That was the feeling she’d had the whole time since moving into this damned house.
The dissection had been the worst of all – those poor little babies, pulled apart under her roof. She’d heard of post-mortems taking place before, but usually they were in an inn, or a hall, not in a house like hers.
But that was the country way, she learned. It was how things were done. And the scullery would never be the same again.
After the funerals, she had boiled up hot soapy water, mixed it with Jeyes disinfectant and threw in some soapflakes too. She took the hardest scrubbing brush she could find under the sink and scoured the room, the walls, the skirtings, the cupboards. She boiled water over and over, splashing liquid and detergent and fluids all over the scullery and floor.
But still the smell persisted. They didn’t put anything back into the room, no food or grains or pots or anything to do with their cooking. She thought they probably needed to raise the floorboards, to take them up and relay new ones, clean ones, ones that didn’t have the smell of decay ingrained in them.
He was taking it all in his stride of course, telling her it would all be fine in the end. But she wanted to go. She wanted to go the minute Aidan hit that spade off the case and their whole world was ripped up, laid bare, their happy, peaceful life wiped away.
It was funny though, now that the discovery had been made, now that the babies had been lifted and buried properly, put back alongside their father James, given the send-off befitting of two such souls, that the feeling in her gut had shifted.
No longer did she feel that overwhelming sensation that something was wrong. The strangling feeling in her throat, the sensation that someone was pressing on her neck, the absolute terror she’d been feeling, was gone.
“I want a new floor in the scullery, and I want it whitewashed and scoured again. I can still smell it,” she said, breaking the silence over their tea. “I want something done in the garden. Where we found them. A cross maybe and something for Our Lady. I’m not that happy about staying in our bedroom, especially if that poor man met his end there, but I suppose we won’t know until they find her, if they get a confession out of her. And I want her found. And caught. Whatever the police have to do, whatever we can do to assist – if this sketch will do it, then so be it. I need to know that we’ve done everything we can to seek justice for that man and for those poor babies.”
“I won’t stop until that is done,” he said. “And as for the house, don’t you worry, we will do whatever it takes to make it ours again.”
“After tomorrow I don’t want another set of boots across that door. I don’t want this house turning into some sort of horror show. It’s already a spectacle.”
“I’m sure as time goes on, people will forget,” he said.
“We’ll see,” she said. “All we can do is make the best of it, and try and see to it that that evil, poisonous woman is caught and justice is done. I don’t know what else to do for those babies.”
She didn’t tell him that the only reason she was staying was because she thought the babies’ spirits had moved on. If she still had that sense of foreboding, that they were there, watching them, then she wouldn’t be staying.
There was no need to discuss it. She knew by her stomach, by her gut. Their souls had moved on now and they, as a family, needed to do so too.
She hoped that woman, wherever she was, wasn’t near any more babies or another poor innocent man. They wouldn’t last long at her hands if they were, that was for sure.
Chapter 31
William D. Thomas
The rocking of the carriage was making him feel ill. He looked across at Margaret and caught her in a smile.
“Feeling queasy?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “I am rather. I’m not a good traveller.”
“Is that why your brother is the seaman and not you?”
“Maybe,” he said.
Anna Genevieve slept, her curled-up face tucked beneath blankets in a bassinet that lay on the seat, held fast by Margaret.
They were on their way to Swinford Hall. He wished they were on the return journey now, rocking their way home, instead of towards the estate, set deep in the middle of Meath.
Lush green hills rose in the distance. Birds flew from the ditches as the horses’ hooves thundered past.
“You’ll like Swinford, I think,” he said to Margaret. “It’s a very handsome estate.”
“Yes,” she said. “I can imagine.”
“You’ll be put up in the nursery no doubt.”
“Yes,” she said.
She knew that he was apologising already. Letting her know that if he had it his way she would be much nearer, in a guest bedroom, the way it was at home.
They reached Swinford at lunchtime, the carriage turning into a long and winding avenue, shaded by trees, curling into an enormous grey façade with tall gleaming windows.
Their arrival drew Mrs. Winchester to the front door, along with the butler and head housekeeper. They stood to attention as the party dismounted.
“William,” said Mrs. Winchester, kissing him on both cheeks. “And little Anna,” she said as Margaret lifted the bassinet from the carriage.
She did not address the Nanny at all.
“You are looking well,” she said to William. “But you have lost weight. Maybe we can fatten you up a little while you are here.”
He smiled, awkwardly.
“My darling,” said Mrs. Winchester, leaning into the bassinet when the Nanny placed it on a sofa in the grand drawing room. “Do you know you have made a little bit of history today? You are in your ancestral home, the youngest Winchester. Can you sense it, my little babba, can you feel the importance of it all?”
William clenched his fingers into his hand.
Mrs. Winchester lifted the baby from the bassinet and backed her large behind onto the sofa.
“You can take some tea in the nursery,” she said to the Nanny.
Margaret glanced at William and they exchanged a knowing look, before she left the room.
“So how have you been faring?” asked Mrs. Winchester, weighing the child with her hands.
“Things are improving a little,” he said. “The business has picked up, Marcus has secured some contracts in France and we’ll likely need to take on some new clerks.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Winchester, pursing her lips. “I suppose you must return to some form of normality. So tell me ... Anna Genevieve, how has she been? Has she been crying? She’s quite light, don’t you think?”
“The Nanny says she is doing well.”
The child had not stirred.
“Is she sleeping a lot?”
“Yes, I believe so,” said Thomas. “She is a very contented baby.”
“If she’s sleeping a lot then she’s not getting the chance to feed. She should be woken.”
He looked at Anna Genevieve and didn’t say anything. Already, the inquisition, peppered with unsolicited advice had begun. The plain understanding that the Winchesters at Swinford knew best.
“I know the Nanny is doing well, I’m not questioning that – but maybe the doctor could advise. About her weight. About how much she is sleeping.”
All those invitations turned down. Why hadn’t he found the strength to say no, just one more time?
“Whatever you feel is best,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.
He’d found by now that the easiest way to get through any time spent with the Winchesters was simply to be agreeable. There was little point in arguing with Mrs. Winchester. She prided herself in getting her way, in the end.
Swinford Hall was a large mansion house. On the ground floor sat a library, two drawing rooms, a study and a dining hall, that could be used for dancing. He thought about all the rooms surrounding him, about the time he’d spend here over the next three days, roaming, walking the gardens, looking out over the hectares of green estate and orchards.
There was so much space, so much room, so much
air, so much land.
And yet he had never felt so stifled. No wonder Anna had run away, fleeing to his townhouse to be with him. No wonder she told him she was the happiest she had ever been, nestled with him in Laurence Street.
Mrs. Winchester had already started her campaign to take Anna Genevieve from him.
If she thought he couldn’t see it, well then, she had a very poor opinion of him indeed.
It hardly took a genius to work that one out.
Mr. Winchester had remained in his study. He did not feel up to the welcome party, and while Mrs. Winchester frowned and her mouth pointed downwards in disapproval, she had left him to his brooding in silence.
After a light lunch of soup and sweetmeats they all took a walk in the gardens, pacing out the gravel paths, leading up to the fountain.
“Tomorrow night I’ve arranged for the Hamiltons to come for dinner – they’re bringing their youngest daughter Gwendoline. She is ever so lovely, William, a real lady. Beautiful red curls. You remember the Hamiltons, don’t you? I’m sure you met them before. Their father spends a lot time abroad – they were in the sugar industry but they’ve moved into gas now. Their house is magnificent – they put a lot of work into it, added a gorgeous extension. They have a menagerie to die for.”
William nodded several times as Mrs. Winchester spoke.
“I thought it would be nice to have some guests, some company. That’ll be nice, won’t it, William?”
“Indeed,” he said.
The Nanny walked ahead, pushing the perambulator. Anna Genevieve sat upright in the pram, whining a little.
How coincidental that their guests were bringing their daughter. Their single, well-to-do maiden. William sighed and looked ahead at Margaret and the baby. How he wished he was at home in their townhouse, just the three of them. Comfortable. Sipping wine. No one to answer to but themselves.
Reaching the fountain, which was set in the middle of a large gravel square, they took a moment to look at the rushing waters and try and spy one of the large carp that swam there.
Today there was no movement, the fish hovering at the bottom quietly. He pictured a blonde girl at the fountain, remembering his own small stature, running towards her. Anna.
A pang constricted his chest. He wanted to cry.
They turned to make their way back to the house. Ahead a cloud opened and a ray of sunshine poured down, lighting up the great façade.
“Doesn’t she look so majestic?” said Mrs. Winchester.
“A very fine house,” he said.
“You know my parents fretted about not having a male heir,” she said. “They worried that I would not be able to sustain the property, to run it like they did. But they were wrong. They underestimated me.”
“They did,” he said.
“There’s a spirit, I think. A spirit that runs in the blood. Only family could understand.”
William didn’t respond.
“It’s in that baby’s blood,” she said quietly. She stopped and looked at him. “I know you feel it too. She’s the last one left. The last true heir.”
He looked after her as she walked on, her skirts sweeping the gravel, the sun ray growing wider, covering the front of the house, sweeping down to the lawn.
Mr. Winchester appeared at dinnertime, his face the colour of dishwater. He had put on a new collar and shaved. He had made an effort.
William stood up to welcome him when he came into the dining room.
Winchester cleared his throat, walked to the table, sat and looked down at the place mat.
Mrs. Winchester and William sat.
“You are keeping well?” he asked his son-in-law.
“As well as can be expected.”
Winchester cleared his throat again. “Good.”
The footmen attending dinner began to fuss, folding out napkins, pouring wine, adjusting the utensils.
“Knowing that baby Anna is here under this roof, it simply fills my heart with joy,” said Mrs. Winchester. “Wait till you see her again, dear, she is so bonny. Where would you like to see her after dinner – in the main room?”
Mrs. Winchester looked hopefully at her husband.
After a pause Mr. Winchester nodded his head. “Yes, fine.”
Mrs. Winchester smiled.
Over dinner she talked about the gardens and flowers that were in season, about some new shrubbery she would like to import from India, about a play area she intended to build near to the kitchen garden.
“It’s beautifully sheltered,” she said. “Anna used to play there when she was small. There’s an old swing, but our carpenter has some wonderful ideas and said he could build new ones with a wooden slide and maybe even a roundabout. Have you seen those? They’re ever so exciting for small children?”
William nodded, his head bowed.
He looked up when he realised she was waiting for an answer.
“I think the baby is a bit small for swings and roundabouts?”
“It’s good to plan ahead,” she said sweetly.
“Indeed.”
She talked again of the Hamiltons, telling William all about the family’s background and dropping Gwendoline’s name whenever she could.
“Oh, I can’t wait for you to meet her, William, she really is a darling.”
The thing he’d loved about Anna was that she had no interest in attending social events and was not a socialite like her mother. She didn’t have to meet new people, make small talk and organise great big dinners to feel worthy, to feel that she was doing something with her life.
They retired to the main drawing room, a room that had always been in use up till recent times. Now that Mr. Winchester had taken to his moods, Mrs. Winchester usually went to her lady’s drawing room in the evenings, leaving her husband to his study or to his billiards room or to the library where she knew he kept a special stash of sherry.
Red wallpaper with velvet brush covered the walls of the main room. Family portraits hung large and imposing, separated by smaller oil paintings. Mrs. Winchester had displayed her large porcelain and silverware collections in various walnut cabinets.
After a round of drinks, the door opened quietly and the Nanny walked in, carrying Anna Genevieve who was now awake, her small, black eyes blinking in the warm glow of the drawing room.
Mr. Winchester sat in the armchair beside the fire, one knee crossed over the other. He stared into the flames, a blank expression on his face.
“Oh look!” said Mrs. Winchester. “She’s here.”
She sat back on the sofa and threw her arms out. “Give her to me.”
The Nanny bent down and gave her the child.
“Well, will you look! You are just the picture of your mother. The picture!”
William stayed with his back to the fire, smiling at the sight of his daughter. He looked across at Margaret who smiled back.
“Has she been faring all right in her new surroundings?” he said.
“Yes,” she answered. “The nursery is warm and she has fed well today.”
“Wonderful,” said Mrs. Winchester. “That’ll be all for now. You can take some supper to the nursery or if you’d prefer to eat with the staff, they usually dine about now.”
Margaret looked at William and bowed her head. He felt guilty. If only his mother-in-law would engage in some conversation, instead of talking down to her, they would see her charms for themselves.
He longed to go after her when she left. To tell her not to mind Mrs. Winchester, that soon they would be home and back to their own comfortable set-up at Number 43.
Instead he asked for another glass of port.
“It’s so lovely to see her awake. And I see she’s been dressed in the new clothes I got her. How quaint!” said Mrs. Winchester.
Mr. Winchester had turned his head from the fire and was looking in their direction a little curiously.
“Come and see the child,” she ordered.
With effort Mr. Winchester left his chair and came and
stood over his wife and granddaughter.
“Yes,” he said. “Very good. Very lovely.”
“Oh, do sit down and have a go. She really is the most beautiful creature.”
Doing as he was ordered, Mr. Winchester sat on the low sofa and was forced to hold out his arms as his wife thrust the baby towards him.
“Take a good hold of her there now and look at her.”
Mr. Winchester sat ramrod straight. The baby began to whimper.
“Well, that’s such a sight – what a little beauty!” said Mrs. Winchester, letting her husband get used to the feel of the baby.
“Do you see the curve of her brows, just there?” she said, after minutes of silence. “That’s Anna. That is exactly how Anna looked when she was a baby.”
Mr. Winchester shuffled a little, trying to make the baby more comfortable. He cleared his throat. “Yes,” he said. “She does look like Anna.”
They were quiet again, until the crackle of a log splitting in the fire made the baby jump.
To the absolute horror of everyone in the room Mr. Winchester suddenly let out a howl, followed by an enormous sob. He began to cry, loudly, his shoulders shaking, the baby shaking with the movement too.
Startled, she too began to wail, a high-pitched piercing cry.
William moved toward the baby, to take her, to comfort her.
“No,” said Mrs. Winchester and she waved him away while putting a hand on her husband’s racking back.
Tears rolled down Winchester’s cheeks, past his chin, plopping onto the baby’s chemise.
“My poor Anna,” he said, his voice hoarse.
Mrs. Winchester patted his back and looked softly at William.
“There, there,” she said. “There, there.”
The baby stopped crying as if sensing a greater distress than hers and continued to look upwards through her black eyes at her weeping grandfather.
After a while, the sobs stopped and William asked if he should take the baby.
“I’m happy to hold her,” said Winchester.
Drinks were poured, more port for William, glasses of sweet sherry for Mrs. Winchester.
The Nanny At Number 43 Page 20