Sometimes Nigel did not wake till late. She knew some nights were restless. At those times he still needed morphia. The previous night had been one of those. Sophie waited till he had been bathed and dressed by Jones and Nurse Taylor, then sat with him while he ate a soft-boiled egg broken onto lightly buttered torn white bread and drank coffee made with milk and a small dash of whisky to ease the pain he would not admit he had but that the lines on his face proclaimed.
After breakfast he half dozed while she read to him, not the newspapers but old books from the library, Mrs Gaskell and other purveyors of escapism from the century before. Nigel declared the old norels gave such hope for the future, because at least today’s dreams and social consciousness were so much better than the past’s.
Nigel was going to live to see the future. Some of it. He would die, one day, as all do and must, but before that he would live and see his child grow up.
After lunch he slept, properly, while Jones and Maria found their own tasks. Sophie curled up on the sofa in the drawing room — how impossible it would have been to put her stockinged feet up on the silk coverings even a decade earlier — and read The Forsyte Saga — Nigel had no taste for modern literature.
‘Breeding’ was a restful occupation, she thought, for her at least, at this time and place and with the luxury for it to be so. She placed one hand upon her stomach as she read, to feel the baby’s kicks. Most emphatic ones. She smiled. Temperament was decided in the womb, it seemed.
The drawing room door opened. ‘A visitor, your ladyship,’ said Hereward. ‘Are you at home?’ He offered a card on the silver salver.
Sophie inspected it. Lady Boniface FitzWilliam. So this was Georgina’s mother-in-law, the source of her unspoken fear that had kept her in Australia, where the Higgs connections meant her late husband’s family could not claim her son. Her letter of sympathy to her late husband’s parents had been met by a solicitor’s demand sent via the misleading address in America that she, and the heir, return. Georgina had not replied. But she was mentioned too often in the social pages of the Sydney Morning Herald for society in England not to discover where she now lived.
Sophie put the card down, considered, then nodded.
‘I am at home. Tea, please, Hereward.’
‘Yes, your ladyship.’
Sophie stood as the woman entered. Good furs, excellent pearls of an old-fashioned length, the long hemline old-fashioned too, though the dress was new. ‘Lady Nigel, please excuse my calling on you unannounced, not introduced, and uninvited.’
‘Not at all,’ said Sophie meaninglessly. ‘Do sit down.’
They sat. Lady Boniface’s rigid back did not touch her chair.
‘I hope it was not a tiring journey,’ said Sophie, as Hereward carried in the tea tray, followed by a footman with a tray of edibles. ‘Milk, sugar?’
‘Black, please. I lost the habit of milk out in India. Such unreliable supplies.’
‘A crumpet? Bread and butter? Or cherry cake? Mrs Goodenough’s cherry cake is very good.’
‘Lady Nigel, you must wonder why I am here.’
‘Possibly not,’ admitted Sophie. ‘You are here about your grandson?’
‘Yes, I . . .’ To Sophie’s horror the elderly woman began to cry, still stiffly upright, her face impassive. Sophie waited ten seconds, then threw convention out the window and kneeled beside her. She proffered a handkerchief. Lady Boniface took it, wiped and blew.
It was time for frankness. ‘Do you and your husband intend to attempt to gain custody of your grandson?’
‘I . . . I . . . Of course not!’ Lady Boniface looked at her with genuine shock. ‘My husband . . . is not himself these days. Indeed, he is barely aware of his surroundings. He has been like that for the past two years.’
She unconsciously clenched her kid-gloved hands. ‘Lady Nigel, if you will pardon the indiscretion, you will be a mother soon. I . . .’ She stared at the silken lilies on the carpet. ‘My arms are empty,’ she whispered. ‘I have not held my grandson as a baby. I . . . I wish only to hold him as a child. I will not intrude on his mother’s choice of upbringing, will even travel to Australia if she will permit —’
‘If she will permit.’ How power had shifted for Georgina.
‘Please,’ whispered Lady Boniface. ‘Timothy is the only child of my blood that I will ever see, ever hold again. Please.’
Sophie took the old hands firmly in her own. ‘You must visit us when we return to Australia. We might even introduce you to a kangaroo, as well as your grandson. But,’ she laid her hand upon the swell of her belly again, ‘I believe I would like my friends to be at the Christening. Our wedding was so hurried, due to my husband’s operation. I will ask Georgina if she and her son will come to England. I think now, perhaps, they will.’
‘And she will let me see . . .’ she spoke the word almost reverently ‘. . . Timothy?’
‘I am sure she will,’ said Sophie quietly. ‘She loves her son, but she will not withhold other love from him.’
‘She sends me a photograph twice a year. She is . . . most dutiful,’ said Lady Boniface, who knew that Georgina had not been dutiful. Who might, or might not, know that she had also been battered and demeaned as a wife.
But that was beside the point now.
‘He is a lovely boy,’ said Sophie.
Lady Boniface looked at her eagerly. ‘What is he like?’
‘He enjoys flying kites, as high as possible. And he is an excellent rider. Quite fearless. Too fearless . . . but don’t worry, we are very strict about the horses he is allowed to ride.’ She thought it might be tactless to mention his passion for pythons and boa constrictors — or that sending a solicitor’s letter was not the best way to entice her daughter-in-law to visit. But that, presumably, had been the doing of her father-in-law, not the woman in front of her. ‘Timothy enjoys poetry too. His mother reads him one poem each night and he has even written a few of his own. Very intelligent for his age,’ she offered.
‘Poetry?’ The tremulous voice held incredulity. And then, more firmly: ‘Poetry. It would be . . . interesting . . . to have a poet in the family.’
Sophie laughed. ‘He is eleven years old! A bit early to choose a career yet.’
‘He will have the estate, of course. But our agent is excellent, if his tastes run to . . . poetry . . .’
Or staying in Australia, Sophie thought. ‘I think your grandson will be so excited at taking his position in society, as well as an estate of his own, that you will see plenty of him in the years to come. But you need to meet him as soon as it can be arranged.’ She glanced at her watch. It would be four in the morning in Australia. ‘I will send a telegram tonight, Lady Boniface. Do you have the telephone connected?’
She shook her head. ‘No. But I will be at the Dorchester in London for the next week. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind contacting me there?’
‘Of course,’ said Sophie. ‘If we have the Christening in early September, there will be plenty of time for Georgina and Timothy to travel to England.’
She did not add that Georgina must at times have been desperately homesick, kept away by the fear of further legal action, even if it was eventually fruitless, by her late husband’s family. That too need never be referred to again.
Timothy must have his family and Lady Boniface would have her arms around the boy while he was still small enough to accept a hug, and not just patronisingly pat his grandmother’s cheek. But even that, she realised, would be relished by this old woman.
‘I hope you will be one of the party,’ said Sophie. ‘And it will be a party.’
‘A child is the greatest blessing,’ said Lady Boniface.
Even when he grows up and behaves like your son, thought Sophie. ‘And now will you try some cherry cake?’
‘I would love to,’ said Lady Boniface.
Chapter 65
My dearest friend, I have no words to comfort you on the loss of Alison, except this crumb: a child has been born.
> Miss Lily to the Dowager Duchess of Wooten, 1915
The last weeks passed as if they’d been lined with lead. She could not reach her shoes; had to lurch on the bed like a stranded whale for Green to fasten them.
Was she the only one to count the weeks, or did Nigel count them too? A child by John — or whatever his true name was — would be born three or even four weeks before one sired by Nigel.
If she had never slept with John, they could have been sure. If she had never slept with John, there might be no baby at all . . . although if Marie Stopes was to be trusted — that deeply scientific woman — then she might have been at a fertile time with Nigel too.
Impossible to know what would have been best. Impossible to change it too.
The labour pains began either two days late or three weeks early, on a Sunday morning, so mild she thought at first they were the usual discomfort — it had been impossible to find a comfortable position to sleep in for more than five minutes for the past month. She and Nigel now slept in different rooms, for he needed uninterrupted sleep, and knowing she must not disturb him interrupted hers.
On the fourth contraction — or possibly the twentieth, for they were indeed still only mild — she decided it was safe to lie and wait for Green to bring in her morning tea.
They were about twenty minutes apart by the time Dorothy crept in to add wood to the fire, saw her mistress was lying awake and tiptoed out to inform Green.
Green arrived ten minutes later, tea tray in hand.
‘Drink it yourself,’ said Sophie. ‘I’d better have an empty bladder.’
Ladies did not have bladders. Women did. Women who had worked in hospitals understood about them.
‘How far apart?’
‘Twenty minutes. I’m serious, Greenie darling. Sit down and drink the tea. I feel like company.’
‘Not his lordship?’
Suddenly, deeply, she wanted Miss Lily, potentially only down the hallway, and yet unreachable. ‘Let him sleep for now. This may take a while. Don’t tell Maria yet either.’
They might try and convince her, yet again, to go to hospital. Women who ran hospitals knew that survival, of both mother and child, in childbirth was almost twice as high with a midwife, especially one who used the old remedy of hands and instruments washed in boiled rosemary and lavender water, though whether the herbs or the boiling were most effective, Sophie did not know. Possibly no one did. Why bother with scientific investigation of a womanly remedy?
Green settled back in the armchair, glanced consideringly at Sophie, then put her feet up on the footstool. She sipped, and nibbled a Bath biscuit. ‘Once the household knows I expect I’ll be on my feet till the heir is delivered. And for an hour at least afterwards.’
‘Probably. You do realise it may be a girl?’
‘A girl will be your heir,’ Green reminded her. ‘Your father’s will left everything to you and your children in perpetuity. And his lordship can leave his personal fortune where he likes.’
‘There is that,’ said Sophie, then gasped as a stronger contraction grabbed her.
Green finished the tea, stood and brushed off some crumbs. ‘I’ll call Mrs Addison.’
Mrs Addison had delivered the district’s babies for twenty-four years and lost only two, and one of those had been six weeks premature, and the other . . . No one had spoken of the other, except to mark its resting place with a headstone. The baby’s mother now had four other children.
Yes, Mrs Addison was the person to be trusted now.
Ten hours later and she wanted to strangle Mrs Addison. If she said, ‘Doing well, lovey,’ one more time she would kick her.
‘Time for the sacks,’ said Mrs Addison calmly.
‘What . . . are . . . they . . .?’ muttered Sophie, before adding a long scream. As it ebbed she felt soft and woolly balls, impossibly hairy, one placed in each hand. They felt like they were filled with sand, with marbles in each one. They felt in fact like . . .
‘Squeeze them tight, lovey, and think of every man in England when you do,’ advised Mrs Addison.
Sophie squeezed. And screamed. And laughed, and kept on laughing, squeezing, gasping . . .
The door opened. ‘Is —?’ began Jones.
‘Out,’ said Green, Sophie and Mrs Addison in unison.
The world diminished. Pain, then slightly less pain; impossible pain, and even more . . .
‘Now push. That’s it. You’re doing well, lovey.’
‘Push!’ said Green, grasping her hand and one of the woollen balls.
She pushed. And pushed. And felt . . .
‘A girl!’ said Mrs Addison, not quite hiding her disappointment. ‘You’re doing wonderfully, lovey. Now for the afterbirth. Push one last time for me.’
A girl. Poor Nigel. The Vailes would triumph eventually then . . . She pushed, felt something slither, then pushed again.
‘Mrs Addison?’ said Green. Even more urgent agony and Sophie’s scream split the ceiling.
Or should have, but did not. Another push, and then another . . .
‘A boy,’ said Green calmly, wrapping the second child efficiently and putting him in Sophie’s other arm, across from his sister. And then she sat on the hearthstone and sobbed, her face in her hands, crying for life and death and for the future.
And Sophie held her children while Mrs Addison did . . . things. Then called to Jones and Nigel, ‘You can stop listening at the door. You have twins, a boy and a girl. Babies and mother are doing wonderfully, aren’t you, lovey? Just give us a few minutes and you can see them.’
Sophie stared at the tiny faces, the boy so much smaller than the girl. Surely he would have Nigel’s blue eyes? The baby blue was far lighter than his sister’s. Perhaps both would have her hazel eyes.
Perhaps they would tactfully mostly resemble her. Or . . . was it possible, just possible, to have two children by two men at the same time? The larger girl conceived first, born first, her birth triggering her brother’s, small as a three-week premature baby would be.
‘He’s so tiny,’ whispered Sophie, in awe and weakness.
‘But a bonny boy,’ said Mrs Addison firmly. ‘Twins are often early and a little small. We’ll need to keep him warm, your ladyship, and sunlight for an hour each midday too. Nothing like sunlight to strengthen the bones. Feed him every two hours. Ah, I’ve seen it often. One twin takes all the feeding and the other is the runt of the litter, meaning no offence, your ladyship. He’ll be as tall as his father before you can blink, and in the football scrum.’
She hoped he wasn’t. All that hope and love and labour just to play football. But then men enjoyed getting muddy, hit by others — as long as there were no trenches, mortars or poison gas involved.
Mrs Addison looked at her proudly. ‘Shall I ask his lordship in?’
‘Yes,’ whispered Sophie. ‘Ask their father to come in.’
Night. Firelight. The babies slept in the nursery, watched over by Nurse (who had apparently lost her other name with her profession, but who Maria had decided met all the modern criteria for nursedom) who had promised to bring them in to Sophie as soon as they stirred, despite her risking the ruination of her figure by old-fashioned breastfeeding, instead of offering them hygienic bottles every two hours to the minute.
Sophie opened her eyes. Nigel sat in the armchair knitting a bootie.
Sophie watched him unseen for minutes. At last she said, ‘One bootie isn’t much use between four feet. I didn’t know you could knit.’
‘I learned on the North West Frontier. The Scots knit before battle. Or they used to.’ Nigel put the bootie down. ‘I’ve knitted twelve so far. And two matinée jackets. But I don’t knit in public. It might . . . confuse things.’ It was the first time he had even discreetly alluded to Miss Lily since their marriage.
‘They are perfect, aren’t they?’ said Sophie sleepily.
‘Naturally. Clever Sophie, to produce both a son and daughter.’
‘If I’d really concentrated,
I might have made it triplets, with a spare for the heir.’
Nigel’s mouth twisted. ‘Speaking as one who spent his youth in the uncomfortable position of being a spare, I’m glad you didn’t.’
‘Perhaps our son will want to be a stockman, or take up country dancing professionally.’
‘Can one be a professional country dancer?’
‘I am sure our son will do whatever he sets his mind to,’ said Sophie. ‘And our daughter may love estate management or breed zebras.’
Nigel smiled. ‘Why should they not be both and more? Neither of their parents let their sex or others’ expectations determine who or what they are.’
‘Except for you. Sometimes. But then your road has been far steeper than most.’
‘Nor is there any end in sight. One hears,’ said Nigel carefully, ‘of clubs in Berlin where men dressed as women dance. But I do not think I would care for those.’
‘I should hope not. What will we call our magnificent offspring?’
‘Your choice. Your labour and your choice.’
‘No preferences? Really none?’
Nigel shook his head. ‘As long as neither name occurs in the Vaile family tree.’
Sophie was silent. Nigel kissed her cheek. ‘Well?’
Oh, Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling . . .
‘Has there ever been a Daniel in the Vaile family?’
‘No.’
‘Then Daniel it is.’ Danny Boy, she thought. ‘And for the girl?’
‘Rose.’
Sophie laughed, then stopped when it hurt. ‘I thought I was being allowed to choose the names.’
‘You can.’
‘No. I like it; I like them. Daniel and Rose.’ A Rose for Lily, whose name must not be spoken. And for all the roses who had been there for the Anzac boys, she thought, remembering Harry’s speech during the election campaign. The roses of No Man’s Land, the roses who did not return, the roses who won a war, even if men would never give them the credit.
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