Physically, Miriam recovered very quickly and, in a few days, she was demanding to be allowed to get up from her bed. But still she took no notice of her son, refusing to feed him herself so that Kitty had the trouble of bottles and teats and suffered sleepless nights until the child took to what was, to her, an unnatural way for a tiny baby to have to feed. Kitty was soon exhausted and pale with dark shadows under her eyes, while Miriam pampered herself and slept soundly through every night. Before many days had passed, to the casual observer it would indeed have seemed that the maid, and not the mistress, was the natural mother of the infant.
‘I’m going home,’ Miriam announced two weeks after the birth of her child. ‘I can’t stand it here another minute.’
‘I don’t think the child can travel yet. I—’
Miriam whirled around on her. ‘The child? The child? You can’t possibly think I’m taking it home, do you?’ Miriam never referred to her son as anything but ‘it’.
‘Well, what are you going to do with him?’ Kitty asked pointedly.
Miriam shrugged and preened herself in front of her mirror, pulling in her waist so that, even for Kitty, it was difficult to remember that the other girl had given birth only two weeks earlier.
‘I know what I’d like to do with it,’ Miriam muttered darkly. ‘Leave him out on the moors . . .’
‘Oh miss . . .’ Kitty began, forgetting, in her anguish for the tiny life which seemed already to be in her sole charge, to call her ‘madam’. Miriam mocked her in a whining voice. ‘Oh miss, oh miss, how wicked you are . . .’
Kitty stood up and laid the boy in his makeshift cradle – the bottom drawer of the chest from her bedroom. Then, turning to face Miriam, she said, ‘You can’t go home yet. Your mother’s arriving tomorrow.’
Miriam gasped. ‘How . . .?’ Then as realization dawned, she demanded angrily, ‘Did you send word to her?’
‘Yes,’ Kitty said boldly, squaring her shoulders. ‘Before we left, she asked me to let her know when – when your child had been born.’
‘Oh that’s wonderful! What if anyone sees the letter? What if . . .’
‘Do you think I’m that stupid?’ Kitty snapped, her patience which had been so long held in check giving way at last. ‘Of course I was careful how I worded the letter. I said that we had arrived back in England and were staying in Harrogate. I didn’t even give her the name of the guesthouse but a poste restante address at the local post office.’
‘How extremely clever of you, Clegg,’ Miriam sneered but she turned away, unable, for once, to think of any further retort.
‘So,’ Kitty went on, ‘your mother will be here tomorrow. She’ll decide what’s to be done.’
Kitty’s voice and demeanour were so much stronger on the surface than she was feeling inside. Her heart was breaking at the thought that tomorrow she might have to part from the baby boy who already had Kitty Clegg wrapped firmly around his tiny little finger.
‘So – this is my grandson?’ Mrs Franklin stood looking down at the child in the cradle.
‘Do – do you want to hold him, madam?’ Kitty asked tentatively, unsure what the woman’s feelings were towards the child, yet she could not imagine the gentle, kindly Mrs Franklin being as vehement in her dislike of the circumstances of the innocent child’s birth as Miriam.
Mrs Franklin glanced up at Kitty and then back to the baby. ‘I would, Kitty, I would indeed like to hold him. But I am so afraid that if I did . . .’
Kitty breathed a sigh of relief. ‘You mean, you might not want to part with him? Oh madam, he’s a beautiful baby. Are you really going to give him away? I don’t know how Miss Miriam can bear to. But – but . . .’ She faltered, unwilling to tell tales, yet Mrs Franklin should know of her daughter’s attitude towards the child. At her mistress’s next words, however, Kitty’s heart grew cold.
Mrs Franklin was shaking her head. ‘We can’t possibly keep him, Kitty. It would ruin Miriam’s life.’ She looked up and met Kitty’s haunted eyes. The girl was shocked. It was as if they were discussing a kitten or a puppy, not a child.
‘But madam, even if he’s adopted, how can you be sure he’ll be loved and cared for properly? Won’t you always be wondering where he is and how he is and—?’
‘Oh don’t, Kitty, please don’t,’ Mrs Franklin whispered and Kitty saw her own feelings mirrored in the woman’s tortured eyes. ‘Please don’t make this any harder than it already is.’
The door opened and Miriam swept into the room. ‘Have you done my packing, Kitty?’
Mrs Franklin and the maid exchanged a glance and Kitty heard the older woman give a small sigh. ‘So,’ she murmured, her gaze still on the sleeping infant, ‘nothing has changed.’
‘What?’ Miriam demanded. ‘What did you say?’
Quietly, her mother said, ‘Nothing, my dear. Nothing of importance. Now, we had better all sit down and decide what is to be done.’
‘Done? What do you mean what is to be done?’ Miriam’s voice was high-pitched. ‘It’s obvious, isn’t it? Isn’t there an orphanage or somewhere that will take it? Or the workhouse?’
Kitty noticed that Mrs Franklin winced at her daughter’s callousness, but calmly she moved across the room and sat down on a small bedroom chair. ‘It would be kinder to have the child placed for adoption, Miriam.’
‘Do that then. I don’t care what you do,’ the girl shouted. ‘Just get rid of it.’ At the sound of her raised voice, a whimper came from the cradle so that Kitty rushed towards it and scooped up the child into her arms. She held him close, crooning softly against his ear, her body swaying in a soothing, rocking motion.
‘Look at her, just look at her,’ Miriam sneered. ‘She ought to have been the mother. It ought to have been her giving birth to Jack Thorndyke’s bastard.’
Mrs Franklin gave a gasp, for it was the first time that Miriam had divulged to her the name of the father. But Miriam ignored her mother and, her eyes glittering with malicious calculation, she took a step towards Kitty and said, ‘Why don’t you take him, Kitty? Why don’t you present Jack Thorndyke with his son? After all, you did say you wished it was you having his child, didn’t you? And you said you’d do anything – anything – to get him to marry you. Maybe this way – you can.’
It was a monstrous idea and yet, once the seed had been planted in her mind, Kitty could not pluck it out. That she loved the child already was without question, but could she – dare she – do such a thing?
Though they all knew that the suggestion had been made with malicious sarcasm, it had not been taken as such. Kitty had taken it seriously – very seriously.
Even Mrs Franklin murmured, ‘I suppose it would be a way out.’ Then looking straight at her, she added, ‘But it must be your decision, of course, Kitty. You must be aware that you would face all sorts of problems. I mean, for instance, what would your family say? How would they treat you?’
But Kitty was only listening with half an ear. Jack’s son. She could take Jack’s son as if he were her own. All men wanted sons and surely a man like Jack Thorndyke would be bursting with pride to think he had a son. Maybe Miriam was right, maybe he would even marry her if he thought she had borne him a son?
It was dishonest, of course, but not entirely so. The child was indeed Jack’s, Miriam had admitted it, even before her mother now. The only dishonesty was that she, Kitty, was not his natural mother. But oh how she loved him, this tiny little human being, the living replica of his father.
She heard Mrs Franklin’s voice as if from a great distance. ‘We’d make sure you were looked after, Kitty. That you had everything you needed. After all, we could truthfully say that we wanted to look after a valued servant.’
‘Yes, madam. Thank you, madam,’ Kitty murmured, her mind still reeling with her own thoughts. Then at Mrs Franklin’s next words, Kitty was jolted into full attentiveness.
‘There is just one thing I must insist upon, Kitty, if you do decide to take this course, and it’s this. You m
ust never, ever, divulge the name of the real mother. If you take the boy now, he is your child and yours alone. No matter what happens in the future, you must carry that secret to your grave. You must never tell him, not even when he’s grown.’ A note of firmness crept into the woman’s tone. ‘Do you understand me, Kitty?’
Kitty’s eyes were wide and through lips that were suddenly dry, she murmured, ‘Yes, madam.’
‘Very well, then. Now, in those circumstances, do you wish to take the child?’
For a long moment, Kitty stared into Mrs Franklin’s lovely face, then her glance went to Miriam standing beside her mother, for once silent and watchful.
The baby moved in Kitty’s arms and gave a little whimper. She felt the warmth of him against her breast, breathed in the sweet baby smell of him and looked down into the deep blue eyes that seemed to be looking up at her so trustingly and Kitty Clegg was lost.
‘Yes, madam. Oh yes, I’ll take him and, whatever happens, even if . . .’ she glanced towards Miriam just once, ‘even if Jack still won’t marry me, I’ll love him and care for him as if he were me own.’
Mrs Franklin nodded and said slowly and deliberately, ‘From this moment on, Kitty, he is yours.’
Twenty-Six
‘A child? You – you’ve got a child?’
Kitty stood in the kitchen of the stationmaster’s house, the baby in her arms, and faced her mother and father across the table.
‘I know it’s a shock for you, Mam, but . . .’
Her mother was standing rigidly still, her hand to her throat and her eyes wide, almost bulging. It was her father who moved towards her, thrusting his face close to her, his thin, wiry neck jutting out of his stiffly starched white collar. ‘A shock? A shock? Is that all you think it? You bring shame to our door and you call it a shock? Have you listened to nothing you’ve been taught in this house? Haven’t you always been told . . .?’
Suddenly her mother gasped and reached with trembling fingers for the edge of the table to support herself. ‘Oh no—’ Her face was white, her lips parted, and in her eyes was such an expression of fear that it was almost terror. ‘Oh no, you can’t have. It’s not – not his child?’
Her father glanced back over his shoulder at his wife, just once, with a look so filled with hatred and malice that Kitty reeled. Now it was Kitty who was shocked. She had never seen her father act this way. He had always been a stern man and strict in the upbringing of his children, but she had thought all fathers were like that. Certainly, he had never before displayed rages and tempers like Mr Franklin. Until this moment, she had always thought herself lucky in her parents. She had always thought that whatever happened they would stand by her . . .
Now John Clegg was reaching out and grasping Kitty’s shoulder in such a vice-like grip that his fingers dug into her flesh. ‘Who is the father?’ he demanded through his teeth.
‘Whose is it?’ came her mother’s frantic echoing whisper. ‘Who’s the father?’
Kitty’s puzzled glance went from one face to the other and back again. They were staring at her, hanging on her answer. It was the usual question that was asked in such circumstances, Kitty knew, yet there seemed to be a desperation behind her parents’ asking, a fear that was out of all proportion.
‘Tell us, girl,’ her father’s voice came harshly and made her jump. There was a burning anger in his eyes that made even Kitty suddenly afraid.
Her throat constricted so that the words came out in a strangled whisper. ‘Jack. Jack Thorndyke. He’s the father.’
As soon as the name left her mouth, she saw her mother’s shoulders sag with relief and a low groan escaped her lips and even some of the anger went from her father’s eyes, though his lips were tight with bitterness.
‘What is it?’ Her glance was darting between them again. ‘Who did you think it might be?’
‘I thought . . . maybe . . . he . . .’ Betsy began, but again her father glanced at his wife and Betsy Clegg, meeting his eyes, dropped her own gaze and fell silent.
‘Well, there’s one thing for sure,’ her father gave a snort of contempt, ‘Jack Thorndyke’ll never marry you, girl. If the tales are to be believed, he’s got bastards scattered across half the county. You’re a fool, Kitty. I’d have thought better of you. Milly, now, when she’s grown a bit, I can well imagine she’ll be the sort to get herself into trouble because she’s a simple, silly girl. But you? I had hopes for you.’
Betsy Clegg’s voice came tremulously. ‘What are you going to do, John?’
Not what are ‘we’ to do, Kitty noticed, but ‘you’.
‘Do?’ He turned on his wife so that she blinked and shrank back, seeming suddenly smaller. Defeated, yes, that was it, Kitty thought, her mother seemed defeated. ‘Do? I’m going to throw her out of this house. Aye, her and her bastard, that’s what I’m going to do.’
Betsy gave a low moan and hung her head as if it were she, and not her daughter, who bore the shame.
But Kitty tossed her head with a show of defiance, although inside, her father’s words about Jack had shaken her badly. ‘I’ll be all right. Don’t you worry about me. The mistress – Mrs Franklin – she’s been very kind. Ses she’ll see I have everything I need.’
Betsy raised her head slowly, a wary look now on her face. Again Kitty saw a glance between her mother and father. ‘The mistress? Why should she concern herself with a maid who gets herself into trouble? Turned away without a reference, that’s what usually happens unless . . .’
Then her father leaned towards her, demanding harshly, ‘Are you telling us the truth, girl? Is it Thorndyke’s?’
Fortunately, the question was phrased so that Kitty could answer quickly and truthfully, ‘Yes, yes, he is Jack’s. I swear it.’ But her mind scrabbled around for a plausible reason as to why Mrs Franklin should be taking an interest in a servant’s welfare. A servant who, to all outward appearances, had brought shame not only upon her own family but on the household in which she was employed.
Kitty swallowed. ‘She – she’s a kind lady. She always has been and – and I’m the only one who can handle Miss Miriam’s tantrums,’ she added triumphantly and congratulated herself on her quick thinking.
But the questioning was not over yet. ‘What? Do you mean she wants you to continue working there?’
Now Kitty hesitated. ‘Well, no. At least, I don’t expect so. I mean, I’ll be married to Jack, won’t I? It depends . . .’
‘Oh it depends, all right,’ her father said sarcastically. ‘But if you’re going to depend on Jack Thorndyke, me girl, you’re going to be sadly disappointed. You mark my words.’
‘You’re wrong, Dad.’
The man’s fist was bunched before her face. ‘Don’t call me “Dad” again. I’m no father of yours. Not any more, I’m not. Get yourself away from this house. I never want to set eyes on you again.’
For a long moment Kitty stared at him, then turned her eyes to her mother. ‘Mam . . .?’ she began, but Betsy dropped her eyes and remained silent.
Kitty stood there, reeling from the violence of their reaction. Anger, disappointment, bitterness and, finally, total rejection. They were going to cast her out. The thought that her mother and father might do this had never once entered Kitty’s mind. She had to admit now that she had not thought things through carefully before agreeing to return home allowing everyone to believe the child was hers.
In her arms the baby moved and began to cry. She felt his warmth, his sturdy little body, already so strong even though so tiny and her heart turned over with love for him. ‘He’s getting hungry, Mam. Can’t I just feed him here? Then – then – I’ll go.’
Once again, Betsy cast an appealing look to her husband who uttered an oath and thumped one fist against the palm of his other hand. ‘Do what ya like,’ he spat, ‘but she’s to be gone from this house by the time I get back. You hear me?’
‘Yes, John,’ her mother said in a meek tone the like of which Kitty had never heard from her before.
Her father left the house, banging the door behind him with the sound of finality.
Kitty sighed and heaved the bag she was carrying on to the kitchen table. ‘I’ve got everything in here except I’ll need some boiling water. Then I’ll be on me way.’
‘Where will you go?’ Betsy faltered.
‘To Jack. Where else?’
Her mother’s attention was caught as Kitty opened the bag and laid the boat-shaped feeding bottle on the table. ‘What on earth’s all this?’ she began, and then, scandalized, she said, ‘Do you mean you’re not feeding him yourself?’
Kitty kept her eyes averted from her mother’s questioning gaze. ‘No, Mam, I – er – couldn’t.’ Holding the baby in her left arm, she continued to prepare his feed with her right hand. To her relief the baby’s crying increased to such a level of noise that any further conversation was quite impossible.
When the baby was sucking contentedly on the teat, her mother stood over her, watching with disapproval in every line of her face. ‘You should have tried harder, our Kitty, ’tain’t natural, ’tain’t good for the bairn. A mother’s milk is the best.’
Now her father was no longer present, her mother was acting more like Kitty had imagined she would.
Kitty felt hysterical laughter welling up inside her, the picture of herself trying to breast-feed the child comical and yet hurtful at the same time. Her tone was sharper than she intended as she answered, ‘Well, I couldn’t do it, Mam, and that’s all there is to it.’ She bent her head and said, truthfully, ‘No one was more disappointed than me that I couldn’t.’
She felt her mother’s hand rest lightly on her bowed head. ‘Aw well, dun’t fret, lass. He’ll do nicely, I’m sure.’ But her tone lacked conviction.
Kitty did not look up but silently breathed a sigh of thankfulness that her mother had let the matter drop.
After a few moments, while the only sound in the tiny kitchen was the sucking noise the baby made and the gentle hissing of the kettle on the hob, Kitty asked quietly, ‘Mam, do you know where Jack Thorndyke is?’
Chaff upon the Wind Page 18