Obsession

by Claire Lorrimer

  Harriet caught her breath as for the first time she found herself questioning whether there might be a way she could keep the baby with Brook’s approval. The mother was well born, his father not an aristocrat but from a respectable family, so his parentage was no stumbling block which an unknown orphan’s might have been. Could she keep the baby? She and Brook had so longed for the children as yet denied them. Here in this house with Una’s large brood of delightful sons and daughters – the sound of their laughter, their affection, their bright little faces – had made her even more aware of her losses, her deprivation.

  When later that evening, Nanny handed the baby to her to nurse after his feed, her heart contracted. So many times in the past had she longed excitedly to be able to hold her coming baby in her arms, only to suffer yet another miscarriage! Suppose she was never able to have a child, as the doctor had warned might be a possibility? Her own mother had died at her birth: could she have passed on to her a physical defect unknown to the medical profession? Why should she, Harriet, not be able to carry a baby full term when Una had six healthy children and, according to Nanny, was possibly carrying another? Could she bear to remain childless all her life? How would Brook feel if he knew there was never going to be a son?

  It was only after she was in bed, the glow of the fire softly lighting her room, that Harriet allowed herself to consider whether this baby, thrust unasked upon her, could possibly compensate for the son he might never otherwise have: the son who, when he was older, Brook could teach to share all the manly pursuits he so enjoyed …

  Try as she did, Harriet could not find freedom from such thoughts in sleep. Wide-eyed, she began to think of some of the kindly Sister Brigitte’s beliefs – not least that ‘God sometimes worked in mysterious ways’; that the way He chose to compensate the distressed was not always obvious. Was it conceivable, she now asked herself, that after her most recent miscarriage, God had decided to send this baby to her, not just to improve matters for the stricken mother but for her sake as well?

  Realizing unhappily that this was simply wishful thinking, Harriet tried once more to make a solemn promise to herself that she would confess the truth to Nanny the following morning before Una returned and was allowed to believe the lie that the baby was hers. Another long hour passed before Harriet realized that no lies were necessary: that simply by saying nothing to anyone, Una, too, would assume the infant was hers just as Nanny and the children had done. Had she not miscarried at the convent, her own baby would be almost the same age as this one. Nor need she tell Brook the truth. If she kept silent, she would be the only person to know. His real mother, the widowed Mrs Lawson, knew only her Christian name, Harriet, and that she was English. The very last thing the woman would want, with all her problems, would be to have her unwanted baby returned to her. She had said that if Harriet did not want him, he must be left in the care of an orphanage. Therefore, there was no need for her to lie to anyone, Brook least of all, she told herself, her heart beating furiously. She had only to remain silent to be able to keep the baby she had been given: the baby who she had started to love as if he had been her own. She need not ever tell another soul.

  She was woken next morning by soft voices whispering, ‘Nanny said we mustn’t wake her …’

  ‘She must be asleep, her eyes are shut!’

  ‘I’m going to look. I think she’s in there …’

  Little fingers gently lifted one of her eyelids, which caused her to open both eyes and smile.

  The three youngest instantly clambered up on top of the eiderdown vying with one another to sit next to her. The eldest girl, Constance, was drawing back the curtains to reveal a brilliant, sunny morning.

  ‘Jack Frost came in the night,’ Cedric informed her. ‘Everything is white like snow. Will you stay with us for Christmas?’

  ‘Nanny said she only had to get up twice in the night to feed your baby,’ announced Caragh. ‘She said he was very good for such a young baby.’

  ‘As I’m the oldest,’ Constance said, ‘please may I be the one to show him to Mama?’

  ‘And I’m the oldest boy,’ announced red-haired Cedric, ‘so can I show him to Papa?’

  These nephews and nieces of hers were delightful, Harriet thought, wishing that Una and her family did not live so far away in Ireland. Brook would enjoy their company, and by all accounts, Una’s husband, Patrick, was an even keener horseman than Brook himself.

  Una’s maid helped her dress in one of Una’s pretty day gowns, after which she went downstairs. The postman had arrived, the butler answered her query, but there was no letter from Brook forwarded from Hunters Hall. She had half expected there might have been one waiting for her. He had promised to write as often as possible, but it was now sixteen weeks since she had received his unhappy letter informing her he must remain much longer in Jamaica than expected.

  There being no further word from him, when Una and her husband returned home, at her sister’s request, Harriet agreed to stay on in Ireland much longer than she had originally intended. Not only did she have no wish to return to an empty house, even though she would have the baby with her but, here in Dublin, her much-loved childhood nanny was giving him the very best care he could receive.

  Una, having heard Harriet’s account of Bessie’s disappearance, now promised she would ask her housekeeper to recommend a capable Irish girl to return home with Harriet when she left, to act as her maid and nanny to the baby. Irish girls were not only hard working, she assured her, but of cheerful character, loving to sing as they went about their work, and especially good with children, most of them having been raised in very large families where the eldest took care of the younger ones.

  Una made a big fuss both of Harriet and the baby. Acting as if she were Harriet’s mother, she insisted that she had plenty of rest and good food. Her husband, Sir Patrick Morton, was a delightful man in his forties, devoted to his wife and always joking with his large brood of children. It was small wonder, Harriet thought, that the children were so happy and loving towards one another. She would miss them all dreadfully when the time came for her to leave.

  Last thing at night, when she said her prayers, she thanked God for sending her the baby now called Charlie by all the family. He had begun very occasionally to smile and the children insisted that he was really listening when they sang songs to him or when Nanny brought him downstairs to listen to Una playing the pianoforte.

  ‘He is going to be musically inclined like our mother was,’ Una said, leaving Harriet momentarily guilty that she had deceived this loving sister who knew nothing of the baby’s musically talented father and was doing everything she could to make her visit a happy one. By now, she was totally enraptured with him – as much as if he had been her own child, Harriet thought.

  Christmas was a particularly jolly time. Carols were sung and a fir tree brought indoors – a custom initiated by the late Prince Albert. It was lit with tiny white wax candles in little tin holders. Presents were made, wrapped, and then unwrapped on Christmas morning on their return from a jubilant service in the nearby beautifully decorated church. On Boxing Day, the local hunt gathered in the driveway, stirrup cup was passed up to the huntsmen, and Harriet stood with Una and the children cheering as the huntmaster set off down the drive with the hounds barking and jostling one another around him.

  The following day the staff were given a whole day off after breakfast, having left an elaborate cold luncheon ready in the dining room for the family. Only Nanny opted to remain at home, partly on account of her age and rheumatism, but also because she did not want to leave the baby in Harriet’s inexperienced care. The most time she was prepared to concede was in the afternoons when Harriet took the baby from her, leaving the old woman free to go to her room for what she called ‘forty winks’, which usually took two hours. On such occasions, by the time Una and the children had taken it in turns to nurse the baby, Harriet had to plead to have him for a little time herself.

  On New Year’s E
ve there was a huge reception for their friends and neighbours. A banquet was prepared by Cook and her minions, and the outdoor staff decorated the house with yew and fir tree branches to which the children attached brightly coloured ribbons. Una lent Harriet one of her ball gowns and, Harriet’s health now fully restored, she looked so pretty that Sir Patrick remarked teasingly that if Brook did not come home soon, his wife would be stolen by one of her many admirers at the party.

  Wonderful although this Christmas had been, however, it had only made Harriet long more deeply for Brook’s return, and as if in answer to her prayers, on the first day of the new year, she finally received a letter from him. He could not give her a date, he wrote, but he was now confident he would be able to leave Jamaica within a matter of weeks.

  ‘I must go home at once, Una, dearest,’ Harriet told her sister. ‘Much as I have loved every moment of my stay here with you and your lovely family, I must be at home to welcome Brook.’

  Una put her arm around her and kissed her. ‘My darling sister,’ she said, ‘by the look on your face, I don’t doubt that you would be every bit as disappointed as Brook were you not home to greet him!’

  Three weeks later, the children with Nanny all waving from the nursery windows, and Una and her husband waving from the front doorway, the flurries of snow covering the house and grounds, Harriet climbed into the family coach. Beside her sat her new maid, Maire, while the baby was in her arms. Both were well wrapped up against the cold, on the start of the journey home. Only two thoughts were in Harriet’s mind as they drove through the gates out on to the road – seeing Brook again, and how he might react when he saw little Charlie.

  As the horses trotted smartly though the streets towards the port, she prayed the day would never come when he would doubt that the baby she had grown to love as her own was not after all his son.

  EIGHT

  1866

  Brook had endured a difficult six months trying to settle the smooth running of his family’s estates in Jamaica. The freedom of the slaves was supposed to bring peace on the island, but instead it seemed to ferment discontent. The unrest amongst the native Jamaican population throughout the island had culminated in a riot in Morant Bay last October. Thankfully Brook’s workers were not involved in the rebellion, as the Edgerton family were considered fair employers.

  However, the political repercussions were unforeseen. The Jamaican Assembly voted away its independence and constitution and the island was declared a Crown Colony. Brook was called as a witness to the Royal Commission when Eyre, the Jamaican governor, was recalled to England for incompetence, and Brook and Hastings returned to England in the same ship.

  Although thankful to be home at last and free of the cramped life on board ship, he was bitterly disappointed not to find his beloved wife there to welcome him home. Following Hastings upstairs to his dressing room, he was now regretting that he had not sent advice ahead of him from Kingston that he would be home within two weeks. Not only had he discovered that Harriet was in Ireland with her sister, but the house was unprepared for his return, the furniture still covered in dust sheets and the fires in the bedrooms and living rooms unlit.

  It now became a hive of activity, but although Hastings was doing his best to encourage the fire one of the maids had lit in Brook’s dressing room it was bitterly cold, particularly, Brook remarked, after Jamaica where the temperature was seldom below seventy degrees.

  He did not, however, wish himself back on that troubled island. He appreciated the fact that it had proved very necessary for him to go there, but not for so long a time. As his valet went to his wardrobe to find fresh clothes for him to wear, he said, ‘You know, Hastings, I had dreamt of this reunion with my wife every night of the voyage home. Of course I cannot blame her for not being here, but I do very much hope it will not be long now before she is back. I expect you are waiting to see young Bessie, too.’

  He knew that Hastings and Bessie had an understanding – that when Hastings returned from abroad they would become officially engaged. Before he’d accompanied Brook to Jamaica they had spent all their time together whenever their half days off coincided.

  He took his watch out of his waistcoat pocket. Had it not already been dark on this cold February day, in Harriet’s absence he might have ridden over to see his father who he knew would be agog to hear all the news of the plantations and their new manager; or Paul Denning and his sister, who would have been delighted to see him whatever the hour, they being less conventional than their neighbouring families who would have expected him to announce his intention of calling beforehand.

  Paul Denning was a generous host with a cellar of excellent wines, and a French chef who produced exceptionally good food. When Paul was not in London, where he spent a great deal of his time, Brook found him jolly company – refreshingly outspoken and forthright, with a fund of slightly risqué jokes which he kept strictly from the ladies’ ears.

  Perhaps he would visit Paul and his sister tomorrow, he told himself as Hastings helped him out of the large tin bath in which he had been soaking himself in the deliciously hot water – something that had been denied him throughout the two-week journey home. Denning’s sister, the widowed Mrs Felicity Goodall, was as good company as her brother. She was quick with her laughter and repartee, and openly flirtatious with men of whatever age. That particular trait was criticised by the wives, who amongst themselves considered her fast. He and Harriet, however, liked both her and her brother, finding their friendliness and lack of formality enjoyable after the strict adherence to convention of their other neighbours.

  That Felicity Goodall was openly flirtatious with Brook had never annoyed or disturbed Harriet, who delighted in the older woman’s comments about her good fortune in having such a devastatingly handsome husband; nor had it worried her when they joked that if Harriet hadn’t ‘snapped him up’, the young widow, Mrs Goodall, would not have hesitated to do so. Instead, Felicity had become one of Harriet’s few close friends, frequently riding out with her in the environs of their homes, or calling on a rainy afternoon to play whist or backgammon whilst he, Brook, worked on his estate papers or visited his father to discuss the troubles with the plantations.

  Brook also had reason to be grateful to Felicity for being particularly sympathetic each time his darling Harriet had miscarried, jollying her out of her inevitable depression with amusing descriptions – not always kindly – about her straight-laced neighbours’ activities. Widowed and childless as Felicity was, she always had time on her hands and, an excellent horsewoman, she never missed a day’s hunting. She was taller than the average woman and full figured, and when mounted, Brook had once laughingly told Harriet, she tended to look like the carved figurehead on a Viking ship as she sailed ahead of him over even the highest hedges despite her more precarious side-saddle.

  On one such occasion, one of Brook’s male friends had remarked confidentially that were he not married, he would have been tempted to see if the iconic widow would respond to a discreet ‘little flutter’, as he put it.

  Now, however, Brook gave Paul Denning and his sister no more than a passing thought. First thing next morning, he told Hastings, he would ride over to see his father, hoping that perhaps Harriet had written to him to say when she planned to return home.

  The following morning, after a hearty breakfast such as he had never been able to enjoy abroad, he rode over to Firlbury to see Sir Walter. The old man was sitting in his favourite armchair in front of a blazing fire, his leg propped up on a footstool. The doctor had told him that in future he should drink less wine, whisky and brandy if he wanted to stay clear of these painful attacks of gout, but despite the warning, he had a decanter of sherry on the table beside him.

  Disappointingly for Brook, neither had his father any word from Harriet, so having brought Sir Walter up to date with the situation in Jamaica, and eaten a delicious game pie for luncheon, Brook returned to Hunters Hall. It was growing dark as he rode up the drive. The trees on
either side, their branches bare of leaves, looked ghostly in the darkening twilight as he hastened towards the house. Lights were shining from nearly all the windows, including those in the top-floor nursery wing, and the lovely old house looked wonderfully welcoming. As he drew nearer, Brook’s heart jolted, the thought striking him suddenly that, just possibly, so many lights were lit because Harriet had arrived home.

  Spurring his horse up to the front steps, he dismounted, and Fletcher, his usual formal countenance wreathed in smiles, opened the big oak door.

  Brook handed his horse’s reins to the groom who had appeared from the stables, and his heart pounded with excitement as Fletcher informed him: ‘The mistress is home, sir! I told madam you’d said you would be back before nightfall, and she is waiting in the drawing room for you.’

  Harriet was home! In a few minutes, he would see her, hold her in his arms, feel her soft body melting against his! His hunger for her was such that his legs were trembling as he bounded up the stone steps, threw his hat, gloves and whip on to the hall chest and divested himself of his coat, which he thrust at Fletcher. Pushing past the footman who was opening the drawing room door, he hurried into the room.

  Harriet had arrived home early that afternoon. It had been quite late when the ferry from Dublin had docked and she had spent the previous night with Maire and the baby in the Adelphi Hotel in Liverpool, and had boarded the first train to Leicester knowing that it would be so much quicker by rail than by coach. On reaching home soon after luncheon, she was told by Fletcher that Brook had already returned from Jamaica and had ridden over to see his father. This had given her time to see Maire settled in the nursery quarters with one of the maids to assist her before Brook’s return. She had then enjoyed a welcome bath and change of clothes. Mrs Fraser, the housekeeper, on learning of Bessie’s disappearance after the attack upon them, was to act as her personal maid until a suitable replacement could be found.