Beatrice has always said that Miriam had something of the mesmerist about her, a power over weaker people. But no, Miriam is terribly afraid, Anna thinks: she is a prey animal that has broken cover and lives in dread of further exposure. Mirrie’s hands, as the two of them talked, lay clasped in her dark lap. Her face angled forward, so earnest and meaningful and beseeching – as if she feared you might penetrate her defences. Patrolling her own boundaries, Miriam pushed them forward, a little here, a little there. Then came the confession.
‘And besides … there’s something else, not generally known until now – but it has been in the newspapers; I’m surprised you say you didn’t know, Anna. The world knows. The world says I have abandoned a child. My son. I am accused of deserting him when I left his father’s house. I have not seen my Johnnie for three years. It was not as they claim, not at all – anyone who knows the law as it relates to the custody of children knows that – but I shall not go into details, I am high-minded; it is a fault, but nevertheless it does not please me to cast aspersions on others, even those who have wronged me. My life, Anna, is rich in mistakes. Stupid mistakes; crass, grotesque mistakes. Baines is not one of them. No, don’t speak. Don’t. Please. It sears me, I’ve wished to die. I never speak of my boy, even with Baines.’
*
The room’s so quiet that Beatrice hears not only the nib scratching the paper but Anna’s breathing.
The clock chimes the quarter and Beatrice lays aside the little coat she’s embroidering for Luke. ‘I’ll just go and see to my boy,’ she tells Anna’s turned back. ‘And Will was wondering if you would like to accompany him to the meeting?’
‘Oh – no, not really.’
‘But aren’t you going with Will?’
‘No, I’ve explained to him – I’m busy. Will doesn’t mind.’
Beatrice is perhaps less taken aback than she ought to be. Anna, who has shown no further sign of wanting to visit the Salas, still goes her own way, simply ignoring the duties of a minister’s wife – and Will tolerates this neglect perhaps as part of the bargain. Good people in Chauntsey and Fighelbourn will already be noticing this disdain for duties. But that’s not my business, Beatrice reminds herself.
‘May I bring Luke in to feed him here, Annie? It’s pleasant sitting with you. So peaceful.’
‘Fine. Do.’ Anna vanishes again into herself.
Beatrice sits on the sofa with her feet up to feed Luke. His cheeks are pale, he fails to latch and feeds listlessly, allowing milk to dribble from the side of his mouth. Perhaps the teeth coming through are giving him pain. She can see needles sticking through the bottom gums. But he doesn’t appear distressed and Beatrice is not perturbed. She knows him now. Knows him through and through: when he’s tired, when his belly aches, when he wants to nuzzle and nestle.
I’m supposed to mother him but the fact is, he mothers me, she thinks. There’s a wisdom born with infants that we lose along the way. Never was there such a comical baby: casting indiscriminate smiles, kicking up and down with his right leg when he’s excited. Luke gazes into everyone’s face with wonderment, trusting all, recoiling from none. But of course only those who love him come near him.
Her sister turns in her chair, resting her chin on her arm, observing them. She looks like someone emerging from sleep, surprised to find the world just where she left it. But Anna’s according Beatrice and Luke a new attention, examining them closely, the way they are with one another.
‘What are you thinking, Beattie? Now, this moment?’
‘Oh – about – I’m not sure. Just being peaceful, with you and Luke. He’s a bit slow this morning. Very slow. He doesn’t look quite right, I’ll maybe put him down for a longer rest. He was whimpering and restless in the night. Why do you ask?’
‘Just wondering how one would describe your expression – faraway-eyed perhaps.’
‘You’re surely not writing about me?’
‘Goodness, no.’ Anna doesn’t say what she is writing about or to whom. Beatrice lets it go. ‘More to the point,’ Anna continues, ‘what is he thinking? Do they think at all, before they have language? Do you think he thinks?’
‘Annie, they do have language! How can you say Luke has no language?’ For a clever woman, her sister is wonderful at ignoring what’s going on under her nose.
Anna puts down the pen and gets up; kneels at Beatrice’s feet to study Luke, whose lids are closing. She passes her hand over the baby’s forehead and looks from child to mother with a concerned eye.
‘He’s sweating a little. Is he all right?’
‘Just tired. I’ll put him down in a minute.’
‘What does he say then, with his language?’
‘Oh, the great simple things. I hunger, I thirst, I am weary, I feel pain. I love.’
‘Yes, of course. I hadn’t thought of it that way. And, really, what else is there in life worth saying?’
‘Annie, there’s ink all over your hands and there’s even some at the corner of your mouth!’ Beatrice indicates the place with her finger. ‘And under your eye. Don’t rub, you’re making it worse. Honestly, look at you. You look no more than nine years old.’
‘The age of reason,’ says Anna. ‘It’s all downhill from there.’
‘I’ve been thinking, dear. About the medical men. When I was having Luke – well, it wasn’t easy.’ She pauses. Anna gives a piercing look; fails to respond to the hint that she may freely ask intimate questions. And indeed the doctors and their forceps did only what was required to release the child. They performed their duty with courteous efficiency. Yet Beatrice felt tampered with. And perhaps if the doctor examined her sensitive sister in a way that embarrassed her, there may have been a sense of violation. Beatrice understands that now. There was no woman there to hold her hand and protect her dignity. ‘What I mean to say is that I’ll never call Dr Quarles against your wishes.’
‘No. And it would always be against my wishes. I don’t even like to see him in the street,’ Anna says sharply.
‘In future – I shall do nothing against your will, dear heart. I know I’ve … offended you in that way in the past but I never shall again. Knowing better. It’s my besetting sin. One of them.’
‘Well, that’s true,’ says Anna.
Beatrice stops herself from taking umbrage. It’s one thing to confess one’s self-righteousness; another to have it confirmed. ‘The Germans have rather a good word for it,’ she says. ‘Christian told me. Besserwisserin. Know-all.’
‘Anyway, dearest,’ Anna goes on, responding in kind to Beatrice’s generosity. ‘You’ve had to know better, haven’t you? – because the burden fell to you as the elder – and often you have known best. And I have not. So – there we are.’
She straightens up, touching Beatrice’s hand lightly before returning to her desk. She’s soon scribbling again, tongue between her lips.
From now on when Anna needs medical treatment, a Salisbury doctor will have to be called out, at greater expense and at the risk of offending the Quarles family.
Summer will soon be over. Beatrice takes St John’s Gospel out to the summer house to enjoy the last rays of sun beneath the canopy of the chestnut tree, Luke in his crib, sound asleep, a blue shawl over the hood, to shield his eyes from the light. My own darling. When Beatrice looks up Luke is awake, wearing an expression of placid, open-mouthed amazement at the face the world presents: its stir and dazzle. What is he looking at? His eyes are fixed on something beyond her ken. Unblinking. They see, perhaps, the angels. Floating nearby on dragonfly wings. Why should that not be so? And as we age, our spiritual eyesight fails.
Beatrice thinks: I glean so much from Luke. He teaches me everything: holds me down to the earth but directs my vision to the skies. She feels renewed in his presence and even the long nights of wakefulness after his birth have yielded gold. I hadn’t anticipated that, isn’t it strange, I thought I knew it all. But all I thought I knew unravels. I seem to be at the beginning again, with a second chance
of life. Seeing it all afresh. Thank you, gracious Lord, for that. Beatrice hopes as her son grows up she will not forget but be able to take advantage of this second chance.
He dies without a sound. There in the garden under her gaze, God takes Luke from his mother and, in one fell swoop, orphans her.
Chapter 19
The dray arrives with the milk. Her ears register the clop of hooves, the clash of cans. The light is not up yet. Another day is due to begin but so far there’s just a line of red fire at the horizon. All the shutters of Sarum House are closed except hers. Amy’s clearing ash from the hearth. Beatrice hears this too, the small sounds of a poker riddling, pan against grate, side door opening and closing as the ash is disposed of. The great machine of the world is going on with its business for it can do no other. And Joss is down there with the servant: Beatrice hears his rumbling laugh, cut off, as if he thought better of it. Anna helps her dress and supports her down the stairs.
‘There will be other babies for your wife,’ Dr Quarles has assured Christian. ‘Let her weep for now. It’s helpful to her and healthy. But don’t let it go on for too long. That is unhealthy. She should get plenty of sleep: laudanum in the measure I have indicated here. And port wine to strengthen the blood. Does your wife like port wine? It is in the nature of things for babies to die and for mothers to feel it. No reason why Mrs Ritter should not bear a whole string of viable children. As soon as you feel inclined.’
‘Her sister tells me she hasn’t wept, Dr Quarles. It is a concern to me. Not a tear. I have even spoken to her in a manner calculated to draw tears but without result.’
‘In her own good time. Nature is a great healer. And, you know, she is prodigal with her seeds.’
‘But God is not prodigal,’ Christian replies, with some energy. ‘He numbers and names them all. He is concerned for the fall of a sparrow, though a sparrow has no soul. How much more then for a human child?’
‘Indeed, of course.’
‘But we have not lost our child; we relinquish only his mortal part.’
Beatrice hears them discuss her as if she were a fictional character, which it may be she is. They feed her broth and other slops. Her breasts have been bound tight. The milk still leaks, less in volume but copious enough. It erupts like a sneeze or burst of tears. Yes, I do cry: I weep milk.
Out there the servant drops the ashes in the can and shuts the lid. The bells of St Osmund’s toll across the town. Crows go sailing up into the grey cloud above the limes in St Osmund’s churchyard. Joss wants to say something. He fidgets in his chair, takes a breath, opens and closes his mouth. In the end he offers Beatrice snuff. She breathes tobacco dust and spice. It’s an odd thing to offer. Beatrice shakes her head. As children she and Anna used to steal Grandpa Pentecost’s enamelled wooden snuffbox, atchoo-ing over a pinch each. But that was then. Before she died.
The way they extracted him from her arms was by ambush. Beatrice would not give him up. The muscles of her arms burned with holding him. ‘A little laudanum,’ said Dr Quarles. ‘It is the kindest thing to do, to give her sleep.’ Beatrice snarled as they came for her. She gripped the angel to her. They tried to force the drink down her throat. Swallowing some, she spat more.
‘Leave her alone, let her be, she will give Luke to me, get away from her,’ Anna cried. She came up close and Beatrice let her. ‘You shan’t be forced, you shan’t. But let me hold him a minute, cariad.’
‘No. Don’t touch.’
‘I’ll be gentle. If you’ll let me.’
‘Well, don’t drop him then.’
For as long as she could, Beatrice watched Anna hold them all at bay with her calm, fierce look.
The baby’s eyes had sunk back into its eye sockets like those of an old man. They were glazed and seemed to have turned their full attention to the inner world. It was less Luke than a waxwork effigy. As custom dictates, Beatrice and Anna dressed him in his most gorgeous gowns, all of them, and his two caps, till, frilled and ribboned and bound, he was a stiff, small pharaoh ready for his journey to the underworld. Beatrice drank the tea they gave her and fell asleep. When she awoke, Luke’s aunt had surrendered him. Beatrice wasn’t angry with Annie. What can a woman, any woman, do against a pack of wolves? Luke lay in a box made of blond beech wood. But it was sealed. Then open it please and let me see him. Just one look. Don’t deny me this. People lie to you, she sees it now in all its enormity. They have sealed the pretty coffin, contrary to custom, to prevent her from taking him back.
‘There will be other babies.’ It’s the sin against the Spirit to say so. Beatrice would have died for Luke, killed for him.
Her husband urges, ‘Our children are only lent to us, we know this, my treasure, and we should not mourn to excess but instead be thankful for the love we shared with our darling – and we are grateful, are we not? And we know that God has rescued him to a fuller, deeper love.’
It is very chilling to hear these words. Beattie hates, Beattie loathes.
The crows mass over the garden to peck out Luke’s eyes. This is what they do to the living lambs in the fields. The shepherd must be vigilant. He must never doze. Beatrice has lost the power to sleep – and then suddenly (when they have tricked her into swallowing a narcotic drug) she does plunge headlong into an unconsciousness so black it’s like being buried alive. When she awakens, Anna’s head is on the pillow face-to-face with her. They look into one another’s eyes.
Where is he? Where? Anna’s eyes are so puffy and red that they look half-closed.
What if he awakens underground and finds himself in the dark? Nobody there to comfort and reassure him.
He won’t.
So they say. But they cannot be sure. It has been known for the dead not to be dead. They sit up and rub their eyes and yawn. They say, I’ve had such a funny dream. I flew down a dark tunnel and at the end there was a light and in the light stood my mother and father with open arms. I didn’t want to wake up. But why are you people all in black?
It’s the day of the funeral. Christian carries the box. Mr Montagu, Mr Jones, Mr Elias and Mr Anwyl gather round the open grave. Five black ministers: each lets fall his handful of soil. A mother of course may not attend; nor may an aunt. Why not? No point in asking. Beatrice used to understand but has forgotten the explanation. I brought him into this world. You take him away from me. From Beatrice’s bedroom window she and Anna have a full view of the chapel yard.
A glass shatters in Beatrice’s hand. The blood runs down. She feels no pain. Look, you’ve cut your poor wrist, darling, let me bind it up.
‘Don’t fuss her, it was an accident,’ says Anna to Amy. When Anna has dressed the wound, she sits and holds Beatrice’s uninjured hand. For hours and hours. Both have lost weight: they’re shadows of the original Pentecost girls. Loveday sends in Patience with a pot of nettle and spinach soup to build the sisters up – and some seed-bread. The soup tastes surprisingly good. There’s not much you can do to spoil nettles, is there, Anna observes. Beatrice gives a weak smile. How come I can enjoy the taste of anything when he is in the earth? Inwardly lashing herself, she lays down her spoon. Gasping for air, Beatrice throws up the sash and hears Mr Elias over the road at the piano. The music’s wordless sympathy steals into her spirit and calls forth the helpful tears.
She lies down. Doesn’t think she slept but perhaps she did, since she never heard him come into the room – the only one who might be able to comfort her.
Will says, ‘Dearest – I have picked these.’ Wild flowers, jewel colours, particularly the speedwell blue. Where did he find them at the dark end of the year? He must have walked for miles around their old haunts. Will reminds her, ‘He loved flowers, didn’t he, our little Luke? I remember him with the daffodils. Would you like to take him these? I loved your boy as my own. You know I did. And so did Annie, even more so. I can only take comfort from the thought that Luke is with Jesus now.’
Her old affection for Will was not mistaken: there’s something of God in him. Yes
, she’ll get up, Beatrice says, and come downstairs. Wait for me outside the door, I’ll go down with you.
Will and Anna, one either side, accompany Beatrice to the graveyard. It seems a terribly long way, though it’s only over the road. Her husband always treated their son as an infant theology student. Did he, though? Is that fair? She can’t judge. Christian walks beside them, with his pale, beautiful face like that of a waxwork.
Luke was sweating, he couldn’t take his food, he was dying and I didn’t notice. How could I not notice? What kind of mother am I after all?
Will and Mr Elias sing together ‘Iesu Mawr’. Desolation dipped in honey.
‘Our lamb is safe now,’ Christian says. He speaks too loudly, as if to a mass meeting, offering rigid consolation by the book, not from the heart. ‘My love, try to be consoled. We shall see him on the final day. And, oh, thank God for this mercy. It’s just a matter of waiting.’
Mercy? Beatrice looks at her husband with disdain. Can’t he do better than that? God’s mercy? It’s a crumb that wouldn’t feed a sparrow. But she does not dissent. It’s what Beatrice has been taught and always thought she believed. The words still mean something but seem to exist outside her hurt.
Will reads from St Matthew’s Gospel: Take heed that ye despise not one of these little ones, for I say unto you, that in heaven their angels do always behold the face of my Father which is in heaven.
Beatrice sees many opportunities to join Luke. A rope, a knife, a shard of glass, rat poison, the River Avon. She sees a use for Salisbury Cathedral, if one could just reach the tower. But God has barricaded all doors. Should she take this route, the Almighty will never allow her near Luke again.
Damn Him. Damn God. How does He differ from Moloch, the child-murderer?
Beatrice falls to her knees to beg God’s pardon. He will have overheard her blasphemy and the recording angel will have taken note. The universe is a vast collodion camera that captures every transgression and stores the record for eternity. The light that shone on every misdeed is caught and preserved as an authentic remnant. Do not let this stand against me in the sum of my sins. Which are great.
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