Why can’t I love you? she asked silently. You’ve such a bonny little face and it isn’t your fault that your body’s twisted. I could kill myself for the way I feel. But it was so hard not to equate Belle’s conception with the time everything had started to go wrong.
The child had picked up a worn tablet of Pears soap from the washstand and was holding it up to the light. There must be some intelligence there, thought the woman, for her to do that. The sun pierced the wafer of soap and dappled the exquisite skin with amber lights. God, she’s like an angel, thought Thomasin, even more beautiful than her mother and much prettier than Rosanna. That made her deformity all the more cruel. She pictured Belle as a young woman, imagined the youths who would have flocked to court her had it not been for the grotesque detour in her spine. The thought produced a prickling of tears in her grey eyes, blurring the picture. But was it pity for the child or for herself?
‘Look at the pretty colours, Nan,’ said Belle.
Thomasin stiffened. A shock sliced viciously through her breast. Quickly she dashed the tears from her cheeks and stared at Belle who still held the soap to the window. She opened her mouth, then closed it again. No, the voice must have come from the schoolroom. Nevertheless, ‘Pretty,’ she said tentatively.
Belle turned stunning blue eyes on her and smiled. ‘It’s like those.’ She put out fingers, still sticky from her last barley-sugar, to grasp one of Thomasin’s earrings: amber like the soap.
‘Bugger me,’ breathed the woman and stared, mouth agape, for many seconds before leaping to her feet and dashing from the room, Belle’s head flopping from side to side with the rapid movement. ‘Miss Piggott! Rosie! Nick!’ She burst into the schoolroom. ‘Belle can talk!’ Without waiting for a response she hared back along the landing and was about to fling herself at the stairs when she remembered her mother and went scooting back along the corridor to Hannah’s room, legs tangling with the bouffant turquoise skirts.
‘Thomasin!’ Hannah almost threw the book she had been reading up in the air. ‘I do wish you wouldn’t startle me so!’ She pulled herself forward. ‘Now you’re here you may as well straighten my pillows.’
Thomasin used her free hand to punch and shake the pillows in excitement. ‘Mother, Belle can speak! She’s not an idiot like you said!’
‘Impossible,’ snapped Hannah with a bad-tempered scowl, picked up the book and pretended to read it.
‘Say something for Great-grandma,’ Thomasin urged Belle who remained silent, fixing Hannah with her enormous blue orbs.
Hannah compressed her lips. ‘It’s just as well she can’t speak! I’ve asked you several times not to address me in such a fashion.’
‘But she can! Belle, please.’ Thomasin removed the soap from the child’s grasp and held it in front of her face. ‘Pretty! Say pretty, Belle.’ Belle just smiled and reached for the soap.
‘Thomasin, I have always maintained that the child is mentally defective and see no reason to change my views just because you have taken to hallucinating.’ Hannah put the book directly in front of her face.
Her daughter emitted a small scream of frustration and ran out.
‘Kindly close the door!’ ordered Hannah, but Thomasin was halfway downstairs.
Josie came running out of the kitchen to see what the noise was about. Thomasin had just begun to give her the news when the door opened. ‘Oh, Pat!’ She hurled herself across the hall to meet him. ‘Oh!’
‘Tommy, what is it?’ His concerned eyes took in the flushed face – she looked ten years younger.
But, ‘Oh… !’ was all she could say, her breast rising and falling with exertion and discovery. Moving to the drawing room where she had left Erin she told him, ‘In here!’ An alarmed Josie scuttled after them.
Erin was still reclining in the same position, propping up a lack-lustre face with her palm. Thomasin ordered her husband and Josie to go and stand beside her daughter, then faced all of them, clutching the child. Erin caught the air of electricity and her fingers gripped the arm of the chair. ‘What is it? What’s amiss?’ Thomasin found Belle’s hand and extricated the sliver of soap, holding it to the light. ‘Belle…’ she gave the cue, nodding encouragement to the child whose face had turned grave – she felt the excitement too. ‘Tommy…’ began Patrick doubtfully. ‘Shush, Pat! Belle,’ persevered Thomasin, willing the child to speak with all her might. There was a long, painful silence. Defeated, Thomasin dropped the hand holding the soap and heaved a sigh. ‘I’m sorry, it was idiotic of me…’
‘Bugger me, Nan, give it back now.’ There came a gasp from Erin and her hands flew to her cheeks as Thomasin exclaimed triumphantly, ‘There!’ and rewarded Belle with the remnant of soap, kissing her heartily. Josie donned an attitude of sheer delight. Patrick moved forward, his astonishment plain. Tenderly, he cupped the child’s face in his large rough hands, but could not speak. Belle’s eyes went past his to the woman who sat in stunned paralysis. Erin sat rigid, let her lower lip fall, then covered a crumpled face with her hands and wept.
Chapter Eleven
With the confirmation that Belle was far from being a half-wit the family decided to do everything within its power to enrich her life. The days in the wake of the revelation were crammed with optimism, set-backs, tears and laughter. Though she had undergone a thorough examination by a doctor shortly after birth the recent discovery renewed hope: perhaps there might be some way to ease the enormity of her disablement. Sadly, the physician told them an operation was out of the question. The spine had been pushed too far out of true in the womb and would doubtless appear even more pronounced as the child grew into maturity. His kindly-meant advice, that perhaps with skilfully-tailored clothes the affliction might seem less noticeable, was a dreadful anti-climax after their expectations, but if cosmetic remedies were the only option they would have to suffice.
Thomasin called in her personal dressmaker to seek advice. Having drawn on the woman’s skill to hide her own less than perfect statistics she hoped that Miss Arundale’s expertise could aid her grand-daughter’s predicament. Mere days later a boxful of little dresses arrived and, after tremendous decision on which she should wear first, Belle plumped for the blue one which she said, gazing into the mirror, matched her eyes, and was then taken by her mother to be measured for her first pair of shoes.
The shoemaker told Erin that theirs was not an uncommon request and with great patience chatted to Belle as his tape took precise calculations which resulted, with little waiting, in her first footwear. Made of soft black kid, one shoe was as normal while the other bore a three-inch sole which made Belle giggle when she felt its weight at her first fitting. Today the shoes were finished. Tears came to Erin’s eyes as she watched the delighted child totter around the shop, initially stiff-legged, but then, with kind assistance from the shoemaker, becoming more relaxed in her movements.
‘May I walk home?’ the child begged as Erin helped her towards the cab.
‘But it’s such a long way,’ protested her mother. ‘Ye’ll be worn out.’
‘Oh, please, please!’ She pulled at her mother’s skirts.
‘No, darlin’,’ replied Erin firmly, then touched the infant’s cheek. ‘Sure, I know how excited ye are with your shoes – I am too – but ’twon’t do to get over-ambitious.’
Even Belle’s indignation at being lifted into the carriage went unheeded. To her mother she was still to be babied; a humiliation after the intimations of adulthood that the shoes had brought. Nevertheless Belle did not allow her great day to be entirely spoilt and spent the remainder of it marching through the house, showing off in front of everyone and making herself extremely unpopular with her cousin Rosanna who could not see why everyone was making a fuss over a pair of silly old shoes.
‘I’ll bet she even wears them to bed,’ she complained to Nick, and sure enough her prophecy was realised when the girls were tucked in that same night.
The shoes retained their novelty for at least a week. Belle disported
herself from attic to cellar, rolling perilously from side to side as if just setting foot on dry land after weeks at sea. Not everyone, however, found the sight uplifting. Erin, who had been so eager for Belle to walk, paradoxically viewed her daughter’s mobility with dread.
‘Don’t be such a fusspot,’ Patrick would tell her on seeing the look of alarm flit across her face whenever Belle disappeared from view. ‘Ye’re trying to keep her an invalid an’ she isn’t one.’
‘Father, ye know what kind o’ tricks Rosie an’ Nick get up to. I’ll not have them including her in their madcap pranks. Everyone seems to think that now she can walk she can play the same as they do.’
‘I thought that was the whole idea of the shoes. Given a chance she might be able to play like they do. She’s got to be treated as normally as possible.’
‘Oh, I see. I’m meant to let her break her neck climbing trees and jumping off walls. Faith, she’s the only thing I have left, Dad. Ye must understand my position. I can’t allow her to risk life an’ limb just because she wants to be normal. She’s not normal.’
‘God, poor Sam’d turn in his grave if he could hear ye now.’
The grave that even now Erin hadn’t visited. She still could not face it; seeing his name upon a cold slab of stone.
Patrick shook his head sorrowfully as his daughter stormed out to find Belle. The poor child had just found her feet and Erin was set on knocking them from under her. At least that’s where he and Thomasin agreed; Belle should be treated like any other child – though he doubted from his conversations with Thomasin that her reasons were the same as his.
After parting with her father Erin went first to the schoolroom, thinking Belle might have joined her cousins. There was only Miss Piggott, preparing lessons for the following day.
Erin presented an anxious face. ‘D’ye know where I might find the children, Miss Piggott?’
The governess’s absorption gave way to a smile of greeting. ‘If it is your daughter you are specifically looking for you might try Nicholas’s room; she was playing there when I peeped in some thirty minutes ago.’
Erin turned to leave and the governess scraped back her chair. ‘I’ve been hoping to have a word with you if you could spare five minutes, Mrs Teale.’ She came around her desk and approached Erin, who asked if it was important while flitting nervous glances at the door. ‘Well, yes, rather. It’s about your daughter. I know you are aware that she has lately been in the habit of visiting the schoolroom…’
‘If she’s been a nuisance…’
‘Oh, no. Quite the contrary.’ The governess put a thoughtful hand to her chin. ‘It is quite amazing – I should find it hard to believe if anyone were telling this to me, but Belle has learnt to read and can also write her name and other simple words.’
Erin’s anxiety turned to interest. ‘How long have ye been teaching her, Miss Piggott?’
‘That’s just it, Mrs Teale – I haven’t. She appears to have gleaned this knowledge from the other children.’
‘It’s preposterous!’ A fortnight ago Belle could neither walk nor speak and now…
‘I agree that’s what it sounds like but I assure you it’s perfectly true. Whilst I was pointing out words to Rosanna I noticed Belle watching very closely. I offered no encouragement at the time. It didn’t register itself that she could be making a genuine study. Then, when Nicholas came to my table to read aloud for me, Belle came up close beside him – she had been doing this for some days so I found nothing strange about it – but then I noticed that as he read the words Belle’s mouth would move as if she were reading them with him. Initially I assumed there must be some fluke to her apparent skill, that she had heard Nicholas read the book aloud before and was simply repeating parrot fashion. But no, I stopped Nicholas and asked Belle to read certain words. Mrs Teale, each word I pointed to the child repeated, it was astounding. All this was three days ago. She can now read every word in that book. I have also taken it upon myself to set simple arithmetical exercises which she has performed with ease and, as I stated before, she has also mastered the pen.’
Erin floated back into the room, feeling for a chair, her mind awhirl. ‘But she’s not yet four years old.’ Through the elation she heard Miss Piggott speak again.
‘Although it is rather premature to apply the label of genius, I feel that you have a very gifted child indeed. Her mind is in urgent need of stimulation if it is to realise its full potential.’
Since Sam’s death Erin seemed to others – herself too – to have been waiting for something. She had never understood the feeling until now. Now she felt as though someone had lifted the lid of her coffin. There was purpose to her life. Her brain fizzed with exhilaration. There were plans to be made. It had always been her dream as a young girl to be a governess like Miss Piggott, but Father hadn’t believed in wasting his money on educating a daughter. Denied this wish she had sworn that should she have a daughter of her own that child would have the chance that her mother had missed. Of course, when Belle was assumed to be backward those hopes had been set aside, but now they could be fulfilled. She jumped to her feet. ‘Miss Piggott, would ye be willing to educate my daughter with the others?’
‘Why, of course. Such a prospect would be a pleasure.’
Erin thanked her perfunctorily and whizzed off to resume her search. Finding Belle was more pressing than ever now. An investigation of Nick’s room turned up only Belle’s rag doll. Impatiently Erin barged from room to room before travelling right up to the maid’s attic. Abigail swung round guiltily as her door was flung open, the periodical falling from her lap. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs Teale, I just came up for…’
‘I’m not here to tick you off, Abigail.’ Erin showed unconcern at the magazine. ‘I just want to know if ye’ve seen the children.’
‘They were down in the kitchen plaguin’ Cook summat awful when I came up,’ answered the maid, reaching for a clean apron whilst trying to shove the magazine out of view. When Erin reversed her tracks Abigail followed her down the stairs. ‘I were ever so glad to hear the news that Miss Belle can talk, ma’am. I’ll bet you were cock-a-hoop, weren’t you?’
‘I was, Abi.’ Erin’s rapid leg movement devoured the stairs. ‘But there’s some even better news now. Miss Piggott’s just told me that Belle’s very clever. She’s going to give her lessons with the others.’
‘Oh, that’s wonderful, Mrs Teale! I’m ever so glad. I think a lot o’ Miss Belle.’ Erin smiled in recognition of the fact as she rustled over the tiled hall and took the steps that led to the kitchen, Abigail still tailing her. When they descended, however, there was only Cook to greet them. It seemed that Rosie and Belle had been there, but Mrs Howgego had sent them packing.
‘Miss Belle’s off to take lessons with the other children,’ Abigail announced to Cook. ‘Isn’t that lovely?’
‘Oh, my word, things are moving fast!’ Cook had never been so surprised as when that child came out with a string of perfectly-composed sentences. Of course, Abigail had been puffing up her chest and rubbing it in about all the things Mrs Howgego had said about Belle in the past, the clever little cat. ‘I were only saying the other day what a chatterbox she’s become all of a sudden. Has she…’
‘Forgive me, Mrs Howgego,’ Erin sliced in impatiently, ‘I really must find my daughter. D’ye happen to know where she and Rosie went?’
‘As far as I know they went off to the master’s library – they went upstairs anyway.’
Erin was off as if carried by a tornado.
‘Eh, she still gets in a flap if she can’t find that bairn, doesn’t she?’ observed Cook, resuming her pounding. ‘She’ll be wearing her clothes out from the inside if she isn’t careful.’
Erin knocked on the library door in case her father was in. He wasn’t – neither were the children. The habitual anxiety began to chew at her. With each empty room she became increasingly alarmed. Apart from the garden there was only the drawing room left to investigate.
Erin’s ears were alert for the sound of childish laughter as she stepped onto the terrace, but all was quiet save for the birdsong and the steady drone from the beehive in the neighbouring garden. Fear settled over her stomach like a mantle of ice. She scanned the whispering borders of lupin, pink daisies, larkspur, all serene, then set off along the outer path of the lawn, running under pergolas of rose and clematis, dipping into every cypress-shaded nook, calling, calling, ‘Belle! If ye don’t come out now you’re for it!’ Panting, she finally reached the bottom of the garden and stopped, swivelling her head in desperation. ‘Belle! Belle!’
Suddenly, her eyes focused on a dome-shaped construction secreted beneath the dark canopy of a group of trees and her heart jerked. ‘Oh, Jesus!’ She clamped a hand over her mouth and began to walk slowly towards the brick-built igloo.
Erin’s Child Page 18