The Wet Nurse's Tale (25 page)

And then, Reader, He did. Through the open door of the parlor, from away up the stairs of that fine house, I heard my own baby cry. I recognized him just as if his little face was right in front of me, just as if I held him in my own arms. He was so close to me, his little body, his little mouth needing my breast, his sweet dark hair, his eyes, his little hands. Oh, I was overcome. As if I lay in my own coffin and the dirt had been shoveled over my grave, I was that covered up with misery, and I fell to weeping.

“Why, Mrs. Caraway,” said Mrs. Norval, surprised-like, “whatever can it be? What has occurred to cause you to weep so?”

“Oh my, oh my,” said I, choking out the words, “it is my brother, you see. My poor brother. Oh, I am forlorn without him.”

“I am sorry,” said Mrs. Norval, “but why do you think of him now?”

“It’s just that I heard the babe,” said I, weeping afresh, “and I thought to myself how happy his own little baby would have made him if ever he had been able to see it. But he was not. He was a soldier, you see, and was far away from his wife when she gave birth. He had only just had word of his fine little son when the fever took him. They have such fevers out there, you know. Such terrible fevers as we have not here. Tis for him that I wear these weeds.”

“And where was he, your brother, when he died?” she said, very quiet.

“India. He was stationed in India and a more dangerous and horrible land there is not on this earth, what with the snakes and heathens and terrible fevers that make good decent Englishmen sweat blood. Oh, I am sorry, ma’am. I do just hate the place, with a passion.”

She did not answer. I turned toward her, slowly, as slowly as I could, and saw her, drawn back on the back of the couch, with her hand on her heart.

“But my husband,” said she, so calm it seemed strange, “that is where my husband is even now. He is there even as we speak and I have not heard from him in a very long time.”

I said nothing and just looked at her, my eyes still full. I could feel the tears running trails down my cheeks but I did not sob; it was as if the sobs had worn themselves out.

“Tis a terrible thing to have in common,” said I after a moment. “I am sorry for you, ma’am.” And then, praying that my game would work, I made myself say, “Well, I have told you what I know and now it is time for me to leave you with it. I am sorry to have brought you this news but I thought it best.” I reached up to arrange my veil and then I rose.

For a moment, two moments, I thought I might die but then she said, “Do stop a moment, Mrs. Caraway,” and I felt a wash of warmth flood through me like as if I had drunk a glass of rum.

I sat again. “Yes, of course,” said I, all concern. “What may I do for you?”

“It is clear,” said Mrs. Norval stiffly, “that I must get rid of Sara Moore immediately. Only,” and here her voice grew small, “how shall I find a nurse for the babe so soon? I do not know if it can be done, yet I cannot bear to have that woman under my roof.”

“Yes,” I said, my heart beating so hard I thought she’d see it thumping under my dress, “that is a fix.” I pretended to think. “But wait,” said I, “I think I may have it! I have a friend who lives just outside London. The poor thing lost her baby not a week ago. I just came from her house where I stayed over on my way here to see you. She will help you, I think. She is a fine girl and you will like her. I am sure she can be here by tomorrow afternoon, and the baby can be hand-fed til then, can he not?”

“Oh, Mrs. Caraway, that is excellent. Even if this girl . . . what is her name?”

“Her name is Susan Rose.”

“Even if Susan Rose cannot stay, she will at least do for a temporary nurse, I believe. And she may care to stay. You may tell her that I will pay her a pound a month, if you like. Can you go to her now?”

“Yes, miss,” said I, “only . . .”

“Only what?”

“Well,” said I, “perhaps you should wait til morning to tell Sara Moore that you no longer need her. It might not do to have her angry with you in the night.” I had thought, just in time, of Davey and how he would suffer, the poor baby, without a nurse. If Sara Moore were to lose her position after all, she might as well give my baby suck one night more.

“Oh, yes. To be sure!” said Mrs. Norval, her eyes wide. “I shall not sleep a wink tonight. Do hurry and send your friend.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said I. “She shall come by public coach for the thrift of it, but she shall come.”

“Oh no, the coach will take very much too long,” said Mrs. Norval, going to a dainty desk and removing a small purse from a drawer. “Please give her this. And tell her to take the train.”

And that is how I came to be employed as a wet nurse for my own child. I did not feel happy about poor bewildered Sara Moore’s plight, but I could not think on it overmuch as my own need loomed so large. That night, I went to the old-clothes seller and sold the bonnet and the veil, and I took a part of that money and bought myself a good hearty supper and two glasses of ale. I had all the cause in the world to celebrate. I was to be like Moses’ mother, a new Jochebed, gone to hire to nurse my own little son.

MRS. SMITH’S REASON

I am called Bess Smith as was Bess Taylor. I married my Bob in the springtime. In truth I will admit that at the time of our marriage I was already somewhat gone with child. Twas nothing so terrible, for we had meant to wed for some time. When I knew of the state that I was in, I cried to Bob and he told me to post the banns right away which I did, so no one was the wiser. Only my gramma shook her finger at me and told me that I had been up to no good. She is old, though, and not much listened to.

Indeed the baby was born not eight months after the wedding, very healthy. Indeed, I could have wished that she had not been quite so hearty, but when I told that to Bob he shushed me and told me to bite my very tongue. He does dote on Maggie.

The baby nursed very nice for the first two months of her life, but then she began to fret at the breast and I did not know why. She would suck away with all her might but she could not be satisfied. When I would try to draw the milk forth myself, with my own hands, I did notice that there was less than there had been and I did wonder at it. At this same time, I began again to feel my breakfast tumble in my gut, just as it had when I carried Maggie. And then I understood why Maggie fretted so. It is a well-known fact that a woman’s milk will dry up when she is pregnant. And so it was with me. It is no wonder really, for Bob is like a billy goat himself, as I joke with him, and will have me every night if he can. It was a hardship to him to leave off for a fortnight after Maggie was born, but as he loves me, he let me be for that little while.

I did try to feed Maggie by hand, of goat’s milk, both with a rag dipped in the stuff and a spoon. But being so very small, she could not drink it well and it did drain from the side of her mouth. Bob worried very much that the baby would take sick from hunger as well as from the weather—twas the coldest winter I can ever remember.

Bob recalled that he had an auntie, who was wife to his mother’s brother—a Mrs. Rose—that wet nursed and that he would ask her if she could take Maggie for less than her usual fee, seeing as we was family. She agreed to do it if we might give her a goat if we had one born. We expected several kids in the spring and told her that we would save her one and thus our deal was struck.

Eleven

T
he next morning I dressed and broke my fast and did my hair in my old way and went, much earlier than I needed, to the house on Hampstead Street. I walked the street, up and down I went, for perhaps an hour til I saw a young woman leave from the servants’ entrance. As she carried a bundle and her face was swelled with crying, I made up my mind as it was Mrs. Moore. I turned away from her so that our eyes would never meet. There was a word I heard Freddie say once, in connection with something naughty, but I thought it might fit here as well and that word was “avid.” I thought I might have a look like that on my face and I did not want the chance that anyone might see it.

When I could be sure that she was gone on her way, I made myself go into the little park where I’d spied on Mrs. Norval and her brother. There, I sat on a bench and waited. The weather had turned chilly and I was not comfortable but I waited, nonetheless. I had a pasty in my bundle which I ate up to pass the time. I did not feel overmuch hungry for I had breakfasted well; it was the unease that made me nibble away at what I’d meant to save.

The bells chimed noon and soon I saw a shopgirl or two come hurriedly into the park, eat their cheese and apples, and then scurry off. I felt my own stomach gnaw and pinched my own fat gut which could not hold off from eating my meal too early.

At length, I decided that I had sat long enough. I wanted Mrs. Norval to be glad to see me, which is why I had made her wait for me. I wanted her to worry that perhaps Mrs. Caraway had taken her coin and lied about her friend Susan Rose. But I could no longer bear to be further from my Davey than there was need to be. Now it was time. I felt as excited as if I was to see the circus-men. We saw them once when I was little, and my father spent a penny to take us and we looked at the fire-eater and the rope-walker and the dancing bear. They even had a lion in a cage, though to be sure, the beast looked more like a rug than anything else.

Thinking of that time made me remember my father: his blue eyes, the leathern vest he wore always. I remembered his laugh which was rare but something we loved to hear, so loud it was, and deep. Perhaps it was yet fear again that made me weep just then to think how much I hated him whose own blood flowed in my very veins. If I thought I could go uncaught, I would love to stick a knife into him and twist it into his heart. Oh me, I thought to myself, am I as bad as he? Am I past redemption? It came over me as I made to leave the bench and head straight for what I’d worked so hard to get to: can it be that I am too evil to have back the innocent mite who I love so much? Had God been keeping us apart for Davey’s own sake?

Ah! What was I about? Here I was, so close to what I needed and what needed me and I was stopping my own self with my weakness. What a fool I was! I shook my head, very hard, as does a horse bothered by flies or a dog who has dipped its head too far in the bucket. Two young girls, sitting on a bench opposite, saw me and giggled but I did not care much. I stood up, straightened my back like a soldier and made for Mrs. Norval’s house.

I used the servants’ entrance and knocked at the door. A sassy little scullery answered, and when I told her what I was about, she allowed as how I had been expected and shewed me into the kitchen. It surprised me greatly to see what was in front of me, which was the cook and her girl sitting at the table and eating cake, along with another girl who looked like the upstairs maid. Was it tea already? I did not think that it could possibly be so late. What were they about that they were sitting so? I could not understand it.

“You’re the new nurse, are you?” said the cook. “She’ll be right glad to see you, I expect, then. The old one left in such a hurry. Lydia, show her up, do.”

Lydia, who was the upstairs maid, brushed off her apron and shewed me the way up. I waited while she knocked very proper at the same door of the same room I’d seen Mrs. Norval at before. I could have wished it another room so as it wouldn’t remind Mrs. Norval of one of my bulk and stature in that very chamber just one day earlier. But I could only hold my breath and pray as the door opened.

Mrs. Norval stood near the window looking out. She whirled when Lydia showed me in and I bobbed to her and waited.

“You are Susan Rose, are you?” was what she said, and I said that yes, I was.

“I think your friend Mrs. Caraway told you about our situation here?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And you can nurse a child?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Have you a reference? ”

“No, ma’am. I have not done this work before.” I thought best to keep my answers short. I did not want her to recognize my voice.

“No. But you lost a child, I believe?”

She did not know how true her words were. I winced to hear them and she took it as a sign of my grief, which in a way, is what it was. “Yes,” I said very low, “my little Joey. I lost him not long after he was born.”