‘I want to help him,’ I said. ‘He is, after all, family to me. I don’t want to see him put out on to the street – he does not deserve that. A little short-term loan is all I am asking. You would scarcely miss it, I’m sure, and it could make the difference between survival and ruin for Theo.’
‘I did not get where I am today, Davina, by throwing money away,’ Mr Paterson said, rather smugly, I thought. ‘What I spend, I spend wisely, and I have always ensured that my investments are sound ones. Theo, I fear, is a bad risk. I rather doubt that I would ever see a loan returned from him.’
‘He would pay it back, I’m sure, when the Blackbird comes home,’ I said.
Mr Paterson’s eyes narrowed. ‘Oh, it’s the Blackbird he’s waiting on, is it?’
‘Yes. She’s on her way from the Sugar Islands…’
‘The price of sugar is dropping,’ Mr Paterson said. ‘The planters are expanding their estates to produce more and more, the French are exporting to England, and now, I hear, there’s talk of making it from some kind of root vegetable. As for slaves, Liverpool, where the ships can come and go easily, with no river to negotiate before they can dock, is taking a good deal of our trade. And there are rumblings that a group of dissidents is trying to get the trade stopped altogether. These are difficult times, Davina.’
I bit my lip. Times were even more difficult for Theo. I had not held out much hope of persuading Mr Paterson to make him the loan he so sorely needed, but suddenly it mattered a great deal to me that I should achieve it.
‘Well, supposing that he is unable to repay you,’ I said recklessly. ‘Does it matter so much? Couldn’t you look on it as a gift? For my sake? It was Theo, after all, who brokered our marriage. It’s him you have to thank for the fact that you will soon be blessed with a son and heir.’
Mr Paterson’s eyes rested for a moment on my swollen body and that familiar look of pride and satisfaction softened his florid features.
‘That’s true enough.’
‘And I am so very worried about him, John,’ I persisted, heartened, and anxious to press home my advantage. ‘I have thought of nothing else all day since he told me of his troubles, fretting at the thought of him losing everything. I don’t think that can be good for me in my condition, do you? Nor good for our baby either.’
Mr Paterson shook his head and laughed aloud.
‘Oh Davina, Davina, what will I do with you? You know how to wind a man around your little finger and make a fool of him and no mistake!’
‘Make a fool of you? Never!’ I said, and crossed my fingers in the folds of my gown.
What was planning to leave him if it was not making a fool of him? What was secretly meeting with another man? What was marrying him as a supposed virgin when I was in fact the mother of that other man’s child? The catalogue was endless. But for Theo’s sake I lowered my eyes demurely and lied.
‘Oh, very well!’ Mr Paterson said. ‘You shall have your loan for Theo if it means so much to you. But a loan it is. If he does not repay me in the given time, then I shall be as ruthless as the creditors who press him now. It will be me setting the bailiffs on him, is that understood?’
‘Oh yes… Oh John, thank you!’
I rose, made my way around the table to him as swiftly as my bulk would allow, and kissed him.
It was the first time I had done so since the night of Dorcas’s rape. He had kissed me, and I had submitted, gritting my teeth against my feelings of revulsion. But I had not kissed him, not once.
Now, however, not only did I feel I owed it to him, I actually wanted to do it. He was not really a bad man. What he had done to Dorcas was unforgivable, of course, but no doubt I should shoulder my share of the blame. I had humiliated him, left him hurt, with his male needs frustrated. And he truly did see Dorcas as being different from a white girl. The fact that he was wrong in this did not alter the fact that it was his deeply held belief. He would never have treated Perrett or any of the other white maids so, I felt sure. And certainly I had made him pay for that act, almost to the point of cruelty.
Now I felt something that was almost tenderness towards him, as one might feel tenderness for a wayward child who has been severely punished.
‘Thank you,’ I said simply.
He put his arm around my waist, pulling me close so that his head almost rested against the bump that was our unborn child.
‘You’d better tell Theo to come and see me,’ he said roughly.
* * *
And so the period of waiting began again, seeming more endless than ever.
I was growing impatient with my ungainly girth, the extreme discomfort that kept me awake at nights and prevented me from doing much by day. I could not go out – it was not seemly to be seen in public with my condition so blatantly obvious, and I had no energy or inclination for it in any case. Not only were the sleepless nights taking their toll on me, my joints were all swollen too, making the slightest movement painful and difficult. And my face was swollen, so puffed and ugly I felt ashamed – I, who had not for one moment thought that I might be vain. It is very easy to take one’s looks for granted, I realized. It is only when they disappear that we discover just how important they had been to us all the time.
‘It was not like this before,’ I thought, and realized with a shock that I was experiencing another memory – my first pregnancy. Anxious concerning the circumstances, I might have been, concerned for what the future held, maybe, but not physically impaired as I was now, not bloated and stiff and headachy and sick. No, I had not suffered so before, I felt sure.
The pains began on a dark March day when leaden skies hung over the Clifton heights and rain lashed down into the river gorge beneath, and I recognized them at once.
‘Perrett,’ I said faintly, pressing both hands to my back where the muscles were contracting with a force that felt fit to tear me apart. ‘Would you please send for Dr Thorson?’
Mr Paterson had insisted Andrew Thorson should be in charge of the birth. He believed, of course, that this was my first child, I thought, acquiescing with his request. But I had also secured the services of one of the most highly regarded midwives in Bristol, for though Andrew Thorson might be a qualified physician, he always seemed so young to me, and I thought I would be far more at ease with an older, experienced woman to attend me.
She was the first to arrive, bustling in and taking charge. I was thankful indeed to see her, for my pains were already frequent and hard, and I had been a little frightened that my baby might choose to put in an appearance with only Perrett, who was clearly far too young to have any knowledge of what was required, to assist me.
Sure enough. Mistress Hobbs, as she liked to be known, took one look at me and confirmed what I had already known – that it would not be long before my baby was born.
‘Have you been in labour long?’ she asked, looking at me questioningly as she set out the things she would need.
‘A few hours,’ I lied.
‘You should have sent for me before this,’ she scolded. ‘Never mind, I’m here now. But if Dr Thorson doesn’t make haste, he’ll miss the birth and he won’t be too pleased at missing out on his fee, I’ll be bound.’
I did not think Dr Thorson was the one to be too concerned about such things, and I certainly had more on my mind than worrying about it! All I could think of was bearing the pains, and then the overwhelming urge to push and push and push my baby out into the world.
Though it was a cold day, the heat from the fire in the bedroom grate made the room oppressively hot; Mistress Hobbs, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, was perspiring profusely, and I was perspiring too – I could feel the beads of sweat running down my face and trickling between my heaving breasts. And all the while I felt as if I was being torn in two.
How could I have forgotten something like this? I wondered fleetingly.
I had. But now I remembered, and that other experience seemed to be happening to me all over again. The sea of pain, and myself a
drift in it.
I looked up and saw, not the lofty ceiling of my room here in Clifton, but the wooden beams that straddled the rectory rooms end to end. The voice urging me to push was not Mistress Hobbs’ strident voice, but one with a softer, Gloucestershire burr, the face that hovered over me anxiously not her round red one, but older, thinner, with anxious eyes.
I heard Grandmama’s voice: Is she strong enough? Can she deliver the baby?
And that soft Gloucestershire voice: Of course she’ll do it! Of course she will! You’re doing fine, my dear. Not much longer now. Bear up, there’s a good girl. I’ve never lost a mother yet, and I won’t lose you.
The pain swallowed me whole, it was as if I was floating up amongst the beams on the ceiling, looking down at my tortured body.
Push now! Push!
I pushed. Again and again. And suddenly there was a different pain, like a red-hot knife, and a rush of warmth between my legs, and a little muling cry. And the voice said: You have a little girl! And the pain was gone, and I felt nothing but joy and relief.
And then I heard my grandmother say: Take her away!
‘No!’ I cried. ‘No – let me have her! Give her to me!’
And my grandmother said to the midwife: It’s best she doesn’t hold her, or even see her. And if ever you say one word of this, God will strike you dumb.
Who will suckle the mite? the midwife asked. You can’t leave her to starve!
And my grandmother said: It’s all arranged, never fear. The arrangements are made with one we can trust until we can find a home for the child. Take her away now.
‘No!’ I cried again. ‘My daughter! I want my daughter!’
And I was back in the pain with the tears wet on my cheeks, going through it all again, and the next voice I heard belonged to Mistress Hobbs.
‘Whatever are you talking about, Mrs Paterson? You haven’t got a daughter! You have a son. A fine healthy boy if ever I saw one.’
‘Oh!’ I was back in my bedroom in Clifton, Mistress Hobbs was wrapping my baby in the length of clean, washed sheet that had been waiting, placing him in my arms. I looked down at his little red wrinkled face, his cap of dark hair, shining with the moistures of birth, and felt the love well up in me.
But alongside my joy and triumph, alongside my sense of achievement and the overwhelming instinctive mother’s love for this perfect little being, come from my body and now out in the wide world, innocent, vulnerable, needy, alongside all that was a grief and a longing for that other baby whom I had never held in my arms.
And I knew that if I had a dozen more children, nothing could make up for that loss. She would still be there in my heart. My firstborn. A little girl with fair hair and a sunny smile who scarcely knew me, and certainly did not know that I was her mother.
* * *
Dr Thorson arrived soon afterwards. He checked both me and the baby, pronouncing him fine and healthy, and me ‘in surprisingly good shape’.
‘Why surprising?’ I asked, tucking the baby against my breast. Mistress Hobbs had wanted to lay him in the crib; I had refused to let him go. I wanted to have him safe in my arms. No one would take this baby from me.
Andrew Thorson’s eyes were sharp and shrewd. ‘He came very quickly for a first babe. That’s what I find surprising.’
‘Oh.’ I looked away.
‘Well, I think we can ask the proud father to come in now, don’t you? He’s eager to see his new son – and you, too, of course.’ He started towards the door, wiping his hands on a towel.
‘Dr Thorson…’ I said, then broke off, knowing that this was not the time nor the place for the question I was burning to ask, yet afraid the opportunity might not come again.
He looked back at me questioningly. ‘Yes?’
‘Is there any news of Richard Wells?’ I asked urgently.
‘None.’ His face was devoid of any expression, though he must have been curious, to say the least, at me asking such a thing at a time when I should be thinking of nothing but my baby and husband. I threw caution to the winds.
‘Will you please tell him when he does return that I must see him?’ I said urgently.
Andrew Thorson’s eyes narrowed a fraction. ‘Are you sure that is wise?’
‘Yes!’ I said, and then: ‘No, I am not at all sure. But please tell him anyway.’
He nodded, just the tiniest inclination of his head.
‘I’ll call John now, shall I?’
Mr Paterson came into the bedroom so swiftly I was afraid he might have been lurking in the corridor and overheard what I had said to Andrew Thorson. But there was no sign of it on his face or in his demeanour. He looked only every inch the proud father, anxious, eager, a little overwhelmed by the responsibility for the new life there in the room with us.
‘Davina! Are you—?’
‘I’m fine, John,’ I said. ‘Very tired and a little sore, but otherwise fine.’
‘Good. Good.’ He dropped a kiss on my head, smoothed a damp curl away from my forehead, and gazed down at the baby.
‘I can scarcely believe it,’ he said. ‘My son!’
‘Do you want to hold him?’ I asked.
I thought it was the right thing to say, but I was still reluctant to let my new baby out of my arms, and I was relieved when he took a hasty step backwards, looking nervous and flustered.
‘No! No – I’ll just look at him, thank you.’
I smiled, feeling once again that strange tenderness for a man I had thought I despised.
‘He’s beautiful, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Mr Paterson sounded doubtful. ‘I don’t believe I ever saw a newborn babe before. He’s very… wrinkled. He is healthy, is he?’
‘Perfectly healthy, John,’ Dr Thorson said, smiling. ‘He’s just had a hard time of it, and something of a shock, finding himself in the cold hard world. Have you thought of a name for him yet?’
‘Yes.’ Mr Paterson recovered himself. ‘We thought Daniel. Are you still happy with that, my dear?’ he asked me.
‘Yes,’ I murmured. I was growing drowsy now; incredibly, overpoweringly drowsy.
Daniel. It suited him.
Daniel… and Alice.
My son, and my daughter…
I snuggled little Daniel against my breast and before I knew it, I slept.
Fourteen
I was totally enchanted by my little son, totally absorbed in him. It was as if, having been robbed of my first child’s babyhood, I needed to achieve double the wonder and satisfaction from my second. Whilst I was confined to my bed, of course, he was always there, either in my arms or in his crib beside me, and when I was up and about again I refused to let him out of my sight.
Mr Paterson had engaged a nurse, but she soon left, since there was nothing for her to do.
‘Mrs Paterson will not even let me bathe the child!’ she complained on giving notice. ‘I’ve hardly lifted a finger for him. I think my skills could be put to better use elsewhere.’
Mr Paterson remonstrated with me, urging me to relinquish at least some of Daniel’s care to her so that he could persuade her to stay. He thought I was overtiring myself, and that it would damage his social standing if it became known that his child had no nurse. But I was adamant.
‘I can manage perfectly well,’ I insisted. ‘And in any case I have Perrett to help me. I don’t like that woman looking over my shoulder all the time and trying to tell me how I should do things. Let her go.’
So she went, and I had Daniel all to myself.
Mr Paterson had taken to spending a great deal more time at home, too, for he was almost as delighted with his son as I was; he dangled his fob watch over the crib to amuse the baby and even pushed him in his carriage around the garden when the weather was good enough. It was a happy domestic arrangement, doting parents and a perfect baby who scarcely ever cried, and I could almost have learned to become content with my lot had it not been for the aching space in my heart for Alice.
Lo
ving Daniel had somehow made me long for her all the more; I wanted her here with us, playing with him, growing with him, bonding with him. She was my child too and until I held them both in my arms I could not rest satisfied.
And all the while, my memory was returning; Not in a rush, nothing so dramatic, simply snippets from the past that presented themselves to me unexpectedly, or the discovery that there was something else I had remembered without even realizing it.
I sang a lullaby to Daniel one evening and knew it was one my mother had sung to me. I watched the birds carrying twigs to build a nest in the hedge outside my window and remembered myself as a child putting out handfuls of moulted dog hair for the birds to take and use. ‘Fur makes a warm nest lining,’ my mother had said. ‘And Horatio doesn’t need it any more.’ I remembered Horatio – a big black cross-breed who lived in a kennel behind the house where we were living, and my mother working as the cook. Horatio did not have long hair, it seemed quite wiry to me, and I could not imagine how it was possible for him to shed so much and not be entirely bald.
I remembered the places we had gone with the players, barns lit by flares and filled with excited people come to be entertained; I remembered some of the performers – a contortionist, a midget, and – most exciting of all – Percy, the mathematical pig, who could, apparently, with the help of his trainer, count and do simple sums. And I recalled my mother, beautiful, graceful, with the voice of an angel, singing on a makeshift stage whilst the bawdy crowd fell silent to listen and my heart swelled with pride.
I remembered the harbour scene that had come to me in a dream and I knew the blue bay was indeed Watchet, in Somerset. But what Richard and I had said to one another before he sailed away, the exact details of the situations had faded with the dream and slipped back into the still-fuzzy part of my mind. Frustratingly, I could remember nothing about Richard at all, nor anything that had led up to my accident.
Yes, there were still yawning gaps in my memory, but I was grateful for what I had recalled so far, and heartened that I would, eventually, regain my past completely. And I only hoped that the hidden parts were not remaining hidden to me because remembering them would be more than I could bear.
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