by Wendy Reakes
She wiped a drip with the back of her hand as she remembered the gift she had for Celia. She leaned across the bed and slid her hand under the pillow. The package was flat and square, wrapped in white tissue paper, which she’d found in the gentleman’s closet.
Celia chortled as she took it from her. “I can’t believe you have something for me.” She stopped. “You know Christmas was nearly two weeks ago. Do you want to put it back under your pillow and give it to me next year instead?”
The smile faded from my face. “You think I’ll still be here next year?” She instantly regretted her indignant tone.
Celia looked wretched. “I’m sorry, Marley. That was insensitive.” She forced a meagre smile. “I told you my brain was addled.”
“Where will I be this time next year?” The thought of it made the hairs on the back of her neck bristle. This time next year she would have a baby to care for, with no husband and probably nowhere to live.
“You know what, Marley? Not today, but tomorrow we’re going to put our heads together and think of a way of getting you out of here. What do you think about that?”
She smiled at her encouraging manner. She was the sweetest of friends. “Why don’t you open your present now,” she said.
Celia shook her shoulders as she tore at the paper and opened her parcel. Inside was a handkerchief she’d made for her from one of the sheets in the sea chests. She’d sewn around the square with white cotton to enhance the sides and then she’d embroidered some green holly with red berries in two corners. With one strand of yellow thread she had sewn an M and a C and friends forever underneath in a scroll.
“How lovely, Marley,” she gasped as her brown eyes shined. “I will treasure it always.”
Chapter 14
While the baby grew inside Her belly the winter took its toll. Her stomach was still quite small and nowhere near to a similar size of the women in the village who’d carried their infants for the same number of months. Marley put it down to the cold, since she possessed no other sensible diagnosis.
During her lifetime, after Marley and her brother had gone to live with their uncle in the village of Mells, she’d been involved in the birthing of three babies. Two of them were foals up at Rock Farm, but the last was a real baby, born of an unfortunate barmaid who’d worked at the Coach Inn. Millie had been unwed and already shunned by the small community. Mrs Franklin had taken her in, of course. Good ol’ Mrs Franklin!
There had been many occasions during the past few months when Marley had considered turning to her too, but each time, she was forced to recall the consequences of Mrs Franklin’s kind actions towards Millie Breakspeare.
She thought back to the men who’d frequented the Franklin’s pub, forced by their wives to boycott the business until Millie had been shown the door and thrown out onto the streets where she belonged… Mrs Franklin, a good-hearted woman, had steadfastly refused to back down even though her husband had threatened her with all sorts. Within a few days, since the men had nowhere else to sup their ale, they’d returned, telling their womenfolk to mind their own business.
When it was time for the baby to be born and the local midwife refused to attend the birth, Mrs Franklin allowed Marley to help bringing Millie’s son into the world. Marley was eleven at the time, ‘old enough,’ Mrs Franklin said, ‘to witness the miracle of God’s greatest gift.’
While the men supped their ale downstairs, Millie had gone into labour and by the next day when the baby still hadn’t arrived, Mrs Franklin sent for Marley to hold the hand of the distressed young girl.
Uncle was out of town on a job, so there was no one to answer to when she sneaked in through the back door of the pub at five in the morning, creeping up the stairs to Millie’s room where she writhed on the mattress in severe pain. After the initial shock of seeing the young mother dripping with sweat and her face showing the plain horror of her experience, Marley recovered her composure almost immediately. ‘Remarkable for a girl as young and inexperienced as you,’ Mrs Franklin had said afterwards.
“Can we open the window, Mrs. Franklin?” Marley asked. It was tightly shut with dark drapes covering the light of the morning.
“No, dear. We can’t let the whole neighbourhood hear her cries. Not when they are so loathsome to her predicament.” Mrs. Franklin shook her head and ran the back of her newly washed hands across her own beaded brow. “Marley!” she said as if she’d just thought of a good idea. “Go down to the pub and find Mr Franklin. Tell him to give you a bottle of brandy and then bring it back here.”
Marley sprinted down the stairs, but when she couldn’t find him in the pub as instructed, she went out to the courtyard at the back, where he was rolling barrels. She stopped short when she saw two other men loading crates and empty bottles onto the back of a wagon. One was holding the reins of the horse and he had a pipe protruding from his mouth as if it were a permanent fixture.
“Oh, here’s another one, is it?” he’d said when he saw her run into the cobble covered yard. “’Ere, it looks to me like you’ve got a pub full of young tarts, Franky,” the other man chortled.
Mr Franklin looked up from his barrel on the floor and said. “No, this is young Marley. She’s the locksmith’s niece. There ‘aint no bad in this one,” he added. He turned about and asked, “What is it, lass?”
“Mrs Franklin asks that you give me a bottle of brandy,” she said as she turned her back on the other two men. To be sure, she didn’t much care for what they thought. The most important thing was to help Mrs Franklin get that baby out.
She didn’t understand Mr Franklin, when he said. “I won’t be giving my expensive liquor to the likes of that young ‘un.” And when the other men chuckled in appreciation of his bravery standing up to his wife, Mr Franklin put his hands into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. “Here, Marley. Take these keys and fire up the range in the scullery. We’ll be hankering to eat some breakfast within the hour.”
She looked down at the keys in her hands and up again, confused by his instructions since she’d never before been made to fire up the range in the pub’s scullery. But then, while his back was turned to the other men, Mr Franklin gave her a quick wink of the eye.
The banter followed her all the way to the door leading back into the bar. “Glad to see you’re keeping these little tarts in line, Frankie.”
She looked up the stairs and heard Millie crying, so with a sudden spurt of intuition, she went straight to the scullery and unlocked the door. She must have stood inside the entrance for a good minute until she once again heard cries from above. That spurred her on to search in some cupboards behind the door built into the wall. Finally, there on the top shelf, were two bottles of brandy. She smiled as she grabbed one and rushed back upstairs.
Millie was given almost a quarter bottle and by the end of it she was drunk as a skunk, as Mrs Franklin had put it.
“Won’t that be bad for the baby, Mrs Franklin?” asked Marley, bemused at one so young rolling her eyes and dribbling like a baby herself.
“That won’t affect it much now,” she answered. “He’s on his way out that door and probably a bit tipsy himself,” she hooted.
Sure enough the baby slid out that door within seconds of Millie getting a dose of liquor, but he didn’t look drunk. He was angry by the looks of him.
After the birth of her son, the shame had been too much for Millie to bear, so a week later, she’d taken the babe and run off, just like Marley had run off the night she lost her shoes and in part, for the same reason as Millie’s.
Now, Marley was approaching six months of her pregnancy (brought on by that black-haired lout), and most of that time, since Christmas, she’d been confined to her bed due to the perishing cold and a foot that ached and ached, after she’d turned it that time last September. It was the end of February now and the windows had frosted up and darkened her parlour, but through the occasional pane she could still view the grey sky, loaded with burdensome clouds of snow.
“Thank you, dear friend,” she said when she cast her eyes over the donations. “It is so cold up here.”
She looked about her, and back to the first two sections of the attic. “I wonder…if we block off this part, it will keep the warmth in here,” Celia said aloud even though she was talking to herself. “I think that’s the problem! We’re trying to heat up the whole attic.”
Marley followed her eyes to the cluster of furniture crowded into the middle attic section. Dividing her parlour from the second section, half of the width of the attic held a brick wall, acting as a partition, with her bed tucked into its corner. But the rest was open to the rafters, maybe 18feet up. She began preparing the lamps by pouring in the Kerosene very carefully, so not to spill any. Celia was looking at the beams above with her hands on her hips. Around her shoulders, she had wrapped a grey checked woollen shawl. Marley worried how she was also exposed to the cold in the attic, especially since she had been susceptible to influenza.
“I have an idea,” she said.
Marley lit the lantern and the flame warmed her hands. “What is it?”
“I saw some pictures in a book my aunt gave me to read whilst I was ill. Arabian Nights it was called.”
“How can that…”
“They lived in Bedouin tents.” Celia swept her arms in the air. “Perhaps we can recreate them to insulate your living space.”
Their minds worked together marvellously. “We can use sheets and blankets,” Marley announced with renewed vigour.
Without pondering any more, both Celia and Marley padded through the forest of furniture to one of the sea chests in the back of the second section. When they opened the lid, they were met with an array of linen and blankets, ideal for arranging into a Bedouin tent. They began lifting them out to carry back to Marley’s parlour by the arm load. When they returned and saw the pile now resting on her bed Marley stopped and became sullen. “Wait, Celia,” she said slowly.
“What is it?”
“How can I hide my presence if anyone should come into the attic? They will surely see the tent behind the furniture and protruding from the wall.”
“Marley,” Celia whispered. “What choice do we have?”
She thought about that for a moment. Celia was right, they had little choice if she was going to survive the harsh winter. Besides, she wouldn’t be there much longer. As soon as they came up with a plan, they can take down the tent and it will look as if she was never there at all. “Okay, let’s do it then.”
They began by making a canopy above her bed, which seemed to be the place she spent most of her time. Fortunately, the walls had protruding bricks and an occasional nail, useful for hanging the sheets at a comfortable height over her bedstead. They also used some of the cross beams that ran lower than the rafters in the roof and suddenly she had a cosy little nook that shone yellow, made by the lamps she had dotted about the floor.
“We need to extend it now, so that your parlour is covered too,” Celia said as she pulled more blankets and sheets from the depleting pile.
They hung a large white sheet on the windows, as high up as they could get, then they took the corners of the other end and draped them over the same angles as the canopy over the bed. Another, they stretched over the other end of the windows, above the glass doors that led onto the roof. They left the end part uncovered, where Marley’s little makeshift kitchen was. The both thought it was sensible since she used fires to cook her food.
When they looked back at their creation, Celia and Marley both smiled as they entered the Bedouin tent and lapped up the cosiness of the parlour space. “Oh, Celia, it’s excellent,” she gushed. “What a wonderful idea.”
She beamed at Marley’s obvious joy. “I think we should stack some of the furniture, to prevent the heat going further along the attic and maybe put more rugs down.”
“Yes, we have rugs at the far end, but Celia, how could we possibly lift the furniture to stack it up?”
“I don’t know, but we’ll think of something, eh,” she laughed.
They never did think of a way to stack the furniture. Everything was too heavy for them to handle, so for now, they left the attic the way it was, hoping that if anyone happened to come up during the winter, they wouldn’t see her Bedouin tent, nor the cosiness contained therein.
That same day, Celia came back during late afternoon. “Everyone’s resting after the activities of the day,” she said.
“What happened?” How she loved to listen to Celia’s stories about the people down below. She was adept at storytelling and added lots of drama which Marley wasn’t sure were true or not, but she didn’t mind, Celia’s stories were her greatest means of entertainment whilst hiding in the attic above Wilbury House.
“We had guests,” Celia answered. “Seven people came back from church without notice to the cook. Unheard of in this house,” she added. “One of them was the vicar, which wasn’t too out of the ordinary since he sometimes comes back and doesn’t make much of a difference to the family when they sit down to their six-course lunch.” She raised up her eyebrows in deference; an expression she’d no doubt copied from her mother. “But the other six were from a family who live in nearby Frome.”
Marley shivered when she heard the name of the town. The black-haired lout had come from Frome and any association to the name was abhorrent to me.
“They said they were related…distant cousins or something,” Celia said, “and that they’d gone to the church in Mells by invitation of the vicar.” Celia shook her head. “Of course, the servants are not given any consideration, and we had to suddenly bring out the best silverware and extend the table, which we’d already laid before going off to church. My mother accepted the situation fine, but ooh…the cook and the head footman were right livid.”
Celia had already told Marley about the family who lived in the house where she resided without their knowledge nor by invitation of any kind. The Earl was called His Lordship by the servants, but Celia had found out about their history from a footman called Lancelot.
Lord Wilbury had inherited the house and title from his father George, Celia had told Marley. “He once cut off the son,” Celia said with wide brown eyes, “Disinherited him after he went and did something bad. But then he forgave him when he got wed. Her name was…”
“Elizabeth,” Marley said, finishing Celia’s sentence.
“How do you know?”
“Her things are up here next to George’s,” she said softly, respectful of her presence in the attic.
“Ah, yes. When George died…Lord Wilbury had George’s things put with Elizabeth’s in the attic.”
“But what of William?”
“Who?”
“The baby…William. What happened to him?”
Celia shook her head. “I don’t know, but I’ll find out, don’t you worry none, Marley.”
Chapter 15
Just like the night she lost her shoes, the day the baby came in June was a big moment in Marley’s life. The momentous event began quite early in the morning. A sharp pain in her belly had made her groan in her sleep, until her consciousness suddenly alerted her to the notion that the pain was very real. She opened her eyes and knew right there and then that her time had come, four weeks early, according to her calculations.
She had spent the winter delving into periodicals and the large stack of newspapers to discover any information about birthing she could find. But it appeared that women in confinement, and the procedures for having a baby, were not to spoken of. That must surely have been the case since there was nothing of worth she could find, except for the odd advertisement for cocaine drops for teething babies, and she couldn’t imagine getting her hands on anything like that. Eventually, she scoured an informative article for birthing calves, which pu
t an image in her mind of Celia reaching inside her to pull out the baby by its legs. It was an embarrassing notion, but Celia had assured her, that whatever happened, she would be there to do whatever needed doing.
Neither of them could have predicted the turn of events of that day.
Marley’s waters broke midmorning after pacing the floor of her little parlour with two pairs of foot gloves on her feet. She must have resembled a waddling duck and when the fluid sprung from her belly, it was confirmed. She was a duck waddling on water.
Celia still hadn’t arrived that morning, so she had no way of knowing the state Marley was in. Some of the spasms were intolerable. They hurt so much that she wanted to cry out each time, but there was also a part of her glad to feel the force of that new life inside her belly. The pain gave her joy, nothing like how she felt from the pain in her foot. There was no joy in that at all.
When Celia burst into the attic like a whirling dervish, she saw Marley sitting on the side of the bed, huffing and puffing. She was huffing and puffing herself, but Marley was positive Celia wasn’t in labour. She stopped when she saw her tired eyes and the beads of sweat on her brow. “What’s wrong?” she asked hesitantly.
Marley groaned. “The baby is coming.”
Celia’s red face suddenly went pale as her mouth fell open and she stuttered her response. “It’s impossible. Not today.”
Marley shook her head, unable to form words on her panting, pouting lips.
Celia went down on her knees and peered into her eyes to demonstrate the seriousness of her concerns. “The mistress went into labour this morning.”
Marley gasped. It couldn’t be true. She shook her head again as she grabbed Celia’s hand resting on her lap, squeezing it tight.
“That’s why I couldn’t come up this morning. The household went on red alert.” With her voice breaking, Celia was wide eyed and scared. Maybe even, more scared than Marley.