‘No,’ I said. ‘Not while I am here.’
It was a mistake to say so, I thought. For all I knew, the birth would be a violent one and she might well die from it. Perhaps the baby was too big – I could well believe it, from the size of her belly in comparison to her slight frame – or perhaps she would bleed to death. But it could not possibly help her to consider those things, and so I consoled her and told her she was quite well, and her child would be born safe and well too.
When she could next speak, she said, ‘Did you know Richard loved her, first? Before me?’
I nodded.
‘She stopped writing to me,’ she said. ‘I wrote her letters, but she only ever wrote to Richard, or to us both. Until that last time.’
‘The last time?’
‘The night she died,’ she said, and this time she sobbed. ‘I cannot continue,’ she said, weeping. ‘Oh, where is Richard, where is he?’
I thought of Richard returning, and how the situation might then change. I had to insist. ‘Maria,’ I said, ‘there is a journal, and your husband has it. Do you know where it is?’
Her eyes opened and she regarded me, her lips dry and bloodless. ‘Walk,’ she said, as if she had not heard. ‘I need to walk. Help me.’
I let her put her arms about my shoulders and I helped her get to her feet. Under the nightdress I could feel her bones, fragile, like a bird. I supported her and we walked about the bedroom, this way and that, until the pain took her and I tried to get her back to the bed, but she would not move. Her arms about my neck, she swayed and stood, her head damp upon my shoulder, moaning.
‘Better,’ she said, at last. ‘God help me, it hurts.’
I did not mention the diary again. Whether she had heard me, I could not say.
We stayed upright for a while, walking when we could, and I taking her weight when she could not. Eventually she tired of that and I took her back to the bed. I turned her pillows and wiped her face once more.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You have been so very kind.’
‘I am no nurse,’ I said. ‘I only wish I knew what to do.’
‘You stayed with me,’ she said, and closed her eyes.
I fancied she snatched a moment of sleep, for her breathing deepened, but doing so appeared to have affected her adversely, for just a few short minutes later she began to fidget and her mouth opened in a desperate scream of agony. ‘Oh! I shall be torn in two!’
The screaming masked the sound of the front door opening. I heard steps outside the bedroom and Richard calling, ‘Maria! Maria, I am here!’
He opened the door a moment later and saw me, sitting on the side of the bed with Maria’s hand gripping mine, my hand with the cloth wiping her brow. He was shocked but did not comment. I stood, but Maria would not let go of my hand until the pain had eased again; and then I was free, and went to the window.
‘You’re here,’ she said, smiling at Richard.
He kissed her hand and stroked her cheek. ‘The doctor is coming,’ he said. ‘He will be here presently.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘oh, thank you.’
‘Miss Williams,’ he said, at last, turning to me. ‘I do not understand how you come to be in my wife’s bedroom, but I find myself grateful for it nonetheless.’
I turned to look at him.
‘Now you are here, Mr Field, I shall leave you both in peace.’
I got to the door when I heard him say, ‘Please, Miss Williams. Will you wait in the kitchen? It’s warm in there. I shall come when the doctor is here.’
I said I would, and went to the kitchen. It was indeed warm, and I filled the kettle and set it upon the stove, for I thought they should surely not object to my making tea. I searched for the tea caddy, and cups, and saucers, and by the time I had filled the pot I heard a knocking at the door, and I went to let the doctor in.
‘Upstairs?’ he asked of me, and I nodded, and he handed me his coat and hat.
A few minutes later Richard came down and into the kitchen, wiping a weary hand over his face. He collapsed into the chair and groaned. ‘I fear for her,’ he said. ‘This is so much worse than it was for the first.’
‘They are all very different, so I’ve heard.’ I was not sure if I had indeed heard that, or whether I had by now grown accustomed to uttering platitudes.
‘You made tea,’ he said, ‘good, good. Thank you.’
I poured him a cup of tea and he drank a gulp, then got to his feet and left the room, returning a moment later with the decanter of brandy from the study, tipping a generous measure into his cup and offering it to me.
I felt similarly in need of fortitude, and nodded. We sat in silence for a moment, soothed by the brandy and the tea. Upstairs, Maria let out a wail.
‘I should go to her,’ he said, but in that moment we heard the doctor coming down the stairs. I got to my feet, thinking I should absent myself, but the doctor spoke to us both without giving me time to depart.
‘She’ll have a tough time of it,’ he said. ‘The baby is facing the wrong way.’
‘What does that mean?’ Richard asked.
‘Just that. All should be well, but it will be a hard job. I can send a woman to help you,’ he said, looking at me, ‘if you need one.’
‘Are you not able to stay?’ I asked, my eyes widening.
The doctor laughed at this. He was a young man, handsome. I wondered how many babies he had delivered; how many women he had saved. Richard looked at me and then back to the doctor and said, ‘Thank you. If you could send a woman, that would be greatly appreciated. As soon as possible.’
‘Oh, your wife will be labouring a good while yet,’ he said. ‘Pray she does not get too tired.’
And he took his coat, and hat, and Richard saw him out. I thought he should go straight upstairs again, but for the moment all was quiet. I wondered if the doctor had given Maria something to calm her and she was able to sleep. I checked my pocket-watch and saw that it was a quarter to eleven; the doors at the boarding house would be locked tight.
Richard came back to the kitchen and stood in the doorway.
‘Why are you here?’ he asked, as if only now had he recalled that my presence was unexpected.
‘You have Harriet’s journal,’ I said.
He frowned. ‘What on earth …? Why should I have Harriet’s journal, of all things?’
Years of dealing with poorly behaved children meant I could always spot a liar. I rose from my seat and crossed the room so that I was facing him. He was just a little taller than me. I raised my chin.
‘I do not know why you should have it, only that you do. I should like to see it.’
‘I do not, I tell you,’ he said. ‘And, Miss Williams, this is not exactly a convenient moment …’
A sound came from upstairs, just a whimper. I glanced at the door. He exhaled sharply and left the room, going up the stairs to Maria. I looked about the kitchen, in case I should see the journal lying around, discarded, but of course it was not. I sat for a while in the chair and drank the tea, which was dark and strong and bitter, and then I closed my eyes to think, and must have fallen asleep for a very short while, for I awoke to a knock at the door.
Dazed, I went to answer it. The light from the hallway illuminated the top step, and standing upon it was a woman of middling years, with a wide, smiling mouth and deep-set eyes. ‘Doctor sent me,’ she said, and I stood aside to let her in. ‘Not you, then, requiring my services?’ she said, looking me up and down. I must have looked startled, for she winked.
‘She is upstairs,’ I said.
She did not give me her coat, or her bonnet, or ask me for anything further, but went upstairs and I heard her voice as she entered the bedroom. ‘Here we are, is it? There, there. I’ve come to see your baby safely out of you …’
Her choice of words made me shudder. I could not imagine anything quite so horrific. I went back to my seat and settled down, hoping that the stove would stay alight and warm long enough to let
me sleep again, but a few moments later I heard steps and I thought I was about to be pressed into assisting again. It was Richard.
‘I have been sent out,’ he said.
For a moment he stood there, dazed, like a man who had walked into a room and forgotten what it was he came in for.
‘If you’re going to sleep,’ he said, ‘better do it in the drawing room. I’ll light the fire.’
I followed him through the door to the right of the staircase. Alhough he called it a drawing room, it was merely a small front parlour, with a bay window that overlooked the street. Richard lit the lamps and I pulled the shutters and drew the heavy curtains against the chill. With the curtains closed the room looked even smaller, but it did have two upholstered chairs either side of the fireplace that looked comfortable. He crouched in front of the fireplace and piled up the coal, then lit the fire with a spill from the mantelpiece. It did not take, at first, and he placed the curved firescreen around it and covered that with a large sheet of newspaper, to draw the fire out. Soon it was roaring, and he removed the paper, and refolded it.
I yawned, and hid my yawn behind my hand. Fortunately he did not see, for he might have changed his mind about his next words, if he had.
‘Why did you ask about the journal?’
He indicated with a gesture that I should sit. He remained standing, his back to the fire, as if warming himself, but his eyes were alert.
I thought carefully about my response, and then decided to tell the truth. At least, the part of it that would be most likely to gain a positive result.
‘I am a teacher, Mr Field, as I’m sure you know. Harriet wrote in her journal regularly, and she wrote about me. She saw her journal as a … a place she could write freely. As I am sure you will appreciate, the contents of that journal might prove very damaging to me, and to my reputation, if someone might read it who did not understand the nature of our friendship. That is why I want to ensure it is kept safe.’
‘I can assure you it is safe.’
That was it: he had admitted it. He had the journal.
‘That is as may be: but as Harriet’s friend perhaps you can appreciate that I should like to see it for myself.’
I stopped speaking. He left the room, then, and I thought he had gone back upstairs, but a few moments later he returned with the brandy decanter and two glasses. He poured one for me without asking, but I did not refuse it. It occurred to me that his aim might be to render me insensible, so I should sleep, and forget all about my request.
‘The journal was sent to Maria,’ he said.
‘Sent? To your wife?’
‘The night she died, Harriet sent us the letter which I read out in court. But she also sent a parcel, addressed to Maria. It was posted the same night, but wrapped separately. It seemed she wanted to appraise my wife of the Bromley news, which she was always seeking.’
I frowned. Why would she send her own diary, if she had been planning to visit the Fields just a day or so later? It made no sense to me.
He took a long draught of his brandy and grimaced. ‘I can judge your thoughts, Miss Williams, from your expression. I wondered the same thing. Why send it? I thought, perhaps, she had changed her mind about taking the situation at Arundel. When I learned of her condition, that seemed to make more sense. She could not have hoped to keep that a secret very much longer.’
‘I should like to read it,’ I said again.
‘I believe Maria has destroyed it,’ he said, quite calmly.
I did not believe him. He was still hiding something from me, and the journal itself was only part of that. I got to my feet.
‘Where are you going?’ he said, alarmed.
‘To ask her, of course,’ I said. ‘She will tell me that she has destroyed it, and I will know if that is the truth.’
But he was quick on his feet for an older man, and he reached the doorway before I did. ‘Don’t,’ he said.
‘Why not?’
‘Good God, woman! My wife is labouring, in great pain! You wish to interrogate her, now?’
I sighed. He was right, of course. ‘Then I shall remain here until she is ready to speak to me,’ I said.
He waited until I took my seat again before he moved. ‘You are a stubborn woman, Miss Williams.’
‘And you, Mr Field, are not a very accomplished liar.’
He sat down once more but with a heavy sigh, and rested his head in his hands. ‘We both have secrets, Miss Williams, and, if you don’t mind me saying so, neither of us is very good at keeping them.’
‘Why did she send the journal to Maria?’ I asked again.
He sighed.
‘Because she wanted to tell her about me.’
‘About you?’
He filled the brandy glass once more and drank it almost dry. Then he reached into his jacket pocket, and withdrew something from it. The journal! He placed it upon his knee and stroked the leather gently, reverently. I wanted to reach across and snatch it from him, to take it and run.
‘It’s like hearing her speak again,’ he said. ‘When you read it, you can almost hear her voice. Most extraordinary.’
‘She was a fine storyteller,’ I said.
‘Do you still miss her?’ he asked me.
I thought for a moment, wondering whether I should tell him of my suspicions regarding the manner in which she had treated Tom Churcher, the manner in which she had treated me, and others in the town. But then I changed my mind, and said, simply, ‘Every day.’
He placed his hand over the book and held it still, as a diviner might try to sense a spirit vibration, perhaps to try and catch a whisper of Harriet’s ghost.
‘I don’t believe she meant any harm by it,’ he said. ‘You’ll see for yourself.’
He intended to let me have it! I took a sharp breath in, and held it, scarcely daring to believe it. I had thought that at any moment he might toss it upon the flames, and that his reverent caresses were his way of saying goodbye to it. I leaned forward in my seat, and his hand gripped it harder.
‘An agreement, Miss Williams. Between us?’
‘What agreement?’
‘That you may read it, all of it, here in the parlour. That you will not steal it, or cause it to come to any harm, and when you have read it you will restore it to my possession, and allow me to explain. You have my oath that nothing contained within its pages regarding yourself will be made public in any way, if you agree that you will also keep its contents to yourself.’
‘I agree,’ I said.
He passed me the journal, and held it still so that it hung suspended in the air, gripped by us both, as if he had still not quite decided that he could trust me.
‘You will be my secret-keeper, Miss Williams,’ he said, ‘and I shall be yours.’
He let go. The diary felt uneven in the middle, thicker, and the pages fell open to reveal three pressed flowers. I lifted one of them, a cyclamen, fragile, and still with the faintest hint of the delicate pink of the bloom. I replaced it and closed the book, and held it to my face, trying to find a scent of her, a trace. I scarcely noticed when Richard Field got to his feet, and left the room.
Thursday, 1st June
I miss him so very much, and it has been just a little less than a week. I felt it was the right thing to do, to leave. But the right thing for whom? Certainly not for me. Maria is so much more worthy of him than I, so very good and clever and kind. They will be very happy together, and I wish them well.
And now I am home, although that word does not seem to fit the way once it did, and I miss both of them so fiercely I feel my heart should break in two. My mother was pleased to see me, at first; but since then she has fallen into silence and sulks, and my sister is at times openly hostile. She is cross because she no longer has the bedroom to herself, and must share with me again. I think she should go and find herself a husband, and then she will have a whole house.
Still. This is a fresh beginning, and I have begun a new journal to mark the occas
ion. It is one he gave me, a fine leather-bound volume, with creamy pages. I was saving it for a special time, but I am not sure there can ever be such a thing and so I am beginning it now. Perhaps it will bring me good cheer to see it every day.
Friday, 2nd June
The town has changed so little. I cannot say what I was expecting to find, after eighteen months – a period during which I visited, perhaps, three times? – but everything is just as it was. The Market Place is the same, the fields, the houses and the people within them. The coach still thunders through, and shudders to a halt in front of the White Hart. The post comes, and goes.
I returned to Bromley the week after the fair and all the talk in the Market Place was of the stalls and the sights, Mr Storer’s gingerbread shapes, the tightrope that had been strung up from Isard’s yard to a scaffold pole across the way. Joe Milstead fell from it and broke his arm, or that’s what he would have us believe. I have found nobody who saw it happen. I believe he fell off a horse and is trying to make the story more exciting.
Joe Milstead is walking out with Susannah Garn. This is quite a surprise, as he was expressing intent towards Jane Humphrey when I was last here. Jane is looking sour about it, I saw her in the butcher’s. I think the arrangement is quite new. Clara Churcher says that Jane was crying outside the chapel just last week.
Wednesday, 7th June
My mother wishes me to visit Mr Campling, to enquire about a position at the National School. I told her I would do so, were it not for Mrs Campling, who is the very worst kind of woman, sly and bad-tempered. I do not trust her at all, and I could not bring myself to work in the same room with her. Clara says she is there but little, now, for she has been unwell since the birth of her last. Nine children, and the youngest is very frail. I told Clara I would only work there if I could have charge of the girls’ room, but she laughed and said working in Town had quite gone to my head; and in any case they have had a new teacher for eighteen months now, who is showing herself to be very capable. I smiled but I was a little offended; I had sole charge of the class in Hackney, and my girls thrived under my care. If I can manage a class in Hackney, I can certainly do the same in Bromley!
The Murder of Harriet Monckton Page 31