A Carriage for the Midwife (37 page)

Then Sophia Glover summoned up all her spiritual strength.

‘Let us pass, Susan,’ she commanded.

The words seemed to come from a long way off, and Susan swayed slightly; a faintness came over her, saving Osmond from her vengeance. She closed her eyes and stood aside to let Sophia assist his downward progress, one step at a time, and uttered not a word.

She did not even spit.

NONE OF HIS
family had ever seen Mr Calthorpe so angry. For the first time in her life Gertrude actually felt afraid of him, and deeply regretted her words on the night of the Lucket boy’s dismissal from Bever House, though she tried to shift some of the blame on to Dr Gravett.

Mr Calthorpe’s wrath was no less daunting for being delayed. Polly Lucket and her babies had been buried in Little St Giles’ churchyard for a week before the master of Bever House even knew of the tragedy. Struck down by the same virulent strain of influenza that had depleted the House of Industry, he had been scarcely conscious of his surroundings for several days, while his wife and Mrs Ferris tiptoed around the sickroom. As he began to recover it was from the servants that he heard scraps of information, and gradually built up a picture of the sequence of events that were already the talk of Beversley; Job Lucket had not hesitated to tell his tale in the village.

When Osmond rode over from Winchester to visit his sick father, Calthorpe asked him point-blank if he had any news of the Lucket girl; after a brief hesitation he had broken down and disclosed that she had died in childbirth with twins.

Calthorpe then relentlessly dragged from his wife the story of Job Lucket’s request and the response to it, after which he rebuked her more severely than at any previous time in their marriage. For once she had not answered back, but had lowered her eyes and trembled before him. She wept when he spoke of the dead babies as their grandsons, and Osmond admitted that he had seen them at Glover Cottage and known them for his own. He repeated Cousin Sophia’s assertion that they had not been due to be born until mid-April, but that Polly had been very ill with something called the mother’s malady.

Calthorpe turned his face away from his wife’s laments and his son’s regrets, and asked for Mr Turnbull to be sent for. He questioned the man very closely about the circumstances of Polly’s death, and learned that she had died before giving birth; he shuddered at hearing of Dr Parnham’s post-mortem removal of the twins.

‘It was unfortunate that you were laid low with the fever at the time, sir,’ ventured the apothecary.

‘That is an understatement of the case, Turnbull. My wife accuses the rector of turning the boy from the door while
he
insists that he was protecting her. No doubt they were all in great danger from a poor boy in fear for his sister’s life,’ Calthorpe added with grim irony.

The apothecary did not reply, for he knew of the enormous indignation in Beversley. Gertrude Calthorpe’s standing was at its lowest ebb, and so was the rector’s. At Great St Giles worshippers talked or snored their way through the sermons in a way that would have been unthinkable a couple of years previously. Farm workers passed by the Calthorpe ladies and their florid cleric without so much as touching their forelocks, and the womenfolk had forgotten how to curtsy, except when they met Miss Glover.

‘Has – er – Mrs Susan Calthorpe returned to the House of Industry, Turnbull?’ asked Calthorpe.

‘Yes, but only for a short period, sir, until Mrs Coulter has moved out of Glover Cottage. The poor woman is very infirm with the rheumaticks, and is going into one of the St Margaret’s almshouses in Belhampton to end her days. Then Mrs – er – Susan will move in with Miss Glover and take up her duties as the licensed midwife for Beversley. Her remarkable skill has made her greatly respected, but she is still only one-and-twenty, and Miss Glover wishes her to live at the house for the time being . . .’ Turnbull coughed; he wondered if Calthorpe knew that his daughter-in-law had forsworn his very name.

After Turnbull’s departure the agent came in with the monthly accounts.

‘Leave them on the desk, I’ll look at them directly,’ said Calthorpe listlessly, passing his hand over his eyes.

‘Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, there’s been a return o’ the payment made to Mrs Susan Calthorpe this month.’

‘What? Did you not send it to her at the House of Industry?’

‘Yes, sir, but she’s sent it back with the carrier, and there’s a letter. I have it here, sir.’

The note was brief.

Mr Calthorpe,

Here is yr Money returned. I have no need of Money from you, & sever all connexion with every Body bearing the name of Calthorpe which I no longer own.

There was no signature.

Calthorpe’s head drooped back against the carved wood of his chair. The total rejection contained in the few written words was more painful than he could have imagined, and the worst part was that he felt her contempt was justified. As Edward’s wife she, and her sister, had been cruelly ill-used.

Edward. His son who had loved her so dearly. Oh, if Edward might return home alive and sound in body and mind, this enmity would surely be ended! Mrs Susan Calthorpe would be received at Bever House with all the status and privileges due to the wife of his son. But was there any hope left? How many months would have to pass, the father asked himself, before he must admit that Edward was indeed dead? In his weakened condition he uttered his son’s name aloud, and helpless tears filled his eyes.

Susan could not believe that her year of service at the House of Industry was completed, and she made her farewells with very mixed feelings. While Mrs Croker sobbed dolefully and Mag snivelled, it was the children who chiefly touched her heart.

‘I know ye’ll go on bein’ good, just as ye’ve been f’r me, children, and don’t forget what ye’ve learned,’ she told them. ‘I’ll come over to see ye when I can—’

She broke off, biting her lip and miserably aware that she was forsaking them. She could hardly bear to look at Toby’s thin little upturned face, streaked with tears.

Charles Parnham had once again to hide his true feelings and assume a jocular manner.

‘Come, come, Madam Trotula, this is the day of your release! Is it really a year since you entered these hospitable walls?’

‘Yes, it is, Dr Parnham, and ye never thought I’d last a week!’ she retorted. ‘Ye challenged me, and I accepted – and here I still am!’

‘Ah, yes, my Trotula, I misjudged you, but I did a great service to this place thereby,’ he answered, thinking how dull and dreary his visits to the House would be without her. Aloud he promised to look in on the orphans whenever he attended for a confinement, and to keep her informed about them.

At Glover Cottage Susan continued to speak of the children she had left behind, and how she felt she had betrayed them.

‘Who ha’ they got now, Sophy? Who can they turn to?’ she asked in real distress. ‘Mrs Croker doesn’t really care about them, and besides, she’s a drinker. And there’s poor Mag, a workhouse orphan herself, put upon and worked like a donkey – nobody to encourage her and show some interest in her – and most o’ the paupers can scarcely look after themselves, let alone care about the children growing up in such a place.’

Sophia noted but did not remark that Susan made no mention of her mother, poor Mad Doll.

‘Oh, Sophy, when I think o’ Toby’s face lookin’ up at me, I know he’ll haunt my dreams, poor little soul!’

Sophia could only hope that Susan would soon be summoned to a birthing to divert her thoughts, but meanwhile she racked her brains to think of a suitable woman who might be prepared to visit the orphans and even give them some lessons.

‘Suppose I were to call on the rector’s niece,’ she wondered aloud. Miss Gravett was a very upright lady of uncertain age who always wore black and was said to watch every mouthful that Dr Gravett ate; she poured out a measured amount of wine for him and then sent the bottle away.

‘After all, the rector is on the Board of Guardians,’ Sophia pointed out.

‘For all they ever see of him,’ said Susan drily.

Miss Gravett received Lord de Bever’s granddaughter courteously enough, but did not linger over formalities. On hearing her visitor’s errand, she nodded.

‘As it happens, Miss Glover, I
have
considered doing some useful parish work – only I was thinking of something here in Beversley, not five miles away from it. Anyway, what is to prevent those two Calthorpe daughters from driving their gig over there? I dare say they can get themselves to Belhampton to buy dress material and hats.’

Such refreshing directness appealed to Miss Glover, and she chose her next words carefully.

‘What an excellent idea, Miss Gravett! Perhaps you could call at Bever House and put it to the young ladies that their talents might be used to improve the lives of those poor children? Though they may not take to the idea on a first hearing, Miss Gravett,’ she added hastily. ‘It has probably never been suggested to them before. A second or even a third reminder might be needed.’

Miss Gravett clearly understood, for she nodded knowingly, and Sophia returned to Glover Cottage feeling reasonably hopeful.

‘I’ve done what I can,
Madam Trotula,
and Miss Gravett has gone to stir their consciences,’ she reported, smiling.

‘I’m sure I wish good luck to her,’ said Susan shortly, going to fetch her midwifery bag from its cupboard. ‘I ha’ been called to the parsonage, Sophy. Lizzie Smart’s mother thinks she may be in early travail. I should say Mrs Decker,’ she corrected herself.

Sophia sighed and shook her head. ‘Ah, yes, poor Mrs Decker. Mrs Coulter thought she’d be delivered before now.’

Lizzie Smart’s hasty marriage to a corporal home on leave had left her expecting a child, and the next she heard was that Decker had been killed at King’s Mountain in North Carolina, yet another defeat for Lord Cornwallis’s depleted army. Lizzie had no home but the barely furnished parsonage in which she had been brought up, and no support but what her parents could offer.

Sophia stood at the gate and waved as the new midwife went off in her pony-trap. Devoted as Miss Glover had been to Mrs Coulter, she was thankful for Susan’s youth and energy, as well as the friendship of one she had come to love and appreciate through their shared experiences. And yet there were certain closed doors, words unsaid and thoughts unshared: Susan never spoke of Edward, and rarely mentioned Polly. Sophia respected her friend’s private grief, and did not intrude upon it; she was ready to listen when Susan was ready to confide, and not before.

Yet it was difficult not to show her own eager joy when there was news from Henry. And such news! She now took his letter from her bodice and reread it for the twentieth time.

‘I dare to hope that I may look upon yr sweet face in a short while,’ he had written. On his return from the latest Atlantic crossing on a supply ship he was to join a major assault on the French and Spanish blockade of the West Indies, which also looked like being lost to the new American colonies.

Sophia kissed the letter and pressed it to her heart, picturing the moment when she would open her door and see Henry on the step, waiting to gather her into his arms. How different it would be from his last brief visit! Not that she had ever complained of the way his precious time had been spent then: she piously believed that he had been sent by the Almighty to comfort Polly Lucket’s last hours, and not even his parents had known of that one night in Glover Cottage. But on his next homecoming they would have days to spend together, she thought joyfully, and that would be their reward.

Henry did not think the war would last longer than another year at most, and then they would be married and begin their new life together. A permanent home would then need to be found for Susan, and Sophia had a plan to put before the squire and rector about raising a subscription from the villagers to purchase a suitable dwelling for the Beversley midwife. Mr Calthorpe would have to be consulted, and Miss Glover was fairly sure that her cousin would welcome the proposal, even if he did not want his name to appear among the subscribers.

Flushed and triumphant, Susan placed the squalling bundle in the mother’s outstretched arms.

‘There ye are, Lizzie, a fine big girl – another granddaughter for you, Mrs Smart – an’ a playmate f’r Mr Simon’s little girl in another couple o’ years!’

‘Thank God,’ murmured Mrs Betsey Smart, who had stayed beside her daughter throughout her pains. ‘I’d better go an’ tell Nathaniel she’s delivered, thanks to – er . . .’

‘Call me Susan, f’r so ye knew me as a child at the Ash-Pits,’ said the midwife. ‘Parson Smart was the best friend the Luckets ever had in that hard winter. We might all ha’ perished o’ hunger if he hadn’t gone begging Mrs Bennett to share her bread.’

‘Oh, ay, he used to go out beggin’ fur other children while ours ha’ to make do on soup an’ taters, many’s the time,’ Betsey Smart sniffed, and Susan heard the lingering resentment in her voice. She wished that she had not spoken, and wondered how many times poor Nat Smart had bowed his thinning head before the storm of his wife’s scoldings. Betsey’s life had been one long struggle to bring up a large family on the wretchedly low stipend her husband had been paid by the rector: trying to make do on less than enough food or fuel, and grateful for such gifts as might turn up on the doorstep of the parsonage.

When Betsey returned to the birth-chamber, Susan had finished putting in four stitches where she had made a cut to ease the head through; Lizzie had pushed for two hours, and the baby was large, being overdue. Miss Glover had sent a packet of tea to refresh them all after the birth, and having drank hers, Susan took her leave of Lizzie and her mother, and went down to the parson’s little study. She found him on his knees by his rickety desk, and at once begged his pardon for interrupting his prayers.