3 January 1838
My feelings that this year was going to be a good one were as wrong as they could be. What a terrible few days it has been.
I had scarcely fallen asleep in the early hours of New Year’s Day when Grace woke me in a panic and told me to get up immediately. Miss Melody had been taken poorly and Grace had sent Bertie to fetch the doctor. But because the snow is so thick on the ground he was struggling to get the horse to go beyond the end of the lane . . .
‘I tell yer, Prince won’t budge another step,’ Bertie said in alarm as he came back into the kitchen after trying to urge the Master’s horse on. ‘Should I set out on foot to fetch the doctor?’
‘No, that won’t be necessary just yet,’ Miss Prim said, taking control of the situation. ‘There are quite enough of us here to care for the dear girl, though I am fearful that she may be going into early labour. I pray that I am wrong, for she has some weeks to go yet, but for now all we can do is take one step at a time. Grace, come with me.’ And with that she swept from the room and headed to the young Mistress’s room whilst everyone sat there in the kitchen feeling totally useless.
Throughout the night, Martha and Grace took turns sitting with Miss Prim as she mopped the poor Mistress’s brow and spoke soothingly to her. She was obviously in a great deal of discomfort and complained of severe pains in her back.
It was the afternoon of the following day, as Martha lifted the young woman’s head from the pillows to give her a sip of water that she noticed that the bedsheets were wet. Her waters had broken.
She quickly informed Miss Prim and Grace of the fact, and they exchanged a worried glance. Miss Prim then headed to the kitchen where she found Bertie sitting with his head in his hands.
‘Ah, Bertie . . .’ He was instantly on his feet. ‘Do you think there is any chance at all that you could make it to Caldecote village? I know the weather is appalling but I fear that Miss Melody’s baby is coming now, and as we cannot get the doctor, Grace tells me that a woman she called Mother Dickinson who lives there may be able to help?’
‘Aye, she would,’ Bertie instantly agreed. ‘Mother Dickinson ’as been deliverin’ babies around these parts fer as far back as I can remember. I’ll get off straight away an’ I’m sure I’ll be able to get there if I go on foot. Just leave it wi’ me.’
Miss Prim nodded her thanks before then turning her attention back to Polly and Cook. ‘Do you two think you might be able to get some water boiled, as much as you can, please? Oh, and I’ll need clean towels too – lots of them.’
‘I’ll go an’ get the towels,’ Polly volunteered and she shot away as Cook began to fill everything she could find with water and put it on to boil.
Once back upstairs Miss Prim found Master Leonard pacing up and down the landing like a man demented. Beyond the bedroom door he could hear his wife groaning with pain and he could hardly bear it.
‘I’m going in to Melody, she needs me,’ he informed Miss Prim, but she stayed him with a hand on his arm.
‘I’m sorry, dear, but I’m afraid I cannot allow that,’ she told him in a firm voice. ‘The birth room is no place for a man to be, but if you want to help you could perhaps go to the Tolleys’ cottage and tell Phoebe that we may have need of her?’
‘Of course.’ He sprang away to do as he was told, grateful to think that he was doing something useful. And then the waiting began, and as the minutes on the fine gilt clock on the mantelpiece in the bedroom ticked away, Miss Melody’s agony went on.
After what seemed like an eternity but was in fact only two hours, Bertie returned and they were all thankful to see that he had old Mother Dickinson with him.
The old woman shook the snow from her shawl and instantly taking control of the situation began to gently probe about the mistress’s swollen stomach.
After a while she looked up and informed them in her usual forthright way, ‘This babby be breech. An’ I’m fearin’ the young Mistress ain’t goin’ to be havin’ a good time of it. But still, we can only do what we can do, so I’ll wash me ’ands now while yer get me some o’ them towels ready.’
Miss Prim wrung her hands as Grace patted her comfortingly on the back. They had all very quickly realised how much the young Mistress meant to the woman, and Grace knew that Miss Prim would be feeling her pain.
Once Mother Dickinson’s hands had been thoroughly washed she rolled up her sleeves and approached the bed again to address the young Mistress, ‘Right, dearie, I want yer to do as I tell yer when I tell yer to. Do yer hear me?’
Miss Melody nodded and groaned as her head thrashed from side to side on the pillow.
Mother Dickinson then turned to them all and asked, ‘Now who’s stayin’ an’ who’s goin’? This bain’t gonna be no peepshow an’ it won’t be fer the faint-hearted.’
‘I think Phoebe and I should stay,’ Miss Prim answered. ‘Perhaps Grace and Martha could supply us with hot water?’
‘An’ are yer quite sure that yer want to see this, missus?’ Mother Dickinson said sternly, looking Miss Prim straight in the eye. ‘This ain’t goin’ to be very nice, so I’m givin’ yer fair warnin’.’
Miss Prim raised herself up to her full height before answering imperiously, ‘I have cared for Miss Melody since the day she drew her first breath, so I have no intentions of deserting her now when she needs me most.’
‘’Ave it yer own way then, but don’t say as yer hadn’t been warned.’ Mother Dickinson leaned down to Miss Melody and told her gently, ‘I’m goin’ to ’ave to try an’ turn this babby, me love.’
Miss Melody smiled bravely, but as Martha and Grace scurried from the room, she let out a cry like that of a wounded animal. Grace quickly made the sign of the cross on her chest as they paused outside the bedroom door in case they should be needed.
‘I might as well go and start fetching the hot water up,’ Martha volunteered. ‘You stay there. It’ll be too much for you, humping it up an’ down the stairs.’
As the afternoon turned to evening the snow continued to fall like a thick dense blanket and Miss Melody’s suffering was unabated. Downstairs, Master Leonard refused all offers of food and drink and continued to pace up and down the study like a caged animal, with one eye forever on the clock whilst the rest of the staff flitted soundlessly about the house like ghosts.
It seemed that Mother Dickinson had done all in her power to shift the unborn child into a favourable position to be born, but twenty-four hours later the birth seemed to be no nearer, and now Miss Melody’s cries had dulled to soft hiccuping sobs. Grace and Martha managed to snatch a few hours’ sleep on the chairs spaced along the landing but eventually Grace rose and rubbed her aching back. ‘I shan’t be long, pet. I need to go to the closet,’ she told her sister. Martha’s small white teeth nipped at her lower lip. Grace looked awful and now she began to fear for her too.
‘Why don’t you go and lie down. I’ll fetch you if you’re needed,’ Martha urged, but Grace merely shook her head and set off unsteadily down the stairs.
Shortly afterwards, Phoebe briefly left the bedroom to give her an update.
‘The mistress is bleeding badly. I fear for both her and the child if something doesn’t happen soon. Mother Dickinson is doing all she can, but nothing seems to be helping.’ Then chewing on her knuckles, Phoebe went back into the bedroom and the vigil continued.
Finally, as day gave way to night again, Mother Dickinson turned to Miss Prim and told her gravely, ‘I’m goin’ to have to cut her to get the child out.’
Miss Prim, who by now was almost beside herself with fear, said hoarsely, ‘Oh no, surely not?’
The old woman waved a gnarled finger in Miss Melody’s direction. ‘Look at ’er!’ she ordered. ‘Do you ’ave any better ideas? The poor soul is bleedin’ like a stuck pig, an’ if I don’t do sommat soon now we’ll be losin’ the pair of ’em!’
Composing herself with a great effort, Miss Prim nodded. ‘In that case you must do what needs to be done. Tha
nks be to the Lord that the dear soul is so far out of it now that she will not know what you are doing.’
Seconds later, Mother Dickinson appeared in the bedroom doorway and told Martha, ‘Run to the kitchen, lass, an’ ask Cook fer the sharpest knife she ’as. An’ be quick about it, mind.’
In no time at all Martha was back up the stairs with what she had been asked for, and after taking the knife from her without a word the old woman shuffled back into the bedroom. Grace had joined Martha again by then and they waited fearfully to see what might happen next.
Suddenly a wail of such agony sounded from the bedroom that their blood turned to water. Master Leonard must have heard it downstairs too, for now they saw him racing towards them, taking the stairs two at a time as the tails of his frockcoat flew out behind him.
‘In the name of God, what’s happening?’ he demanded as he joined them on the landing. He looked beside himself and Grace tried to calm him as best she could as she explained what Mother Dickinson was going to do.
‘Damn and blast the weather,’ he cursed as he looked towards the landing window where the snow was still falling thickly. ‘If it weren’t for the snow, the doctor would have been here hours ago!’
Grace placed a comforting arm about him, forgetting for now that he was gentry and she was a mere servant. This was no time to be concerned about class distinction. He was just a man who was in mortal fear of losing his wife and unborn child.
‘Hush now,’ she soothed. ‘Mother Dickinson has brought more souls into this world than I’ve had hot dinners. Miss Melody is in good hands.’
Everything seemed to have gone unnaturally quiet in the room beyond and they all eyed the door with trepidation until it suddenly opened and Miss Prim appeared, looking more like a waxwork doll than a living woman.
‘Mother Dickinson had delivered the child,’ she told the young Master as tears trickled down her cheeks. ‘It was a boy . . . but he did not survive.’
‘And Melody?’ Master Leonard’s hands were clenched into fists and he looked tormented as he received the news about his son.
‘She is very weak and she has lost a lot of blood,’ Miss Prim informed him. ‘Mother Dickinson is still trying to stem the bleeding.’
‘But . . . she will survive . . . won’t she?’ The last words were said more as a plea than a question but Miss Prim could not truthfully tell him what he wanted to hear.
‘It is too soon to tell.’ She turned her head from the torment in his eyes. ‘She is in God’s hands now.’
Master Leonard suddenly barged past her and entered the bedroom. Whether it was a gentleman’s place to be in a birthing room or not, he needed to be with his wife now.
As word spread about the house, a great dark shadow seemed to fall across it. Cook threw her apron over her head and sobbed shamelessly for the little soul who had lost his battle for life, and the rest of the servants hung their heads. They had all grown fond of the young Master and Mistress, and knew how much they had been looking forward to the birth of their firstborn.
Bertie arrived on the landing and, gravely concerned for his own wife led Grace away to get some rest, whilst Martha headed for her room. It had been a terrible day, one none of them would ever forget.
Chapter Thirty-One
Tears were pouring down Jess’s face now but she was so gripped by the drama that she forced herself to read on.
4 January
Miss Melody is hovering between life and death but the snow is still coming down thicker than ever and so there is no chance of getting a doctor to her. Miss Prim and Master Leonard have not left her side and the whole house is in mourning . . .
‘Why don’t you go and rest for a while?’ Miss Prim suggested as she looked towards Mother Dickinson who was still leaning over Miss Melody. ‘You could have a sleep in one of the guest rooms and I will watch over her whilst you are gone.’
‘I suppose it would make sense.’ The old woman swiped a stray lock of grey hair from her forehead. They were all dropping with fatigue now, but at least she had managed to slow Miss Melody’s bleeding. Not that the poor lamb was out of the woods yet, not by a long way. She had developed a high fever, which was something else for them to be fearful about.
Master Leonard, who had refused to leave the room, now urged her, ‘Yes, do go and rest. You have been marvellous but you’ll be no good to Melody if you make yourself ill too.’
‘Very well, sir. But only fer a little while, mind,’ the old woman reluctantly agreed, and Polly led her away to one of the spare bedrooms whilst Miss Prim placed yet another load of bloodied bedding into the basket ready for it to be put into soak in the laundry. Polly had been carting it down with frightening regularity all day and was wondering how so much blood could come out of one person.
‘Why don’t you try to get a rest too, sir?’ Miss Prim suggested as she looked towards Leonard who was clutching his wife’s hand.
‘Thank you, but no. I prefer to stay here.’
Miss Prim knew that he was thinking along exactly the same lines as herself. If the blood loss didn’t kill Miss Melody, the fever well might. It was a daunting thought. She then looked towards the small crib that held the child and said in a low voice to Grace, ‘We should think of washing and dressing the child, poor little mite.’
‘I’ll do it,’ Grace volunteered, and without a word she lifted the child from the crib and slipped away with him clutched tight to her wrapped in a fine white shawl.
She carried him down to the kitchen and when Cook had fetched her a bowl of warm water she washed the little soul from head to toe and dressed him in one of the soft lawn nightdresses the young Mistress had bought in readiness for his birth.
Cook sobbed unashamedly as they looked down onto his tranquil face.
‘Eeh, it’s a cruel life,’ she wept. ‘He’s so beautiful, like a little angel – an’ had he lived, he would have led a charmed wife. The young Master and Mistress were so lookin’ forward to his comin’.’
‘I know,’ Grace answered chokily. ‘I just thank God that Miss Melody doesn’t know of his passin’ yet. If she did, I fear it would finish her off in her weakened state. But what should I do wi’ him now? I mean, until we know where the Master wants him to be buried?’
‘Happen yer could place him in the bedroom next to his mother,’ Cook said wisely. ‘It ain’t the time to be askin’ the master such things while he’s so worried about the mistress.’
Grace lifted the infant and nodded, then set off up the stairs again. Like everyone else she was exhausted, but even so she needed to be there for the young Mistress.
She carried him into the empty bedroom next to the one where Miss Melody lay fighting for her life, and after laying him on the bed she hurried away to fetch his crib, and when she had placed him in it, she crept away.
Mother Dickinson was back in Miss Melody’s room within the hour and finally at tea-time she managed to slow the flow of blood.
‘Will she be all right now?’ Mr Leonard’s eyes were full of hope as he looked at her.
The old woman paused before answering, having no wish to lie to him. ‘I can’t say yet, sir. She’s slipped into a stupor an’ until the fever breaks she could go either way. But never fear, I shall do all I can, I promise yer.’
And so the terrible waiting continued as the young Master tried to contemplate life without his beautiful young wife. It had hurt him deeply to lose his much longed-for son, but should he lose Melody too, he would have nothing left to live for.
Jess slowly closed the journal, unable to bear to read another page right now. And it was then that the sound of soft sobs floated to her from above, and she knew that it was Martha crying.
‘How awful it must have been for you all,’ she whispered, wondering if this was the room where the unfortunate mother had given birth. And as she lay there thinking back over what she had just read, she stroked her stomach absently.
Sometime later she drove into town to do a little shopping. Jo w
as desperate for a new pair of school shoes, and as time was on her hands, Jess decided that now was as good a time as any to go and get them. She still wasn’t too confident about driving after the incident with the brakes before Christmas, but she could be stubborn when she wanted to be and wouldn’t let the fear beat her.
She was just coming out of the Co-op shoe shop in Abbey Street when she spotted a familiar face on the other side of the road and crossed over. It was Dan’s fiancée, Abigail. Jess had only met her a couple of times but she had taken a shine to the girl and now she called out, ‘Hi, Abigail! All ready for the wedding, are you?’
‘Just about.’ Abigail tossed her long blonde hair across her shoulders. A petite lass, she looked much younger than her twenty years and certainly didn’t look old enough to be getting married.
‘I wonder if the chaps are enjoying themselves?’ Jess said as they fell into step and strolled along.
Abigail peeped at her out of the corner of her eye before replying, ‘Er . . . hopefully. But it will be nice when a bit more regular work comes in, won’t it?’
‘Yes, it will. What are you planning on doing for your hen do?’
‘Well, to be honest I haven’t given it a lot of thought,’ Abigail replied, looking at her a little strangely. ‘The wedding isn’t for another few weeks yet.’
Jess was just about to ask her if she was missing Dan when a larger lady then approached them and instantly started to chat to Abigail. It was obvious that they knew each other well and so feeling rather in the way Jess bade them a hasty goodbye and hurried back to the car.
On the way home she called in to see Karen, and when she told her about what had happened with the hairdryer, Karen rolled her eyes.
‘I think we’re going to have to employ a keeper to watch out for you,’ she said jokingly as she carried the coffee pot to the table and swiped aside a pile of magazines. As usual, Karen’s home was organised chaos. There was a huge pile of ironing waiting to be done teetering on one of the chairs and the sink was full of dirty pots waiting to be washed. And yet for all its untidiness the place had a homely air about it; it was lived in and it showed. Jess sometimes wished she could be more like her friend and not fret so much about everywhere being spick and span, but she had never been able to abide untidiness in her own home and she supposed that she was too old to change now. It was just part of her make-up.
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