by Joan Aiken
Alvey felt a chill down her own back. Fourteen babies: that meant a hundred and twenty-six months of pregnancy: almost ten years of nausea, backache, and inability to walk or sit down with the least degree of comfort.
“I wonder you did not take to your bed, ma’am.”
“Oh no; I preferred to be out in the garden; in the fresh air. While I was out of doors I did not feel so likely to vomit.”
“But the backache? The—the congestion? How could you stoop or work?”
“Well,” said Lady Winship practically, “That was the reason why I had my garden planned on a slope, do you see? So there was not so far to stoop. That was Carey’s father’s notion; he was my gardener until his death. You remember him? You would have been eight or nine when he died; a wonderfully canny old man. In a way he was the greatest friend of my life. I missed him severely . . . But Carey is a very good gardener.”
“And Sir Aydon never objected to your gardening activities?”
“Oh yes, he did at first. Yes, very much. So did his mother. They thought it would impair my ability to give birth. I believe Mrs Winship still thinks so. But Aydon could see, at least, that the being out of doors was healthy and helped to reduce my sick spasms . . . So it was permitted. But, at first, with considerable reluctance.”
Lady Winship went on reminiscing happily, dreamily, about her garden.
“You cannot permit small children in the garden, of course. They trample on the seedlings, they pick the heads off the flowers; in their ignorance they often do untold damage. And, of course, you cannot spare the time to be continually following and correcting them, or nothing gets done. So the children were forbidden entry until they reached an age of sense. And then, later, when they were older, and might have been of some use, they did not seem to want to come. I remember asking you once if you would like to weed out the witch-grass from among the lilies; you said no. Of course you can only give children the routine jobs, which they find tedious; the skilled ones are beyond their powers. No, none of you have ever shown the least interest in gardening.”
Alvey thought of Nish and Tot, their exquisitely planned little island kingdoms.
“It is a pity,” Lady Winship went on pensively. “A garden is so much more rewarding than people are. It does not dispute . . . or fly into rages . . . or go into sulks. It works with you, not against . . .”
“The six children who died,” said Alvey with diffidence. “Did you grieve very much, ma’am? Did Sir—my father grieve?”
“Oh well, over the ones who were boys, yes, he did grieve. Yes, he grieved very much. Three of those who died were boys. Yes, that did make him very low-spirited. And the little boy who lived to the age of one: Jasper. The croup carried him off. That was when you were five. I suppose you do not remember. His death was highly distressing for Aydon.”
“But you, ma’am? What did you feel?”
“Of course I was distressed,” said Lady Winship brusquely. “You cannot carry a child within you for nine months, and have all that trouble, and then lose it, without feeling the loss and waste. But you have to try to protect yourself against feeling too deeply. Or else you would go mad. I believe some women do go mad when they lose children.”
Her voice had become faraway, dispassionate.
“I used to wonder if I would go mad,” she remarked after a moment or two. “Sometimes I felt strangely removed from everything about me. And often I used to feel angry with Aydon; even hated him. Sometimes I do still. But what is the use of that? He is as nature made him.—When the pains began, I would think, is this I? Am I really here? Is it indeed all beginning again? Often I felt like a bystander, watching it all from the other side of the room, and I wondered if perhaps one day I would become that bystander for ever.”
“I believe I can understand that frame of mind,” said Alvey who, at Birkland, had sometimes been overtaken by the same kind of feeling. Am I really here? Where is here? Who is I? She added,—
“But did you never think it wrong, ma’am, that you should be obliged to bear so many children?”
“Wrong? Why? Other women do so. And lose them likewise. What would be the use of thinking it wrong? It is not to be avoided.” But, after a moment’s thought, she added remotely, “It is true that, after Aydon’s accident, when he was in great pain for some months, I was glad to think I might have a respite from child-bearing. During that time he seldom wished to cohabit with me, and was so restless at night that he required to sleep in a bed by himself. I did hope that might free me . . . But it did not. And then I conceived little Carrie, if you recall, who died at two months. She was the last before Katie. And Kate is the last.” She spoke with triumph.
“You mean, ma’am—”
“Aydon does not know it yet. He still, perhaps, hopes for another son. Some women, I have heard, do continue bearing into their fifties. There was Sarah, and Isaac—But I thank God I do not seem to be of that breed. Aydon will be displeased, I daresay, when he discovers. He may perhaps attribute the cause to all my gardening work—in which case he will think me justly punished. And perhaps—perhaps I am . . .” The detached voice lost a little of its detachment.
She resumed,—
“You have been away for so long, Louisa, that I look on you more as an acquaintance, a person from outside, than my own daughter. I talk to you more freely than I would to Meg or Isa. Perhaps the loss of my garden was visited on me as a reminder that I have not paid sufficient heed to Aydon and the children; that I have neglected them; what do you think?”
“Oh, ma’am, I cannot believe that. You have suffered your share of trouble already. What has happened here—” They had reached the wrought-iron gate once more; Alvey quickly turned and pushed the wheelchair in the other direction—“what happened here is wicked human malice, and whoever did it deserves to be soundly punished.”
“That will not bring my garden back,” said the voice from the wheelchair.
“No. I suppose that is true. It won’t. But—so long as we do not know who did it—surely we are in danger of another similar act? A repetition. That is what worries me.”
A mad suspicion had been lurking in the corners of her mind. Suppose that Sir Aydon himself had destroyed the garden? In some fit of ungovernable resentment against his wife? Could such a thing be possible?
“Oh,” said Lady Winship calmly, as if plucking the thought like a splinter from Alvey’s consciousness, “I don’t doubt old Amos Herdman did it. And I doubt he would find the energy to do more, vindictive as he is. Besides, what more could he do? No, I daresay he has shot his bolt. He had only one grandchild. And I had only one garden.”
“But why, ma’am, why? Besides—they said he was not here, was away visiting his brother.”
“Easy to say so. No doubt his brother would speak for him.”
“But I thought he hated his grandchild—ill-treated the boy. And was angry with his daughter for having borne a bastard.”
“Nonetheless his daughter was his property. And so was the child. Annie brought him her wages every week—”
“And that would be enough?”
“Oh yes, it would. It would be enough.”
Some hours later, making notes in her bedroom, it occurred to Alvey that Lady Winship had spoken about the actions of Sir Aydon and of old Mr Herdman in exactly the same tone—philosophical, uncomplaining—that she might use of drought, or late frosts, or severe winter weather.
Not to be wondered at, really, in somebody who had spent so much of their life in a garden.
Chapter XII.
About two weeks after the departure of James and his friend, a letter arrived in James’s handwriting, addressed to Lady Winship.
The long siege of winter had almost begun. An iron cold gripped the countryside; the mornings were quiet and dark, and no birds sang; the last leaves had blown from the deciduous trees, and a ring of white ic
e encircled the Lion pool. Already a little snow had fallen, but the roads were still open; for how much longer they would remain so, was in question. Nish and Tot had reluctantly abandoned their plots in the Hungry Water, which was icy, full, and roaring, no longer their friendly summer playmate, but unpredictable, dangerous, possibly lethal. Instead they took Alvey on long expeditions over the moors, for the ground, now hard with frost, made for easier walking. Or sometimes, now that she was learning the landmarks for ten miles around, she rode out alone on old Phantom who, if she lost her sense of direction, could be relied upon to find his way home.
She had also, before winter conditions threatened to cut off Birkland entirely, made another excursion to Hexham. Rubbing liniments and essences were needed for the old lady. Mrs Slaley had a list of still-room requirements and there were winter supplies to be put in hand for stable and store-room.
Alvey invited Parthie to accompany her on this trip, hoping that the shared errand might improve the relations between them, but it did not. Parthie was a slow, inefficient, forgetful shopper, requiring constant advice and reminders, incapable of making practical decisions; Alvey was soon heartily tired of the younger girl’s company and felt that she could have completed the various commissions quite as fast, if not faster, on her own.
When the main tasks were accomplished she left Parthie, with relief, at a draper’s shop, to buy herself some ribbons, and made her way to Mr Allgood’s circulating library, proposing to buy more books and more drawing materials for the children, who seemed to have developed a devouring thirst for education. With the books, Mr Allgood handed her another letter from Louisa, this one dispatched from Port Elizabeth, and, to her surprise and pleasure, a letter from Isa.
Containing her impatience to read these, she tucked them safely into her reticule, to await the privacy of her own room at home, and went in search of Parthie, who was discovered in the market place, absorbedly studying a sign on a wall which said:
ANDREW LYON begs respectfully to intimate that he can be found at his residence Coxon’s Lane adjoining Walken Gate, Larriston, any time his services may be required by any person visiting the hymeneal Shrine on the Scottish border. Ginger-beer also sold.
“Are you thinking of getting married?” Alvey asked lightly, as they climbed into the carriage with their bundles.
Parthie gave her a glance of surpassing scorn.
“A scrambled border marriage, performed by a blacksmith? I thank you, no! Where would be the pleasure in that? No bridesmaids, no fine dresses, no attendants, no cake, no lace, no veils, no wine—it would be a most pitiful way to get married. I suppose it might please you, Sister Emmy—it would be like something out of a romance—”
“Well, I should certainly enjoy the ginger-beer,” said Alvey, and retired into her own thoughts, deciding, as she did ten times a day, that it was useless to try to conciliate Parthie, who was determined to be hostile.
Louisa’s third letter did no more than reiterate the delights of shipboard life and the gallantry of Captain Middlemass and Lieutenant Dunnifage, dwelling, perhaps, a little more on the meritorious qualities of the latter.
Isa’s letter contained more substance:
“I cannot write freely to you at Birkland for well I know the family inquisitions, the reading-aloud and passing from hand to hand of all correspondence received. So I confide this to the faithful Mr Allgood. But tell me truly, Alvey, would you not wish me to return home? Meg and I were terribly distressed by your account of the various occurrences after our departure—the dreadful destruction of my poor mother’s garden, and then my father’s breach with James and the shocking effect of this upon my grandmother; I do not feel it right that you, a stranger, should be obliged to grapple with these afflictions unassisted, and I am very certain that neither Parthie nor my father make the least push to cheer or comfort the other members of the family . . .”
Another letter, jointly from Meg and Isa, was received direct at Birkland Hall, merely detailing the sights and delights of Brighton.
“Just imagine!” wrote Meg—”Ladies still take to the water in flannel gowns and oilskin caps. Only fancy! At this time of year! But it is thought very healthy, and of course it is warmer by far, here, than in Northumberland. We have seen the Prince Regent, driving a phaeton; he is exceedingly fat and wears a blue jacket and a cocked hat; Isa said that he was not at all her idea of a prince. But everybody cheered him and he took off his hat and was very civil.”
No mention was made of Meg’s husband except at the end. “John is well, and joins me in all kinds of wishes . . .”
Alvey wrote back to Isa at Winchester, which was to be their next stopping-point, paying a visit to some Chibburn cousins:
“On no account should you feel obliged to curtail your journey and come home. Your Mamma is making an excellent recovery and bears her loss with remarkable fortitude. We have every hope of your grandmother’s improvement. The children are wonderfully good with her and take great pains. As to your Papa and the breach with James: the latter has written home making a proposal about which I shall not attempt to particularize at the present time in case nothing comes of it, which would lead to great disappointment . . . I hope to tell you more of this in my next communication. Pray do not concern yourself as to my part in all these events; I am truly glad there is a little I can do to help the family that is sheltering me so kindly . . .”
The letter from James, delivered one afternoon by Whin Billy the clock-winder and carried immediately by Alvey to Lady Winship in her chamber had said:
“MY DEAR StepMamma: I write to you rather than to my father lest he is still so enraged with me that he is tempted to destroy the communication unread. My purpose in writing is to enlist your co-operation in a scheme to help him. My good friend Guy Fenway has become acquainted with a very expert Surgeon here in Edinburgh, a Mr Phineas Harle, who is skilled in the practice of breaking and re-setting bones that have been ill-set and so mended badly. From Guy’s descriptions to him, and his drawings of my father’s gait and posture, Mr Harle is confident that it would be possible for him greatly to ameliorate my father’s sufferings, and also restore him to far more facility in walking. His fee is £50. The operation need not take more than two or three days, and there would then be needed three or four weeks of recuperation. If my father could only be persuaded to this step, I am very sure both he and the whole household would benefit from his improved health and spirits. But if this treatment is to be undertaken, the plan should, of course, be initiated without delay, before the roads between Birkland and Edinburgh are blocked by snow. (It would be necessary for my father to remain in Mr Harle’s care here during the treatment). Both Guy and Mr Harle are of the opinion that the operation should be undertaken as soon as possible, for, so long as my father is walking on the incorrectly set bones he is impairing his own chances of improvement.
I most deeply hope that with your goodwill and assistance in the matter, my father may be persuaded to a step so necessary and important to the benefit of his health and spirits and prolongation of his active life,
Your respectful Stepson,
JAMES ARMSTRONG WINSHIP.”
Below were appended a few lines in another handwriting:
“This Post Scriptum is simply to endorse and confirm what Mr Winship has stated above. Mr Harle is wholly confident that he can help Sir Aydon and bring him back to greater freedom of movement and alleviation of pain. In the profound hope that Sir Aydon—to whom I extend my respectful good wishes—may be prepared to undergo this operation, I subscribe myself,
your friend and humble servant,
G. FENWAY.
Pray give my kind remembrances to Miss Louisa Winship.”
The perusal, re-perusal, and digestion of this letter and note occupied the whole of a morning for Lady Winship and Alvey.
“Could it really be so? Could there be a possibility of such improvement, a
fter so long a period?” was the first doubtful reaction of Lady Winship.
Alvey, from the start, was more sanguine. “Only think, ma’am, what a sensible, responsible man Major Fenway is; I am very sure he knows what he is talking about; he would not extol the work of this Mr Harle unless he had satisfied himself of the truth of his claims by visiting many persons who had been helped in this manner. And then, both he and James know Sir—know my father, know how exceedingly hard to convince he is, how suspicious of change, how reluctant to embark on any new course; they must have the greatest confidence in the treatment, or they would never think it worth while to make the suggestion.”
“Yes; that is so,” said Lady Winship, in a doubtful, pondering tone.
Does she—perhaps—not want Sir Aydon to be helped in this way? Alvey wondered unhappily, remembering a good many of their conversations on the terrace. (One feature of these conversations, and, Alvey thought, a most important one, was, that, indoors, they were never alluded to by either of the participants. They might have taken place between two different people. No reference was ever made by Alvey, during her humdrum household consultations with Lady Winship, to any of the information imparted through the latter’s quiet, meditative, confessional utterances.—As, for instance, the fact that Sir Aydon had quitted the conjugal bed during the period of his worst pain and incapacity, and had made only intermittent returns to it since that time. Would his wife perhaps prefer that this severance became permanent?)
Would Lady Winship prefer her husband’s physical condition to remain unchanged?
“Aydon was riding a young, unschooled colt on the day of his accident,” his wife had related, on another of those promenades. “I ought to have dissuaded him from going out on it. I knew that I ought to; I did not.”