A Mother's Love (8 page)

Matthew was to spend Christmas and New Year at Winchester with his family. It was only right he should, but Harriet was already feeling the tug of separation, especially as a week before he was due to go she felt a cold coming on and needed him with her.

‘Why can’t I come with you?’ she sniffled.

‘Your family will expect you to be with them,’ he told her gently. ‘Christmas is a time for families. You know that!’

She did, but it made no difference. ‘Your parents will have to meet me eventually. I thought this would be a good time.’

He drew her close as they sat together on her sofa, safe from the promise of snow hovering on a stiff December wind outside.

‘I’d rather tell them about you before they meet you. Parents need a while to adjust to the idea of an offspring’s intention to wed. I’m sure mine will. I know yours will also.’

She had to agree, loving him for his decisive command of things. As it was, she hadn’t yet found the courage to drop any hint to her own family, and still made sure that the door to the printing shop was conspicuously bolted on her side when they came visiting. She could imagine their reaction when she eventually told them. She knew exactly what they would say – Will was only eight months in his grave. How could she cast his memory aside so soon? How would he feel? (As if by some strange supernatural quirk he was still alive and capable of having injured feelings.) She would explain, of course, that a baby needed a father. And dear God, how true that was.

No one knew what it cost: scooping slops from those lips every time she fed her; steeping dirty napkins in salt water, gagging as she rinsed the bits of towelling free of revolting poop; her sleep broken at night by its crying; having to beg Mrs Hardy to keep an eye on her so she could spend a secret hour or two with Matthew, praying the woman was still unaware of their relationship – though it was only a matter of time before she found out.

What a godsend it was that Matthew had begun to spend more of his time with Sara. Yes, the baby needed a father.

‘And you’d better not spoil things for me,’ she upbraided the mite when Matthew left that evening, her emerging cold making her peevish.

From her cot, the child stared back, deep blue eyes below a mass of dark curls so like her father, she could have been his reincarnation.

Harriet shuddered.

‘Yes, you!’ she spat as though it was Will she addressed. The eight-month-old had no idea what she was saying, but it did no harm and it helped relieve the strain of coping with her. She had no thought of hurting the child intentionally – no more than she’d intended to hurt Will the day she’d pushed him …

Harriet shied automatically from that memory. She wasn’t vicious by nature. She would never see her child go cold or hungry; it was just that she could feel nothing for her, going through the motions of administering to her needs as she might a stray puppy. Sometimes it was almost as though this infant wasn’t hers at all – had been foisted on her when she hadn’t been looking.

‘You don’t even know, do you, how I feel about you?’ She found her baleful gaze being met with one of sweet innocence. ‘You’ve no idea what I’m saying, you ugly lump.’

Even as she railed, she knew how untrue that was. Will had been breathtakingly handsome. She hadn’t realised when he’d captured her heart, how black was his beneath those good looks. It must surely follow that, having inherited his looks, the child had also inherited the heart of the man who had sired her with such swinish self-indulgence.

‘You!’ she sneered, giving vent to her hatred of a man dead but living on in his daughter. ‘If I could give you away, I would.’

It wasn’t so bad when Matthew was there. He’d grown fond of Sara, and would pet and coddle her while Harriet looked on, glad to be rid of the burden.

It was when he wasn’t there, when Sara cried nonstop, compelling Harriet to hold her, rock her, that she would feel herself becoming unhinged, wanting to stuff a rag between those red lips to shut her up. She never did, of course. Shaking Sara in total frustration, throwing her back into her cot and fleeing to her bed to cover her ears with a pillow, she would be filled with a sense of helplessness. The punishment Will had inflicted on her would never end.

Yelling made things worse. The day before had become so bad that she had smacked Sara – really hard – on her arm and her legs. It was as though she couldn’t stop. She was only expressing her frustration, she told herself; she was fully justified. Except that Matthew’s concern when he noticed the angry pink stains of her handprints on Sara’s plump little limbs made her cringe in remorse.

‘You should be careful,’ he warned. ‘She’s still a tiny mite.’

‘A tap,’ she brazened. ‘What harm does a tap now and again do? I remember being strapped many a time when I was little. I only used my hands. Children have to be taught when they’re naughty.’

‘She’s not old enough to be naughty, Harriet.’

‘You don’t know what it’s like,’ she had wailed defensively. ‘Here on my own. If you had her all day, all night, no one to help …’

He had put his arms around her, comforting her, kissing her gently.

‘You won’t be on your own for much longer. Soon I’ll be here all the time to help take care of her, my sweet.’

Oh, how she longed for the day, But meanwhile …

A tingling in her nose made her tilt back her head. The exploding sneeze rocked her small frame. There was a thickening in her head. She would have been better off in bed, but the baby, tiring of its spoon and starting to whimper, put paid to that luxury.

Being with her parents over the festive season meant that Sara was taken off her hands, doted on, cooed over by the whole family gathered at her parents’ home, allowing her to nurse the remnant of her cold in peace.

‘Will would’ve been so proud,’ Clara said, sitting beside her on the sofa in the parlour. Everyone had made a beeline for the cosy room after Christmas dinner had been cleared away, and out came the port and cigars and nuts.

Clara was jogging Sara on her lap, enjoying her giggles while her own three-year-old Henry, and eighteen-month-old Alice played with empty cobnut shells on the rug in front of the bright hearth.

Annie, sitting nearby, her own youngest on her lap – six-month-old Robert George – was taking little notice of Sara; had done so all day, and Harriet felt galled, puzzled and a bit hurt by her offhand behaviour.

‘If only Will was here,’ Clara’s voice was heavy with pity. ‘Poor fatherless little mite.’

Harriet’s attention was averted from Annie for the moment, and she grabbed at the chance Clara presented. ‘There’s something I’ve got to tell you,’ she began, but Clara wasn’t listening.

‘What a lovely smile – just like her poor father’s. And those pearly teeth – how many has she got now? She’s really going to be a beauty, Harriet. What did you say you’ve got to tell me?’ she asked at last, her eyes still on the baby.

Harriet swallowed. ‘The matter of Sara not having a father … I was going to say I don’t think she’ll be fatherless much longer.’

There, she had said it. ‘You see …’

‘Shall I take her awhile?’ Aunt Sarah stood before them, small and commanding.

‘Of course, Aunt.’ Clara gladly handed over the mite. She was tiring of holding the baby anyway. And her eyes were now on her own two, who were dropping roasted chestnut shells all over the rug far too freely.

‘Don’t make a mess, Henry! Your grandma can’t keep on clearing it all up. Sorry, Harriet, what were you saying?’

Harriet took a second gulp, almost tempted to abandon her confession. But she’d already embarked upon it, and if Matthew could tell his family, she must tell hers. The words tumbled out in a gabble.

‘I said … Sara might not be fatherless for much longer.’

Clara was suddenly all ears. ‘What
do
you mean?’

‘Someone … more or less offered … to marry me.’

Clara’s disbelieving laugh tailed off. ‘You mean, take you
and
the baby? Who? Do we know him?’

‘Matthew Craig.’

‘Not your landlord … Not him!’

‘Why not him?’ A sense of protective love caught at her heart, surprising her, and she returned her sister’s incredulous gaze in an unfaltering challenge. Clara blinked, yielded.

‘Well, I’m amazed. You
are
a dark horse, Harriet. So how long’s that been going on?’

‘Nothing’s been
going on.
’

‘But …’ Clara had grown cautious. She dropped her voice. ‘You haven’t
been
with him, have you?’

‘No, I haven’t
been
with him. Mr Craig’s a perfect gentleman. He wouldn’t dream of … that.’

‘What about Will?’ Clara’s voice dropped even lower, leaving a chill to run through Harriet’s veins. Again, it was as though the man lived. Why did he persist in haunting her? She forced herself to speak his name.

‘What about Will?’

‘He’s hardly been gone eight months.’

‘I’m not marrying tomorrow. There’ll be a respectful period before anything like that happens. Just that Matthew – Mr Craig – offered to take me in marriage. For the sake of the baby.’

‘Well, if he means it, that’s really generous.’

‘Of course he means it. He had to ask me several times before I said I would.’

‘So you said yes? My goodness! You’re a quick worker, Harriet, and no mistake. Hey – listen, everyone! Harriet’s got some news!’

Clara was on her feet before Harriet could stop her, clapping her hands above the buzz of happy conversation. Slowly the babble died as the handclap continued to demand their attention. Clara stood like an orator before a mass meeting. ‘Guess what – our Harriet’s had a proposal of marriage.’

There was a brief, startled silence as the family took in the news, uncertain how to react, followed by a sigh of indrawn breath like a wind soughing through tree tops. ‘Oh my …’

This was from most of the aunts and uncles, significant looks passing from one to another, fingers held to mouths in some sort of deference – to the dead was Harriet’s interpretation. Her own family reacted rather more frankly – a gasp from her parents, knowing snorts from both her brothers, a clearing of the throat from her brothers-in-law. Annie’s sniff was audible, to say the least.

Harriet sat very still, not knowing quite how to cope with this reception. Some sort of explanation was obviously called for.

‘I wasn’t sure …’

Her voice, small and wary and still croaky from her recent cold, died away, but then grew in strength as she realised there was nothing for it but to brazen out this awkward moment.

‘The proposal came from Mr Craig, who took over the printer’s shop downstairs. He asked me about two months ago, but I refused. It was too soon after … Well, he’s asked me again. And I began to think that Sara did need … does need … someone …’ This was getting far too complicated for comfort.

As her faltering voice broke and tears began to cloud her eyes, her mother, galvanised into action, came across the room to catch her to her small bosom.

‘Oh, my dear, it’s been a terrible time for you. I’m so happy for you, Harriet.’

Tension eased. Suddenly everyone was crowding round congratulating her, expressing amazement, pleasure, saying how large-hearted this Mr Craig must be.

Annie, she noticed in all this, hadn’t moved.

Only when her husband, Robert, touched her arm, prompting her, did she get up and bother to join the cluster of relatives, although even then didn’t seem eager to offer her congratulations.

Even as Harriet smiled appreciation of all the good wishes, having half expected condemnation instead, she felt the hurt of Annie’s odd behaviour. True, she hadn’t seen much of her since Will’s death – as if Annie had made a point of avoiding her.

Aunt Sarah, too, was being somewhat withholding of her good wishes, standing near the fireplace, still clutching her little namesake to her, although she at least was looking relatively relieved. But then Aunt Sarah had always been a little bit difficult to understand, whereas Annie might have been expected to show a little more warmth.

Questions were assailing Harriet from all sides, giving her no chance to dwell on Annie’s strange behaviour. What was this Matthew Craig like? How old was he? Had he any family – children, that was? He too was bereaved, perhaps?

It was obvious that those who had never met him guessed him to be some aging, probably balding, widower, possibly in need of a housekeeper, a mother for his children – even the nurse that a second marriage would provide in his dotage, while affording the young widow security.

‘You must thank your lucky stars,’ Uncle Albert, her father’s brother, boomed, echoed by his wife Tilly.

Harriet smiled graciously. If they only knew how handsome, how single, how eligible Matthew was, and how she felt her own worth in having caught him. She answered them all, of course, but wasn’t sure they believed her.

In their old bedroom at the top of the house, as Clara and Annie put their children down to sleep in the beds they themselves had once used, Annie remarked acidly, ‘Lucky for some.’

Clara was taken aback by the caustic tone. She stared across at her sister’s thin face. ‘What d’you mean, lucky for some? Who?’

‘Who d’you think? Knows what side her bread’s buttered, all right, doesn’t she? Money left by one husband. Now she’s after the next, and well off by the sound of things. No flies on her, is there?’

‘I don’t suppose she planned it that way.’

‘Huh!’ was all Annie said, tucking the counterpane in around her babies and sailing out of the room before Clara had time to make any comment.

Clara followed at a distance, knowing that Annie had voiced the words that had been at the back of her own mind – words that she had refused to acknowledge, until now. But Annie had sown seeds on fertile ground, and it was Clara’s turn to assume Harriet’s luck had been more engineered than springing from sheer providence.

Annie managed to buttonhole her brothers, but they were not as suggestible as Clara, shrugging off her sour remarks. Who cared? Unmarried, secure in the knowledge that their father’s business would be theirs one day: what Harriet did didn’t concern them.