‘No! No, Bella! No! No!’
The obstinacy that Florence would at times show was to the fore now. ‘I can’t feed it. I…I won’t be able to bear it near me. If…if it was my own I wouldn’t. I told you as much before. I don’t intend to distort my figure. It isn’t fair of you to ask me. You’ll…you’ll have to get a wet nurse.’
Bella straightened her back and stood looking grimly down at Florence. She knew she had come up against the only strength in her relative’s character; where her vanity was touched upon her stubbornness was inflexible. ‘Very well.’ She let out a long thin breath. ‘Have it your way.’
As Bella turned from the bed loosening her wet things, Florence, her finger pointing to the bedcover, cried, ‘Don’t leave it there! Put it away.’
After a moment’s hesitation, Bella picked up the child and took it into the adjoining room and placed it in the lace-canopied cradle standing in the corner, the hangings of which were not yet finished, and taking one of Florence’s shawls from a chair she covered up the baby; then she looked down at it and muttered, ‘Oscar Eric Karl Knutsson,’ for Konrad Knutsson had already decided to name his son after none other than the King of Sweden.
Two
Art Dixon lifted the child up into his arms and stared at it a long while before he said, ‘They change quickly, shrink back to nothin’, an’ he looked so lively last night.’ Then he smiled at her, and added, ‘The lasses are back in the kitchen, an’ as soon as they get the fires goin’ they’ll bring you something to eat.’
She thanked him and smiled weakly at him.
Art looked at her. She was a bonny piece, be she of the road or not. And he must have been fuddled with stress yesterday because he could have sworn she had one eye…well in the pot, as they said, and t’other up the chimney, yet all there was wrong was just a little wavering in the right one.
Again he looked at the dead child and remarked to himself that the top part of it in particular had indeed shrunk.
As he descended the ladder, the bundle under his arm, he felt shaky and knew that the flood had taken its toll of him, and it hadn’t helped traipsing waist deep through the water at Miss Cartwright’s command. She was a tartar was that one. And for what had been his journey? Just to find them almost as gay as at a harvest supper, with Slater, Bainbridge and Riley drinking together. Bainbridge might be first footman, but Slater had, to his knowledge, always kept him in his place; as for Riley, the second footman, the butler acted towards him as the master might to a stable boy, in fact the master’s voice would have been kinder at times. But there they were with a barrel half empty, which they said they had found floating. Nor were they alone, for Mrs Ledge the cook and Mary Benton the upper housemaid were hobnobbing with them, while Jane Styles from the still room and Rose Miller and Ruth Benny, who never put their noses out of the kitchen, together with the laundresses, Sarah Mayhew and Florrie Stewart, were crammed into the lodge-keeper’s kitchen and laughing and joking as if the world around them weren’t covered with water.
He had spoken his mind to the men, that he had, Slater included, but they had answered him they had done their stint, they had helped to get the farm stock, to the last hen, up onto dry land. What did he expect of them, that they should stand and wail at the water? When it went down they’d all be doing a sixteen-hour day; they were taking their leisure when they could. And there was no-one coming to any harm, was there, at least not yet? But some of them might die with the wetting they had had.
When he had asked where the housekeeper was, the butler had laughed and said, ‘Where d’you think? In bed, sleeping it off. She’s taken her wee dram out of a pint mug the night.’ To this he had replied that they had all taken their drams out of mugs, if he knew anything.
Wading back to the house he had thought that there’d be trouble arising from this night. Yet at the same time he knew that it really was impossible for them to return to their own quarters, for the staff rooms were in the low wing that went off the kitchen. The only members of the staff who slept up above were the housekeeper, and the valet, Mr Harris; but he was away with the master. The outside staff, which included himself, John Hay the second coachman, and the two boys, Jack Wallace and Billy Stratford, slept above the stables, and the farmhands all had cottages of their own.
He laid the child on a shelf in the harness room until the waters should go right down and he could bury it in the copse at the bottom of the park. And he told himself that before she left he would take the girl and show her the spot, and perhaps it would ease her.
Going into the courtyard again, he stood surveying the mud-strewn drive. He had seen the house flooded four times during the years he had been here, but this time things were different. He couldn’t explain to himself why, except that he had the impression that they would never get rid of the stain of this particular flood.
Kirsten had lain four days in the loft and she wanted to go on lying here for ever and ever, for this was the only time she could remember feeling happy. Her body was her own again, and, strangely, so was her mind. She had never thought about her mind before, she only knew that she had felt fear and hatred, and over the last nine months terror, but she had never connected these feelings with her mind, but now the thing that had held these feelings was empty of them, and she thought of her mind as being at peace; what was more she had received more kindness during the last three days than she had done in the whole of her life, at least in the life that had started when she was six years old.
She lay with three horse blankets over her now and she was wearing a white calico nightdress with an embroidered collar that Mrs Poulter had brought her. The nightdress was much too big but it was nice to lie in; she had always lain in her shift, bodice, and petticoat, and sometimes her skirt and blouse as well. She liked Mrs Poulter. She was small and plump and although she didn’t smile much her voice and eyes were kind.
Then there were the two girls who brought her meals. On that first day one had ascended the ladder and reached down for the tray which the other held up to her, and they had laughed and giggled all the while. They had peered at her, and the one called Rose had stroked the hair from her forehead and said, ‘How old are you, lass?’ When she had replied, ‘Just gone fifteen,’ Rose had exclaimed, ‘God Almighty! You started early, didn’t you?’ but had added immediately. ‘Sorry you lost it though.’ To this Kirsten had made no answer, and the one called Ruth had exclaimed, ‘Eeh, we’d better be getting back! But you eat all that up. Mrs Poulter said you’ve got to eat all that up, though it’s only boiled stuff.’ Then on a laugh she had added, ‘I don’t know when we’ll get anythin’ else the day; it’s a madhouse over there, ’cos the flood’s brought on the mistress long afore her time. The house is in an uproar. It’s a lad, an’ he’s letting us know it; he’s never stopped bawling. But the master will be over the moon. He should be here any time now that the water’s gone down. ’Course he’ll get a gliff, not only about the bairn, but the state of the house. Eeh! You never saw anything like it.’
Then they had both run off, calling, ‘Eat it up, mind.’ And she had eaten it up; she had never tasted such food before. There was soup, and boiled chicken, and dumplings, and cheese. And the girls had apologised for the meagreness of the fare!
After clearing up that first meal to the last crumb she had lain back and smiled at herself. She had lain for a long time smiling at herself.
On the third day the girls told her there was all hell let loose…over there. The master had returned the night before and had gone on like a daft lad when he knew he had a son; and the tale came down to the kitchen that he had fussed the mistress and lifted her out of bed and carried her round the room kissing her all the time. But that was last night they said; today, he was like a raging bull because the child had never stopped crying, and instead of carrying the mistress round the room he was for tearing the tight bandages from her breasts so that she could give the child her milk. But she would have none of it. Rose Miller said nobody could
understand such a delicate doll-like thing as the mistress standing out against the master, but apparently she had; and Miss Bella was feeding the child slops which it wouldn’t take.
On the fourth morning Kirsten woke to the sun shining. It was streaking through the seams in the barn; it brought her upright on the straw and she breathed deeply. Then putting her hand underneath her pillow, a real pillow that Mrs Poulter had sent across, she drew out a knotted piece of rag, which she undid and so exposed to the light the five golden sovereigns; and she had the desire to embrace them. She held them in her closed fists and pressed them in between her swollen milk-dripping breasts for a moment before returning them to the rag and knotting it carefully again.
She looked to where her clothes, mud and water-stained, but dry now, were lying over a beam, and she rose slowly from the straw and began to dress. But before putting on her bodice she bent over and squeezed each breast alternately, as Mrs Poulter had shown her, in order to get rid of the milk. Then she donned the rest of her clothes.
When she went to put on her boots she shuddered, for the leather was still wet and its coldness chilled her, but she told herself that once she started to walk she’d soon get warm. She must make for the nearest town; however, before she did that she’d go down to the river and see if the shaft was still there. She turned now and picked up from the horse blanket the small bundle of sovereigns and put them in the pocket of her petticoat, and as she did so she thought that the five pounds might be made into ten if she could get at the shaft. Hop Fuller had put his money in the shaft; she was sure of that.
Before leaving though she must see the housekeeper and thank her for her kindness; and the two girls, and the coachman; oh yes, the coachman, she must thank him, for wasn’t it he who had saved her life?
She was a bit shaky on her feet as she went towards the ladder, but was about to descend when she saw coming in through the barn door the housekeeper, and over her arm a bundle of clothes.
Mrs Poulter looked up at her, then said, ‘Oh, you’re up then. Good, good. Come down quickly, girl. Come, come on down.’
Kirsten found that she couldn’t move quickly but when she reached the ground floor she said, ‘I…was comin’ to see you; I…I’m on me way.’
‘Come here. Sit down.’ Mrs Poulter drew her to a long wooden box, and pressing her onto it she sat by her side, laying the clothes across her knees as she did so. Then she said, ‘Where are you making for?’
‘I’m…I’m not sure yet.’
‘Have you anyone to go to?’
Kirsten lowered her head, then said, ‘No. But’—her head came up again—‘I’ll be all right. I’m…I’m goin’ to get a wee horse and cart. I can make baskets and things.’
‘Listen, child.’ Mrs Poulter leaned towards her and, her voice low, said, ‘I don’t know who you are, or where you’ve come from, or how you came to be on the road, but it’s my belief you should never have been there. Now listen to me. I can get you a position this very minute, and you could be set for life. It’s like this. You’ve lost your baby, haven’t you?’
Kirsten slowly moved her head downwards again but kept her eyes on the housekeeper. And now Mrs Poulter noticed that the right eye was fluttering just the slightest. To her it indicated a nervousness in the girl, and she put her hand out and touched Kirsten’s, saying, ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of, it’s like this. The mistress had a child four days ago. Yes, you both had them around the same time, that dreadful, dreadful night which none of us will ever forget.’ She skirted the fact that she herself didn’t remember anything about it from midnight until five the next morning when Miss Cartwright herself had woken her up. She went on, ‘Now the mistress is not for feeding the child, ladies don’t you know.’ She inclined her head with this explanation. ‘And the midwife’s been and the doctor’s been and there’s no wet nurse available for miles. Miss Bella is for feeding the child pap; but it won’t stomach it, it’s sending it up as quickly as she sends it down. And the master’s raging; he can see his son fading afore his eyes. And if you knew what I know you would realise just what that child means to him. Well then, why, in the name of God, I asked myself just an hour ago, why hadn’t I thought of you afore. Perhaps it was because of who you were, child, and where you come from, I mean the road, and no offence meant. And no offence taken I hope. But you’re not like a regular road piece to me, and that’s why I’m givin’ you this chance, and if you take it you’ll be doing the house a good turn. And the master’s not one to forget good turns, be he what he may. He came storming like mad out of the nursery an hour ago; he’d been trying to pacify the child himself. Did you ever hear anything like it, a man, and the master into the bargain, trying to pacify a child? He had almost thrown Miss Bella and the midwife out. It was when I saw him looking so down, still furious but down, that I forgot all procedure and put it to him. By rights I should have gone to Miss Bella, and she should have broached it; but there I stood at the head of the stairs looking at him, and him at me, and because I was in this house the day he was born I could say to him, “What the child needs, sir, in my opinion, is a mother’s milk.” And he looked at me and said, “Poulter, we’re of like mind. There’s a hundred sovereigns for you if you can go in there and get that binder off her.” And to this I said, “Sir, there’s no need to trouble the mistress, there’s a young girl who was almost drowned in the floods. Dixon and one other”—it was a name I daren’t mention to him at that moment, or any other for that matter—“helped to pull her out. And she was near her time, but she had gone through so much that the child died within a few hours. Now she has the necessary food on her, too much of it for her own comfort. Would you like me, sir,” I said, “to bring her in to the young master?” And you know what, child? He put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Poulter. Poulter. Fetch her. For God’s sake, fetch her.” Then just as I was about to go to the storeroom to get you these’—she patted the clothes on her knee—‘he cried at me, “Why didn’t you think of this before?” and I looked at him and said, “Why not indeed, sir.”…So girl, get out of those dirty rags and don this dress; and not only the dress, the undergarments an’ all. They’re the most necessary, for you must be clean when you bare your breast to the child. And later you’ll have a bath…What is it? Now, now, what is it?’
‘I…I don’t think I can do that.’ She was backing away towards the barn door.
‘Of course you can, girl. You would have fed your own baby, wouldn’t you?’
‘I…I don’t feel like a mother.’ She was still backing.
At this, Mrs Poulter’s face creased into a soft smile and she tripped forward, put out her hand and touched the delicate cream-coloured skin; and her fingers moved gently up towards the right eye, and nodding knowingly, she said, ‘You’ve got a nerve tick in that eye I can see, for when you’re disturbed it’s inclined to flick. Did you know that?’
Kirsten gulped in her throat and made a small movement with her head.
And Mrs Poulter went on, ‘Now I can give you my word you’ll feel like a mother all right back there. It’ll be a grand job. You’ll fall right on your feet in there. The master’s wanted a son for years, and he’ll be open-handed to anyone who will help him rear it. And you’ll have no trouble with the mistress. Between you and me she’s…well—’ Mrs Poulter hesitated as if searching for words, then ended, ‘a sweet, young thing. Nineteen she is, but looks hardly older than yourself, and she’s easy and pleasant to get along with.’
Mrs Poulter did not at this stage mention Miss Bella but said, ‘Come on. Come on now,’ and without further ado she reached out and began to unbutton Kirsten’s bodice, but was checked by Kirsten protesting loudly now; ‘No! no! I couldn’t. You don’t understand. It’s…it’s not that I wouldn’t, but there’s something. Please. An’…an’ there’s the other lady.’
‘What!’ Mrs Poulter’s hands became still. ‘You…you mean Miss Cartwright? Has she been across here?’
Kirsten’s body became sti
ff, her eyes were stretched wide. She stared at Mrs Poulter, but the housekeeper, smiling broadly now and wagging her head from side to side, said, ‘Well, well now, would you believe that? She must have a soft spot in her somewhere. Fancy, Miss Cartwright. Well then, that’s half the battle over if you’ve met her. Come on. Come on, get them off.’
‘No! No!’
‘Don’t be a stupid silly girl!’ Mrs Poulter’s voice was suddenly stern, commanding; she was the housekeeper giving orders and Kirsten became helpless under her hands. She stood docile now, wondering if God were deserting her yet again. That woman, that lady, the tall one. When she saw her she would go for her. She had paid her for the child, it was all legal as she had said and she was grateful to her, so how could she go in there and feed the child, Hop Fuller’s child? The whole thing was becoming like a nightmare again; her head was dizzy, she wasn’t used to being on her legs yet. She was feeling slightly ill, frightened. Somehow she must get away.
‘There now, that’s a transformation. You look bonny. Peaked and whitish, but nevertheless, bonny. Here, let me comb your hair. It’ll have to be braided and put up top. It’ll put a little age on you, an’ that’ll be a good thing for the master’ll never believe you’ve been a mother the way you look now.’
Stooping quickly, Kirsten managed to retrieve what looked like an old handkerchief from her petticoat pocket just before Mrs Poulter kicked the clothes to one side, indicating that they would never be worn again. She was then taken by the arm and led quickly out of the stable and across the yard, past the stable boys, past Art who was just about to enter the harness room and who turned and stared after them. Along a narrow yard flanking the kitchens she was hustled, through the stone-paved kitchen, past a startled Rose Miller and Ruth Benny, past the cook who exclaimed as they went through the green-baized door, ‘Well!’ then demanded of Rose Miller, ‘Is that the one from the loft?’
The Slow Awakening Page 8