evie goes away under the guise of visiting some friends up north or down south. A plan where the child could be left to grow in safe surroundings and be brought up as a little cousin, or some such. A plan where she, too, is away from all this agitation. Where – oh, wait! Thank you, Lord! That is the Plan!
As if in slow motion, Elizabeth regains her composure, raises her head and squares her shoulders. She will not stand it a moment longer, this hiatus of all that is sensible. She firmly descends to confront a startled Donald.
‘Donald Fraser, you are master of this house, it is true. But in the absence of your clear reason I am mistress of its future. You will listen to me and be done with it. Your options are clear.’
‘I refuse to be lectured! Be gone, woman.’
‘I shall not be gone, and you should not dare to suggest it. Now you shall listen. Tomorrow I shall leave this house with all our children and – and – stay away. Indefinitely,’ she extemporises. ‘Or, preferably, I will leave with Eveline and proceed to ensure our granddaughter – yes, Donald, our own granddaughter! – will be welcomed and loved, for none of this is of her doing, the poor child. I shall take charge, and this is what is to be done. No, please stay seated, Mr Fraser, and hear me out.’
But Donald cannot comprehend the woman. Leave? Stay away?
‘I shall write immediately to sister Caroline asking her to assist us,’ Elizabeth continues relentlessly. ‘If I send the letter at first light tomorrow, the horseman should reach Outram by sunset and with speed, he should arrive at the house before dark. Then my dear sister will have time to read my letter and recover her wits before we arrive.’
A revised plan comes to her mind. ‘But wait, here it is: I shall send Evie and the babe on by the earliest bullock wagon the following morning and they should be there by evening. The bullocks may be changed at Mosgiel so there should be no delay. Evidently the track is much improved. And then, husband, I shall make the same journey directly I have organised this household. There! It is settled. Caroline is steady and reliable, and the boarding house she runs is very respectable, she writes me so. Comings and goings are normal, so nothing will seem amiss.’
Donald looks further dazed. Bullocks? Comings and goings?
‘But here comes the next part of the plan before we return. We shall find a foster mother for the babe, some kind woman whom Caroline can vouch for, and whom we shall reward for the promise to bring her up in the fullness of time. And in that time we shall treasure this strategy. Husband, our dear Eveline and her infant have been sorely done by, but now we must do the best thing. We must act.’
‘But, I shall not allow – I – you – ’ Donald feebly endeavours to respond.
For the first time in her married life, Elizabeth lifts her head defiantly and stares resolutely into her husband’s desperate eyes. ‘I have spoken.’
Chapter Four
4th September 1858
It is first light, raw and bleak. Elizabeth gives a final tuck to the heap of rugs covering Eveline and the picnic hamper, with the tiny one swaddled in a paisley shawl and wedged into its woven bed. Evie’s eyes are bright now and with layers of woollen garments and Elizabeth’s own fur cloak, they are wrapped up tight against the biting cold. The driver stamps on thickly-frosted ground and acknowledges his instructions to drive with care – but with no waste of time – to her sister’s home some fifty miles southwest.
‘Be brave, Evie, keep the little one warm, and Aunt Caroline will be waiting. You should arrive before dark. Then I shall arrive in a few days’ time.’
The driver and his two bullocks are not familiar with Royal Terrace – they usually commence and end their journey at Forbury – but Elizabeth has swiftly managed to find a man who would come over the hill to collect his charges before making the journey across the Taieri Plains. He has little to say. His services are regularly called upon to drive goods hither and yon, and he is well paid and has good sustenance in his belly as a result. He wishes to know no more.
‘Farewell, my dear. Just rest yourself as much as possible with the jolts, and soon you shall be with your aunt. And then the Lord will guide us in how best to give the baby up.’
Eveline clutches the fur cloak to her face as the wagon starts to move on.
The transport slowly traverses Royal Terrace and takes to the high road that will ultimately descend to the south. The animals plod at their one solid, unswerving pace. Evie is cosy under the woollen rugs, and she is getting warmer and warmer.
Give the baby up. Give the baby up. Her mother’s final words pulse, surge and then violently break through her senses and she is suddenly chilled.
‘I say, I say! Stop stop stop! I say, driver! Stop this wagon!’ Suddenly she is alive with passion. The driver cannot hear with his greatcoat collar up and his ears muffed against the chill breath of dawn, but becomes aware of thumping and agitation from his load, and reins in his beasts.
‘Set me down! I must get down – set me down this instant!’
‘But, miss, my instructions are – ’
‘No, no, it is not to be so! You must help me down!’
‘I dare not, miss. I must deliver you – ’
‘Deliver, phooey! Deliver me here at once, I say!’ Eveline draws on her fourteen years’ knowledge of command.
‘But, miss, the lady has paid me – ’
‘Here’s an extra payment.’ She thrusts her pouch with its guinea at the bewildered man. ‘Take it and be gone, but let me down now! I say: now!’
With lumbering awkwardness, the driver unloads his wagon’s cargo: the bundle of girl, fur and hamper. She refuses the blankets. He stares at the road from whence he has come and to which he is headed. He stares at his purse. Slowly, uncertainly, he shrugs, climbs back onto his plank, and does not look back. ‘Gedd-up,’ he growls at the bullocks.
Eveline draws in a deep breath of freezing air. It scalds her lungs and elevates her senses. She cannot feel her finely booted feet on the frozen ground. Determinedly she draws the cloak tight around the hamper; her baby is asleep in its little bed and she shall never, ever let it go. She shall dress it and feed it and play with it. She shall sing ‘Speed Bonnie Boat’ to it. She shall keep it and it shall never, ever be Given Up.
She meanders along the top road, a trail of fur and fever. She drifts along Royal Terrace, and on into Maori Hill. It is dark, but the sky seems to be on fire; in reality is beginning to lighten with a cruel, icy wash.
From the depths of the picnic hamper comes a gentle mewling.
Otago Witness, Monday 6th September, 1858
TAIERI FLOODS
Flash flooding of the Taieri River has resulted in drownings. This took place on Saturday 4th Inst., after the Plain was flooded by torrential rain in the upper reaches of the River. A Witness said he lost much Stock due to the flood. He said he was caught short, due to the fact the River rose so rapidly in frightful surges. He claimed that he might face Bankruptcy.
Another Witness said he saw a Bullock Team and Wagon being swept away while attempting to ford the River, some twenty miles south of Outram. No sightings have yet been recorded of any Survivor, nor Goods on board. It is assumed that All have been swept rapidly downstream and out to sea.