House of Splinters, page 8
‘Almost there, Mrs Bainbridge.’
Heat and rushing. Something dredged from her very depths. There was a wet sound like a person wading through mud.
‘Here! Where is the hot water? Fetch salt… mustard!’
A resounding slap.
Belinda peered up, still woozy. Mr Quigley was striking a small, slimy piece of meat, plunging it into a tub of steaming liquid. Sawyer passed him a handful of salt and he rubbed vigorously with the crystals, as if seasoning a chop to be fried.
‘What’s happening?’ she croaked.
Mrs Knowles appeared at her side and made a hushing sound. ‘Your baby’s had an ordeal too, madam. They just need to ginger her up a bit.’
Her. A daughter. Wilfred would be so pleased…
There was a cry; the fury of a child dragged into the world. Belinda propped herself up on an elbow. ‘My baby…’ Her voice was a worn thread.
Mr Quigley delivered the child, squirming, into her arms. She saw her own face in miniature, framed by wisps of Wilfred’s Titian hair. The baby’s green irises like smeared glass bottles.
‘She was not breathing at first,’ Mr Quigley said dourly. ‘No doubt she was shaken up by your gallivanting abroad. You must take more care of your children, Mrs Bainbridge. The outcome could have been very different, were it not for my skill.’
CHAPTER 8
It was a peculiar kind of torture, to sit at a distance and listen to his wife scream. Panic corroded within him and yet Wilfred was forced to keep calm as he assured Freddy all would be well. What would he do if matters did not turn out well? The idea made him so wild that he refused to entertain it.
He sat in the library, elbows on the desk, hands driven into the stubble on his head. Both wig and coat were too hot to bear. He should have a pipe or even a brandy to calm his nerves, but the thought of either made him feel sick. Somehow the second birth was a more fearsome beast. They’d been lucky to have mother and child come through completely unscathed last time. To go through the process all over again felt like tempting fate. Pushing their luck. He tried to concentrate on his firstborn instead.
Shards of light cut into the carpet and Freddy lay on his stomach in one of them, leafing through Sawyer’s sketchbook. He stopped occasionally to make his own additions to the drawings in pencil. Right now, he was lingering on a particularly fine rendition of the front of the house. He began to scrawl. Figures appeared behind the windows in his childish hand. A sinister, shadow audience, stickmen with their faces blacked out.
Distantly, Belinda’s cries ebbed into sobs.
‘Who are the people?’ Wilfred asked. ‘Are you drawing us?’
Freddy shook his fair head. ‘No. They’re the others.’
‘The… others?’
‘The ones who came before.’
‘Oh, our ancestors, do you mean? Like in the portraits on the walls?’
Freddy kept his focus and did not answer. With his red, puffy eyes and a hollow expression, the poor child looked exhausted. Fancy him walking in his sleep! Burrowing like a rabbit. A most unaccountable thing. Sawyer had spent the best part of an hour scrubbing out dirt from beneath his small fingernails.
Wilfred had wet the bed himself as a boy, when matters between his parents were at their worst, but he’d never taken to sleepwalking. He could see no cause why Freddy should be troubled here at The Bridge. Yet children were adept in the art of concealment. He of all people should know that.
‘Fred, come and sit here with me for a moment, would you? There’s a good chap.’ Freddy laid his pencil down and climbed to his feet, wandering over to the desk. Wilfred pulled the boy onto his lap, more to comfort himself than his son. ‘There, now. How are you holding up today?’
‘I’m sleepy.’ Freddy snuggled his head into Wilfred’s chest, his cheek against the embroidered waistcoat. ‘And I want Mamma.’
‘Yes, well, Mamma is occupied at present, I’m afraid. We shall both have to be patient.’ He grimaced as Belinda chose that moment to shriek again. He pulled Freddy closer. ‘And I’m not surprised to hear that you are tired. It must have been frightening, waking up outside as you did.’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know how you came to be out in the gardens in the first place? Were you dreaming?’
He felt Freddy nod. ‘A girl was calling me. She sounded like Hetta but she was all… echoey. Like she was far away. Or deep down. In the well.’
Wilfred shuddered and smoothed the child’s hair. ‘I expect that was your mother or Sawyer,’ he reasoned. ‘You heard them in your sleep.’
‘You said I mustn’t go near the well,’ Freddy went on. ‘So I didn’t, Papa. I listened harder. She was… underground. She wanted to come out and meet the baby. Everything smelt like flowers… then I woke up.’
There was a rough logic to the progression of the dream. Part of Freddy’s mind must have been dwelling on John’s planting, which he'd noticed last week, so his body had taken him to the flowerbed to fix the problem. Belinda and Sawyer had been talking about the onset of her labour, and he’d heard them before he woke up. ‘I see. That sounds like a confusing night for you, my boy, but do not fret yourself. It was only a dream after all. We will lock the nursery door at night so you cannot go wandering off again.’ Wilfred stroked Freddy’s cheek. ‘You know, people often sleepwalk when they are upset. Are you upset about anything?’
Freddy shrugged.
‘I suppose there has been a lot of change for you, in a short time. We are living in our new house, Phoebe has gone, and now you’re becoming a big brother. But you must not let it worry you. Papa will always keep you perfectly safe. You know that, don’t you?’
Safety seemed a bold claim, while Belinda groaned so pitifully in the background.
Freddy squirmed. ‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘But it’s not really our house, is it?’
‘Whatever do you mean by that?’
There was an abrupt hush. Freddy turned his head to watch the door, distracted. Wilfred held his breath. A flurry of voices, then nothing.
Ominous silence reigned. Surely not. Surely life could not be so cruel…
All at once, a baby wailed.
He exhaled in a rush, ruffling Freddy’s curls. ‘Ho! Do you hear that? That’s your new sibling saying hello.’ It was a lusty cry, thanks be to God.
Freddy leapt from his lap. ‘Why are they making that horrible sound?’
Wilfred laughed. He could not stop laughing, he was so overcome with relief. ‘Babies cry, Fred. They cannot talk yet, so they cry to tell us what they want.’
The boy wrinkled his nose. ‘And they’re going to be in my nursery, with me?’
‘I’m afraid so, old chap. But you will get used to it.’ Wilfred rose to his feet, tidied himself, donned his wig and coat once more. Foolish as it was, he wanted to make a good first impression on his child.
At last there came a tap at the door.
‘Come,’ Wilfred said, impressed by how collected he sounded.
The accoucheur entered, unsmiling. He looked so serious that Wilfred reached instinctively for his son. ‘A daughter, Mr Bainbridge. Both mother and child are doing well.’
A daughter. For some reason he’d been expecting another boy. There had not been a daughter in this house for such a long time. It felt like a second chance. A little girl to dance with Freddy, to take shopping for dresses in Torbury St Jude. He could see her whole future unspooling before her like a ribbon. ‘And – and I may visit them?’
Mr Quigley inclined his head. ‘I can have the child brought to you momentarily.’
‘There’s no need to separate them. I wish to see my wife.’
‘As you please.’
‘I’m coming too!’ Freddy insisted.
Wilfred held him back. ‘You may, but you must not pester your mother, Freddy. She’ll be very tired. Just give her a kiss and say hello to your new sister. There’s a responsibility for you, little man.’ He squeezed the boy’s shoulder. ‘Protecting your sister must always be your most important task from now on.’
Freddy pulled away from his grip. ‘Why must it? I wanted a brother.’
‘No, you didn’t. A sister is… easier.’
They strode after Mr Quigley, down the maroon-papered corridor, while the baby kept testing her voice. As they entered Belinda’s suite of rooms, an unholy blend of odours pressed back against them: acidic, musty and sickeningly sweet. Mrs Knowles and Sawyer were bustling around with linen and bowls of water. After the stillness of the library, it was an assault upon the senses.
They found Belinda in the next room, propped up in her four-poster bed, slick and grey as an oyster. She’d clearly had a rough go of it. Rat’s tails of hair straggled over her shoulders. A bundle of linen lay in the crook of her right arm, the baby barely visible through swaddling.
‘My love—’ Wilfred started but Freddy shot forward.
‘Mamma! You were screaming.’ Before they could stop him, he had hopped up on the bed – the sheets had thankfully been changed since the birth – and was worming his way towards Belinda. ‘Did my sister hurt you?’
A tired laugh puffed from his mother’s lips. ‘She did not mean to, Freddy. We are both quite well now.’
He peered down at the bundle, nonplussed. ‘She’s not very pretty, is she?’
‘And you are not very gallant, Fred!’ Wilfred chuckled. ‘All babies are wrinkled. Her looks will improve in time. We will be fighting off beaux for her before you know it. Now, come along, what did I say? A quick kiss for Mamma and back to the nursery. I daresay Sawyer will take you.’
Dutifully, Freddy pressed his lips to Belinda’s wan cheek and squirmed back off the bed. The frilled collar of his shirt was sticking up at all angles. Sawyer came to take him by the hand. ‘Goodbye, Lydia,’ he tossed over his shoulder.
‘Lydia?’ Belinda repeated. ‘Why do you call her that?’
Freddy blinked, as though it were obvious. ‘It’s her name.’
Wilfred watched Sawyer lead the boy away in bemusement and shut the door behind them. Finally, Belinda and he were alone. Or almost.
He approached the bed. ‘I am sorry, darling. Freddy so wanted to see you, but he’s half-drunk on exhaustion. How are you? Quigley said it was quite the ordeal.’
Belinda tried to smile, but it was fragile, quivering, and a tear slipped down her cheek. ‘Oh, I am well enough. Truly, I am. It was just all rather a strain.’
He wiped her tear away with his thumb. ‘Naturally! You have been excessively brave.’
‘I have been excessively stupid,’ she countered. ‘I never should have left my room. I put her in danger. But, oh, look at her, Wilfred. Freddy has no taste – I think she is perfect.’ She passed the baby to him.
Rosebud lips, bright embers of hair. He loved her instantly, desperately. ‘What a gift, Bel! You are the cleverest lady in England.’ Careful to support the baby’s fragile skull, he brought her face close to his. Her myopic gaze struggled to focus. ‘How do you do?’ he whispered.
‘I may have produced a wonderful child, but I have not been clever, Wilfred. I have not been anything like it.’ Belinda cuffed away fresh tears. ‘You are always so good and indulgent to me, but I really am ashamed of myself. What was I thinking? Sawyer should never have had the care of Freddy. She is an excellent maid and she loves him very much, but she is not trained for minding children. If I had not woken her up last night, who knows what could have happened to him out in the gardens? And that precious girl you are holding! Mr Quigley said he was only just able to save her. She came out of me without any breath in her lungs.’
He pulled the child closer, horrified by the thought. ‘She did?’
‘Yes! And all because I could not give up my gardening or keep myself still in bed. Well, that folly ends now. You must have Sawyer bring me my writing slope. I am going to engage nursery staff at once. Rousseau and Locke are all well and good, but some things must be done the old-fashioned way.’
She was too hard upon herself. He was at fault as much as she. ‘I agree that you should hire your staff, but please do not agitate yourself, my love. Recover your strength. We must take care you do not grow nervous like last time.’
‘Oh, I am not nervous!’ she cried, in a way that made her sound just that. ‘Only annoyed with myself. But I will put this energy to good use, I promise you. I will make it up to our daughter, I will use my confinement to plan her a lovely Christening.’
‘You want to have a large ceremony?’ he asked, surprised.
She bit her lip. ‘Yes. I thought so. Or… or is that in poor taste, so soon after your father?’
Wilfred blew out his breath, thinking about the estate. Parading his own status would gall those villagers who were struggling to make ends meet. He had no wish to be dragged out to their infamous Hanging Oak. But when he looked at the sweet child, the sweep of her little eyelashes against her cheek, and Belinda’s pain-ravaged face, he wavered.
‘I think we shall have to strike a balance. It is difficult for you, I know. In London you would have friends over to drink caudle… here you are lonely. But it is not wise to invite guests beyond family. Perhaps your brother Luke, since he is still in the country? And we can go to the church, rather than have the vicar come here. We will put out some flowers and order a fine repast. What do you think?’
She nodded. ‘Yes, yes. Whatever you judge best. I just want our daughter to have something nice of her own. It is not her fault she was born into mourning.’ Belinda put out her arms. ‘May I take her back?’
Reluctantly, he gave the warm bundle over. ‘Before she can be baptised, Miss Bainbridge will need a name.’
Belinda rearranged the blanket around the baby’s face. ‘I had presumed it would be Tiffany.’
A seizure in his chest. Of course, he had been thinking about Tiffany from the moment Mr Quigley announced the birth of a girl. But hearing the name aloud did not conjure memories of the smiling sister who had sung to herself and made daisy chains. He saw only the crumpled body at the bottom of the well, her neck bent at an unnatural angle.
‘That is kind of you. Most kind.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I would have thought so, too. Yet now I see our daughter… It is as you say. She deserves something of her own. Free from the past. The name of a dead aunt is too heavy a burden to put on young shoulders.’
Something kindled in Belinda’s tired eyes. A fellow feeling. They understood one another. ‘Well, I do not have any objections to the name Lydia…’
His lips curved in a smile. ‘It’s her name,’ he repeated in Freddy’s voice and they both laughed. ‘He is a funny little chap. Where does he come up with these things?’
‘I cannot say. But I do like the idea of his naming his sister.’
‘Well, Lydia it is, then. A pretty name. Shall I go and write the announcement for the newspapers?’ He rose from the edge of the bed, kissed her forehead. It was salted with sweat. ‘You will soon be inundated with letters of congratulation.’
‘And I need my slope too, Wilfred. Do not forget to tell Sawyer.’
‘I will not fail you, my love.’
He looked back fondly over his shoulder at mother and child. Strange to say that Belinda had never appeared in greater beauty to him than she did now: breathless, sweaty and drawn. He was proud of her. She had turned a corner, discovered a new sense of purpose.
Such a contrast to her last confinement. To his own mother during that final pregnancy, which had never reached fruition.
Strange to think that terrible time would be seventeen years ago when summer came around. The grim details were still as fresh in his mind as if they had happened yesterday. Mamma’s translucent skin. Her hollow cheeks working over a chamberpot. The sour smell that had haunted the room along with the sound of retching.
He would never forget her last words to him.
‘It makes us women sick, Wilfred.’ She was gasping, wiping saliva from her chin. ‘The thought of bringing an innocent child into this wicked world. It makes us sick to our very souls.’
With a shudder he turned away, closing the door on both Belinda and the memory.
CHAPTER 9
Lydia was born in late April. Five whole weeks must pass before Belinda could be Churched. It would be simpler if they held the Christening at the same time, since a single ceremony meant only one summons to Mr Chapman. He must be a negligent sort of clergyman, to take his tithes from All Souls and yet live elsewhere. Either that or he considered the village of Fayford a lost cause. Belinda couldn’t help but wonder if his absence had anything to do with the past and Anne Bainbridge’s supposed witchcraft, but she had promised not to dwell on fanciful matters like that. Not for this confinement.
She rarely stirred from the elaborately carved four-poster bed. To her relief, nothing seemed to be warping or melting before her eyes. There was only the strange hissing sound by night. But that noise woke Lydia too, so it could not be imaginary. Yes, Belinda was certainly doing better this time. A different room, a different wing and a different season made all the difference. She would wait and watch the white blossom on the trees outside her window. Observe the petals brown, curl and drop.
‘Then,’ Belinda whispered down at Lydia as she nursed, ‘you and I shall be free.’
She kept her mind occupied, firing off letters like a squadron of artillery. Dawkins rode out to the post office at Torbury St Jude every day with a pocket full of her black-sealed correspondence. A detailed description of the baby for Mamma, carefully skirting around the circumstances of her birth and resuscitation. Shorter missives to Papa and her brothers. They would not much care what Lydia weighed and how long she slept at a time. She informed a few friends, asking for any London gossip they could share in exchange. Then she started on the task of appointing maids for the nursery.
Sawyer sat with her for a while, reading through the responses to Mrs Knowles’ advertisement, which had been published in the local newspapers before they arrived here. Many applications used what could only be described as inventive spelling, and some were downright illegible.
