Meanwhile, the price of rubber rose and rose. In the summer of 1905, it had hit $1.50 a pound – and since then had continued upwards. Every time it was thought to have reached its limit; it went higher. The increasing production of tyres for the automobile industry, and the growing popularity of cycling, had led to an insatiable demand for the material, and that was only increased by ever-widening requirements for its use in industry.
The bolachas kept rolling out and the money kept rolling in, and everywhere on the Amazon, people were getting rich. Including Katharine. But still she missed her son like one of her own limbs.
By October 1906, two months before Antonio’s sixteenth birthday, Katharine made a decision. She would travel to England herself. She didn’t really want to – the journey was long and arduous, and, more than that, she loathed the thought of a prolonged absence from Thomas. But of course, she would do anything for her son, and she abhorred the distance that lay between them, both geographical and emotional. She knew a teenage boy would never be as doting to his mother as she would like, but still. She needed more than that offered by Antonio’s stilted letters that focused on his activities and lessons, but never so much as mentioned emotions.
Sitting at her desk, she drifted into a daydream about what she and Antonio could do during the long summer months in England. One thing she was really looking forward to was bringing the family together. Antonio and Mabel still had not met, and Antonio never visited his grandparents at Hawthorn Road. He had grown accustomed to much grander establishments over his years at Winchester. Katharine feared he was like Mayhew, ashamed of his mother’s humble beginnings, shunning contact with his relatives.
She would try to heal that rift. And as well as spending time with Antonio, she desperately wanted to see Mabel, to rekindle their bond with face-to-face contact after so many years apart, and to help Mabel plan her future. With a sigh of pent-up anticipation about their reunion, she called to Rosabel to bring her coffee. She had a strange, metallic taste in her mouth that she couldn’t get rid of. But when the coffee arrived, she didn’t fancy it, pouring it away when Rosabel had gone to avoid hurting her feelings; she took it very personally if anyone didn’t finish what she had made.
Over the next few weeks, Katharine’s appetite completely deserted her and she experienced intense bouts of nausea, not actually vomiting, but constantly feeling as if at any moment she would. One fine, sunny Sunday, the failure of her monthly to arrive for the fourth time forced her to confront what was going on. She looked at herself in the mirror that she’d bought from a travelling salesman who had somehow found his way to the Rio Poderoso a few years ago. It was a prized possession but was already deteriorating, dotted with spots of rust, silver fish eating at its edges and blurring the outlines of the reflection. She turned sideways and then face on again. You couldn’t tell yet. But soon, it would become obvious.
She called Thomas to the office. There was some talking to be done.
Thomas stood looking at her expectantly. Katharine had a sudden premonition that he knew what she was about to say.
Exactly at that moment, he spoke.
‘You’re expecting a child,’ he said, matter-of-factly, as if this were an everyday occurrence.
Katharine bit her lip. ‘Yes.’
Thomas’ stern expression softened, and a broad smile of sheer delight broke over his handsome face. ‘So, we should rejoice!’
Katharine shook her head and looked at the ground, not wanting him to see her incipient tears. A baby was always joyful, a new life, a new beginning, something to celebrate.
But not when the infant had been conceived out of wedlock and with a Black man.
‘What will we tell everyone? What will we say?’
In reality, she wasn’t thinking about those who lived at Norwood, in the compound, or in the nearby village, nor even those in Iquitos or Manaus – apart from Mayhew. The Indians would accept the baby as they accepted everything: with perfect equanimity. No, the people she was really worried about were her beloved parents, and their relatives, friends and neighbours, back in the safe, homogeneous environs of Hawthorn Road, where white women did not have Black men’s babies. It had been bad enough telling them she was marrying a Spaniard. A Black man descended from slaves? It was simply inconceivable.
‘We will tell the truth.’ Thomas interrupted her fevered thoughts, calm and controlled as always.
‘But Thomas, we’re not even married!’ The words burst out and then, immediately after them, the weeping.
In addition to the shame of it, she felt old to be having a baby. Though she knew her mother had had her last at age forty-one, and she herself was only thirty-five, soon to be thirty-six, the difference was that in her case there had been no pregnancies in between. She worried that her body would have forgotten how to do it, that she wouldn’t be able to deliver this baby. Once or twice she imagined losing it, and felt momentarily relieved, and then disgusted with herself for having such treacherous thoughts.
Thomas came to her and took her in his arms. ‘So, let’s get married. We’re both free people.’ The word ‘free’ had particular significance said by him. ‘There’s nothing to stop us.’
No, thought Katharine, nothing but a world full of prejudice and judgement and censoriousness.
But as she pondered on it, she gradually accepted that, whatever anybody else thought, she wanted nothing more than to be Thomas’ wife, and to call him husband. The terror she had felt when he had been stricken with malaria had made her realise that she could not bear to be without him. Why shouldn’t they marry, and hold their heads up high? Not to mention that a recognised union would mitigate at least some of the stigma this baby would experience.
Her mind made up, Katharine wrote a letter to the newly appointed priest at the church in the town upriver where she had bought Fortunata. She had been so disparaging about the ever-encroaching Christian faith, always maintaining that the Indians were much better off being left alone to enjoy their own rituals and beliefs. But now she needed the Church, she had to eat her words.
A month later, she and Thomas set off on their wedding journey. They took the opportunity of the visit to see the Spanish pharmacist. He led Katharine into his consultation room and examined her. When they came back out again, his face was grave.
‘I think you should go to Manaus to have the baby,’ he said, ‘where you can get better care. There’s an excellent hospital there now, with a brand-new maternity department employing highly skilled obstetricians trained in London and Paris. It’s expensive of course…’ here he broke off to rub his fingers together in the universal gesture indicating money, ‘but you would have the peace of mind of knowing you are in the best hands.’
‘Why does she need a hospital?’ asked Thomas, his tone as calm and measured as always. But Katharine could see his lips were trembling. He was worried. ‘She had her son at Norwood.’
Katharine thought of that long and dreadful labour, the details of which she of course had never shared with Thomas, and suppressed a small shudder. It would be easier the second time. That’s what the Indian women said, anyway.
But Senhor Garcia would not hear of it.
‘Mrs Ferran—apologies, Mrs Smart’s age mitigates against an easy delivery,’ the pharmacist insisted, ‘and the baby seems small for the dates you’ve given me. I would prefer her to be in the hands of those with proper experience of more difficult labours. Out here…’ He flung his arm in the general direction of the forest and the rivers, the intricate network of waterways that made their part of the Amazon so inaccessible. ‘You know what I mean,’ he concluded, lamely. ‘And – I would recommend going early, staying a few months.’
Thomas and Katharine exchanged glances.
Senhor Garcia, perhaps sensing their doubts, fired his parting shot. ‘You know that even Queen Victoria took advantage of pain relief in two of her confinements,’ he exhorted them. ‘So, there’s no reason not to. But you will have to go to hospital to g
et it.’
That decided it for Katharine. She didn’t give a hoot about Queen Victoria but the thought of not having to experience the full agony of Antonio’s birth was enough to dispel all hesitation. They would go. And that would mean, inevitably, Mayhew finding out sooner rather than later. Katharine dreaded his reaction. She would like to keep this baby a secret, hidden from the cruelty of the outside world, cocooned in the privacy of Norwood. But the word would out somehow, whatever measures she took to hide it, just as news of her relationship had filtered all the way downriver to Manaus, so she might as well get it over with. And now she had overcome her initial mixed feelings about being pregnant again, she was desperate for the baby’s arrival, already head over heels in love with this new person she and Thomas had created.
In her bliss of pregnancy, she even believed that Antonio, too, would love unconditionally his little brother or sister.
Chapter Forty-One
London, 1906
Lady Cardburn, Mabel discovered over the years at Hanover Terrace, was a generous employer as long as she knew that her employees’ loyalty was guaranteed. Every now and again, she treated the housemaids to afternoon tea and the theatre. When it came to Mabel’s twentieth birthday, she organised a special lunch in the servants’ hall for her, complete with a massive cake bursting with fruit and cream.
After the festivities, Alexandra called Mabel to her room. She passed her an oblong-shaped gift wrapped in shiny gold paper.
‘Thank you so much,’ gasped Mabel, opening the box and taking out a sterling silver chain from which dangled a delicate pendant in the shape of a feather. ‘It’s beautiful.’
Her heart was beating in double time and she felt crippled by embarrassment, not knowing quite what to say in the face of such unexpected munificence.
‘You’re very welcome,’ replied Lady Cardburn. She coughed slightly, as if clearing her throat.
‘Mabel,’ she said, and then paused.
Mabel stared at her, her stomach churning. There was something in Alexandra’s tone of voice that scared her.
‘Don’t look so terrified, you silly goose,’ she continued, smiling amusedly at Mabel’s stricken demeanour. ‘I just wanted to say… I’ve noticed the – liaison – between you and the second footman, Archie.’
Mabel gulped, and her heart sank. Was she in trouble for spending time with him? In truth, their friendship had become deeper over the years and, though nothing specific had been said, by now it was generally known in the servants’ hall that they were courting. When they were together, Mabel always felt a little fizz of excitement in her belly and, when he took her arm in his to walk around the Rose Garden in Regent’s Park, she stood taller and prouder to have such a handsome, kind man as her escort. But perhaps all of this was wrong. Forbidden. She waited for Lady Cardburn’s next words with dread in her heart.
‘It’s all right, Mabel. It’s natural for young people to enjoy each other’s company. It’s just that—’
‘There’s nothing improper, your ladyship,’ Mabel burst out, interrupting her employer but not being able to stop herself. She’d lost her job at Brampton Square after getting the blame for the master’s behaviour, and though that had turned out to be a blessing in disguise, she didn’t want the shame of being sacked to occur again. ‘I swear on my life,’ she insisted.
Lady Cardburn shot her a sharp look. ‘I’m not accusing you of anything,’ she said, sternly. ‘You are a beauty, Mabel,’ she continued, ‘so it’s hardly surprising that you catch the eyes of men. But you are so sweet and naïve and innocent that I don’t think you realise the power you have.’
Mabel chomped on her cheek, utterly confused. Was she being told off or congratulated? ‘No, your ladyship. Sorry, your ladyship,’ she whispered, utterly unsure what her response should be.
Lady Cardburn burst out laughing. ‘Oh, Mabel! It’s nothing to worry about. You are not in any trouble.’
She waited until Mabel had plucked up the courage to meet her gaze before continuing.
‘I just feel – and I know my father agrees, in fact it was he who asked me to speak to you – that a young woman of your calibre and intelligence and looks could do better than a footman. We don’t want you to tie yourself down too soon.’ Lady Cardburn sighed and looked carefully at Mabel, a resigned expression on her face. ‘But servants will be servants, I suppose.’
And with this cryptic comment, Mabel was dismissed. She scurried out of the room, Alexandra’s words ringing in her ears. She felt as if the conversation had taken place in a foreign language, one she had no command of. Though Archie seemed to be the problem, it was Archie, with his calming presence and kindness, she desperately wanted to see.
Fortunately, she didn’t have to wait too long. She had been given the afternoon off and it was also Archie’s so she’d arranged to spend it with him. He took her to the lake in Regent’s Park, hired a boat, and rowed her over to the island to see the families of cygnets and mallard ducklings. One matriarch had a brood of eight, just like the Birds themselves, and looked as harassed and worried about them all as her own mother Mary always did, Mabel laughingly told Archie. As they watched the family take to the water in a long line like the beads of a necklace, a sudden noise of flapping wings and rustling grasses disturbed the peace. A heron appeared, flying low. The mother mallard squawked and quacked fit to burst but to no avail. The heron swooped purposefully down, plucked up one of the baby ducks as if it were weightless and soared away. Mabel watched in horror as the duckling’s fluffy body, its tiny feet and fledging wings, disappeared inside the heron’s long beak.
‘Horrible,’ she breathed to Archie, mournfully. ‘Poor mother duck. Poor baby.’
Archie shrugged. ‘Nature,’ he said, as if that explained it all. Which, Mabel supposed sadly, it did. But nevertheless, the snatching of the duckling left her with a feeling of foreboding that she couldn’t shake.
Archie had an errand to run and could not accompany Mabel back to the house. On the Outer Circle, just before they parted, he handed her a present. It was wrapped in plain brown paper and string and was a hard, stiff rectangle.
‘I’m serving at dinner tonight,’ Archie said, ‘so open it later and tell me what you think of it tomorrow.’
Mabel blushed. ‘I will,’ she whispered.
And as Archie turned towards the house, he called softly, ‘Thank you.’ He turned back, bent forward and kissed her cheek, quickly, just a peck – but one that burnt into Mabel’s skin like a tattoo. And then he was gone. Mabel leant against the railings for support. That was the closest they’d ever got to intimacy. The horror of what had happened in Brampton Square had hindered her from letting the relationship proceed in a truly ‘romantic’ way. Suddenly Mabel knew that the incident had receded so far into the distant past that she could move on from it, that she was ready to put it fully behind her and not think about it again. It was time, she decided, for her and Archie to make their arrangement official.
Smiling blissfully to herself, she set off back to Hanover Terrace, clutching Archie’s plain and simple gift in her black-gloved hands. Lost in thought, she almost walked straight into a man coming in the other direction.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she apologised, and then, after a couple of moments, realised that the man was Mac. She had hardly seen him at the Cardburns’ house for the last few years, and assumed he’d been in the Amazon. The time disappeared in an instant. He didn’t look a day older. If anything, his eyes were bluer than ever, his face more charming. ‘Oh, Mr McNamara, I do beg your pardon. I wasn’t looking where I was going.’
‘The fault is mine entirely,’ he responded, his voice as smooth as melted chocolate. Mabel had almost forgotten his Irish accent, how lovely it was. Almost as lovely as Archie’s Geordie one. ‘And it’s been so long you’ve been working for us; you really must do as your sister does and call me Mac.’
‘Oh,’ gasped Mabel, ‘but I couldn’t do that. Her ladyship… I’m sure she wouldn’t like it.�
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Mac gave a dismissive flick of his head. ‘Given that I pay for everything that goes on in that house, it is I who calls the tune. And I insist that you call me Mac.’
Mabel flushed a deep red. It felt uncomfortable to have financial information about her employer divulged to her so freely and openly – though it was only what was whispered around the servants’ hall, so it wasn’t exactly news – but Mac didn’t appear to think he’d said anything particularly noteworthy.
‘As you please, sir,’ she muttered. ‘I mean, Mac.’
‘My daughter is very pleased with your work.’ Mac offered a small smile. His tone was avuncular, protective. ‘She says you’re a wonder. Indeed, in the short time I’ve been back in town I’ve heard you being talked about all over the place. Lady Cardburn’s divine maid, people say. Have you seen her they ask? An utter beauty, they carol.’ Mac paused, observing Mabel’s reaction. Her blush deepened. ‘And they’re all correct,’ he concluded. ‘I see that I made the right decision, employing you on behalf of my daughter all those years ago.’
Mabel’s heart was beating so loud against her chest she was sure Mac could hear it. All these compliments were so unexpected, so extraordinary. They were simultaneously uncomfortable and strangely pleasing; there was something nice about being singled out for praise by such a powerful and important man. And of course, he was right that she was indebted to him for all her current contentment.
‘I saw you walking with the footman, Archie or Arthur or whichever it is,’ Mac went on. Mabel’s bashful pride at his words of praise vanished in an instant and she became wary. Should she own up?
‘I would avoid the young servants,’ he advised, his tone markedly cooler now. ‘It’s better that way.’
Mabel’s mind filled with confusion for the second time that day. Why was he saying almost the same thing that Lady Cardburn had? She shot him a cautious glance from underneath her eyelids to see if he was angry. But he was smiling again, his usual warm smile.
Along the Endless River Page 27