The cradle which had been prepared for the baby was in the dressing room next door. Trish’s story proved to be true. The window was indeed open, allowing the cold March wind to puff at the curtains. And the baby, no longer crying, lay naked, his hands and feet purple and his face a bluish white.
In a single gesture Mrs Hardie covered the baby with the blankets which had been put on a chair and picked him up, holding him close to her body so that some of her own warmth might pass into him. ‘Nurse!’ she shouted as with her one free hand she closed each window in turn, although as a rule she never raised her voice. More quietly, she said, ‘Trish, tell the nurse to come here at once.’
The midwife came in response to Trish’s message, with a lack of haste which made Mrs Hardie breathless with indignation.
‘Surely you didn’t just forget about him! What do you mean by leaving him to catch his death of cold like that? Your first duty–’
The nurse put up a hand to check Mrs Hardie’s anger. ‘Have you looked at him, madam?’ she asked. She had the slow, soft voice of a countrywoman; a voice which earlier had inspired confidence. And the doctor had been warm in his recommendation. It was impossible to understand why she should suddenly have become either inefficient or heartless.
‘Of course I’ve looked at him. What are you talking about? Get him well wrapped up at once.’
‘Have you really looked at him, though?’ She reached out to loosen the blankets and free one of the baby’s hands. ‘Look at the fingers: the extra joint. And the shape of the eyes. It’s a mongol baby.’
Mrs Hardie laid her grandson back in the cradle, tucking the covers tightly around him as she leaned over to stare at his face. The eyes were not round, but slanting and almond shaped. She felt a moment of sick disappointment, followed by distress at the thought of breaking the news to Grace. But none of this was any excuse for failing to take proper care of a new-born child.
‘The mother’s, what, thirty-five, thirty-six?’ continued the nurse. ‘Always a risk, it is, leaving a first baby so late. It’s for the best, just letting nature take its course.’
‘This isn’t nature taking its course. What you’re trying to do is to murder a human being. You’ve no right to take such a decision on yourself.’ Mrs Hardie spoke with a passion which welled from deep in her heart. Her own youngest child, Felix, had been discovered to have brain damage, and had died at the age of twenty-five without ever really leaving childhood, but it was not Felix that she thought of now. Many years ago her first baby, born prematurely in a Chinese village, had been snatched from her while she was unable to move by an ignorant woman who took it for granted that she would not wish a female child to live. She had never forgotten the grief she felt then, and had no intention of allowing her only other daughter to suffer in the same way.
‘With respect, madam, you can’t expect a new mother to make such a choice when she’s tired and emotional. And she can’t know what it’s like to see such a child grow into an adult which still has to be treated as a baby.’
‘Wrap him up!’ ordered Mrs Hardie. ‘And then get the fire going again. I’ll fetch hot water bottles.’ As she turned to hurry from the room she was startled to see that Trish was still standing there. Had she overheard the conversation? Well, there was no time to think about that for the moment. There was too much to be done.
Later in the day she discovered the answer to her question.
‘Grandmother,’ said Trish, painstakingly scraping out the bowl which had held a gingerbread mixture, and sucking the spoon. ‘What does mongol mean?’
Mrs Hardie’s face paled with shock. ‘Did you hear –? Oh, Trish dearest, the midwife shouldn’t have used that word, and you shouldn’t have been listening. I want you to promise me now that you’ll never use the word to anyone again. Not to me, not to Grace or Ellis, not to anyone. Will you promise?’
‘Yes,’ said Trish. ‘But I still don’t know what it means.’
‘Come and sit on my lap for a moment. Well, it means that the baby will never be clever.’
‘Can’t we change him for another one if he’s not good enough?’
‘No, of course not. It’s not like one of the clay animals that you make and then throw away. And not being clever isn’t important. He’ll be a smiling, loving little boy. You’re his big sister, and he’ll give you lots of hugs and kisses. But he won’t be good at looking after himself. When he’s nearly seven, like you are now, he’ll still need to be helped with getting dressed, and he won’t be able to read like you can. That sort of thing. Now then, Trish, I’ve answered your question, but you have to forget what I’ve told you. Every tiny baby needs to be looked after all the time, so we shall all take care of this one. The only difference is that the caring will have to last a little longer than usual, that’s all.’
‘Does Grace know?’
‘Not yet, because she’s very tired and she’s having a good sleep. She will soon. But she won’t want to talk about it. So I can trust you, can’t I, Trish, to keep your promise.’
Trish nodded, and was distracted at that moment by a new arrival. Rupert Beverley came, as had become his custom, to the kitchen door, although since Grace’s marriage to Ellis there had been a maid to answer the front doorbell and all the entertaining rooms were back in use. Mrs Hardie had been glad to hand the housework over to someone else, but continued to do the cooking herself. She had allotted one of the many sculleries to be a special place in which Trish could make as much mess as she liked with the jars of poster paint she had been given for Christmas, so that in the late afternoon, when school was over and dinner was in preparation, the kitchen was as much of a family centre as it had been in the servantless days.
‘Good afternoon, Cousin Lucy. Hello, Patricia. What a ripping smell! You must have been expecting me. Gingerbread is my favourite tea.’
‘I’m Trish,’ said Trish. This conversation took place at every encounter.
‘Patricia is a beautiful name and beauty should never be cut short. One of these days you’re going to be a beautiful woman and then you’ll find yourself begging everyone to forget that you were ever called trish-trash-Trish. Any news of the baby yet?’
‘He arrived early this morning,’ said Mrs Hardie.
‘Good for Grace. As soon as she’s had time to recover, remind her that all the best families have to have first an heir and then a spare. Is she receiving visitors?’
‘Not yet. She’s still resting.’
‘Give her my best wishes, then. I’ve come to pick up the motor, and I shan’t be back for a few weeks, not till the new term starts.’
‘Are you going on holiday?’ asked Trish.
‘I’m going back to Castlemere to do some work.’ Laughing, he turned to Mrs Hardie to explain. ‘So much goes on in Oxford during term that it’s quite hard to settle down to any serious reading. My friends would laugh at me if I suggested it, and even the dons don’t seem to expect it. Beverleys have been keeping their terms at Oxford for generations, and I suspect that not one of them has thought of it as anything but a place to row and play cricket and get drunk. I’m actually quite keen to learn a bit of history, but I have to keep it to myself, or I should get terribly ragged. So. If I eat any more of this delicious gingerbread I shall get fat. Goodbye, Cousin Lucy. And beautiful Miss Patricia.’
‘I like Rupert,’ said Trish when he had gone.
‘So do I.’ Mrs Hardie had been hurt, when she was younger, by the coldness with which her family had punished her for making a misalliance. Rupert’s friendliness was refreshing – but after a few moments the sparkle which he had brought to the atmosphere began to fade as she was left to face the realities of a depressing day.
Chapter Eleven
The day which in happier circumstances might have seen baby Tom Faraday’s christening proved instead to be the occasion of his funeral.
In the twenty-four hours after the birth Grace had been too tired to understand why her mother had so adamantly insisted that th
e doctor must attend at once to examine the new-born child. Even later, after the news of her son’s abnormality was broken to her, she had assumed that the visit was for the purpose of checking the midwife’s opinion. But it seemed that Mrs Hardie’s experience of childbearing – for she herself had given birth to eight children – must have given her an instinct that something else was wrong. Within four days of his birth, little Tom was struggling for breath through congested lungs. He was taken down to the Infirmary; but in three weeks he was dead.
Only a small family group gathered to watch the tiny coffin consigned to the earth. Besides the Greystones household, Grace’s Aunt Midge was there; and a day had been chosen on which Jay had no matinée to play, so that he was able to travel from London with his elder brother, David, and Sheila, his sister-in-law. It was not thought necessary to keep David’s three children away from school for the occasion.
Jay was a regular weekend visitor, but an appearance by David’s family was rare. David himself, since abandoning the law to take charge of the family business, called regularly at the shop in Oxford’s High Street and often took the opportunity to visit his mother. His wife, though, rarely accompanied him. It was a long time since Grace had last seen her sister-in-law, and she was startled to discover that Sheila – who was a year or two older than herself – was pregnant again. Her condition was concealed at first by the loose black coat which she wore for the church service and interment; but it became obvious when they all returned to Greystones for luncheon. How fortunate that Grace had resolved in advance not to mention the fact that little Tom had been born with a condition ascribed to his mother’s advanced age!
Mrs Hardie, delighted to learn for the first time that she could expect to become a grandmother once more, insisted on taking Sheila upstairs to rest after the meal was over.
‘Do you need a rest as well?’ David asked Grace. ‘It’s not very long –’
‘Oh, long enough.’ She was surprised by the note of consideration in her brother’s voice. Neither of the two of them ever made any direct reference to the quarrel which had split the family immediately after the war, but their usual attitude to each other was one of politeness rather than fraternal affection.
‘Then if you feel strong enough – and if it’s not too cold for you – perhaps we might take a walk in the grounds. The daffodils must be at their best now.’ His manner made it clear that he had a particular subject to discuss.
‘It was very bad luck about little Tom,’ he said when they were alone. ‘Especially since at your age I don’t suppose you’ll want to try again.’
‘Don’t make me sound as though I were seventy!’ A remark which she would have accepted from Jay as a statement of fact seemed to emerge from her elder brother’s lips as a criticism. ‘After all, Sheila is older than I am, and she –’
‘Yes, well, that was an accident. But at least we have three healthy children to reassure us that everything is likely to go well again.’
Grace nodded. ‘I know what you mean. Yes, you’re right, I’m too old.’
‘You’ve probably been waiting to see how things turned out. But now – I was wondering: have you made a new will since your marriage?’
‘No,’ said Grace. ‘Nor before it. I may be long in the tooth for motherhood, but I’m a bit young for dying.’
‘Accidents can happen at any age. And in the hands of anyone who could afford to maintain the house properly, Greystones would be a very valuable property.’
‘Even so, since my affairs are so simple … There are rules, aren’t there, about what happens if there’s no will. My husband –’
‘You mean that you’d like Ellis to become the owner, without thinking what might happen to Mother and Philip? Don’t imagine that he’d necessarily let things go on as they were, because life doesn’t work that way. In any case, the intestacy rules aren’t as simple as that. If you died leaving a husband and son, that would be reasonably straightforward, I agree. But if you only leave a husband, other people have entitlements. Ellis might have to sell Greystones in order to distribute shares of the value of your estate, and to pay death duties. Where would that leave Mother and Philip? I won’t offer to draw up something for you myself: it’s not a good idea to do that kind of thing inside the family. But I do most strongly urge you to make proper arrangements. Greystones may be legally your house, but it has become the family home. You have a responsibility –’
‘I’ll bear it in mind.’ Grace interrupted her brother and turned back towards the house. They were coming too near to that earlier argument in which she had refused to mortgage Greystones in order to save The House of Hardie from bankruptcy. ‘Thank you for the reminder.’
She was rescued from further pressure by the sound of someone calling her name. Rupert, with Trish riding pick-aback on his shoulders, was searching for her.
‘Goodness, has term started already?’ exclaimed Grace. ‘I didn’t expect to see you for another week or two.’ Rupert’s visits were always unannounced, but were usually confined within the weeks of the Oxford terms. ‘Meet my brother, David. David, I don’t think you’ve met Lord Rupert Beverley.’
‘Another Hardie cousin? Good-oh: I collect cousins. How do you do? I must say first of all, Cousin Grace, how sorry I am to hear about your baby. I was here the day he was born, and I hoped he’d bring you a lot of happiness. It’s rotten bad luck.’
‘Thank you.’ Grace didn’t want to talk about Tom any more. ‘But you didn’t come here to say that.’
‘No. I only found out a moment ago. I came to give your mother a piece of perfectly spiffing news.’ His face, which he had tried to keep grave as he expressed his condolences, reverted to its usual grin. ‘I’ll leave her to pass it on to you. Don’t let her kid you that it has anything to do with me. I’m only the messenger, that’s all. And I’ve got to get back straightaway. Down you come.’ He tipped Trish off his shoulders, depositing her on the ground in front of David’s feet before making off with a last wave of his hand.
Grace, curious, went to find her mother. But Mrs Hardie refused to say anything until much later that day, when Jay and David and Sheila had left, Trish had gone to bed, and Ellis had excused himself to go and work in what was once the smoking room but had now been converted into a darkroom.
Philip, as always, sat in silence as Grace begged her mother to reveal the news which Rupert had brought.
‘Dear Rupert. He likes to behave as though he’s a bit of an ass, but I suspect that he’s really quite sharp. Businesslike. He’s been delving in my brother’s papers. There’s something that the lawyers who are supposed to be winding up his estate don’t seem to have noticed until Rupert pointed it out.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Well, as you know, my mother married when she was very young. My grandfather – the marquess who gave you Greystones, Grace – made a marriage settlement on her. That was quite usual in those days. After she died – in her early twenties, when I was born – the money stayed in a trust fund for the benefit of Archie and myself. We should each have been given our share on our twenty-first birthdays. Archie took his, but I was never even told about mine. By the time I was twenty-one, you see, I’d married and gone off to China with your father and was in deep disgrace with my family.’
‘Do you mean that your brother stole your share of the money?’ exclaimed Grace.
‘Not stole it, no. Simply never handed it over. He’d threatened that if I married without his permission I’d never receive another penny from anyone in the family and he didn’t feel inclined to break his promise. So he simply held on to my share of the settlement. It’s been sitting in some trustee account ever since, earning a little interest every year. I imagine that by the time he died even Archie had forgotten all about it, and no one else would ever have known.’
‘So has it grown into a huge fortune? Millions and millions?’
‘Nothing like that, no. It wasn’t a great sum to start with. Just enough – or rather,
half of just enough – to keep a well-connected young lady in ballgowns and French maids. But it’s going to seem like a fortune to us.’
‘To you,’ said Grace; and Philip nodded his agreement. She hugged her mother in pleasure. ‘You’re to have a bit of luxury at last. Whatever it will run to. More help in the house. A cook as well as a maid, for a start.’
‘I enjoy the cooking,’ said Mrs Hardie. ‘When I remember the terrible overcooked food we used to have, I couldn’t bear to go back to it. But a housekeeper might be useful. Or a kitchen maid to do the dirty jobs. What I thought was, I could keep back enough of the capital to produce income which would pay wages. Then we ought to get the roof repaired before the attics get any damper. But as well as that I want to give you each a present. Grace is to go and choose the most beautiful piece of stone that she can find. And Philip, I want you to start the vineyard that you were talking about.’
Her son and daughter looked at each other incredulously. On the day, many months ago, when Andy Frith had suggested the suitability of part of their land for growing vines, they had discussed the possibility at some length. Their conclusion had been definite. They could not possibly afford the initial cost of preparing the land and buying the vines – and the stakes and wires and tools that would also be necessary. Philip, although saying as little as usual, had made it clear from his wistful expression how much he would have enjoyed conducting such an experiment had it been possible: but they had both agreed that it was out of the question, giving the idea no further thought.
‘We won’t discuss it any more now,’ said Mrs Hardie. ‘You may have changed your minds, of course. But if it still interests you, make an estimate of what it would cost to get going, and bring me the figures. I’ll promise to tell you honestly if it’s more than I can manage. But you’ve had such a bleak time, you two dears, these past years. I’d like to give you a treat – and I realize what you enjoy most of all is an opportunity to work even harder than before. Now Grace, dear, I think you should go to bed early. You’ve had a harrowing time this past month. I’d like you to wake up tomorrow morning and throw it all off. Start again. Get back to your work.’
The Hardie Inheritance Page 9