by Deryn Lake
He had not really understood this case. Or rather he had understood it only too well and been forced to hold his peace. That Mrs Gage was not as advanced in pregnancy as she would have him wish, he had absolutely no doubt. The growing child was too small, the womb too high, the movements too few. But where with a woman of the streets, used for demonstration to his students, he could have shouted, ‘Don’t try and fool me, madam. I am the doctor remember. This pregnancy is not yet thirty weeks!’ he felt constrained with a member of the upper classes — and wife of one of the richest men in the Kingdom — to keep his thoughts to himself.
That Gage was not the father and that the child had been conceived while he had been abroad was absolutely certain. But, just as the doctor was puzzling how he could protect his patient’s honour and yet still tell the great rake that the birth would not take place till March, Mrs Gage had gone into labour. And how furiously; from the start of the contractions strong and severe and the mother shaking with uncontrollable convulsions. Once again Dr Smellie was suspicious. If he had not brought with him from London Mrs Thacker — the midwife he trusted above all others — he would have suspected that some substance, probably ergot, had been introduced into the case.
But Dawkings — Mrs Gage’s girlhood maid fetched from her cottage on the estate to help with the accouchement — had not proved forthcoming. A furtive look and a denial had been the only response.
‘Dammit, woman, Mrs Gage’s life is in danger. Have you given her anything?’
‘No, Doctor, I have not. I wouldn’t know about things like that. I’m not a woman of medicine.’
But as she had left the room she had wanted to turn back and blurt out, ‘Yes. She made me get the stuff from the midwife in Guildford. The one who gives young girls physic to abort their unwanted babes. But she swore me to secrecy on my son’s life. So how can I tell?’
It had been two nights ago, when she had taken Sibella’s supper tray to her, that the whispered voice had said, ‘Oh Dawkings, do you remember the days long ago, when Miss Melior Mary and I were carefree?’
She had answered, ‘I do well, miss. But it’s my belief that you ought to be carefree now, instead of lying in your room with the curtains drawn all day. I think you’re a regular sulk. You have the finest husband in the land, so many say, and he brings you to your parents and your sister for your confinement. And what do you do? Take to your bed like a milksop.’
For answer had come the sound of bitter weeping and Dawkings, regretting her sharp tongue, had taken her mistress into her arms.
‘There, there, my dear. Poor old Dawkings did not mean to sound so cross. It’s just that the whole house is gloomy with you in the miseries.’
Sibella’s warm tears had fallen into her lap.
‘But they don’t want me with them. Mrs Weston is puzzled by the whole thing, Mr Weston prefers hunting to “women’s business” and Melior Mary hates me. Only Joseph—’ a convulsive sob on the mention of his name, ‘—really cares about me.’
Dawkings had been so startled by this that she had said, ‘What do you mean Melior Mary hates you? What wicked business has passed between you? Why, you were like babies from the same womb.’
It was then that Sibella had looked up, her eyes swollen and streaming, and said, ‘Dawkings, swear to me on the death of your son that you will never speak of what I am about to tell you.’
‘Oh, Miss — Mam — I don’t like to do that. It’s such a terrible thing to swear.’
‘But you must! Do you know the real reason why I came back to Sutton Place? It wasn’t to be with the Westons at all. I made that my excuse. No, it was so that you could help me. I must have help, Dawkings. Or my husband will be shamed for the rest of his life.’
‘Oh Miss, what have you done?’
‘I have let another into my embrace. Matthew Banister is the father of my child — and Melior Mary knows it.’
‘Holy Mother, forgive me. How could you do such a thing? Is Joseph Gage not lusty enough for you?’
‘It was when he was abroad, may God help me. It was only once, Dawkings, and yet, do you know, it was the sweetest wildest pleasure I have ever felt.’
‘You ought to be ashamed, Sibella. You have brought yourself low.’
‘In your eyes, perhaps. But in my own heart I do not regret a moment. If I had to relive it — I would do it again.’
Dawkings had turned away from her.
‘I feel you to be a traitor, Miss. Mr Joseph has given you every gift that a man could lavish — why you were married in a Princess’s crown! And he has given you his love. I think you have behaved hatefully and I don’t care if I do speak my mind.’
For answer Sibella had put her arms round the servant.
‘You are loyal — and you are right. But I am to pay dearly for it. In inducing the child to come early, I think it will cost me my life.’
Dawkings had stared at her.
‘What’s this mad talk?’
‘I want you to go to that midwife in Guilford — the wicked old baby killer. She has the stuff — it comes from poisoned rye — to make my baby be born ahead of time. Then Joseph will never know.’ Her voice took on a frantic note. ‘He must never know. You do see that, Dawkings, don’t you? Even if you hate me for my treachery, do not punish Mr Gage.’
‘But if the babe is born untimely it will die.’
Sibella’s grip had been painful as she had said, ‘Do you remember the games we used to play in the past? How I would look at the palms of the servants and the farm girls and tell them what their futures would be? Well, I know my own. I won’t live to see this year out, Dawkings. I know it for sure. But I also know that the baby will survive the ordeal. Therefore help me. I beg you. Let Joseph’s memory of me remain kind.’
So the ergot of rye had been smuggled into Sutton Place in Dawkings’s apron and swallowed down with the breakfast chocolate. That it could kill, madden and blind was well-known but Sibella had grabbed for it as if it were her last hope.
And now, as Dawkings bolted from the room beneath the doctor’s penetrating eye, the tragic consequences lay behind her; Sibella scarcely breathing, the tiny mite gasping for life. But the doctor who, for all his silly name was a tough Scot and London’s leading ‘man midwife’ was shouting behind her, ‘Damn you, woman, get the finest brandy in the house. And send that wet nurse up here as soon as she’s had a bath.’
Dawkings turned to stare at him in the doorway.
‘What?’
‘Are you deaf? Strip that girl of her clothes and wash her in hot water, then send her up here in a clean shift. If I can’t save Mrs Gage I intend this poor premature thing to live. Don’t stare like a lunatic. Get about your business. Mrs Thacker, what do you make of this?’
‘This is a seven-month child, Doctor. Brought on by ergot I wouldn’t be surprised. But for what motive?’
The doctor touched the side of his nose.
‘I think Milady has a lover. But if she had, she’s paying the price. Thacker, warm this poor scrap of flesh by the fire and don’t let him stop breathing. I’ll do what I can for my patient.’
And throughout the night, as Sibella convulsed with poisoning, he held her to the heat of his body and administered the medicines that slowly brought the shaking under control. But still, an hour before dawn, the Westons’ priest brought the paraphernalia of ritual into the birth room and christened Sibella’s son Garnet, before administering to her the last rites.
Only then was Joseph Gage allowed in. He stood for a long time gazing down at his wife’s drawn, white face before he turned his attention to the infant that lay in Mrs Thacker’s arms, fed upon a mixture of breast milk and brandy put upon its tongue by a dropper.
‘I had not realized he would be so small,’ he said at last.
Mrs Thacker said, ‘Yes, sir,’ but made no other comment and it was the doctor, standing up wearily for a moment, who said, ‘The first born often take after their mother. And she’s only tiny, your wife.’
‘But he looks minute. Will he live?’
‘I’ll do my best, sir.’
‘And — Mrs Gage?’
‘I fear she’s slipping away. I think it best you ask her family to come to the bedside.’
John and Elizabeth were duly roused but when they went to get Melior Mary she had already left her bed. She must have heard the commotion for five minutes later she appeared, wearing a cloak, and bringing with her Matthew Banister.
‘I went to fetch him,’ she said abruptly. ‘I felt he should see her.’
The doctor thought it was a strange business — the young man with the plum-coloured curls bursting into tears, and Miss Weston, who should have wept, standing there dry-eyed. And then, quite suddenly, he guessed the truth. It was ridiculous to say that that scrap of humanity, fighting for its life in the midwife’s arms, resembled anybody. And yet, just for a second, he saw the likeness. As sure as fate he knew that here stood the poor babe’s father.
But if it were the case — and the doctor was certain — the man either did not know, or did not care. For he did not even glance in his child’s direction, but knelt instead by the bed, taking Mrs Gage’s hand in his.
‘Sibella,’ he said, only just above a whisper, ‘you are not to die.’
He could not say more because Joseph was approaching and making obvious, even in these tragic circumstances, that he did not care for the young man’s proximity to his wife. But the doctor’s experienced eye had already caught a flicker of response in his patient.
‘Mr Gage,’ he said urgently, ‘she moved. If, with your permission, the young man could speak to her again.’
It was the strange silver-haired girl who made the decision.
‘Let them stay together, Uncle Joseph,’ she said. ‘If anyone can save her it will be Hyacinth.’
For answer Joseph merely nodded his head and silently went out, followed closely by his sister and brother-in-law. Melior Mary lingered in the doorway.
‘Hyacinth,’ she said, ‘I had vowed to myself that I would never speak to you again.’
‘I know,’ he said, without looking up.
‘But if Sibella dies it will be on your conscience.’
‘What do you mean?’ he answered angrily.
But she would not say and swept from the room. Dr Smellie was furious. So much so that he rose and followed her into the corridor outside.
‘Is it your custom, Miss,’ he said, ‘to conduct personal arguments in the presence of the sick and dying?’
She turned her wonderful eyes on him.
‘Doctor,’ she answered, ‘when the elements clash they cannot always choose the exact location.’
But he persisted.
‘Have you no feelings for your dying sister?’
She looked at him squarely.
‘It is true she was my sister once,’ she answered, ‘but she renounced me. I loved her, you see, and she played me false.’
‘And have you not the charity to forgive her now?’
‘I sometimes think,’ she said as she started to walk away, ‘that death-bed pardons are for the weak minded and superstitious. I cannot forgive what she did because her act put into jeopardy the future of Sutton Place. And that was intolerable to me.’
‘You’re heartless,’ answered the doctor. ‘A cruel little bitch.’
‘Probably,’ she said.
But by the morning the crisis was over for both Sibella and Garnet. It seemed that Hyacinth had summoned her back to life. And, as for the child, some strength appeared to go into him from the very presence of his real father in the room. It was, in truth, a miracle as the day’s first light brought a glow of pinkness not only to the awakening sky, but to the cheeks of Sibella and her sleeping son. Rising from his knees Hyacinth turned to face the doctor.
‘Is she out of danger?’
‘The next twenty-four hours will tell — and with the babe too — but you have brought her back from the brink. That’s for sure.’
‘Then I shall go. There are certain things that must be said now, certain acts that must be done.’
And without saying more he turned and left the room, heading out of the house and back to the stables. All about him the morning was like a glass bowl — as fine and as clear as the point where the land met the sky beneath the sun’s new rays. But he saw none of it. He was full of purpose as he walked back to the stall in which Fiddle was kept and waited in the shadows for the horse and its rider to return.
*
Joseph never knew why he went back to his chamber from the sick room, instead of to priest and prayer as John and Elizabeth had done, but go he did. And there, waiting for him, clad in white from head to toe, stood his servant Sootface. In the mood of mourning that was creeping over the house the sight of the huge Negro so arrayed was shocking to him and, for the first time in many years, he raised his voice in anger.
‘Why are you dressed like that, damn you? Sibella lies a-dying upstairs. Have you not enough respect to put on black?’
Sootface’s grimace was a mask of determination.
‘Master, there are bad spirits in this house. They are lurking, even at this moment, to catch the soul of your wife and your son. But do you know something? They are afraid of light. They are afraid of me when I dress in my white things and say “Off with you, old spirits. I’m not sad. See, I’m in my best clothes and I’m on my way to celebrate the birth of the new little master. You’ve come to the wrong place. Must hurry along — there’s nobody dying here.” So, Master Joseph, I’m asking you to get on your prinkum-prankum and then go a-walking with me to show them that we know everything’s all right.’
Joseph shook his head warily.
‘I can’t. I am going to lose her. And Garnet as well.’
‘Is that what you call him? Garnet?’
‘The priest has admitted him to the Church for he is too tiny to survive. Garnet is a family name.’
‘Master, stop it, please!’ Sootface’s expression was barely controlled. ‘Look, look here Master. Look what I have ready for him.’
He thrust a hand-carved figure into Joseph’s hands. It was a grinning black monkey of particularly repulsive aspect.
‘That’s no ordinary monkey, Master. That is a god-monkey. Once he possesses him Garnet can never be in danger again. Come on, Master Joseph, put on your dandy frills and take me to your son.’
Joseph was so tired and miserable that it was easier to let his slave bedeck him than to argue. And so it was that half-an-hour later a figure dressed in shimmering cloth of gold; a large sapphire winking in the lace at his throat, a dress sword with sapphire-encrusted hilt hanging at his side, allowed himself to be led by the arm into the Great Hall.
The fire had been alight all night and the atmosphere seemed warm and comfortable belying the tragic circumstances of the morning.
‘Stay there.’ The Negro’s voice was booming as if he addressed anything evil that lurked. ‘Don’t be afraid, Master Joseph. I’m going upstairs to bring that baby down here, just you wait and see now.’
And he was gone, dark as a panther, up the staircase — his robes visible in the musician’s gallery for a second before he disappeared from sight.
*
In the gloom of the stable Hyacinth heard the clattering in the courtyard that heralded Melior Mary returning from her morning ride and shrank even more into the shadow that hid his presence. He had come to the moment of his life when all stood at bedrock. He could endure no more. He was like a trapped animal — snipping and snarling and ready to kill or be killed. He could no longer go on as fate’s plaything.
Her quick light step and the clipping hooves gave him one second to draw breath before the wicket was abruptly thrown open and there she was, leading her mount in. And then he was before her, leaping out from his hiding place to face her, one hand grasping her shoulder so that she could not run away, the other gripping his hunting crop.
‘You are less than the dust,’ he said, not pausing
for her to speak. ‘You have defied the law of humanity. You left your sister to die and went to ride. Melior Mary Weston, I sicken that I ever loved you.’
Her startled eyes were enormous as she wheeled round.
‘Take your hand from me this instant! It is you who have defied all that is decent. Here, in these very stables, you betrayed me with my so-called sister. I saw you locked in your lust. You know nothing of loyalty and goodness.’
‘How dare you! What happened between Sibella and me was an hour of madness — never to be repeated.’
Her sound of derision turned to a gasp as he shook her violently, lifting her feet from the ground so hard did he grip.
‘You laugh! It shows how little you know of life. It shows what scant kindness dwells in that wretched heart concealed beneath the mask of beauty. But you do not deceive me, Melior Mary. I know you for the merciless bitch you are.’
For answer her riding crop flashed in the air, only to be knocked from her hand by an answering blow which caught her on the cheek. A trickle of blood ran down the soft skin and into the silver hair.
‘I never thought that I would lay my hand on you but now I’ve a mind to kill you. Did it never occur to you to forgive? No, you of the mighty high stirrup must act as judge and jury in one. Who are you to pronounce sentence on others?’
‘But you knew you had to be steadfast for the sake of Sutton Place.’
‘Damn Sutton Place and damn your wild notions. It was just a caprice that I had to be yours. You could make a glittering match amongst the nobility and still have your wretched manor house.’
She glared at him, her fury boundless.
‘You can speak ill of me, you can curse the world, but say no thing of the mansion. You know I would drown in a bucket to save one brick.’
He caught her beneath the chin, forcing her face close to his.
‘Then hear this. I hate the place. It has brought me to ruin. I came with every hope high for the future and met a conspiracy of silence. And to add to my torture I fell in love with you. No, more than that. I grew to worship you, to treasure you, to cherish you beyond words. And you stamped on me for the unfeeling bitch that you are. I should beat you to a pulp for your wickedness.’