by Merry Farmer
Lost as she was, the pieces of the mystery Clara had been mulling over for days seemed to come into clearer focus. Violetta must have been a woman of some sort of ill-repute. She meant something to Mr. Croydon, so perhaps she was a fallen relative? A sister or a cousin or something?
“I need to get back to her,” Mr. Croydon went on. “I only came to the church to…to pray.”
“I understand.” Rev. Fallon patted Mr. Croydon’s arm. “If there’s anything I can do….”
His offer faded as a commotion started near the church’s gate. Several parishioners jumped out of the way. Clara half expected to see a rabid dog on the loose, but what people were shying away from turned out to be the same waifish girl who had fetched Mr. Croydon at Winterberry Park the other day. Nancy, if Clara remembered correctly. She was pale and looked exhausted. Tears streaked her face.
Before she could say anything, Mr. Croydon rushed toward her. “Is it…is it….” He couldn’t finish his question.
Nancy nodded. “Doctor sent me to fetch you,” she croaked through her tears. “She’s slipping.”
Without waiting for more, Mr. Croydon dashed out of the churchyard. Rev. Fallon sighed in sympathy and walked over to Nancy. Clara continued to follow him, wishing desperately that there was something she could do.
“Is it time?” Rev. Fallon asked Nancy, resting a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“And the baby won’t stop cryin’ and cryin’,” Nancy said.
At the mention of a baby, Clara’s heart squeezed, and tears came to her own eyes—tears that had nothing to do with the current situation and everything to do with her past.
“I’ll come,” Rev. Fallon said, giving Nancy a sad smile.
“I’ll come too,” Clara said. She didn’t know why, but she needed to be wherever Mr. Croydon and Rev. Fallon were going. When Rev. Fallon glanced at her in question, she said, “If there’s a baby, maybe I can be of some help.”
Rev. Fallon smiled, albeit sadly. “Thank you.”
Together, with Nancy in the lead, they hurried out of the churchyard.
CHAPTER 3
A rthur was well aware that he wasn’t the most shining example of a country vicar, but he prided himself on knowing when to give emotional and spiritual support to his congregation.
“I know how devastating this must be for you, Alex,” he tried to comfort his friend as they hurried up the lane toward Primrose Cottage. “I’m sure the doctor has done all that he can.”
“Are you?” Alex murmured. “Are you really sure?”
“Is he a competent doctor?” Miss Clara Partridge asked.
An inconvenient thrill passed through Arthur’s heart at the sound of her voice. Every bit of the excited, curious, and downright awed feelings that had struck him the moment the tall, black-haired beauty called out in the middle of his sermon rushed back. He glanced over his shoulder with a smile.
“Dr. Miller is exceptionally competent,” he said.
Alex snorted and shook his head. Arthur switched his focus to his friend, at a loss for how to comfort him in the awkward situation. Alex had every reason to think that Dr. Miller hadn’t given his full effort where Violetta was concerned. Very few people in town treated the woman fairly, given her reputation.
But that wasn’t the kind of thing that should be shared with the fresh, eager young woman trailing them.
“You don’t have to come with us, Miss Partridge,” Arthur said. “This could be, uh, an uncomfortable situation.” He glanced to Alex to see if his friend had any thoughts on the matter, but Alex’s thoughts seemed to be far ahead of them, already at the cottage with Violetta. Arthur wasn’t certain that Alex was fully aware Miss Partridge was there at all.
“I might be able to be of some use,” Miss Partridge said.
There was so much longing in her voice—a longing that plucked a chord deep in Arthur’s chest—that all he could do was smile in return, nod, and charge on. And for all he knew, she would be just the sort of help that was needed as Violetta faced what was likely her final moments. There was the baby to consider, after all. He knew nothing about babies.
Primrose Cottage was a small, stone structure nestled beside a pond and surrounded by raspberry bushes on two sides. The raspberries were long out of season, but the jam that Violetta had made from them was her primary source of income. At least, the source of income that she could admit to. The cottage itself had belonged to the Croydon family for generations and, Arthur suspected, had housed more than one family secret in its days.
The cottage’s front door was open from where Nancy had run ahead of them. Alex flew through first, Arthur shortly behind him, Miss Partridge bringing up the rear. The smell of the sick room was heavy in the air. Arthur would have expected a woman like Miss Partridge to winkle her nose or grimace, but her expression merely pinched with sorrow.
“Oh, dear,” she said with a sigh. “The poor woman.” She looked straight at Violetta’s pale, unresponsive form, lying on the main room’s sofa.
Dr. Miller sat on a chair beside the sofa, holding Violetta’s wrist as if to feel for a pulse. He wore an irritated frown. Nancy had run around the back of the sofa and retreated to a corner to wring her hands. The girl wasn’t strictly Violetta’s maid, but she had earned a few extra coins doing chores for Violetta after the baby had come.
“Violetta, my dear.” Alex rushed straight to the sofa, dropping to his knees by Violetta’s head. He brushed his hand over her face, the pink of his skin a stark contrast to the lifeless white of hers. “Sweetheart, can you hear me?”
Beside Arthur, Miss Partridge made a soft, gasping sound of realization. “Ah,” she whispered. “That’s what it is.”
Arthur glanced sideways at her, looking to see how she would react. But instead of tilting her chin up and sniffing, like any other woman in the parish would do or had done, Miss Partridge merely watched the scene unfold, her expression lined with sympathy and grief. Sympathy and grief for a woman she didn’t know but had guessed was an outsider. The fascination he felt for her grew a hundredfold. Who was this unique woman, whose character he could instantly tell was as great as her height?
He didn’t have time to seek out an answer. Dr. Miller stood, pushing back his chair. As he walked over to Arthur, Alex shifted to sit on the sofa by Violetta’s side, staring into her face with stark grief.
“It’s a miracle you made it before the end,” Dr. Miller said. The lack of sympathy in his voice was a bleak contrast to the compassion in Miss Partridge’s eyes. “The infection has reached its final stage. At least she won’t suffer now.” He nodded, then without another word to Violetta or Alex, walked out of the cottage.
Arthur swallowed the unkind words he wanted to say to the doctor. There were more important things than scolding a man for his treatment of a woman like Violetta when the woman lay dying before them. His friend needed his support now more than Dr. Miller needed a lesson in kindness. Arthur moved to the sofa, kneeling.
For some reason, he was more aware of Miss Partridge watching him from behind than Alex right next to him as he placed his hand on Violetta’s forehead. “Into your hands I commend my spirit, for you have redeemed me, O Lord God of truth,” he recited the Psalm, then closed his eyes and prayed silently for Violetta’s soul.
It was only a matter of moments before the shallow, rattling sound of Violetta’s breath stopped entirely, as if she had been waiting for a final blessing before moving on. More likely she had waited for Alex to be there with her. Alex knew the moment had come. He let out the smallest of sobs and folded over, bringing Violetta’s hand to his forehead.
At the same time, a baby’s cry sounded from the cottage’s only other room. Before Arthur could do anything about it, Miss Partridge launched into action. Her voluminous skirts rustled as she ran to pick up the baby.
“There, there, little one,” her gentle voice, laced with tears, sounded from the other room. “Everything will be all right. Your mama has gone to be with God.”
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It was the strangest thing, but at the sound of Miss Partridge’s voice, at the kind words she spoke to a baby that had come into the world under such difficult circumstances and was likely to face challenges his whole life, Arthur’s heart felt light. He should be solemn with sadness for Violetta’s tragic end and the grief his friend probably wouldn’t be able to express for her. Instead, his pulse raced with the promise of all things made new. He’d lived thirty-five years on this earth, and now was the time God chose to pull back the curtains on a new sunrise?
Clara didn’t know why she was crying. She didn’t know the woman who had just died. But she had known plenty of women who, she suspected, were like Violetta. It didn’t take a great scholar to put all of the pieces together. Violetta must have been Mr. Croydon’s mistress. It was equally likely that she hadn’t been the most upstanding member of society before that either, considering the way the doctor behaved toward her. But from all appearances, Mr. Croydon had genuinely loved her.
Which meant that the baby that she was now soothing in her arms was very likely his.
“You poor little thing,” Clara whispered to him, cradling him close. “You certainly haven’t gotten off to a good start, have you.”
She bent to kiss the baby’s forehead. As she did, memories that she’d hoped to keep buried deep within her swelled to the surface. She closed her eyes, squeezing teardrops across her cheeks and the baby’s head as she did. She would never forget the smell of her own baby girl’s head, forget the feel of her in her arms, or forget the pain that had ripped through her when she’d taken the wee thing to Everland and left her there, without even giving her a name. But Haskell didn’t have an orphanage, and her girl would have a much better chance at life being raised by good, respectable parents who couldn’t have a child of their own than by a whore with no future and no prospects.
At least, no future until Bonnie stepped in with the idea of sending her to England. Would she have kept her girl if she’d known she could start a new life?
No, she couldn’t let her thoughts travel down those roads. And besides, this new life of hers wouldn’t have been a possibility if she’d kept her baby. Things had worked out for the best, even if she must always live with a hole in her heart.
“Miss Partridge?”
Clara gasped and her eyes flew open. Rev. Fallon stood in the doorway that separated the two rooms of the cottage. His handsome face was full of sadness, but beyond that, he looked at her with a gentle kind of approval that Clara had never seen before.
“Is it…” she began, then stopped and swallowed. “Is she….”
He nodded, relieving her of the need to ask anything else. “We should probably step outside to let Mr. Croydon say his last goodbyes,” he whispered.
“Oh. Right.” Clara sniffled and wiped her eyes with one hand as she continued to cradle the baby in her arms. She hurried to the doorway and scooted past Rev. Fallon into the main room.
Rev. Fallon rested a hand on her back as they made their way out into the front garden. It was only a fleeting touch and for practical reasons, but Clara felt a burst of warmth and electricity. She’d been touched by scores of men, and much more intimately, but Rev. Fallon’s light touch made her pulse race.
“The baby seems to have quieted down,” he said after they’d been standing in the shade of an oak for several awkward moments.
“He’s such a sweet thing,” Clara said, gazing down into the baby’s sleeping face. “It’s hard to think that something so small and innocent and helpless has had so much tragedy already.”
“As I understand it, Violetta has been unwell since she gave birth.” Rev. Fallon stepped closer to Clara, standing by her side so that he could peek at the baby. His closeness made Clara happy, even when he went on to say, “The midwife who tended Violetta said that not all of the afterbirth was expelled, that it was only a matter of time before infection set in. Not that I really know what that means.”
Deep dread and deeper sorrow struck Clara. “I know what that means,” she said in a haunted voice. She’d heard of women who failed to deliver a complete afterbirth, who hadn’t been properly attended by doctors to fix the situation, and who had had long, slow deaths as a result. A shiver passed down her spine. She wouldn’t wish that on her worst enemy.
“Thank you for stepping in to help,” Rev. Fallon continued when the silence grew awkward once again. He glanced from the baby to Clara with a smile that felt misplaced but still wonderful. “And here we were barely introduced properly.”
“Oh, I know.” Clara blushed, using the excuse of the baby in her arms to fidget and have something else to look at to hide her wildly inappropriate emotions.
“You’re American?” Rev. Fallon asked.
“Yes, originally from Ohio, then California, and more recently from Haskell, Wyoming.”
“Wyoming.” Rev. Fallon’s eyes widened. “That’s a long way away.”
“Believe me, I’m happy to have gotten this far away from my old life.”
“Oh.” Rev. Fallon didn’t seem to know how to respond to that. Clara blushed harder as silence fell over them once more. At least until Rev. Fallon took a breath and tried again. “Miss Partridge—”
“Call me Clara, please,” Clara interrupted him. “Everyone does.”
“Clara.” He smiled. “Then you must call me Arthur.”
“Are you certain?” Clara blinked at him. “Isn’t there some rule in England about calling a vicar by some term of respect.”
Rev. Fallon—Arthur—laughed. “Maybe, but I have yet to truly feel like a man who deserves respect, even after three years as vicar here.”
“Don’t say that.” Clara pivoted to face him. She liked the fact that they were almost eye-to-eye, and that he didn’t seem to be looking down on her, no matter what their relative heights. “You gave a beautiful sermon this morning, and you did such a wonderful job here. I’m sure—”
She didn’t have the chance to say anything more. Mr. Croydon stepped out of the cottage, face wan and eyes red. Arthur sent Clara an apologetic look, then rushed to put his arm around his friend’s back. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Alex.”
Clara lowered her eyes out of respect, focusing on the baby as he wriggled in his sleep. She couldn’t help but smile at that, even if her eyes grew misty again.
“Why don’t you head back to Winterberry Park?” Arthur escorted Alex down the path and toward the lane. “You could use some rest. I’ll take care of everything here. I’ll have Dr. Miller…take care of Violetta, and I’ll find a wet-nurse for James.”
James. Clara smiled and swallowed the rush of grief she felt for the baby. That must be his name.
Mr. Croydon was beyond words. He merely nodded, then walked on, down the lane in the direction of Winterberry Park, as though he was only barely aware of his surroundings. Arthur watched him go for a few seconds before coming back to Clara’s side.
“Do you know anything about babies?” he asked her.
Regret pounded in Clara’s heart and grief squeezed her throat. “Not really,” she croaked, then cleared her throat. “A little.”
“Do you think he’s hungry right now?”
Clara shook her head. “Not if he’s sleeping. But he will be soon.” She glanced up to meet Arthur’s eye. “Is there a wet-nurse who could feed him?”
Arthur sighed and brushed his fingers across baby James’s forehead. “There are a few women in town who are nursing their own children. I’m sure one of them will be willing to take him in temporarily.”
“Then let’s pack his things up and see if we can find them.”
They headed back into the house. Clara’s heart bled for poor Violetta, her body lying on the sofa as if she were simply taking a nap. Her soul was most certainly not there anymore, no matter how Mr. Croydon had arranged the blankets covering her to look otherwise. Arthur shifted the blanket to cover her face, then sat to say another prayer over her. Clara moved to the bedroom to see if she could find a
nd pack little James’s things. It took a surprisingly short amount of time for something so monumental, but within a few minutes, she’d packed a carpetbag that she’d found with everything babyish in the room, then met Arthur back in front of the cottage.
“Is it all right to leave her like that?” she whispered as they started down the lane and back toward the town.
Arthur nodded. “We’ll stop in at Dr. Miller’s first and ask that he make arrangements with the undertaker. Violetta won’t be able to be buried in the churchyard, but I’ll make arrangements for a spot nearby.”
“Mr. Croydon would like that,” Clara said.
Arthur looked up at her, a puzzled look in his eyes. “Not many women would be so compassionate toward someone like Violetta.”
A sudden burst of nerves made Clara’s face burn hot and her heart race. She wasn’t inclined to lie—not to a man of the cloth who had treated her so nicely, and who was so handsome. She wasn’t inclined to blurt out her story either, though.
In the end, she settled for, “I just think that all people should be given the benefit of the doubt.”
Arthur smiled at her, a smile that said a great deal of things. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you, Clara.”
In spite of herself, Clara laughed. “I’m fairly grateful that there aren’t many people like me, Arthur. I wouldn’t want to inflict that on the world.”
To her relief, he laughed instead of thinking her odd or awkward. That only made the strange, emotional day she was having brighter.
They found Dr. Miller already in the process of gathering the things he would need to take Violetta’s body to its final rest, which was a relief as far as Clara was concerned. That was the easiest part of their errand, as it turned out.
“Mrs. Dye, I was hoping I might ask an important favor of you,” Arthur began their plea as they stood in the doorway of a small house near the center of the town.