The Widow’s Secret, page 13
“Yes?”
“Is this Rachel Gardener?” an official-sounding voice asked rather tersely.
“Yes.”
“You are the next of kin of Deborah Barnaby, aged seventy?”
Rachel’s heart felt as if it had suspended in her chest, and her breath caught as her fingers clenched on the phone. “Yes. Has something happened?”
“I’m afraid your mother is currently at Westmorland General Hospital. She’s in a stable condition –”
“But why? What’s happened?”
“She hit her head and was taken by ambulance to A&E. I’m sure the local consultant can give you more information. She’s being kept in overnight for some tests.”
Tests? What kind of tests? And how had her mother hit her head so badly that she had to be taken by ambulance? Fear churned in Rachel’s stomach and numbed her mind. “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” she said, forcing the words through lips that felt frozen. “I’ll leave right now.”
With all thoughts of James Fenton and The Fair Lady gone from her mind, Rachel scrambled into her coat and shoes and headed outside.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Abigail
Whitehaven, 1766
The Pearl sailed into Whitehaven’s harbour one sunny morning in mid-April, when the daffodils were shyly unfurling their bright heads and cottony white clouds scudded across a freshly washed sky.
In the seventeen months since it had set sail for Africa, Abigail had suffered three more miscarriages, carrying each child just long enough to begin to dare to hope. Each one was a more crushing loss than the last, taking its inevitable toll on her worn-out body as well as her aching heart.
In May, after her second miscarriage, the doctor, who had before been so brisk, kindly advised she have a proper rest. So James rented a house in Bath, and they’d travelled, extravagantly, by hired coach, an expense which would have worried Abigail if she’d had the energy or emotion to care.
As it was, she felt numb to everything – even James’s tender solicitude, which had once made her eyes sting, but now just felt like so much fussing that irritated her if it affected her at all.
“My dear,” Caroline had said before they left for Bath, pressing her daughter’s limp hand between her own, “you have suffered many disappointments, as you know I have, but I pray that your hopes may still be realized.” Her smile was tremulous, her eyes tear-filled as she gazed at her daughter. “Truly, Abigail, you have been the greatest blessing of my life. I pray you might know the same. I trust that you will.”
Abigail had tried to smile, but her lips didn’t seem to be working properly. In fact, she felt as if her whole body wasn’t working as it should; she was nothing more than a jumble of disjointed parts, broken bits she didn’t know how to put together. And no matter how loving James was, or how desperately he tried to see to her comfort, she feared he did not know either.
They spent three months in Bath, taking the waters and walking along South Parade and in Sydney Gardens, living quietly and avoiding most society. By the end of the summer, Abigail’s body had healed, even though her heart was still a wounded, worn out thing.
James was buoyant with determined hope, insisting that this was still only the beginning; how many beginnings they could have, Abigail could not bring herself to contemplate.
“I know this has been so distressing for you,” he said one evening not long before they were to return to Whitehaven. “And it has grieved me sorely to see you in such a low state, my love. But I do think the climate has helped you to heal. I trust we will have good news again one day.”
Abigail knew he meant the words as encouragement, but they felt like a burden she had to bear; if they did not have good news, if she could not carry a child, it would be her fault.
In September, she discovered she was pregnant again; James’s tenderness in Bath had borne the much longed for blessing. And yet within a few weeks of holding this precious realization to herself, half terrified to do anything that might dislodge this fledgling child from her womb, refusing even to tell James, Abigail went through the whole agonizing process again – the cramps, the chamber pot, the blood and bed sheets, the doctor.
“Really, Mrs Fenton, you must take care of yourself with a bit more rigour,” he told her, his manner severe, as if she had been cartwheeling carelessly through the house. “You have now had three losses in the space of a twelvemonth. A woman’s body, already naturally weak, cannot be so further compromised.”
Abigail had stared at him flatly, unable to think of a suitable reply. Did he not realize how careful she had been, how terrified of doing anything that would result in this grim scenario yet again? For the last month, she had subscribed to the lowering diet recommended by the town’s best accoucheur, taking no meat, eggs, coffee, or tea, only allowing herself short walks and never riding in a carriage, and going without the whalebone stays that were the fashion for every gently bred lady.
None of it had helped or worked, and now the doctor clucked his tongue and shook his head, insisting that Mr Fenton should have no relations with his wife for at least three months – a piece of advice that made Abigail blush with mortification and shame. Not only was she failing to provide an heir for her husband, but she could no longer give him the wifely comfort he surely craved.
James, however, continued to be completely understanding, which, for a reason she could not fathom, made Abigail almost angry.
“How can you stand it?” she cried one evening in November, a month after the miscarriage, when rain lashed against the windows, the heavy curtains drawn tightly across, throwing the room into an entombed darkness that seemed suffocating. “I have failed you as a wife in every way possible.”
“Abigail, do not speak such nonsense,” James implored, taking her cold hands in his own. “You are all I want in a wife and more. Yes, I long for children, as I know you do as well. Of course we do, it is a natural desire. But who am I to rail at what God has ordained? If we are to be so blessed, then I say amen; if we are not, I will say the same.”
He stared at her earnestly, his dear face full of so much tender concern, and yet Abigail could not let go of her anger; it rose up inside her like some sort of serpent, twisting its coils around every aspect of her life, hissing its venom.
“I do not know why you would say amen to such a thing,” she said coldly, pulling her hands from his, and James’s face fell.
“My dear, we must accept whatever God deigns to provide. That is the only Christian response.”
“Must we?” Abigail had been a churchgoer all her life, reading her Bible and saying her prayers as a matter of duty rather than pleasure. She had always seen God as some sort of impersonal force akin to the tides, exerting an unknown will on her life whether she wished for it or not, but now she imagined Him as a puppeteer, gleefully holding the strings before He snipped them one by one, and left her dangling in mid-air before falling, lifeless, to the hard ground.
“Abigail, whatever happens, we must bow to God’s will,” James said quietly. He sounded sad rather than stern, which infuriated her all the more. It was easy for him, and it felt impossible for her.
“I see I disappoint you even in this,” she snapped, and walked out of the room, despising herself more than her husband or the God she was choosing not to submit to.
All autumn she had eschewed the dances and parties that the season dictated; she’d discovered Georgiana was expecting again, one hand resting complacently on a bump larger than any Abigail had ever been able to have, and she avoided her along with everyone else, shutting herself up in the house in Queen Street, doing nothing more than sleeping or sitting in a chair. Even reading her precious books gave her no pleasure.
“Abigail, you are retreating from all of life,” Caroline said in January, when she came to visit and found her daughter sitting listlessly in front of the fire, without even the pretence of needlework to occupy her. “I understand your disappointment, my dear, of course I do. But you are still a wife, a daughter, a friend. You must inhabit the roles God gave you.”
Abigail shook her head slowly. “I feel like naught but a cipher.”
“But you are not such a thing,” Caroline said firmly. “And you must resume your activities and duties rather than waste away to no purpose. There is always charity work to occupy your heart as well as your mind. Do not make your situation even more desolate by refusing to enter into life and all it has to offer. Why don’t you accompany me to the almshouses tomorrow? It is so very rewarding.”
Her mother had of late taken to visiting the almshouses established by the Lowther family for colliers and their widows, bringing baskets of food and medicines they could never hope to afford. Ever since John Wesley had come to Whitehaven to preach in the open air last year, her mother had become possessed by a new fervour to do benevolent works, although her enthusiasm did not extend to attending the newly opened chapel on Michael Street, attended by the poor and humble of Whitehaven, rather than their parish church of St Nicholas.
Abigail shook her head at her mother’s suggestion; the thought of seeing those in even more desperate straits than herself did not enliven her in the least.
“So be it,” Caroline said with some asperity. “But mark my words, Abigail, the person you are injuring the most with this behaviour is yourself.”
A fact Abigail already knew full well.
In February she fell pregnant for the fourth and last time. She’d barely begun to wonder – hope did not even occur to her any longer – before the cramps started and the doctor was sent for. This loss was the worst of all, wringing her body, it seemed, of every last drop of blood and vigour, and sending her to her bed for well over a month.
“You are remarkably fertile for a woman of your delicacy,” the doctor told her, sounding disapproving, as if her fertility were her fault. “In light of such a situation, I advise you cease relations with your husband forthwith. I will advise Mr Fenton of the same. Otherwise I fear not only for your health, Madam, but for your very life.”
They had only been married for two years, and now Abigail would no longer be a wife to her husband in any way that mattered. James took the news stoically, assuring Abigail of his love and constancy, but Abigail spiralled into an even deeper depression than before, refusing to rise from her bed even after her body had healed. She preferred to lie in darkness, to block out the world and all its vain, unrealized hopes, while James conducted his business and Jensen slipped in and out of rooms as quietly as she could.
She did not want to entertain; she did not even want to read a book or take a needle and thread. She felt as if life held nothing for her any longer, and she could not shake it. She did not even try.
“I am too worn out,” she protested when James drew the curtains late one sunny morning, determined to rouse her from her bed after six weeks of closed confinement. “James, please. You must not aggravate me so. I am not well. You know it as surely as I do.”
“The Pearl has arrived this morning,” he told her, his smile determined if a bit forced. “They are unloading the cargo now. It is a beautiful spring day, Abigail. Come with me to the quay to see it.”
“It is no place for a lady –”
“It is the place for my wife! This is our fortune, Abigail, our very livelihood. You need only come for a few minutes, but I wish for you to be by my side.”
From her prostrate position in bed Abigail saw the rigid set of James’s shoulders and smile, the desperation in his eyes, and something in her relented as she was reminded of a time when they’d been happy, when their affection had been easy and careless, and life had felt so very simple and bright.
“Very well,” she said with a restive sigh. “But only for a few minutes. I am still not strong.”
“I know, my dear, and thank you.” He kissed her hand before turning to the door. “I will send Jensen to you, to help you dress.”
An hour later Abigail was walking to the old quay with James’s arm tucked through hers as she blinked in the bright sunlight, the fresh air, tangy with brine, like a slap in her face.
She had not been outside in so long she feared she might collapse beneath the onslaught of her senses – the bright light, the sounds of the stevedores’ shouts and the gulls wheeling overhead, the oily lapping of the sea against the old stone pier.
“It was a successful voyage?” she asked, and James paused, his mouth tightening before he gave a brisk nod.
“Yes, I believe so, by all accounts.”
Abigail angled her head towards him, noting his eyes narrowed against the sunlight as they approached The Pearl. “There were not too many losses?” she asked cautiously. Over the last year she had not concerned herself with James’s business in the slightest, too overcome by her own private tribulations. The Fair Lady was due to set sail in a few weeks’ time, when James had secured the investors, but she had not thought overmuch about it, or even at all.
“Losses?” James gave a little shrug. “Oh, there have always been losses, on any sea voyage. They haven’t been too worrisome this time, I believe.”
They were near the ship, the smell and sounds quite overwhelming Abigail. She might live near the harbour, the centre of Whitehaven’s livelihood, but she was rarely on it. She had not been there since The Pearl had set sail what felt like a lifetime, or in fact three lifetimes, ago.
“What is that awful stench?” she cried as she fished a handkerchief from her sleeve and pressed it to her nose. It was worse than anything she’d smelled before coming off the ships in harbour.
“It is always the way with slave ships,” James answered with a frown. “No matter how many times they wash it down, the ship always carries that smell.”
“But what is it?” Abigail cried. James did not answer, and she realized what it had to be: the smell of humanity, unwashed, wounded, ill. It was a rank, fetid smell of sweat and blood, pus and faeces. It was everything awful all at once, and she pressed her handkerchief closer to her mouth, wishing she had a pomander.
“When the wind changes direction, it will not be so bad,” James assured her. “Now.” He rubbed his hands together, looking both pleased and secretive. “They have just finished unloading. I have quite a surprise for you, my dear. It has come on the ship.”
“A surprise?” Abigail regarded him warily. The ship had been laden with hogsheads of sugar and rum, as far as she knew; what could James have brought her this time? She did not want another curio or trinket, like the strange figurine she had kept at the back of a drawer, behind several lace handkerchiefs. She had been tempted to dispose of it entirely, but some perverse need to keep it had kept her from such an act.
“Oh, you shall see, you shall see,” James said, his face positively alight with enthusiasm. “The captain has assured me all is well. Let me just make a few preparations.” He strode off, to Abigail’s annoyance, for she did not like to be a woman alone on the slippery quay, the wind off the water chilly despite the spring sunshine. All around her men hefted and hauled and shouted in loud, crude voices that made Abigail flinch as she longed for the quiet peace of her bedroom, the curtains drawn against the world.
She pulled her shawl more tightly across her shoulders, tightening the strings of her calash bonnet, which hid her profile from prying eyes. If only she could disappear completely.
Then she heard James’s voice ringing out with his usual cheer. “Mrs Fenton, my dear! Look and see what I’ve brought you.”
Abigail turned, blinking slowly, her mind going blank at the sight in front of her: her husband leading a child by a chain; a child whose skin was darker than any Abigail had ever seen. The lamentable creature was dressed in nothing but a ragged garment of cheap cloth. His or her – for Abigail could not discern which the creature was – hands were cuffed together with iron manacles bound by the length of heavy chain that James held.
The child’s head was bowed, shoulders hunched as he or she shivered in the unforgiving wind.
“What…” Abigail whispered, unable to say or even think any further than that.
“She can be your little lady’s maid,” James explained with a smile. “Apparently if you get them young they are quite trainable. It is all the fashion in London, my dear. You dress them as little lords and ladies – quite the thing. And she is rather sweet, don’t you think?” He put his hand under the girl’s chin and forced it up, not roughly but not gently either, so Abigail could inspect her face.
The girl’s eyes were large and soft and brown, the expression in them utterly blank. Her skin was a deep mahogany, the same colour as that of the little figurine. Abigail saw there were scabbed-over sores crusting her mouth.
She drew a breath and smelled the overwhelming odour of faeces, sweat, and dirt which, she realized, were coming from the girl’s clothes – a ragged scrap of a dress made of coarse linen.
Abigail moistened her lips, her mouth quite dry. “What am I to do with her?”
“I thought she could serve you,” James said, making it sound so very obvious and reasonable. “Fetching and carrying, helping you with your needlework, perhaps, if she can manage it. She can be a companion of sorts.”
“A companion?” Abigail stared at him in shocked horror. How could he possibly suggest such a thing? She would have rather had a kitten or a lapdog, or… a parrot! Everything about this child, from her manacles to her poor, chapped mouth, was dirty and foreign and frightening. Abigail experienced the same reaction to the child in front of her as she had to the little figurine: a horrible fascination mixed with an inexplicable terror. She wanted to back away, quickly.
James’s smile, once so warm and wide, now faltered. “I tell you, Abigail, it is all the rage in London. I am sure she will amuse you.”
“But we are not in London,” she said numbly. “And I do not know of a single gentleman or lady in all of Whitehaven who is in possession of such a –” she nodded towards the girl, who had lowered her head once more, “a – creature as this.” There were a few slaves, yes, usually brought from the Americas, but they were older and kept to their masters’ homes and Abigail did not catch sight of them at all.
