A Carriage for the Midwife (39 page)

‘Edward, dearest o’ men, if only I’d followed Sophy’s example, and waited, ye wouldn’t ha’ been disappointed in me,’ she wept in the silence of her room – for this was her own secret remorse that she could not share with any other soul on earth.

As summer gave place to autumn and autumn to winter, the news from across the Atlantic worsened with the weather, culminating with the fall of Yorktown at the end of November. Not until a month later did the
Hampshire Chronicle
publish the details of Lord Cornwallis’s ignominious surrender to Washington with seven thousand men. Shocked readers learned that sixty cannon had been captured by the Americans and French.

At home the decline of the year saw a deepening of rural poverty as men were lost to the land and food prices rose with taxes. Beversley was not a happy place, and there seemed to be no good news to raise the people’s spirits in the depth of winter.

And at Christmas the whole of Beversley was shocked and grieved by the sudden death of Parson Smart on the feast of St Stephen, after taking the Christmas services at Little St Giles. Years of overwork and poor nourishment rendered him easy prey to the lung inflammation that claimed him at fifty-four, and too late was his true goodness acknowledged and mourned.

‘Him was born unlucky, was poor Nat Smart,’ wept Widow Gibson, while Dr Gravett was heard to observe irritably that the parson could hardly have chosen a more inconvenient time to die.

THE HUMILIATION OF
the Yorktown defeat cast a gloom over the new year, and Squire Hansford openly declared himself in favour of granting the colonies their independence immediately.

‘The bloodshed has gone on long enough,’ he emphatically told his neighbours over a festive dinner at Bever House.

There was an awkward silence. Such words would have been considered treasonable a few years earlier, and the rector frowned into his glass and muttered about ‘those who would parley with the American traitors’.

‘Easy enough for you to talk, Gravett, with no sons in constant danger of death or crippling,’ retorted the squire loudly. ‘Calthorpe here has sacrificed a son, and Osmond . . .’ He glanced towards the heir to Bever House, who had drunk the greater part of a full bottle of port during dinner, and continued, ‘All I want is to see Henry come safely home to us. I’m not willing to give up my son for a lost cause.’

Mrs Hansford hastily turned the conversation to other matters. ‘I hear that May Cottage will be going on the market soon,’ she remarked, and went on to explain that the widow who had leased Mrs Coulter’s former home was planning to get married again to a Belhampton tailor.

Mr Calthorpe immediately thought of the subscription fund being raised by his cousin Miss Glover, and made a silent mental note to mention May Cottage to her as a possible home for his daughter-in-law, the Beversley midwife.

‘What is happening about the parsonage?’ Mrs Calthorpe asked the rector, who frowned in irritation.

‘As soon as I have found a suitable incumbent to take Smart’s place, the widow must find somewhere other than church property for herself and her hangers-on, madam. There’s that eldest son, the one who married the Bennett girl –
he
should shoulder responsibility for his mother. And the girl with the baby should get herself work to support it.’

Miss Selina ventured to remark that Mrs Decker might find it difficult to get employment with such a young child, but her mother frowned warningly and said that the Widow Smart could surely take care of her grandchild. What else had she to do?

Spring brought more work for the midwife, as Widow Gibson had forecast, and there were occasions when Madam Trotula’s territory overlapped with the handywoman’s.

‘Oi reckons there’ll be trouble down at Potter’s when that poor Jinny’s brought to bed, wi’ not a body to boil a pan o’ watter fur her!’

Susan stiffened at the mention of her mother’s people. Her knowledge of them was sketchy, and she had not heard of anybody called Jinny.

‘Where does she live, Mrs Gibson?’

‘Down End – that’s under Fox Hill, other side o’ Foxholes Wood. There be a father an’ a couple o’ sons scratchin’ a livin’ out o’ a poor bit o’ land wi’ a pig an’ a goat, but no wumman to take care o’ Jinny an’ her babby, come May or June. Lily Potter died when the gal was but ten or so.’

Susan felt a curious apprehension, and dared not ask the question that the artful old woman was waiting for.

‘And will you be attending this Jinny, Mrs Gibson?’

‘If them sends fur me, but her’d be better off in the work’us if ’ee could get her in, Dame Trot.’

Susan hesitated. This girl could be a cousin of hers. Usually she avoided intruding on the handywoman’s rough-and-ready services to the poor of Lower Beversley and outlying areas, but Mrs Gibson was clearly asking for her help.

‘I’ll speak wi’ Mrs Croker, and maybe go and see this girl myself,’ she said. ‘Good day to ye, Mrs Gibson.’

On a visit to the Widow Smart, she casually asked her what she knew about the Potters of Down End.

‘They’re low, unchristian folks, and Jinny’s half-witted, by what I’ve heard,’ replied Betsey with distaste. ‘’Tis but a tumbledown place, and the men be drinkers. I wouldn’t go anywhere near them,’ she added firmly.

Try as she might, Susan could not get the thought of Jinny out of her head, and on a blowy April afternoon she reluctantly set out in the pony-trap to seek her out, taking the lane that ran to the south-east along the edge of Foxholes Wood; its banks were bright with tumbling carpets of bluebells, and the pale stars of late primroses still nestled in sheltered hollows, though Susan saw little of them as the trap jolted along the narrow lane and plunged down a steep descent to a stretch of rough common land. Unkempt hedges and broken fences signalled a settlement beyond the reach of parish tithes or estate rents, and when she came to a crooked signpost Susan followed Mrs Gibson’s directions and turned the pony down a stony track that continued for a lurching half-mile or so to a clearing. Half a dozen forlorn hens scratched at the sparse grass, and a huge black dog growled and bared yellow teeth at Brownie. Susan reined in beside a squat, one-roomed dwelling with smoke blowing out of a hole in the thatch, and looked around with a sinking heart, unwilling to face the dog.

A sullen-faced girl appeared in the doorway. Her hair was tied up in a frayed scarf, and her ragged gown was pulled tightly over the bulge below her bodice. Susan judged her to be about eight months gone with child, so this must be Jinny. She smiled.

‘Good day to ’ee, Jinny!’ she called, reverting to the broad speech of her childhood. ‘I be come a-visitin’, so will ye chain up that brute?’

The girl’s button eyes narrowed, and she did not reply.

‘Call me Sukey – my ma was a Potter, so maybe we be cousins, Jinny. Be it safe f’r me to get down an’ talk wi’ ye?’

The girl gave the animal a vicious cuff, and tied it to a fence-post with a piece of rope. Susan stepped down from the trap and pointed towards the door, at which the girl turned and went inside. Susan took a deep breath and followed her.

The dark, barely furnished room reminded her at once of the Ash-Pits, except that it was smaller. A low fire burned on bricks in the centre, the smoke rising to a hole directly above; a black pot simmered on it with a stew of root vegetables and some rank flesh that could have been any animal or bird. Straw was scattered thinly over the earth floor, and chickens ran in and out. A collection of blankets and skins in the corners showed where the occupants slept.

Susan’s nostrils caught the remembered sour smell of poverty, a dire combination of want and ignorance. Her spirits fell even lower, but she hid her dismay and spoke in a friendly way.

‘So ye all live here, Jinny, in this little house?’

‘Oh, ah, Oi an’ me Dad an’ Rob an’ Joey. Be ’ee come to take Oi away from uns?’ asked the girl with a sudden spark of interest – was it hope? – in her dull button eyes.

Susan’s mouth hardened in anger at the plight of this motherless girl who had no sweetening or softening influence in her life. How wicked were the ways of men, to use her so, with no thought of the consequences!

‘Ye know that ye got a baby growin’ in there, Jinny?’ Susan laid her hand upon the bulge, and Jinny nodded, laying her own begrimed hand over her belly.

‘Oh, ah, Oi feels it movin’, Oi do. Be ’ee come to take Oi away from uns?’ she asked again.

‘This is no place to birth a baby, Jinny, but I’ll have to talk to some people about you.’ Susan saw no alternative but to beg Mrs Croker to take Jinny into the House for her confinement and for a few weeks following the birth.

At that moment heavy footsteps were heard in the yard, and the menacing outline of a man’s shape filled the doorway, deepening the dimness of the room. A tremor ran down Susan’s spine, and she held her breath, every muscle tensed for flight.

‘Who be there, Jinny?’ asked a gruffly suspicious voice. ‘That ol’ widder come nosin’ agin?’

Susan spoke up indignantly. ‘I’m the Beversley midwife, an’ I’ll thank ye to get out o’ the light.’

He stepped back a pace in surprise. ‘Oh, ah. Her ain’t needin’ no midwife, not yet,’ he growled, his black-rimmed eyes staring at Susan in no friendly manner. Jinny gaped from one to the other, and Susan saw no sign of caring, even of a rough kind, between the surly man and the slow-witted girl. A family of foxes might have shown more natural affection, she thought, and knew that she had to get out of this hovel without delay. She leaned towards Jinny, and the girl flinched as if expecting a blow.

‘I’ll be back again soon, Jinny, to take ye to the House o’ Industry at Belhampton to birth y’r baby.’

‘Oh, ah,’ muttered the man with a nod, while Jinny simply stared after Susan as she walked out to the pony-trap, giving the tied dog a wide berth.

Mrs Croker knew that if she refused to admit Jinny, Mrs Susan would appeal to Dr Parnham, who had never been known to refuse her anything, so she gave grudging assent.

The following week Susan and a highly delighted Widow Gibson arrived one morning at Down End on the carrier’s cart to remove Jinny from her life of degradation to the different privations of the workhouse. The girl’s father and one of the brothers were digging over a patch of ground when they drew up, and Susan knew she had been right to hire the carrier. Young Dick was now a well-grown man, and he and the sharp-tongued handywoman were a match for any opposition. When Jinny appeared at the door she was ordered to climb up on the cart, assisted by the two women while Dick gave her a discreet push from behind. The furious barking of the dog prevented any objections from being heard, and in fact no attempt was made to stop the departure of the heavily pregnant girl. Susan breathed a sigh of relief as Dick cracked the whip and they moved off, Jinny grinning happily at her abduction. Widow Gibson turned and waved derisively at the two men, who stood glowering in the yard.

‘This be as good as ridin’ in the Bever carriage, eh, Jinny?’ she chuckled, pleased that young Dame Trot had asked for her assistance. She had not relished the idea of delivering the girl in that reeking hovel, but a word in Dame Trot’s ear had worked wonders.

‘Good heavens, is the man drunk?’ asked Mrs Bryers the schoolmistress when she saw Dick the carrier standing up on his cart in the main street and yelling his news like the Belhampton town-crier. A crowd rapidly gathered around him: doors opened and aproned figures appeared from the bakehouse and chandlery. Job Lucket came running from the forge, sent to find out the cause of the uproar. Not only the tradespeople were drawn to the scene: Miss Glover came hurrying out of her cottage with the eager step of a young maidservant, and when she heard Dick’s message she astonished Mrs Bryers by pulling the lace cap from her head and throwing it up into the air!

It was Dick’s moment of glory, the day he brought the news from Belhampton of the great sea victory that had taken place on the twelfth of April in the West Indies, when Admiral Rodney had beaten the French at what came to be known as the Battle of the Saints.

‘Aye, ’tis right, Miss Glover, Rodney be the hero o’ the day, an’ like to be made a duke or a baron or summat. He captured the pride o’ the French fleet, an’ chased ’em halfway back. Gave ’em a kick up the arse, he did, beggin’ yer pardon!’

Beversley rejoiced with the whole country at this successful naval battle against the French and Spanish, breaking up the blockade of the islands. Rodney’s flagship
Formidable
had taken the
Ville de Paris
with Admiral de Grasse and his crew, as well as four other enemy ships, and one had been sunk. No British ships had been lost. The church bells of Great St Giles were rung and services of thanksgiving were held to mark the sea victory after a long series of defeats on land.

‘This proves the supremacy of our British navy!’ crowed Dr Gravett from the pulpit, though at Bever House the reaction was more muted, remembering the loss of Edward. At the Hansfords’ there was joy in which Sophia shared as they eagerly awaited Henry’s triumphant return on the
Minotaur
.

“Twill be a great face-saver, Calthorpe, when the peace treaty is signed,’ the squire quietly confided to his neighbour, adding drily that the only lasting importance of the Battle of the Saints would be the preservation of Britain’s lucrative sugar and rum interests in the West Indies.

At Glover Cottage Sophia held a little celebratory tea-party, and while the ladies were congratulating their hostess and Mrs Hansford on the happy news, Susan entered and at once saw to her dismay that Selina Calthorpe was in the company. She was the only member of her family present, but Susan felt the familiar wave of hostility and took a seat as far away from her as she could. To everybody’s surprise the elder Calthorpe daughter had persevered in visiting the workhouse orphans, and had become quite friendly with Miss Gravett, with whom she was now eagerly conversing.

‘Does anybody know who will be the next tenant of May Cottage, now that the widow has remarried?’ asked the rector’s niece.