‘Missus Calthorpe! Doctor be here to see ’ee agin!’ Mag’s voice called up the stairs, and Susan straightened her aching back from bending over the sick women, some of whom were now struggling towards recovery. Her hair hung in untidy wisps from a limp mobcap, and her calico gown was creased from being slept in; she had not undressed for a week. Grey-faced with fatigue, she put down the basin of hot water and the towel she had been using, and descended the stairs to where Charles Parnham awaited her. He could not hide his shock at her appearance.
‘In heaven’s name, let me take you away from this hell, Trotula, before the influenza gets you too,’ he pleaded. ‘You may stay at my house and have a room to yourself. My housekeeper and servants will show you every respect, and—’
She raised haggard eyes and shook her head. ‘No, sir. I ha’ lost my little Dorcas, and may lose Toby, along o’ more’n a score o’ the old an’ feeble. How’d I sleep in a sof’ bed, an’ them lef’ ter their fate?’
Tiredness made her revert to broad Hampshire speech, though Parnham hardly noticed in his alarm.
‘But, my dear, if I were to lose – I mean I gave Lieutenant Calthorpe my word of honour that I would take care of you.’
Susan drew a long, sighing breath and gave him a hopeless look.
‘There’s bin no word o’ Edward since his ship went down, an’ he be likely at the bottom o’ the sea,’ she said with chilling resignation. ‘’Twas yeself sent me to this place, Dr Parnham, an’ here I’ll stay till the fever be past, f’r ’tis a home o’ sorts, an’ these be my people – an’ my children. The night afore last I delivered a poor woman in such a high fever that she raved o’ haymakin’ while in travail, and didn’t know she’d borne a son. Can I leave the likes o’ her an’ her child?’
‘But if you should be struck down with the influenza—’
‘Then let it be, sir, f’r I care not that much whether I live or not. But I ha’ bid Miss Glover keep away, and ye’d better do the same, sir.’
He suppressed a shudder on hearing her fatalistic words.
‘My dear Trotula, I’m a healthy man who eats two good meals a day, not like these half-starved wretches who have no resistance against outbreaks of this kind.’ He lowered his voice. ‘But I have something to tell you. Can we talk more privately in your sitting room?’
‘No, Toby be in there. Come an’ walk outside in the yard, sir, where the air be better. I’ll fetch my cloak.’
Out in the biting February wind, he took her arm.
‘You have every reason to live, Trotula. At Easter your year in this place will be completed, and the mothers of Beversley need you – and especially one,’ he added significantly.
Her tired eyes widened. ‘Polly? Ha’ ye news o’ her, sir? Miss Glover wrote that she’s heavy wi’ the dropsy, and Mrs Coulter expects her to be in travail soon, though she can’t be due till April.’
‘That is the reason for my visit,’ he said seriously. ‘I called at Glover Cottage this morning, and saw your sister.’
‘You saw her? Oh, Dr Parnham, tell me how she does! Is it truly the dropsy that’s makin’ her so big? I remember when Mrs Twydell had the same—’
He patted her hand and spoke gently. ‘As you say, my Trotula, the poor girl is not due to give birth until April, but she may well start her pains earlier because of the dropsy. The sooner ’tis all over, the better it will be. But listen, there is another reason for her size. When I placed my hand upon the belly, I felt many small parts that must be limbs, and then I discovered another head, high up beneath the diaphragm. I’m as certain as I can be that she’s carrying twins.’
‘
Two
! Oh, my God!’ Susan covered her face with her hand. ‘Whatever will she do? Though bein’ smaller, they should be born more easily than one large child.’
‘That is true, though with greater risk to the infants, especially the second. But try not to worry, little Trotula, for ’tis further reason for an earlier travail. I shall not be far away if you need me.’
He looked down at her bowed head with a tenderness she did not see, and continued, ‘Only, for heaven’s sake, keep yourself free of the influenza fever, or Polly could be—’
Again he stopped short, and never finished the sentence. He had been going to say ‘without a midwife’, but feared even to mention such an awful possibility.
And he did not want to add to her troubles by revealing his misgivings over Polly, who stood in real danger of developing the dreaded ‘mother’s malady’, which, though not common, was often fatal to mother and child. Dropsy was an early sign, and the final stage, which Susan had not yet witnessed in her short experience of midwifery, was marked by violent fits.
Charles Parnham was a worried man, yet had to hide the fact under an air of hope and assurance.
The solitary horseman reined in outside Glover Cottage, and for a full minute remained in the saddle. The collar of his cloak was turned up and his leather slouch hat pulled down against the strong March winds. The horse flattened its ears and blew down its nose in protest at the rider’s indecision.
At length the man dismounted, lowering himself carefully and staggering a little, an unimposing figure on the ground. He reached for the walking stick tucked into his belt and leaned heavily on it, swinging his peg leg forward and wincing as he hung the strap of the bridle over the tethering-post; then he clicked open the gate and limped up to the door.
Tess answered his knock, and when he asked if he might see her mistress, showed him into the parlour where he was kept waiting for several minutes. He heard doors opening and closing, footsteps running up – and’ downstairs and female voices calling, among them his cousin’s.
When she entered, Sophia’s eyes were stern and unsmiling.
‘What is your business. Cousin Osmond?’ she asked directly, with no formal greeting.
He leaned upon his stick and faced her unhappily.
‘Sophia, I have much to regret in the matter of poor Polly Lucket, and I’ve come to enquire about her – and perhaps to see her, with your permission.’
Miss Glover gave the slightest of nods. ‘Indeed, I am pleased to hear you say so, Osmond, but to what do we owe this tardy regret? You never answered my letter or sent her a word of comfort.’
‘Believe me, Sophy, I do feel for her sufferings, whatever you and others may believe to the countrary. Every day that passes she has preyed upon my mind, waking and sleeping, and I have ridden over from Winchester to find out how she does.’
He was in pain from his aching stump, but did not want to sit down while Sophia stood.
When she replied she spoke coldly. ‘Many a time that girl begged me to send for you, Osmond. I never told her about the letter I received from your mother.’
He hung his head. ‘I had nothing to do with that, Sophy.’
‘Yet you must have known of it,’ she returned, ‘for only you could have told your mother about the message I sent you.’
‘I deeply regret that now, Sophy, and I say again, I had no part in the letter my mother sent you.’
‘And yet you never sent a word to Polly.’
He sighed deeply. ‘No, to my shame. May I ask how she does?’
Sophia looked grave. ‘Not well. She is great with child and great with the dropsy. She has stayed here because there was an outbreak of fever at the workhouse, and many of the inmates died of it. Otherwise she would be within those walls like any other destitute woman.’
Osmond winced, whether from pain or her relentless words, Sophia was not sure.
‘And when a renowned man-midwife examined her last month, he discovered that she is carrying twins,’ she added.
‘Oh, my God! And is she nearing the time for her delivery?’
‘Not until April,’ replied Sophia, watching his face. ‘But both the doctor and Mrs Coulter think she may be brought to bed earlier – they say ’tis Nature’s way in such cases. Do you wish me to send you word when she is delivered?’
He gestured helplessly. ‘Yes, I do, but – Cousin Sophy, you surely must know that I’m in no position to marry her.’
Sophia smoothed the front of her gown and adjusted her shawl, making no reply. Osmond leaned on the back of a chair while he put a hand in his jacket and pulled out a small leather bag.
‘You have shown great kindness, Sophy, and at least let me recompense you for your trouble. There are a dozen guineas.’
He placed the clinking bag on a small table she used for writing letters. She did not touch it.
‘Take it, Sophy, and use it for her and the—’ He stopped and shook his head as if not knowing what to say. ‘And will you allow me to see her before I go?’
Sophia was clearly undecided what to do for the best.
‘I am not sure that it would be good for her,’ she said, ‘though if she should later hear about your visit, she would be even more grieved at not seeing you. Look here, I will send for the poor girl, but you must not upset her. Only greet her and wish her well, and then you must go.’
‘Of course, Sophy, yes, I – I understand,’ he muttered.
Sophia rang the bell and told Tess to bring in Polly Lucket.
The next few minutes were pandemonium.
A grossly swollen, ungainly figure waddled into the room. As soon as she saw him she shrieked his name again and again. ‘
Osmond!
Master Osmond! Oh, my love, ’ee be come fur me – Osmond, Osmond!’ And with desperate eagerness she flung herself at him.
‘Look out! Have a care, for God’s sake, you’ll have me over!’ he cried as she grabbed wildly at his clothes, trying to throw her arms around his neck.
‘Polly! Stop that!’ Sophia rushed forward to drag the girl away from him, and he only managed to stay upright by clinging to the writing table.
‘Oi ha’ waited so long fur ’ee!’ Polly wailed. ‘The child presses hard upon me – me back aches night an’ day. Take pity on yer poor Polly, do!’
‘Don’t, Poll, don’t hang on. In God’s name, how came you to be such a monstrous size?’
All through the bleak winter months at the army depot he had dreamed of the girl who had teased and delighted him with her saucy ways, and who had come to his bed to pleasure him back to health. He remembered her patience with his peevishness, her willingness to divert him in a score of ways.
But what dire transformation was this? He shrank back as she tried to reach out to him, her face blotched, her belly grotesquely swollen.
Struggling to be free of Sophia’s restraining arms, Polly caught sight of the horrified unbelief on the face of her lover, and sank back with a pitiful moan. The image of his face became obscured by a thickening web of darkness that rose up and engulfed her so that she saw and heard nothing more.
There had been no new cases of the influenza fever at the House for the past two weeks, but an air of silent exhaustion hung over the place as the surviving inmates returned to some semblance of normality. The wan-faced children mourned for little Dorcas, and Toby clung to Susan, who had brought him back from the very door of death. The greatest toll had been among the old, but there had been unexpected fatalities and equally surprising survivals; Mad Doll still wandered endlessly along the passages and stairways, wringing her hands and searching for heaven knew what, while the House Master had been the last to succumb to the infection and died within two days.
Susan was the only follower of Dorcas’s small coffin, and a mere half-dozen mourners turned out to comfort Mrs Croker when she buried her husband. One of these was Mr Calthorpe, representing the Board of Guardians.
‘He tol’ me that the influenzy ha’ got into Bever House by the back door,’ the widow informed Susan on her return. ‘Their housekeeper be struck down, he says, and can’t raise her head from the bolster.’ The new black mobcap bobbed up and down vengefully. ‘’Twill vex that mother-in-law o’ yourn, Mrs Susan, fur her’ll get no callers while there be fever under the roof, an’ serve her right; she done nothin’ fur us.’
Susan shrugged. The epidemic had left her feeling drained and curiously detached from everyday events. She cared nothing at all about Bever House and its occupants, and although her anxiety over Polly was always at the back of her mind, she was thankful that the girl was safe with Miss Glover, with Mrs Coulter at hand. Susan had calculated from Polly’s last flow that the twins were actually due at the beginning of April, though Dr Parnham had predicted an earlier date.
‘Nature must intervene, I think,’ he had said, and Susan longed to see her sister and make her own judgement. With the epidemic over, she told Mrs Croker that she would get out the pony-trap and drive over to Beversley on the morrow.
‘Oh-ah.’ The big black cap nodded knowingly. ‘Yer sister’ll be gettin’ t’wards her time, Oi dare say. And ’ee’ll be away to be Beversley midwife soon, Missus Calthorpe. ‘Twill be a bad day fur this House, wi’ Croker and ’ee both gone.’
And to Susan’s surprise the mobcap began to wobble as its owner shed real tears into her apron. Susan had no great liking for the woman, but she put a hand on the heaving shoulder.
‘There now, Mrs Croker, ye’ll ha’ to take care o’ the children f’r me – they’ll miss me the most,’ she said, voicing her only regret at leaving the House.
Mrs Croker raised her little reddened piggy eyes, and was about to swear undying devotion to the orphans when there came a loud jangling at the front door, and they both jumped.
‘Lord ha’ mercy, who be that?’ cried the widow, hurrying down the passage while Susan waited with a pounding heart.
‘’Tis yer brother, Missus Calthorpe, ridden over from Beversley, an’ says ’ee’s to go to Glover Cottage straight away!’
Susan ran to where Joby stood at the door, his face reddened by his ride across the common. An old horse panted beside him.
‘Miss Glover sent word fur me to fetch ’ee, Sukey. Her says Polly be in a bad way,’ he said bluntly.
‘Merciful heaven!’ Susan’s hands flew to her throat. ‘Be she in travail, Joby? Is Mrs Coulter with her, d’ye know?’
‘The midwife be at the Bennetts’ wi’ Mrs Marianne. Miss Glover jus’ tol’ me to fetch ’ee,’ said the boy urgently. ‘Oi ha’ to go back straightway. Can ’ee foller me in the pony-trap?’
‘Yes, Joby, yes, I’ll get out the trap an’ come now.’
Impelled by an overwhelming urgency Susan hastily prepared to leave; the long-unexercised pony found himself once more in the shafts, and Susan’s straw bag was flung on to the seat. She climbed up and seized the reins without once looking back, straining her eyes to follow Job across the windswept common in the fading light.