She got down the stairs, but just in time before another spasm attacked her; and from then on she did not know much about the evening that followed, only that her grandmama was at one side of the bed with Pat, and the doctor and Mary were at the other.
Three messages had been sent off to London: one to the house and, at Pat’s suggestion, one to Dennison’s club, and the third to Reilly’s, the private gaming house.
By midnight Nancy Ann was in a state of collapse. Although the excruciating pains were coming at regular intervals, the child showed no sign of emerging into life.
At half past three in the morning, Doctor McCann consulted with Doctor Maydice whom he had called in earlier, and they decided that if they didn’t want to lose both the mother and the baby something definite must be done. So by four o’clock a wooden table had been brought up into the bedroom. Nancy Ann had been lifted onto it, and dishes of hot water were standing ready. Mary, Pat, and the housekeeper stood at hand, and Jessica, in a state of collapse, had been made to rest in the adjoining room.
Chloroform had been administered to Nancy Ann, and so she made no sound as the knife was put into the top of her stomach and drawn right across it, and within a short space of time a strong-limbed and lunged male child was taken from her body.
It seemed eons of time later when Nancy Ann emerged through the white heat of pain into a bright light. The sun was shining; and there was a well-remembered smell in her nostrils. Slowly she turned her head on the pillow and looked at the face a few inches from hers, and she thought, What is Denny kneeling on the bedstep for? And then his voice, low and broken, came to her ears, saying, ‘I will love you till the day I die. Do you hear, my love? You have given me a son, a beautiful son, and I swear to you again, I will love you till the day I die.’
When he was happy he always said nice things. He would love her till the day she died. Well, he wouldn’t have to wait long—would he?—because she was ready to die at any time; such pain as she was enduring killed love and the desire for life. She turned her head away from the face and looked towards the end of the bed where she saw her mother standing, and she was reprimanding her, saying, ‘Go to sleep now, go to sleep. You’ll be better tomorrow. And remember, never shelve a responsibility.’
PART SIX
THE WOMAN
One
After the birth of the child Nancy Ann lay for almost a week between life and death. Her wound would not heal and she was delirious most of the time. Then came a period when the crisis passed and for two weeks following she lay in a state of calm and showed no interest in anything, not even her son. There followed a long convalescence while she sat with her feet up on the couch fronting the fire, and all the while Dennison was never far from her side, except when he made quick sorties into Newcastle or Fellburn.
He had become very interested in the political situation, about which he talked and he talked. He laughingly said, as she couldn’t yet go out into the world he was bringing it to her. And she listened patiently because she liked to hear him talk; and when he was talking to her he was near to her.
Gladstone was now Prime Minister and apparently he was making as many mistakes as had Disraeli. He was having the same old trouble with Ireland, Egypt and now South Africa.
Once she had said to him, ‘You are too Liberal to be a Tory and too Toryish to be a Liberal; you should start a party of your own.’ And at that he had laughed and hugged her.
Although at times she became tired of political talk, she had to admit that she had learned a great deal during the past months by just listening to him. She also knew that Dennison himself had learned a great deal since he had first delved into politics.
From April onwards her strength increased daily. She walked in the woods, sometimes accompanied by Dennison, but more often she was alone, and at such times she went through the gate and to the Dower House. She found it strange that as soon as she had passed through into Graham’s estate she experienced a sense of peace.
Her daughter, not eighteen months old, was trotting about the nursery and jabbering in a language all her own. And her son was already showing elements of a strong character in that he was never still. That he was the joy of his father’s life was plain to everyone in the house, for Dennison visited the nursery now almost as often as she herself. And such was that atmosphere of the nursery floor that he even joked with Mary and her young sister Agnes.
All this should have made her extremely happy, but there were two worries in her mind. Her father was fast losing all his reasoning faculties. What is more he had developed a heavy hacking cough, and she feared he might go the same way as her mama. Then there was this other thing that had taken on a deeper penetration than the anxiety about her father: she could understand Dennison leaving her bed during the latter part of her pregnancy, and also in the months following the birth of the child, but for the past month or so she had never felt better physically. The trauma of the birth, although not forgotten, was well in the background, and although Doctor McCann had told them both that for her safety’s sake there should be no more children, that, she felt, should not have kept him away from her side.
Now that she had given Dennison a son and a daughter, particularly a son, he was more than content, he said, that this should be the limit of their family. What she had been too embarrassed to discuss with him but felt quite able to bring up with Pat was the question: Did this mean an end to loving? at which Pat had pushed her and laughed loudly.
Then why did he not come to her bed? Oh, he came, to be near her for a while and hug her, but such embraces were short. Other times he lay on the top of the bed quilt and talked to her while he stroked her hair and fondled her face; then kissing her goodnight, he would retire to the dressing room.
Knowing his ardent nature, it was impossible for her to imagine that he abstained from satisfying his need. Then came the question, But with whom? And always at this point there loomed up in her mind the picture of the Myers woman, the fat slug, as she sometimes termed her.
Since the night she had mimicked her, they had met three times, and on each occasion the woman had openly ignored her while making a fuss of Dennison. And this never went unnoticed by the company they happened to be in. Pat had advised her that on such occasions she should smile and talk, and on no account stick close to her husband. Leave the field apparently open, Pat had said, which would show that she had nothing to fear.
This latter advice, however, she found difficult to follow for, strangely, the very sight of the woman aroused in her the almost overwhelming desire to strike out at this lump of flowing pink flesh. And she had said so to Pat: ‘I have a great desire to push her on her back and see if she can rise without assistance. I imagine her rolling from side to side.’
And there was that time last year when she was greatly perturbed when Dennison was in London. George and Pat had insisted on taking her to a house party and there she had overheard the end of a conversation: ‘She’s gone up to town. Well, you couldn’t expect her to stay here, could you?’ Then another voice saying, ‘She’s determined, I’ll say that for her,’ had completed the conversation.
She did not have to think twice to whom they were referring; Mrs Myers was not at the party.
Dennison never mentioned the woman’s name, but she herself often wanted to yell it at him, especially when he returned from London full of life and high spirits. He always brought back a gift for her: a diamond brooch, a ruby-studded bangle, an ornamental hair clip; once, a beautiful tiara, which she never wore.
June came, and the weather turned exceedingly hot. Day after day the sun shone. Thunderstorms cleared the air for a short time but the heat persisted.
During one thunderstorm, John had roamed the grounds, and when Graham found him he was soaked to the skin. His cough was worse. The doctor was called and bronchitis was diagnosed. That was towards the middle of the month. The weather cooled, but John’s condition had worsened so much that Nancy Ann was now taking her turn sitting up wi
th him at nights; her grandmother and the girls were exhausted with their day’s routine. Graham, as always, was being very good, and on alternate nights he took his place by the bedside. But last night he had insisted on staying again because her grandmother had been so concerned at the sight of Nancy Ann’s white, drawn face that they both said she should return home. As Graham pointed out, a couch had been brought into the bedroom and so he could rest on it if necessary. Later, on looking back at the events leading up to the explosion that took place, she recalled that Dennison seemed surprised to see her that night. He had been in the library and after a moment had come towards her, saying, ‘He has gone?’
When she had assured him that her father had not died he had made a fuss of her, taken her upstairs, and seen her into bed.
Today was Sunday. It had begun hot and the heat seemed to increase with the hour. She had gone to morning service, but alone, Dennison having made his excuses: not only had he an enormous amount of work to attend to, but he was sorry he couldn’t stand the new parson: he was too young, too unripe, and too pious for him altogether.
In her mind Nancy Ann agreed with him, but as she said, it wasn’t the parson, it was the service that mattered. She went in the open landau, and those servants who could be relieved of their duties followed behind in the brake, but the housekeeper, the butler, the first footman and the valet were not among them.
During the day she paid two visits to the Dower House. Her father’s bronchitis had worsened somewhat and the oppressive heat was not helping him.
When she emerged from the wood into the gardens after her second visit of the day, she saw Dennison at the far end of the rockery lawn. He was lying on a lounge chair in the shade of the big oak. As she approached him she saw that he was asleep, a book and some newspapers were lying to the side of the chair and his hand was dangling above them. She smiled as she looked down on him. He looked so relaxed and always much younger when in sleep. He certainly didn’t look anywhere near his thirty-seven years; in fact, he prided himself on his figure for as yet he had no paunch.
She went on into the house and, after sluicing her face and hands in cold water, went up into the nursery. The children were fractious. Although Mary had all the windows open, the room was stifling.
Mary, cradling William in her arms and rocking him backwards and forwards in a way she termed giving him a shuggy, said, ‘By, when this breaks, ma’am, the heavens will open. I’ve never known anything like it. We’re not used to heat like this.’
Nancy Ann agreed with her.
At dinner, she thought that his afternoon siesta must have refreshed Dennison greatly for he was quite gay, making her laugh about some of the men associated with the coming election and whom he had met in Fellburn. ‘The next time you come with me you must study them and add them to your repertoire,’ he had said.
It was a long twilight, heavy and foreboding. Earlier in the evening the wind had risen, but it had died down again. She opened the library door. Dennison was sitting at his desk at the window, dressed only in a pair of breeches, carpet slippers, and a white shirt that was open down to his waist and showed the dark hair of his chest. In spite of the heat he appeared to be still in a bright mood for, rising from the desk, he bent and kissed her; then, smiling down at her, he said, ‘You know, in spite of all your nursing and the heat, you are looking quite robust these days.’ And she answered, ‘Yes, I’m feeling quite well again.’
‘That’s good news. How much longer do you think your father will need nursing?’
‘Just till he gets over this bad bout,’ she answered.
He now turned from her and walked towards the desk, saying, ‘You know, as I suggested in the first place, he should have a nurse. There’s no reason why not.’ He had his back to her as he ended softly, ‘I miss you, you know.’
Her heart warmed to him, and she answered just as softly, ‘And I miss you too.’
He turned and looked at her; then walked back to her again and kissed her on the brow now. Then, pushing her away from him, he said, ‘Go on and do your ministering angel act.’
She went, but reluctantly. She had the feeling that he needed her tonight in the same way as she needed him.
She walked slowly through the gardens and the wood, but at the gate she stopped and came to a decision. She would ask Hilda if she would take her place for tonight. She could sleep on the couch and, of course, would call Peggy or her grandmama if needed. Yes, that’s what she would do.
And she did this, explaining the situation to her grandmama who understood as always.
As she was returning through the gate into the grounds there was a distant rolling of thunder. The wood appeared black dark now, but through use she was able to find her way. As she emerged into the comparative light of the gardens, she saw in the distance the sky split by lightning.
A plan had formed in her mind: she would not go in by the front entrance but by the side door, make her way into her bedroom, get undressed, and surprise him when he came up. Of course, that is, if he wasn’t upstairs already. This she doubted, for he rarely now came up before eleven at night.
So thinking, she skirted the large lawn and made her way along by the creeper-covered wall that bordered the back of the stable yard and outhouses to where the archway led into the yard.
She had just stepped off the grassy path onto the cobbles that paved the archway and the yard when the sound of a man swearing brought her to a halt. Her fingers went to her lips: the man was saying, ‘It’s a bloody shame. She should be put wise.’
Now another voice came to her from the end of the archway, harsh and low, replying, ‘If you know what’s good for you, Irish, you’ll mind your own bloody business.’
‘Don’t call me Irish, I’ve got a name. And as for me own bloody business, somebody should take it on, because that lot in there are swines of the first water. To think they would have a hand in such a game. My God! I’m glad I am Irish at this minute, ’cos it’s a rotten, stinkin’ English trick that, if ever I knew of one.’
‘Look’—the voice came conciliatory now—‘I’m only saying this for your own good. They’re a power in there, that lot. I don’t like it meself, but a man’s got to eat, to keep his family, and they are damn good jobs here, you must admit, no matter who’s dippin’ their fingers into pies and pullin’ out plums.’
‘That’s one thing, dippin’ your fingers into pies, but this other…the mistress is a decent young body and why the hell can’t he be satisfied with her? Or go off to London as he usually does for his whorin’? But to have that drab coming to the house when they know the coast’s clear. My God! I’ve heard it all now. The gentry are rotten, that’s me opinion, rotten to the core. Anyway, how would they know she wouldn’t be in the house the night?’
‘Oh, are you blind, man? Didn’t the plump lady ride past the main gate yesterday, and didn’t she stop and have a word with Benton or his missis. They’re both in it. And the mighty man Staith would have got word down to them that the coast wasn’t clear. Now there’s a rat if ever there was one. I’ve only ever seen another like him, and that was the master’s so-called friend, a Mr Freeman. He was afore your time, but a real snake in the grass he was. Couldn’t stand the master getting married, and up and offed it. But Staith is the leader of the big four and what they say goes, right through this whole system, and down to the farm at that. Old Taylor’s getting on, and he has to keep his nose clean, but young Billy I understand’s got a mind of his own, as has Frank. They don’t toe the line.’
‘But d’you mean to say that fat piece is comin’ here the night?’
‘It seems like it. She came last night right enough. Halfway through the grounds. She left her horse at the east lodge. There’s nobody in there now, you know, but there’s a stable at the back.’
‘God Almighty! D’you know, I’ve got a smell in me nose that stinks. Appleby must be in this up to his neck.’
‘Oh, aye, Appleby is. He passed on the message to her coachman.
And it could quite easily be your Jim that could be drivin’ her; he’s second there now, isn’t he?’
‘I’d break his bloody neck if I thought Jim was in on this. That’s swearin’ to God.’
Nancy Ann was now leaning against the wall, her hand pressed tight across her mouth, her eyes staring wide into the darkness, and her whole being was yelling, No! No! No! He wouldn’t! He wouldn’t do that. Oh no! And they all knowing. Oh, dear God!
‘You know somethin’? I always had a sneakin’ likin’ for the master, although I know he didn’t leave her to go up to London just to take the air, or to do his bettin’, or gamblin’. Anyway, he could have done that in Newcastle, ’cos there’s big money floatin’ around there, so I understand. Anyway, in spite of that, I always judged him to be a man with a bit of honour in him. But to bring that fat whore into his bed and his missis not a few strides away from him. Oh, my God and His Holy Mother, that to me is a sin beyond sins. I’ll tell you one thing, I’m gettin’ out of here shortly. This racket’s too strong for me; it turns me stomach.’
‘Don’t be such a bloody fool. It’s got nothin’ to do with you. We live our lives and they live theirs. Let them sort it out. And you can sort lots of things out when you’ve got money. Aye, and lots of things can be forgiven you if you’ve got money. Money is power, lad.’
‘Power be damned! You can keep it. I’d rather be back in the old country grubbin’ taties, rotten at that, but even they smell sweeter than the stink that’s in me nose at this minute. What’s more, and this really maddens me, is all that lot’ll be laughin’ up their sleeves at the young mistress.’
‘Well, that’s her own fault, I suppose: she can’t carry them, she hasn’t got the presence. Well, you couldn’t expect it, being brought up in a vicarage as she was; a bit prim, she is, priggish. Well, that’s what they call her in there, Parson’s Prig.’
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