A Carriage for the Midwife (22 page)

Susan looked Dr Parnham straight in the eyes and did not flinch, though she heard Sophia’s gasp of indignation, and felt her friend’s hand on her shoulder.

‘Do not agree to it, Susan,’ Sophia whispered, loudly enough for the men to hear. ‘Wait a year or two, and we’ll try again. I do not ask this of you – and in any case, we can’t spare you.’

Sophia knew that it was not the privations of the House that Susan most dreaded; it was the prospect of living under the same roof as Mad Doll, and while the true reason for this had never been made clear, Sophia knew, or thought she knew, that Susan simply would not be able to bear it.

Mr Turnbull nodded his agreement with Miss Glover: he thought it an unreasonable condition to make.

Susan took a deep breath and answered clearly.

‘Thank ye, Dr Parnham, f’r y’r offer. I’ll take it, an’ move into the House o’ Industry as soon as the guardians please.’

Sophia turned to her in astonishment. ‘A year, Susan, in that awful place? May God have mercy on you and give you strength, my poor friend!’

And for the first time Susan saw tears in her eyes.

Dr Parnham also saw what consternation he had caused, and the way Miss Glover swept out of his study without another word. Susan, on the other hand, curtsied and bid good day to this man who knew nothing about her and the extent of her aversion to the place where he was sentencing her to spend a year.

Her thoughts turned to Edward, now a midshipman on the same troopship as Lieutenant Hansford somewhere on the high seas, witnessing scenes of heaven only knew what carnage, facing the danger of shipwreck and death from the deadly American long rifles. What were her morbid fears compared to the perils he had to endure?

If this was the way to fulfil her ambition, then this was the way she would follow. And when she became the licensed Beversley midwife, Edward might present her to the Calthorpes with less apology than for a poor maidservant.

Edward. He who had vowed that he would have no other but herself, his love would surround and sustain her, even within those grim grey walls.

OSMOND HAD PASSED
another wretched night of pain and sleeplessness.

‘For God’s sake, Mother, go to church and leave me to myself, can’t you? I will say my prayers alone here.’

Gertrude Calthorpe stood irresolutely beside the four-poster bed. Her son’s eyes were ringed by dark circles, and there were two deep vertical furrows between them, etched by the mysterious ache he suffered in a leg no longer there. He had wept in the night for the loss of it, grinding his teeth and burying his face in the pillow; Berry, the manservant, had lain awake on his mattress in the corner of the room, pretending not to hear until his young master had shouted to him to fetch more claret.

The decanter was empty again now, and in response to his father’s tentative protests Osmond replied sharply that a couple of glasses were necessary to give him relief from the darting pain that shot down his right leg to the foot.

‘But my boy, there is no limb there,’ said Mr Calthorpe, gesturing helplessly towards the stump beneath the bedclothes.

‘Whether the limb be there or not, Father, I tell you it still hurts me like the deuce,’ returned Osmond, grimacing as the stump gave an involuntary jerk.

‘Then I shall ask Turnbull to make up more of his opium mixture,’ declared Calthorpe.

‘Ugh, that foul-tasting, bitter stuff! A glass of good red wine gives far more ease, and ’tis a damned sight kinder on the palate. Oh, for God’s sake, Father, send Martin down to the cellar, and then take my mother to church. I’ve had my fill of her weeping and wailing.’

He turned his head away from his parents’ troubled faces, and muttered an obscene oath. Calthorpe winced, and took his wife’s arm.

‘Let us do as he says, my love, and don’t give too much weight to his hasty words. ’Tis only to be expected in a man of four-and-twenty who has borne such a crippling loss.’

Gertrude nodded dumbly, wiping her eyes on the handkerchief she always kept tucked in her sleeve. He tried to comfort her as they went downstairs.

‘We must pray that his sacrifice for his country will prove to be—’

‘Oh, I care nothing for the hateful war!’ she burst out angrily. ‘I grieve only for my first-born son, my poor Osmond – oh, my son, my son!’ And her tears began to flow again.

‘Come to church, Gertrude. The carriage is below, and the girls are waiting for us.’

Calthorpe had to hide the grief in his own heart. It had been almost six weeks, and the strain was telling on them all. If only Edward were at home to cheer and encourage his brother; if only a way could be found to end this ghastly waste of manpower and the drain on the country’s resources. Osmond’s army days were over, and he was undoubtedly recovering, but his ill-temper had to be endured by both family and servants, and cast a gloom over the whole house.

Seated in the family pew, Calthorpe tried to pray, but during Dr Gravett’s interminable sermon his thoughts strayed back as they always did to the ordeal that had begun on a beautiful day in May, when a villainous-looking messenger rode up to Bever House on a half-starved horse and demanded payment for the care he said he had taken of Captain Calthorpe, lately returned to Portsmouth on the
Blackbird
with scores of other wounded men; he was now lying in an inn, said the man, robbed of all his possessions and with no means of getting home.

The best horse had been hastily saddled and Berry sent on ahead with money, clothes and provisions, while Calthorpe followed in the Bever carriage with Jude and Mrs Ferris. Never would he forget the journey, the low company and coarse laughter at the inn, the sight of his son lying near to death in a filthy room – and the smell of the leg. It filled the room and then the carriage, it clung to clothing, upholstery, hair and skin, the very stink of corruption. The Calthorpe sisters and servants shrank back from it when Osmond was carried into Bever House, and when Gertrude fell on her knees beside the gaunt figure lying on the litter, she fainted clean away.

Mr Turnbull was sent for, and dressed the unsightly swelling on Osmond’s forehead, though he did not dare to unwrap the stained and oozing bandages from the leg. He recommended a military surgeon in Winchester, who was at once sent for, and only Berry and Mrs Ferris were allowed in the sickroom besides Osmond’s parents. Crushed pine needles and yew were scattered on the floor and burned on the fire, while sprigs of rosemary were hung up to sweeten the air, but to no effect; the stench permeated the house from attics to cellar.

The surgeon arrived the next day, a short, bald man with no wig, and carrying his instruments in a folded leather bag like a carpenter’s tools. He removed the bandages and revealed a seething mass of grey maggots feeding on the dead tissue. Calthorpe recoiled, putting his hand over his mouth; there was a line of demarcation around the calf, below which the flesh was black and decomposing. It was obvious that the leg must be taken off before the poison spread all over the body, and the stricken father nodded his consent.

The fire was made up, the surgeon’s instruments were set out on a table, the cautery iron heated in the fire, and Osmond was strapped to the bedstead. Mrs Ferris made up a mixture of French brandy, opium and honey to let him sip at intervals; she was the only woman in the room, with Turnbull and Berry to assist. Calthorpe held his son’s hand throughout the operation, including the endless minute when the leg was sawed through above the knee. Turnbull handed over the red-hot cautery by its leather-covered handle, and a hiss of steam went up as it touched the raw flesh. The surgeon deftly stitched the skin across the stump, having left a flap on the inside of the thigh. The desperate remedy was accomplished, and that night Calthorpe quietly buried his son’s leg in a corner of the churchyard at Great St Giles.

Looking back now on that dreadful day, Calthorpe was convinced that Osmond began to recover from the very hour that the leg was removed; slowly and gradually his appetite improved and he gained strength. The sore on his head healed over, his bowel and bladder control returned, and now he was sitting up and taking notice of his surroundings, though he seldom smiled.

For as Osmond’s general health improved, so did his ability to think clearly and see his situation as it really was and how it would be for the rest of his life. He saw the blankness in his sister’s faces as they stood at his bedside, and when the Hansfords visited with Rosa and William the four of them had sat and stared as if he were some kind of freak at a fair, or so it seemed to him. Rosa had crocheted a black silk cover like a bag to put over his stump, and left it lying on the bed; Mrs Ferris had whisked it away, and it had never appeared again.

Friends did not know what to talk about, for there were so many subjects that had to be avoided: fox-hunting across the downs, shooting parties in pursuit of pigeon and pheasant, the ballroom floor; there could be no return to the saddle or the dance for Captain Calthorpe, pride of his regiment and heir to Bever House.

There had been one visitor who had brought him a little diversion, a change of direction for his thoughts, even some good-natured disagreement. Miss Glover had not crossed the threshhold of Bever House since the night of the ball nearly two years ago, but she now walked purposefully up to the front door and asked to see her cousin Osmond. Mr Calthorpe welcomed her gratefully, and Gertrude said she no longer cared one way or the other if Osmond consented, and so Sophia was shown into the sickroom. When Osmond saw her, he yawned and shook his head impatiently, expecting to be bored by more canting such as he got from the rector.

Sophia sat down beside him and took a book from her bag.

‘Have you read any of Mr Fielding’s novels, Osmond? I’ve brought this copy of
The History of Tom
Jones
– it is said to have greatly shocked the sensibilities of Dr Johnson!’

‘What? You may read me a little of it, Sophy, for I can’t give my mind to the printed page,’ sighed Osmond, idly reflecting that his cousin was not a bad-looking woman. No wonder Henry had been so taken with her, though it had been hard on Selina to be jilted. Still, what did it matter now? What did anything matter?

But by degrees, reading short passages aloud to him from the rollicking tale of Mr Jones’ adventures, and leaving out what she thought too improper, Sophia had engaged his attention long enough for him to remark that she had been a damned sight more entertaining than most. He painfully shifted his position so that he was facing her instead of the opposite wall.

‘Pour me out another glass, Sophy, and pass it across. All right, go on reading, don’t stop.’

Jael Ferris appeared at the end of an hour with Osmond’s medicine and a silent glance of dismissal for Sophia; it was time for the patient to rest. Sophia took her leave with sombre thoughts: suppose Henry were to suffer the same fate – or worse?

She found Mr Calthorpe eagerly waiting to speak to her, and followed him to his study, where he closed the door and asked her to take a chair.

‘God reward you, Sophy, I cannot tell you how deeply obliged I am. Nobody else seems to know what to say to the poor boy – I certainly do not.’

‘Cousin Osmond,’ she said, laying her hand lightly upon his arm, ‘talk to me. Tell me all about Osmond.’

And for the next hour Calthorpe truly unburdened his heart for the first time.

‘It was the very worst day of my life, Sophy, when we got the news. I had to order my wife to stay at home, though she clamoured to come with me in the carriage. Poor Gertrude! In the end she gave up her own personal woman, Mrs Ferris, who proved to be invaluable. She knew how to deal with those rogues in the tavern, that slattern who was supposed to be caring for Osmond. Oh, Sophy, when I saw him lying there . . . Berry had washed him, but he looked like death – and the smell of that leg – oh, my God. My God!’

His voice broke, and Sophia held his hand in both of hers. ‘I was praying for you, Cousin, as was everybody in Beversley,’ she said quietly.

‘Yes, I know, and your prayers have been answered, in that my son still lives, and is getting stronger. If only he could have peace in his mind, and accept the changes that must be made in his life! As we journeyed home in the carriage I held him in my arms with his head resting on my shoulder – and again when he lay helpless under the hands of that surgeon – and I have never loved him more than at those terrible moments. But now my son must walk with a peg leg and a stick, he who was so handsome and upright . . .’

And here Calthorpe broke down completely and sobbed aloud. Sophia rose and put her arms around his shoulders, holding him until the storm had subsided.

‘Patience, Cousin Osmond – have patience and hope,’ she urged. ‘’Twill take time for him to accept the changes there must be. He may yet be able to mount a horse again – it has been known. Put your trust in the Almighty, as we all must in these times.’

‘God bless you, Sophy, I am so thankful to see you in Bever House again,’ he said, kissing her hand in gratitude.

Osmond heard the bell tower of Great St Giles strike eleven. Divine Service was about to begin, but without the tall, commanding figure in his red coat and high peaked hat, catching the eyes of the women. He groaned aloud.
That
Captain Calthorpe had had two legs. Now he was a cripple, shut away from the eyes of the congregation in their Sunday best; he pictured the bench on which the maidservants sat in the north transept, and little Polly blushing at his bold glances . . .

Polly
. What a confounded bungling he had made of his opportunity with her when he had been a whole man. Many a time he had lain in his hammock on the other side of the Atlantic and relived the memory of her soft young flesh straddled across his overshot member; how many times had he longed to be soaked again in the warm stream that had flowed from her little overfilled bladder! Recalling that incident had brought him to a pitch of solitary release on more than one occasion. What a damnable fool he had been to berate the sweet innocent as he had done then! Now he would give anything to be able to go back to the beech grove on that September night. It would have a different ending, by God!