The Quietness (21 page)

She had to let Miss Swift know. She had to go now and fetch her.

Before she had a chance to move, the kitchen door opened and Mrs Ellis walked in.

‘You going somewhere?’ she asked, looking at Queenie’s shawl.

‘No . . . no, ma’am,’ stuttered Queenie. ‘Was just feeling the chill, that’s all.’

‘Well, stoke the fire up then, girl!’ She looked around the kitchen. ‘You haven’t even prepared the milk. It might be Christmas, but there’s still work to be done!’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Queenie, and she busied herself making up a jug of watered-down milk and lime. Mrs Ellis added some drops of
the Quietness
to the jug.

‘Have a quiet night, did you?’ she asked Queenie.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Queenie. ‘The babes were no bother at all.’

‘Good, good,’ said Mrs Ellis as she screwed the top back on to the sticky brown bottle of cordial. ‘That’s what we like to hear. Works wonders this stuff does.’ She put the bottle back in her pocket. ‘You can bring me my breakfast up when you’ve done with the babies.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Queenie. ‘And what about Mrs Waters? Will she need a tray taking up too?’

Mrs Ellis stopped before she got to the door, and without turning her head she said, ‘No. Not yet I don’t believe. She’s just popped out to deliver some gifts. She’ll be back soon, mind. You can take her tray up to her then.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Queenie, seeing in her mind’s eye a brown paper parcel left in the shadows under a railway bridge or sinking into the cold dark water of the Thames.

‘Oh, and Queenie?’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Queenie, pressing her hands into tight fists.

‘When you’ve done with the breakfast you can take the rest of the day off. It being Christmas and all!’

Mrs Ellis disappeared out of the door, crying, ‘
Merry Christmas
’ in her wake. Queenie stood and watched the empty space where she’d been standing and slowly uncurled her fingers. She was a heartless creature all right, she thought. Trilling her
Merry Christmases
and all the while knowing what her sister was up to. Well, not for much longer. They would both get what was coming to them.

She looked back at the babies. Poor little creatures being starved like that. There was no fat on any of their bones. Well, she would soon sort that out. She would feed them good and proper before she went to fetch Miss Swift.

She went to the pantry and fetched the freshest milk; the jug that was put aside for the sisters. Queenie smiled to see it had a layer of thick, yellow cream on top. She poured the lot in a pan with some crumbled loaf sugar and stirred it gently till it warmed through. She dipped her finger in and was glad to see how thickly it coated her skin. She sucked her finger clean. It tasted sweet and delicious and full of goodness. She would give some to each baby in turn and fill their bellies. There was plenty enough in the pan to go round. She worked quickly, and carefully poured the creamy milk into a bottle and pulled on a rubber teat.

She picked up the first baby and put the teat to its mouth. But it would not be roused. It lay floppy in her arms and no matter how she wriggled the teat it would not suckle. She lay it back down and tried again with the second baby. It was the same with that one. It was too weak and helpless to feed. She tipped a drop of milk onto her finger and rubbed it on the baby’s lips. It still wouldn’t wake up. Queenie shook it gently.

‘Come on!’ she said. ‘Don’t you know I’m trying to help you?’ It was no good. Tears of frustration filled Queenie’s eyes. She lay that baby back down too and turned to Miss Swift’s baby. As she pressed the teat to her lips, the child stirred and her closed fists opened up like tiny flowers. Queenie squeezed a drop of milk onto the baby’s tongue. She swallowed it and opened her mouth for more. After a few more drops, Miss Swift’s baby took the teat in her mouth and began to gently suckle. Queenie sighed and closed her eyes. She held the baby close and thought of Mam and Da and the lost baby at home, and of all the other children that had passed through Wild Street. She had done nothing to help any of them. The huge feeling of shame that filled her insides brought tears to her eyes. She hastily wiped them away, not knowing if she was crying for herself or the babies.

She didn’t hear the kitchen door open, so when Mrs Water bawled, ‘What are you feeding that child?’ Queenie jerked, and the bottle of milk fell from her hand.

I sat in the library in a daze. Christmas Day and all hope had been snatched from me. I stared into the fire as though I might find some answers among the flaming coals. I was vaguely aware of a flurry of excitement in the house; like mice skittering beneath the floorboards. The servants were in a festive mood. No doubt Ninny had cooked up a goose or two with all the trimmings and was probably already celebrating with a glass of port. Downstairs there would be colour and laughter, chatter and life. Up here, it was just another cold winter’s day.

Father’s words turned over and over in my head. A lunatic asylum, or marriage to Mr Rumble? I could not imagine which horror would be the greater. The only asylum I had ever seen was Bethlem Hospital, or Bedlam as the servants referred to it. I had passed by its bleak grey walls and domed rooftop a few times when I was younger, on rare outings with one governess or another. I would be told to look away as our carriage drove past, but I would imagine I could hear the wails of the wretched inmates. One governess delighted in scaring the wits out of me and told me tales of poor unfortunates being chained by one leg or arm to a wall with only a blanket to hide their nakedness. People would pay, in days gone by, she told me, to view these lost souls sitting in their own filth and to hear their haunting screams. Whatever went on inside that place, I knew I could not survive such a thing. And Mr Rumble? The very thought of him made my skin crawl. How could I be dutiful to a man who repulsed me so?

And what of my baby? There had been no chink in Father’s armour. She did not exist for him. A sadness weighed upon me as heavy as the iron grey sky outside.

I stayed where I was, staring into the fire, wondering how my life had come to this. Even Mary did not seek me out. No doubt she was caught up in the preparations for Christmas dinner and in the task of dressing Mother for the feast.
Mother
. . . It was strange to think that I had ever believed I was part of that cold, brittle woman. She had made no attempt to visit me since my return or sent any word for me to attend her. If she knew I was aware of the truth, then she must be glad to call an end to all pretence. I did not miss her. I would be glad never to see her face again.

With every passing hour I sank deeper into despair. I could see no way out. If I left here to fetch my baby, where would I go and how would I live? I had no money of my own and no kindly relatives to call upon for help. Mary’s sister came to mind. But I could not expect her to take in a stranger and her child with no means of paying my way. How could I ever earn a living? I had no idea what a woman could do out in the world. A servant or a governess, perhaps? But I knew without doubt that no one would employ me with a child in tow. I could go out and make my own way in the world, but I would be unable to be with my child. The best I could do would be to pay another woman to bring her up and content myself with occasional visits. That I could not do. Realisation dawned on me slowly and painfully. With a heavy heart I made the most difficult decision of my life.

Hurried footsteps sounded up and down the hallway outside; servants carrying tureens and plates of steaming Christmas fare. The bell for dinner rang and I realised too late I had not prepared my dress or toilet. But what did it matter? My future was decided.

Mr Rumble was seated opposite me at the dinner table. He looked more repugnant in the light of a dozen candles than he had in Father’s dimly lit study. Mother was sitting stiffly to my right. She was bedecked with jewels, feathers and fancy trimmings. She looked more dressed than a Christmas goose ready for the oven. Father was in his usual place at the head of the table. He carved the goose with precision and we watched as he delicately placed each sliver of fat-trimmed meat on a silver plate. I could not help but wonder if he applied such delicacy to the cadavers he carved up each day at the hospital.

Mr Rumble’s gaze kept sliding towards me as his lips sucked on gravy and bone. He grunted as he swallowed each mouthful of food. Save for these sounds, there was silence as usual. I was barely aware of the food that passed my lips as I searched inside myself for the strength to carry out my decision.

With the forlorn affair finally over, we retired to the drawing room. Mother and Father started a game of cribbage, and as I knew he would, Mr Rumble came to sit by me. His cheeks were aflame, reddened no doubt by the glasses of wine he had drunk at dinner. We sat in a heavy silence, watching Mother and Father, and I listened to the clock chime another hour. Mother soon tired of the game and insisted that Father escort her from the room. ‘Excuse me, Mr Rumble,’ said Father. ‘I shall not be long.’

As the drawing room door closed, Mr Rumble dabbed at his forehead with his handkerchief. Now was my opportunity to say what I needed to say. I had to do it now before my resolve disappeared altogether. I turned to him and in a low voice I murmured, ‘My apologies, Mr Rumble, for my earlier behaviour.’

Beside me, Mr Rumble jumped at the sound of my voice. ‘Par . . . pardon?’ he stuttered and took a gulp of his port.

‘I said, I am sorry for my earlier behaviour. It was most rude of me, and of course I should be most honoured to accept your proposal.’

Mr Rumble coughed and a spray of ruby port landed on the front of his white shirt.

‘Well, well . . .’ he said, recovering himself. ‘I knew you would come around to your father’s way of thinking. It is better you marry me willingly, of course, but marry me you will. My career is on the ascent and I need a wife to take care of my domestic arrangements and provide me with a family.’

I twisted inside at these words and had to hold on to my seat to prevent myself from bolting from the room.

Mr Rumble straightened himself up and ran his fingers through his hair. ‘In return, your reputation can be salvaged,’ he said. ‘I will of course say nothing of your, shall we say,
shameful
past. If you do right by me, I am sure we shall be very happy.’

‘But of course,’ I said. ‘I shall do my very best to be a good and dutiful wife to you.’

Mr Rumble grunted in reply.

My heart was pounding painfully. My future and that of my baby’s rested on what I was about to say next. I took a deep breath and formed my face into what I hoped was a pleasing expression. ‘And . . . and, I am sure in time I shall be able to grow very
fond
of you, as . . .’ My voice shook. ‘As I am sure you shall be able to grow fond of my child.’

Mr Rumble frowned. ‘Your child?’ he hissed. ‘Have we not just agreed that no more is to be said of your shameful past?’

My mouth had grown dry and my words would not come easily. ‘Of course we shall not
speak
of my past, as such, Mr Rumble. But you must see the advantages of a ready-made family which in time I am sure we can add to.’

Mr Rumble shook his head in confusion. ‘Am I to understand that you expect me to take in your child as well as yourself?’

‘Well, naturally. I cannot be separated from her, Mr Rumble.’

‘Ha!’ he spat. ‘You think I would bring the shame of a
bastard
into my home?’

‘But nobody need know,’ I said, trying to keep my voice steady. ‘In time we can let it be known that she is
your
child. There need not be any shame.’

‘I think your thoughts must be addled somewhat, Miss Swift. Or else you have taken me for a fool.’ He drained his glass of port and ran his tongue around his mouth.

It was all going hideously wrong. ‘No . . . no indeed, I do not think you a fool,’ I began.

He put his hand up to stop me from talking. ‘Miss Swift,’ he said patiently. ‘It is all quite simple. I have made an agreement with your father to marry you. Your past behaviour and your child are to be entirely forgotten.’

I looked at his face and saw nothing but coldness and self-righteousness in the gleam of his bulging eyes. Was there any part of him I could appeal to?

‘Mr Rumble . . . please,’ I said and the tears rolled freely down my cheeks. ‘Please . . . please, Mr Rumble. I will do anything you ask of me. Only please do not deny me my child. I beg you.’ I reached out to grasp his hand, but he pulled away from me, a look of disgust upon his face.

‘I have said all there is to say on the matter.’ He stood up, taking his empty glass with him. ‘And I assure you once we are married the subject will be closed forever.’

A fear so violent suddenly gripped my stomach. I ran from the room and got as far as the bottom of the stairs before I brought up my Christmas dinner all over the floor.

‘I said, what are you feeding that child?’ repeated Mrs Waters as she stood in the kitchen doorway. She looked flustered and her orange hair was springing messily from out the sides of her bonnet.

Queenie bent down and scrabbled around to pick up the dropped bottle from the floor. Her face prickled with hot guilt. ‘It’s just milk, ma’am,’ she said, sitting back up. Miss Swift’s baby began to bleat. Queenie hesitated, not sure whether to put the teat back in her mouth or not. The cries grew louder and more insistent.

‘Shut that brat up!’ shouted Mrs Waters. ‘Why is it crying, anyway? What is in that bottle?’

‘I told you, ma’am. It’s just milk.’

‘I’m not stupid, girl. I can see it’s milk. But it’s not watered down, is it? Why aren’t you using the proper mix?’ She snatched the bottle from Queenie’s hand and her eyes darted around the kitchen. Queenie saw them land on the big jug on the table that was full of the watered-down milk, lime and drops of
the
Quietness,
and the smaller jug next to it full of creamy milk and sugar
.
Mrs Waters strode over to the table and looked inside both jugs. She dipped her finger into the smaller jug and licked off the drips. The baby’s cries changed to a constant wail. Mrs Waters turned to Queenie and looked at her hard.