A Carriage for the Midwife (49 page)

Susan trembled. This was agony beyond her worst imaginings, and she put her knuckles to her mouth to stifle the involuntary cry that rose to her throat. She must not give way in front of Joby, and much as she longed to obey Doll and take herself away, she knew she must stay. She had forsaken this lost soul for too long, and now at her deathbed some kindness, some human compassion had to be shown.

‘’Tis finished and done now, Ma. Just put y’r trust in God, and be at peace,’ she pleaded helplessly.

The howl that came from Doll’s throat reminded them both of the terrible scene in Great St Giles on the day she had thrown a prayer book at the rector and been banished to this place for the rest of her life.

Susan stood up and laid a hand on her mother’s forehead, raising her voice above Doll’s demons of fear.

‘God will ha’ mercy on ye, Ma, and forgive all y’r sins – ye’re forgiven now, Ma, ’tis all forgiven,’ she said with what assurance she could command.

Doll’s mouth was open, ready to howl again, but no sound came. She looked straight into Susan’s face: their eyes truly met for the first time in many years of evasion.

‘And I forgive ye, too, Mother.’

Doll Lucket did not speak again; after a minute there was a choking sound in her throat, then a long bubbling of air exhaled through mucus. And then there was silence.

The brother and sister saw her ravaged features soften, and her eyes stopped staring as the lids drooped. Her mouth slackened and her whole appearance assumed a marble blankness as they watched.

Poor mad Dolly Lucket was dead. Susan burst into tears.

‘Oh, Joby, she suffered too – she suffered too, more’n she could bear, and I never comforted her, not once.’

‘Don’t cry, Sukey. Her knows her died forgiven,’ said Joby through his tears, coming to his sister’s side and putting an arm around her shoulders. ‘See how peaceful her looks now, layin’ there. Let’s sit down alongside o’ her an’ be quiet till Miss Glover comes fur us.’

Susan longed to be gone from the place. Her tears were not so much for her mother’s death as for the loss of the natural love between them, extinguished by the untellable wrongdoing of the past. She had forgiven poor Mad Doll at the end, but the harm done could never be undone.
Four years
.

And neither of them noticed Mrs Croker creep away. She had heard every word.

‘
Dead,
Mrs Croker? And were Mrs Calthorpe and her brother at the bedside in time?’

‘Oh, aye, mistress. The poor madwoman wept and wailed terrible when her saw ’twas Mrs Susan. Her was feared to death,’ said Mrs Croker with relish, but Miss Glover had hurried away up the stairs to the infirmary. At the bedside she silently embraced Susan and stood with her head bowed to say a short prayer commending Dolly’s spirit into the hands of her Creator. Joby was sniffling and Susan looked stricken, so after a few words with Mrs Croker about burial arrangements – which she said should be at Little St Giles – Sophia lost no time in removing her two white-faced passengers from the House and into the chaise.

During the drive back across the common it seemed to Susan that the light had changed from summer to autumn in one afternoon. She remained unresponsive to her friend’s anxious glances, though she was aware of her concern.

Sophy’s sorry for me – for me and Joby both, but doesn’t know what to say, she thought. If she only knew the despair in my heart, how I could shout at this empty sky for all the harm that was done. And I can never tell a soul, not even my poor young brother, sitting there staring at nothing.

How much had he heard? Or understood? Nothing, she was sure. He could not possibly have known what Doll had meant. Not like Jack, who had certainly known and kept guard. Susan shuddered at the memory of that cross-eyed grin.

She suddenly longed to see Dr Parnham. He had sent her a letter from Paris to let her know the date of his return. He was a friend and co-worker, but much more than that: there was no need for concealment with him. No hateful secret stood between them as with the rest of the world. Dr Parnham
knew
.

Any day now Edward would return, a newly ordained priest in the Church of England, and ready to fulfil his father’s earnest wish that he should replace Dr Gravett as rector of Great St Giles.

But how could she ever hope to be the rector’s wife? That was the agony. She was
not
his wife, never had been and never could be.

There was no more time to delay: she must see Dr Parnham, the annulment must be prepared and Edward informed of his means of escape, just as soon as he appeared in Beversley.

They put Joby down at the smithy, and on arrival at May Cottage Mag told them that Mrs Decker and her mother were out.

‘I’ll come in and stay with you until one or other of them returns, Susan,’ said Sophia, with a kindly glance at the adoring Mag, who went to put the kettle on.

‘I ha’ no need o’ company, Sophy. In truth I’d rather be alone f’r a while,’ protested Susan.

But Sophia was loath to leave her after the ordeal at Doll’s bedside, and insisted on staying. It was to prove a fateful decision, for Susan was close to the end of her tether.

‘’Tis very difficult to know how to offer condolences in such circumstances as these, dear Susan, but one day you will be thankful that you were beside her at the end.’

‘If ye hadn’t pressed me into going over there this afternoon, I’d ha’ been too late,’ replied Susan wearily. ‘I had no great wish to be there.’

‘It is not for me to judge you, Susan. I’ve known of course for many years that there was a lack of love between . . .’ Sophia hesitated. ‘But I’ve also known that you had your reasons.’

‘She suffered too,’ said Susan wretchedly, and Sophia waited to hear some explanation of this statement, but none came.

Sophia then attempted to encourage and cheer her friend by reminding her that Edward would soon be back from Oxford, as a clerk in Holy Orders.

‘And how happy he must be to know that Rosa is safely delivered of a daughter, and of your part in saving them both, to see you accepted and so much admired at Bever House! This reconciliation will give such joy to him; I know that it has brought great satisfaction to my cousin Calthorpe, your father-in-law. He will be pleased to see you as rector’s wife.’

Susan’s next words were like a slap in the face.

‘As f’r Edward, I shall ha’ to see Dr Parnham as soon as he gets back to Belhampton.’

Sophia stared. ‘Why, what has Dr Parnham to do with the sacred bond between you and your husband, Susan?’

‘Oh, Sophy, ye’re a good woman, ye’re kind to the poor, ye’ve been the best friend I’ve ever had – but there are some things that can’t be spoken of, and only Dr Parnham knows what they are.’

‘Susan! What do you mean?
What
does this man know? Is it something not shared by Edward? For well you know that a woman should have no secrets from her husband, nor should any other man have knowledge of her that the husband has not.’

The stern disapproval in her face and voice had the effect of wrenching a desperate retort from Susan, who was sick of pretending in order to save other people’s sensibilities, even her dearest friend’s.

‘Edward ha’ never been my husband! I ha’ never been truly his wife, nor can I ever be – and Dr Parnham knows a way f’r Edward to get rid o’ me, and be free again – by
annulment
in a court o’ law, in front o’ a judge!’

Sophia’s face went very white. She recoiled from Susan’s blazing eyes.

‘Does Edward know about this – this annulment you speak of?’

‘He’ll know soon enough. He was too ill when he came home, but he’ll be told straightway when he returns again.’

‘Told
what
, exactly?’

‘What I just told
you
– that he can be set free from a woman who can’t be a wife!’ Susan shouted back.

‘But Susan,
why
? What is it that stands between you?’

‘Some things can’t ever be told.’

And now at last Sophia truly began to see: to understand the evil that she had refused to believe for years.

‘You mean when you were a child – at the Ash-Pits—’

‘Don’t speak o’ it!’ Susan covered her ears.

‘You must tell Edward.’

‘Never. I’d die first, rather’n he should know.’

‘But only the truth can set you free, Susan, don’t you see? Lies and deception belong to the devil. Come, my dear, let me help you. I am a friend of yours and Edward’s, and dearly love you both. Let me tell him for you.’

‘Hah!’ Susan’s laugh was as mirthless as it was chilling. ‘Oh, Sophy, if ye only knew what ye speak of, ye wouldn’t offer! No, let me do the only good I can do f’r Edward now, after all the harm I ha’ done him. Leave me, Sophia Glover – f’r God’s sake leave me alone!’

Sophia drew back, her eyes darkened, her mouth hung open and wordless. Susan saw only horror in her friend’s face, and like an injured animal that fears more pain, she turned and ran from the room.

Dismissed, Sophia walked out of the cottage without a backward glance, leaving Susan alone.

More alone than at any time since she had wept beside the sleeping Polly in the roost, mourning for her lost childhood.

But she reckoned without Sophia Glover’s discernment, made keener by her own experience of suffering. And her determination that evil should not triumph over good.

HAVING BEEN DULY
examined by the Bishop of Oxford, and had his Priest’s Orders signed and proclaimed at Christ Church, Edward Calthorpe considered himself the happiest man among the newly ordained clergy of his college. He was now eagerly looking forward to going home, having been absent for almost six months, and longed to discuss the future with his wife.

He had been offered a benefice in an Oxfordshire parish, and had at first been inclined to take it; he felt that the time was right to make a new start in a place where nobody knew of his wife’s humble origins. After all they had been through and survived, such a move seemed good for them both: new pastures, where they might begin their married life at last, three years after their wedding.

But then had come his father’s letter with the news of Dr Gravett’s fatal ilness, a reminder to Edward that all plans may be subject to sudden change.

‘Parson Roberts has to take Divine Service in both Churches, & cannot do his proper Duty to the two Parishes,’ Mr Calthorpe had written. ‘My uncle Lord de Bever had the Parish of St Giles in his Gift, & this has passed on to me as Patron, to approve appointments of Clergy. I therefore look forward to seeing you installed as Incumbent at an early date, my dear Edward, if you wd be willing to live at May Cottage the Midwife’s house while poor Dr Gravett lives.’

And move into the rectory with Susan after his death, thought Edward, shaking his head as he firmly declined the appointment. Such close association with Bever House would be highly unwelcome to Susan, and her wishes took preference over his father’s.

But hot on the heels of this news had come the joyful announcement of the birth of a daughter to Rosa, and with it the ending of the ill-feeling between his family and his wife. It seemed nothing less than miraculous to Edward, and surely an indication of God’s guidance. He had therefore decided that, if Susan agreed, he was willing to abide by his father’s clearly stated hopes, and become the next incumbent of Great St Giles.

Yet now, just as he was preparing to return to Beversley, this strangely disturbing letter had arrived. It was from cousin Sophia of all people, mysteriously asking for a clandestine meeting.

Edward was very reluctant to go behind Susan’s back, as he saw it, and to keep this meeting secret would mean not giving notice of his return to either his wife or his parents. Yet he had never once had cause to question his cousin’s integrity, and so wrote a reply, naming the seventeenth of September, a Wednesday, though in fact he decided to travel down the day before so as to be ready and waiting for Sophia as soon as she arrived.

Before leaving Oxford he purchased a new black frock coat and breeches, also a ‘shovel’ hat of the kind worn by country clergymen; the sombreness of this attire was relieved by a spotless white collar with the two starched linen bands that proclaimed his profession.

And this was the Edward Calthorpe who awaited Miss Glover on the day appointed, soon after midday when she walked into the Wheatsheaf Inn in her grey cloak and bonnet.

‘Good day, Cousin Edward. I had not expected you to be here so soon,’ she said in surprise.

Without ceremony he led her to a high-backed wooden bench placed sideways to the wall and adjoining an unoccupied space in a corner of the room.

‘I arrived yesterday, Sophy, so as to be here to meet you.’

‘How well clerical dress suits you, Edward.’

‘I have not come to an inconvenient and underhand appointment in order to talk of fashion, Sophy,’ he said gravely. ‘I long above all things to see my wife and discuss our future with her. I await your explanation, and then intend to be with her before this day is out.’

Sophia took her lead from his tone. Concealing her own nervousness beneath her usual composure, she nodded and commenced the speech she had been rehearsing.

‘It is of her that I speak, Edward, your wife and my dear friend, Mrs Edward Calthorpe.’

‘Indeed, Cousin? And what have you to say of my Susan that she cannot say to me herself?’

It was the opening she needed. She raised her eyes to him, but kept her voice low.