A Carriage for the Midwife (4 page)

‘You have only to name it, Uncle.’

‘It concerns my granddaughter, Sophia Glover, sired by my son on a sempstress before he died, and the mother soon followed. I’ve kept the poor orphan at Bever House, and though I never gave her my name, I’ve settled an annuity on her, and you are to make a place for her here with your children. She’s in her thirteenth year, a quiet, devout little thing, but no fool. She can read, write, sew and play the pianoforte. She’ll be no trouble to you.’

Calthorpe had bowed again and promised that his cousin Sophia could count on a home with his family for as long as she needed a roof over her head.

‘I shall send for Sophy betimes to visit me in London,’ said de Bever. ‘She is the only soul left in the world who truly loves me.’

Calthorpe was about to protest, but thought better of it; and so the Belhampton attorney and his wife had been elevated to county gentry. Sophia had grown to womanhood under their guardianship, and had more than repaid them by acting first as nurserymaid and later as governess to their children; but of late her situation had grown increasingly irksome, and she longed for a little place of her own where she could come and go as she pleased. Her grandfather’s allowance was not sufficient to give her independence, but she was able to help a few needy families, recommended by her friend Mrs Coulter, though the midwife discouraged her from crossing the Beck into Lower Beversley.

They’re a rough lot with no respect for their betters, Miss Sophia. Best leave them to poor Parson Smart.’

A shout from below indicated that the carrier had arrived at the kitchen door, and Sophia too went down to find out what errand had brought him to Bever House under such difficult conditions.

The kitchen was buzzing with activity as Dick and his son made themselves at home, much to the irritation of Martin, who frowned when his wife set two steaming mugs of hot cordial in front of the arrivals. Sophia sat on a chair in the corner from where she could discreetly watch and listen, an outsider here as much as upstairs.

While the four children gathered round young Dick, who was warming himself on the hearthstone, old Dick stretched out his legs under the table.

‘Here, Martin, a little summat fur the still room, from the rectory,’ he grinned, tapping the side of his prominent nose and handing over a leather bag that clinked as the butler took it. Everybody knew that smuggled brandy made its way up to Beversley, but Martin was infuriated by Dick’s over-familiarity and lack of discretion.

‘A word in yer ear, Martin – Oi got a packet here fur Mr Calthorpe, to put into ’un’s hand an’ no other ’un’s!’

‘Ye may give it to me, then, for ye may go no further’n this kitchen,’ the butler told him loftily.

‘Ah, that Oi will not! I got me orders.’

‘Hand it over at once, d’ye hear? Or I’ll send for Mr Calthorpe’s agent.’

Dick drew the packet from the depths of an inside pocket. ‘And moind ’ee takes it straight up to yer master! It be from Lord de Bever’s Lunnon house by its mark, and ha’ lain at the post house in Belhampton these two weeks past, ’cause o’ the snow.’

Martin left the kitchen, leaving old Dick to harrow Mrs Martin and Sophia with gruesome tales of unburied coffins and an outbreak of the dreaded white throat at the House of Industry.

A scream from Caroline brought Sophia to her feet.

‘What have you been telling her, young man?’ she demanded of young Dick.

‘Oi ain’t said nothin’, miss, only told ’em how poor ol’ Goody Firkin froze to death in the snow.’

‘Goody Firkin?’ repeated Sophia in horror. ‘Isn’t she a poor, crazed old woman who lives at Ash-Pit End?’

‘Not any more, her don’t,’ cut in old Dick, glaring at his son for ruining his best story. ‘Sexton found her in the churchyard o’ Little St Giles, stiff an’ stark. Must ha’ laid there all night. Her eyes were open an’ staring as if—’

‘Stop, stop, don’t say any more,’ begged Edward, deathly pale.

Osmond’s lip curled. ‘Stop, stop, Dick, boo-hoo, boo hoo!’ he mocked, but Sophia turned on him.

‘
Be quiet!
’ she commanded with such cold fury that he shrugged and was silent.

‘Good God, how can we live in luxury and idleness while the poor are dying outside the gates?’ she went on, trembling with emotion. ‘It is a disgrace, a scandal! I’ll tell you what, Mrs Martin, I shall no longer lead a useless life in this house. From now on I shall visit the poor of Beversley, whatever Mrs Calthorpe says!’

They all stared at the young woman as she stood in the middle of the kitchen, her eyes blazing. Edward spoke up.

‘And I’ll come with you, Cousin Sophy.’

At that moment the door from the passage opened and Martin marched in, bursting with importance.

‘Master Osmond, Master Edward and ye two little girls are to go straight up to y’r parents – and yeself too, Miss Glover.’

He then briskly dismissed the indignant carrier and his son, who had brought the news of Lord de Bever’s death three weeks previously in London, aged sixty-eight.

In the chill of her room Sophia studied the copy of her grandfather’s Will and the letter written in his archaic hand. In her emotional state she found it hard to follow the legal complexities of the first, but through her tears she was able to decipher the message of the second.

Turning back to the Will, Sophia gradually understood it to mean that while her grandfather had bequeathed Bever House to his nephew and descendants, she was to inherit a half-share of the old man’s fortune, a sum in excess of thirty thousand pounds. The other half was to be divided among the Calthorpes.

She now recalled certain fond looks the old gentleman had given her during her last visit to London, at the time of the harvest supper. She remembered the tenderness of their farewell, more truly loving than at any time in her lonely childhood; and as she emerged from the shock and sorrow of his death, she began to realise what he had done for her. She was no longer dependent on her cousins; she could buy a house of her own in Beversley and live the life she desired, as a true friend and benefactress to the poor. Her prayers were answered!

She kneeled down beside her bed.

‘Yes, dear grandfather,’ she whispered. ‘I
will
use it well, with God’s help!’

Mr Calthorpe thought he understood the reasoning behind his uncle’s Will. His son Osmond would have to earn the right to lord it over Beversley as a landowner. With an Oxford degree he might make a career in the law or politics, and Edward might look for a commission in the army or navy, or perhaps take holy orders, in which case there were several comfortable livings to be had in the county. Selina and Caroline should be able to make satisfactory marriages to professional men, or even into the new rapidly rising mercantile class.

All in all, Calthorpe bore no resentment against Lord de Bever, for he believed that his sons would benefit from the apparent harshness of the will. And he was happy for Sophia’s good fortune.

Not so Gertrude Calthorpe. To her it was a cruel parting shot from a spiteful old man who had given with one hand and taken away with the other. Of what use was property without the wherewithal to live as property owners? They would be a laughing stock with all their economies!

And as for that treacherous Glover girl, the sooner she was out of the house, the better. She must have used flattery on the old man, and carried lying tittle-tattle to him about life at Bever House. Why else should he have taken bread from the mouths of those he had planned to honour?

SUSAN WOKE SUDDENLY
and sat up in alarm beside the still-sleeping Polly. It was pitch-dark. She peered down from the roost at the last fading embers of the fire.

There it was again, the sound that had wakened her. It came from her mother, moaning as she stirred and turned over. Susan had grown used to hearing Dolly’s nightly groans and mutterings when sleep brought dreams of her lost boys.

Bartle, Will and Georgie. It did not seem possible to Susan that she would never see them again, and her uncomprehending grief made her constantly alert for Polly; her greatest terror was of losing the little sister on whom she now lavished all the love that Doll seemed not to want. Neither did their mother seem able to show her daughters any affection since the fearful toll taken by the white throat.

After the parson’s visit, hope had returned to the Ash-Pits; the victuals that Susan carried from the Bennett kitchen two or three times a week had literally saved them from starvation, and the good Nathaniel Smart had rejoiced at his part in their rescue. He had meekly bowed his head before his wife’s accusations, heartily thanking his Maker for using him to save the Lucket children.

He was not allowed this comfort for long. By the third week in January a thaw set in, and the milder air blew the dreaded infection into one damp dwelling after another. Children weakened by a winter diet were struck down by the swift and deadly malady that had begun in the House of Industry; they became feverish, with painfully sore throats, and within hours a greyish membrane spread across the back of the throat. Susan could still hear the sounds of her brothers gasping for air on the night when death had claimed all three between sunset and dawn. She and Polly had survived, and so had baby Jack, kept strictly apart from the sick children in the roost; in fact Doll’s fanatical protection of her squint-eyed youngest son was part of the remembered horror. Even Bartlemy had prayed aloud for God to take pity on them, swearing to reform and never drink strong ale again if his children’s lives were spared, but when the winter sun rose on the first day of February, the three small brothers lay still and silent. Their burial was charged on the parish, which was all that Parson Smart could do for them. He had been forced to promise his wife that he would not visit any dwelling while the white throat raged, for fear of bringing it home to their own family – and he never forgave himself for deserting those whom it seemed that God Himself had forsaken.

It could never be proved that the infection was carried up from the Ash-Pits to the farmhouse when the Bennett children caught it. Tom, Sally and Marianne recovered, but little Annie died two days after the losses at the Ash-Pits. The farmer’s wrath was terrible, adding to his wife’s grief, and all traffic between the two families ceased.

At Bever House Edward and Caroline fell sick with colds on their chests, and were visited daily by Mr Turnbull, the apothecary. He made them open their mouths while he peered down their throats with the aid of a mirror reflecting the light of a candle held by Mrs Ferris, the tall, black-haired woman who had replaced Miss Glover as nurse. Within a week they had recovered, none the worse for the scare.

But Susan’s world had become full of shifting shadows in which Death lurked; she lived with uncertainty, for nothing could be relied upon. Bartlemy’s leg healed slowly, though stayed shorter than the other, and he began to find casual labouring jobs, avoiding the alehouse on his way home; but Dolly scarcely looked at him, and seldom spoke to any of them. She withdrew herself behind an invisible barrier with Jack and the child almost ready to leave her womb.

Little Polly turned instinctively to Susan for comfort and reassurance, and gradually the elder daughter became the linchpin of the family. Bartlemy patted her shoulder, and said she was ‘her dad’s good gal, his kind little Sukey’, words which Doll appeared not to hear, for her face remained blank.

There it was again: a sharp moan and a painful gasp as if Dolly was lifting a heavy pail, then silence for a few minutes, followed by another groan.

Bartlemy rose from his corner and lit a candle.

‘Do ’ee want me ter go fur Widder Gibson, Doll?’

‘No, Oi must be me own midwife, we can’t pay fur no other,’ groaned the woman, and Susan heard Bartlemy growl something about ‘it’ll come anyway,’ which worried her still more. What would come? Was it Death yet again? Was her mother dying?

‘What about Jack?’ she heard Bartlemy ask.

‘Sukey can mind un when the time comes – him’ll be all right wi’ me fur now – oh! Ah!’ This time the cry of pain was louder and lasted longer.

Susan was frightened, and called down to her mother, ‘Ma! Ha’ ye got a pain in yer belly?’

‘Hush, Sukey, ye’ll wake Jack. Go to sleep,’ gasped Doll.

But it was impossible to sleep with the noises getting louder and coming at shorter intervals, interspersed with Bartlemy’s useless mumbling.

‘Oi better go fur Widder Gibson, Doll.’

The only reply was another moan, and the next hour was a nightmare of worsening pain for Dolly and mounting terror for Susan. The woman’s agonised yelps sounded like a stoat or a weasel caught in a gamekeeper’s trap. Jack woke up, and his howls woke Polly.

‘What be up wi’ Ma, Sukey?’ her little voice quavered.

But before Susan could answer, Bartlemy bellowed up urgently, ‘Sukey! Sukey, gal, come and take Jack from yer ma!’

‘You wait up here, Poll, while I go down,’ whispered Susan, her foot on the rickety ladder.

‘That’s it, Sukey, take poor little Jack up to be wi’ Polly,’ groaned Doll, handing the bawling infant to Susan, who carried him up to the roost and laid him as far from the edge as possible.