Consequences

by Nancy Carson

  ‘Our Harriet,’ she breathed, wiping away a tear. ‘What’s happened to you?’ Harriet slept on, oblivious to this loving attention from her mother, attention which in itself was unusual and out of character. ‘Why did you have to rush into having a child so soon? You’ve seen no married life. Why couldn’t you have left it another year or two?’ She sniffed and a tear fell on the sheet as she leaned towards her.

  Meanwhile, downstairs, Mrs Hopkins attempted to feed the baby again. Clarence left her to it and went to sit alone in his opulent new drawing room that now seemed so irrelevant. He pondered his marriage, doubting whether he could ever put Harriet through such suffering again. Then Mary Meese appeared with a tea tray, and handed him a cup of tea.

  ‘What time shall you go home, Mrs Meese?’ Clarence enquired.

  ‘Oh, I shan’t go home, Clarence. Not till I can see our Harriet’s getting better. I take it you’ve got a bed as I can sleep in?’

  ‘I’ll make sure there’s one made up for you.’

  ‘Now, when you’ve finished your tea, young Clarence, why don’t you go upstairs and see if you can get Harriet to take a drink of water or lemonade?’

  ‘I think I will, Mrs Meese. Good idea.’

  ‘Spend some time with her. Talk to her, eh? She’d like that. Even though she might be asleep, she’ll very likely hear what you say.’

  In the bedroom Clarence tried to gently rouse Harriet. Eventually she opened her eyes and looked about her.

  ‘Clarence,’ she uttered, her voice weak.

  ‘My darling…How do you feel now?’

  ‘Tired…So tired.’ Her eyes closed again, overwhelmed by the urge to sleep, but she tried to fight it.

  ‘I want you to try and drink some of this.’ He reached for the glass that was on the washstand. ‘Here…’ He helped raise her head so she could take a sip or two. ‘That’s good. A drop more in a little while, eh?’

  ‘What time is it, Clarence?’

  ‘It’s getting close to twelve o’clock. Your mother’s here. Did you know?’

  ‘I had no idea. How long has she been here?’

  ‘About an hour. I fetched her. I thought I should. I expect the rest of the Meese platoon will be here this evening to see you and the baby.’

  Harriet smiled. ‘How is the baby? I haven’t held him at all. I haven’t even seen him yet.’

  ‘All in good time,’ Clarence replied tenderly and took her hand. ‘George is doing fine,’ he tried to reassure her. ‘Father arranged for a wet nurse. A Mrs Hopkins – a decent young woman. She’s here to help and to feed the baby. He’s being well-looked-after, so there’s no need to worry. Just rest and get better…’

  Harriet drifted off to sleep again. At once, Clarence’s eyes filled with tears, which he brushed away with the back of his hand. Her pulse was clearly visible at the soft part of her throat, beating fast, trying to compensate for the extremely low blood pressure. He could see that she was fighting the urge to drift into unconsciousness also, fighting the weakening effects of losing so much blood.

  * * *

  Harriet passed away peacefully that afternoon, while Clarence sat staring at her, full of hope for her speedy recovery so they could get on with their lives that had held so much promise. Motes of dust played in the diffused beams of sunlight that entered the room obliquely through intricate and expensive net curtains in that July afternoon. He watched as one of those indistinct shafts of sunlight moved slowly across the pale, slender fingers of her left hand, causing her gold wedding ring to glisten.

  Despite the heroic efforts of Mrs Hackett and his father, Harriet was destined for a cold, dank grave. As the end approached, he held her hand, and she had opened her lacklustre eyes and tried to smile at him through cold, parched lips. He felt her squeeze his hand, but feebly, as she’d mouthed the words ‘I love you’. With tears in his eyes, he gripped her hand tightly as if he could stop her going, as if he could prevent her from leaving this imperfect world, which they were so intent on making perfect. Well, now she was gone. Harriet. Twenty-three years old. A priceless girl. A saint. A friend to everybody.

  His father was right, had always been right; there was no God. How could there be? A good, benevolent God, if such a being existed, would never take one so young, one so full of vitality, one so good, so loyal, so unselfish, and a devout follower of the faith.

  With misted eyes he looked around him. On the mantelpiece, over the fireplace, stood a clock alongside two oil lamps that had afforded the only illumination by which Dr Froggatt, uncomplaining, had worked so hard to try and save her. In front of the hearth lay her slippers, where she had left them. She had been padding about in them as she got ready for bed, having sought them especially and unpacked them after the move. Everything had happened so quickly, it now seemed, and she had had no time whatsoever to get used to their fine new house, no time to enjoy it, no time to show it off to her family and friends. In so short a time she had lived, certain of the security and comfort of her future…and died.

  In the corner of the room was a washstand with a bowl and ewer for Mrs Hackett and Sadie to use to wash their hands. Close to it a towel hung, and a feeding bottle in case they could not find a wet nurse to feed the baby. Next to that was the jug of lemonade, a glass half consumed. On the brand new dressing table lay Harriet’s gold necklace, gold bracelet and a pair of gold earrings – gifts he had bought her as soon as the inheritance from his late Uncle Septimus had appeared.

  Clarence gazed in numbness and disbelief at Harriet. Death had removed the hideous furrows of pain, suffering and fatigue that had lined her face in her agony. Her mousy hair remained abundant and unruly in death as it had in life, wayward curls caressing that pale, plain face. Plain it might have been, but it was a face always so full of expression, now devoid of any, save for one of peace. Yet he could still imagine that at any moment she might actually open her eyes again and smile that crooked smile of hers, just for him.

  Clarence sighed, feeling entirely guilty that he had led his poor wife to the supreme sacrifice in bearing his child. A tear rolled down his cheek and dripped onto the counterpane that covered her.

  Harriet.

  Young, sparkling Harriet, never fazed, never afraid, always keen to help rather than hinder.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Harriet, my darling,’ he whispered in his anguish as he stroked her hand. ‘I’m so sorry, my poor, poor love. We had so much to live for, and you have benefitted not one jot from our good fortune. You deserved more…so much more.’ Helpless, he let go of her hand. ‘Goodbye, Harriet, my darling…Goodbye…’ He leaned over and placed a kiss on her cold cheek, then on her lips. He stood up and pulled the counterpane gently over her head.

  He dried his eyes, hesitating, thinking what best to do next. Draw the curtains. Shut out that intrusive summer sunlight. That he did. Then, quietly, slowly he went downstairs, straight to where Mrs Hopkins had the child at her breast.

  ‘He’s feeding, Mr Froggatt,’ she said with a smile of triumph on her round face. ‘He’s sucking away like mad, look. He’s hungry. I think we’ll rear him yet.’

  Clarence smiled. ‘Thank goodness.’ It was some good news amidst his sadness.

  ‘How’s Mrs Froggatt? Is she feeling a bit better?’

  ‘My wife passed away, Mrs Hopkins – about twenty minutes ago.’

  ‘Oh no. I’m so sorry, Mr Froggatt.’

  ‘Thank you. It’s very sad,’ he said inadequately, not knowing how else to respond. ‘I’d better go into the drawing room and let Mrs Meese know.’

  * * *

  Chapter 28

  In her new home, Aurelia sat at the table under the sash window that looked out over the dismal backyard onto the brewhouse. Before her was a writing pad, a small bottle of ink and an envelope, the colour and texture of which matched the writing pad, bought among other things with the money Marigold had given her. Sitting adjacent to her was little Benjie, with two cushions beneath him to raise him sufficiently at the table. He was
busy with the wax crayons and paper his mother had provided; what toys he possessed were still at Holly Hall House. Upstairs, in her cot, lay Christina, mercifully asleep, so not clamouring for attention just yet.

  Aurelia had been pondering this new life she’d had to adopt, that she must adapt to, realising just how materially different it was to the life she was used to. She could cook, of course, but cooking had not been relevant during her brief career as wife to Benjamin Sampson. Now she had to prepare their own meals, but also had to watch every penny she spent on food. As she cleaned the cast iron grate with blacklead, she was reminded that hitherto she’d had no need to clean anything, because a maid always did the cleaning for her. Well, now she had no maid, nor was she ever likely to be able to afford one. Neither did she relish having to carry kettles full of hot water from the grate into the brewhouse so she could wash dishes in the stone sink, then have to dry them afterwards. Then there was washing day; she and her next-door neighbour, Florrie Cole, had agreed on which day she should do her washing in the shared brewhouse – a Tuesday – and she received permission too, to use Mrs Cole’s mangle and maiding tub.

  Come that first washing day, she perspired abundantly. Not only was it a hot July day, but the heat created by the fire that glowed beneath the copper boiler made it worse. To fire the boiler she’d had to lug coal up from her cellar in a metal bucket. Maiding clothes over a tub of steaming hot soapy water was strenuous work. She was not used to the humid heat, all this vigorous activity, or the exertion of turning the mangle’s cast iron wheel. Mangling invariably generated another problem, too; the pressure of the wooden rollers, which squeezed out the excess water from the clothes, often crushed buttons, creating the need for a sewing session later.

  So as not to impose too much on Mrs Cole’s generosity, Aurelia decided to buy a clothes line and long wooden line prop to dry the washing on her own side of the backyard. Carrying it through Brierley Hill’s High Street back to Talbot Street made her feel conspicuously working class. She also needed a pair of smoothing irons to flatten out the obstinate creases, which so inconsiderately presented themselves in garments that she had allowed to get too dry.

  Aurelia had quickly come to understand that there was no point in wearing the expensive shoes and finery she had been accustomed to. That became obvious when she found it necessary to shovel the heap of shining black rocks into the cellar that the coal merchant tipped on the pavement outside. Descending into the same cellar’s dark, damp and dusty depths, with only a candle to light her way, in order to fill a bucket of the stuff for the fire, offered the potential to devastate decent clothes.

  It was hitting Aurelia hard what a privileged, leisurely existence she had enjoyed before; a social advantage, which she had taken for granted. If only she could afford a maid now. The term ‘fallen woman’ began to take on hitherto unanticipated implications.

  On this particular day, by the light of the summer sun streaming through the window, Aurelia rattled the end of her pen between her top and bottom teeth, seeking inspiration. How should she word the letter she was intent on writing to Clarence Froggatt, offering her very sincere condolences on his sad loss? Sending a note of sympathy was the least she could do, for she certainly bore him no grudge. Having heard the disquieting news of Harriet’s death from a tearful Emily Meese made her feel enormously sorry for him.

  Just as she thought she had concocted a suitable sentence with which to open her letter, she heard footsteps echoing through the entry, and Benjamin emerged into the sunshine of the yard. Curious, she got up to let him in, but was apprehensive also as to what he might want. She waited for his knock before opening the door.

  ‘Hello, Benjamin,’ she greeted, warily but with a half-smile. ‘Come in.’

  He entered, his eyes scanning the tiny parlour of the humble house in which she and her children now dwelt.

  ‘So, how do you like your new abode?’

  ‘It’s a roof over our heads,’ she replied evenly.

  ‘Marginally better than the workhouse, I suppose.’

  She did not appreciate his insinuation. ‘What do you want, Benjamin? I am rather busy.’

  ‘Writing, I see.’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied with an edge of petulance in her voice. She glanced down at the letter she had just begun. ‘To Clarence Froggatt, offering my condolences. I suppose you heard about poor Harriet?’

  ‘No. What about Harriet?’

  ‘She passed away. On Sunday.’

  ‘My God.’ He was visibly shocked. ‘I had no idea. How? What happened?’

  ‘You must have known she was pregnant. Well, she had her baby – on Saturday, I believe – a boy. She had a horrible time of it – both did, apparently – a breeched birth with added complications. They didn’t expect the baby to survive either, but he has, thankfully.’

  ‘Poor Clarence,’ Benjamin agreed. ‘I sympathise with the poor chap. I got the impression he thought a lot of Harriet.’

  ‘Yes, I believe he did. And no wonder. She was a lovely person – warm, very affable, funny too. I liked her a lot. It’s so sad. A tragedy, it really is…’

  ‘Shall you go to the funeral?’

  ‘I think I ought. I became quite friendly with Harriet…Anyway, while you’re here, I suppose I ought to offer you a cup of tea.’

  ‘Save yourself the bother,’ he replied stiffly. ‘As a matter of fact…’ He paused. ‘As a matter of fact, I’ve come to collect Benjie.’

  She looked at him horrified. Was this at last the moment she’d been dreading for so long? ‘What do you mean, you’ve come to collect Benjie?’

  He pulled an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket, handed it over with great self-possession and smugness. ‘Our divorce,’ he said sanctimoniously, nodding his head towards the missive. ‘That’s notification of the decree absolute. It’s for you. We are no longer married, my dear, you and me. If you recall, I was awarded custody of our son. So I’m here to collect him.’

  She turned and placed her hands on the child’s shoulders, protectively, while he looked up at his mother from his seat with wide-eyed infant anxiety.

  ‘You want to take him now?’ she asked, as if he had the cheek of the devil. ‘We’re hardly ready. A few days’ notice wouldn’t have come amiss.’

  ‘Aurelia,’ he said impatiently, ‘it surely can’t be that difficult to gather together what clothes he has, and whatever else he needs, and put it all in a bag.’

  ‘What about his toys?’

  ‘There can’t be that many here, surely. Most are still at home.’

  ‘Is that where you’re taking him? Your house? Not to Maude’s?’

  ‘I’m taking him to my house. That’s his home. That’s where he’ll live. Did you think I was going to take him to Maude’s? It’s no better than this…’ He was about to say hole, but thought better of it. ‘He’ll be very well-looked-after, rest assured.’

  ‘I presume Maude will be looking after him when you are at business.’

  ‘Maybe, but not necessarily. I already employ a nanny, if you recall.’

  ‘Joyce Till? I thought you might have got rid of her, since you’d planned to make an honest woman of Maude,’ she remarked cuttingly. She was fishing for information, since his liaison with Kate Stokes was still worrying where her son was concerned.

  ‘Why would I dispose of her? I shall need her.’

  In some ways Aurelia was reassured. With a deep sigh, she picked up Benjie and hugged him to her. ‘Daddy’s taking you back to his house, my pet. I’d better get your things ready to take with you. I’ll come and see you at the end of the week, and perhaps bring you here to see Christina.’

  ‘I don’t recall having agreed to any formal arrangements for access,’ Benjamin interjected.

  ‘I was not aware that a formal arrangement had to be made,’ Aurelia replied, still hugging her son. ‘I thought access is something we agree to between ourselves. I’m the child’s mother.’

  ‘Then go and see
your solicitor.’

  ‘If you aspire to being a true gentleman as well as a responsible father, you can hardly deny me the opportunity of seeing my son on a regular basis, without the need for a solicitor’s help.’

  ‘My dear, that I can.’

  ‘But you have no valid reason.’

  ‘If that’s how you see it, then you’re sadly mistaken. Of course I can deny you access. You’re a fallen woman, Aurelia. You have no viable claim on my son.’

  ‘He’s my son too,’ she protested tearfully. ‘He’s more my son than yours.’

  ‘How on earth do you work that out?’

  ‘Because I gave birth to him.’ With the back of her hand she smeared tears that were rolling down her cheeks. She tried to get a grip on her emotions, took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. ‘Benjamin,’ she declared, ‘I so look forward to the day when you are regarded as a fallen man, when the world can see you for the vindictive hypocrite you truly are, as somebody who lacks the guts to acknowledge the part you played in our broken marriage.’

  ‘For goodness sake,’ he retorted touchily. ‘Let’s not go over that nonsense again. The fact is, a court of law – you were there – awarded custody of our son fairly and squarely to me. Now, if you wish to appeal against that decision, I suggest you visit your solicitor and commence legal proceedings to reverse it. But you know, and I know, that not only can you not afford it, but you could not bear the humiliation of your shameless wantonness being dragged through the court and aired in all the newspapers all over again.’