by Jane Steen
Gerry took the teacup out of my unresisting hand. “Don’t look so shocked, Baby. Mama bore it well, as a lady of breeding should.”
I felt a brief stab of anger. “Should? Have you ever had to bear it?”
For a moment, Gerry’s blue stare resembled Michael’s. “I have not. Not that I know of anyway. But it’s common enough; you must realize that. Mama might not even have told me if I hadn’t been upset when Ned was so terribly preoccupied with his business, just after we married. I was already expecting, you understand, and rather fragile. I suppose Mama sympathized—or perhaps she was bracing me for the worst or reassuring me. I don’t know. She said something along the lines of men having other interests than their wives and then said something about other wives. Then it all came out—how Papa had strayed in the early years of their marriage and yet returned to her in the end.”
“I know it’s common. Justin had a sharper ear for gossip than most people realized. But I never imagined . . .” I shook my head.
“I know you didn’t, Baby.” Gerry’s voice held an odd tenderness.
I felt my shoulders slump. “So that explains the . . . the unhappiness. She wouldn’t admit it fully, even to her private journals.”
“And she certainly wouldn’t have confided in anyone else in Littleberry. She knew I was safe—I’d rather die than let anyone else know my father had a mistress.” Gerry sat up straighter. “But it passed, Baby. I deduce from your existence that a reconciliation took place shortly after Lydia was born, but I had a baby of my own to distract me by then. The world seemed to be full of babies in that season of my life—first Lydia, then you, then Michael, then Thomas and Maryanne. And Thomas was such a worry, of course—so was Michael.”
“Did Papa—stray—after Michael and I were born, do you think?”
Gerry’s lips tightened. “Don’t speculate, Baby. Mama never said another word to me about Papa’s peccadilloes. Not directly anyway.”
“What do you mean?”
Gerry frowned at her hands, running a finger of her right hand over the skin of her left. “There were occasions when Mama made a remark that referred, I think, to the distant past. As if she were warning Papa that she had told me about—the other women. She would do it when we were en famille so Papa could never reply to her directly. He would react as if she’d made a private joke and turn the conversation. I imagine it all went over your head. I used to find it oddly jarring. In fact, I’ve often wondered whether Mama’s illness started well before Papa died.”
“Or perhaps she was still deeply wounded, and all the more so because Papa dismissed her feelings.” I frowned. “I always thought of Papa as a kind man, but that would be cruel.”
“Hmmm.” Realizing she was fidgeting, Gerry laced her fingers together primly. “Baby, they’d been married a long time. I’m dreadfully sorry your marriage ended so tragically after just three years, but at least you were spared the . . . the pettiness that can steal into a marriage after a while. The hurtful things you say to one another behind closed doors. Papa was far from perfect in that respect, you know. But by the time you came along, he had perfected the charming façade he wore every day. He was kind to you—more so than to his older children.”
Gerry gathered her blue silk skirts together and rose to her feet, a signal that she considered our conversation at an end. “Don’t think too much about the past. If you’re trying to find Mama in those journals of hers, don’t look for signs of unhappiness where there may be none. After all, what’s the point? Really, Baby, I never thought you had such a deal of imagination.”
My first instinct upon returning home was to seize the journal of Mama’s that I’d been reading. I pored over every page or fragment where there was some mention of her family life, in particular Papa. I ate my solitary dinner without even noticing the food, trying to square my image of my parents with the new one Gerry had presented to me. Afterward, I went back through some of the journals I’d already read. I paged back and forth until my eyes were sore and my head ached.
I barely slept that night. How could I have gone through life with no inkling of anything wrong in my parents’ marriage? Was Gerry right that Papa’s infidelities were just “the usual sort of thing” to which any wife in our social circles needed to resign herself? Had Mama really not cared all that much, knowing the impossibility of divorce would always bring Papa home to her? Or had she hugged her pain to herself, unable to stop it from occasionally leaking out through her pen onto the pages?
The dawn brought little counsel except the commonsense realization that fretting was futile. I hooked and tied myself into my riding habit long before the breakfast hour and went to find Mank—who always rose early—at the stables.
By the time I returned home and found a surprised Guttridge waiting for me, I’d been all the way down to the sea on Sandy. Mank and I had thoroughly blown away the cobwebs with a good long canter along the water’s edge. The salt-laden air, the fresh breeze of the early morning, and the bright June sunlight had combined to tire me out in a delightful way. I welcomed my hot bath and large breakfast with enthusiasm.
I had promised Taylor I would go over the changes we’d decided on for the herb garden, so it was mid-morning before I walked into my workroom. I found Guttridge carefully straining herb-infused olive oil through a sieve.
“I’ve ordered coffee,” I informed her as I almost fell into one of our two Morris chairs. “I feel like I’ve done a day’s work already.”
“I hope you’re not going to be too tired to walk this afternoon, my lady. I want to show you that patch of comfrey I found by the field gate in High Lane. It’s got much bigger leaves and flowers than usual. I think we should dig some for the shady side of the garden.”
“Slave driver.” Yawning, I stared stupidly at Guttridge as she stoppered bottles and wrote carefully on their labels before pasting the same onto the glass. I should join her in her work, I thought, but instead I reached over to the small bookcase that held Mama’s journals and selected the next one. There were only three left—were some later ones missing?
With the help of coffee, I managed to remain awake while I read steadily onward. The notes in this volume were even more fragmented than usual, as if Mama was too busy to write much. She mentioned the Crimean conflict and the inevitable committees to aid serving and injured soldiers and their families. Workhouse patients and Ned—he was a young man then and still had his knighthood in the future. I was pleased to see how often he and Mama worked together. He was then as now a great organizer of schemes to benefit the poor of the district and to improve those parts of the town that were falling into decay. Notes on remedies that seemed to become ever more subtle and complex. My own skills and knowledge were too limited to understand what Mama was doing; I skipped over many of the pages with a promise to myself that I would revisit them during the long winter evenings.
As the war drew to a close, there were hints that Papa was now at Hyrst more often again. With my new knowledge, I thought I could detect a note of reconciliation. That would accord with Gerry’s theory since I had been born quite soon after the war ended. And here indeed was a new remedy for morning sickness and a poignant little note: “Perhaps this time it will be a boy.” She was to be disappointed again.
Pages of records pertaining to the herb garden and remedies for heartburn—Mama was clearly dosing herself. And then, pleasantly, my name, and my mother’s note that I was a dear good little baby and very pretty. That ended this notebook, and my morning.
After luncheon, I went with Guttridge to see the comfrey and agreed it would do very well for the herb garden. Upon our return, I tackled the next journal. Disappointingly, this one mostly comprised copies of earlier remedies that Mama had clearly decided to collate in one volume. There were no dates save on the cover, but I surmised that several months had elapsed during its composition by the last few pages. Here Mama referred obliquely to the discomforts both she and Gerry were experiencing and to her “shape,” wh
ich she remarked was different this time. The only time Mama and Gerry could have been enceinte at the same time was—I spent a few minutes counting on my fingers—the latter part of 1857, as Michael had been born on Christmas Eve. The last page of the journal held a drawing of a star above a snowy field.
It was a warm day, and I found myself dozing until Guttridge, who had disappeared to tend to my clothes, returned to the workroom with an armful of tender rosemary shoots she’d cut from a large old bush that grew by the side of the house.
“Are you finished with those blessed notebooks?” The sharp, pleasant smell of rosemary filled the air as Guttridge began sorting through the sprigs for spoiled leaves, dirt, and insects.
“Just one more. I wonder if some have been lost or if Mama gave up writing them after Michael was born.” I pulled the journal out of its shelf and began turning its pages. “Come to think of it, I don’t remember her writing in journals when I was a child. I do remember her sketching and painting in watercolors though—she was always in the garden painting her flowers.”
“Perhaps she grew fonder of painting than she was of writing. I used to love knitting, but I can’t be bothered with such things now.”
“I suppose so.” I turned the pages in a desultory fashion. “There are dates here and there, and I can see there are big gaps of time between the entries.”
“There you are, then. She was losing interest, or maybe she was just too busy to do her writing.”
“Hmmm. Oh look, here I am again—good heavens, I did suffer from croup as a small child. No wonder my nursemaids were always giving me elderberry and rose hip syrups.”
“Now that’s something I’d like to make, my lady.” Guttridge smacked her lips. “Nothing better than a bowl of rice pudding with rose hip syrup on it.”
She picked up the cleaned sprigs of rosemary and bustled off to the stillroom, no doubt to wash them. I turned the pages of the journal rapidly, noting that nothing seemed amiss. Mostly children’s remedies, often calming or soothing preparations for Michael, which was hardly surprising. He must have absorbed much of her energies, as he did everyone’s. The entries were now months or even years apart: 1859—1860—1862—1863—
And then I came to the final ten pages and woke up completely.
28
Mrs. Batch-Crocker
My twin sisters’ eyes, always almost preternaturally round, seemed even more spherical than usual as they considered my request.
“Mama’s notebooks, Baby?” asked Annette. “Why, I thought you had all of them.”
“So did I, but now I’m afraid I might not. The last one I have covers the years ’58 to ’65—Mama didn’t write in it much.”
Until the end.
“What makes you think there are more?” The corners of Alice’s small mouth tweaked upward in an encouraging little smile, as if she were addressing a child.
“Because she suddenly began writing every day. Long passages—something had clearly upset her terribly. She talks about her pain and her distress and asks why she should be used so. She talks about being trapped—there’s one passage that describes Hyrst as a prison. If she didn’t sound so rational, I’d think it was the start of her illness, but in ’65 she was quite—normal, wasn’t she?”
I clenched my fists, waiting for an answer as the twins gazed at each other. As so often happened, I had the impression they were somehow communicating without speaking. Could they read each other’s expressions? The seconds lengthened until a full minute must have passed, and I lost patience.
“Eighteen-sixty-five,” I said slowly and with emphasis. “The two of you were about the age I am now. I was nine or ten—and heaven knows, I don’t remember noticing anything wrong. But from what Gerry told me last week, there was a great deal in our parents’ lives about which I was entirely oblivious—which all of you hid from me.”
I saw their eyes narrow for a moment in mirror image. A lump rose in my throat so that when I continued speaking my voice sounded thick and hoarse. It was frustration, I told myself—else why should I be emotional? Michael would say it was most illogical.
“You must know,” I insisted. “You were living here with them—with us—and you were grown women by then. For goodness’ sake, tell me. What was it that upset Mama so?”
“What did Gerry tell you?” asked Alice.
“It’s not like her to be indiscreet,” said Annette, as if continuing Alice’s thought.
“It’s hardly an indiscretion.” Furious with myself, I whipped out my handkerchief and dabbed at the corners of my eyes as surreptitiously as I could. “I’m a member of this family. I’m a grown woman, a married—a widow. I’m old enough to know the truth about the past, so don’t try to hide anything you know. Was Papa unfaithful again in ’65?”
“What good is it, Baby?”
“To bring up the past—”
“—when he’s been gone for years and years, poor old darling—”
“—and Mama’s as good as gone—”
“—and why should it matter to you anyway?”
“It matters because it’s the truth,” I wailed. A sudden memory of Fortier telling me how much our sort of people liked to keep unpleasant things hidden crept unbidden into my mind. “It matters because I feel as if I barely knew my own mother and father. I’m sure you’re hiding something from me. I know you’d probably have gone to the grave hiding it, but now I can see Mama’s distress right there, there on the page. I want you to stop hiding whatever it is and treat me like a responsible member of this family.”
I stopped there, fighting back my tears. They already thought of me as much younger than I was; acting like a child wouldn’t improve their opinion.
There was another long pause while the twins looked at one another and I fidgeted in my seat. Quite apart from my unexpected descent into emotion—why did I allow my family to upset me?—I had to admit I found all this secrecy infuriating. I began to have some sympathy for Fortier’s point of view.
At long last, Annette and Alice reached out simultaneously and linked hands, their dry skin making a whispering sound as it met.
“Mrs. Batch-Crocker,” Alice said and pinched her rosebud mouth tight. Annette let go of her sister’s hands and put an arm around her waist.
“That horrid woman.” She leaned her head against Alice’s shoulder.
I frowned. “I know that name. An American, isn’t she? The one who caused a scandal two—no, three—years ago by running off with a guardsman.”
I remembered Justin poking his head out of his study and shouting, “Scandal ahoy!” with a wide grin. By the time I’d entered the room, he was hidden behind the newspaper, which hitherto had lain in its usual neglected position on his desk, chortling over the salacious details of the affair.
“Justin knew the Batch-Crockers,” I continued. “He said the husband was dreadfully dull but important in his own county, especially with the money he got from marrying the American woman. I suppose she was one of those heiresses we all hear so much about.” I sat up straighter, discarding my reminiscences as the realization hit me. “Are you telling me this woman was—well, was involved with Papa? How old was she then?” In 1865, my father must have been nearing sixty.
“Terribly young,” said Alice. “Young and wild and shameless.”
“Younger than we were.” Annette’s brows drew together. “So horrid of Papa.”
“Did you know at the time?” I looked from one identical face to the other, feeling the blood drain from my face as the answer to my question became apparent from their silence. “You’re not telling me Papa didn’t even bother to hide it.”
Alice sighed heavily, one hand lightly rubbing her twin’s shoulder. “She didn’t hide it. So of course people knew, and that meant gossip, and Mama got to know about it.”
“And she was rapacious, that Batch-Crocker woman,” said Annette. “She made demands on Papa—financial demands, I mean. Her family cut off her allowance because of her behavior—”
“—and of course her husband controlled her dowry, so she couldn’t get her hands on that—”
“—and she just wasn’t used to not spending whatever she liked, being from such a rich family,” continued Annette.
“She had Papa make her a present of the most dreadfully expensive carriage horse,” Alice said. “Snow white and quite the prettiest thing you ever saw, they say.”
My head began to ache. Justin must have known about the affair too—how could he not?—and he hadn’t troubled to tell me either. The miserable thought occurred to me that my behavior after Daniel’s death had made people think my nerves couldn’t stand bad news.
“She made Papa look a fool,” Alice continued. “He was fortunate Mr. Batch-Crocker lost his temper when he did, otherwise he might have been challenged to a duel.”
“What happened?” I said faintly.
“It was the horse,” Alice said. “Of course Mr. B-C knew at once where it came from. His wife positively taunted him with her amours, by all accounts. Until then, he’d behaved with a certain—how should we say it, Netty?”
“Indulgence,” said Annette firmly. “He was much older than his wife. Almost Papa’s age. He had perhaps been too complaisant.”
“Maybe she wanted him to be jealous.” Alice nodded. “Well, she had the horse hitched up to a tilbury—she was a good driver, and always a fine horsewoman—”
“—and drove round and round their park so her husband could see the animal. Just to enrage him.”
“And it worked.” Alice’s words ran over Annette’s. “He waited until she drew up in front of their house and went for her with a whip.”
“She jumped out of the carriage and ran off screaming, and he—” Annette looked helplessly at Alice, shuddering.