Honey's Farm

by Iris Gower

  ‘Move, girl!’ Mrs Mort carefully undressed Eline, her hands gentle. ‘I’ll give your face a little swill,’ she said. ‘It will freshen you up a bit, make you feel better.’

  Eline grimaced. ‘I don’t think anything is going to make me feel better. I feel already as if I’ve been wrung out through the mangle.’

  ‘Don’t you worry,’ Mrs Mort said. ‘More women have babies than you’d imagine; they do it every day – can’t be anything to it. Never had any myself, but then it’s a natural enough happening, so it can’t be all that bad, can it?’

  Eline felt like telling Mrs Mort that she should try childbirth herself before being so confident; but another pain washed over her and she bit her lip, lowering her chin against her chest, eyes tightly closed.

  It was a relief when the midwife came bustling into the bedroom, her tall, imposing figure swathed in white, a large bag under her arm.

  ‘Good evening to you then, Mother,’ she said, briskly. ‘Let’s clear this room and see what’s happening, shall we?’

  Underneath the cover of the sheet, the midwife prodded and probed and emerged satisfied. ‘Right, we’re doing fine.’ She smiled rather grimly as she patted Eline’s stomach with little respect. ‘Coming a bit early, isn’t it?’ Her voice held a note of accusation, as though Eline had been a disobedient child.

  ‘I think so,’ Eline agreed unsteadily. ‘Will it be all right – the baby, I mean?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t think you meant next door’s cat,’ the midwife said acidly; but she didn’t, Eline noticed, answer the question. She folded her arms across her thin chest. ‘I’m Mrs Conran,’ she introduced herself. ‘I believe Dr Mayberry is attending you?’ She sniffed. ‘He’s very young.’

  She uttered the word ‘young’ as though it was something contagious, and Eline half-smiled before another band of pain began to tighten around her body.

  ‘Breathe easy, now,’ Mrs Conran urged. ‘Don’t fight against the pain, just let yourself go with it, and it’ll all be over before you know what’s happened.’

  Eline moaned softly. The pains were rapidly intensifying; she didn’t think she could bear it, and she sucked in her breath sharply.

  The midwife urged her to lean forward and proceeded to rub Eline’s spine in a way that was strangely comforting. ‘Come on, now, you can do this; it’s nature’s way, after all, nothing to worry about.’

  Eline’s head began to spin. In her mind she was confusing the midwife with the housekeeper, though Mrs Mort and Mrs Conran couldn’t have been more different from each other.

  Eline wished Calvin would come home. His presence was always so reassuring; she always felt that he was in complete control of every situation. But what he could not help her with, she told herself ruefully, was this struggle that was going on within her. She alone was responsible for bringing a child into the world, a child whose parentage was in question.

  When the doctor arrived, he took charge and instructed Eline to kneel on the bed with her hands grasping the brass bedstead for support. The midwife clucked her tongue in disapproval, but Eline’s only concern was that she had gained a little comfort from the new position.

  When the pains started to come at rapidly decreasing intervals, she tried to relax, to go with the flow, as Mrs Conran had told her; but it was becoming more and more difficult to keep a hold on reality. Images danced before her closed eyes, images of Honey’s Farm, of the wide rolling spaces on the hilltop. Then, as though chronicling her life, she saw images of Joe, of the oyster boats, of Nina Parks stealing her husband from her. And Gwyneth, dead now, arm in arm with Will.

  ‘Will!’ The name was torn from her lips as a surge of strength forced the last effort. There was a sudden silence, and then the angry cry of a baby.

  ‘Good girl!’ Mrs Conran enthused, but there was an odd note in her voice. ‘It’s over.’ Eline knew the woman must be wondering why a woman would call out a name at the moment of childbirth that was not her husband’s.

  ‘Let’s just see what you have here, Mother. Well, now, it’s a fine handsome son, a small but perfect little boy; your husband will be pleased.’

  She wrapped the baby in a sheet and held him up. ‘Just look at him and listen to him! Fine pair of lungs he’s got; aye, he’ll do.’

  Mrs Conran was as proud as if she’d borne the child herself. She gently wiped the baby’s mouth and eyes, her smile broad.

  ‘Here,’ she said to Eline, ‘hold him while I see to the rest of the job.’ She glanced up at the doctor, as though his presence was superfluous, as indeed it was.

  ‘No need to hang around, Doctor,’ she said firmly. ‘I’ll see to Mother now.’

  Eline looked down at her son as he nestled in her arms. She searched the screwed-up face, and her heart lurched as she saw, immediately, a great likeness to Will. The hair, the thrust of the chin, the shape of the eyebrows shouted the baby’s paternity. Or was it, Eline thought, all a product of her guilty conscience?

  By the time Calvin returned, Eline was propped up with a multitude of pillows, the baby, neatly wrapped and dressed, lying against her breast.

  Calvin came towards the bed, his expression one of wonder and delight. ‘We have a boy!’ he said, his voice breaking. ‘You have given me the most precious gift of a son.’

  He kissed Eline’s forehead and then drew the soft white blanket away from the infant’s face. Eline held her breath. Would Calvin see what she had seen, the incredible likeness to Will Davies in the small features?

  Calvin was still smiling as he took the baby in his arms and held him proudly. ‘My son,’ he said in wonder. ‘My very own son and heir! I don’t think I’ll ever forget this moment, not if I live to be a hundred.’

  Eline felt a pain sear her at the joy in Calvin’s face. A tear trembled in his eyes as he stared down at the baby, and the words she longed to say died on Eline’s lips. She had wanted to confess it all to Calvin, her uncertainty, her fears that he might not be the father, that Will, in their moment of illicit passion, had filled her with his child.

  She looked down at her hands, so white against the covers, and she held her tongue, not daring to destroy Calvin’s dreams.

  ‘We shall call him Jonathan Frederick,’ Calvin said softly. ‘The names have always been in my family, for as long as I can remember; do you mind, Eline?’

  She shook her head. She felt numb and tired, so very tired. She closed her eyes, and immediately the midwife took charge.

  ‘Let’s give the new mother some rest, shall we?’ Mrs Conran’s voice made it plain that her words were a command, not a request.

  Reluctantly, Calvin handed the baby to the midwife, then bent to kiss Eline’s forehead. ‘I’ll be back, when you’ve rested.’ He smiled. ‘For now, I think I’ll go out and tell everyone I’ve got a son.’

  Eline held up her hand, and he took it and kissed the palm. To her dismay, she saw there were tears trembling on her husband’s lashes.

  She watched with a feeling of deep unhappiness as Calvin went out of the room, closing the door gently behind him; and then she gave herself up to the blessed sweetness of sleep.

  Will’s business was steadily improving; his name was synonymous with good but reasonable workmanship, and now he had to employ a cobbler to help him. He doubted he’d ever be rich, but he would always make his way in life; he would never have to starve.

  He had put a deposit on the house he wanted. There was a small workshop attached to the side of the modest building that was more than adequate for his needs; and, though it would take Will a little time to pay back what he owed on the property, it would at least one day be his.

  He strode along the street now towards Hari Grenfell’s house and looked down at his neatly pressed suit, a small smile crossing his face; Rita was looking after him well.

  The daughter of Glen the baker came round to Will’s rooms several times a week and, for a few pennies, cleaned and cooked for him.

  Glen was hoping, as Will well appreciated, tha
t Rita would become so important to Will that one day he might even marry her. And, he thought, he could do worse.

  His spirits suddenly sank. The only one he wanted to be with was Eline, the woman he had loved and lost. They had shared each other for a brief time, such a short interlude of love and passion, and then she had virtually disappeared from his life.

  Except for that awful night at Hari’s, when Calvin had announced that his wife was expecting their child and he had looked into her face and seen her pain – that was when Will knew that it was finally over. The last shred of hope that he and Eline could be together had vanished then for ever.

  He kicked savagely at a stone as he made his way along the drive of Summer Lodge. He was a failure, for all his improved conditions; he was still a failure in comparison to the woman he loved.

  The lights of Hari’s home splashed out into the driveway; the door stood open revealing the large, impressive hallway. Why was it, Will asked himself, that the women in his life were destined for success, while he had made little or nothing of his talents?

  Hari welcomed him with her usual warmth, her arms hugging his neck, her soft mouth pressed against his cheek.

  ‘Will, you are looking so much better,’ Hari said, ‘so elegant and smart.’ She smiled up at him. ‘Could it be that you are in love again? I’ve heard the tales of a certain young lady who wants only to look after you.’

  Will shook his head. ‘Rita, you mean? Well, she’s a sweet girl but . . .’

  Hari put her soft palm across his lips. ‘You don’t have to explain anything to me,’ she said quietly. ‘I only want what I’ve always wanted, for you to be happy.’

  As she drew Will into the crowded drawing-room, he smiled ruefully. ‘But you have lowered your sights a bit,’ he chided. ‘Once you wanted me to marry a lady of quality, but now I’m a widower and a poor cobbler, I suppose I must take what I can get.’

  ‘Don’t be silly!’ Hari pinched his cheek. ‘You could have any woman you wanted, you handsome man.’

  ‘Except the only woman I ever really wanted,’ Will said softly. ‘Go on, Hari, talk to your other guests. I’ll find something to entertain me, or someone, if I’m lucky.’

  He stood in the shadow of the window, staring out into the night. Moonlight bathed the garden in silver, and dark shadows lay beneath the trees. Most of the leaves had fallen now, and bare, skeletal branches pointed towards the skies.

  ‘Why so pensive?’ The voice was soft, well modulated, and Will turned to look into the smiling face of Emily Miller.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Will said honestly. ‘I suppose I was adding up my regrets.’

  ‘At your age?’ Emily said, eyebrows lifted. ‘But, Will, you are a young man; you have your whole life before you.’

  ‘Sometimes I feel that all my best experiences are behind me,’ Will said. He studied Emily. She’d changed more than a little from the grand lady he’d known when he was apprenticed to Hari some years before. Then she had been proud and haughty, despising those less fortunate than herself. Now she was married to a cobbler, and John Miller had made her more human and somehow more vulnerable. That’s what love did to people, Will thought, made them vulnerable.

  ‘You’ve drifted away again,’ Emily said. ‘Penny for them.’ She smiled to soften her words, and Will returned her smile.

  ‘I was thinking of the good days,’ Will said. ‘Remember when you had the yellow fever, and Hari nursed you back to health?’

  Emily laughed. ‘I remember, but I’d hardly call those the good days.’

  ‘No, but many of them were good days,’ Will said softly. ‘I had my dreams then, my ambitions; but now . . .’ He shrugged apologetically. ‘I must be feeling sorry for myself,’ he said. ‘I expect I sound like a weakling.’

  ‘We all had dreams then,’ Emily said, ‘different ones to what came later, I suspect.’

  ‘What did you want most of all?’ Will asked, curious.

  Emily pulled a wry face. ‘I thought I wanted to marry Craig,’ she admitted. ‘I was engaged to him, after all.’ She glanced across the room to where Craig was bending attentively over Hari, his hand lightly resting on her shoulder.

  ‘They make a lovely couple,’ Emily said. ‘They were meant for each other, and I – well, I found my wonderful John, so it all turned out for the best. Things usually do.’

  ‘I wish I could think like that,’ Will said quietly. Suddenly he could bear the crowded room no longer. He excused himself and went into the garden, staring up at the brilliant stars in the cold night sky.

  Had he ever been as lonely as he was now, he wondered. What had he to strive for, what good was there in making a go of his business, when there would never be anyone to share it with?

  The bell echoed through the big house and out of the open front door to the lawn where Will stood, hands thrust into his pockets. With a sigh of resignation, he went indoors and forced a smile as he met Hari’s questioning eyes. ‘I’m all right.’ He mouthed the words and moved towards the dining-room.

  The meal seemed endless, and it became clear to Will during the course of the evening that Hari, in spite of her teasing about Rita, had taken it into her head to try a bit of match-making.

  The pretty young lady at his side had been introduced to him as Madeleine Grenfell, a fourth daughter of one of Craig’s many distant relatives. She spoke intelligently, and the attention she paid him was very flattering; but he wondered if she knew he was a poor cobbler, with little or no prospect of ever becoming anything else.

  ‘You are very quiet, Mr Davies,’ Madeleine said, leaning closer to him. He caught the aroma of her perfume and wondered at the way parents had of doing their daughters up like a lamb going to the slaughter, just to attract a husband. Suddenly he found himself in the ludicrous position of feeling sorry for Madeleine Grenfell.

  ‘I was listening with great interest to what you had to say.’ He smiled. ‘It seems your time is very much taken up with doing good and charitable works – very worthy.’

  ‘And very boring.’ Madeleine smiled back, and her cheeks dimpled.

  Will warmed to her. ‘Why do it, then?’ he asked, his eyebrows raised, giving Madeleine all his attention for the first time.

  ‘I suppose because it’s expected of me,’ Madeleine said. ‘That and meeting eligible young men seems to be just what my parents want.’

  ‘And you?’ Will studied Madeleine with fresh eyes. She was more than just pretty; she had large eyes fringed with heavy lashes, and her hair hung around her face in soft dark curls.

  ‘And me?’ Madeleine said. ‘Well, all I want is to be allowed to get on with my own life. However well-intentioned Papa is, I won’t have him pushing me into a marriage I don’t want just because it’s convenient for him.’

  ‘Well said.’ Will’s words were quietly spoken. ‘You wait until the right man comes along, and then grab him with both hands.’

  She leant back in her chair, her big eyes fixed on him. ‘I just might do that,’ she said, and her dimples were in evidence again. ‘If only there was a yardstick to tell a girl who is the right man.’

  ‘You’ll know,’ Will said firmly, and Madeleine leant towards him.

  ‘I’m intrigued,’ she said. ‘I take it you have met the right woman, which I confess is a bit of a blow to me.’

  ‘I did meet the right one,’ Will agreed, ‘but I let her get away. She’s married now to another man.’

  ‘I expect you mean Eline Temple – Lady Temple,’ Madeleine said, and shrugged. ‘I’m afraid people do gossip. She’s just had her baby, I understand; that must be very painful for you.’

  ‘Eline has had her baby?’ Will felt as though the bottom of his world had suddenly dropped away from beneath his feet.

  ‘Didn’t you know?’ Madeleine’s voice was full of sympathy. ‘She’s had a son, and I gather Lord Temple is like a dog with two tails.’ Madeleine put out her hand and touched his briefly. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Will sank back in his c
hair, a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. Eline had borne Temple a son. Suddenly a great sadness filled him. It was all over now; there was no hope of ever winning Eline back. No longer could he cherish dreams that were doomed to failure.

  He turned to look into the large sympathetic eyes of Madeleine Grenfell. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again, in what was almost a whisper. ‘I’m so sorry to be the one to tell you.’

  Will put down his napkin and rose to his feet. ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ he said, turning to Hari, ‘I’m not feeling very well.’

  Then he was out of the roomful of people, who suddenly seemed to have prying, curious eyes, all focused on him. He strode out into the darkness of the night, wanting to put as much distance between himself and the roomful of people as he could.

  A soft drizzle was falling and touched Will’s cheeks, and the coldness of the rain mingled with his tears.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The workshop was alive with excited chatter. The cordwainers, seated together in a huddle, marvelled that Lady Temple had given birth prematurely to a son and heir. More intriguing to the ladies, whose work was neglected for the moment in favour of gossip, was the fact that Arian Smale had been left with sole responsibility for the entire shoemaking enterprise. She, apparently, had the power to issue orders to her elders and betters, the power to hire and fire as she so wished.

  ‘It’s not only the four cobblers here whose noses will be out of joint,’ one of the cordwainers said quietly. ‘But there’s we three ladies, all of us older than Arian.’ Sophie Pope clucked her tongue in annoyance. ‘That a girl has been put in charge of the machine shop, and all the finance as well, is just unbelievable!’

  Unnoticed, Arian had entered the workshop. Her leather apron had remained on its hook, her neat blouse and skirt an unspoken mark of her new position.

  ‘Well, Mrs Pope,’ Arian said smiling, ‘you’d better believe it, because it’s true; I have been put in charge, and I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with it – or leave.’