Mothering Sunday

by Rosie Goodwin

  Lavinia Huntley immediately got out of bed as the colour drained from her face. ‘Zillah, send George for the doctor. Tell him it’s urgent,’ she told her as she slipped into a peignoir. It was a lacy little affair trimmed with feathers and Molly thought it quite inadequate for such cold weather. But that was the gentry for you, always having to look their best.

  ‘You should have fetched me in the night,’ Lavinia scolded as she raced for the door with her heart thumping. Little Stephen was her whole world; the sun rose and set with him, and she couldn’t bear to think of losing him now. If she did, she told herself, it would be all her own fault for visiting Verity, although no one had known at the time that Phoebe was sickening for the measles. She had visited to meet their new son, Michael, who had thankfully been safely delivered at the right time.

  ‘I didn’t like to disturb you. And anyway, there was nothing more you could have done for him than I have,’ Molly answered. She looked worn out and Lavinia felt guilty as she noted the dark shadows beneath the young woman’s eyes.

  In the nursery there was a fire burning brightly but Lavinia saw that Stephen had been laid on top of his blankets and stripped down to his binder. Marigold was in the other crib and she was fretful too.

  ‘I’ve been sponging him down with cool water all night but it doesn’t seem to have made any difference,’ Molly told her worriedly.

  Lavinia scooped his little body into her arms and began to rock him to and fro, deeply alarmed to feel how hot he was. It was as if someone had lit a fire inside him and his face was red and wet with sweat.

  ‘He’s had a slight cold for a few days now, as you know,’ Molly went on, ‘but it was late last night when he seemed to take a turn for the worse and the rash started to come out. Marigold has it too, but she doesn’t seem as bad as Stephen.’

  ‘Well, she wouldn’t, would she?’ Lavinia glanced enviously over at the plump child who was whimpering in the other crib. ‘She’s always been so much stronger than Stephen.’ Then, seeing how distressed Molly was, Lavinia’s voice softened as she told her, ‘You mustn’t blame yourself, dear. You’ve been marvellous with him. In fact, he couldn’t have had a better nurse than you.’

  The two women then fell silent as they each prayed for the doctor to come quickly.

  The examination of both babies was done and as the doctor removed his stethoscope his face was grave. ‘Marigold doesn’t seem too bad, but I’m afraid the infection has gone to Stephen’s chest.’ He glanced sympathetically up at the child’s mother who stood so still at his side she might have been carved from stone. ‘All I can do is leave a sleeping draught to help him rest while you continue to sponge him with cool water to bring the temperature down, and try to trickle some liquid into him.’ He paused then before asking, ‘Is his father here?’

  Lavinia made a great effort to stop herself from flying into a panic at these words. ‘N – no, he’s still in London, I believe.’

  ‘I see.’ The doctor straightened and stroked his chin. ‘It would be wise to ask him to return home if you manage to locate him.’

  Lavinia nodded numbly as she took her son into her arms and sat down heavily on the nearest chair with him. For now, words failed her; she was too choked with fear to say anything.

  Molly saw the doctor to the door where he promised to return later in the day.

  ‘Is it all right if I feed Marigold, ma’am?’ Molly asked as she crossed to the crib.

  Again Lavinia nodded as Molly bared her breast and placed the child to it. The infant instantly started to suckle noisily and Lavinia felt a moment’s resentment. Marigold was a robust, healthy little girl whilst Stephen . . . She stopped her thoughts from going any further. She shouldn’t be blaming Molly’s child. It was Ashley’s fault for causing their son to be born before his time.

  By mid-morning word had gone around the house that Master Stephen was grievously ill and once again the servants shuffled about like shadows, their faces strained. They all loved the baby but they loved their kindly mistress even more and couldn’t even begin to contemplate what losing him might do to her. The measles epidemic that had swept through the town had already claimed a number of children’s lives, and now they prayed that their little master wouldn’t be the next victim. Earlier in the day Mrs Lockett had paid a quick visit to see how he was, and it comforted Lavinia to know that she and Edgar were praying for him too.

  Zillah ran up and down the stairs between the nursery and the kitchen all morning fetching trays of tea and treats to try and tempt her mistress to eat and drink, but Lavinia refused them all. She left her baby briefly, just once, to get dressed, if that’s what it could be called, for she merely dragged on the nearest clothes that came to hand and rushed off back to the nursery without even brushing her hair or washing her face. Now was not the time for vanity. She was fighting for her son’s life.

  ‘Here, let me take him now. You go and have a rest,’ Molly urged once the late afternoon had snatched the light from the day, but Lavinia shook her head as she placed a wet cloth on his rosebud mouth and tried to dribble some water into him. The rash was red and angry on both the babies now but already Marigold was gurgling some of the time and seemed to be much better.

  ‘No, you go and get yourself something. I don’t want to leave him.’

  Molly quietly lifted Marigold and carried her down to the kitchen where she reported to the staff who were anxiously waiting for news.

  The doctor returned after his afternoon surgery but there was no change in the child and he felt helpless because there was absolutely nothing he could do for him; so he quietly left, with instructions that they should send for him should there be any change whatsoever.

  It was when Molly returned to the nursery that Lavinia suggested, ‘Why don’t you go and spend the evening with your husband at home, dear? Stephen isn’t going to need feeding until he’s on the mend, and he’s keeping Marigold awake with his crying. There’s no point in us both staying up all night.’

  The offer was tempting. It had been some long time since Molly had lain in her own bed with her husband’s strong arms about her so she quietly collected together what she and Marigold would need for the night and left, sensing that Lavinia wanted some time alone with her son.

  Soon it was darkest night but Lavinia’s vigil went on. Tirelessly she mopped the precious little brow and trickled water into his mouth as she talked to him, whilst Zillah sat in a corner looking worriedly on, feeling more useless than she had ever felt in her whole life.

  At one point Lavinia carried her son over to the window and drawing back the curtains she looked out into the stormy night. Leafless branches dipped and swayed in the wind as if they were engaged in some macabre dance as she whispered, ‘Look at that big world out there, darling. It’s all waiting for you and when the spring comes round again we’re going to have such good fun. Young George will put a rope swing up for you and build you a treehouse. And you will have your very own pony too, just as soon as you’re big enough to ride. It will be a little one at first, of course, and you can come with me to choose it. I wonder what colour he will be and what you will call him? We’ll go for picnics too. You’ll like that, won’t you? And every Sunday we’ll go together to church and afterwards you can play with Phoebe for a while. Won’t that be grand? In the summer we’ll pick wildflowers to place on your sisters’ graves. You had three little sisters, you know, but sadly they are all in heaven now. But you’re strong, my darling. You’ll stay with me, won’t you?’

  In the corner, tears poured down Zillah’s face. It seemed so unfair. There were women in the courtyards in Abbey Street in town who bred like rabbits. Many of the babies never made it to their first birthday because of lack of food and warmth. Their parents were so poor that when their offspring died they would pay the undertaker a penny to bury them in the same coffin as the next person who could afford a proper burial. And here was Lavinia’s baby, who had had nothing but the best of care since the day he was born, fightin
g to survive.

  At some stage in the early hours, Zillah fell into an uneasy doze from pure exhaustion. The dawn chorus of the birds in the trees woke her the next morning and, rousing, she stretched painfully, noting that the fire was almost out. Hastily she raked out the ashes and threw some lumps of coal onto it, and it was then that it hit her, the silence. Stephen wasn’t crying any more. She turned her attention to Lavinia. She was sitting in the nursing chair with the baby still clutched to her breast and Zillah’s heart skipped a beat. He was so unnaturally quiet and still. Tentatively she crossed the room and laid her hand gently on his forehead. His skin was cold and clammy to the touch.

  ‘Why don’t you give him to me now?’ she asked Lavinia chokily. He had slipped quietly away in the night and looked at peace now.

  Lavinia shook her head, her eyes dull and glazed. ‘No – you go and leave us, Zillah. I want a little time alone with him.’

  Zillah opened her mouth to object but then thought better of it and tiptoed out of the room. She would go down and ask George to ride into town to fetch the doctor and the undertaker. Then when his mother had said her goodbyes she would wash the little soul and prepare him for his final journey.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Cissie arrived at the Spooner residence in floods of tears later that day to break the bad news.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ Sunday murmured in shock.

  Cissie pulled out a kitchen chair, sat on it and noisily blew her nose. ‘It happened in the early hours according to Zillah, but she’d dropped off to sleep so the poor missus must have sat cradling his little dead body for most of the night. He was stiff as a board before Zillah realised what had happened and the missus wouldn’t let the undertaker take him from her for ages. They had to almost prise him out of her arms.’ She gave a sob.

  ‘Will he be buried in the orchard with his sisters?’ Sunday asked in a wobbly voice.

  ‘No, the vicar came and said that because he had lived he should be buried in a churchyard. The girls never breathed so that’s why they were allowed to be buried in the grounds of Treetops Manor. The mistress ain’t at all happy about it but there’s nothing she can do to stop it.’

  ‘Does the master know about it yet?’ Mrs Spooner asked then and there were tears in her eyes too. Biddy Spooner wasn’t quite as hard as she liked to make out.

  ‘No,’ Cissie said. ‘The last the missus heard of him he was staying with his cronies in London, but Zillah says they have no contact address for him so there’s no way of letting him know.’

  ‘What? You mean he might miss his own son’s funeral?’ Sunday was appalled.

  ‘That’s about the long and short of it if he don’t turn up. They can hardly put it off indefinitely, can they?’ Cissie answered, before adding, ‘And between you an’ me I don’t think he’ll be that much bothered anyway unless little Stephen’s death affects the legacy. He hardly ever even looked at the poor little scrap anyway.’

  ‘Poor Lady Huntley,’ Mrs Spooner said feelingly. ‘That child meant the world to her. All she’s ever wanted was to be a mother for as long as I’ve known her. God knows how this will affect her.’

  Cissie nodded in agreement as she rose from the chair, saying, ‘Well, I’d best be off. I’ve promised to go and break the news to Mrs Lockett as well, and it’s a good walk from here.’

  ‘There’ll be no need for that, lass,’ Mrs Spooner told her. ‘I’ll get Mickey to harness Treacle and he’ll run you there in the trap. You sit down an’ have a rest while I go an’ find him. You look fair worn out.’

  The old woman hobbled away as Cissie sat there looking bereft.

  ‘Well, I’d better get on,’ Sunday said reluctantly. ‘Take care, Cissie, and be sure to let us know when the funeral will be.’

  Cissie nodded numbly and then Sunday scurried away. She had been all set to tell Mrs Spooner that she was leaving that evening. She truly believed that if she stayed on at the Lodge, she would be putting everyone there at risk – for who knew what Pinnegar might try next? But now, after giving it some thought she felt she should bide her time, until after Stephen’s funeral at least. In the meantime, she could search about for another position. The thought of leaving all the people she had come to care for cut like a knife, but that was precisely why she needed to go. What a terrible week it was turning out to be. Thinking of the tiny dead boy, Sunday wanted so badly to give in to her grief and cry her eyes out . . . but then she feared that, once started, she would never be able to stop.

  Stephen was laid to rest in Chilvers Coton churchyard a week later following a funeral service conducted by the Reverend Edgar Lockett. It was a dull drizzly day to match the mood of the mourners who attended it. Mrs Spooner went whilst Sunday stayed at home with little Nell, who was distraught. Verity Lockett was particularly upset. After all, Marigold and Stephen had caught the measles from her Phoebe. Thankfully both of the little girls had been strong enough to fight it, but now Stephen was gone.

  The whole of Treetops Manor was in mourning. The staff had become used to Molly dashing between the kitchen and the nursery and the sounds of the babies crying for their feeds – and now there was nothing but silence. The mistress was also giving them grave cause for concern, for since the undertaker had taken Stephen away in his tiny coffin she had not once spoken nor ventured from her room until the day of the funeral, and only then because Zillah had coaxed her into going.

  ‘It ain’t natural,’ Cissie whispered to the cook, Mrs Barlow. ‘Zillah reckons that the mistress just sits gazin’ out of the window. She ain’t even cried.’

  ‘The poor lass is grievin’ hard,’ the woman said sadly. ‘An’ don’t forget – she’s been through this a number o’ times before.’

  ‘Even so, it might have been a bit easier on her if her husband had been here,’ Cissie said venomously.

  ‘Huh! I doubt that,’ Mrs Barlow answered as she loaded savoury patties onto a plate before handing it to the maid to carry to the dining room. She’d prepared a meal for any of the mourners who might wish to come back to the Manor following the service. ‘That young bounder Ashley were neither use nor ornament. Happen the mistress will prefer to grieve on her own. But now Mrs Roundtree’s asked if you’d pop up and collect all the baby clothes from the nursery and get them into the laundry room while the mistress is out o’ the way. It will only push the knife deeper in if she goes up there an’ sees his little things lying about.’

  Cissie didn’t relish the task one little bit but she nodded anyway and headed for the back stairs.

  Once in the nursery, tears pricked her eyes as she saw Master Stephen’s tiny clothes strewn about. Her thoughts unexpectedly turned to George then, and despite her grief, a little smile lifted the corners of her mouth. Just the day before, he had told her that he had feelings for her and she could barely believe her luck to think that a well-set-up young man like him would ever look her way! He knew all about the illegitimate baby she had given birth to and her poor beginnings, yet he was still prepared to look kindly on her. For her at least life wasn’t all bad and, who knew, perhaps one day if things turned out as she had hoped, she and George would be married and she would have more babies, although none of them would ever replace the one she had lost, of course. On this slightly happier thought she glanced about to make sure she had missed nothing and set off for the laundry with her arms full of baby clothes.

  It was almost a week later when the sound of hooves was heard on the drive outside, and shortly afterwards, the door at Treetops Manor was flung open. Ashley entered the hall and throwing his hat towards the little maid who had rushed to greet him, he demanded, ‘Where is everyone? And why is this place so damnably quiet? It’s like a graveyard in here!’

  He frowned as the girl burst into tears and darted away just as the drawing-room door opened and his wife appeared.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Lavinia. I was just asking the maid why it’s so quiet. Something feels different.’

  Lavinia stared at
him without expression. How like Ashley, to just walk in as if he had only been gone for an hour or two instead of weeks. Today she made no pretence of being pleased to see him.

  ‘May I ask where you have been?’

  He was preening in the hall mirror, straightening his cravat – yet another new one, she noted – and smoothing his hair.

  At the tone of her voice he glanced at her in the mirror and, noticing her pallor, he turned to face her. ‘After staying in London I was invited to a friend’s in Kent for a few days. But have you been ill? You look quite ghastly.’

  ‘Would you really care if I had been?’ Then, without waiting for his answer, ‘No, I haven’t. It was your son who was ill, as it happens.’

  ‘Ah, probably the time of year. I believe babies are prone to get coughs and colds in the winter, aren’t they?’

  ‘It was neither a cough nor a cold.’ She turned away and walked into the drawing room and he followed her, closing the door behind him.

  ‘Stephen had the measles,’ she told him when she had stopped in front of the roaring fire. She noted he didn’t look particularly concerned but then this didn’t surprise her.

  ‘I see – and is he recovered?’ As he spoke he was about to lift the cut-glass decanter to pour himself a drink but her next words stopped him in his tracks.

  ‘He died. Two weeks ago. His funeral took place last week.’

  Astounded, his mouth gaped open as he stared at her, then collecting his wits together he threatened, ‘If this is some sort of malicious game you’re playing, I have to tell you I find it in extremely poor taste.’

  ‘I assure you it’s quite true.’ Her blue eyes were almost black as she faced him, her back ramrod straight. ‘And you could not even be contacted. His own father!’