They noticed the change in me.
“You’re getting over it,” said Harriet, and she looked so happy that I knew she was truly fond of me. The children noticed it. They leaped about making strange contented noises as they used to. Lucas, dear Lucas—who seemed to have grown up so much in the last months—was quietly happy.
Oh, indeed, I owed it to them to shake myself out of my misery. And if this were true … oh, if only this were true … I should not have lost Edwin entirely.
By the end of July I was sure.
I was going to have a child.
Madame Lambard, who had acted as a midwife when she had had the opportunity, confirmed my condition.
She was so delighted that she burst into tears and became emotionally voluble.
The good God had answered her prayers, she told me. She had prayed to Him to give me this. He had made me suffer but He had his reasons. Now He was giving me this blessing.
They were going to take care of me—she and the good Lord together, and with such guardians I could rest assured I should come to no harm. I should have every care … every attention. I would be happy again.
Yes, I thought, I can be happy again. When I hold my child … mine and Edwin’s … in my arms, I shall be happy again.
Of course I told Harriet.
She was amused and went into fits of laughter.
“What is funny about it?” I demanded.
“It just strikes me so,” she answered. “I’m happy for you, Arabella. This is going to make all the difference to you, I know.”
“It is, Harriet, it is.”
I wrote immediately to my parents and then remembered Matilda Eversleigh. After all, this concerned her.
Her response was immediate. She wrote:
My dearest daughter,
This news has filled me with such happiness as I feared never to feel again. Oh, blessed day when you came to us. Edwin will live on for us. Let us pray for a boy. Though a little girl will be a comfort. But a boy will recompense us in so many ways. You see, my dearest child, I can talk to you like this because you are one of the family now. Edwin was the heir to a great name and a title, and it is a tragedy that we had no other son. His inheritance would have gone to my nephew Carleton whom you met in England. He is worthy enough, of course, but if your child is a boy, it will be kept in the direct line and that is important to us. My dearest grandson! Lord Eversleigh will be delighted. I am writing to him without delay. Oh, this is such a blessing. What a joy it is to have good news. You must take the greatest care of yourself. Perhaps you should come to me. I cannot convey what joy your letter has given me. …
Oh, yes, I was able to be happy again. Now I awoke in the mornings with a light heart. It was not the end of my marriage. I had something to live for.
I wrote to Matilda and assured her that Madame Lambard was the best midwife in the neighbourhood, and as she was determined to look after me, I thought I could do no better than place myself in her care. This child would be more precious than most because of the sad circumstances in which it would be born. I was determined to take no risks by travelling. I was going to rely absolutely on Madame Lambard. I was determined that there should be no danger to my child.
Messengers came back and forth to the château. My parents were overjoyed.
My father wrote that the entire situation was altering. There was hope everywhere.
The news from home is getting better and better. Edwin has sent back valuable information. More is coming from his cousin who has and is doing such good work.
My dear daughter, by the time your child is born it may well be that we have plans for the King’s return to England. What a joy that will be to us all!
He sounded more confident than he ever had before, and he was not a man to conceal the truth.
I began to dream of the future.
My baby should make his appearance in January the coming year, sixteen hundred and sixty.
Now the days began to pass quickly. How differently I felt when I awoke each morning. I even welcomed the little discomforts which heralded the existence of the child. I began to count the days and months, so much was I longing for the day when I should hold the child in my arms.
Expectation pervaded the château. The main topic of conversation was “When the baby comes.” I started to make garments under the tuition of Jeanne, who was good with her needle, and although I was scarcely the same, I did derive a great deal of satisfaction from the work.
The children were told that there was going to be a new baby and that they were going to be uncles and aunts, which made them hilarious with glee, particularly Fenn, who being the youngest had never felt so important before. Every day he asked if the baby had come and was he an uncle yet.
Harriet would sit with me while I sewed and sometimes read plays to me, enacting the parts as she did so—a pleasant pastime. The children liked to come in and listen. Even Harriet seemed to have changed. I could not quite say what it was; perhaps she had become more thoughtful; she moved less swiftly and I fancied she had put on a little weight.
She had been concerned because she thought my mother had not liked her and she wanted to know what questions she had asked about her. Had I mentioned the d’Ambervilles? “Not by name,” I told her. “And I just told her you left because one of the sons made advances to you.”
She was uneasy, I knew.
It was July, I remember, hot and sultry, and I felt listless in a contented kind of way because I knew my feelings were due to the child I carried. Letters came from my mother.
Dear Arabella,
What wonderful news this is. I trust you are taking good care of yourself. I feel that you are in good hands with Madame Lambard. She so prides herself on her skills and I believe with reason.
I long to be with you, but as I cannot I am happy to think of Madame Lambard. At the earliest opportunity I shall be with you. As you can imagine a great many things are happening here and it seems likely that by this time next year we may be home. What a joy that will be when we are all together. …
Oh, yes, I thought, there is a lot to live for. I went on reading and was slightly taken aback.
I have been wondering about Harriet. We need someone here to help us make our preparations. I have told your father about her and he thinks it would be a good idea if she joined us here. After all, if we shall soon be back in England, the children will not be so very old and they can resume their education in earnest then. We have heard of an excellent tutor …
The letter dropped from my hand. I knew her well. She did not want Harriet to stay here with us.
I said nothing to Harriet for a day or so. I meant to, but every time I attempted to, I found it difficult. She was clever enough to realize that my mother did not approve of her being here and wanted to get her away.
Of course I should have to write to my mother sooner or later, and one day when she was talking about going back to England, said: “Harriet, I have had a letter from my mother. She would like you to go to her.”
She stared at me. “Go to her!”
The colour had left her face. For the first time I saw Harriet afraid.
“What do you mean?” she said sharply.
“That’s what she says. They need someone there … to er … Well, you know, there are all these preparations. You write well … it might be that in some way …”
“She wants me to leave here, does she?”
“She did not say that.”
“Oh, but she means it. I won’t go, Arabella. I can’t go.”
“I shall write and tell her that we can’t do without you here. Harriet, don’t be angry. I never intended that you should.”
She was silent for a few moments as though making up her mind.
Then she said slowly: “Arabella, there’s something I have to tell you. I’m in the same condition as you are. I am going to have a child.”
“Harriet!”
She looked at me ruefully. “It’s t
rue.”
“How could that have happened?”
She made an effort to treat the matter flippantly. “Oh, in the usual way.”
“But who …? And when …?”
“About the same time as you … perhaps a little earlier.” She started to laugh—a little hysterically, for she was not nearly as calm as she pretended to be.
“Who … who?” I demanded. Then light dawned on me. “Charles Condey.”
She buried her face in her hands.
I said: “Oh, Harriet, how could you! Then you must marry him. You must write to him at once. I wonder where he is?”
She raised her face and looked at me angrily. “I shall never marry Charles Condey.”
“But he is the father of your child.”
“Nothing would induce me to marry him.”
“But what … ? How …?”
“You will let me stay here to have the child? You’ll not turn me away?”
“Harriet, as if I would! But it is going to be difficult.”
“It’s a difficult situation.”
“What will everyone say?”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“Such things have happened before.”
“Does anyone know?”
“The Lambard suspects.”
“You haven’t told her?”
“I have told no one but you. They will have to know in due course. Madame Lambard will be overjoyed that her discerning eye did not deceive her.”
“Oh … Harriet!”
“Don’t look at me like that. I’ve always told you I was not what is called a good woman. I was bound to be caught sooner or later.”
“Please don’t talk like that.”
“How else should I talk? You see now why I can’t go to your parents.”
“Yes, I see that, Harriet.”
“They’ll want to get me out of here when they know.”
“Of course they won’t. My mother will understand. She, herself …”
I hesitated and thought of my own birth which had been unorthodox. My mother would have to show sympathy for Harriet since I had been the daughter of her sister’s husband and herself. But I knew she would. She had always been kind and helpful to any of the servants who had fallen into trouble.
I went on: “Don’t be afraid, Harriet. We’ll look after you. But I think Charles Condey should know.”
“Please, please don’t make any effort to find him or tell him.”
“I wouldn’t if you didn’t want it.”
“Oh, Arabella, what a wonderful day it was for me when we came to Château Congrève! I knew there was some special bond between us. You see we are together … like sisters … You have a child … and I am to have one too. In spite of everything, I can’t help feeling excited.”
I took her hand.
“Oh, Harriet,” I said, “we must always help each other.”
After the first shock of the news spread through the household, it ceased to be a nine days’ wonder. It was accepted that Harriet was going to have a baby. I must say she carried the situation off with great aplomb, and somehow it seemed quite a glorious event rather than something to be ashamed about.
She had taken a lover whom she had met at Villers Tourron, the servants said to each other. She had decided she did not want to marry him. It was not the first time it had happened to a girl, though in her case she had had the opportunity to marry and had declined.
There always had to be something special about Harriet.
Now the cozy period set in. We were together most of the time. She laughed at our increasing bulk. “The bulging ladies,” she called us. She made a comedy of it. Whatever happened to Harriet must always seem like a play. But I was beginning to be happy again. For hours at a time I would cease to think of Edwin, and only a few weeks before I should not have believed that possible.
The babies were a great absorption. Madame Lambard discussed at length confinements she had attended. She declared herself satisfied with us both, and the idea of having two babies in the house at once was a double rejoicing, she told me, never mind if one of them was making a rather unconventional entrance into the world.
The summer was slipping away.
I had had to tell my mother that Harriet was pregnant. She wanted to know who was the father of the child, and I told her that it was a young man who had been at the house party at Villers Tourron. He had offered marriage to Harriet, but she had found she did not love him enough for marriage and had bravely decided that she would care for their child without him.
My mother did not criticize her and agreed with me that she must be cared for.
Lucas was a little bewildered, but his devotion to Harriet was complete. I believe he would have married her himself if she would have had him. As for the little ones they were not so surprised. Harriet was so clever, and they were sure that if I was going to have a baby, it was only natural that Harriet should have one too.
Fenn announced that he reckoned he would be a double uncle if Harriet would let him. She hugged him and said that he should be the uncle of all the children she would have. He confided to Angie that he thought Harriet would have ten children, and he wondered if they would all cry at once, but he was confident of his avuncular abilities to keep them smiling, and he did wish they wouldn’t wait so long before coming.
They were happy days—days of serenity. Christmas came and it was January.
Madame Lambard was in a state of preparedness. “It can’t be long now,” she kept murmuring.
It was typical of Harriet that she should be the first. On the fifteenth of January she gave birth to a healthy boy.
I sat by her bed, deeply aware of the child within me. She lay back, her lovely hair damp on her forehead, triumphant in a way and somehow rueful.
Madame Lambard brought the baby and showed him to me.
“If it had been a girl I should have called it Arabella,” she said. “Now I’m going to call him Leigh. You see I want to call him after you in some way, and you are Arabella Eversleigh. Have you any objections?”
“Of course not. It’s a lovely name and a lovely idea. How proud you must be of your little Leigh. If mine is a boy, you know what I shall call him.”
“Edwin,” she said.
And I nodded.
It was two weeks later when my son was born. I kept my word and he was christened Edwin.
Those were strange yet happy days; everywhere the excitement was intense. I had to admit that I could not take as great an interest in what was happening as most people did because I was so completely absorbed in motherhood.
I was exultant when I held my baby in my arms and he smiled at me; if he cried I would be filled with terror. I called Madame Lambard ten times a day for reassurance. She laughed at me. “Ah, madame, you suffer from First Baby Fears,” she told me. “It is always so with a first baby. When the second comes, the third and the fourth … oh, it is a different matter then.”
I said soberly, “I shall only have one, Madame Lambard, for I shall never marry again.”
Then having raised a sad subject, she tried to cheer me by telling me that young Monsieur Edwin (whom she called Edween) was the most healthy and most happy baby it had ever been her joy to deliver.
It was a happy house, she said, that sheltered two young babies like Messieurs Edween and Leigh—though she had to admit that the last named gentleman’s appearance was a little indiscreet.
Harriet imitated her perfectly, and I must confess we laughed a good deal during those months. Harriet loved her baby, I was sure, but differently from the way in which I loved mine. She was proud of him; I detected a smug satisfaction if he was better tempered or appeared to have grown more than Edwin. She wanted to be proud of him rather than to love him, I thought. I suppose because the circumstances of his birth were so different from those of my own child. I wondered whether Harriet often thought of Charles Condey. Matilda Eversleigh naturally was eager to see her grandson, and because I could not
travel to her, she came to Congrève.
Harriet grimaced when she heard she was coming. “She’ll hold up her hands in horror at the sight of Leigh,” she said.
“Harriet, I really think you should marry the father. After all, you must have liked him to begin with.”
“I never did like Charles much,” she admitted.
“And yet you did … that.”
“Careless of me, wasn’t it? Still I do love my little Leigh, and I can’t help feeling pleased he’s here.”
“Harriet, you are incorrigible. But what can we say to Lady Eversleigh?”
“That I was secretly married.”
“To whom?”
“Not Charles Condey. For Heaven’s sake, keep him out of it. Someone who came here for a few days on his way to England. We fell in love, we married and this is the fruit of our union.”
“You have so little regard for the truth.”
“On the contrary, I have the greatest regard for it. But there are occasions when it is necessary to set it aside … for Lady Eversleigh’s sake.”
“And not your own?”
“My dear Arabella, you know me well enough to understand that I am outside convention. I only submit to it out of regard for those who hold it dear. So I will tell my little tale to Lady Eversleigh and you will not contradict me because to do so would make her most unhappy.”
Lady Eversleigh came. She was entranced by her grandson. She held him in her arms and wept over him. He was very intrigued by her tears and crowed with delight. I am sure he thought they were some special game contrived for his pleasure.
It was touching to see her.
“Such tragedy, dear Arabella,” she told me. “First Charlotte. Poor girl, she suffered. And then this terrible thing. Oh, how glad I am that you married before he went. Now we have our compensation, have we not?”
She made it clear that she found young Edwin immensely superior to any other child.
“The news is excellent,” she said. “Very soon, dear Arabella, we shall be in England. Lord Eversleigh tells me that General Monck has been in touch with the King’s most loyal supporters and that negotiations are already going ahead. What a happy day that will be when we may return to our country and build up our homes again. You and I will carry our great sorrow with us. But when we go, you will come to Eversleigh Court. We must try to subdue our sorrow, for we have our little Edwin now. We shall make such plans for his future. He will be my life from now on.”
Lament for a Lost Lover Page 16