‘Oh, aye, Oi spue most mornin’s, an’ don’t want no breakfus’, Miss Glover.’
‘And who is the father of your child, Polly?’ asked Sophia, suppressing her natural sympathy until she had tested the girl.
‘Oh, Miss Glover, Oi never ha’ bin wi’ anybody but Master Osmond!’
Her tears began to flow, melting Sophia’s heart.
‘Very well, Polly, I shall send to my cousin Osmond to tell him of this.’
The tears gave way at once to a wide smile of surprise and joy. ‘Oh, Miss Glover, that be so good of ’ee! As soon as un knows, un’ll come to marry me fur certain, just as Master Edward married Sukey! Oi knows it, Miss Glover!’
‘Do not count on it, Polly,’ said Sophia gravely. ‘You had better not hope for more than a little money, at most.’
She and Mrs Bennett exchanged a significant look. ‘Go and wash your face now, Polly, and Tess will give you some supper.’
Mrs Bennett’s relief at having managed to get rid of Polly was considerable. Two breeding daughters were enough worry, without having a servant in the same way. Tying her bonnet strings under her chin, she took her leave with many expressions of gratitude.
But Sophia was left in a melancholy mood, and spent the rest of that evening contemplating what repercussions there would be, and what might lie ahead for foolish Polly.
And she thought of Susan, whose husband faced the same dangers on the high seas as Henry, with winter coming on.
And she spared a few thoughts for herself, now in her thirty-second year, and looking every day of her age.
The next morning she set off in her new chaise for the House of Industry, and on the way up the track to the common she met Dr Parnham on his mare. He reined in alongside her.
‘Good day to you, Madam Glover. If you’re on your way to Belhampton, could you call on Mrs Susan at the House? I think she would welcome a visit from a wise woman friend. There is not much good company at the Palace of Ease, for all its daily luxuries.’
Sophia smiled at his intentional irony. ‘As it happens, I am on my way to visit her, Dr Parnham.’
‘Excellent! I know she’ll be pleased to see you,’ he beamed.
‘Though I fear there is no good news for her,’ added Sophia, and noticed that his sharp eyes were immediately alert.
‘What is it? Has there been news of her husband?’
He almost glared at her from under anxious brows, and she hesitated, feeling that she had no real right to publish Polly’s disgrace, certainly not before Susan was told.
‘Speak, madam! What ill news have you for her?’
Sophia was not used to being commanded in this way, but she reasoned that he would know soon; it was not worth an argument.
‘’Tis her sister Polly, an empty-headed girl who finds herself with child,’ she said briefly, picking up the reins to be on her way.
But to her astonishment he dismounted and laid his hands upon the side of the open chaise.
‘Go on, go on, madam – with child by whom? Is the man named? Tell me, I beg you,’ he added, somewhat less curtly. ‘I am Mrs Calthorpe’s true friend, and will give her what help I can.’
‘It is not for me to say, Dr Parnham,’ said Sophia a little stiffly, but he cut in with a repeated request that he be told.
‘Is there any chance of marriage for the girl?’
‘No chance at all,’ she said, and quickly deciding that everything would soon be revealed, as she herself had promised Mrs Bennett that it would be, she lowered her voice and leaned towards him.
‘The man is Osmond Calthorpe, Edward’s brother and heir to the Bever estate.’
She was quite unprepared for his blazing reaction.
‘
What?
Oh, God damn the Calthorpes, what trouble for my poor Trotula! To the devil with him! Devil take the whole cursed tribe of ’em!’
Sophia was taken aback at his vehemence, and wondered if he knew that he was speaking of her only relatives, thought she broadly sympathised with his view of them at that moment. It was time to move on, she decided, so leaving him to rage, she seized the reins and urged the horse up the track towards the common.
Why should a man of Parnham’s standing be so affected by a silly maidservant’s disgrace? she wondered. By all accounts, he met plenty of them at the House. And what was that name he had used – Trot-something? That could only be Susan, surely? Sophia considered, not for the first time, that the doctor’s friendship with the young midwife was unusually close.
In her sitting room at the House, Susan stood appalled.
‘Ye’ve brought me the news I’ve dreaded f’r five years, Sophy,’ she said dully. ‘When she went to Pulhurst and he to Winchester, I thought the danger was past – but ’twas already done. Oh, ’tis cruel, cruel!’
She put her hands to her face, and Sophia enfolded her in her arms.
‘Dear Susan, ’tis bad news, but what’s done is done. I shall send to my cousin Osmond this very day.’
‘And what good’ll that do?’ Susan’s grey eyes were as cold as a winter sea. ‘I’ve never trusted that man. His father hoped f’r a change o’ heart after he lost his leg, but that sort don’t ever change, not as long as there be silly maids like my poor little sister. What will become o’ her and her child? Oh, how could Edward have such a rake f’r a brother? Poll must come here, Sophy, to the workhouse, along o’ other poor girls in trouble wi’ nowhere else to go!’
And in her friend’s arms she gave way momentarily to despair.
‘No, Susan, listen – Polly may stay with me as kitchen-maid until Christmas. When she gets heavy and slow, she may prefer to come here and be with you. But not yet.’
‘But ye’ve done so much f’r us already, Sophy, we’ll be yet deeper in y’r debt,’ Susan protested, wiping her eyes.
‘My dear Susan, are we not friends?’ Sophia’s tone was unusually tender. ‘Your natural skills are far greater than mine, and if I have been able to do you some good, I’ve been repaid a hundredfold. Think of what you have done in this place, a midwife to the women and a teacher to the children – and a friend to all. Take courage, dear Susan! Polly’s a robust girl, and a pretty one – she has a good chance of finding a husband willing to take on another man’s child. Come, Susan, put your trust in the Almighty, and think of Edward, your husband.’
Susan straightened up and began to compose herself.
‘Poor Edward, I could wish that he had any other name but Calthorpe,’ she muttered. ‘Forgive me, Sophy, ’twas but a moment o’ self-pity. Thank ye f’r offering to take poor Polly f’r the time bein’. And thank ye f’r y’r friendship.’
They embraced again. Had Susan realised, Sophia’s offer was as much for her sake as for Polly’s. She knew how hard Susan worked, and Polly would be a heavy extra burden.
When Dr Parnham called later that day, he added his assurances of help, and said he would find Polly a place as a wet nurse after her confinement. Warmed by the love and kindness of her friends, Susan allowed herself to be comforted in this latest misfortune; but when she visited her sister a few days later at Glover Cottage, Polly burst into tears.
‘Oh, Sukey, Miss Glover sent Osmond a message, but there ain’t bin no answer yet! Oi do so long to see un agin!’
Susan could not pretend to be surprised at this, but what neither of them knew was that Sophia had received a deeply insulting letter from Mrs Gertrude Calthorpe, disclaiming any responsibility on Osmond’s part for Polly’s condition. The girl’s bad reputation was well known, wrote the lady, and any one of a number of menservants, stable-boys and farm hands could have fathered her child. Miss Glover was informed that any further communication on the subject would be ignored.
Look at it how she would, Sophia saw that there was nothing more to be done. The Calthorpes had virtually declared themselves willing to ride out the scandal, and it seemed that Mr Calthorpe consented to his wife’s letter. Sophia had no more weapons to use, and told herself to pray to be delivered from the un-Christian anger she felt towards her relations.
Susan had her own secret thoughts about the bitter irony of the situation. When she considered her so-called marriage to Edward Calthorpe, her refusal to grant him his conjugal rights appeared just as shameful as unmarried Polly’s swelling womb.
Winter came in with fogs and heavy skies that made the dark days even shorter, with no relief in the news from across the Atlantic. The capture of Charlestown had not been followed by further British advances, and with the French fleet lying in wait to attack troopships and the Spanish once again taking an opportunity to besiege Gibraltar, there was a growing demand for a truce with the rebel colonials. Anxiety for their loved ones perpetually plagued Susan and Sophia.
At home the decline of the year saw a deepening of rural poverty as men were lost to the land and food prices rose with taxes. The House of Industry had several new inmates.
The funeral of Miss Amelia Gravett took place just before Christmas, and a large number of villagers turned out to honour the quiet spinster whose whole life had been spent in the service of her brother, the rector, pandering to his delicate health and indulging his enormous appetite. Leaning on the arm of his niece-housekeeper in her formidable black bonnet and cape, he was heard to sigh that he had made a mistake in remaining a bachelor, which was a state devoid of comfort. Parson Smart was called upon to take the Christmas services at Great St Giles in respect of Dr Gravett’s grief.
Christmas at the Bennetts’ farmhouse was a time for rejoicing, with the arrival of a little daughter to Mr and Mrs Percy Twydell, after only a few hours of travail. It proved to be the last good news of the year.
Susan had done what she could to make Christmas a memorable festival for the orphans, and they had helped her to hang up branches of holly and ivy in the refectory. These symbols of the season were still in place when a visitor tugged at the bell pull and asked to see Mrs Susan Calthorpe. Mrs Croker bowed him into the little sitting room, and Susan was sent for.
As soon as she saw her father-in-law, she knew.
‘Edward?’ she whispered, gripping the back of a chair.
‘Yes, my dear. The
Bucephalus
has been attacked by the French and sunk off Cape Fear.’
‘And Edward?’
‘We don’t know, Susan. Many men were drowned, but . . .’ His voice broke, and he made an effort to control himself. ‘Forgive me, Susan, I have left my wife and daughters weeping their hearts out, but we are not without some hope. The reports are vague, but it seems the
Bucephalus
drifted for a while before she sank, and a number of men were picked up – taken out of the sea – and some may even have swum to shore, for it was not far out from land. Edward could have been one of those. He may still be alive.’
Susan walked over to the window and stared blankly out at the fading daylight. He stepped towards her, and laid his hand on her shoulder.
‘We must not give up hope too soon, my child,’ he said gently. ‘The casualty lists will take some time to come through, and even if Edward is listed as missing, we know that he may have survived. He could be taken prisoner. He may even . . .’ Again Calthorpe’s voice failed, and a shudder passed through his frame. ‘We must hope, and not . . .’ He paused as if searching for words to encourage the silent, white-faced girl who stood very still with her back to him. ‘Time and the end of this accursed war may yet bring him back to us.’
But Susan merely shook her head, and neither spoke nor wept. All she knew was that she had sent a loving husband away disappointed and uncomforted, to board the troopship and return to the war.
To his death.
EVEN DR GRAVETT
could not have argued that life was easy for the paupers during February of the new year. Not since the outbreak of the white throat in the winter of 1768 had the House of Industry been visited by such a virulent infection. It began with a kitchen-maid complaining of a headache; she was told to get on with her work, and two days later she was dead. Within a week half the inmates were unable to rise from their beds, and with windows closed against the cold outside, the influenza infection rapidly spread through the stagnant air. Men and women weakened by a poor diet collapsed at their looms or fell down where they stood. Shivering and sweating by turns, the victims lay helpless in the dormitories, unable so much as to raise their heads. Some developed inflammation of the lungs, coughing and gasping for breath, and Susan Calthorpe soon learned to recognise the signs of fatality – the sunken, unseeing eyes, the bluish tinge to the skin, which lost its heat and rapidly grew cold. It seemed to her that Death himself stalked the draughty passages and stone-flagged rooms as the deadly advance continued.
Susan’s first priority was the children, and when Dorcas and Toby showed signs of fever, she nursed them in her own sitting room to keep them apart from the others. Everybody seemed to turn to her for directions, and she often found the best help in quite unlikely quarters. Mag the drudge conscientiously kept up a good daily supply of fresh water from the well, and saw that it was always within reach of parched lips. With the cooks laid low, Mrs Croker took over in the kitchen, making vegetable soup, boiling and mashing potatoes and sending pans of bone broth up to spoon-feed the very ill.
Susan and Mag took turns at caring for the sick women, while Master Croker looked after the men, assisted by Gus, who had a gentle touch and was no longer avoided because of his fits, though they continued. With such numbers affected, only the most basic of needs could be attended to, and there were occasions when linen went unchanged and the dead lay beside the still living. Croker had the grim task of removing the corpses and placing them in the makeshift coffins he had hastily nailed together, to be collected by the black-draped cart which took them to a communal grave in a Belhampton churchyard.
All communications between the House and the outside world were stopped in an effort to contain the infection. Even so, Mrs Jarvis fled from the danger under cover of darkness; and there was one visitor to the afflicted House who could not be kept away.