Fiercombe Manor (45 page)

I stumbled back towards the fork where Fiery and Creephedge Lanes converged, the pain gripping again and again. The parched, iron-hard earth was already turning to thick clay that sucked at my shoes until I gave up and left them behind. The tender tops of my feet looked very white as they sank again and again into the
mud. When I got to the point where Fiery Lane began to slope upwards in earnest, I saw it already transformed into a river of russet-brown water, made opaque by the churning mud. The old wheel ruts deepened and widened even as I watched, spellbound by the sight of it and the noise of the rain drumming on every leaf, not only glancing off the trees above but hammering down into the dense hedgerows on either side.

An agonisingly strong cramp brought me down on all fours, the water shockingly cold as it swirled around my knees and up to my elbows, my stomach also submerged by a few inches. I realised that the volume of water couldn't be just from the rain, though it continued to tear down the steep slopes of the valley without pause; the stream must have broken its banks. I knew I needed to get away from the middle of the lane soon, or I would be swept away. Slowly, inch by inch, I shifted myself sideways like a crab towards the green verge, where the grass and cow parsley and buttercups were slicked with mud but not yet underwater. There, I rolled onto my back and pulled myself awkwardly across until I was right up against the roots of the hedgerow, like a frightened animal trying to burrow away. Every inch of me was coated in the cloying mud, and it seemed to press down on me, chilling me to my core. Then a stronger cramp seized me, and I screamed aloud for the first time, the sound drowned out by a mighty clap of thunder.

What passed then was an indeterminate period when I alternated between vivid dreams of Isabel and Elizabeth, their faces so clear it was as if I had always known them, and the grim reality of the lane. As each new shudder of pain lit me up, the lightning that cut jaggedly through the purple sky mirrored it. The thunder snarled and clashed simultaneously: the storm was directly over the valley.

Eventually it moved away a little, and it was some time after that I felt a small hand stealing into mine, its flesh cold and wet and stiff but still comforting to me. I kept my eyes shut, hearing the hiss of the rain and knowing that I must be awake, but the pressure of the little fingers remained. I lay like that for a time, but then I felt an overwhelming urge to see her and opened my eyes. My hand was empty, but then, struggling down the flooded lane, I noticed two figures, bent over from the force of the rain and wind and looking about them. With my last shred of will I shouted out so they would see me, tucked away in my muddy den.

I must have fallen into unconsciousness, because when I next opened my eyes, I was in my own room. Through the fug of my pain, I saw Mrs. Jelphs's face above me. She didn't look at me, and I dimly recognised that she was concentrating, a look of total, absorbed focus on her face. I had never seen anyone so determined. There was no one else there; she and I were alone.

It's difficult to recount the labour with any degree of accuracy. I couldn't tell if whole days were passing as I bucked under the pain of the baby coming, or mere minutes. Whenever the agony briefly abated, I sank into some sort of floating state, where a jumble of images filed through my mind—my grandmother and Elizabeth in sepia, their faces blurred, the little girl with her strange, cold stare, Henry and Tom racing to dive into the lake.

The first clear thing I remember was the thin wail that went up after a long period when I thought the searing pain inside would kill me. When she'd cut the cord and wrapped the baby up, Mrs. Jelphs placed him on top of me, and I caught sight of her face for a moment, luminous and suffused with relief.

He was small but strong; at my first sight of him his face screwed up in fury, his chest heaving up and down so he could cry out at the indignity of it all. When I saw that, I knew he was safe, so I let
myself go, falling away into the depths of a sleep I didn't wake from for many hours.

When I did come to properly, I was clean and dressed in a cotton nightgown. The sky beyond my open windows was blue again, but a pale English blue scattered with soft white clouds. The breeze I could feel on my bare forearms was a cool breath, fresh and light.

The baby was nowhere to be seen, but I knew he was nearby, taken to another room so I could rest. I didn't call out but enjoyed lying there peacefully, the lead weight of anxiety I'd learned to live with for months entirely seeped away. I had survived, and I knew I was myself in my mind. There was no curse on the valley, which felt for the first time since I'd arrived to be utterly benign.

I thought of calling out to Mrs. Jelphs, and then it occurred to me that I could get up and go and find the baby myself. But as if even the thought of it was too much for my battered body, I felt my eyes begin to close and let myself by pulled back into another healing sleep.

W
hen I woke again, the sky was pearl grey through the half-open curtains, and I realised I was witnessing the first glimmers of dawn. I'd slept right through the previous day and night. In contrast to the fug of the hours following the birth, I felt completely alert, my mind as sharpened as the cooler, crisper air.

I had spent months unable to think about the time after the pregnancy, and now it had arrived, weeks before I was expecting it. I was amazed that things were much the same. Just as I felt I was still myself, so the dawn still lifted away the night—as it always had. And yet I had a son.

At the thought, I had an urge to see and touch him that was so strong I didn't even bother putting on my dressing gown. I thought
Mrs. Jelphs must have put him in the old nursery, but I wasn't sure I wanted him to stay there. I wanted him with me.

I stood in the dim light of the passage and listened. Eventually I heard a small sound that might have been a deep breath, or perhaps a hushing sound. As I approached the nursery, I saw a faint light under the door and knew I'd been right.

She'd lit a solitary oil lamp, the flame softened by a deep yellow glass casing. The baby, if he'd woken at all, was asleep again in his cot, and Mrs. Jelphs was sitting in a low nursing chair, her embroidery on her lap.

She smiled when she saw me and put her finger to her lips.

“How are you feeling now, Alice?” she said softly. “I thought you should be allowed to sleep as long as you needed to, and the doctor agreed with me. You barely woke when he came. He said you were fine, that both of you were fine.” She smiled again.

I crept towards the cot and looked in wonder at the tiny creature inside, his dark shock of fine brown hair and the miniature fist, curled and pushed up against a sharp little chin.

“Thank you for looking after us,” I said, turning to Mrs. Jelphs. “I don't know what I'd have done out there on the lane. Was it you who found me?”

“And Ruck too. He carried you in here, out of the downpour.”

“Ruck?”

“Yes, he saw you leave the manor, and when the storm rolled in he came to check you'd come back safely. That was when we realised you were missing. I know he's gruff, but his heart is in the right place.”

Apparently, after carrying me back to the manor from the lane, Ruck had somehow found his way out of the flooded valley in the torrential downpour on foot, to fetch a doctor.

“What about Tom?” I asked shyly. “He must be back by now.”

Mrs. Jelphs shook her head. “He sent a telegram to say he'd be here next week—something important delayed him in London. He said he was sorry, too. Strange: he never normally worries.”

“Does he know about the baby arriving early?”

Mrs. Jelphs looked surprised. “No. I thought he would see you when he gets here.”

Of course there was no reason in her mind why he would need to know. Perhaps there was no reason at all.

I looked around me and for the first time noticed how pretty the nursery looked. It wasn't just that everything was clean and fresh smelling, the windows polished and the floor swept; it also felt different. The atmosphere that had charged the air there had lifted, lightened.

“He won't wake for a few hours now. Why don't you go back to bed before you catch cold,” Mrs. Jelphs said gently.

She led me back to my room and tucked the covers around me.

“Now that you've recovered your strength a little, I must write to your mother and tell her that the baby's arrived. Perhaps I shouldn't have waited until now,” she said, her face suddenly concerned.

My stomach turned over, and I pushed myself up to a sitting position. “Do you have to write to her? The baby isn't due for another few weeks, and she always said that first babies are late.”

Mrs. Jelphs looked perplexed. “Well, surely you want her to know? I mean, you're more than welcome to stay on, of course—for as long as you need to—but you can't keep such happy news from your parents. He's their grandchild, don't forget.”

My mind raced. Once my mother knew, she would be on the first train to Gloucestershire, and once she was here, I knew that matters would be taken out of my hands. I wouldn't be able to argue against her carefully arranged plan. Before I knew it, we'd be on our way back to London to give away my son.

“Let me write to her,” I blurted. “That's all I meant—that I wanted to do it myself. I'll write it now, and Nan can post it later, after she's done her work for the day.”

“Well, of course you must write with your own news. I'll come up for it later. Make sure you get a little bit more sleep after you've done it.”

When she left me alone, I did write a letter to my parents, sealing the envelope with care. I just didn't mention that the baby had arrived.

T
om returned the next week, as he'd said he would, and my heart thudded when I heard first the motorcar and then his tread on the stair. It was still early, and I hadn't yet got up and dressed, the baby in my arms as I sat up against the pillows in bed. He had just fed and so was close to falling asleep, his eyes blinking sleepily open to look at me every now and then, their colour the newborn's rich, deep blue.

“I'm so sorry, Alice,” Tom said as soon as he came through the door after knocking. “Or, rather, congratulations. Mrs. Jelphs has only just told me. Are you all right?”

He caught sight then of what was in my arms and leant in for a closer look. When he looked up at me, he gave me the most uncomplicated smile I'd ever received from him.

“He's a fine boy, isn't he? Well done, you clever thing.” He kissed me gently on the cheek and then brought a chair over to the side of the bed.

“Has he got a name yet?” he said, sitting down. “I won't object if you call him Thomas, of course.”

I laughed. “I thought of Joseph. It's Ruck's name, you know. He carried me in out of the storm when I went into labour and then
went and fetched the doctor on foot in the rain. I don't know what would have happened if he hadn't been there. Mrs. Jelphs too, of course.”

“I had no idea,” Tom said, shaking his head. “Mrs. Jelphs told me about the flooded stream, and I've just seen for myself how Fiery Lane is half washed away. I had to leave the MG back up in the village. We didn't have a solitary drop of rain in London.”

“Well, all's well now,” I said softly. “I still can't quite believe he's here.”

“He has a look of you, you know,” said Tom. “The same defiant little chin and those big eyes. I wonder what colour they'll turn in the end.”

He reached forward and stroked the baby's head.

“Listen, I'm sorry about what happened last time we talked. I had too much to drink, as I so often do. Did you find my note?”

“Yes, and it cheered me up no end when I did.” I smiled at him. “It was just a silly misunderstanding, and you'd been through a great deal that night, recalling all that you had.”

I took a deep breath. “Look, Tom, while we're clearing the air, I think it's your turn to hear a confession of mine.”

Tom pulled an exaggerated face. “Gosh, what can this be?”

“No, honestly, please let me get it out, or I'll lose my nerve. Mrs. Jelphs doesn't know anything about this, and I'm not sure why I'm telling you. Only . . . only, I suppose having the baby has put things into perspective for me, and I don't want to lie to you anymore.”

“Lie? What do you mean?”

“I'll tell you, but first, will you please promise not to tell Mrs. Jelphs? She was my mother's friend once, and I . . . Well, do you promise? You can tell her once I've gone, if you want to.”

He frowned. “I hardly know what I'm promising, but yes, all right, I'll keep it quiet.”

“It's about the baby's father,” I said firmly. I was apprehensive but determined. “Remember you said I never talked about him?”

He shook his head. “You don't have to tell me anything, Alice, really. I don't need to know what happened before.”

“No, I want to tell you the truth. You see, there wasn't a husband. My mother made him up.” I exhaled shakily.

He looked utterly confused. “Made him up?”

I kept on, desperate to get it all out. “There was a man, but we weren't married.”

He nodded slowly. “So she said you were married to make it sound more respectable, because you hadn't got round to it before he was killed.” Something else occurred to him, and he looked up. “And your wedding ring was there for the same reason?”

He looked down at my left hand, but I'd taken it off weeks before, when my fingers began to swell around it.

I swallowed. “The ring belonged to my grandmother. But you still don't understand. You see, the baby's father, well, he's not dead at all. He was already married to someone else, had been for years. I was so green and foolish that I believed him when he talked about getting a divorce. It was only once.” I tailed off, ashamed.