The Possession of November Jones

by Pat Herbert

  After Charles had taken the baby, Edward Moreland retreated to the relative safety of the library, away from the continued hubbub from the women protesting on Lily’s behalf. He hadn’t expected such a voluble outcry from them. They were banded together in a sisterhood that no mere male could break. He had committed the unpardonable sin of separating a mother from her baby, and they weren’t going to let the matter rest.

  He smiled grimly as he picked up a new novel he had been struggling with for some while. He couldn’t get past the first few chapters, and now there was little hope of getting to grips with what plot there was while that noise was going on upstairs. It was no good, he just couldn’t concentrate.

  He hadn’t done anything really wrong, he told himself. He was genuinely sorry for Lily, but his brother’s needs came first. Besides, he had been paid handsomely for the child, and all the inmates of his house would see the benefit from that.

  He took up his book again but, having read the same sentence five times, decided to give up. He placed it back on the shelf. All that bilge about a plain young woman winning the heart of the lord of the manor wasn’t at all realistic in his opinion. Just who was this bloke, Currer Bell, anyway?

  He rang for Lydia to bring him some tea but waited in vain. After ringing for a third time, he decided to go in search of her. She wasn’t in the kitchen where she should be, nor was she in the laundry room. He started to climb the stairs but the noise from above made him uneasy. Would that young guttersnipe never shut up? He retreated down the stairs and took his hat from the stand in the hall, preparing to go out into the cold November evening. Perhaps he would get a warmer reception at the local hostelry.

  

  Daphne Moreland looked lovingly into the crib at the baby sleeping peacefully there. It was the crib they had bought soon after she and Charles had married, assuming it would be needed in the very near future. It had gathered dust meanwhile, and she had nearly thrown it out. But it was in use at last, newly polished, and decked with a length of pink ribbon she had found in her sewing basket.

  This baby wasn’t somebody else’s now, she told herself. This baby was hers, and hers alone. She was going to be the best mother she could be and bring her up to be a fine lady like herself. Her natural mother was a prostitute, Charles had told her, so the child was lucky to have been taken from her. She need never know her humble beginnings. Must never know.

  They would have to employ a nanny; that was essential. She had no idea how to deal with a baby on a day-to-day basis, having had no experience of such matters. All she wanted was to cuddle her and sing lullabies to the sweet little thing. The other stuff, well, that would have to be the nanny’s province. She would ask her neighbours and friends if they could recommend someone or, failing that, consult the domestic employment bureau in the High Street. The thought of washing nappies made her shudder but, thankfully, she had a maid for that.

  She smiled at the sleeping infant, wondering what to call her. There was no hurry, of course. She would wait and see what names might suit her. She rocked the crib gently and hummed a soothing lullaby even though the child was already well away in the Land of Nod and needed no help to get there.

  Daphne stopped rocking the crib suddenly and stared closely at the sleeping baby’s face. Could it be? No, surely not. Just an auto suggestion, nothing more. But she looked again, even more closely. No, she was right. There could be no mistake. The baby had the look of Charles! What a fortunate coincidence. People would definitely think the child was theirs, so that was all right.

  But how would she explain the sudden new addition to their household to them? The maid and the cook had to be told the truth, of course, but they were utterly loyal and wouldn’t say a word to a living soul. Daphne had a sometimes misplaced trust in her servants, something Charles was often warning her about.

  But what about everyone else, she thought. Her peers. She couldn’t tell them how she had come by the child. Her pride wouldn’t let her, for one thing. And for another, she wasn’t at all sure the transaction had been entirely legal.

  And what of the poor mother? Her conscience was pricking her, although not enough to insist on returning the child. But she would give her a small token. A locket with a picture of the baby in it: that should bring her some solace. She would go to Rackett’s in the High Street tomorrow and pick out a pretty silver locket and chain and then take the baby to be photographed at Moss & Bailey’s just two doors further along.

  As she was making these plans, she heard her husband enter the house. He had been to see the bank manager again, this time to set up some sort of trust fund for the baby.

  “Hello, Charles,” she called out to him. “I’m up in the nursery.”

  Charles entered the room and came over to his wife by the crib. He put his arm round her waist and lightly kissed the back of her neck.

  “Hello, my dear,” he said cheerfully. “Would you believe, it’s stopped raining at last. Bushy Whiskers sends his regards and congratulations.”

  “How did he react to the news? He must have been shocked. After all, you hadn’t said anything to him about it before. You should have told him before that I was pregnant – to prepare the ground. It must seem suspicious that we suddenly have a baby, just like that.”

  “How could I prepare him? We didn’t know ourselves that this would happen. I made some excuse for not telling him. Said that we were superstitious and didn’t want people to know until the baby was born. He seemed to accept it, all right. That’s what you should tell everyone else, by the way. And I’ll do the same.”

  “Oh, Charles, it is all right, isn’t it? We won’t get into trouble with the police or anything?”

  “Now, don’t you fret yourself, my love,” he cooed. “Everything has been done with complete propriety. The only worry is the mother herself. Have you a gift for her?”

  “Yes,” she replied, as she and her husband quietly left the sleeping infant to return downstairs to the parlour. “I have decided on a silver locket with a picture of the baby in it. I will arrange it all tomorrow. It will probably take a few days. Should I take it to her in person, do you think?”

  “We shall see,” said Charles, prevaricating. He sat down in front of the roaring fire and warmed his hands. “Let’s ask Agnes to bring in the afternoon tea, shall we? And then we can discuss suitable names for our little one.”

  “I was thinking about Charlotte, after you,” said Daphne.

  Charles smirked. “Yes, why not? I like that.”

  “I suggest the name especially,” she said artfully, “because the child has a look of you about her.”

  “A look of me?” he asked, puzzled. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Just what I say. She looks just like you. She has your mouth. Go and have a look, if you don’t believe me.”

  Charles got up and went to the door. “Silly Daphne,” he said flippantly. “All babies look the same. Bald, podgy, snub-nosed, piggy-eyed things, all of ’em.”

  He laughed but decided to humour her by going to see for himself. Also, an idea was forming at the back of his mind, which he didn’t much like and certainly didn’t want to acknowledge.

  He stared at the baby closely. Daphne came up behind him and put her hands on his shoulders. “See what I mean?” she said.

  And he had to admit he did see. He saw exactly what she meant.

  Chapter Six

  After crying herself hoarse for the best part of two days, Lily Martin now maintained a rigid, dry-eyed silence, while Rose and the others kept a watchful eye on her. The state she was in, she was liable to do anything, they reckoned. But Lily hadn’t accepted the inevitable like they all supposed. On the contrary, she was forming a secret plan. She would find out where her baby had gone from Mr Moreland. Then she would go and get her back. It was as simple as that. Nobody was going to keep her from her own flesh and blood.

  She smoothed her dress as she stood outside the library, knowing Edward Moreland was in there, hiding, as w
ell he might. She wasn’t afraid of him. He was the one in the wrong. She rapped on the door with her fist.

  “Who is it?”

  Was it her imagination, or did he sound scared? “It’s me, Mr Edward. Lily. I want to speak to you.”

  “Come in,” he said after a moment.

  She stood before him now, looking demure and restrained.

  “How are you feeling, dear?” he asked.

  “How do you think?” she said, showing no emotion. “Since you took my baby away, you must know.”

  “Life can be, how shall I say, a little unfair at times, Lily,” he said, laying aside his novel. “But the most important person in all this is your baby. It will be very happy in its new home, I promise you.”

  “How can you know that?” she demanded. “I want my baby, and I intend to get her back, no matter what you say.”

  “My dear girl, you know that’s impossible,” he said with a sigh. “Better give up all ideas of that right now.”

  “I shan’t! Tell me where my baby’s gone!” Lily stamped her dainty foot and glared at him, her face now red with anger.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, looking uncomfortable. “I cannot do that. It would be better for you to just accept that your baby has gone.”

  “I’ll never accept it!” she declared. “You must tell me where she is or – or else!”

  “Or else what?” he said, backing away slightly. She looked as if she was about to scratch his eyes out.

  “I’ll kill you, that’s what else.”

  “Do be sensible, child,” he said, backing even further away. “What good would I do you if I was dead? You’d never find your baby then.”

  Lily glared at him even harder. “I hate you!” she spat at him and turned on her heel.

  Slamming the door after her, she rushed up the stairs and flung herself on the bed, ineffectually beating the counterpane with her fists. When she had calmed down a little, her eyes took on a glassy stare. There was a new resolve in them. Life had been cruel to her, but she could be cruel too.

  

  “I think I should take it to her, Daphne.”

  “Oh, but I’d rather do it myself. I would like to thank her in person. She might be less unhappy when she sees me and sees what a nice person I am. She’ll be more likely to accept the situation, then.”

  Charles didn’t reply, but gave her a hard, inscrutable look instead.

  “Or maybe we could both go?” she asked, wavering.

  He continued to stare at his wife, finding it hard to gainsay her, but knowing he must. The thought that had entered his head on looking closely at the baby had taken root and wouldn’t go away, no matter how many times he told himself he was just being fanciful. What if the baby they were to bring up as their own, really was their own? Or, at least, his own? He felt sure that it was just a coincidence the baby looked like him, but he needed to be sure. And he couldn’t meet her with his wife by his side. If, by some cruel quirk of fate, the mother turned out to be Lily Martin, she would be bound to say so, and Daphne’s reaction didn’t bear thinking about.

  “No, no, dear,” he said quickly. “I think you might weaken if you see her. She might cry or beg you to return the baby. It’s best if I take the locket to her.”

  “Very well, dear,” said Daphne. “If you think it best.”

  A small part of her was relieved not to have to face the grieving woman, even though another part of her was curious to meet her. To find out what kind of a woman she was. Daphne had never met a real prostitute before and, although she knew they didn’t have two heads, they were certainly a race apart to her.

  “I do think it best,” said Charles, choosing his (or rather Daphne’s) words carefully. “I’ll go and see her first, then if she’s calmed down and accepted the situation, you can meet her later. If you really would like to?”

  Daphne shrugged. “All right,” she agreed. “Maybe I’ll go to the domestic bureau and enquire about a nanny.”

  “You do that, my dear,” said Charles, smiling.

  He took the carefully wrapped locket from his wife and put it in his pocket. He left Daphne on the front doorstep and jumped into a passing hansom. Sitting inside, he mopped his brow and realised he had been sweating during this exchange with her. It had been a near thing. He tapped his pocket and felt the locket close to his chest. If the baby was really Lily’s, he thought, then he was the true, natural father, but did he really want that? And it wasn’t in his nature to keep such a big secret from his wife.

  He then pulled himself up short. The hypocrisy of his position wasn’t lost on him. He had managed to keep the secret of his liaison with Lily from his wife without much trouble, hadn’t he? He had been deceiving her for almost a year, but he couldn’t have helped himself if he’d tried. He’d been obsessed with the little slut, he admitted it. It had taken the news she was to have his baby to bring him to his senses. It was ironic, therefore, that he might well now be in possession of that very child. The nearer he got to Tottenham, the more certain he became that the woman he was about to meet was Lily Martin.

  Chapter Seven

  Back in her tiny attic room, Lily paced up and down, fuming with impotence. She felt helpless and alone. She had challenged him, demanded he tell her where Mary Josephine was, but to no avail. What was she to do? There must be a way …

  Just then, there was a gentle tap on her door.

  “Who is it?” she growled out.

  “Only me – Lydia. Can I come in?”

  “All right – if you like. The door’s not locked.”

  Lydia entered Lily’s bedroom timidly and stood just inside the door. She looked at her sympathetically. She had brought her a cup of tea but hesitated to give it to her. The last time she’d tried, Lily had knocked it out of her hand and it had spilled all over her nice, clean apron.

  “Would you like a cup of tea, Lily?” she asked nervously.

  “No.”

  “Can I get you anything else then?”

  “Yes – you can get me my baby back.”

  “I can’t do that, Lily. I wish I could.”

  She sat down gently beside the heartbroken girl and patted her tentatively on the shoulder. Lily shrugged it off.

  “Go away, Lydia. You can’t do nothing, so don’t bother. It’s not your fault, but I’m not in the mood for chatting or drinking cups of tea.”

  “But you ’aven’t eaten or drunk nothing in three days, Lily,” declared Lydia with concern. “You must eat, you know.”

  “Must I? Why?”

  “Oh Lily, I know it’s dreadful what Mr Edward ’as done, but it can’t be undone now.”

  “Oh, can’t it? We’ll just have to see about that, won’t we?” Lily stared into space, clenching and unclenching her fists.

  “’Ow can you get ’er back?” Lydia asked her. “She’s gone with that man.”

  “You saw the man who took my baby?”

  Lily was suddenly alert. She grabbed poor Lydia by her frail shoulders and stared into her eyes. “Do you know who he is or where he was taking her?”

  “No, Lily, I ain’t got no idea. Please, you’re ’urting me.”

  Lily released the girl’s shoulders and slumped back into silence.

  “’E was just some toff,” Lydia expanded. “There was one thing though ...”

  Lily was alert again. “Yes? What?”

  “’E looked just like Mr Edward. Could’ve been ’is brother, like.”

  “His brother?” Lily was suddenly very alert. “Are you telling me he looked like Mr Moreland?”

  “I said so, didn’t I?” Lydia was sullen now.

  Lily wondered if what she suspected could possibly be true. It seemed too much of a coincidence, but she remembered how Edward Moreland had reminded her of Charles the first time she met him. Now Lydia had confirmed the resemblance, she began to think the unthinkable. Had Charles taken her baby? Had it been a conspiracy between the two men all along? Had she been lured to Tottenham just so that
he could get his hands on Mary Josephine?

  

  Edward was taken by surprise at seeing his brother again so soon after handing over the baby to him.

  “Why on Earth should you want to meet the mother, Charles?” he asked him. “Wouldn’t it be better to let sleeping dogs lie? After all, you and Daphne have the baby now, and that should be all that concerns you.”

  “It’s not really my wish,” Charles Moreland said. “Daphne wanted to meet the real mother and give her a little token of her gratitude, but I advised against it. I said I thought it would be too upsetting – for them both. She still wants to meet her, though, but I managed to persuade her not to come this time. I thought it best to see how the land lies first. Is the mother still upset?”

  “I should warn you, Charles, she’s a little demon. I can’t seem to get it through to her that we have the child’s best interests at heart.”

  “It is understandable, I suppose,” muttered Charles. “Can I meet her anyway and give her this?”

  He showed his brother the silver locket with the baby’s photograph.

  “I’m sure she will appreciate it,” said Edward, studying it carefully. “Let’s hope it helps her get over her loss. I’m afraid I wasn’t prepared for her to be so put out over it. The rest of the women in the house are also protesting. My life has been a trial for several days now.”

  Charles smiled grimly. “Well, it was only to be expected with that class of woman, Edward. Maybe you should consider giving up your quest to save fallen women and take in stray dogs instead?”

  Edward sniffed. “You may jest,” he said crossly. “You don’t know the half of it. Anyway, come with me if you want to meet the mother. Only be careful she doesn’t scratch your eyes out.”

  Edward hadn’t underestimated Lily’s wrath. When she saw her former lover standing before her, she rushed at him, her hands out like claws. Charles grabbed them before they could reach his eyes and held them firmly, but gently. Here he was, face to face with the lovely young prostitute by whom he had fathered a child. She was still a ravishing creature, but her sunken cheeks and hollow eyes told him she was suffering deeply.