‘It’s not an “it”, it’s a “she”,’ Beth reprimanded her tartly and tried again. ‘See how pretty she is. Just like you.’
‘Take her away I say.’ Agnes turned her head away, and the midwife, who was washing her, looked at the new mother in surprise.
Later, as Beth was paying the good woman for her services, the midwife commented on the attitude of the child’s mother.
‘Oh, take no notice,’ Beth said with a confidence she was far from feeling. ‘She’ll come to love her. She still grieves for her husband, you know, as was lost at sea.’
‘Oh!’ The midwife, with a sceptical look, pocketed the shillings Beth put in her hand. ‘You’d think she’d want her, if only as a reminder of her husband.’
‘She’ll come round to it. It’ll take a day or two.’
Agnes remained in bed for a week, refusing resolutely to feed, or have anything to do with, her daughter. She said the baby’s crying got on her nerves and Beth should take her up to her own room under the rafters.
Eliza was sent a telegram, but was unable to come as she was down herself with a severe attack of influenza. It appeared that no one else, her father nor her brothers, wanted to see Agnes.
It is perhaps understandable that, in her loneliness and misery, feeling rejected by her own family, Agnes should reject a child she had never wanted in the first place.
When she was able to get up and dress, she remained in her sitting room, closing her eyes and ears to the rest of the world except to eat and go to bed. In fact she ate very little and slept very badly. Occasionally she went to the end of the road for a glimpse of the sea, but no further.
Beth began to regard the baby, who was as yet unnamed because her mother refused to have anything to do with her, as her own. She had engaged a wet nurse to feed her, a woman who had just weaned her own child and whose milk had not yet dried up.
Beth used to sit and watch the baby, poor rejected little thing, and she felt a bond almost as strong as if she had been her mother. She didn’t dare mention it to Agnes, but she called the baby Elizabeth after Eliza and herself, whose own names were a corruption of the new baby’s. Eliza: Beth: Elizabeth. She used to croon to the baby and talk to her, sitting by the wet nurse while she fed her, wishing that it was something she herself could do.
In the afternoons she used to tuck Elizabeth up in warm shawls and, placing her in her pram, walk down the road with her and along the promenade. Neighbours, stopping to peek at the infant, would ask about the mother. They were told she was not well.
One afternoon Beth came in from her walk with the baby. As soon as she closed the door she knew something was wrong. There was a chill in the house, an emptiness, as though it had not been lived in for a long time.
On the table in the hall a note was propped against a vase. She snatched it up and opened it. Beth could read only with difficulty: Ted had been painstakingly trying to teach her for years, without much success. She would protest that she was no scholar, and she was right. But by diligent spelling out she recognised the words ‘Gone away’ and she knew for certain that Agnes had left.
Her room was empty, the wardrobe bare. All the trinkets had gone from her dressing table, her jewellery and underthings from her drawers.
Gone away. It was so strange that, in a road where nobody ever seemed to miss anything, where curious eyes were perpetually peering from behind lace curtains, no one had seen her go, noticed no cab come to collect her. Agnes had simply disappeared. She had gone out of her daughter’s life – perhaps for ever.
15
Lally rushed up the stairs to the first-floor drawing room and threw herself into the arms of the man sitting there waiting for her. He had obviously been impatiently watching the carriages come and go in Montagu Square, because his seat was slightly turned towards the window.
‘Oh, darling, darling, thank you!’ Lally cried, covering his face with kisses. ‘The most exquisite, the most wonderful present. Why are you so good to me?’
‘Because I love you, Lally,’ Prosper replied, tenderly enfolding her in his arms. ‘I love you very much. You have become indispensable to me.’
‘But it is such a beautiful gift!’ Lally ran her fingers round the necklace, sparkling with diamonds and sapphires, at her throat. ‘I couldn’t think what Garrard’s wanted when they asked me to call.’
‘I wanted to make sure it fitted you, my darling,’ Prosper said, running his own finger lightly over the jewels which, cut and honed by masters, were worth a fortune. ‘I saw it and liked it so much. I thought it would be a surprise...’
‘You are too good to me, too generous, Prosper darling.’ Lally curled up coquettishly on his lap, one hand around his neck, the other still fingering her necklace. ‘Sometimes I feel so happy that I ...’
‘What is it, my dear?’ he enquired solicitously as she brushed a real or pretended tear away from her eye with the dramatic flourish that she still retained from her days on the stage.
‘I feel it may not last, Prosper darling,’ she whispered, her luscious mouth against his ear. ‘That something will happen: you will tire of me, fling me out on to the street, like ...’
‘Never. Never, my dearest.’ Prosper kissed her lips to prevent her speaking the name they both knew, but which was never mentioned between them. Then, very tenderly, he helped her to a standing position while, from the pocket of his waistcoat, he drew a small velvet box which he began to open very, very slowly. Lally, a hand on her cheek, opened her mouth as if to say something, but remained speechless.
It was many years since Lally had graced the boards of the Alhambra or, indeed, any other London theatre, thanks to the generosity of her protector. Prosper Martyn had removed her from the squalor of Drury Lane to a pleasant town house in Montagu Square, conveniently near Baker Street, Oxford Street, Hyde Park and, most important, the shops which Lally loved. For the sake of appearances Prosper maintained his own house in Hill Street ten minutes’ walk away, but over the years he had spent more and more time with Lally, whom he had slowly, carefully transformed from a pretty young dancer with an undeniably common streak to a lady of fashion, with a touch of class.
Lally had nothing to do all day except please herself and her lover. By pleasing herself she pleased him, because he loved to see her looking not only beautiful, which she was naturally, but fashionable, du bon ton. He took her to Paris for couture clothes, and to Rome and Spain for jewels. They holidayed in Venice, where he taught her something about the great Renaissance masters of painting, and the architects of the past. He would rent a palazzo on the Grand Canal where they went in the season to entertain, and be entertained by, the cosmopolitan community that flocked to that great city. He took her to Florence, where he introduced her to the great masterpieces in the Uffizi Gallery, the Fra Angelico murals in the convent of San Marco, the marble Bellini tombs of the Medicis and, of course, the shops that straddled the Ponte Vecchio where he bought her even more jewels. He felt he could afford it.
It was a time for the acquisition of great wealth by those who were prepared to work hard for it, and Prosper did work hard. He took long holidays, but he put in many hours at his office, and when he travelled abroad in the company of Lally he always contrived to do business in each of the cities they visited.
By the time the ring was out of its box Lally had still not said a word. It was a single huge diamond surrounded by tiny sapphires, the whole cluster set on a platinum band. It was the same design as the necklace which Lally had only just picked up that morning. One delightful surprise led to the next. It was always the same with Prosper.
Lally’s mouth silently formed the single word ‘Oh’ as Prosper reached for her left hand and, effortlessly, slid the ring on to the third finger.
‘I want you to be my wife, Lally,’ he said gravely, raising her beringed hand to his lips, his eyes gazing into hers. ‘Will you?’
What else could the answer be? She slipped an arm round his neck and, to his surprise, replied wit
h tears.
‘There, there, my dear.’ He gently took her head between his hands. ‘Is it such a terrible thing? A sentence for life?’
‘Oh, Prosper ... I can’t believe you mean it.’
‘Of course I mean it, and the tangible evidence is there for you to see.’ He indicated the ring on her finger. ‘Shortly I will place alongside it a wedding band, and then we will be man and wife and this pretence can all end at last.’
When they travelled abroad it was as man and wife. Yet many people knew they were not married. Some of his Continental business acquaintances were rather shocked and would not introduce them to their wives. Lally was perforce frequently left in the hotel while Prosper went out to dine.
He pressed his mouth against hers and, his hand still on the back of her head, embraced her. Then he led her across the hall to the bedroom where, slowly, he divested her of all her garments, leaving her clad only in the diamond necklace and matching ring. He looked at her for several moments as she stood unblushingly before him, thinking how the exquisite nude body and the beautiful jewels complemented each other.
And everything – jewels, body and the soul within – belonged to him.
Without him she was nothing.
‘Prosper is getting married!’ Eliza exclaimed as she read through his letter at the breakfast table.
‘Oh?’ Ryder, an eye on the clock, gulped his breakfast, listening at the same time to the chatter of Dora, who sat next to him.
‘She’s a widow of independent means. A Mrs Bowyer.’
‘Well, that’s very nice.’ Ryder sat back and wiped his mouth on his napkin. ‘Now I must go.’ Rising, he planted a kiss on his daughter’s head. On his way to his office he would drop Laurence off at the dame’s school. ‘Why don’t you ask him to bring her to our anniversary party?’
‘What a good idea,’ Eliza said, raising her own face for a kiss.
‘That way the whole family can meet her.’
She got up to see her husband and son to the door, where Ryder’s carriage was waiting with Ted in the driver’s seat. ‘Morning, sir, ‘ he said, removing his hat. ‘Morning, ma’am.
Morning, Ted,’ Eliza called out. ‘How are the children today?’
‘Little ‘un baint so good, ma’am.’ Ted frowned. ‘I think Beth will be asking for the doctor.’
‘I’ll go round and see her straight away.’ Eliza waved as the carriage set off, and then she hurried round the outside of the house to the pretty little cottage that, in the past year, Ryder had built for Beth and Ted and their growing family.
Eliza knocked at the door and then gently pushed it open. By the fire sat Beth with the baby in her arms, while little Jenny crawled happily about on the floor playing with a frisky kitten. Beth was gently rocking the baby and crooning to it while, with one hand, she dabbed her forehead with a cloth.
Eliza quickly crossed the room and bent over the baby, putting a hand on her brow.
‘She’s very hot.’
‘Yes, ma’am, a fever,’ Beth said prosaically. She never fussed or became alarmed. A sensible country woman learned from life the hard way. ‘I’m bathing her head and face with cold water.’
‘Ted thought you might want to see the doctor?’
‘If it gets any worse I thought I’d ask you, ma’am. It’s your decision.’ Beth gave her an imperturbable look.
‘How long has she been like this?’
‘All night, ma’am. I hardly had a wink of sleep.’
‘Then I think we’ll get Dr Hardy. When Ted comes back ...’
‘Ted’ll be gone all day with Mr Yetman, ma’am.’
‘Then I’ll send someone else.’ Eliza stood up and looked fondly down at Elizabeth. ‘We can’t take any risks with my precious little niece.’
When Beth had returned with a baby after an absence of several months, naturally questions were asked. Tongues even started to wag. However, Ted and Beth were known as a devoted couple, despite their past history, and her explanation that the baby belonged to her dead sister who she had been looking after was readily accepted by the community. No one knew how many sisters Beth had, or even if she had any. The wilds of Cumberland were a convenient distance away for someone who wished to cover up her past.
To Eliza, who hated deceit and would have loved to adopt the baby into her own family, it seemed the logical thing to do. Whereas Beth could provide a ready excuse for adding to her family, she and Ryder had none. Besides, Ryder’s feelings towards his niece were equivocal. He was a loving and, in many ways, enlightened man, but he was also the product of his age, and the baby was a bastard, the issue of sin. He had a short memory too.
Ryder would have been in a dilemma if Eliza had insisted on having the baby in her home, but Eliza was too wise. Beth loved children and, living nearby, gave the best opportunity for Agnes’s baby to have a chance in life despite the fact she had been deserted by her mother.
As for her father, like many men Guy had the ability of shutting out unpleasant truths. He had to his knowledge fathered two children by two different women outside wedlock, and he had not the least interest in what had happened to them. He was grateful to Agnes for disappearing so conveniently, presumably with her baby.
Little Elizabeth was much loved by her adoptive mother and her aunt, however. She wanted for nothing, and as she grew older would share the education of her cousins. In the meantime Beth was expecting a second child of her own, and when, later that day, Dr Hardy came to look at Elizabeth he had a look at Beth as well and reported his findings to Eliza over a cup of tea.
‘The baby has a touch of fever,’ he said, ‘probably from her ear. I have suggested hot camphor oil three times a day. Mrs Yewell is in very good condition. A hardy woman of hardy stock.’ Unaware of the pun, he sat sipping his hot tea and took a cake from a plate which Eliza held out to him. ‘That little Elizabeth doesn’t seem to come from the same stock at all,’ he muttered, shaking his head. ‘A sister’s child, you say?’
Eliza said nothing, but poured the doctor fresh tea and passed him his cup with a smile.
‘But then one didn’t know the sister, did one?’ she enquired.
The doctor shook his head with a grimace.
‘What the eye doesn’t see the heart doesn’t grieve over,’ he murmured. ‘And, talking of children, what a dear little girl Connie Yetman is. I saw her the other day. How proud her mother would have been of her. Very brainy, I understand.’
Eliza felt a special affinity with Constance Yetman, because she felt she had saved her life. Or, rather, thanks to divine intervention she had saved her life. Eliza was not a religious woman and seldom attended church, but she could so vividly recall that day when she had held the dying Euphemia’s baby in her arms and willed her to live with all her might, rubbing the water of the baptism into her forehead as though it were indeed the life force.
And Connie had not only lived, but thrived. Dr Hardy had pronounced it a miracle and had taken a special interest in the child ever since.
‘She’s also very gifted musically,’ Eliza said with enthusiasm. ‘She can already read and, in many ways, is as advanced as my Laurence, yet she is only four. Her father pronounces her a genius, and as she is pretty as well as clever he is not averse to having a bluestocking in the family.’
‘And you, Mrs Yetman, how are you?’ Dr Hardy asked with a kindly glance. ‘Coming up to your tenth wedding anniversary, I hear.’
‘Yes, a big party on the lawn. You and Mrs Hardy are invited, of course. The whole town will be here.’
John Yetman sat with his head thrown back, eyes closed listening to the scales being played on the piano by his small daughter with the facility, so many people said, of one much older. Up and down over the keys her agile fingers went and then, at intervals, there was a pause and the gentle voice of Miss Fairchild could be heard either in encouragement, reprimand or explanation: ‘Too quick, too fast, Constance dear,’ or ‘Too slow.’
After the scales there followed
a simple piece prettily played, an adaptation of a work by Schubert which was a favourite of Connie’s. The clear, pure notes seemed to strike the air in harmony with the hum of bees, the sigh of leaves, the scything of the hay in the field behind the house interspersed with the chatter and, sometimes, the laughter of workers.
Since the death of his beloved Euphemia Connie had been the world to John, who gave her everything he possibly could to make up for the loss of her mother. Accordingly father and daughter were as devoted as two people could be.
Connie’s normal music teacher was a Mrs Proud who had a number of pupils, most much less gifted, in the vicinity. However, she was at present confined to her home expecting her third child and Miss Fairchild, who found she had time on her hands now that the shop was sold, was willing and, certainly, able to fill in.
However, so far she had declined to visit Connie preferring to see her at her own home. John, the soul of tact himself, knew quite well why. Christopher’s name would erect a barrier between them.
The music stopped, interrupting his reverie and, after a pause, Miss Fairchild appeared on the threshold of the door her hand lightly holding Connie’s. Immediately John got to his feet and went over to greet her.
‘It is very good of you to come, Miss Fairchild’ he said extending a hand. ‘Good of you to take the trouble; but, as Connie has the slightest touch of a cold I felt that ...’
‘Oh it’s no trouble at all to see dear Constance.’ Miss Fairchild beamed delightedly taking the hand of the brother of her erstwhile suitor. ‘And very nice to see you again, Mr Yetman. After a long time,’ she murmured hesitantly.
‘Indeed,’ he shifted his feet awkwardly. ‘Won’t you run into the house and get your shawl, Connie?’ he asked anxiously. ‘You are supposed to stay indoors you know.’
‘But Papa it’s so warm ... ‘ Connie protested.
‘Do as I say, dear,’ he said a little sternly and, like the obedient daughter she was, she ran off, both of the adults following her with their eyes.
‘I’m devoted to little Constance,’ Miss Fairchild burst out in an unexpectedly emotional tone.
The People of This Parish (Part One of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 34