A Mother's Sacrifice (41 page)

‘Aye, soon spreads, that does. Best stay away from the families over there.’

‘You’ll keep him in the house until it passes?’ It wouldn’t be the best for him, but it was certainly better than risking a fever. ‘He likes to watch things.’

‘Watch things?’ Mrs Farrow sounded surprised.

‘You know, things that move when you blow on them.’

‘Where am I gunna get stuff like that round ’ere?’

‘I’ll make some. Have you any old ribbons?’

‘Yer don’t need ter bother. ’E’ll be as right as rain wi’ me, don’t fret yersen.’

‘Are you sure he’s been well all day?’ Quinta bent over to kiss his head. He didn’t stir and alarm started to bubble in her breast again.

‘First babby fer yer, i’n’t ’e? Yer think ’e’s gonna break in two. I tell yer, I know what I’m doing. ’E’ll be quiet as the grave ’til we’ve ’ad our tea an’ then ’e’ll be ready fer a bit o’ titty and yer can hold ’im ter yer ’eart’s content.’

Quinta’s eyes widened at her choice of words. She’d rather have him awake and demanding her attention no matter how tired she was when she came in. But she conceded that Mrs Farrow had her interests at heart and it sounded a reasonable arrangement. She was hungry and weary after her long day as a skivvy.

Patrick’s days were as different as hers now, and perhaps his morning had been tiring, too. Mrs Farrow seemed to know what she was doing and had planned his day with thought of her and the time she needed to spend with her son after tea. She relaxed as Patrick continued to slumber and ate her meal of bread and stew with a drink of tea to follow. Perhaps she had found a haven of sorts at last for them both. As she swallowed the last of her tea she glanced over to his sleeping form.

‘I think I should wake him.’

‘Nay, lass, yer don’t do that ter a sleeping babby.’

‘I know, but he’ll be awake all night and I have to be up for work in the morning.’

The older woman sighed and shook her head impatiently. ‘Will yer stop fretting a minute an’ come an’ sit by the fire.’

‘But he’ll need clean wrappings and I’ll have to wash his wet linen if it is to be ready for tomorrow.’

‘In a minute, love.Yer can put it on me line under the mantel-piece and the ’eat from the fire’ll air it a treat.’ Mrs Farrow got up and went to the cupboard by the range. ‘Why don’t yer ’ave a drop o’ this in yer tea ter calm yer down a bit.’

But Quinta did not want to calm down a bit. She wanted to know why her baby, her little Patrick, who was normally noisy and lively, and - yes - a handful, was sleeping so quietly and for so long. He had to have something wrong with him.

She dreaded him becoming ill and, heaven forbid, suffering the same fate as the yard children. It hadn’t been a good idea to come to the town. Her mother had warned her about it. There was not much money to be had in the countryside but at least the water you drank and the air you breathed were clean.

As though she had had a choice! However bad her situation was she had to put up with it until she had a few spare coins to - to do what? Return to Noah to demand his support and be spurned again? She wondered again what he had told people about her. The vicar and his sister, surely, would have asked questions.

She had been foolish to deceive him but she had her pride. If Noah did not want her then she did not want him either. She had never really wanted him anyway, she reflected. What had happened to her had, perhaps, been for the best. She had little Patrick and her memories of his father. It was enough.

‘I think my baby might be sick,’ she said.

Mrs Farrow was tutting and shaking her head. ‘’E’s just ’ad a spoonful or two o’ this, me ducks. Works wonders when they’re teething.’

‘But he’s not teething! What is this? What have you given him?’

‘It’s just something ter keep ’im quiet. An’ yer can give ’im a bit more afore yer goes ter bed so ’e won’t wake either of us in the night.’

‘But you can’t give him that stuff! He’s just a baby!’ Quinta grabbed the bottle from her hands. ‘Show me what it is.’

‘’Ere, you! Give that back. That’s best gin, that is. Comes in on the barges and ’e’s lucky I only ’ave the best. Some of the cheaper stuff ’as all sorts in it. I’ve never given my babbies anything I won’t drink meself.’

Quinta was horrified. Mrs Farrow was clearly proud of this standard in the care of her baby. She ran her hands over her face and went to wake him immediately.‘I’m sorry, but I cannot allow you to give that to my child.’

‘“Cannot allow”? Who on this earth do yer think you are, you hoity-toity little madam? I know what’s best fer babbies, ask any o’ the folk round ’ere.’

Little Patrick woke up slowly. His lips were whitish and dry. Poor mite must be so thirsty. He began to cry. She poured some boiled water from the kettle into a clean bowl and began to spoon it into his mouth. He drank greedily and stopped crying while she took off his sodden linen and washed his reddened bottom. She smoothed on some salve that Mrs Farrow had in her cupboard and he began to kick his little legs and coo at her. He lay contentedly on layers of thick sacking while she washed his linen, angrily, at the scullery sink. He would be awake all night now. Well, so be it. She most certainly was not going to give him any more of that evil spirit.

She fed him a little of the warm mashed stew and put him to her breast. As he suckled contentedly, she relaxed. It was the time she looked forward to most of all, when she could forget all her difficulties and dream. She dreamed of his father and how much he had loved her and she vowed that she would give his son that same devotion. Yes, she resolved. She would give little Patrick the love of two people and he would always know what a fine man his father was, wherever he might be.

She wondered if Patrick still yearned for her as she did him. Or, heaven forbid, had given up on her and fallen into the arms of a camp follower. She had married so why should he not be so inclined? How could their love be expected to survive such separation? Why had she never realised it was a possibility - and - and curbed her passion? But still, she had little Patrick and he was the world to her. She pushed aside her doubts and planned to move on.

Quinta did not even consider staying another night with Mrs Farrow. It was no longer an option for her as there was no way she would ever leave little Patrick in her care again. But what was she to do? There was nowhere else for her to go, no one to help her. She wished so desperately that Patrick were here, with her, with both of them. Oh, how she missed him.

She racked her brain for a solution, but there was no answer. How was it possible to work and look after her child? If only she were able to find a position in a household. She was willing to wash and scrub, clean grates and ranges if only she could keep him by her side. But no housekeeper would take her in without a letter of recommendation, let alone with a wriggling child in her arms. She did not know what to do, except to be gone from here by morning.

Mrs Farrow slept soundly, knocked out by her gin. Quinta reluctantly discarded her travelling box, wrapped her few belongings into a bundle with little Patrick’s linen and fastened them to his leather sling. He was growing too big for it but he was too heavy to carry any distance in her arms. She fed and cleaned him quietly in the blackness of the night, burning only one candle to light her tasks. As soon as he was sleepy again, she hoisted him on to her back and crept quietly out of the house.

The first streaks of dawn lit up the church spire. Set high on a mound in the centre of town the beautiful stone church could be seen for miles around. She had nowhere else to go and its doors were always open. She trudged up the short hill and placed her faith in the Lord. He would provide.

It was dark inside and cool. She sat in a pew away from the door, hidden behind a wide stone pillar, and stared at the huge stained-glass windows as the morning sun lit up their majestic beauty. Little Patrick slept in his sling on the floor. She placed her bundle under her head, stretched out on the pew and slept.

Chapter 27

‘Wake up, my child.’

Someone was shaking her shoulder. She opened her eyes suddenly, looking down at the floor, searching for her child. He was where she had left him, awake but chewing at his fingers and kicking against the restrictions of his wrappings.

‘Why are you sleeping in my church?’

‘I - I . . .’ What was she to say to the vicar? He was a tall man, dressed sombrely in black. But he had a gentle smile on his thin face. He was waiting for her answer.

‘I seek sanctuary, sir.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Do you flee from justice, ma’am?’ ‘No, sir. I am not a criminal.’

He lifted her left hand and felt for her wedding band.‘Where is your husband?’

‘I have no husband, sir.’ She saw the disapproval on his face as he glanced at her child and added quickly, ‘He - he has deserted me.’

‘Then you have a home? Where is your home?’

‘I have nowhere to go, sir.’

‘Ah. I see. What is your name?’

‘Quinta Haig, sir.’ She said it without thinking and realised that in her head she had never thought of herself as Mrs Bilton. Yet, in the Church’s eyes, that was who she was.

‘You cannot live here, Mrs Haig.’

‘I am looking for work, sir,’ she said anxiously.

‘With a child to care for? Do you have any money?’

She shook her head. ‘I should not be here, sir, if I had.’

‘Well, it will soon be time for matins. Will you join us in our prayers?’

Little Patrick’s cooing turned to whimpers and she bent to pick him up. ‘He’s hungry again.’ Automatically, she began to undo her bodice buttons.

The vicar raised his eyebrows. ‘Not here, madam.’

‘Then where may I go, sir?’

He seemed to hesitate. ‘Stay behind the pillar. I’ll arrange a breakfast for you and then we shall see what can be done.’

Quinta listened to the worshippers and joined silently in their prayers. But she was weary. It seemed as though she tired so very quickly nowadays. Little Patrick made such demands on her, for food and for attention, and she always placed his needs before her own. Only a year ago she had prided herself on her strength and stamina for the physical tasks of house and garden, but this one small child was draining her energy and wearing her down. She had not realised how much of her he would take and although she would willingly give her life for him, she knew that it was not an answer. Her child needed her to be healthy to look after him. He snuffled and gurgled at her breast and, content with this most intimate of pleasures, she leaned against the corner of the hard wooden pew and dozed.

‘Here she is, madam.’

Wide awake again, Quinta blinked in the gloom. The vicar had returned and he was not alone. His companion was a large lady with reddened hands and an equally ruddy round face. She handed her bread and cheese and a can of tea, which was cold but welcome and she devoured it thirstily.

As she ate the food the vicar said, ‘Mrs Haig, this lady will take care of you and your child.’

Quinta’s anxiety heightened. Not another Mrs Farrow, she thought. ‘Who are you?’

‘Never mind that, my dear. You and the babe just come wi’ me.’

‘But where to?’ She directed her question at the vicar.‘Where is she taking me, sir?’

He gave her his gentle, sympathetic smile again. ‘You and your child are quite safe, madam. I know this lady well.’

He was a kindly gentleman and she guessed that he had all manner of vagrants seeking sanctuary in his church. He must have a whole brigade of lady parishioners willing to help him in his work. Quinta relaxed. She had come to the right place. The Lord had provided. Well, she would not forget Him and vowed to worship more regularly with little Patrick. She placed him on the pew while she gathered her possessions.

‘Put yer things in the bag, dear. I’ll take the child,’ the woman said.

‘No! Thank you, but I can carry him.’ She pushed everything into the sling and hoisted it on to her back so she could hold him tightly in her arms. The woman seemed respectable and knew the vicar, but she didn’t look any different from Mrs Farrow and Quinta wondered if her coarse red cheeks came from the same habit of drinking spirits.

She walked with the woman up Sheep Hill towards the square where the beast market was held. There were no livestock sales today and the pens were empty and quiet. Further up and away from the navigation, this track was wide and favoured by the well-to-do for new houses in the town. They progressed slowly as it was a steep incline and the woman soon began to puff and pant. ‘Not far now,’ she muttered. ‘We’ll soon get you and the babby indoors.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘It’s just up here, lass.We’ll take care o’ you both, have no fear.’

But Quinta did. As they approached the high stone wall and its huge wooden gates, it slowly dawned on her. She was not going as a servant to one of the fine large houses recently built for a factory- or mill-owner. The gates loomed large in front of her. This was the workhouse. This was the place where you went when you had failed in your duty and were destitute. Surely she was not desperate enough for the workhouse? She could not go there! This woman would take little Patrick from her and put her to work in the laundry all day. It would be worse than the lodging house and Mrs Farrow. He would be lost in a crowd of other wretched crying children whose mothers could not care for them, neglected and without her nourishment until he was old enough to work himself. What was she thinking of? She could look after her child herself and she would!

‘You’re from the workhouse,’ she stated.

‘Aye. Where else would we be going?’ The woman stopped panting and reached out for Quinta’s arm. Her fingers closed round her wrist like an iron band. ‘Come on, lass. We can’t have you out on the streets. The town’s leaders won’t have it nowadays. They’ve spent a lot o’ brass on this new building fer the likes o’ you.You’re not gonna be awk’ard about it, are you?’