by Tania Crosse
Charles glanced up with a scowl. He had employed Dr Seaton as the most senior and highly respected physician in Tavistock, but the elderly fellow was inclined to be blunt, and Charles, though he knew the doctor was right, resented his tone. ‘And my wife?’ he questioned, choosing to ignore Dr Seaton’s implication.
‘Ah.’ The older man’s face fell. ‘I’m not at all happy about Mrs Chadwick’s condition. Though I can assure you every precaution has been taken against it, she is a little feverish and, if you don’t mind discussing such details, her stitches are showing signs of infection. I can remove them in a day or two and hopefully she will then begin to recover, but until then, I shall remain concerned. But what worries me most is her state of mind,’ he went on, unhesitating, never one to beat about the bush. ‘What milk she had has already dried up, which is quite a psychological blow for someone who wanted so desperately to suckle her own daughter. And I believe your own ignoring the child does not help. Your wife cannot be blamed for the gender of her baby, you know.’
Charles lifted his chin stubbornly as he met the doctor’s accusing gaze. He should have been delighted at the birth of his child, be it boy or girl, he knew that. No one else knew that as a young man, he had been denied the joys of fatherhood by his young mistress who, without telling him of her condition, had visited a backstreet abortionist. Not only had she taken the infant’s life, but the ensuing infection had killed her as well. And all because Charles had once told her that he could not marry her as she was beneath his station. He supposed he had never forgiven himself, which was why Rose’s child was so important to him, but there were reasons why he had only wanted a boy.
‘I make no secret of my disappointment,’ he said openly. ‘I want a son who can build on the success I have worked hard for all my life. Having a wife and a male heir, or at least what I had hoped would be a male heir, has given me some purpose in life, when I was beginning to wonder quite what was the point of it all. A daughter would be no more able to cope with the business affairs I will one day leave than Rose herself would. But I love my wife dearly, for all her light-headed ways, and what you say grieves me deeply.’
‘I believe you underestimate your wife’s capabilities, sir, but that is none of my business. Her health is, however, and in my opinion a little more show of support from yourself could well be beneficial.’
Charles studied the closed expression on the doctor’s face, and nodded slowly. ‘So be it. I could not bear to lose my wife,’ he muttered as he got to his feet and, crossing out into the hallway, made for the stairs.
‘Oh, Rose, Rose, my darling,’ Charles pleaded in a broken whisper, wiping her sweat-bedewed face yet again before taking her limp, fragile hand between his strong, brown ones. Her sunken eyes were closed, the long, dark lashes fanned out on her cheeks which were no longer pale, but flushed with fever. Her skin seemed transparent, and she looked more like a child than did the tiny infant up in the nursery, which Charles had not visited since his wife had sunk into the consuming delirium three days previously.
It wasn’t puerperal fever, both physicians had confirmed. The bleeding from her womb was quite normal and inoffensive, and the site of the now removed stitches was only minimally infected. It went deeper than that, something Dr Seaton could not explain but had witnessed before, though usually in someone lost in grief. Rose’s strength had always been in her mind rather than in her slender, waif-like form, and now that, too, had ebbed away. It was as if she could not face reality, and so had willed herself to drift into some unconscious state where it was peaceful and safe.
‘Why don’t you get some rest, Mr Chadwick?’ Florrie suggested, for though she had never been fond of Charles and despised him as much as Rose did for getting rid of her beloved horse, he had been sitting at Rose’s side for two days without a break. ‘I can take over for a while.’
‘No, no, Mrs Bennett,’ he answered wearily. ‘I can’t leave her.’
He turned back to the bed, lifting Rose’s hand to his lips and kissing each thin finger in turn. He wanted to pump his own strong will, his virility, into her frail body, to fill her again with that maddening resolve he had striven, he realized now, to smother.
‘Rose?’
His heart soared as her eyes half opened, but he saw at once that they were unfocused, lost in some dim fever stare, some daze that she alone could see into. What was it that lurked in the dark shadows of her tortured mind? Had he done this to her, by selling Gospel? By refusing to help that blackguard out in the stable? May God forgive him! She began to whimper, as she had on several occasions in the last few days, as some hideous nightmare slithered into the deepest chasm of her soul. She threw her head against the pillows, her limbs writhing in the bed until the sweat stood out on her forehead in tiny globules and her dry lips muttered in incomprehensible anguish.
‘Oh, my poor lamb,’ Florrie breathed in a desperate sigh as she hurried over to the bed, the lines on her face ever deeper. ‘What is it, my sweet?’
As if in reply, a tiny gasp seemed to catch in Rose’s throat and a thin moan quavered from her lips. Charles met Florrie’s gaze, his eyes hollow as he wrung out the cool face cloth yet again and tried to lay it over Rose’s brow. But she flung her head so that the flannel slid on to the pillow.
‘No!’ she wailed quite distinctly now. ‘Seth! Oh, Seth!’
She suddenly sat bolt upright and reached out to one side of the bed, which happened to be Florrie’s, her eyes somehow wild and yet blank at the same time. Florrie wrapped Rose’s wasting form in her arms, rocking her like a child until she appeared to calm, and then carefully settled her back in the bed where her sobs slowly faded and her mind was lost in sleep once more.
Florrie glanced up in despair to see Charles rise to his feet, his face rigid, and walk silently from the room.
‘Right, you can sit back now.’
Dr Power put down his stethoscope. He had been listening to Collingwood’s lungs having first examined the healing wounds on his back. With careful nursing, he had managed to avoid infection to the lacerations. Nature would take over now, and though permanently marked, the scars wouldn’t be as horrendous as they might have been. The sounds the doctor had heard from the felon’s chest, too, were encouraging, and in a few weeks’ time, he should be able to leave the prison hospital and be set to some light tasks until he recovered fully.
The physician secretly breathed a sigh of relief. He had taken a huge risk, and it had paid off. He watched Collingwood pull the nightshirt back down over his torso, which was thin now from his illness, but which the doctor’s experienced eye could see was normally finely muscled. The fellow’s light hair had grown somewhat and he had handsome, hazel eyes. Mrs Rose Chadwick couldn’t have helped but be attracted to him. It would have helped her to believe his story. But from the limited conversations Dr Power had held with him, he knew him to be refined, educated and intelligent – certainly not the kind of convict he usually had to deal with!
‘Well, it’s about time that plaster cast came off,’ he announced gravely, drawing back the blankets from Collingwood’s legs. ‘It should be healed by now. Just keep still while I take it off.’
He noted that Collingwood merely looked at him without saying a word. Just as well. He didn’t want any discussion over the plaster. It was obvious to him that it had been applied professionally, by his colleague, Dr Seaton, so the least said the better. Thankfully Collingwood remained silent while the doctor worked, but the moment his leg was freed, he was giving it a good scratch and his eyes opened wide.
‘It looks so thin,’ he observed in evident surprise.
‘Wasted muscle. Tense your calf and relax it. That’s it. Now push against my hand. Good. How does that feel?’
‘A little strange.’
‘No pain? Good. Let’s try you on your feet. Take it easily.’
Collingwood swung his legs over the side of the bed and gingerly raised himself upright. Dr Power took his arm as he put his weight on his inj
ured leg and took a few steps, but he seemed to manage without any problem.
‘All right?’
Collingwood nodded, appearing pleased. ‘It feels weak and a little sore, but so much better than before. He did a good job.’
The doctor flashed him a warning glance. ‘Keep your mouth shut, you fool,’ he hissed at him, ‘unless you want to get Dr Seaton and Mrs Chadwick into trouble.’
‘Oh, God,’ Collingwood groaned under his breath. ‘What an idiot.’ His eyes swept nervously about the infirmary, but it seemed that no one had heard. He dipped his head, lowering his voice to a whisper. ‘I can trust you, can’t I? Is she all right, do you know? No recriminations?’
‘No. Not from the governor, anyway,’ the doctor mouthed back, perspiration prickling at his collar.
‘And has she had the baby yet? Dear God, I hope she comes through it safely.’
‘I won’t tell you again. I don’t want to hear another word about it. Now we’re going to walk up and down a few times, and then my assistant will get you an inhalation. You may have stopped coughing up blood and infected matter, but you’re not entirely out of the woods yet. But you’re supposed to be doing some sort of work, even in here. In my opinion, you’re not up to oakum picking yet, but I reckon you can rip some old sheets into bandages for me and roll them up. That should keep the governor happy, anyway.’
And he saw Collingwood nod his gratitude and sigh deeply as he began to hobble up the ward.
Seven
Rose’s heavy eyelids lifted and drooped several times before they remained open, her dulled eyes wandering uncontrolled until they finally began to focus. It was some moments before her disorientated mind placed itself back into reality, her gaze settling on the familiar room. The June sunshine entered through the large open window in a slanting shaft of silvery light, filling Rose’s head with peace and tranquillity. Over by the table, a figure she recognized but somehow could not place was busy with some task, but she knew it was someone who was close to her, and inspired her with trust. She sighed softly, too weak to move, but content to float on some buoyant wave of comfort. Tugging at her memory was a horrific, half-remembered dream, but it was far, far away and mingled with a tender sweetness that had once soothed her troubled soul.
‘Florrie?’
The name seemed to speak itself, and the figure turned, slow and unbelieving, before stepping on dumbfounded legs to the bed. The older woman’s face was pale with shocked delight, but then the colour flooded back into her cheeks as she grinned with joy.
‘Rose? Oh, my dearest! You’m back with us!’
A frown flickered over Rose’s forehead. ‘Florrie, I . . . I don’t remember,’ she croaked. ‘What . . . what’s happened?’
Florrie’s face visibly dissolved and two fat tears trickled down her glowing cheeks. ‘’Tis proper poorly you’ve been, cheel. A fever of some sort.’
‘A fever?’ Rose’s frown deepened, and then panic shot through her as she suddenly remembered. She tried to sit up but it was as if she was pinned to the bed and she fell back with a groan. She had no need to speak, as Florrie had guessed at once the reason for her agitation.
‘You’m not to worry none. Little Alice is soldiering on upstairs in the nursery,’ she said with a proud smile. ‘Pretty as a picture, and putting on weight. Which is what you must do. Thin as a stick, you be.’
The corners of Rose’s mouth twitched upwards as relief swamped her lifeless limbs. ‘How . . . how long has it been?’
Florrie lowered her eyes. ‘Nearly two weeks since you slipped away from us. Oh, little maid! You’ve no idea how worried we’ve been. But here’s me wittering on, when you must be gasping for a drink. I’ve some nice cool water here. I bring it fresh twice a day and somehow you’ve managed to take a little.’
She didn’t add that in Dr Seaton’s opinion it was what had just about kept her alive. Florrie flustered about her charge, helping to prop her up on extra pillows so that she could sip at the refreshing liquid. Rose felt so strange, unreal, as weak as a kitten and yet relaxed and serene. Something deep and troublesome was taunting the secret depths of her mind, but for now she was happy to ignore it.
‘Will you bring Alice to me, please, Florrie?’ she asked eagerly.
But Florrie closed her lips firmly. ‘When the doctor says ’tis safe. He’ll be here after lunch, as he is every day.’
‘Oh, dear, poor man. ’Tis such a long way. And . . . and what about Charles?’
The shadow flitted across Florrie’s face so quickly that Rose was not aware of it. ‘Been at your side constantly. Just taking a well-deserved rest right now,’ she added. For how could she tell Rose that since her tortured mind had called out Seth’s name, Charles had not set foot in the room?
Charles finally put in an appearance later that afternoon. Florrie had bathed Rose’s skeletal body, as she had done each day since the baby was born. She had then taken the most overwhelming joy in spoon-feeding her – since Rose was too weak even to feed herself – a bowl of bland chicken broth followed at an interval by a sweet egg custard, as Florrie’s instincts told her that Rose’s starved stomach must be coaxed back to normality with light nourishment, little and often.
A relieved and delighted Dr Seaton had pronounced the fever gone. In his opinion, the fever itself had been mild, as had the infection in her ‘down-belows’ as Florrie put it, and which was now healing nicely. But the protracted labour had been exhausting, and the dread that the infant might not survive, together with the failure to feed the child herself, which was the only way she could protect it, had simply tipped her over into a state of limbo. And although he kept it to himself, Dr Seaton also believed that the traumatic event of the convict’s recapture, though it could not have brought on her early labour, was bound to have upset her emotionally. Her mind and body needed time to heal, and so both had closed down while nature cured her. And now she was awake and refreshed, and though she would have to be careful not to overtire herself for some time, she should be up and about in a week or so. Her womb had contracted well, the bleeding very much lessened, and the sponginess of her stomach, the only part of her that had any flesh on it, he assured her would disappear once she was active again. He would examine her thoroughly in a month or so, but at the moment, he could see no reason why she should not bear further children in the future. In the meantime, little Alice was holding her own, though neither her heart nor her lungs were strong, and she would probably always have to be mindful of her health.
Rose was sitting up in bed now, bright and alert after a short nap, her minuscule daughter in her arms. It was a warm and sunny afternoon, and she had unwrapped the shawl to examine the tiny arms and legs, still so very fragile and covered in folds of loose, wrinkled skin. The child moved very little, and when she did, it was with the characteristic, uncontrolled jerks of a young infant. But when Rose placed her little finger across the miniature palm, Alice’s hand closed about it, filling her mother’s heart with unutterable joy. The grip was not strong, and there was still a faint blueness about the child’s heart-shaped jaw, but when she opened her eyes – already the same violet-blue as her mother’s – they bore with such intensity into Rose’s face that they almost spoke to her.
‘Rose, my dear,’ Charles greeted her with as much emotion as if she had merely been out to the shops. But, entranced by the magical spell of her daughter, Rose did not notice.
‘Oh, Charles!’ Rose glanced up at him with a captivated smile. ‘Isn’t she lovely? Florrie says I looked like that when I were a baby.’
‘You’ve had us worried,’ Charles answered flatly.
‘Yes, I know. And I’m so sorry.’ There was something tugging at the back of her mind, something that she instinctively felt wasn’t quite right. But she couldn’t think what it was, so perhaps she was mistaken . . . She turned back to her husband, her smile broadening. ‘But I feel so much better now. And isn’t Alice adorable? You don’t mind my naming her after my mother, do you? Why don’
t you sit here on the bed and have a hold of her? Only just for a few minutes, mind, because I’m so jealous that I missed the first two weeks of her life and I want to make up for it.’
She had spoken quickly, hardly drawing breath between the words that pattered from her mouth, beaming up at Charles before returning her mesmerized gaze to the precious bundle cradled in her arms, totally besotted by the tiny creature she had brought into the world. Charles’s nose twitched and he took a step backwards.
‘No. You hold her while you can. I’m really far too busy.’
Rose tipped her head at him questioningly. ‘Can you not spare just one minute?’ And then her lips pouted in that mutinous way he had come to know so well. ‘I’m sorry she’s a girl,’ Rose went on tersely. ‘I know ’twas a boy you wanted, and I promise I’ll give you a son one day. But please, don’t love Alice any the less because of it. ’Tis not her fault.’
‘Really, Rose, I don’t have time for babies no matter what their gender,’ Charles snapped irritably. ‘You know how time-consuming it is running my affairs from two hundred and fifty miles away. Besides, children are a woman’s domain. I’m just looking forward to when I can sleep in my own bed again. And how long will that woman and her howling brat have to stay here? It may be up in the nursery, but I can hear it all night long!’
Rose flashed her eyes at him, ready to retort that the wet nurse was keeping their own child alive, but it was true that he did look tired and a little gaunt, so she bit her lip instead. ‘Some time yet, I’m afraid. So, please, Charles, try to be patient. And . . . I know you don’t approve, but I should love Molly to visit. I can’t wait to introduce her to little Alice.’
Charles’s face stiffened and he stretched his neck out of his starched collar. ‘If you must. But only when Dr Seaton confirms that both you and the child are well enough.’