by Jane Steen
My fascination with what Fortier was doing had prevented me from feeling light-headed. Up to that moment, that is. When Fortier pulled a slender, grayish object from Susan’s belly, there was a second or two when I thought I might faint.
It was the baby, of course. Even I could see it was dead. This, then, was the child I had secretly held in my heart as being—not Justin’s, that was impossible—but perhaps, one day, mine.
It was the ugliest thing I had ever seen.
“Did you injure it?” It took some effort to force the question through my lips. Mrs. Kenny reached quickly for the child—a boy—and wrapped it, swiftly but with commendable gentleness, in a piece of linen. But not so swiftly as to prevent me seeing the horrible red patches that disfigured its limbs, nor the raw mess on its tiny face, as if it had been hit.
“That’s how they look, at times, when there’s pox.” The midwife caught her bottom lip under her prominent, chipped front teeth and shook her head in seeming sadness. “It only gets worse as they grow. The doctor did as good a job as any I’ve seen.” She took a fresh piece of linen, wrapping the infant in a double layer. “I didn’t know you were an accoucheur, sir,” she said to Fortier.
“I’m not.” Fortier had his arms deep inside Susan and now barked an order at me. “A basin, quickly. Hold it beneath my arms.”
I complied as fast as I could, and he continued talking to Mrs. Kenny. “I’ve never done this before. But I’ve seen it done and studied the principles thoroughly. I’ve had some experience in field medicine.”
I did my best to hold the basin steady while Fortier scooped what looked for all the world like a large piece of offal into it.
“Is that the afterbirth?” I wrinkled my nose at the smell and the nasty clots of blood Fortier was shaking off his hands.
“It is. Give the basin to Mrs. Kenny—she needs to examine it. And you, provide yourself with plenty of cloth. I need you to wipe up the blood as I sew.” He spoke as if I were a male colleague.
“I’ll do that, if her ladyship would take my place.” Guttridge stepped forward. “Somebody needs to hold the baby.” She jerked her head at the midwife, who was clearly looking for a suitable place to lay down the child.
The midwife looked at me, her eyes wide. I held out my hands and received the tiny parcel into them, holding it close to my bosom. I saw Guttridge’s eyes, intent on her task, flick momentarily to me with a look of infinite sadness. My lady’s maid, the fastidious ruler of my wardrobe and the arbiter of what was and wasn’t suitable to my station in life, had not made a sound of protest or revulsion during the whole messy business. She had stuck to whatever job was assigned to her with the steadfastness and dependability of a soldier.
Fortier and Guttridge worked swiftly, but I no longer observed their actions. The tiny thing in my arms seemed to deserve all of my attention and respect. I found my lips forming silent prayers, asking God for mercy on the little soul that had departed this earth today. And for mercy upon the mother that bore him in sin and shame.
I was still praying when a knock sounded on the door and Mrs. Eason announced the arrival of the rector.
“You attended the birth of that woman’s child?”
Michael spat out each word as if it sullied his lips. He had burst into the morning room, where I was sitting hollow-eyed with lack of sleep and too much emotion, without any kind of greeting. He had entered so fast that a picture on the wall beside the door slid sideways and now rested at an odd angle. He was followed, of course, by the odious Brandrick.
“Not in front of Brandrick, please.” I rubbed my forehead with the fingers of one hand, grateful that I’d let Guttridge cajole me into taking a cup of café au lait, a boiled egg, and some toast. After the night’s proceedings, I hadn’t wanted to eat at all, but in the end I’d seen the sense of it. Guttridge had run a bath for me at six o’clock in the morning, and that had also revived my appetite.
Guttridge had presumably also found time to bathe. She was as neat and clean as you’d wish of a lady’s maid. She sat in a corner of the morning room meticulously repairing a summer shawl as if she’d never gotten her arms red to the elbows with Susan’s blood during the mopping-up operations. She shifted now to watch me as I rose to my feet and confronted the two men.
“Mr. Brandrick, I appreciate the great care you take of my brother, but there are some topics that are truly private—whether Lord Broadmere thinks they are or not,” I finished with a glare at Michael, who was clearly getting ready to contradict me. “Indulge me in this, please. Guttridge will ensure you are served coffee in the library.”
Guttridge put down her work and rose to her feet with the merest twitch of her eyebrows. Straightening the picture as she reached the door, she held it open.
“Do come with me, Mr. Brandrick.” Her tone was that of one senior servant to another, polite and conciliatory. “I’ll make sure a footman attends you directly.”
She stepped back as another figure loomed in the doorway. To my relief, it was Ned, who, like Michael, was still dressed in his topcoat.
“Fortier’s given me all the details, and I’ve spoken to the rector.” Ned kissed my cheek and held my hands for a few moments, ducking his head to look into my eyes. “Terrible business. Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine. Guttridge, when you’ve settled Mr. Brandrick, please return here—and I don’t suppose I need to ask for coffee for Sir Edward and Lord Broadmere.”
“You don’t, my lady.” Guttridge squared her shoulders and gave Brandrick a hard look. With one last glance at Michael, the steward accepted the inevitable and followed Guttridge out of the room.
Ned shucked off his topcoat and took a seat opposite me after handing me into mine. Michael snorted but also sat, as usual making the chair creak by dropping his full weight onto it instead of lowering himself down.
It was Ned who spoke first. “I’ll say one thing for Fortier, he didn’t look at all smug when he told me his theory about Justin’s death had been correct. I suppose the young woman’s affirmation would stand up in a court of law under the dying declaration rule. Not that I’m envisaging court proceedings, but I might have to talk to the coroner about the possibility of a revised verdict.” He sighed heavily. “The rector thinks we can bury the girl—with her child—by her father. In view of her confession and repentance, he’s prepared to conduct the burial by daylight this time, but with as little fuss as possible.” He looked up at the ceiling. “Have you made arrangements for the—the removal?”
“She’s being laid out, and yes, Mrs. Eason has made appropriate arrangements. Susan’s sister, Maggie, is with her. I sent my carriage to their farm before dawn when it became evident that Susan was dying. She was able to speak to her before it happened.”
During this exchange, Michael had risen from his chair and stalked around the room fiddling with things. He straightened ornaments that were perfectly well positioned, pretended to find dust on the back of a chair where there was none, and generally endangered my possessions and peace of mind. Now he could contain himself, if that’s what he thought he was doing, no longer.
“Did they tell you what Helena did?” he thundered at Ned. “Attending the sickbed of a servant, well, that’s perfectly appropriate for the lady of the house. But remaining to watch—and perform menial services—as the girl was butchered? Holding that monstrosity of a dead—thing—and praying over it? Entirely beyond the pale.”
“I will do as I please in my own house,” I snapped. I was most definitely too tired to put up with Michael. “And Fortier didn’t butcher Susan. He even sent for Dr. Sharrock after he’d performed the operation to see if there was anything else that could be done. They all agreed—Mrs. Kenny included—that he’d done the best for Susan in the circumstances. He spared her an agonizing death, you know. She was in terrible pain before he delivered the baby. She died of what she would have died of anyway—too much blood lost from a constitution already weakened by disease.”
&
nbsp; Ned leaned forward to pat my hand. “That is the verdict of all present, my dear. Nobody except Michael is trying to throw any blame on Fortier. The young woman was able to enter death peacefully. The rector said she was sufficiently conscious to understand what he was saying and make responses to his words of preparation for death. Not always satisfactory ones, I understand, but it appears that when her sister arrived she persuaded the girl to repeat a prayer of penitence and the Lord’s Prayer.”
I nodded. “She died at seven thirty. She was more or less conscious until six. Nothing anyone could do would stop her losing blood.”
“All right,” Michael growled from somewhere near the window. “I take back what I said about butchering. But why did you have to be there, Helena? Women die in childbirth all the time.” The ferocious look on his handsome face softened a little. “My first wife died because she bore me a son, and there’s not one second of that day I will ever forget. But I at least had the decency to let the physicians do their work alone until—until they summoned me.”
“What exactly is it you’re objecting to?” I rose to my feet and went to stand close to Michael, who was staring out at the dull gray morning. I didn’t touch him, but some instinct told me he would welcome my closeness. He almost never mentioned Cecilia.
I made sure my next question was delivered in a controlled, reasonable tone. “Are you worried my eccentricities may damage my chances on the marriage market? Because, my dear brother, the sort of man who would object to my personal involvement in an attempt to save a life would not be the kind of man I’d contemplate marrying anyway, even if he were royalty. Justin would have understood perfectly.”
“You wouldn’t have done such a thing had Justin been alive. You behaved like a proper wife and lady then.” He pushed his fingers through his thick blond hair. “And now we have to live with the knowledge that Justin was murdered. By that slut and her father.”
“It’s the Hatheralls you’re really angry at,” I said softly. “And you’re angry at them for my sake, aren’t you?”
I wished I could wrap my arms around Michael and hug him hard. Most of the time I forgot that this difficult, charmless man was my little brother, a mere twenty-three years of age. His title and his place at the head of our family often made him seem invulnerable, the head of the pride of lions. But he wasn’t.
“Look, Michael,” I continued. “I can’t even begin to understand the two of them. Yes, they’ve hurt me, horribly. They took my darling husband from me. They tried to besmirch his name. They caused such trouble for Monsieur Fortier. Yes, I know you don’t like him—you don’t have to make that face—but he was entirely innocent of fathering that child. And they committed the most dreadful sins. I thought the rector was going to faint when he realized one of his churchwardens managed to encompass murder, incest, and suicide in the space of a year. But they’re dead, Michael, darling. And I’m glad I didn’t just run away from helping Susan because there was mess and blood and disease and I’m a lady. I’m glad I had the strength not to turn my back on her because of the hurt she’d caused me. Allow me a tiny moment of heroism in my pointless, selfish life, won’t you?”
I could see Ned was about to speak, to say something nice to me no doubt, but I shook my head at him before returning my gaze to Michael. To my surprise, I encountered the direct glare of his very beautiful blue eyes. It was almost unheard-of for Michael to look anyone directly in the eye, with the exception of his children.
“I’m sorry I shouted at you, Helena.” His tone was emotionless.
“I forgive you. Friends?”
I held out a hand. Michael grasped the very tips of my fingers and looked at my hand as if it had suddenly materialized out of nowhere. Then he gave an enormous sigh and, taking a firmer grip, raised my hand to his lips and actually kissed it. The merest peck, but enough to make my heart sing.
“Friends.” Michael dropped my hand as if it had burned him.
“Well, well.” Ned, beaming, came to lay a hand on my shoulder and give Michael a nod of approval. “As terrible as all this has been, it’s all over. Helena, my dear, you’ve stood up marvelously well to another terrible shock, and I admire you for it. And I believe I hear the sound of your excellent coffee being borne in our direction, so let’s all sit down and enjoy our return to normality.”
25
Ladylike pursuits
Normality, of course, was a state of affairs to be grateful for. It was also rather dull. By the time the best part of a week had elapsed, both Guttridge and I were out of sorts.
“It’s no good, my lady. I can’t get this curl to come out right. You must have slept on it wrong.” Guttridge crossed her arms, regarding my reflection in the mirror with a discontented air.
“It’s perfectly fine.” I tugged at the offending curl, which immediately sprang back into its somewhat eccentric position.
“I’ll heat the curling iron.” With an air of exaggerated patience, Guttridge pulled the heavy tongs out of the cupboard where they were stored and positioned them over the embers of my dressing room fire. I flicked at the discarded curl papers for a moment and then looked up, meeting Guttridge’s eyes in the mirror.
“I suppose it’s normal to feel like this after all the excitement we went through,” I admitted.
“Hmmm.” Guttridge stared with vacant eyes at my hair, which she’d arranged pompadour-style on the top of my head. It was a few moments before she spoke again.
“It was—exciting, though, wasn’t it, my lady? When the doctor was working, my heart was beating so fast I thought it’d jump out of my bodice.”
“You should have seen it from where I was standing,” I said, hearing the wonder in my own voice. “He was cutting in layers, Guttridge, down and down. I kept thinking he must have finished and wondering where on earth the baby was—”
I let my hands, with which I had been gesticulating in an attempt to convey Fortier’s technique, drop into my lap. “It would have been exciting if Susan had lived.” I bit my lip. “Oh, Guttridge. Even with everything she did, watching her die was awful.”
“I know, my lady.” Guttridge’s expression managed to be sympathetic and bracing at the same time. “But the French physician stopped that terrible pain and let her die easy. I can’t bear to think about how it might have been otherwise.” She hesitated for a moment. “I don’t suppose he’ll have reason to visit the house now.”
“No he won’t, and I’m not going to seek him out elsewhere, if that’s what you’re worrying about. Haven’t I been endeavoring to lead an exemplary life the last few days? The kind of which they’d all approve, all those men who presume to have opinions on how I should spend my days.”
“I suppose you could call planting an herb garden normal.” Guttridge looked doubtful.
“Arranging a garden is the perfect ladylike pursuit. And March is the perfect month for doing it. And all I’m doing is standing around supervising the gardeners anyway.” I grinned.
“You haven’t spent much time in that workroom of yours.”
“Too much to do outdoors,” I said defensively. “And it feels so empty in there. I’ll have to find a new assistant. I liked having someone to work beside.”
“Hmmm.”
I often wondered what Guttridge really meant when she made that sound.
“Susan wasn’t a good companion, but she was there,” I continued. “My life can be lonely at times.”
“With only the servants for company.”
“Quite.”
I swung round to face my lady’s maid, who met my glare with steady eyes.
“I’ll forgive you your impudence, Guttridge.” I put as much frost into my voice as I could summon up, but Guttridge was impervious. “You’re right, of course. I live a privileged life, and I shouldn’t complain. But venal as she turned out to be, Susan did her work methodically and with a certain appreciation as to its value. Even Lady Odelia admits she was useful. She heard of Susan’s death from someone in the family,
of course.”
“I imagine the whole of Littleberry knows by now.” Guttridge retrieved the curling iron from the fire and pulled a long, strong hair from her own head to test it. Finding it didn’t burn, she began the delicate task of curling my front hair while I froze into position.
“I hope the nastier bits of the tale haven’t spread,” Guttridge said as she removed the iron. “The pox and the—well, the goings-on between the two of them.” She shuddered as she crossed to return the iron to the hearth. “If anyone does hear, you can rest assured it won’t be through me, my lady. I’ll keep that secret till my dying day. The murder’s bad enough.”
“The rector might have told his curates, of course. And you know how they gossip.” I nodded my approval as Guttridge carefully tweaked the curls with her fingers, then stepped back to observe the finished article. I liked my hair—it was abundant and glossy, and although its wavy smoothness was more suited to the styles of Mama’s youth, it held a curl well when the occasion called for a few ringlets.
“I do appreciate your discretion, of course, Guttridge. And I trust you completely.” I rose and stepped into the skirt Guttridge was holding out for me. “May I tell you something in confidence?”
“Of course, my lady.”
“This may sound peculiar, but I feel better now that I know Sir Justin’s death wasn’t just some random and pointless accident. I couldn’t help imagining it, you see—Sir Justin slipping down a bank because he was trying to rescue some idiot sheep—and it all seemed so futile, as if Sir Justin didn’t matter. As if—oh dear, I do find this hard to explain. What is life worth if we’re to be winked out of existence for nothing? One moment alive and looking forward to the future, the next a corpse—and all for the slip of a foot.”
Or you could be an apparently healthy young man, running around in an orchard on a sunny spring day, playing games with his cousin, and the next moment a dead man with blue lips. The senselessness of Daniel’s death had filled my mind for months afterward. It had rubbed my life clean of all meaning, as if a careless hand had wiped the words of it from a slate. I had fought hard not to allow Justin’s death to take me down the same road.