by Rhys Bowen
There was a silence, then Emily said, “I am lost for words, Mr Patterson.”
“Reginald, please.”
“Reginald, I always knew that you were a kind man, but this goes beyond kindness. To give up your solitude and your way of life for someone you hardly know is a great sacrifice.”
“Hardly a sacrifice, Emily. I have come to look forward to our little chats, and I enjoy your lively mind. I think we would be quite compatible, quite good companions, eh?”
“Yes, I believe we would,” Emily said. “I, too, enjoy our little chats. But this is so sudden, so unexpected—I don’t know what to say.”
“Then say nothing right now. I do not demand an immediate answer. Think about it. Consider it. Consider your future and what might lie ahead if you have no male protector and no solid means of employment.”
“What you say is true, Reginald,” Emily agreed. “But marriage? That is such a big step.”
“You do not find me too repulsive, do you?” he asked.
“Not at all. I find you an altogether pleasant man, one that I should be happy to call my friend for years to come. But marriage should include love, should it not?”
“I think you’ll find that many marriages are matters of expediency rather than romance, my dear. You would not be the first woman who married for financial security. But I repeat—take your time. Think it over.”
Emily walked back to the cottage with her head reeling. It would indeed be the answer to many of her worries. She would be taken care of, and so would her child. But I’m twenty-one years old, she thought. I have a whole life ahead of me. Do I really want to be stuck in the back of beyond for the rest of my days? And then another thought followed. He’s a nice enough man, and I’m sure he’d treat me well, but I think of him as an uncle, an older friend of the family. Could I possibly learn to love him? It was one thing enjoying fireside chats, but what if he wanted to claim the rights of a husband? She tried to imagine him kissing her, taking her into his arms . . .
And the moment she considered this, an image of Robbie came into her mind. Robbie’s bright, suntanned face and unruly, red-blond hair. The way his eyes sparkled when he looked at her. And how she felt when he had made love to her. How could anyone replace him? How could she ever love again?
She didn’t mention Mr Patterson’s proposal to anyone, not even Lady Charlton. They had almost finished cataloguing all the books and artefacts, and Emily felt that she should be turning her attention to the spring garden, but Lady Charlton resisted this strongly. “A woman in your condition? Unheard of.”
“I’m sure women work in the fields in places like Africa and China until their babies are born,” Emily pointed out.
“This is not Africa or China, nor are you a peasant woman,” Lady Charlton said. “The men are back on the farm, aren’t they? We’ll ask the farm manager to send over one of them to dig up the beds, then you can decide what should be planted . . .”
Her voice trailed away at the end of this speech. Emily looked at her with concern. “Are you all right?” She pulled up a chair. “Here. Sit down. You look very pale.”
“There’s nothing wrong with me but old age,” Lady Charlton said, but she sat, gratefully. “Actually, I am rather tired these days. I don’t think my heart is working as well as it should.”
When Emily went back to the cottage, she studied recipes for a weak heart. Hawthorn blossoms were recommended as a cardiac tonic, along with yarrow and wood betony. Other notes included using periwinkle and something called heartsease, which turned out to be Viola tricolor, the little pansy-like violet that was now springing up in her front garden. She went out and picked plenty of hawthorn blossoms from the hedgerows, and the next day, when she went up to the house, she brought a bottle of the tonic with her.
“I’ve made something for your heart,” she said.
The old woman took a sip. “It tastes disgusting. Have you put hemlock in it?”
“Of course not! You can add honey or sugar if you like.” Emily smiled. “But it should do you good.”
“I think you’ve inherited the powers of the witch,” Lady Charlton said, a few days later. “I do feel a lot more sprightly. I’d like to know what is in your tonic.”
Emily wrote down the ingredients for her, and Lady Charlton nodded. “An interesting mixture. Well done.”
Then Emily turned her attention to experimenting with creams and lotions. The beeswax felt too sticky for a face cream, so she sent away for glycerine, and also asked if lanolin could be procured from the local farms. It was too early in the year for the first lavender, but she tried other spring flowers, as well as the last of the lavender she had dried the year before.
“Try this,” she said to Nell and Alice at the pub. They both agreed that it smelled nice and made their hands feel soft. “Then let’s get started, shall we?” she suggested. “Let’s try a sample batch.”
The cottage was too small to work in efficiently, so they took over the back room at the Red Lion. The local women threw themselves into the task with enthusiasm. Small tins were ordered. Various mixtures were tried, and Emily also found a recipe for soothing lotions—good against bruises, sprains and rashes, so the recipe said. Rose water, borage juice, witch hazel and chickweed. It was too early in the year for roses, but she bought rose oil at the chemist and added a few drops to the liquid. This seemed to be a big success. The women said it felt lovely when they patted it on their faces, and it also helped with bruises. So bottles were ordered, and Mrs Soper’s oldest boy, who possessed artistic talent, designed labels. It seemed their commercial enterprise was getting well underway. Local chemists agreed to stock a few bottles and tins, then ordered more.
“I reckon we’re going to be all right here after all,” Nell Lacey said.
Mrs Soper glanced at Maud. “I reckon we are.”
“Now we need to start making plans,” Alice laughed. “We want the front counter in Selfridges department store.”
“Hark at you, with your big ideas!” Nell Lacey gave her a friendly shove. “You’ll be wanting to sell it in Paris next.”
“And why not?” Alice replied amid laughter.
At the same time, visitors started venturing out again, and Alice and Nell began offering cream teas at the pub. Mrs Upton started selling bottles of pop and sandwiches at the shop. Emily had been so busy and so preoccupied with getting their business going that she had put thoughts of the baby to one side. So she was taken by surprise when, as she was planting runner beans, broad beans and peas, she felt a sharp pain in her stomach.
I’ve pulled a muscle, was her first thought as she straightened up. But then the pain came again, this time wringing her whole middle section so violently that it took her breath away. Then realization dawned. It was happening. She was having the baby. She put her tools away in the shed methodically, then went up to the big house.
“Emily, is that you?” Lady Charlton called. “Where have you been?” She came out of the sitting room and saw Emily’s mud-spattered apron. “You’ve been working in that garden, you naughty girl, after I told you . . .” She stopped. “What’s the matter?”
“I think I’m having the baby,” Emily gasped, holding on to the banister to steady herself.
Lady Charlton went over to the bell and pulled it urgently. Daisy appeared and was ordered to get Emily up to bed and to send Simpson to fetch the doctor. Ethel was to boil water and find towels. Emily allowed herself to be undressed and put to bed, then lay there, feeling scared. She knew so little about what was about to happen, but she had heard women whisper about childbirth when she had still been at home. It was an awful ordeal, she knew. The worst pains ever. Women died. She stifled a cry as her body was overcome with pain. How long would it take before the doctor arrived? Would he be able to do anything to stop the pain? She wasn’t sure how long she lay there with the cycles of pain rising and receding, but then someone put a cold compress on her forehead.
“It’s all right, love. I’m he
re now,” said a voice, and Emily opened her eyes to see Alice sitting beside her. “Daisy came and got me,” she said. “You don’t want to go through this alone.”
Another wave of pain came, and Emily clenched her teeth.
“You squeeze my hand, and yell if you want to,” Alice said.
“Oh, Alice,” Emily gasped as the pain subsided. “Am I going to die?”
“Don’t talk such bloody rubbish,” Alice said. “You’re as strong as an ox. Not long now and it will all be over.”
Emily grasped Alice’s hand, her forehead bathed in sweat as the contractions came and went. Suddenly, there was a strange and new sensation. “Alice. I think it’s coming,” Emily said.
Alice pulled back the sheets and lifted Emily’s nightgown. “Bloody ’ell,” she muttered. “I think you’re right. I can see something.”
And as she finished speaking, the small, red bundle slithered out and lay between Emily’s legs. Alice grabbed a towel and lifted the baby. Little arms flailed, and the bundle let out a lusty and angry cry. Alice and Emily looked at each other in amazement.
“A little girl,” Alice exclaimed. “You’ve got a little girl.”
There was a tap on the door and the doctor came in. “Well,” he said, “I see you’ve managed everything perfectly well without my help. Well done.”
That evening, Emily sat up in bed with her daughter in her arms. The child had a light down of hair and stared up at Emily as if she was trying to make sense of things. Emily thought she was the most perfect thing she had ever seen.
“So what are you going to call her?” Lady Charlton asked.
“I was going to call her Robert if she had been a boy,” Emily said.
“Then call her Roberta.”
“Roberta.” Emily tried out the name. “It’s a bit austere for a little baby, isn’t it?”
“You’ll no doubt come up with a baby name for her.”
So Roberta she became.
The village women came to visit. Mr Patterson came, too.
“I’m afraid it’s now too late to give her a legitimate name,” he said when they were alone, “but my offer still stands. And I am prepared to adopt her legally if you wish.”
Emily took his hand. “I am so grateful, Reginald. You are such a good man. But it’s too soon for me. I loved someone so much, and he’s gone. I think it will take a while before anyone could take his place.”
“I do understand.” He nodded. “I also loved deeply once. I met her when I was suffering from consumption. She was in the same hospital. But she died. It was very painful. You and I have more in common than you imagine.” He bent to give her a light kiss on her forehead before he tiptoed out of the room.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Roberta, now known as Bobbie, was three weeks old, and Emily’s strength and energy had returned. The first batches of lotion and creams had sold out, and the women were waiting for Emily to make more. The first roses and many of the herbs were ready to be picked and dried. Emily refused to stay in bed any longer and escaped with the baby down to the cottage. For several days, she was so fully occupied that she hardly saw anything of Lady Charlton.
She was disturbed one evening, when she arrived for dinner with baby Bobbie in her arms, to find that Lady Charlton had not left her bed that day. She deposited Bobbie in the nursery and went to visit the old lady.
“There’s really nothing wrong with me,” Lady Charlton said, waving her away. “I just feel rather weak, that’s all. As if all the strength has been drained out of me.”
“I’ll go down and have Mrs Trelawney make you a good, nourishing broth,” Emily said. “And some calf’s foot jelly, perhaps.”
The old lady nodded and gave a weak smile. Emily’s heart was beating fast. Lady Charlton couldn’t die. Not now. Not after everything else. She ate hurriedly, left Bobbie in the nursery with Daisy in charge and went back to the cottage. She should make more of the heart tonic, maybe brewing a little stronger this time. She studied the list of ingredients: hawthorn blossoms, preferably freshly picked. Yarrow, wood betony, periwinkle and heartsease. All of them were recommended for stimulating a failing heart, which was what she suspected was wrong with Lady Charlton. Then there was a side note that foxglove was a powerful stimulant for a failing heart. The next day, she picked the flowers. Luckily, hawthorn was blooming in profusion along the hedgerows, and the little Viola tricolor known as heartsease. Violets were also in various front gardens. She laid out the ingredients, looking at them. When she came to the foxglove flowers, she hesitated. Tabitha Ann Wise had written words of warning. Use this with great caution. The wrong dose can kill. She put it aside, not wanting to take any risks. Then she put the other ingredients in a pan and boiled them until she had a concentrated brew. Then she carried it up to Lady Charlton.
“I’ve made you another tonic,” she said. “A little stronger this time. It should be good for the heart.”
She poured a little into a glass. Lady Charlton took a sip, then made a face. “This one tastes worse than the last,” she said. “Are you trying to poison me?”
“It will do you good. I’ll add some honey.”
She went down to the kitchen and requested some hot water with honey in it from Mrs Trelawney. “I’ve made her a tonic, but it’s too bitter to drink,” she said.
She carried it back upstairs, mixed the tonic with the sweet water and then handed it back to Lady Charlton. Lady Charlton took a sip or two, then lay back on the pillows. “Is there anything I can do for you?” Emily asked. “Would you like me to read to you?”
The old woman had closed her eyes, and she shook her head. Then, as Emily was about to tiptoe out, she sat up suddenly, put her hand to her heart and fainted. Emily rushed downstairs and summoned the servants. Simpson was sent to fetch the doctor. Luckily, he was on his rounds not far away. He took one look at Lady Charlton and sent for an ambulance.
“It’s her heart, right enough,” he agreed. “It’s been failing for some time.”
The ambulance men carried her down, and they set off for the Royal Devon and Exeter Hospital. Emily really wanted to go with them, but she couldn’t leave the baby. She stood watching the ambulance take Lady Charlton away, wondering if she’d ever see her again.
The next day, she arranged to take Daisy with her to help with the baby, and Simpson drove them to the hospital in Exeter. Father’s chambers are in Exeter, she thought. She asked to see Lady Charlton, but was refused because she wasn’t a family member. “Besides,” she was told, “she’s not fully conscious. It may just be a matter of time. You should notify family members.”
She joined Daisy and the baby outside the hospital. They drove through the city centre as they headed back to Bucksley Cross. The motor car had to halt as they passed the great cathedral rising from its gardens on the high street. She peered out of the window, awed by its majesty. Was there a god that made humans create buildings like that? Did that god really know what all those little people down below were doing and thinking and feeling? She swallowed back the great despair that threatened to engulf her. Then, as Simpson began to drive on, she saw something that caught her attention. “Stop!” she cried.
On the railings that bordered the cathedral grounds, someone had posted a notice. The words “War Poets Today” were splashed diagonally across a poster that read: “The group of young men known as the War Poets will be reading from their work on Tuesday at 2 p.m.”
“We have to stay,” she said. “They may know where we can find Justin Charlton.”
They found a place to park the motor car. Simpson decided to visit a nearby pub while Emily and Daisy went in search of lunch. They ate beans on toast in a little cafe, and then found a secluded corner of the garden behind the church where Emily could feed the baby. Then they went into the cathedral. Emily had been taken inside the building as a child, but had never been struck before by its beauty and magnificence. The fan-vaulted ceiling stretched all the way to the great stained-glass east windo
w. Pools of coloured light danced on the stone floor. Attendance was sparse, or seemed sparse in so great a space, and Emily slid into one of the back pews as a member of the clergy talked about documenting the suffering of war, then introduced the young men who had put their own stories of the war into powerful poetry. They came out and took their places at the altar steps. Emily gasped. Justin was one of them. She waited impatiently as they began to read from their work. The poems were brilliant and moving, but she couldn’t really concentrate all through the reading, and then through the questions that followed. It was only when tea and biscuits were being served afterwards in a small side room that she was able to corner Justin.
He looked up in surprise when he saw her approaching him.
“Viscount Charlton. I’m so glad. I’ve been trying to find you,” she said.
He winced. “Oh God. No Viscount Charlton, please. Titles are meaningless. I’m plain Mister, or Justin if you like. So you came to hear our poems?”
“Yes, but it’s really a miracle that you were here today. Your grandmother is in the Royal Devon and Exeter Hospital here. She’s dying. They told me to contact family members. I really think you should go to see her.”
He looked at her uncertainly. “She’s dying, you say? You want me to make my peace with her? After what she said to me?”