A Carriage for the Midwife (11 page)

‘It is my unhappy duty this morning to point out an example – and likewise a warning – of the dire consequences of improvidence,’ the rector continued. ‘I take no pleasure in doing so, I assure you, but rather sorrow. May we all heed and learn from the fate of those who have come to beg from the prudent and provident this morning.’

Sighs and shivers passed over the assembly like a chill wind, and feet shuffled uncomfortably. The four Luckets sat dumbly in their pew behind the font like a row of miscreants in the stocks. Bartlemy lowered his black head, but Dolly continued to stare straight in front. Joby gazed at the floor, and Jack might have been looking anywhere.

Polly shrank back between her companions on the maids’ bench. Osmond thought that her painful blushes were due to his bold appraisal of her, and his desire increased.

Edward saw Susan’s head drop still lower, and he seethed with rage; how much longer was she to be tortured by this pompous old fool?

The harangue went on for a further half-hour before the steeple clock struck twelve and the rector stepped down, having ordered the applicants to stay behind after the service to receive an agreed amount from the church wardens. He raised his hand in the final blessing, and the singers began Psalm 100. The worshippers scraped their feet, and the rector commenced his stately walk down the aisle. Ignoring the row of beggars, he lifted his heavy chin above his swathed cravat, and looked straight ahead.

Which is why he did not see the warning glare in Doll Lucket’s eyes as she slowly raised her right hand, clutching the prayer book. Drawing back her arm like a bowman taking aim, she threw the black leather-bound missile at the rector’s head with all her strength as he passed. It caught him on the left temple, landing with a force that would have done credit to the leather-covered ball that the men whacked with their bats on the green.

The rector’s yelp of surprise and pain went unheard, drowned by an unearthly shriek from Doll. She opened her mouth and howled like an animal, again and again, building up a blood-curdling wall of sound. Her bony frame shook with the effort, her face was hideously contorted, and her upraised hands were clenched.

The people stood motionless, unable to focus their thoughts, though one or two superstitious souls fell to their knees in terror that an unclean spirit had got into the Lord’s house.

For it was a howl of the doomed, the damned, the trapped, a sound of fury and without hope. Nobody who heard Doll that Sunday morning ever forgot her helpless despair, and when at last men began to shout and women to wail, the general uproar came as a relief, a sound of familiar human voices – frightened voices maybe, but not demented. Not like the madwoman.

The wordless yells ceased at last when Doll’s voice cracked and hoarsened; she could protest no more, and collapsed in a heap on the floor behind the font.

Nothing that Susan had imagined had been half as bad as this. Though trembling in every part, she forced herself to rise and go towards the font, though as she neared Bartlemy she stopped and drew back. Glancing to where Polly was sitting, she could not see her sister, and stood helplessly where she was, unable to focus on any course of action.

The situation was saved by Widow Gibson, who came bustling up with an unstoppered dark bottle of pungent-smelling salts, which she held under Doll’s nose. She then turned on Bartlemy.

‘What be the matter wi’ ye, man? Move yer carcass and get them boys outside, can’t ’ee?’

With his departure Susan could move to help her mother, and together she and Mrs Gibson hauled the half-fainting Doll up off the floor and laid her along a pew.

Dr Gravett was staggering in the aisle, clutching at his head as a thin trickle of blood ran down on to his neckcloth. The sexton recollected his duty and helped the rector into the vestry, followed by Mr Turnbull, who was thankful to leave the care of Mad Doll to the handywoman.

Mr Calthorpe, Justice of the Peace, stood up in his stall. Raising his voice, he ordered the church to be cleared forthwith, and beckoned to his agent.

‘That woman must be put under restraint. Edward, take care of your mother and sisters.’

The two men strode down the aisle towards the group gathering round Dolly, and Edward followed close behind them, thinking only of Susan.

‘She must be charged with common assault and taken to Belhampton Gaol straight away,’ announced Calthorpe.

‘Gaol? Oh,
no
!’ cried Susan, her hand going involuntarily to her throat.

To Calthorpe’s surprise, Edward added his voice to hers.

‘Show mercy, sir, and let her be taken to the House of Industry, not prison – please, Father!’

Calthorpe stared, not displeased by his son’s compassion.

‘Very well, but she must be taken there at once. Have the carrier summoned to take her on his cart.’

Widow Gibson seemed the obvious choice of attendant to accompany Doll on the open cart, and the bailiff was bidden to sit beside carrier Dick – there was only one Dick now, the father being dead – in case assistance was needed. As the cart rolled away from the church gate the old handywoman beamed at the onlookers: it was her moment of glory.

And so Doll Lucket travelled to her last home, the place she would never leave.

The rector was carried home in his own phaeton with Miss Gravett, suitably bandaged and reassured that he was in no danger of rabies. It was even whispered by some that he had got what he deserved.

After the congregation had departed to marvel on the morning’s events over roast meat, Susan realised that Polly had slunk away with the Bever House servants, and might not even have seen her sister in the church. Susan was left standing alone in the porch, leaning her aching head against the cool stone and wondering what she should do. Farmer Bennett had stormed out during the uproar, taking his wife and family with him.

‘There’s to be no more truck with any o’ them Luckets,’ he ordered, and when Marianne tearfully pleaded on Susan’s behalf he told her to shut her mouth and stop mooing.

The steeple clock struck one. Miss Glover should have returned from Little St Giles by now, and Susan’s only hope was to beg for lodging at her cottage until another maidservant’s place could be found, perhaps somewhere away from Beversley. In trying to do her duty that morning, she had lost her livelihood, the very roof over her head. It was so unjust! Feeling weak and drained by the ordeal, she sank down on the low stone bench and buried her face in her hands.

She did not notice the movement at the entrance to the sunlit porch, but a light touch on her shoulder made her look up with a start.

‘Susan! I did not know that you were still here,’ Edward began, hesitating when he saw her mournful eyes, hastily lowered. ‘I beg your pardon – Miss Lucket. Your mother will be looked after at the – by the . . .’

Words deserted him as he beheld this girl at close quarters, alone with him after all the hubbub; and the tender concern that she glimpsed in those intense dark blue eyes finally unlocked Susan’s pent-up emotion. She could no longer hold back the tears she had kept in check until now.

The truth was that his kindly meant reassurance about her mother underlined her lack of daughterly love; there was even a kind of relief in knowing that Mad Doll would be safely out of the way. Was this her punishment for not loving the mother who had betrayed her? Homelessness and hunger?

Edward’s reaction was mixed. Sorry as he was to see her distress, it was his happy chance to comfort her, and seating himself beside her on the weathered stone, he put a tentative arm around her, gently drawing her head on to his shoulder.

‘Susan – sweet Susan, don’t cry. I can’t bear to see you unhappy.’

This must surely be a dream!
Edward Calthorpe
here beside her, holding her close against him and speaking kindly as a brother might. What a difference it made! Strength seemed to flow from his encircling arm; the very feel of his light jacket, unbuttoned on a summer’s day, and the softness of his lawn shirt proved that he was real. She breathed in his wholesome maleness, a blend of healthy warm skin and hair that was sweetly pleasing to her senses, not like — but no! She must not let
that
besmirch such a beautiful moment as this.

Not a breeze stirred in the deserted churchyard. The shady yews filled the air with their aroma, and there was no sound but the drowsy hum of insects among the seeding grass-heads. Together they watched as a pair of white butterflies circled round each other before coming down to alight on a lichened headstone warmed by the June sun. Susan and Edward sat motionless, neither daring to break the spell by a word or movement; their very breath was soundless, though Susan sensed the rise and fall of Edward’s chest as she leaned lightly against his shoulder. She closed her eyes. Oh, that time might stand still and let this moment blend with eternity . . .

At length he gently withdrew his arm from her shoulders.

‘Let me offer you assistance to get home, Miss Lucket.’

She had to tell him.

‘I ha’ nowhere to go, sir. I been working at the Bennetts’ these four years gone, but now they won’t have me. I – I was told to stay out o’ church this mornin’, but I disobeyed Mrs Bennett and went.’

He nodded, unsurprised. ‘I see, Susan. You disobeyed out of loyalty to your family. So do you want to return to them now?’

‘Where, sir, the Ash-Pits? Never, I’d die first. That be no home o’ mine.’

Startled by the emphasis of her words, he thought of Bartlemy’s surly scowl, and hastened to reassure her.

‘Then let me accompany you back to the Bennetts’ farm, and I’ll speak to Thomas Bennett.’

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

‘That’ud be very good o’ ye, sir,’ she whispered, wondering how much he knew of the farmer’s sullen temper.

‘Come, then, give me your arm and we’ll walk over there. And you must call me Edward, for I want to be your true friend, Susan.’

They stood up, and she smoothed her hands over her creased gown. Her bonnet strings were unloosed, and it slipped down over the back of her head. Edward bent down to pick it up, replacing it on her head and coaxing a few wayward strands of hair back under it. Smiling, he tied the strings in a bow under her chin, and she looked up in blushing surprise, unused to such brotherly kindness; and he was also entirely respectful to her as a woman, which gave her an assurance of perfect safety.

They walked out of the churchyard and across the green. There was nobody in sight as they crossed the bridge and took the path beside the paddock field where a few horses grazed. When they came to a gap in the hedge with a stile, he asked if she would like to walk through the field; nimbly he vaulted the stile and held out his hand to assist her. She carefully raised the skirt of her gown as she mounted the horizontal bar and stepped over the top one, looking down at his laughing face.

‘Go on, Susan, jump – I’m here to catch you!’

So she flung herself forward, her gown flying out as she fell into his outstretched arms. There was a strange exhilaration in being caught and clasped against him, and she could not help but respond to his loving look. With him at her side the afternoon was transformed into a shimmering idyll of cloudless blue sky and lush green pasture from which the horrors of the morning receded. Was she really here, walking with Edward Calthorpe, exchanging shy, wordless glances? It seemed unbelievable, yet there was no doubt of his liking for her. Past and future were forgotten: never had she been so happy as at this present moment.

The harsh cry of a corncrake close at hand made them both start, and Edward drew her towards him.

‘The corncrake is no great singer, is she, Susan? Yet today I find her sweeter than any nightingale because I hear her with you beside me.’

They stood together in the middle of the field, and Edward took hold of her hand and looked deeply into her grey eyes, questioning, searching: he longed to kiss her.

But the moment was lost.

Looking beyond his shoulder Susan stiffened at the sight of the huddle of the Ash-Pits; she thought she saw a black figure lounging in the sun, a blot against the green. And there were her young brothers, idle Jack and wiry Joby, left motherless and cut off from their sisters by the dark shadow that lurked nearby.

Susan gasped in dismay and drew back from Edward. He turned his head to see what had caught her attention, but could see nothing but the tall hedgerow and the lane beyond.

‘Dear Susan, what troubles you? Have I said something untoward?’ he asked anxiously.

‘’Tis no fault o’ yourn, sir,’ she muttered, turning away. ‘’Tis just – my mother an’ everything.’

For there were things he must never hear, never know about. The very thought of him knowing was too horrible to imagine. But the spell was broken, the idyll dissolved; when he reached for her hand again she began to walk ahead.

‘Dear Susan, forgive me. Of course you are grieved for your poor mother,’ he said, increasing his pace to keep up with hers. ‘Only let me be your friend and do what I can to help you. I’ll ride over to the House of Industry and bring you news of her, take messages—’

‘’Tis good o’ ye, sir, but there be no need – thank ye.’

She marched on, struggling with angry tears at this spoiling of a perfect afternoon; she saw the shadow stretching down the years, and could not foresee a time when she would ever be truly free from the taint of it.

When they had ascended the track up to the Bennetts’ farmhouse they found the front door open and heard the sound of voices within. In response to Edward’s pull on the bell rope they were confronted by a gaping Bet, who shook her head at Susan and dropped a clumsy curtsy to young Mr Calthorpe.

‘Is it possible to see Farmer Bennett or Mrs Bennett?’ he asked politely.

‘Bide ’ee here while I fetches missus,’ answered Bet, adding aside to Susan. ‘’Tis all up an’ down here. Young missus ha’ come over from Pulhurst wi’out warnin’, an’ her such a size as ’ee never saw!’

Mrs Bennett stepped into the hall looking harassed, and in no mood to curtsy to Gertrude Calthorpe’s younger son. Her first thought on seeing her disobedient maidservant was one of relief.