Chapter 17
Sophie spent the remainder of the pregnancy in her room, only going down to the parlor when her father was in the shop. She didn’t dare set foot outside for fear of running into an acquaintance, someone who’d quickly conclude that the added girth around her middle, combined with the rounding of her cheeks and the desperation in her eyes, could mean only one thing. Even Agnes, who’d been a steadfast companion since Sophie’s mother died, often looked at her with disapproval, particularly when she’d been forced to let out some of Sophie’s shifts and waistbands. She saw to Sophie’s physical well-being, but quickly changed the subject whenever Teddy’s name came up, the resentment right there in her eyes. She didn’t blame Sophie for her fall from grace; she laid all the responsibility at Teddy’s door, which meant that Sophie could never share her pain or discuss her hope for Teddy’s return, which was dwindling with every passing day.
Sophie longed to ask Mrs. Mercer if she’d heard anything, but she hadn’t seen her or any of Teddy’s sisters since the day she’d learned of his disappearance, and didn’t expect to. They didn’t care what happened to her; they had their own problems now that Teddy was gone, and she didn’t dare try to call on them for fear of being turned away.
At first, Sophie refused to believe the things Mrs. Mercer had said to her about Teddy. She secretly hoped there was a logical explanation for Teddy’s actions and that he would come sauntering down the street, whistling a merry tune in the hope that she heard him and came out to meet him at their secret place, but as the days went by, Sophie had to accept that there were only two possible explanations. Either Teddy was dead, set upon by thugs and killed for the few coins he had in his pockets, or he’d simply left them all behind for reasons known only to him. In either case, there wasn’t much use in hoping or waiting. Teddy was gone from her, and she had to deal with the situation as best she could for herself and their child.
Every day she went over her limited options, desperate to come up with a solution that would allow her to keep her baby. She still hoped her father would permit her to keep the child, but if he didn’t, no one would offer employment to an unwed mother. Even if she were to lie about her circumstances and find a position in someone’s household as a servant or nursemaid, how would she care for her own baby, especially in the first months of its life when it’d need to be fed every few hours and she’d be the only source of its nourishment? She might be able to pay someone to look after it while she worked, but such an arrangement would have to wait till after the baby was weaned.
One thing she knew for certain: her father had not forgiven her. He hadn’t said a word to her since their conversation in the printshop and chose to take his meals alone. Sophie tried to approach him, but he simply ignored her, looking through her as if she weren’t even there. As she sat alone hour after hour, she was beginning to come to the painful realization that she hadn’t known either Teddy or her father nearly as well as she’d thought. The two men she’d trusted and counted on had both betrayed her, each in his own way. Teddy might not have had a choice in what happened to him, but her father knew what he was doing, and his attitude toward her made it clear that the estrangement between them was going to be permanent.
His one concession to her well-being was to engage a midwife, who appeared on their doorstep in the middle of December. Mrs. Meeks was short and plump and had a florid complexion that accentuated her bright blue eyes. Her hair must have been carrot-red before streaks of gray toned it down to a pale ginger. She wore a lace-trimmed mobcap that was her only attempt at vanity. The rest of her clothes were drab and serviceable.
“Everything seems normal, Miss Brewster. It won’t be long now,” she said as she washed her hands in the basin after examining her and dried them on a clean towel.
“Where should I send Agnes when my time comes?” Sophie asked as she pulled down her shift to cover her nakedness and sat up on the bed.
“No need to send anyone anywhere. I’m to stay here until your pains come. Your father paid me quite generously for my time. Should anyone ask, I’m your father’s cousin, come to stay for a few weeks,” she added.
“Are you a native of Boston?” Sophie asked, her suspicion growing.
“No,” Mrs. Meeks replied curtly.
“Where are you from?”
“Oh, here and there.”
“I see,” Sophie said, and she did. Mrs. Meeks wasn’t a local midwife, who might gossip and give Sophie’s secret away, which was why she needed a place to stay until the child was born. Outwardly, Mrs. Meeks hadn’t done or said anything to upset Sophie, but there was something in her manner that put Sophie on her guard, and she resolved to keep her distance from the older woman. Lonely as she was, she didn’t think cozy chats by the fire were in order.
As the weeks passed, Sophie began to resent the midwife’s presence in earnest. She seemed to be everywhere at once: preparing a tonic in the kitchen, writing letters at the small desk in the parlor, checking on Sophie in her bedroom. Perhaps Sophie was just irritable because she was becoming increasingly uncomfortable and even more frightened of what was to come, but despite being of an age to be Sophie’s mother, Mrs. Meeks was anything but motherly.
“Oh, Mama, I wish you were here,” Sophie whispered into the dark as she lay on her side, her hand on her heaving belly. “I feel so alone, and so scared. Is Teddy with you, Mama?” she asked. Would it make her feel more at peace to know Teddy was dead? No, she decided. As long as she didn’t know for certain, she could nurture the flame of hope, no matter how tiny it was. Perhaps Teddy would return in the spring. He’d find a ship to carry him home and come back to her. If only she could hold out until then, she prayed as she fell into an uneasy doze. She never slept well these days.
The pains finally came on a dreary January afternoon. A bitter wind was howling outside, and silent snow fell beyond the window, the thick flakes settling on every surface and bleaching the world of color. In the late morning and afternoon, several people walked past the house, their steps hurried, their shoulders hunched, and their heads bent into the wind, but by the time the lilac shadows of twilight tinted the snow, the street became deserted and a strange silence settled over the house. The pain had been dull and came at evenly spaced intervals at first, but by suppertime, it came in relentless waves, each more excruciating than the last.
“Let’s get you to bed,” Mrs. Meeks said after taking her supper in the kitchen. She didn’t seem affected by Sophie’s suffering and kept an eye on her as she would on browning loaves of bread to make sure they didn’t get scorched if left in the oven too long.
Sophie allowed herself to be helped upstairs by Agnes, who undressed her down to her shift and helped her into bed. Mrs. Meeks arrived a few minutes later, bringing a pitcher of hot water and a stack of towels, which she set on the trunk at the foot of the bed.
“Get your mistress some water,” she ordered Agnes.
Sophie gratefully drained the cup and held it out to Agnes. She hadn’t realized how thirsty she was. Agnes was just about to say something when Mrs. Meeks ordered her from the room.
“If I have need of you, I’ll call you,” she said, her tone brooking no argument.
“I’d like Agnes to remain,” Sophie protested, but Mrs. Meeks behaved as though she hadn’t heard her.
“We have work to do, you and I. It shouldn’t be long now,” she said matter-of-factly. “Good thing there’s a strong wind outside. It’ll carry off your hollering, so no one will be the wiser,” she said as she drew the curtains against the wintry night.
Sophie wished Mrs. Meeks would be a little more sympathetic, but the woman was like a general heading into battle, all bristle and determination, ignoring Sophie’s cries as if they were nothing more than the barking of a dog in the street. The night wore on, Sophie’s body refusing to relinquish the child. Never had she known such agony. Sophie was drenched in sweat, her thighs slick with blood, her head pounding after what felt like hours of pushing. She could
n’t take another minute of the torture, but the baby had yet to be born. Somewhere in the distance, a church clock struck midnight. Sophie briefly wondered if her father was in the next room, listening to her desperate screams. Was he worried about her, his ears straining to hear her voice and the cry of a newborn child, or did he wish they’d both die and wash away the shame they’d inflicted on him?
“The babe’s crowning,” Mrs. Meeks said, nodding to Sophie with an air of grim satisfaction. “Push hard.”
It was probably no more than a few minutes, but they felt like an eternity, the pressure building up in Sophie until she thought her eyes would pop out of her head and her entrails would explode out of her body. Just as the child’s head was finally out, Mrs. Meeks held a cup to Sophie’s lips.
“Here, take a sip. You must be parched.”
Sophie took a gulp of water. It tasted strange and had a sickly-sweet odor, but she didn’t care. Her mouth was dry, and a feverish heat seemed to radiate from her flushed skin. A short while later, a strange heaviness settled in her limbs. Her arms felt like lead, and her thoughts seemed to slow down to a crawl, Mrs. Meeks’ words no longer making sense. Sophie tried to raise her head off the pillow, but she couldn’t find the strength to move, not even when Mrs. Meeks pulled the baby from between her thighs and quickly cut the cord. An impenetrable darkness seemed to press in on all sides, and she finally succumbed to it, falling into a deep sleep just as her baby let out a weak cry.
Chapter 18
When Sophie woke, the room was bathed in sunshine, the heavy clouds of the day before a distant memory. She was dressed in a clean nightdress and the bedlinens had been changed. A thick wad of rags was stuffed between her legs to keep the blood from soiling the clean sheets, and her breasts were tightly bound with strips of linen. The room bore no signs of her struggle. Sophie turned her head, searching for the baby, but there was no sign of it. The house was quiet.
“Agnes,” she called. Then louder, “Agnes!”
She heard Agnes’s footsteps on the stairs. “You’re awake, mistress,” she said, looking at her with ill-disguised apprehension.
“Where’s my baby?”
Agnes’s gaze slid away from Sophie as her fingers nervously plucked at her apron. “You’d best speak to your father, miss.”
She left the room before Sophie had a chance to ask any more questions, and several minutes later, Sophie heard her father’s heavy tread on the stairs. He came into the room but didn’t advance past the door, as if he needed to ensure a quick exit.
“Are you quite recovered from the birth?” Horace asked, his gaze sliding past Sophie toward the window.
Sophie’s body felt battered and bruised. Milk seeped through the bandage, soiling her nightdress, but she had no pity to spare for herself. “Father, where’s my baby?” she pleaded when she saw her father’s closed expression.
“The child was stillborn. Mrs. Meeks took it away. She’ll see that it’s properly disposed of.”
“Disposed of?” Sophie echoed, the full meaning of the words not quite penetrating her brain. She felt unusually dull-witted this morning, unable to organize her thoughts properly despite trying with all her might to concentrate.
“It cannot be buried at the parish cemetery. Mrs. Meeks knows how to deal with such matters.”
“No!” Sophie cried. “No! Please, I want to see it. I need to hold it.”
“Mrs. Meeks is long gone. You’ve been asleep for nearly fourteen hours.”
“What?” Sophie had been exhausted by the labor, but she’d never in her life slept this long or this deep. “No.” She shook her head. “She gave me something to make me sleep. I heard the baby cry,” she exclaimed. “I heard it.”
“You only imagined it. You were worn out, not quite yourself.”
“I heard it,” Sophie cried. “I know I did.”
“Sophie, I’m sorry, but your child is gone, and it’s for the best. For all involved. You must look to the future.”
“No,” Sophie cried again, but with less conviction. Had she dreamed the whole thing? Had she been so exhausted by the labor that she’d imagined hearing her baby cry? “What was it?” she asked, her voice catching as the pain of her loss finally began to penetrate her befuddled brain. “Was it a boy?” she whispered.
“Yes.”
“I must know where he’s buried,” Sophie pleaded. “Please, I must go to his grave.”
“No, you must not,” Horace exclaimed, his cheeks mottled with anger. “You will forget the child and its hapless father. The sooner you accept that they’re both gone, the happier you will be.”
“Happier? Is that what you expect me to be?” she demanded, shocked that her father would be so callous as to expect her to simply forget Teddy and their son. Had it been so easy for him to accept the death of his wife? Sophie pinned him with a murderous stare. Had he no heart?
Horace Brewster’s face twisted with irritation. “You can choose to weep and mourn, but it’ll do you no good. Ted is gone. I sincerely hope he’s resting at the bottom of the sea, and your son is lost to you forever. Happily, there’s hope for a new beginning.”
“What hope could there be?” Sophie asked. She was exhausted and wished her father would just leave her to grieve.
“George Holland was quite taken with you when he met you at the garden party. He’s written to me, asking if he might call on you when he visits Boston in the spring. I have given my consent.”
“I have no interest in George Holland,” Sophie protested.
“Lucky for you, you have two months in which to develop an interest. He’s a fine man with good prospects and a thriving concern in Cambridge, which will one day be his, as will the rest of the Holland estate.”
“You’d marry me off to George Holland without a second thought?” Sophie asked, surprised that her father, who’d proclaimed to love her, seemed to want nothing more than to be rid of her.
“Given recent events, it’s clear to me that your only salvation lies in a respectable marriage.”
“Teddy would have married me, had he returned in time,” Sophie protested meekly. “I love him.”
“Love is no excuse for demeaning yourself, Sophie. Had Ted Mercer had honorable intentions toward you, he’d have come to me and asked for your hand, as a respectable man should, instead of tumbling you in some dark corner like a two-bit trollop.”
“And would you have given us permission to marry if he had?” Sophie demanded.
“I would not have, and for good reason. I wanted better for you, a man of honor who would look after you and guide you.”
“And George Holland is that man?” Sophie asked archly.
“George Holland has given me no reason to believe otherwise. He’s behaved with the utmost propriety and solicited his father’s guidance on the matter before approaching me directly, which speaks highly of both his character and his intentions. You will receive him when he comes to call, and you will be gracious.”
“And if I refuse?”
“You won’t,” Horace replied coldly. “Not if you wish to remain in this house and consider yourself my daughter.”
“Father, please,” Sophie pleaded. “Surely I deserve some say in my future.”
“I have always trusted your judgement and given you free rein, but you have forfeited my good opinion of you. From now on, you will not leave the house without Agnes, and if I discover that you have done anything to compromise your reputation further, you will be confined to your room until a marriage can be arranged. You might think this is harsh, but you’ve left me no choice. Now, I wish you a speedy recovery and I hope you take my advice to heart and turn your mind to the future. Good day.”
With that, Horace turned on his heel and left the room, closing the door behind him with an angry bang. Sophie turned her face away from the bright light streaming through the window, wishing only for darkness. Never before had she wished for death, but at that moment, she felt as if a great chasm had opened before her, its
bottomless maw calling to her with its promise of oblivion. Losing Teddy had reintroduced her to the sharp-edged pain of bereavement, but the loss of her baby pushed her that much closer to the edge of reason. How was she to go on, to live from day to day, completing mindless tasks and seeing to the needs of her physical body when her heart was shattered beyond repair? She’d never even seen her son’s face or held him in her arms. She’d been denied the chance to say goodbye. One moment, the baby had been alive, writhing inside her like a hooked fish, and now he was gone, his tiny body nothing more than a bit of rubbish to be disposed of. How could God allow an innocent child to be buried in some unmarked hole because its parents weren’t legally married? Her baby would be denied salvation, its orphaned soul floating for eternity through a dark mist with no hope of redemption.
Sophie stuffed a fist into her mouth to stifle her cries. She didn’t want her father to hear her suffering, nor did she wish for Agnes’s sympathy. She wanted only to grieve in peace, allowed time to come to terms with her loss. How could she think of marrying when she had nothing to give, no love left for anyone but those who were lost to her? What was she to do? How was she to live without them? She longed for the oblivion of sleep, but the door opened, and Agnes came in, her eyes soft with sympathy.
“Are you all right, mistress?”
Sophie didn’t bother to reply. She was alive, but she was far from all right.
Agnes stepped forward, undeterred by Sophie’s lack of response. “Mrs. Meeks left instructions for you.”
The House on the Hill: A Ghost Story Page 10