Cashelmara (26 page)

I wept a little more, but he had really left me nothing to weep about. I dried my eyes on his handkerchief and made a great effort to be calm.

“That’s an excellent idea,” I said firmly. “Why didn’t I think of that myself? How stupid I’ve been!” But I felt my eyes fill with tears again. Clenching the handkerchief into a tight ball, I tried to will the tears away. “I’m sure I shall love the baby very much when he comes,” I sobbed, and despite all my efforts at self-control I burst into floods of tears.

“We must think of a name for him at once,” said Edward with cunning. “You know how you always said you liked to think of Thomas and David as people long before they were born. If you could think of the new baby as a person it might be easier for you.”

“Oh yes,” I said, dabbing my eyes uselessly with his sodden handkerchief. “A name. Oh dear, I can’t think of any at all! Think of a name, Edward.”

He offered me a second handkerchief. “Perhaps Richard?” he suggested. “That was the name of the uncle who left me Woodhammer Hall, the uncle who had such an influence on me when I was growing up. If you like the name—”

“Richard. Yes. Yes, I do like it very much,” I said rapidly, and somehow after that I did find it easier to resign myself to my ordeal.

Of course it was a girl.

I had an easy delivery. It was all over in three hours. Dazed, I said to Dr. Ives, “There must be a mistake. It can’t be born already.” But Dr. Ives merely smiled the supercilious smile that made me want to slap him, the infant wailed plaintively and the midwife, bored that the birth had been so uninteresting, said tartly, “You’ve got a daughter at last, my lady.”

My heart sank like a stone. It was an instinctive reaction, for I had never stopped to analyze why I had no desire for a daughter, and I did not understand why I should feel so dismayed.

“It can’t be a girl,” I said desperately. “It’s a boy. We’ve chosen the name. It’s Richard.”

“There, there, my lady,” said Dr. Ives soothingly. “We all have our little disappointments. Try to rest and recover your strength.”

I did sleep, but when I awoke my relief that my ordeal was over was immediately soured by the knowledge that Richard was a girl. I lay clutching the sheet, my eyes staring at the ceiling, my senses hardly aware of my physical discomfort, and racked my brains to decide what I should say to Edward. Later when the nurse returned to the room to give me another glimpse of the baby my spirits sank even lower. The infant was unremittingly plain. She had a bright red complexion, a large bald head and a puny body.

“Ah yes,” I said, hiding my despair as best I could. “Very nice. Thank you, Nurse.”

The baby had just been returned to the cradle when Edward came in, and the nurse withdrew so that we could be alone together.

After we had embraced he said, smiling, “So all was well?”

“Oh yes!” I said with an attempt at gaiety. “Dr. Ives is the most aggravating man, but I’ve no doubt he’s very clever. I never dreamt that the birth would be so easy.”

“Thank God for that,” he said, kissing me again.

“Thank God,” I agreed, holding his hands tightly.

There was a pause.

“Well,” he said lightly, “I suppose we must start considering names again.”

“I’m glad you mentioned that,” I said rapidly, “because I have a splendid idea. Edward, why don’t we call her Nell? It’s pretty and it’s short—I’ve often felt annoyed that I myself have such a long name—and I thought you might like her to be called after the daughter you loved so much. What do you think?”

He looked startled. “That’s very generous of you, my dearest, but—”

“It would be so nice,” I interrupted, the words tumbling from my lips, “if she could be named for your favorite daughter. I should like that very much.”

“Yes, so would I, but, Marguerite, Nell was a mere abbreviation of the name Eleanor, you know, and people might think it odd if I called my second wife’s daughter after my first wife.”

“Oh heavens,” I said, “why should I care about that?” It occurred to me as I spoke how much I had grown up since the early days of my marriage when Eleanor’s name had been anathema to me. “Besides, Eleanor never used the name Nell,” I pointed out, “and Nell will never use the name Eleanor. I don’t see why people should think it odd.”

“Well, if you’re certain …”

“Quite certain. Oh, Edward, do you mind very much that it’s not a boy?”

“My dearest Marguerite, of course not! I do realize you must be somewhat disappointed, but speaking for myself, I’m simply glad that you and the infant are safe and well. That’s far more important to me than the baby’s sex.”

The great burden of my anxiety lifted. When he said anxiously, “Are you very disappointed?” I was able to answer with truth: “No, I’m glad to have a daughter. I’m really very glad indeed.”

The baby did not thrive. At first she cried a great deal, just as Thomas had cried early in his life, but Thomas had gained weight fast despite his discomforts and no one had worried about his health. We all worried about Nell. Dr. Ives used to come to the house regularly to see her and the nurse stayed on so that the baby could have special care. As soon as my lying-in was over I spent most of my time in her little room off the nursery.

“Is the baby ill?” demanded Thomas.

“No, darling, just a little delicate.”

“When will she be able to play with us?” said David.

“Not for a long while yet. But some day she will.”

She gradually lost the red-faced complexion of the newborn infant. Her skin became pale and had a curious transparent quality that made her seem ethereal. She had blue eyes, prettily shaped, and soft down on top of her head. I thought she might be fair-haired one day. I often pictured her growing up and thought how nice it would be to choose patterns for her little dresses; later she could look through my fashion magazines with me. Perhaps she would be cleverer with a needle than I was, but that would hardly be difficult. The boys would go away to school eventually, but now I would no longer be so upset by their departure because I would still have Nell at home.

In March, two months after her birth, she began to cry less often. She also began to cough.

“When will the baby start to smile?” asked Thomas.

“Later, darling, a little later. When spring comes.”

“Will we be able to take her for walks then?”

“Oh yes, because babies love to go out in the sunshine. She’ll smile and laugh a lot then, you’ll see.”

I tried my hand at sewing again and made a little dress for her to wear when she was older. The material was lovely, pink silk with a layer of white muslin, and I embroidered little roses around the hem. I spent hours on the embroidery. I would sit by her cradle while I sewed and marvel at my newfound devotion to the needle. The London Season was fast approaching, but I had no interest in social engagements and had temporarily given up all my charity work.

“I shall take it up again later,” I said to Edward. “When Nell’s stronger I shall go out more.”

I ordered a new perambulator because I did not want her to have anything second-hand. The perambulator that had served Thomas and David now seemed too shabby, and so did all their early toys, which I had kept in a box in the attics. I bought her a beautiful doll. I had such fun choosing it. I thought how splendid it was to go into a toy shop and look at dolls instead of inspecting the endless parade of woolly animals and tin soldiers.

Spring came. Nell was very good now. She never cried at all. I kept telling everyone how good she was.

“She still doesn’t smile yet,” said Thomas.

“Oh yes, she does,” I said. “I often see her smile.”

“I think poor Baby’s cough is a little worse, my lady,” said Nurse. “This morning—”

“No,” I said, “it’s better. I told Dr. Ives only yesterday how much better it was.”

And at the end when the square was a mass of pink blossoms and the spring sunshine was streaming through the nursery windows onto the toys she would never see, all I said was “It’s so nice to have a daughter. We shall have such fun together when she grows up.”

She died an hour later.

I went to my room and stayed there for a long time. The house was hushed and still. Once I heard Thomas talking too loudly and Nanny hissing “Shhh!” but after that there was a deep silence, and I supposed she had taken both boys for a walk. I went to the window, but when I saw no sign of them I looked instead at the pink blossoms and green leaves and thought how pretty the square was in the spring. It was a beautiful day.

I changed my clothes. I put on a black dress and sat looking at myself in the glass. All the freckles had faded from the bridge of my nose, but that was because I had been out so little lately.

Edward knocked on the door. When he came in he said, “I wondered if you still wanted to be alone.”

I shrugged. I did not know. I felt confused and could think of nothing to say.

He sat down on the bed beside me and held my hand. “Marguerite, I … I know there’s nothing to say that could make any difference, but—”

“Yes?”

“At least it wasn’t one of the boys. You see …”

I leaped to my feet. Rage made me dizzy. The room swam in a mist before my eyes. “Don’t you dare say that to me!” I shouted at him. “Don’t you dare treat me as if I were a second Eleanor who cared as little as you do for all your unloved daughters!”

“I only meant—”

“Unloved!” I screamed at him. “Unloved! No wonder I never wanted a daughter after seeing the kind of women your daughters have become, Katherine thinking of love as if it were a prize awarded for good behavior, Annabel choosing to fight with you rather than be ignored, Madeleine turning to your religion-crazed old mother because you weren’t there when she needed you—you and your daughters! Why, it’s a wonder I even dared have sons, considering the way I’ve seen you treat Patrick sometimes!”

He was so white that his face seemed almost gray. He said, faltering, in a voice that did not sound like his voice at all, “I’m sure I’ve always tried to do my duty as a father.”

“Your duty!” I said in a fury. “Your duty! Edward, where children are concerned it’s not enough simply to do your duty! You think you’re so ill-used because your children have failed you, but the real truth is that they are ill-used because you have failed them.”

I stopped speaking. The room was deathly quiet, but I did not stop to listen to the silence. I ran out, slamming the door with a bang that echoed through the silent house, and rushed upstairs to the nursery. Nanny and Nurse were still out with the children. The door of Nell’s little room was closed, but I went in, picked her up and held her in my arms while I cried. After a while I remembered she was dead. Shocked that I had disturbed her, I kissed her, replaced her carefully in her cradle and drew the sheet over her once more. I wondered in panic if I were going mad, not remembering, being so confused, saying so many cruel things to Edward. I returned to the nursery, but before I could leave I heard him coming up the stairs. He moved very slowly, and I knew his arthritis must be troubling him again.

He had suffered a great deal from arthritis that winter, and I had sensed his relief when first my pregnancy and then Nell’s short life had kept me so occupied.

When he reached the landing he paused to recover his breath. I could hear his labored breathing before he opened the nursery door and entered the room.

I noticed again how he had aged. He always moved his legs awkwardly now, and only pride kept him from carrying a cane inside the house as well as outside. His hair was quite silver, but that only made him look more distinguished. Not even he minded the silver hair.

He did not speak at once but merely stood by the door. I was unsure whether he was still out of breath or whether he had difficulty choosing his words.

At last he managed to say, “You misunderstood me.”

I said nothing.

“When I said ‘At least it wasn’t one of the boys,’ I meant that the younger a child is the easier it is to bear the loss. Loss of a child is always intolerable, but when the child is no longer a baby, when there have been years, not months, of precious memories … I’m sorry. I phrased my thoughts very clumsily.”

“You did,” I said. “Yes.”

“But, Marguerite, I too was upset”

“Yes,” I said. “I expect you were in your own way. But you never thought she’d live. No one truly thought she’d live, did they? I expect they thought it was pathetic when I bought the doll and the new perambulator.”

“We all admired your courage. I’m sure no one thought—”

“I thought she’d live if I bought things for her,” I said. “It was silly of me.” I moved to the window. “I wish the boys would come back.”

He came closer to me. I noticed how his hand shook before he placed it on my arm. “Perhaps you would like to go away for a while—a month or two on the Continent—”

“No, thank you,” I said. “That won’t be necessary. I’m not Eleanor and I’ve no intention of ignoring the children—or you—while I indulge in a nervous collapse.”

He said nothing. The silence lasted a long time.

Finally I said, “Edward, I’m sorry I’m saying all these hurtful things to you, but I simply can’t help myself. Please forgive me.”

“It’s the shock,” he said. “I understand.” He put his arm on top of the chest of drawers and shifted the weight from one leg to the other. There was another silence.

“What can I do?” he said at last. “Is there anything I can do?” And I knew he was asking not only what he could do for me but what he could do for his children.

“I should like to go to Woodhammer,” I said. “The countryside will look so lovely in the spring. And, Edward, I want all the children to come to stay with us, and I especially want you to forgive Madeleine so that she can come and stay as well.”

“Madeleine will never come. Neither will Annabel.”

“Yes, they will. Madeleine will want to see the boys and Annabel will want to see her daughters. We can invite them down from Northumberland for a visit. How long is it since you’ve seen your granddaughters, Edward?”

“It would all be too much for you—such a large gathering.”