Lady of Lincoln

by Ann Barker

  Instead, he smiled blandly and said, ‘Yes I was aware that she was away. In fact, I have come to call upon her grandfather.’

  ‘Her grandfather?’ exclaimed the doctor incredulously.

  ‘Yes. She informed me that she had reason to hope for an improvement in his condition; perhaps she did not tell you that?’

  ‘Of course she told me,’ the doctor snapped. Then, realizing how rude he had been, he straightened his shoulders and said in a calmer tone, ‘I am his physician, so naturally she would tell me. I fear, though, that he will not provide you with any conversation, sir.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I would like to pay him the courtesy of a visit,’ Sir Gareth replied.

  ‘If you should see any improvement, I trust that you will apprise me of the fact,’ the doctor said.

  The baronet did not answer, but merely smiled, bowed slightly, and allowed himself to be shown up the stairs by Mary who, quite unknown to Sir Gareth, was thinking most improperly how she would not mind showing him upstairs on another account!

  She let him into the elderly clergyman’s room, then said softly, ‘Would you like a glass of wine, sir?’

  Sir Gareth accepted, then sat down at the old man’s bedside and thought to himself, now what? Well, of course, he ought to introduce himself. ‘Good afternoon,’ he said. ‘My name is Sir Gareth Blades. I’m brother-in-law to one of the new clergy here.’ There was a long silence. He got up from his place and wandered over to the window to look out at the cathedral. ‘That’s a fine cathedral you have there,’ he remarked. Oh God, I’m going to start saying that the grass is green and the sky is blue, and there’s a dog walking past next. Who the deuce wants to hear about that?

  Mary came in with a glass of claret on a tray, and Sir Gareth took it with a smile. He took a sip. It was good; very good. ‘But then, Patrick had a good palate,’ he remarked out loud. ‘Still undeveloped, but with great potential. Did he inherit it from you, I wonder?’ In a moment of sudden impulse, he went to the bedside, dipped his little finger in the wine, and brushed it on to the old man’s lips. At first, there seemed to be no reaction at all. Then slowly, almost imperceptibly, his lips parted the tiniest fraction, the tip of his tongue emerged, and he moistened his lips. ‘Like that, do you?’ murmured the baronet, before doing the same again. He went through the same procedure perhaps three or four times before saying, ‘That’s enough now. Don’t want to get you drunk, do we?’

  He wandered over to the window again, and took a sip of wine. ‘What does she do when she comes to see you?’ he said out loud. ‘Does she read to you? Does she tell you about her day, about what she has been doing?’ He paused. ‘Has she told you about me? No, I don’t suppose she has. I expect she spends all her time enlarging on the virtues of Dr Pustule, damn his eyes. She could do better than that, you know.’

  He took a sip of wine and sighed reminiscently. ‘If only you could have seen her on the day when we went to Gainsborough. It wasn’t just the gown – although it was good to see her dressed for once as a lovely woman should be dressed; it was that she actually imparted sunshine to the gown; she made it look better! What I wouldn’t give to have the dressing of her; throw out those dingy gowns – someone should have thrown them out years ago – and see her in gold, and burnt orange, and a certain shade of green. But what’s the good of thinking about that? She doesn’t even want me for a brother, for goodness sake!’

  Briefly, he thought back to that moment in Gainsborough when she had said those words to him. At the time he had been hurt by them. Since then, he had turned them over in his mind, looking at them from all angles. Eventually, to his rueful surprise, he had come to the conclusion that if she did not want him for a brother, then neither did he want her for a sister.

  Noticing her unusual quality, he had originally planned simply to indulge her with a flirtation that would at one and the same time raise her self esteem, and cause Dr Boyle to look to his laurels. The game of flirtation he had soon abandoned. A man of the world, he was all too well aware that Canon Whittaker’s spinster daughter was developing a tendre for him, and the last thing that he wanted to do was to raise false hopes. But the more he thought about the matter, the more he came to realize that she deserved better than Dr Boyle. She deserved a man who would not just esteem her, but love and cherish her. She deserved a man who looked upon her not just as a help-meet-cum-drudge, but as someone with whom to share projects, interests and concerns. She deserved a man who would not carp at the cost of a gown, but encourage her to dress in fabrics that brought out the beauty of her creamy skin. In short, she deserved a man like himself.

  Looking down, he saw that he had almost finished his wine, so crossing to the bed, he gave the clergyman one last drop, which the old man licked at delicately as before. ‘I’ll come and see you again,’ he said, putting down his glass. ‘Good day to you, sir.’ Then, as politely as if the man was conscious, he bowed with all his customary elegance and withdrew. As he left, Dr Whittaker’s lips turned upwards into a faint smile.

  Sir Gareth visited Emily’s grandfather on two more occasions before her return. Both times, he gave the old man a little wine as before and then chatted easily about what the boys had been doing. Towards the end of his second visit, however, he said ‘Where is she? Do you know where she is? Would you even tell me if you did know? I keep tormenting myself with the idea that amongst the company she’s visiting is some fellow who’s going to carry her off. I wonder how Dr Excrescence would like that?’ He paused briefly, then went on in a sombre tone, ‘I wonder how I would like it?’

  It was as he was returning to the Trimmers’ house after this visit that he saw what he thought was a familiar figure hurrying towards the west door of the cathedral. On impulse, he turned and went inside himself, removing his hat and then looking about him to see if he could see her. Where might she be? Suddenly having an idea, he retraced the steps that they had taken when she had shown him around.

  He heard her before he saw her. The sound that he heard was enough to tear at his own heart strings. Rounding the corner, he saw Emily, sprawled across the seat on which they had sat on that previous occasion. Her face was resting on her arms, and she was sobbing bitterly.

  Sir Gareth had heard women cry on other occasions; sometimes at an affecting play, sometimes because of a disagreement; sometimes because he would not buy a coveted string of pearls. He had also heard Emily crying before, when they had visited Gainsborough and she had wept briefly at the memory of her brother. But this crying was different. Like her laughter, it came out as a sound that was seldom made, and it came from deep within her soul.

  He did not even think about what he should do: there was never any question of it. Lifting the upper part of her body gently off the stone seat, he sat down next to her and pulled her into his arms, so that she could cry on his shoulder.

  He let her have her cry out, but then when her sobs began to subside, he got out a handkerchief, and handed it to her, keeping one arm around her. ‘Would you like to tell me about it?’ he asked her gently. ‘I’ve no wish to force your confidence, but it might help to talk. Besides, there may be something I can do.’ It must have been a very serious occurrence in the household of her friends to reduce her to this state, he decided.

  She shook her head. ‘There is nothing you can do,’ she told him. ‘My friend …’ She paused and gulped. ‘My friend is dead, you see.’

  ‘Oh my dear,’ he exclaimed involuntarily, gathering her close to him again. ‘Was it very sudden?’

  ‘It was in childbirth,’ she answered. She explained to him how she had gone to stay with her friend because her husband was away, and about how they had had to send for him in the middle of the night. ‘At least he was there in time to see her, but you see, I know it sounds selfish but’ – she gulped – ‘but I did not have the chance to … to say goodbye.’ She shed a few more tears. ‘Of course I know that it is far more important that her husband should have been there. Mr Fanshawe is a clergyman here. D
id you know?’

  He went suddenly still. ‘No. No, I didn’t know,’ he replied.

  ‘He has not been here for very long; just a little longer than Mr Trimmer. I do not have many friends and Nathalie and I had become quite close in a short space of time.’

  ‘I understand,’ he answered. Then, in a changed tone, he went on, ‘My dear girl, you must try not to berate yourself over this. You were with your friend when she needed you. It is very sad that you could not say goodbye, but it is far better that her husband should have been there, surely.’

  ‘Yes, yes, you are right of course,’ she answered, sitting up straight. She had just realized that she had been in the baronet’s embrace for rather a long time, and although there was nowhere else that she would rather be, she knew that it was quite improper. ‘Of course it was right that he should be with her at the last. And although I will miss her very much, he will miss her more, and that sweet little baby will never know its mother.’

  ‘There is a child!’ he exclaimed. Looking up at him for the first time, it seemed to Emily that he looked a little paler than usual and she wondered whether he had been ill.

  ‘Yes,’ she answered, puzzled. ‘I told you that Nathalie had died in childbirth.’

  ‘Yes, yes of course,’ he said quickly. ‘But I thought that perhaps the child had died as well.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Emily assured him. ‘The baby is thriving at present, but that reminds me, I must go and find a wet nurse for her. We brought one back with us from Mablethorpe, but she is anxious to return to her own family.’

  ‘Should you not go home and rest?’ asked the baronet.

  ‘No, no, I am better if I have something to do,’ Emily replied. She stood up, fumbling at the strings of her bonnet with fingers that were still not quite steady. ‘Do I look a perfect fright?’ she asked him.

  He had risen when she did. Now he smiled down at her gently. ‘Allow me,’ he said. He unfastened her bonnet and handed it to her, then carefully smoothed back the strands of her hair that had come adrift. She found herself holding her breath at the occasional touch of his fingers against her skin. Then, when he had done, he took her bonnet from her again, placed it on her head, and fastened the ribbons with a bow which he tied stylishly somewhere between her ear and her chin.

  ‘Thank you,’ she murmured.

  ‘My only desire is to serve you,’ he responded, taking hold of her hand, raising it to his lips and kissing it, keeping his eyes on her face the whole time. She knew a sudden impulse to raise her other hand to his cheek, but she sternly repressed it. After all, he was just being kind.

  She turned and hurried out of the cathedral. He stood watching her for a moment, then took a deep breath and followed her, walking slowly.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  To Emily’s great relief, the first woman that she approached was very willing to act as wet nurse to Mrs Fanshawe’s motherless baby. She was the daughter of the landlady of the White Hart, and so the work would be very convenient for her.

  ‘I fear that Mr Fanshawe is very distraught at the moment, and I do not know how much help he will be,’ Emily told her.

  ‘Oh that’s no problem, mum,’ said Mrs Pearce cheerfully. ‘I can have the baby here with me for a while if he prefers it.’

  Emily was not quite sure how appropriate it would be for the baby’s formative days to be spent in an inn, but when she looked at the handsome, respectable young woman sitting in front of her, she came to the conclusion that it would probably do the child no harm at all.

  Mrs Pearce looked at her curiously. ‘You look a bit peaky yourself, mum, if you don’t mind my saying so. Were she a friend of yours?’

  Emily could feel the tears welling up again. ‘Yes. Yes, she was,’ she replied, her voice breaking.

  ‘Well then, just let me get you a glass of father’s good claret,’ said Mrs Pearce. ‘That’ll help.’

  In fact, Mrs Pearce fetched not only a glass of wine, but also her own little boy, who clearly had a very sunny nature, and took to Emily immediately. The young woman very wisely chatted about her son’s doings whilst her visitor played with him, and after spending half an hour in this simple and undemanding way, Emily began to feel able to face the world again.

  ‘I will go round to Mr Fanshawe immediately and tell him that you will be able to help out,’ she said, standing up. ‘Mrs Grant will be so pleased to be able to get home again.’

  ‘Just send me word and I’ll come round,’ answered Mrs Pearce. ‘Soon as I’ve got this one settled.’

  At least that’s one thing sorted out, Emily thought to herself, as she walked back into the Minster Yard and approached the front door of Mr Fanshawe’s house. Then, just as she reached the garden gate, she hesitated. Of course it was important that Mrs Grant should be able to return home as soon as possible, but they had only arrived that day. It would hardly be fair to expect her to turn around and go back to Mablethorpe immediately. Furthermore, the household needed a little time to settle down after all the turmoil that they had all experienced. She would go back the next day and tell Mr Fanshawe about what she had arranged. Perhaps by then he might even be willing to hear it.

  With no further reason for delay, she turned her footsteps reluctantly towards home. It was not that her father would be unsympathetic: it was simply that there was so much of Nathalie’s story that she could not share with anyone. What she would have liked to have done more than anything was to talk to Mrs Trimmer about the loss of her friend, but she did not want Sir Gareth to think that she was pursuing him into the house.

  It was, therefore, a great relief to her when she opened the front door to have Mary come hurrying up to her and say, ‘Oh, miss, such a time as you have had! I’m that sorry! Mrs Trimmer has called to see you and is waiting in the drawing-room.’

  Emily surrendered her bonnet and shawl to the maid and went straight in. As soon as she entered the room, Mrs Trimmer got to her feet and came towards her, her arms outstretched. ‘Oh my dear friend,’ she said in sympathetic tones. ‘What a dreadful experience for you.’

  Emily had been quite determined that she was not going to cry again, but in the face of Mrs Trimmer’s kindness, she could not help shedding a tear or two. ‘Yes, it was truly one of the worst experiences of my life,’ Emily agreed. ‘I have attended in homes where someone has died on many occasions since I was an adult, but never before when the person was close to me.’

  ‘Had you known her for very long?’ Mrs Trimmer asked.

  ‘Not really,’ Emily replied. ‘The Fanshawes came to live in Lincoln a few months ago, but I only really got to know Nathalie after I was asked to go with her to Mablethorpe.’ She paused. ‘It must sound silly to you, but I don’t have many friends. There were never many girls of my age growing up in the close, and those that did so, married and moved away years ago. I know it must sound very selfish but it seems so hard to make a friend only to lose her and in such a terrible way.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound selfish at all,’ Mrs Trimmer replied. At that moment, Mary, acting on her own initiative, came in with a tea tray, and Emily, who suddenly realized that she was quite thirsty, poured out for them.

  She handed Mrs Trimmer a cup, saying, ‘I am so glad that you were here when I came in. It was such a comfort to me.’

  ‘You can thank Gareth for that,’ Aurelia replied. ‘He told me how distressed you had been in the church and suggested that you might be glad to see me.’

  ‘Oh how kind of him,’ Emily exclaimed involuntarily. ‘How truly sensitive!’

  Mrs Trimmer merely smiled in response to this, and after a brief pause said, by way of change of subject, ‘The boys will be glad that you have returned. They are for ever asking when you might be able to take them up the other towers.’

  ‘I should be delighted to do so,’ Emily answered. ‘Pray tell them that we shall go on the next fine day.’

  With all that had happened, Emily had quite forgotten to bring Miss Wayne to Aurelia’s notice.
She did so now, and her friend listened thoughtfully. ‘I do not know her well, but my impression of her has been good,’ she said. ‘I am not sure how well she would cope with two lively boys, however.’

  Refraining from commenting that a woman who could cope with Mrs Hughes could surely cope with anything, Emily simply said, ‘Perhaps you could ask her to keep an eye on them one day; possibly while you are entertaining Mrs Hughes yourself.’

  ‘I have only one fault to find with that idea, which is that it will involve my spending an afternoon in Mrs Hughes’s company,’ Aurelia replied mischievously. ‘However, I will then be able to find out if the boys like Miss Wayne, which is vitally important, so perhaps it is a sacrifice worth making.’ They talked easily about Oliver and James for a little while and by the time Aurelia rose to go, Emily realized that she was feeling much better.

  ‘Do you think that I ought to call on Mr Fanshawe to offer him some help?’ Aurelia asked. ‘I do not want to be insensitive and, of course, Alan must be the first to call, but his circumstances are unusual. I do not want to deny him any assistance that I might be able to give.’

  ‘Leave it a day or two,’ Emily suggested. ‘He was very distraught and not fit to deal with anyone.’

  ‘I know that Gareth means to call upon him,’ Aurelia told her as she was leaving. ‘Apparently, he knew him slightly in London.’

  ‘How strange,’ Emily murmured. ‘He didn’t mention it earlier.’

  Later that day, Emily went up to her grandfather’s room. There, in the silence, feeling as if she were in the privacy of the confessional, she told the recumbent old man Nathalie’s whole story. This time, although she did shed a tear or two, she was not distraught as before, and afterwards she felt more at peace, as if the experience had been cathartic.