House of Splinters, page 9
Sawyer finished one closely scrawled page and sighed as she put it aside. ‘I think I’ll miss looking after Master Freddy.’
Belinda felt a twinge of sympathy, but she would not renege on what she’d said to Wilfred. There could be no more night-time escapes from the nursery. ‘It is back to your old, troublesome charge, I am afraid,’ she teased. ‘You cannot get rid of me that easily.’
Sawyer’s lips curled, yet the smile did not reach her eyes. ‘Oh, I’ve no complaints about you, ma’am.’
‘Lady’s maid is a more prestigious role,’ Belinda reminded her.
‘It is. I know I’m being foolish. Only Master Freddy and I have had such fun together.’
A curious claim for on the few occasions Belinda had seen her son recently, he didn’t appear to be enjoying himself at all. His face had taken on a more serious, troubled expression and his eyes were always bloodshot. What could be keeping him awake? Surely he couldn’t hear the baby crying at her bedside from all the way down in the nursery?
She put the question to him as he stood on tiptoes beside the crib, peering at his little sister. He shrugged and did not answer her. Instead he said, ‘Lydia’s our baby, isn’t she, Mamma?’
‘Yes, my love. She is part of our family now.’
‘And no one else is supposed to have her, are they? Papa said it’s my job to protect her. The most important job I have.’
She supposed Wilfred would say that, after poor Tiffany. But it was a bit much to expect vigilance of a five-year-old. ‘He meant all of us, darling. We will all look after Lydia together. Including your new nursemaids when they arrive.’
Freddy dropped back onto the soles of his feet. The spring light made an aureole around his fair curls. ‘But no one protected Aunt Tiffany, Mamma. She died.’
Belinda scrunched the bedsheets in her hand. ‘Did your father tell you that?’
‘Merry told me. After I went digging in the garden.’
She frowned, perplexed. ‘Merry? You mean, the wooden boy? Your silent companion? Freddy, he couldn’t possibly…’ Her son looked so solemn that she did not have the heart to tell him his friend was not real. But she must not listen to this kind of talk. She would not start imagining things again.
Sawyer entered the room with a fresh stack of post and came over to stand by the side of the bed.
‘Lydia shouldn’t sleep in the nursery,’ Freddy went on. ‘Not even when the new people come. She’s better here with you.’
‘Oh, Master Freddy,’ Sawyer clucked indulgently. ‘We talked about this. Don’t pay any heed to him, ma’am. He said the very same thing to Mr Bainbridge: that he doesn’t want a crying baby in his nursery. But you and your sister need to learn how to rub along together, Master Freddy. That’s how it is with siblings.’
Freddy muttered something darkly to himself and sat cross-legged on the floor beside the cradle.
*
Choosing between the applicants didn’t prove difficult. Belinda invited a few for interview, but most had already gained employment elsewhere. Some withdrew their interest entirely, without explanation. Wilfred thought that was Mr Quigley’s doing.
‘No doubt he’s been blackening our name,’ he huffed, ‘spreading gossip about Freddy’s sleepwalking and you breaking your confinement.’
For Freddy, Belinda managed to engage a sensible woman named Rebecca Morris who was thin and neat as a pin, her sharp features relieved by a ready smile. But there was only one available wet-nurse for Lydia.
Belinda was taken aback when Mrs Knowles ushered a young woman scarcely nineteen years old into the dressing-room. ‘Amy Whitfield, madam.’
To Belinda’s tired eyes, Amy looked little more than a child herself, with a fine bloom upon her plump cheeks. She gazed dumbstruck at the papered walls and silk-upholstered furniture. Belinda had been self-conscious about receiving visitors in only a fresh powdering-gown and slippers, but now she felt it was just as well – she was not too imposing a figure for this poor girl.
According to Amy’s reference, she’d served families in Torbury St Jude. They must have been far less wealthy than the Bainbridges.
‘Good morning, Amy. Thank you for coming.’
Her thick-soled boots stumbled on the carpet as she curtsied. Perhaps she was a little rough around the edges, but her plain cambric bodice and tidy cap suggested she was not frivolous. What she lacked in experience, she made up for in ruddy good health. Hopefully that would be passed on to Lydia through her milk.
‘I can start as soon as next week, madam,’ Amy offered. ‘I’ve only to settle my boy with my sister-in-law.’
Belinda smiled back encouragingly. ‘Wonderful. And how old is your little one?’
‘Thirteen months, madam. All weaned now and thriving.’
She ought to have brought the child with her as a kind of testimony. ‘I am glad to hear it. But will he not miss you terribly?’
The question seemed to take Amy aback. ‘Oh. I guess he will, madam. But it’s not for long when all’s said and done, is it? Less than a year. And Thomas likes his auntie.’
Belinda thought of Freddy’s strange ways and grave expression. He could certainly do with a distraction. And although Wilfred might demur, she knew from experience that it did not hurt a child’s manners to play with someone below their station. ‘If it would be more convenient,’ she offered, ‘you may bring young Thomas along with you. Our nursery is quite capacious. I am sure my son would like a playmate.’
Amy took a step back. Something wary shifted behind her light eyes. ‘That’s – that’s very kind of you, madam. Thank you, but… I don’t think…’ She shook her head. ‘Well, we’ll see how it goes, shall we? If Thomas doesn’t take to the separation, maybe I will. But for the moment it’s best he stays where he is.’
Belinda wondered then if it were true: what Wilfred had said about Mr Quigley dragging their name through the mud. There was a palpable hint of fear in Amy’s response.
‘Whatever you please. I only thought it might be a pleasant experience for your son.’
Amy put her hands behind her back. ‘The truth is, madam, it’s a lot grander here than anything he’s used to. I know it’s pretty, but honestly…’ She met Belinda’s gaze for a fleeting moment. ‘I think my Thomas’d be scared.’
A familiar, dull thump in the pit of her stomach. ‘Frightened? Of The Bridge?’ Belinda tried to laugh it off but didn’t sound convincing. ‘What a notion.’
Faintly, through the door separating the two adjoining rooms, Lydia began to cry.
CHAPTER 10
Wilfred spent the weeks of his wife’s confinement in the estate office near the stable yard. He sifted through maps, projected crop yields and tried to get his head around land management. He’d never been much of a farmer – the old man was even worse. He’d left Wilfred a legacy of depleted herds and fields fallen to rack and ruin. What they needed was a full land staff: a steward, bailiff, gamekeeper and more besides, but there was not enough capital for that. With Knowles’ help, he at least managed to employ enough workers from Fayford to cut the hay. It was as well he did, for when Lydia’s Christening finally arrived, the weather turned traitor.
An east wind rattled at the roof tiles and banged at the doors of the church, as they all gathered around the octagonal font at the top of the nave. Everything looked perfect, as Belinda had planned. Her hair was powdered once more, her eyebrows darkened. She wore an open black silk gown over panniers, with threads of silver and beads of jet on the stomacher. Black ribbon encircled her neck. She and Sawyer had spent days adjusting the long family christening gown to fit Lydia and embroidering her a cap. But it was all in vain.
There was no cheer in the occasion. Light failed to penetrate through the stained-glass windows. The eagle lectern and the high-backed family pew where Wilfred had squirmed as a boy appeared Gothic and ominous. He could not explain it clearly but there was something lacking about All Souls, an absence of serenity. This church resembled a tower under siege: ever-watchful, on the defensive.
Then there was the wind. Its clatter upset poor Lydia, who scrunched her face beneath her cap. She cried piercingly, as only a small baby can, the noise bouncing off stone and echoing up to the rafters. Freddy clamped his hands over his ears.
‘Dearly beloved,’ Mr Chapman began, ‘for as much as all men are conceived and born in sin…’ His words were barely audible beneath the baby’s squall and the wind swooping outside.
Wilfred allowed his mind to wander. Memories of Tiffany’s elaborate funeral spun webs across the gloom. Back then, the whole church had been swathed in pure white, from the altar cloth to the flowers on the rood screen. Lord, what a show that was, more fitting for a wedding than a burial. Those suffocating lilies and the thick pillar candles surrounding a closed coffin.
It was closed for a reason.
Wilfred had made the mistake of hovering in the doorway to watch his mother prepare Tiffany’s broken body for its final sleep. Now he’d carry those images in perfect detail to his own grave. Dark locks fanned out across the pillow, unable to hide the brutal dent in her skull. Mamma humming monotonous tunes as she covered the scrapes and bruises in a cream gown. Somehow, seeing his sister like that was worse than seeing her crumpled at the bottom of the well. The pretence had sickened him.
The vicar began his gospel reading. Lydia started to wriggle, her tiny fists clenched. The train of her Christening gown snagged on the foot of a standing candelabrum. Sawyer bent discreetly, untangled it and straightened.
Still the wind ravened. Behind them the north door, the devil’s door in folklore, jumped in its frame.
‘Dost thou, in the name of this child, renounce the devil and all his works?’
‘I renounce them,’ they intoned dully.
‘O merciful God, grant that the old Adam in this child may be so buried, that the new man may be raised up…’
He couldn’t concentrate. The wind, Lydia’s cries, and now the blasted door, like the pounding of approaching hooves, bang, bang. It had not been like this for Freddy’s baptism. He had a vague recollection of rainbow colours flooding the aisle and broad smiles, even from the old man. But Lydia would not stop crying. It was like a screw twisting deeper and deeper into Wilfred’s temple.
‘What do you name this child?’
The godmother was supposed to announce that. They were rather at a loss for godparents, since Belinda’s brother Luke could not escape from his business in Bristol. Wilfred and Belinda were standing sponsor for their own daughter, with Sawyer representing Mrs Kipling by proxy.
Belinda cleared her throat, strain and disappointment showing in the lines beside her eyes. ‘Lydia.’ Gently, she removed the cap and bared the baby’s head. The wisps of her red hair were a shock against all the white. The vicar took her and began to lower her towards the font. She yowled and thrashed, making the water ripple beneath her. ‘Lydia, I baptise thee in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.’ The dip was only brief. ‘We receive this child into the congregation of Christ’s flock and do sign her with the sign of the Cross…’
The north door blew in with a crash. Wind gusted through, catching the train of Lydia’s gown until it floated, wraith-like. All of the candles guttered out.
They froze around the font, as if they had been caught in the middle of a crime. Even Lydia stopped her wailing. Now there was only the wind, a ghostly echo of the noise she had made.
‘Dear me,’ a deep voice said. ‘This is rather awkward. I do beg your pardon.’
Wilfred saw a young man on the threshold, closing the north door behind him with difficulty. He wore no wig, only his own leonine hair grown long and tied at the nape. There was a hint of the exotic to him, with his weather-tanned skin and what could only be described as a cavalier beard.
Freddy hid himself behind Wilfred’s legs.
‘Did you not hear me knocking? I went up to the house, but they told me you were all here.’ The man spoke with the assurance of an old friend. His collarless coat was the same piercing blue as his eyes, and the waistcoat beneath a work of art, shot through with golden thread. ‘The front door was barred, so I tried my luck up in this part…’ He trailed off, noticing his reception was one of shock and not warmth. A rueful smile twisted his lips, and in that moment Wilfred recognised him. The stone floor seemed to tilt under his feet.
‘But I am not expected. Or, indeed, invited. You must forgive me, Mrs Bainbridge. I’ve spent so long abroad that my manners are savage.’ The man raised his walking cane and gestured to the font. Those deep blue eyes met his, peeled him to the core. ‘What do you say, Wil? Am I too late to stand godfather?’
*
The carriage swayed on its leather straps as the anxious horses battled to make headway against the wind. Belinda was glad of the extended ride home; it gave her time to gather her thoughts.
Sawyer sat on the squabs opposite, astonishment printed on her face. The gentlemen had opted to walk back to the house together – if they were not blown away like kites.
‘I have three uncles now,’ Freddy chattered as he gazed out of the window at the gusting leaves. ‘Uncle Luke, Uncle Paul and Uncle Nathan.’
Belinda settled the sleeping baby on the cushions beside her. ‘You always did have three uncles. Nathan was always… there.’
But where? Now she reflected, she realised Wilfred had been dreadfully vague. He’d told her of a sister who died young and a brother who lived away. From the manner in which he had spoken, she’d gathered Nathan to be somehow incapacitated, unable to participate in society. One of her cousins was epileptic and required around-the-clock care at a distant facility – Belinda had presumed Nathan’s situation was similar. But the man who had intruded upon Lydia’s baptism was in the pink of health.
‘I thought Mr Bainbridge’s brother was ill, ma’am,’ Sawyer said, keeping her voice low.
‘As did I. Except… Wilfred never said that. Not absolutely.’
‘What did he say?’ Sawyer asked.
It was difficult to recollect. ‘He told me Nathan had been sent away when he was still quite young. Those were his words. “Sent away”. But maybe it was to start a profession? They take boys into the Navy at an early age, do they not? Eleven or twelve?’
‘He mentioned being abroad. And he does look as if he’s travelled. His face was tanned… Not at all like Mr Kipling’s, though.’
She was quite right. Papa’s skin was weathered, a touch leathery from high-sea winds. By contrast, Nathan’s appeared sun-kissed.
‘Perhaps not the Navy, then,’ Belinda conceded. ‘I cannot say where he has been. He did not attend our wedding, or Freddy’s baptism, or even his father’s funeral. I’ll have to ask Wilfred for an explanation. But he looked as startled as we were.’
‘Mr Bainbridge looked as if he’d seen a ghost,’ Sawyer agreed, leaning forward. ‘I don’t think he was pleased, ma’am.’
‘Uncle Nathan’s not a ghost!’ Freddy pouted.
‘No, Master Freddy, that’s not what I meant.’
They rumbled along, the wind barrelling at them over the hills as they descended to the house. Baby Lydia’s eyes opened briefly. She blew a bubble and Belinda wiped her mouth with a muslin cloth. The Christening may not have gone as she’d hoped, but Nathan’s homecoming was something. An excitement, a flash of colour.
She mused over the gentleman she had seen. There was not a strong family resemblance; he wouldn’t have struck her as Wilfred’s brother at first glance. They shared the same jawline and blue eyes, but while Wilfred’s were the pale blue of a spring sky, Nathan’s were bright as cobalt. And there was something else. A certain air of charm. Wilfred was a good-looking man, but his brother was positively handsome.
Belinda scolded herself for the disloyal thought.
As they drew round the gravel sweep, another noise made itself known beneath the wind blowing outside: something short, sharp and angry. Lydia awoke and grizzled. The sound came again.
Freddy’s ears pricked. ‘Is that barking?’ he demanded. ‘Is that a dog? Is there a dog in our house?’
He yanked at the door before the carriage had fully come to a stop. It was all Sawyer could do to keep him from leaping out onto the gravel. As soon as Creswell put down the steps, the boy was scrambling down, falling onto his knees and springing back up again in his haste to be inside.
‘Careful, Freddy! Wait!’ Belinda called over the wind. Sawyer took the baby while she climbed out. ‘Nathan must have brought the animal with him, I suppose. Rather a bold move, to turn up uninvited with a pet in tow.’
Sawyer lowered her eyes. ‘He is family,’ she reasoned. ‘You don’t mind really, do you, ma’am?’
‘No, of course I do not mind. This will set Freddy up for a year.’ Belinda’s panniers seemed ready to take flight. The boisterous wind was making instruments of all it touched, even blowing spray from the fountain towards her. ‘Be careful, Freddy,’ she called again. ‘Not all dogs are friendly.’
As the four of them drew near to the main door, the barking turned to an excited yip. Claws skittered upon stone. Finally, Mrs Knowles opened up. Her husband stood in the background beside the suit of armour, struggling to hold the collar of a muscular white hound, while his son spoke soothing words from nearby.
‘Sorry, madam. We’re turned all upside down in here. Do come inside. The creature isn’t vicious, just playful.’
Mrs Knowles heaved the door shut behind them. The dog stood on its hind legs and wheeled its front paws in excitement. It was a breed Belinda had never seen before, at least as tall as Freddy even on all fours, with a lithe build, a long, intelligent face and a thin whip of a tail. Blue eyes and a pink nose lent it a curiously human expression.
Lydia didn’t like the noise of its whine. Her little face bloomed red as a rose, clashing horribly with her hair as she cried.
‘Hush, now.’ Belinda jiggled her up and down.
