“Alice did not help when I brought home the bird with the broken wing,” pointed out Robbie. “She screamed and ran away. Hester put a splint on it and helped feed it till it was better. She didn’t help catch insects for it,” he added in a reflective tone.
His elders laughed.
“That would be too much to expect,” declared Mr. Fairfax. “Well, I hope this Grace is not too ill to care for her baby. It seems to me that Miss Godric has more than enough to do already.”
“I think she is very sick,” said Geoffrey dubiously. “She could hardly walk, and she’s thin as a stick. Alice and Susan have taken over the baby, though.”
“You should hear them talking nonsense to it.” Robbie’s voice was full of scorn. “‘Who’s an itsy cuddly dinkum pudding plum?’” he demonstrated in a squeak. “How’s the poor thing ever going to learn to talk?”
“Alice carried on that way to you when you were a baby,” Jamie informed him, “and you talk altogether too much.”
At that moment Hester came in, looking grave.
“I thought I should find you all here,” she said, smiling with an effort. “Your room has become the centre of the house, Mr. Fairfax.”
“How is the young woman?” he asked.
“Grace is very ill. Dr. Price holds out little hope for her. I must sit with her, so I have asked Susan to prepare dinner, as Ivy is not here today. I am sure you will all help her as much as possible, my dears, and that Mr. Fairfax will excuse any shortcomings. Alice is taking care of the baby. Geoff, she wants you to tear up an old sheet for her. I’ll find one for you. Off you go now, all of you.”
They boys went out, their faces solemn. Robbie’s piercing whisper could be heard from the landing.
“Jamie! Does that mean she’d going to die?”
Mr. Fairfax looked at Hester’s expression and said softly: “I can only offer you my sympathy, Miss Godric. If you can think of any way in which I might assist . . .”
“No, no. I daresay it is grossly unfair of me, but I cannot feel kindly toward the male sex just at present. Excuse me, Mr. Fairfax.”
Even as he swallowed the affront, he recognised a certain justice in her feelings. He himself had never corrupted innocence, but was that true morality or simply a matter of taste? Certainly many of his fellows felt no qualms about it, though most, he thought, would look after any by-blows and their mothers. Sighing, he gave her the right and hoped fervently that the advent of Grace would not permanently turn her against him.
Hester returned to Grace’s bedside. The girl was awake, and she begged feverishly for her baby.
“He shall come in for a few minutes,” Hester soothed, “but Dr. Price advised that you should not feed him. Alice has given him some goat’s milk, which he seems to like very well.”
Alice brought little John in, gurgling happily in her arms. He was a bonny child. It seemed that all the mother’s meagre nourishment had gone straight to him. She was unable to hold him for long, and she wept when she had to give him up, starting Alice weeping in sympathy.
“You shall see him whenever you wish,” promised Hester. “Now you must try to eat a little and regain your strength.”
“I’ll take good care of him,” assured Alice through her tears.
Grace swallowed scarce a mouthful of broth and then fell asleep again. Hester sat beside her all afternoon. Dr. Price dropped in later on, and between them he and Hester persuaded their patient to drink a glass of barley water and sip a little more broth. She seemed more alert and again asked for her baby. However, the doctor was not sanguine.
“Sleep and food she needs, look you,” he explained to Hester outside the chamber, “but she is too weak already to eat properly. I’d not want to raise your hopes, my dear.”
Throughout the long night, Hester kept vigil, seeing little change. When Ivy arrived in the morning, already fully apprized by gossip of the Godrics’ latest turn, she took over for a few hours so that Hester could catch some sleep on the sofa in the front parlour. Ivy was not at all averse to watching by a prospective deathbed, but she woke Hester after only a couple of hours.
“Her’s awake, Miss Hester,” she announced. “Wants ter talk to yer. Pore soul, ‘minds me o’ me auntie’s husband’s son-in-law by his first. Got lost on the moors, down in Devon they lived, and when they found him he weren’t nothing but a skellington. Thin as a rake and too feeble to eat. Din’t last but three days, he din’t. A rolling stone gathers no moss,” she added, to Hester’s sleepy bewilderment.
Rubbing her eyes, Hester dragged herself upstairs, where Grace anxiously awaited her.
“Miss Godric,” she started in a weak but determined voice, “you have been so good to me that I want to tell you everything.”
“Hush, my dear. Do not waste your strength. It is not necessary.
“Please, listen to me!” the girl pleaded. “I am dying, I know it, and I must tell someone.”
“I can call the vicar,” Hester suggested. “Mr. Smythe is a dear old man.”
“No! I’ll have nothing to do with the Church!” was the firm and bitter response. “Only listen, and you will understand.”
Grace was growing agitated, so Hester gave in and sat down to hear the story she had much rather have avoided.
“My father is a parson,” Grace began, “at Lavenham, in Suffolk, where I grew up. My brother also took the cloth and was given a parish in Somerset. Would that he had stayed closer to home!
“The living at Lavenham is a good one, and I was brought up wanting for nothing except youthful company. My father is the sort of churchman who has more belief in damnation than in salvation, and from the age of ten I was not permitted to play with my contemporaries lest I be led astray. My brother is some years older than I, and the dearest person. I am sure that his religion is very different, though I have never heard him preach.
“However, it was to my father’s sermons that I was forced to conform, so I reached the age of nineteen without ever speaking to a young man, let alone having any admirers. Imagine my feelings, then, when walking in the fields near my home I was overtaken by a gentleman on horseback who enquired the way to Audley End and complimented my eyes. I was covered with confusion, and that devil incarnate swore my blushes made my eyes shine the brighter.
“He disclosed his name, Sir Hubert Rathwycke, and that he was staying at Audley End for several weeks. He asked, did I often walk that way? and I, foolish maiden, smiled and blushed again and nodded.
“That was how it started. Daily he rode from Audley End to meet me in the meadows, and daily I went to find him there, telling myself I did but take my usual walk. How short a time it was before he professed undying love! Any female more worldly-wise than I must have been suspicious. I pressed him to call on my father. He threw my own words back at me: that my father waxed wrathful at the most innocent signs of passion. We must present my parents with a fait accompli. How romantic it would be to flee to Gretna Green together, whispered the tempter in my ear.
“I fear I did not long resist. Rathwycke is a handsome man in a dark, satanic way. I thought myself in love with him, willing even to forego my parents’ blessing for the heaven of being his wife. I met him at midnight, not three weeks from our first acquaintance, and not until sunrise did I realise that the post chaise was rushing southward, that every mile which carried me away from my home carried me likewise further from any hope of marriage.
“Sir Hubert owns an isolated house in the Hertfordshire countryside, near Hemel Hempstead. Thither he bore me, and them despite my struggles and entreaties, he encompassed my ruin. The very next day, already tired of his conquest, he set me on a horse behind his servant, whom he bade take me home.
“I had left a letter for my parents telling them I was to be married, yet they were not surprised to see me return unwed. The appearance of rectitude being more important to them than its actuality, they had concealed my absence and now took me back, with many reproaches and penances. All too soon I discovered I was with child, which I hid from my parents as long as possible. About the end of the sixth month, I grew too big for concealment, and what I had suffered till then was nothing to the misery I now knew. They put it about that I had gone to visit relatives and shut me up in my chamber. I know not why they did not cast me off at once. But I surmise that they thought some accident of nature might still allow the preservation of appearances.
“For three months, until the birth of my child, and for two months thereafter while I was too ill to walk, I saw only an old serving-woman. Not a word had I from my mother. I wrote to my dear brother, telling him all, but I suppose the letters were destroyed, for I had no answer, not even of condemnation. At last I was somewhat recovered, and the baby proving healthy and not like to die, my God-fearing parents thrust me out of the house just after dark one night. It was a fine night; I will allow them that.
“Since then I have trudged the highroads, gradually selling my small bundle for food, aiming always for Somersetshire. Could I but reach my brother and show him my poor innocent child, I cannot believe he would not have compassion on us.
“It’s too late now for me. I beg of you that you will write to him, John Collingwood at the vicarage in Wiveliscombe, and ask him to take care of little John, his namesake. And oh, I pray to see his face before I die!”
Exhausted by her long and impassioned recitation, eyes dry and burning in her wasted face, Grace fell back against the pillows. Hester, who had listened to her history with mounting horror and indignation, moved from the chair to the edge of the bed, clasped her in her arms, and kissed her forehead. No word of sympathy was adequate. All she could do was give her fervent promise to write at once to the Vicar of Wiveliscombe.
The promise given, Grace fell into a deep sleep. Her face, which had grown flushed with emotion as she spoke, was again deathly pale. She did not stir as the long hot afternoon slowly passed, but she awoke at sunset. Dr. Price shook his head gravely and said there was nothing more he could do. She was so weak she did not even attempt to hold her baby, though she begged to see his face one last time.
She lay awake all evening, with Hester holding her icy hand. Toward midnight she whispered something, and Hester bent her head to hear.
“Would your . . . vicar . . . come to me . . . and not condemn?”
“I will send my brother.”
Hester woke Jamie and sent him quickly to St. Mary’s Vicarage. Twenty minutes later he returned with Reverend Smythe, who had a greatcoat flung on over his nightshirt, his feet clad in carpet slippers, and a chequered nightcap on his head. Hester met the old cleric at the door and hurriedly told Grace’s story as she led him upstairs.
She left them for a few minutes while she made a cup of tea. When she returned to the chamber, he was sitting in the chair clasping Grace’s hand, and the dying girl had the faintest of smiles on her face. Her eyes were closed, but she opened them briefly to cast a look full of gratitude at Hester.
She died in the earliest hours of the morning, as the grey false dawn paled the eastern sky. Mr. Smythe, who had nodded off, woke then and told Hester he would make all the necessary arrangements. Looking with concern at her drawn face, he made her go and lie down.
Hester slept all day. In spite of the coming and going of beadle, coffin-maker, and old women, the house was hushed. Even Robbie was subdued, and the baby, cosseted by Alice, did not cry.
Jamie woke his sister at dinnertime. Though she had eaten very little for three days, her appetite was small. After a quiet meal, she went to see Mr. Fairfax.
“I’m afraid I have quite neglected my other patient,” she apologised, trying to smile. “It was yesterday that you were supposed to have ventured below stairs, sir.”
“My dear,” he said gravely, “you cannot think that I consider my claims so highly. You have borne a heavy burden these last days.”
“It was . . . difficult. However, I have not forgot that I was excessively rude to you on Sunday. Pray forgive me. The situation was much as I supposed, yet even
his
evil doing pales before the conduct of her parents. To cast her out, ill and alone, with a newborn baby—their own grandchild! I cannot bear to think of it.”
For the first time in all the stressful hours, Hester felt tears welling up. Ashamed, she hid her face in her hands and voiced a muffled apology. “I do beg your pardon. I do not in general act like a watering-pot.”
Wordless, Mr. Fairfax laid his hand on her shoulder. As if his sympathy were the last straw, Hester broke down and wept. He felt his heart swell within him and longed desperately to take her in his arms and protect her, to take care of her and carry for her all the burdens he sensed were too great for her slender strength. And he was tied to his bed.
Even had he been free, he realised, this was not the time to profess a newly discovered love. She was tired and overwrought; any confession on his part would simply be another burden to her. Already he was beginning to withdraw from his recognition of his own emotions. He had admired her strength, her serenity. Now that she had lost them, what more natural than that he should want to protect her? The urge was as instinctive as a mother’s urge to feed her children.
He patted her back and gave her his handkerchief.
“Thank you,” she sniffed, with a watery smile. “I am so very sorry. I have no right to bring my troubles to you, nor the intention. Only I could not cry before the children. I feel better now.”
“Yes, I have always heard that a good cry helps. Would that we men were permitted such an outlet.”
“I hope you do not feel like weeping, Mr. Fairfax! I promise you shall go down tomorrow, without fail. Are you quite determined to lie in the back room? You will have no peace or privacy, you know.”
“If I shall not be in your way. I daresay there may be days when I shall prefer the parlour. But tell me, do you think James and Geoffrey will be able to carry me down the stairs?”
“They carried you up, so unless you have eaten too much gingerbread they should manage. The chief problem I foresee is persuading Robbie that he cannot help. He is most insistent that he can carry your head, or perhaps one foot. So Geoff told him that as they are not detachable he would only get in the way. Then Alice accused Geoffrey of being coarse, and Geoff protested that he had not advocated dismembering you. At that point I left the room.”