by Diane Allen
‘There is a way out, if you want to get rid, but what I’m about to tell you, you keep to yourself, do you hear? And you don’t mention me if anything goes wrong. I need my job and, besides, I’ve my reputation to think of. First, we’ll try gin and a hot bath. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll have a word with Mrs Batty; she’s good at her trade and discreet.’
Alice looked at Mrs Dowbiggin in astonishment. She was beginning to see this sweet, dumpy elderly woman in a different light. How did she know about such things? The thought of Mrs Batty performing an abortion on her – those hands of death working on her unborn baby – made her retch. Could she go through with it? She had to; there was no other way. If she wanted to make something of her life, she couldn’t afford any bastard children clinging to her skirts. She cleared her throat and tried to draw on her inner strength. ‘Does she charge for her services?’
‘What do you think, lass? Freedom comes at a price, but I’m sure you’ll find the brass if you are determined. Do you want me to have a word with her, then, just in case we can’t get rid of it ourselves?’
Alice shook her head and bent it in sadness and horror at what she was about to do to herself. Mrs Batty, the horrible woman who had buried her mother, might soon be killing her baby.
‘OK, my love, I’ll make it right with her, but we’ll try a bath first. Better that way than getting rid with Mrs Batty. You’ll be all right, though; it won’t be the first baby she’s got rid of, I can tell you that.’ Hilda Dowbiggin laid her hand on the trembling form of Alice and gently patted her. ‘Discreet, she is. There’s been one or two young ladies visited her from here – friends of the master, needing to get out of a fix. She does a good service, very professional.’
Alice’s jaw dropped at the housekeeper’s words. So her brother had been right in warning her against Lord Frankland; he was one for the ladies. From here on, she would keep him at a distance. All she wanted to do right now was get on with her life.
It was a dark winter’s night with only a week to go till Christmas. A few snowflakes fluttered down as Alice stood shivering at the back door of the funeral parlour. Her stomach was churning in trepidation at what Mrs Batty was about to do. After all, it was nothing less than murder of her unborn baby. A baby that was not wanted, born out of rape, and would never be loved – or so Alice had convinced herself. A single quick action and it would be no more; that’s what Mrs Dowbiggin had told her.
Losing her nerve, she felt like running, but it was too late. The door opened and, raising her finger to her mouth, Mrs Batty led her into the makeshift surgery she had set up in the mortuary. Alice needed no urging to keep silent; she was too numb to speak. Once inside Mrs Batty helped her out of her coat and then held out her hand for the blood money. Alice dropped the florins into her palm, remembering how she had come by them and the indignities of Old Todd’s advances. She waved her to the mortuary table and gestured for her to lie upon it. Still not a word was uttered. Alice wondered whether the woman was frightened that her husband might hear her going about the deadly task. She gave Alice a stick to bite on to combat the pain. And then she finally spoke, whispering, ‘You’ve had your pleasure, now you must pay for it.’ And then she set about her cruel practice.
The pain was excruciating. Alice felt dizzy and wanted to yell out for the old crone to stop digging and scraping and to leave her be and for the baby to live. Sweat poured off her and her head pounded with pain; then a deep, dark blackness stole over her as her body tried to block out the agony by numbing her senses. With the deadly deed done, she passed out.
The wooden cart rattled up the dale, the wheels and the trotting of the horses drowning out Alice’s groans.
‘Be quiet, will you – I don’t want to end up with a noose round my neck.’
Mrs Batty was panicking. She’d had to load Alice into the funeral cart all by herself, and now she was taking her home: if she was going to die, it was better that she did it on her own doorstep.
Leaving the cart at the bottom of the lane, she pulled Alice’s arm over her shoulder and began dragging her towards Stone House marble works. ‘For a little frame, you weigh a lot,’ she complained. To her relief, the girl was still breathing when they got to the cottage. She gently knocked on the door, fleeing into the darkness as soon as she heard movement from within.
‘Alice? Alice, what the hell have you done!’ Was that the voice of her brother? Her head was spinning. Her body ached and her clothes felt damp and she could feel snow falling on her face. ‘Who’s left you in this state? Who knocked on my door and left you like this? If this is anything to do with Gerald Frankland, I’ll kill him. I’ll bloody well kill him.’ She felt Will’s tears falling on her face as he gently carried her inside, swearing when he got her into the light and saw her blood-soaked clothes. ‘Who’s done this to you, our lass? What have you been up to? For God’s sake talk to me, I don’t want to lose you as well!’ he cried, panicking at the sight of his young sister in such a state.
Alice muttered feebly, ‘Sorry, Will, I had to do it. I’d no option. I can’t be weighed down by a baby. I had to get rid of it.’
‘You stubborn, selfish woman! Will you never learn, you bloody headstrong article? Why can’t you be content with your lot for once instead of looking for trouble?’
But Will’s words were wasted on Alice. Once again a cloak of darkness descended, easing her pain and torment. Tomorrow would be another day and, with the grace of God, she would make it through the night to continue with her search for a perfect life.
11
The snow had been relentless, with biting northern winds clawing at people’s faces, making them red and weather-beaten. Snowdrifts were whipped into peaks along the wall tops, and sheep huddled underneath the walls in the belief that they would be safe from the weather, only to find themselves imprisoned in an icy snow grave, trapped until farmers came to free them, alerted by the frantic digging of their sheepdogs. The dale’s human inhabitants huddled round their fireplaces, setting aside all thoughts of travel until such time as the blizzards should cease. The workers at Stone House sat in their quarters playing cards and dominoes, venturing out only to collect a few sprigs of holly for Christmas decorations and to curse the weather for stopping their work.
In the foreman’s cottage, Will nursed his feverish sister, glad of the weather that covered her sin. Glad that no one suspected the terrible thing that his young sister had undergone, and that the weather would explain her absence from the manor. For four days she had drifted in and out of consciousness, mumbling incoherent phrases; the makeshift abortion had almost cost her her life. The morning of Christmas Eve found her coming out of her fever, able to sip some beef broth that Will gently fed her. After he’d finished spooning the salty, nourishing liquid into her, she laid her head down and dozed off again. Will sat by the bedroom fire, exhausted from worry and lack of sleep. For the first time since he was a small boy, he’d prayed. He prayed that his sister would be spared, that she wouldn’t go to join the rest of the family and leave him all alone in the world. He prayed, too, for the soul of the baby whose life had been torn away before it had even begun. Then he sat watching the early grey glow of dawn filter slowly over the great hill of Whernside, and he wondered who the bairn’s father was. Anger tearing at his insides, he swore that he would kill the bastard who’d got her in the family way and then paid her to get rid of it.
Alice stirred, gently calling his name: ‘Will? Where are you? What day is it?’ With her wet, matted hair and dark-rimmed eyes, she looked more dead than alive.
‘Quiet now, our lass. You’re all right. Mind, I thought I’d lost you for a while there.’ He hugged her tight in his arms as she struggled to raise herself from the bed, face cringing with pain as she tried to prop herself up.
‘I’m sorry, Will, I’m so sorry. I didn’t want you to know. I’m so cold . . . I’ve been to a dark place in my dreams. I saw Mum and she told me to go back, that it was not my time yet. Will, I’m fright
ened. Did I die? If I did, I should be in the fires of hell for what I’ve done.’ Alice grabbed her tearful brother’s arm, pleading with him for answers. He stroked her damp hair and held her tight, helping her lie down again.
‘Never you mind, Ali. What’s done is done. Let’s get you better, eh? Go to sleep now. Tomorrow’s Christmas Day and we’re together; that’s all that matters.’
He pulled the covers over her and waited until she had dozed off before getting up to add another log to the fire. Then he crept downstairs to prepare the chicken he had killed for Christmas Day. He had hoped that he would be celebrating Christmas in style this year, his first in his new home. But that would have to wait. Family mattered more, and Alice needed him; there would always be other Christmases.
‘I could have done with that Alice. Trust it to snow and block her off from her work.’ It was lunchtime at the manor, there were sauces and stuffings to be prepared, not to mention the huge goose to cook, and Mrs Dowbiggin was on her own. ‘Stop standing like a useless lummock and help me set the table.’ She was getting in a flap and poor Faulks was catching it. Though she couldn’t speak of it to anyone, she was also worrying whether Alice was alive. Mrs Batty had told her the operation had been hard on the girl. ‘Oh! Get out of the way. I can do better myself. Men – absolutely useless, no good for anything.’
Pushing the butler out of the way, she polished the cutlery on her apron, then arranged it to her satisfaction on the table. ‘See, that’s how you do it. There’s no secret to it, is there?’
Faulks bit his tongue. It was no secret that Mrs Dowbiggin’s husband had run off with a neighbour, but Faulks thought better of telling her he could understand why the man had done it. After all, it was Christmas.
The job done, Mrs Dowbiggin stepped back to admire her handiwork. ‘I do love a well-set table.’ She was never one to miss an opportunity to sing her own praises. ‘Oh my Lord! Is that my soup?’ She rushed out of the dining room as the smell of something burning assaulted her nose.
‘Nice job, Faulks, very impressive.’ Gerald Frankland strolled into the dining room and admired the Christmas table.
‘Thank you, sir. It was nothing.’ The butler smiled inwardly to himself at getting the praise that should have been Mrs Dowbiggin’s. ‘Would sir like an aperitif? And will Miss Nancy be joining you?’
‘Damn, I think I will – just a small brandy. After all, it is Christmas. Nancy will be along shortly. Smells like Mrs Dowbiggin is going to surprise us with something exotic for lunch. Is Alice helping her today?’
‘I believe not, sir. The snow has prevented her getting to work.’ Faulks poured a brandy from the sparkling cut-glass decanter and passed it to his master.
‘Pretty girl, don’t you think, Faulks? I believe Jack has his eye on her. I’d say she was a bit too spirited for him. What do you think, Faulks?’
‘I’m sorry, sir, I don’t think it’s my place to say.’ Faulks bowed, then asked, ‘Will that be all, sir?’ Gerald Frankland’s remarks made him uncomfortable and he wanted to escape, even if it meant returning to the hostile kitchen.
‘Tell Mrs Dowbiggin that we will be eating at one. And this evening I may have some friends joining us, weather permitting. I’m sure she will conjure something up to delight my guests, even though there is no Alice to help her.’ Frankland smiled. Leaning against the huge fireplace, glass in hand, he watched as the mealy-mouthed butler departed for the kitchen.
‘Have you been tormenting our butler? I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation. You are wicked, Gerald. No wonder you have such a terrible reputation!’ Nancy entered the room and beckoned for her brother to pour her wine. Her maroon satin dress rustled as she sat in a chair in the window alcove overlooking the garden. ‘You do realize the locals think this is a brothel? Alice told me so; she was quite embarrassed when I asked her what the locals thought of us.’ She stared at her brother, smiling at his surprised expression.
‘Me? I’m nothing but a gentleman! Can I be blamed if Faulks and Mrs Dowbiggin believe every word I say? I swear I laughed myself sick when Mrs Dowbiggin fell for my story about Mrs Batty – that old woman is the nearest thing to a witch that I’ve come across. I wouldn’t take my dog to her, never mind a young woman in trouble. If they believe that, they’ll believe anything.’ He tilted his glass, savouring the last drop of brandy.
‘One day, Gerald Frankland, you will get yourself in trouble with that sense of humour. You know all too well they believe every word you say and still you tell them tales.’
‘My dear, let them believe what they will. No good comes to those who listen behind doors. Besides, they should know better.’ He helped himself to another brandy and sat down next to his sister. Outside, a blanket of snow covered the grounds and turned the trees to sparkling white sculptures. ‘A white wonderland on Christmas Day. Mind you, it’s a bit of a hindrance. I don’t think our friends will be joining us, so it will probably just be me and you tonight. There was some doubt as to whether they could make it even without the snow. The situation in Russia is taking a turn for the worse; Tatiana wrote to me the other day to say that the Tsar is not in touch with his people. Many are dying of hunger and there have been protests on the streets of Moscow.’
Gerald gazed out at the falling snow, remembering Moscow and his beautiful Tatiana. In his mind’s eye he pictured the way she’d looked the first time he set eyes on her, when she was helping out in the hospital where Nancy had been treated. It was then he had fallen madly in love with his dark-eyed Russian, not knowing that she was a best friend to the daughters of the Tsar. Why couldn’t he have loved a normal girl instead of one linked to the royal family of Russia?
‘Gerald, you’ve given me an idea.’ Nancy grabbed her brother’s hand. ‘You’ve got good contacts in Russia; Will’s struggling up at Stone House. How about you sell one of your fireplaces to the Tsar? Now that would be something to talk about and it would get us noticed in this godforsaken place. Imagine the respect those loutish workers would give Will then!’
‘Have you listened to a word I’ve said, Nancy, my dear? Your head is so full of Will Bentham, you’ve no thought for my worries. And may I point out his absence this Christmas Day? Snow or no snow, I’d have thought that he’d at least have made the effort to see his employer and his beloved sister today.’ He finished his second glass of brandy, swilling the last few dregs round the bowl of the glass before pouring himself another.
‘Look at the weather – would you go out in this? Let him have one day away from work, Gerald. Will’s tried really hard this last six months. He is turning things around for you at Stone House, you know he is.’ Nancy offered her glass for a refill and smiled at her brother.
‘You are sweet on him, aren’t you, my dear. He’s only a country bumpkin, you know. Can you imagine what Mama and Papa would have said if they’d caught their special girl going with a farmer’s son? Easy with the wine, old girl. We don’t want you tiddly before lunch – what would Mrs Dowbiggin say?’ He gave her a wink then half filled her glass and handed it back to her.
‘No wonder women are demanding the vote, Gerald Frankland. Any more comments like that and I’ve a good mind to join the suffragette movement. I’ll drink as much as I like. Getting back to Will, I am sweet on him, it’s true. He’s good company, he treats me kindly, and he’s not bothered by these terrible scars on my face. We are close.’ Nancy blushed and took a deep drink.
Gerald shot her a dark look. ‘Oh, don’t be so stupid! He’s not in our class. A common labourer is not fit for the likes of you. Besides, he’s the first man you have really known. However, I will see what I can do regarding the Tsar. That’s a good idea of yours – it would be quite something to have the Romanov seal of approval on our marble. I’ll suggest it to Tatiana. You never know, it might get us both what we want.’ He raised his glass. ‘Cheers, old girl. Here’s to love and prosperity: long may we have both. But keep away from common menfolk, eh?’
Alice tenderly pro
pped herself up on the edge of the bed. Her legs felt like jelly and she couldn’t stop shivering as if someone had just walked over her grave.
‘There, our lass, slip your arm in here.’ Gently Will helped dress his sister and then gave her his arm to lean on, helping her to the warm fireside. ‘Not so fast. You’re not ready to run the Derby yet,’ he cautioned, putting his arm around her thin waist to steady her. ‘We’re going to have to fatten you up, our lass. There’s nothing on you!’
Having gently seated her in the fireside chair, he threw another log on the fire and wrapped their mother’s quilt around her to make sure that she was warm enough, before putting the kettle on to boil.
‘Well, this is a queer Christmas Day compared to the ones we used to have. With last year’s and this one, I’m beginning to doubt it will ever be the same. Remember how Father used to get merry on Mother’s sloe gin? By this time, she’d have been playing pop with him for hindering dinner and then, nine times out of ten, he’d hug her and give her a kiss and she’d pretend to be mad with him, but really she was loving every minute. Can you remember, our Alice?’
Alice nodded wearily, feeling sad about times past. ‘I’m sorry, Will, you’d probably have been at the manor now, or up at Jack’s having dinner with them. And instead you’re stuck with me. If I was you, I’d disown me – I’ve been nothing more than a prostitute, and now I’ve killed an innocent baby.’
‘Quiet, our lass. No doubt you had your reasons. I’m not going to ask who the father is, because I’d only want to go and bloody shoot him, so it’s best I don’t know. Just promise me it isn’t Jack’s – although I know he’s too much the gentleman for that. He’d have married you if he’d have known you were in the family way. Anyways, as long as you recover and we still have one another, that’s all that matters. Because, by God, we’ve been through enough this year.’ He picked up the singing kettle and filled the teapot, stirring it thoughtfully.