I moved to her and placed my arm about her shoulders. ‘I know nothing can replace a lost child, but, Lucy, there will be others. Look at your dear mama.’
She hid her face in her hands. ‘I think not. Ever since we were in Adelaide, my husband has become so … distant. He scorns me, Fanny. And now he never … comes to my bed. It is as if … as if … he despises me. He speaks to me in such an unkind manner. You have heard him yourself.’
I sought for the best way to comfort her. ‘If he is so heavily occupied with pressing matters, it’s no wonder he’s sometimes a little curt. I’ve noticed that the old wound in his hip seems to be troubling him.’
‘That’s the climate here, the damp. But you’ve seen how he alternates between dark moods and over-violent exertion.’
‘I daresay he has a great deal of official business to attend to and it weighs heavily on him.’
She laughed harshly. ‘At this very moment he’s away again, cruising about I know not where. I begin to think he is growing very fond of going around as a bachelor. When we first arrived here, he passed ten weeks out of the first nineteen away from home and I had not a notion of where he might be.’
She had ceased weeping.
‘I think it is simply the cares of state,’ I ventured. ‘I’ve noticed he seems absorbed in his duties here,’
‘Oh no, Fanny. That is not it at all.’ Her tears began to flow again.
‘Then what is it?’
‘I must tell someone,’ she sobbed, ‘and I dare not say a word even to Sarah or Lady Martin.’
‘You may trust me. I am your sister.’
She struggled to compose herself again. ‘I can hardly bring myself to utter it, but the truth is that … that … my husband blames me for my infant’s death. There! I’ve said it.’
‘Surely not!’
‘He has charged me with it repeatedly since my poor darling was buried. He’s told me countless times that I was a neglectful mother.’
‘I am certain you’ve misunderstood him.’
She looked at me sadly. ‘I only wish that were so.’
‘But surely Baby Georgie had a nursemaid?’
‘Yes, and she loved him as a mother. Almost as much as I did. But my husband’s mind is made up against me, and nothing can turn him from his belief that it is I who caused my own infant’s death.’
‘This is quite the most wicked accusation I’ve ever heard, Lucy. You know very well it’s untrue.’
‘Indeed I do. It is not I who brought about Baby’s demise. It is my husband.’
‘Lucy! What are you saying?’
She gazed at me, her eyes unnaturally bright. ‘That is no more than the truth before God. It is my husband who weakened my little boy’s constitution by insisting I must be confined at sea.’
I stared at her, aghast.
‘Yes,’ she went on, and I saw she had become almost feverish, ‘I was in great hopes that my husband would delay our departure from England for Adelaide, but Lord Russell stressed the urgency of his immediate departure. So George’s dear mama urged me to remain with them at Bodiam for my confinement and follow with my new darling when I had regained my strength. But my selfish husband was adamant I must accompany him. I dread sea voyages and I had the greatest trepidation about what was to come … but he must have his way.
‘I was dangerously ill, but it pleased God to spare my life, which at one stage was quite despaired of, and on February sixteenth, a week short of Rio, my little Georgie was safely delivered at sea. For the remainder of the voyage I was almost insensible of my surroundings.’
‘I—’
She was speaking very quickly; she seemed almost unaware of my presence. ‘When we arrived, we were installed in Government House, which was a very grand residence, certainly the most splendid in Adelaide. The original Government House, we were told, was a horrid little mud dwelling with a thatched roof, called by the locals Government Hut. But although this was a newly completed house, it was a huge, imposing stone building, cold and echoing, with loneliness in every corridor. I was so entirely wretched and I detested Adelaide. I begged my husband to allow me to return to you all at Albany for a visit with Baby, but he refused. He said my duty lay with him. So, you see, it is his own cruelty to me that—’
‘Stop this! Can you not see that in your mutual grief each of you is blaming the other for an event which emanated solely from the Will of God? Neither of you is responsible for the death of your infant. If you go on like this, you’ll destroy each other.’
She laid her head against my shoulder. ‘You’re the only person to whom I’ve confided this. I dared not speak of it to any other.’
‘Then listen to me carefully. You must try to show just a modicum of tenderness towards your husband.’
‘Why should—’
‘Because it will be to your own benefit. And his. Nothing can bring back your lost child, but it behoves you ill to live in mutual hatred of each other. What good can come of that?’
For a long time she was silent. I thought she was considering my words. Then she said, ‘Do you remember, Fanny, that strange old fortune-teller we saw so long ago with Papa, and how she said I should return to Rio? Perhaps she truly did have the second sight.’
For several days after our conversation, despite her husband’s return, Lucy kept to her bed. But when she finally reappeared she seemed more like her former self.
‘I was thinking,’ she said, ‘of when we were children in Lyme. Do you remember how we slipped away together to the lacemakers’ and you showed me the far end of Coombe Street where you said a witch lived?’
I laughed. ‘And how I stole bacon from our cool room to stow in our pockets to protect us? I had to hack it from the hock, and the knife was so blunt I was terrified someone would suspect me. And poor Ellen thought she would be accused of stealing, so she told Joseph she had startled a rat gnawing at it.’
‘I love to recall those happy days,’ she said. ‘I believed my childhood was endless. It never occurred to me to think of myself as an adult.’ She smiled. ‘Do you remember Blanche, our little lamb? You were so afraid she would bite you. And Gussie and I— Oh!’ She broke off abruptly. ‘But here is my husband.’ She moved towards him and laid a tentative hand upon his forearm. ‘You seem in better spirits, George.’
He did not reciprocate with a tender touch, but neither did he withdraw his arm.
‘I am feeling in improved health,’ he said. ‘But I will allow myself a few days’ more rest here before I return south. I intend to meet with Mr Hadfield as soon as I arrive in Wellington.’
Lucy saw my look of enquiry. ‘Mr Hadfield is a missionary stationed at Otaki and at Waikanae, about thirty miles from Wellington. He’s an exceptional man. He speaks fluent Maori and has the trust of all the tribes, yet he lives inside the pas there in the most primitive circumstances imaginable.’
‘He is the one man in all New Zealand,’ said the Governor, ‘who entirely understands native affairs. But he’s been gravely ill and has had to go to Wellington for treatment. I hope he will have recovered enough to receive me. I’m in urgent need of his counsel.’ He patted Lucy’s hand. ‘I shall send him your good wishes.’
She smiled at him. ‘Yes, please, my dear. We are all very fond of Mr Hadfield.’
I felt the very slightest twinge of hope. Perhaps she had heeded my words. Perhaps speaking of her agony at the loss of her child had finally afforded her some relief.
LYME REGIS, 1834
I was sitting at the desk in the drawing room, attempting to capture Mama’s profile in my sketch book when Papa returned from the Assembly Rooms in high spirits. ‘I have the most agreeable intelligence,’ he said, as he strode in to join us.
‘And what is that?’ Mama put down her needlework.
‘Captain Spencer has had a knighthood conferred on him. The Order of the Guelph, in the gift of the King himself. I shall send my congratulations immediately.’
‘Please to add mine, Ernest.
And to Mrs — Lady — Spencer.’
‘I wonder if this honour will change Spencer’s mind,’ said Papa, sitting down beside Mama on the sofa. ‘He says he’s considering emigrating. With the cost of living as it is, he has no means of setting up his sons and procuring successful marriages for his girls.’
Emigrating! How would I bear it if Lucy were to leave Lyme? I worked away with my charcoal, secretly listening intently to Papa’s every word.
‘There is always the Navy,’ said Mama.
‘The second son is enrolled in Dartmouth already, but Spencer is finding the expense too great. And the four youngest boys will want feeding and educating for some time yet.’
‘But emigration seems a very drastic remedy.’
‘I doubt he will decide to go, but he says land is cheap in Western Australia. There are government grants to be had and the conditions are excellent for wheat and sheep. He would take stock with him. Or so he says.’
‘On such a long journey? Surely not?’
‘What chance would he have to buy animals there? The natives are nomads who grub a living from the desert. Their only meat is lizards and serpents.’
I spoke before I could stop myself. ‘Lucy would never eat a lizard. Or a serpent. She would rather starve’
‘I was joking, you silly goosey.’ Papa stood up and came over to the desk. ‘Why, this is a very tolerable likeness of Mama.’ He smiled at me. ‘Will you let me have it as a keepsake?’
It was autumn now, too cold for donkey rides on the sands, too late to watch the bathing woman submerging her victims from the horse-drawn machines on Marine Parade.
‘Come along,’ said Papa. ‘Ask Ellen to put on your bonnet and cape. We’ll walk to the Cobb and look at the ships.’
I walked beside him a little warily, anxious not to incur his displeasure, but as we approached Cockmoil Square I heard a familiar sound and, without thinking, clutched his arm and cried out, ‘The organ-grinder. He’s back. Please, Papa, may we listen? Please?’
Balanced on his peg-leg, the organ-grinder leaned against the barrel-organ and turned its iron handle. As the music flowed out, his monkey, strung upon a chain, danced on the barrel in time to the tunes. He wore a tiny soldier’s jacket and a cap with a jaunty feather and, when the music stopped, he jumped from his perch, snatched up a tin cup and ran, begging, among the crowd. Stopping beside me, he lifted his sad wrinkled face and held forth his cup, entreating me. I, in turn looked beseechingly at Papa, who hesitated, then handed me a ha’penny. I placed it in the monkey’s small leathery palm. He lifted it, bit it and dropped it in his cup.
‘Thank the pretty little lady, Jacko,’ called the organ-grinder. ‘Hold out your arm, Miss.’
As I stretched my arm forward, Jacko jumped from the ground and stood upon it, examining me with two shrewd black eyes set in the mask of his face. I wished for nothing more than that he could be mine, that I could carry him home and set him free from his chain to dance upon my window-sill. As I stared at him longingly, he put his head on one side and held out his cup again.
‘Here’s a farthing for you, then,’ said Papa, but Jacko, to the delight of the crowd, took it, examined it and, shaking his head, handed it back to Papa.
‘He desires another ha’penny,’ I said.
‘I see you are a connoisseur, Jacko,’ said Papa, and he pulled out another coin. Again the monkey seized it, bit it and dropped it with a clatter in his cup. Then he swung down from my arm, bowed solemnly to us and scampered back to the organ.
‘Oh, Papa,’ I said, ‘I should love a monkey of my own.’
‘I own Jacko is a most engaging fellow, but monkeys never make pets. They carry fleas and lice and all manner of diseases and … just think what Mama would say if he were to perform his natural functions in the kitchen or the drawing room.’
Though I was astonished to hear my own papa speak so, this thought made me laugh considerably and he smiled back at me. For a moment, I leaned a little against him and inhaled the smell of him. His sharp, smoky tang no longer disturbed me.
The leaves were falling fast from my mulberry tree. Coming home from school, I felt a winter chill in the air and when I entered the drawing room I saw that Martha had stoked up the fire. Before its blaze sat Papa, drawing sombrely on his pipe.
‘I have heavy news, Fanny,’ he said. ‘I had hopes of being at home a little longer with you and Mama, but this morning I received orders from the Admiralty. The Monarch has been refitted and I must join her at Portsmouth in five days.’
‘But why must you captain her?’
‘If I failed to re-join my ship, I should be in great trouble with the Navy. And where would I find the money to feed us all?’ He pulled me onto his knee. ‘I have something important to ask of you, Fanny. While I’m away, I want you to take very good care of your mama. Will you do that?’
I nodded.
‘Will you be a kind and thoughtful girl, and if Mama should be … tired, perhaps … or in need of help, will you do everything in your power to assist her?’
‘Yes, but there is Agnes … and Martha and …’
‘They are servants. I’m charging you with a much greater duty than that of a servant. I need you to watch over your dear mama and see to all those little comforts that may make her life easy.’
‘I promise,’ I said. ‘I give you my solemn word.’ And, as I crossed my heart and spat into the fire, I saw Papa’s lips twitch.
I thought of how Papa and I had walked along the Cobb, of my hand in his as we stopped to watch the Morris men in Cockmoil Square, the sugar mice I had chosen when he took me to the confectioner’s.
‘I miss Papa,’ I said as I sat at Mama’s feet by the fire.
She stroked my hair. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘But it makes me so glad that you and Papa love each other.’ She paused. ‘I have something to tell you, Fanny. Some news I think will cheer you. Quite soon, you are to have a new brother or sister. There. What do you think of that?’
I was astonished. ‘Is it true? Are you sure, Mama?’
She laughed. ‘Quite certain.’
‘But when?’
‘In just a few weeks.’
‘Then I must go at once with Ellen to visit Lucy and tell her.’
‘Not tonight. It’s far too late. But I promise you we will call on the Spencers tomorrow.’
‘How exciting,’ said Lucy. ‘And so much better than a lamb. We can take it in turns to hold him and carry him about the garden.’
‘Perhaps it will be a sister.’
‘No,’ said Lucy. ‘It will be a brother. I always know about these things. I’m a seventh child so I have the second sight.’
As we rattled home in Sir Richard’s carriage amidst the comforting smell of leather and beeswax, I leaned against Mama, and sank drowsily into her soft, plump warmth. She put her arm about me. ‘I’m pleased you and the Spencer girls are so happy in one another’s company. Lady Spencer says she is especially gratified that you and Lucy have become such particular friends.’
‘We’re best friends,’ I said.
‘Today,’ said Mama, ‘she asked me if you might wish to share their governess’s lessons with them.’
‘But my school …’
‘It will not be until springtime. What do you think of the idea?’
‘I should like it very much.’
‘Well, we shall have to write and lay it before Papa, but he is certain to approve.’
I was roused from sleep by a low groaning, then screams. For a few moments I remained locked in my dream, then I realised the noise came from Mama’s room. I leapt from my bed. Her door stood ajar and I gasped as I caught the hum of whispering voices and recognised the bulky shapes of the doctor and Martha at her bedside.
Dr Judd swung around. ‘Hush, Fanny. Don’t trouble yourself about Mama. She is better now, but she is sleeping and we mustn’t wake her. She needs rest and quiet.’ He smiled at me. ‘And I have very happy news for you. You have a little sister.’
‘A sister! But where is she? Where did she come from?’
‘From the Lord. About ten minutes ago. Is that not a wonderful surprise?’
‘Can I … can I see her?’
‘Only for a moment. She is resting too. For such a tiny mite she has caused us all the greatest fuss and upheaval. Now, tiptoe over here and peep at her.’
I expected some smooth and rounded pink-cheeked beauty, like my beloved Marie, but when the doctor turned down the sheet beside Mama I saw only the wizened head of a tortoise.
‘Ah,’ said Martha, ‘so beautiful.’
‘But … she’s yellow,’ I said. ‘Like the Chinamen at the Cobb.’
‘Saints preserve us,’ hissed Martha. ‘What are you saying, child?’
‘She’s arrived a little early,’ said Dr Judd, ‘which is why she’s so yellow. But that will fade and soon she’ll be as fair as you are, Fanny.’
‘And she’s all … gnarled … like an old woman,’ I said through sudden tears.
‘She’s in need of a little fattening up, that’s all. Before you know it, she’ll be plump and perfect. Martha, poor Fanny is quite overcome. Can you see to her?’
‘Aye,’ said Martha. ‘Come downstairs now, Missy. Let’s warm you and set you something to eat.’
She placed me in a chair by the grate, poked at the fire to make it flare, and threw new logs upon it, then handed me a bowl of bread and milk.
‘Stay here now,’ she said, and vanished upstairs.
By the slate-grey ashes of the long-dead fire, I awoke to the iron cold of dawn. Peering through the curtains of Ellen’s window-bed, I saw it was empty. Upstairs, the door of Mama’s room was still ajar, but her fire had been stoked and Martha dozed in a chair beside it. I crawled into my own bed and fell asleep.
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