A Dream Rides By

  ‘Not surprising with that blizzard,’ Elliott said.

  ‘What a night!’ Farmer Hilson replied.

  ‘Two nights.’

  ‘What! You’m been stuck in that there train since Monday?’

  ‘And we’ve three other ladies on board.’

  ‘Well, ’tis lucky my farm be not too far away. You must all come home to me. Accounted for all the sheep, I has, though I reckon there’ll be plenty of other farmers who cas’n. So let’s get they other womenfolk off the train.’

  He led the way back to the carriage. Ling’s legs were unsteady, and a grateful wave of pleasure rushed through her as Elliott took her arm. Did he know how she felt? Her admiration for his intelligence and worldliness rekindled, and now strengthened with the desires and yearnings of adulthood? Did he feel the same, or would he be horrified to know how she was drawn – nay, confused – by his masculinity when she was married to another man? But what did it matter? It was too late. She had been betrayed long ago, and this interlude would soon, must soon, be forgotten.

  ‘Careful now, miss,’ Sergeant Watts warned, but, with the help of the men, Fanny climbed down safely from the carriage. It was only when they turned back to assist Mrs Watts that Fanny suddenly hunched her shoulders over her jutting abdomen and released a squeal of pain.

  Ling’s heart contracted. ‘Elliott!’ she breathed as Fanny turned her wide, cornflower blue eyes on her.

  Elliott was instantly at her side. ‘Now there, Fanny,’ he said, so calmly that Ling at once felt the salve soothing her apprehension. ‘Lean on me and breathe slowly and deeply. Like this. Breathe with me.’

  Fanny seemed instantly relaxed, and Ling felt that terrible pang of emptiness. If only she’d had Elliott to deliver her first stillborn child. If only she’d had some medical help, but there had been no time to fetch a doctor, the prison surgeon only arriving when it was all over. At least Barney had been right in wanting to get Fanny somewhere where care was available, even if it was within the austere and loveless walls of the workhouse. But, if only . . .

  ‘There. It’s easing off now,’ Elliott announced as his palm rested on Fanny’s stomach. ‘That’s your first contraction. It means your baby’s on the way. So the sooner we get to this farmhouse the better.’

  They made a motley band, lurching through the deep snow. Tired, numb with cold, almost beyond hunger. Sergeant Watts was virtually carrying his wife, who had collapsed from exhaustion, and Private Hancock came to his assistance. Samuel Palk managed to chivvy along Mrs Huggins, who had become oddly quiet, and young Edward Worth was moaning loudly about dereliction of duty at having to abandon his mailbags.

  Fanny struggled on, supported on one side by Elliott and on the other by Ling, who refused to leave her sister’s side despite Farmer Hilson’s attempts to take her place. Oh, thank God Elliott was there! And the last Ling saw as they turned their backs on the train was the adjoining compartment, which had not had its cracks and crevices stuffed with handkerchiefs and paper. It was so strange, uncanny, for the seats were almost indistinguishable from the floor, encased in a solid block of white, which clung in strange and wonderful shapes to the wire-mesh of the luggage racks. And Ling realized with a shudder of horror just how close to death they had come.

  ‘Ling!’

  Elliott’s urgent whisper roused Ling from an almost unconscious sleep. Earlier, to Farmer Hilson’s wife’s astonishment, her husband had waved the exhausted passengers into the massive kitchen. After a hearty breakfast with endless mugs of steaming tea, the party had quickly recovered from its ordeal. Following a brief rest, the gentlemen and tough Mrs Huggins set out on foot, the latter declaring that a little snow never hurt anyone and that she was looking forward to walking through the magical land into which the moor had been transformed. Only Mrs Watts remained, so frail that the kindly farmer’s wife had put her to bed in one of the upstairs rooms, Sergeant Watts staying at the farmhouse to take care of her.

  Though her labour was only in its early stages, Fanny’s contractions were growing more frequent, and Mr and Mrs Hilson had given up their own bedroom, it being the largest in the house. Elliott had examined Fanny with such swift dexterity that her embarrassment was over almost before it began, and then to Ling’s relief she’d dropped instantly into the sleep of the dead.

  Ling had sunk slowly into the depths of an old but comfortable armchair, and at long last, she’d been able to succumb to her exhaustion. Her stomach had been fluttering nervously, holding her in a remorseless grip until her restless mind could take no more and she’d slipped into an abyss so deep that there was nothing but black, thoughtless stillness. So when Elliott roused her, her wandering eyes focused on his face in total bewilderment for some seconds before everything fell into place.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ she demanded, cringing that in her anxiety her tone sounded quite rude and blunt, when Elliott, dear Elliott, had been caring for her sister while she slept on. For several hours, apparently, as it was already getting dark again.

  Elliott put out a hand, resting it reassuringly on her arm, and for a few delicious seconds that shaft of warmth overwhelmed her once more.

  ‘Nothing to worry about,’ Elliott was saying in a low voice. ‘You know I said the baby’s head wasn’t properly engaged? I’d expected it to move down as labour progressed, but she’s almost fully dilated and the baby’s presenting with a shoulder. She’s going to want to push soon, but she mustn’t until I’ve moved the head into the correct position. So I want you to help her, talk to her, anything to stop her pushing. Just wish I had some nitrous oxide – laughing gas – to help her.’

  Ling was listening intently. She was ready to lavish all her frustrated love on the baby her sister was about to bring into the world, but what if . . . what if the infant didn’t survive or dear, sweet, vulnerable Fanny gave her own life in the process? The idea was unthinkable.

  ‘Ling, listen to me.’ Elliott’s tone was touched with a sharp authority. ‘It’s by no means the first time I’ve done this. It really isn’t a problem, but I do need you to help. She trusts you more than anyone in the world. And you need to trust me.’

  Ling gazed back at him. Yes, she trusted Elliott implicitly. A moan drew her to the bed, and she took Fanny’s outstretched hand as another contraction clamped the girl’s bulging abdomen. And then Elliott was there, issuing instructions as he gently manoeuvred the baby into a better position.

  ‘All right now, Fanny. On the next one, you can push.’

  She did. Though she screamed and gripped Ling’s hand with excruciating force, Elliott encouraged them throughout with progress reports, and within half an hour a wriggling, squirming, miniature human being slithered into the world.

  A little girl. Who cried healthily as the young doctor examined her gently and expertly. Then he wrapped her in the shawl Mrs Hilson had provided, and handed her to her astonished and overwhelmed mother while he got on with the business of delivering the afterbirth and stitching the neat little nick he had made to stop Fanny tearing as the head was delivered. Fanny scarcely noticed his attentions, her rapt eyes fixed on the minuscule form in her arms: downy, blood-smeared hair stuck to her skull; button nose; pale, wrinkled eyes; and tiny, rosebud mouth, which finally stretched in a toothless yawn and went on working even when the eyelids had closed in sleep. Ling watched, lost in wonderment, her cheeks wet with tears of joy – and grief that this was what she had been denied.

  ‘What does I do with her now?’ Fanny asked innocently, looking up at her beloved sister who always knew the answer.

  Ling heard Elliott chuckle. ‘Oh, she’ll soon let you know! There. All finished for the time being. Now, you get some sleep, Fanny. You’ll be needed soon enough. Baby will need her first feed before too long.’

  Fanny obediently relinquished her child into Ling’s waiting arms. And when, a few moments later, Elliott came up behind her, Ling was sobbing silently as she studied the sleeping infant, and she instinctively leaned against the ma
n who had saved this little miracle and possibly its mother as well.

  Twenty-Two

  ‘Laura Heather May,’ Ling whispered to the tiny girl who had finally fallen asleep in her arms. ‘Aren’t you beautiful?’

  ‘She certainly is.’ Elliott smiled over her shoulder. ‘But do you think Fanny will be able to cope?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Look how well she fed her just now. That’s one thing about Fanny,’ Ling told him as she settled little Laura into the drawer Mrs Hilson had produced as a makeshift cot. ‘She does listen and do as she’s told.’

  ‘Which is probably how she got into trouble in the first place,’ Elliott suggested, not unkindly.

  Ling breathed out on a sigh. ‘Yes, probably. But, you know, I’m glad she did. Just look at this lovely little mite. Oh, there’ll be malicious tongues, but they’ll get short shrift from me. And woe betide anyone who makes trouble for either of them!’

  Her voice became harsh with determination, and Elliott chuckled in that soft, knowing way she found so attractive. She turned to face him, the flash of obstinacy melting from her heart. But then the lines on his face moved into an entirely different expression.

  ‘I take it you have no children of your own?’ he asked hesitantly.

  The angry heartache Ling kept buried raised its ugly head and she sank down into the old armchair. And there was Elliott, his face creased with compassion, as she related to him everything that had happened since the day they had met at the opening of the Princetown Railway. Everything apart from the one secret no one, especially Elliott himself, must ever know. That she had fallen in love with him eight years ago and, she realized now, had loved him ever since. Quite ridiculous, of course, since she hardly knew him. Yet here she was, opening up the very core of her soul to him.

  ‘Life can be cruel,’ Elliott murmured back, sinking on his haunches before her. ‘But you cannot blame yourself for the death of your parents, either of them. Quarrying’s a dangerous occupation. These things happen. And as for losing your child, the miscarriages, often it’s nature’s way if there’s something not quite right with the pregnancy.’

  ‘But . . . four times?’ she choked.

  Elliott’s eyebrows arched with sympathy. ‘Yes, I understand your concerns. But I’d say the stillbirth was unrelated to the miscarriages. Did you have a proper internal examination when things had settled down afterwards?’

  Ling’s flush of embarrassment subsided in an instant. It seemed so easy to talk to Elliott about these personal matters. ‘No,’ she answered steadily. ‘We sent for the prison doctor when I had the stillbirth, but only at the time, not afterwards. He arrived too late anyway. With the miscarriages, well, once it was over, there didn’t seem much point. And, to be honest, we couldn’t really afford it.’

  ‘Well, as we’re friends – we are, aren’t we? – I shouldn’t really examine you, but I could arrange for Dr Greenwood to. But tell me, what’s your monthly cycle like?’

  Ling found herself answering without hesitation. ‘Light and always irregular.’

  ‘Well, it could well be that your body simply doesn’t produce enough of the chemicals we believe are needed to sustain a pregnancy. Quite often that can right itself. So –’ he smiled in that encouraging way – ‘my advice to you is to eat well and don’t worry about it. And as soon as you think you might be pregnant again, see a doctor and get plenty of rest. Particularly around the three month point. I had a patient in London with a similar history. In the end she took herself off to bed between the eleventh and fifteenth week, and that way ended up having three children in quick succession!’

  Ling felt a little burst of joy. ‘So you think there’s still hope?’

  ‘I don’t have a crystal ball, Ling, but if Dr Greenwood finds nothing wrong, then there’s always a chance.’

  Ling leaned back in the chair. A child of her own. Barney’s child. Perhaps she could find contentment after all.

  ‘Do you have any clothes for the new baby?’

  ‘Oh, yes. At home,’ Ling replied, recovering from her daydream. ‘I didn’t bring them because I thought, if we had them with us, they’d say at the workhouse that Fanny wasn’t destitute and they wouldn’t take her in.’

  ‘Well, if everything’s all right here in the morning, I thought I’d try to walk back to Princetown. See if my services as MO at the prison are required. And then, if the telegraph wires aren’t down, send a message to Dr Greenwood. On the way back, I could call in to see your husband to let him know you’re safe and collect some of Laura’s things then.’

  Ling frowned. Perhaps it would be best if Barney didn’t know that Elliott was back. After all, what had happened to that piece of paper?

  ‘Oh, that’s so kind of you, Elliott, but I’ll go myself. I’d like to see Barney.’

  ‘Of course. We can go together most of the way though. Then I can make sure you’re safe.’

  ‘Yes, I’d like that.’ But would it not make the pain even deeper, more unbearable? No matter. The desire to be in Elliott’s company for as long as possible was a force against which she was powerless.

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’

  Ling stopped dead as she entered the cottage. She had been brought up short not so much by the state of the room as by the accusing scowl on Barney’s face as he descended the stairs, a bucket full of snow in each hand. The blizzard had caused devastation to the buildings around the quarry. Roofs had collapsed, and everywhere there were windows boarded up, slates missing and debris of all kinds scattered across the snow. The roofs of the stables and weighbridge house had completely disappeared, and the masons’ shed roof was a tangled and twisted wreck of corrugated iron some distance away. People were busy trying to repair the damage, but everyone had asked how she and Fanny were, relieved that they were safe. And yet here was Barney – her husband – apparently concerned only with his own problems.

  ‘I’d have come yesterday,’ she answered curtly. ‘Only, the wind was getting up again, and I wasn’t going to risk getting caught in another blizzard.’

  It was perfectly true. Thursday morning had begun calm, but soon things were looking decidedly dubious once more, and Ling and Elliott had decided against their planned expedition, since that was what the tramp across the snowfields of the moor would be. And so they had finally set out together this morning, Friday.

  Farmer Hilson had reported that convict work parties were clearing the drifts that blocked the Yelverton to Princetown road. But Elliott had refused to let Ling brave the treacherous wastes to the quarries alone, and so had gone with her on the longer trek. Fortunately, it had not proved too hazardous, and Ling would be able to return to the farm alone. They had parted by the Royal Oak sidings, and if anyone had asked Ling who the man was with her, she would answer quite truthfully that it was another passenger who had been marooned on the train.

  ‘Well, I could’ve done with you yere,’ Barney growled. ‘Had to sort my father’s place out, I has, as well as our own. Windows all blown in on that side o’ the square, and the house full o’ snow inside. And we had a bloody great hole in the roof where the slates lifted off. Mended it, I has, but the loft’s full o’ snow, and where ’tis melted, ’tis coming through the ceiling. So I be crawling round up there trying to empty it out afore it gets any worse. ’Tis a right mess up there an’ my wife should’ve been yere instead o’ gallivanting—’

  ‘And I suppose you care nothing that Fanny and I were stranded on the train for thirty-six hours?’ Ling couldn’t stop herself retorting. ‘And that when we were rescued we were half dead, and then Fanny went into labour at the farm where we were taken in? Oh, no! All you’re worried about is yourself!’

  She watched, scarlet flaring into her cheeks, as Barney’s mouth twisted in remorse. ‘Well, how were I to know? I thought as you was safely down in Tavistock.’

  ‘Didn’t bother to ask, though, did you?’ Her lips had clamped into a hard line as she pulled off her coat and rolled up the sleeves of her dress
. Yes, Barney would be exhausted, and she had no doubt that he would have been obliged to do everything to put his father’s cottage back together. But Elliott had endured those two dreadful nights on the train, had seen Fanny through her labour when everyone else had been catching up on their sleep, and had been up and down with the new mother and child the following two nights as well. And there had been not a word of complaint from him, though he’d looked dead on his feet. The blizzard might have wreaked havoc everywhere, but it was no use moaning about it. There could well be others far worse off than they were!

  ‘What did she have then?’ Barney asked churlishly as he disappeared upstairs.

  Ling glanced up at his footfall on the floor above, just as a trickle of water began to drip through the crack between the floorboards. There was no lath and plaster ceiling to spoil since the planks were simply laid across the beams that supported the upper storey. Ling quickly placed a bowl beneath it and, making sure Fanny’s mattress was safely away from the dripping water, dashed up the stairs with the few old newspapers they possessed and an armful of thread-worn towels to soak up whatever she could.

  ‘A girl,’ she called at Barney’s legs, which were retreating into the loft above. Ling paused to survey the scene before she set to work. The plaster ceiling in the upstairs room was stained with greying patches that she knew would turn a dirty yellow when they finally dried. The air was rank with mustiness and everything – bedclothes, mattress, even their clothes – was damp and would have to be aired by the fire downstairs. Some, Widow Rodgers next door perhaps, might have wept, but Ling set to. It was no use crying over spilt milk. The most urgent task was clearly to remove the snow from the loft. So Ling ran downstairs to retrieve her largest saucepans.

  ‘Use these while I empty the buckets,’ she instructed, standing on the chair Barney was using to clamber up into the loft. He grunted as they did the exchange. The buckets were heavy and although Ling’s wrist was still supported by the bandage, it was soon hurting so much she could no longer use it and so could only carry one bucket or saucepan at a time, running up and down the stairs until she was breathless.