No Wings to Fly (24 page)

Upstairs in her room she stooped low over the crib, looking into the little face. He was awake and, seeing her, at once connected his gaze with her own, his solemn eyes fixing intently, like a magnet, on hers. As he did so she felt her heart lurch in her breast, and briefly she closed her eyes in pain. In spite of the fact that all through the day she had tried to ready herself for this moment, she knew that she was as unprepared as she had ever been.

Bending her face lower, she smiled at him. ‘Hello, my darling,’ she whispered. He smiled back at her, and as he briefly turned his face on the pillow she saw the tiny crescent moon on his cheek beside his ear. She bent closer, and kissed the spot, kissed the little moon. He smiled more
broadly, as if amused, and her own mouth moved in a tender, sad little smile. Adjusting her skirt, she lowered herself to her knees on the rug. She knew that downstairs the clergyman and the lady would be waiting, anxious to get back into the fly and return to the station, but these were precious moments and they would not come again.

Reaching into the cradle she drew back the light covers and lifted him out. Gently she wrapped him in his shawl then sat back on her heels, holding him in her arms. Putting her mouth to his tiny ear, she said, ‘You’re going on a journey. I don’t know where, but you’re going somewhere – maybe to some thrilling, exciting place far away from here.’ She held him as close as she dared, drinking in the look and smell of him. ‘You’ll have a new mother,’ she said, ‘and you’ll have a father too,’ making the discoveries as she spoke, little revelations that took her by surprise and all but stopped her in her tracks. ‘You’ll have a whole new family. Perhaps brothers and sisters.’ She paused for a moment as her breath caught in her throat. ‘You won’t remember me,’ she said, ‘but that’s the way it should be. You’ll have a new life, a better life than I could ever give you.’

She wanted to say so much more; there would never be time enough for all the things she wished to say. Outside the window in the rowan tree a thrush began to sing. Hearing the sweet song, Lily said, ‘Listen. The thrush is singing. He’s singing for you.’ The baby looked up at her from the nest of her arms. ‘Come,’ she said, choking back the tears that filled her eyes. ‘Come, my darling. The nice people – they’re waiting.’

The clergyman and Miss Cannon turned at Lily’s entrance and observed her as she came in.

‘Ah,’ said the reverend, his smile expanding across his pink face, ‘here comes the little mite,’ and Miss Cannon, her smile as embracing as the vicar’s, said, ‘Is he ready to go?’

Lily nodded. ‘Yes, he’s ready.’

Miss Cannon went to Lily, held out her arms, and Lily laid the baby in them. ‘Be careful with him,’ she said, as she released the tiny bundle into the woman’s grasp.

Miss Cannon gave a little nod. ‘Don’t worry, Miss Clair, we have much experience of looking after such precious little creatures.’

The reverend spoke up. ‘Oh, yes, indeed, you have absolutely no reason for anxiety.’ He pressed his hands together. ‘So – everything seems to be going along very well. We just need to complete the paperwork and the matter will be settled and we can be on our way again.’ He bent then and took up his briefcase, opened it and took out some papers. As he did so, Miss Elsie gestured towards a small writing table on which lay a blotter and ink-stand.

‘Ah, yes, thank you.’ The reverend nodded, then moved to the table and sat down. As Lily watched, he laid out the papers before him, glanced over them, then turned to her. ‘If you please, Miss Clair . . .’

Lily moved to stand by the table. As she did so he uncapped the inkwell, took up a pen and dipped it in.

‘Your full name is Lily Mary Clair, is that correct?’

‘Yes, sir.’

He wrote on the paper. ‘And you were born in Compton Wells, Wiltshire on the second of July 1848.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Thank you. And you’re resident here at Rowanleigh, in the village of Sherrell.’

‘Yes.’

He nodded, wrote again, then held out the pen to her. ‘If you wouldn’t mind – we need your signature.’

She took the pen from him, and he pointed to a place on the paper. ‘Just there, if you please . . .’

Lily became aware of her heart beating. She stood with the pen in her fingers, hand poised above the paper.

‘Just there,’ Reverend Iliffe said again, pointing.

As Lily hesitated, the ghost of a nervous little laugh broke in her throat. It was hardly more than a breath, but it rang in the quiet room. The clergyman turned his smile upon her. ‘It’s quite straightforward, my dear. It’s the usual procedure. It’s just to say that you willingly give up the infant for adoption.’

Lily did not move. The Reverend Iliffe looked at her and then after a moment switched his glance to Miss Elsie.

‘Lily . . .’ Miss Elsie said.

Lily nodded, eyes fixed on the paper where the reverend’s fingertip was set. He prompted her. ‘Just here, Miss Clair . . .’

Lily stood for another second, unmoving, then bent and put down her signature.

Reverend Iliffe smiled and let out a little breath of satisfaction. ‘Well done, that’s splendid. And now here on this one . . .’ He moved the top paper aside to reveal the one below. He pointed, indicating where Lily was to sign. She did so, then straightened and handed him back the pen. As she took a step back, the man turned his head to Miss Elsie. ‘If you please, Miss Balfour . . . Your witness signature, please, if you wouldn’t mind . . .’

As Miss Elsie moved to the desk to sign the papers, Lily looked across at Miss Cannon holding the baby. ‘Oh,’ she said, before she could stop herself, ‘he doesn’t like to be held that low down. He likes his head higher.’ Miss Cannon adjusted the position of the baby in her arms and said with a smile, ‘I’ve handled many babies, miss. I’m very experienced, really.’

While the reverend packed the papers away in his case, Miss Elsie set a ledger on the table, an old-looking thing with a brown binding and a loosening spine. She opened it up and wrote in it, and then asked the vicar and Lily to add their signatures. And it was done. The reverend picked up
the straw basket holding the baby’s belongings and turned an enquiring eye to his companion. ‘Miss Cannon?’

Miss Cannon said at once, ‘Yes, we’re ready to go, Reverend.’

The man and the woman turned to Lily. ‘Thank you, Miss Clair,’ the reverend said, ‘and don’t worry about the baby – he’ll have a good life – and he’ll be well provided for.’

Then they turned, heading for the door.

The warm days lengthened into high summer, and the first scarlet poppies were seen in the rising corn. At Rowanleigh, Miss Elsie spent hours, day after day, working with Lily at her studies, instructing her in everything she thought might be required in her future work as a governess. In what spare time she had, she turned to her painting, working with her watercolours and brushes. On a few occasions, when the weather was exceptionally fine, she would take her small easel out into the nearby fields. Lily, left alone, tried to concentrate on the projects that Miss Elsie set for her. While the baby had been there, so demanding of her time, she had had no opportunity for such work, nor, indeed, any inclination for it. Now, though, her time was free, and she must make use of it.

It was not easy. Everything had changed. Just a short time ago her child had been there in the house, his very presence demanding her attention, her constant thought, so that she had never been without awareness of his being, his nearness.

And now he was gone. For two days after his departure the cradle had remained in her bedroom, empty and haunting, but then Mr Shad had come and taken it away. Lily had stood and watched as he had carried it through the door, and she had wanted to cry out, to stop him, but she had made no sound. Any protest was useless: her son was gone, and the cradle would remain empty.

She found herself weeping, the tears coming upon her at
the most unexpected times, when she would be totally unprepared. She would see his little body, his face. She could see him in all his detail; his soft hair, his tiny, perfect hands, every feature was there. Sometimes when the pictures came, she would stand stock still and catch at her breath.

Miss Elsie was well aware of it. Emerging from her studio to join Lily for dinner in the dining room, she saw the shadows behind her eyes.

‘It will pass, Lily,’ she said. ‘Believe me, it will.’

Lily had written and told her father and stepmother of the baby’s departure. However, she said, she would be staying on at Rowanleigh, where Miss Balfour was preparing her for a position as a governess. Her father had responded saying that she was fortunate to have been given such a chance, but that he could no longer afford the allowance that had previously been sent to Miss Balfour. Lily wrote back to say it would not be necessary, that she would be earning her keep while she was there, but received no reply.

So, the sewing work came again from the Corster draper, and Lily divided her time between the needlework and her studies. The summer days fled by and the nights drew in. She watched as the leaves turned to gold and brown, and there was no further word from her father in answer to her letters. She kept her mind occupied with her work, and always with feelings of gratitude to her benefactress. Any expressions of such gratitude, though, were quickly dismissed. ‘You cared for me when I needed it, and when there was no one else,’ Miss Elsie said one day when Lily brought up the subject. ‘There’s nothing more to say.’

Working on the various projects set for her, Lily continued to make good progress, aware herself of the strides she was making as her learning increased by the day. She was glad too, for anything that distracted her from
her preoccupations concerning the child, Joel, and Tom.

She had learnt nothing of Tom since the third of May when she had visited him at Wentworth gaol, so when she saw his familiar handwriting on the envelope after the postman’s call one morning in November, her heart gave a surge of joy. With eager fingers she took out the single page letter. He had written:

Fellowes Farm
Halls Haven, Nr Corster
3rd November 1867

As soon as Lily had finished reading the letter she sat down to pen a reply. She would be there on Saturday, she wrote to him, and would meet him soon after three in the tea room of the Woolpack Inn.

Mr Shad drove her to the railway station on Saturday, for which she was very grateful, for the way was treacherous underfoot. It had rained during the night and the road was muddy and in parts thickly carpeted with fallen leaves. At the station she caught a train for Corster, and on arrival there hired a fly to take her the rest of the way to Halls Haven, and the Woolpack Inn.

It came on to rain as the carriage reached the inn, and she hurried inside. Enquiring of the landlord, she was directed to a room at the end of a short passage. On entering, she found its only patrons were an elderly couple sitting at one of the tables. There was no sign of Tom. The old clock over the mantelpiece showed the time at two-fifty-five.

She moved to a small table near a window, and after laying her bag and umbrella on the padded bench, she undid the collar and buttons of her coat and sat down. As she did so a young girl appeared in the aperture of a serving hatch and looked over at her with a smile. ‘Yes, miss, what can I get for you?’ Lily replied that she was waiting to be joined by someone and would order when he arrived. The barmaid nodded, ‘Right you are, miss,’ and disappeared from sight.

The minutes ticked by while the rain increased and ran down the window pane. From the adjoining public bar came a continuous hum of voices. The elderly couple sat murmuring over their drinks. Then, at long last, there was movement at the door to the passage, and Tom looked into the room, saw Lily and entered.

‘Tom. Oh, Tom.’ She got to her feet and reached out as he
came towards her. He wrapped her in his arms, a little damp from the rain, and briefly held her to him.

‘Ah, Lil,’ he said. ‘Oh, you’re a sight for sore eyes, and no mistake.’ He bent his head and kissed her awkwardly on the cheek.

As she sat down again he took off his coat and laid it on the bench, putting his cap down beside it. ‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ he said as he sat down at her side, ‘and I can’t be out for long. I’ve got to get back soon.’ She took hold of her bag and got out her purse. Handing him some coins, she said, ‘You get yourself whatever you want. I’ll just have some coffee.’

‘I’ll ’ave coffee too,’ he said. He took the money and moved to the serving hatch. As he stood talking to the barmaid, giving her the order, Lily studied him. He was thirteen now. He did not appear to have grown very much, and in his bearing there was still almost the callow rawness of a child. For all his lack of physical stature, though, he was just as handsome, she thought, but his face was not a face that was content. For one so young there was too much shadow in the cast of his eye, too little lightness in the curve of his lip.

‘Oh, Tom,’ she said as he came back to the table with the steaming mugs, ‘how good it is to see you again.’