Off the Rails (5 page)

It was a dark, sad day and the wind out there in Scrayingham
churchyard
bit through to their bones. Both Philly’s sisters wept throughout the committal and her brothers were red-eyed. ‘Best of the bunch,’ they said to one another when the burial was over. ‘We’ll not see her like again.’

George stood a little apart from the rest of them. He felt uncomfortable and not at all sure that he ought to have been there and being ignored was making him feel worse. Eventually Ann looked across at him and, after a few words with her brothers, she walked across the churchyard and put her arms round him. She was crying so much she couldn’t say anything but that made it easier for him. All he had to do was hold her and make soothing noises into her hair. And then William came over and asked him if ‘wor all reet’ and they spoke for a few minutes.

‘It don’t seem fair that she should die,’ George said. ‘Not so young and not when she was allus so good.’

‘Best of the bunch,’ William said.

And as they were in a churchyard, George said ‘Amen!’

It was a matter of honour with him not to weep until he was riding back to York. Then he cried so much he couldn’t see the road. But it didn’t matter because there was nobody there to see
him
and luckily his horse knew most of the bridle paths round York and was entirely sure of his way back to the stables.

W
HEN
M
ILLY WAS
twelve months old, she took her first staggering steps from chair to chair in the kitchen to the delight of everyone in it. Aunt Tot, who’d quite forgotten that she’d ever described the child as a millstone and would have been mortified to have been reminded of it,
declared that she was the prettiest little dear and so entertaining you’d never believe it.

‘You never know what’ll happen next,’ she said happily to Jane. ‘Not with this one.’

What actually happened was that Jane had a visitor and one she didn’t expect.

She and Milly were out in the kitchen garden, picking the first of the lettuces to make a green salad, when they saw her stomping up the garden path towards them. Milly looked up at once and smiled but Jane was puzzled.

‘Mrs Hardcastle, ma’am,’ she said, pausing in her work. ‘Give ’ee good day.’

The midwife sat on the garden seat and took off her bonnet to mop her forehead with a kerchief. ‘I’ve come here in such a rush, you’d never believe,’ she explained. ‘Your aunt said you were out here. Oh my stars! I was in the carriage and on my way afore I could so much as catch my breath. You’ll see why when I tell ’ee. Baby’s coming on well, I see.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Jane said, wondering what this was about. ‘Very well.’

‘And you’ve plenty of milk?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Well now,’ Mrs Hardcastle said, donning her bonnet and folding the kerchief neatly on her lap. ‘I’ve come to ask a favour. A very great favour it has to be said. You are still feeding the baby, I trust and believe.’

‘Indeed, ma’am.’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Mrs Hardcastle said, ‘for that’s the gist of my errand. I’ve just this minute come from Foster Manor at Scrayingham, where I’ve been all night. A difficult birth. Sir Mortimer ordered his own carriage to bring me here so you can see how urgent this is.’

There didn’t seem to be anything for Jane to say so she waited.

‘The long and short of it,’ Mrs Hardcastle said, ‘is that Lady Fitzwilliam died, early this morning. God rest her soul! The child survived and seems healthy enough, but he needs feeding. In short he needs a wet nurse. I thought of you directly. ’Twould be a fine position. The Fitzwilliams are a wealthy family and would treat you well. You would have your own rooms and a serving maid to assist you and so forth. What do ’ee say?’

The answer was immediate and direct. ‘I’d rather not, Mrs Hardcastle. I’m settled here, ma’am, and my Milly knows her way about and has friends in the household and plenty of folk to pet her and talk to her. Besides which, I might not have enough milk for two babies and I wouldn’t want her to go short. I’m beholden to ’ee for thinking of me, but no, ma’am, I’d rather not.’

‘Now let’s not be hasty,’ the midwife advised. ‘’Tis worth consideration. As I’m sure you’ll agree when you starts considering. The Manor would be a very fine place for a child to grow up. They eat well there. They have a kitchen garden and a park for exercise and a stable full of horses and ponies for the children and a library where the family children learn to read and write, which would be a very great advantage to your little Milly. I can understand you not wanting to leave your friends, but it could be the chance of a lifetime. Besides which it’s a mere half mile from your mother’s cottage, happen even less. Your parents live on the Fitzwilliam land, do they not?’

That was an argument to give Jane Jerdon pause. To be near her mother was something she’d wanted all year long. ‘Well …’ she said. ‘There
is
that.’

Mrs Hardcastle pressed home her advantage. ‘Indeed there is,’ she said, ‘and not to be sniffed at. I daresay they’d allow you one of their carriages to take you visiting. Then you could take Milly along and your ma could see the both of you.’

Jane was torn. It would be a wonderful thing to be able to see her ma whenever she wanted to but she didn’t want to take on the care of another baby – and somebody else’s baby at that – nor to be at the beck and call of a family of strangers. She noticed that Milly had taken one of the lettuces from the trog and was busy tearing one of its leaves into small pieces but she couldn’t summon up the energy to take it from her. Not when she had all this to think about.

‘I’ll have to ask Aunt Tot,’ she said, thinking, if she says she can’t spare me, which she well might, then the matter will be settled and I won’t have to go.

‘Of course,’ Mrs Hardcastle said and stood up at once. ‘That child is eating the lettuces,’ she said. ‘It won’t do her digestion any good.’

That child allowed her mother to remove the half-chewed leaf from her mouth and was delighted to be lifted onto her hip. Then they all walked into the farm so that Aunt Tot could settle their fate.

It was rather a disappointment to Jane that her aunt had no doubt about it at all. ‘Of course tha must go,’ she said. ‘’Twould be folly not to.’ And when Jane made a grimace, ‘You’ll never regret it, believe me. It could be the making of you. And think of that poor baby with no one to nurse him. Oh no, you go, child. You’re just the right one. We shall miss you, there’s no gainsaying that, but you must take your chance.’

So Jane had to pack a bag with her belongings and Milly was given a sugar plum from Aunt Tot’s jar so that she would have something to keep her happy during the journey and Audrey came running up from the dairy to kiss them goodbye and then they were climbing into the carriage, which was very grand and gave Jane second thoughts about the advisability of that
sugar plum, and they were off, trotting through the green fields in the warmth of the summer sunshine towards their new lives.

Jane Jerdon was overwhelmed by her first sight of Foster Manor. It was the grandest building she’d ever seen, all that dazzling white stone and those long rows of great tall windows and that huge front door framed by those great white columns, standing up so tall as if they were guarding the place. They must be very rich, she thought, as she followed Mrs Hardcastle through the side door, for there seemed to be servants everywhere, all of them in different uniforms. They were greeted by the housekeeper who wore a spotless grey gown and a snow-white cap and looked like someone who had to be obeyed.

Mrs Hardcastle spoke to her politely and softly. ‘How has he been, ma’am?’ she asked.

‘About the same,’ the housekeeper said, ‘as you will see. We’ve moved the crib to the night nursery. This way.’

They climbed the stairs to the second floor and walked along a corridor hung with pictures of beautifully dressed men and women until they came to a white door which opened into a wide, high-ceilinged, handsome room. Jane had an impression of a lot of white and gold, of long white curtains at the window and a long column of sunlight that looked almost solid enough to touch. Then she became aware that there was a maidservant in the room sitting on a low chair beside a small white crib and that she was weeping.

He’s dead, she thought, looking at the cradle, and she felt sorry for the poor little thing to have lived such a short time.

‘He is Sir Mortimer’s only son,’ the housekeeper was saying, ‘so you will understand that he is very precious to the entire family. If you can help us, Mrs Smith we would be extremely grateful to you.’ And she pulled back the embroidered coverlet to give Jane her first glimpse of the baby. Such a small, pale, delicate, little thing he was and he seemed more dead than alive, with his eyes tight shut and his hands curled against the covers. But they were all looking at her, waiting to hear what she would say.

‘If someone will take my Milly for me,’ she said, looking at the servant, ‘and bring me a nursing chair, I will see what I can do. He’s very weak, mind, I can see that, but I will do what I can.’

The servant stepped forward to take Milly, the nursing chair was moved into the sunlight, and Jane took the child out of the cradle, sat in the chair, loosened the kerchief that she wore at her neck for modesty’s sake and eased her nipple from her bodice. The baby didn’t react to it at all, but lay on her lap without moving.

‘Put a little milk on his lips,’ the midwife advised. ‘Give him a taste of it.’

It was done. The baby moved his head once and slightly. It was done again with the same lack of result. He needs more than a drop, Jane thought. He’s too far gone for that to wake him. He needs a gush. And this time she gave her breast a good squeeze and released a stream of milk all over the baby’s face. He stirred, sneezed, put out the tip of a small pale tongue and licked his lips.

‘There then, my little man,’ Jane said to him, ‘tha liked that. Try a bit more.’ And she smeared his lips with the milk that was rolling down his face. For several long seconds he lay without moving, then he licked his lips again and pursed them as if he might be ready to suck. The silence in the room was intense. The three watching women were holding their breath and even Milly was still and quiet on the maid’s lap. Jane eased her nipple
towards that little moving mouth, very, very gently, and the baby gave a sudden lurch of his pale head and latched on.

‘Praise the Lord,’ the housekeeper said.

It took four days of peace and patience before Jane was satisfied that her new charge was feeding as he should and by then she’d settled into the house and her new life. On that first morning a bed was moved into the nursery for her – a proper bed, what luxury! – and that was followed by a pretty little cot for Milly, then a meal of cold meats, bread and cheese was brought up to her on a tray with a tankard of beer and, late in the
afternoon
, the housekeeper reappeared to introduce herself as Mrs Denman and to report that Sir Mortimer was very pleased to hear what good progress she’d made with little Felix.

‘I was wondering if he had a name yet,’ Jane said. ‘I didn’t like to ask.’

‘Oh indeed he does,’ Mrs Denman told her, looking down at him. ‘It’s a family name. It’s been given to the first son for generations. Sir Mortimer was the second son. His brother Felix died when he was four, which is another reason why Sir Mortimer is so concerned for this baby. It was remiss of me not to tell you that earlier.’

‘We had other things on our minds, ma’am,’ Jane excused them, and was rewarded with a wide smile.

‘Now as to details,’ Ms Denman said. ‘Mr Glendenning wishes me to tell you that your wages will be eight shillings and sixpence a week and all found. You will have your own maid to assist you, of course. It will be her job to wash the baby’s clothes and fetch hot water when you need it and clean the room and look after your little one when you are otherwise engaged with young Felix. You will find she will do everything you ask of her.’

Jane’s thoughts were spinning with such amazement she didn’t know what to say. First a bed of her own and that great platter of food and now this. Eight and six was a fortune, and having a servant to wait on her was something out of a dream. She gulped and struggled and eventually managed an answer, ‘Thank ’ee kindly, ma’am.’

‘Her name is Polly,’ Mrs Denman said, ‘but of course she might have told you that already.’

‘No, ma’am.’

‘You will dine in this room for the time being,’ Mrs Denman said. ‘But when little Felix is settled, I trust you will join us in the servants’ hall.’

How polite she is, Jane thought. ‘Yes, ma’am,’ she said. ‘I shall be happy to.’

The next day the baby was waking every two or three hours and she fed
him whenever he woke, feeling that the more milk she got inside him the better he would be. By the afternoon of the third day, he was sleeping for several hours between feeds and Jane was beginning to feel she’d made rather a good job of mothering him. And on the morning of the fifth day, he filled his stomach so full it was as tight as a drum, fell asleep as soon as he’d finished feeding and slept soundly. It was blissfully quiet and after a little while, since she had nothing else to do, Jane picked Milly up, settled her on her lap and sang her some of her favourite nursery rhymes. She’d just nibbled at
‘this little finger on the right’
, to Milly’s chortling delight, when she heard someone howling.

‘Now what’s that, Milly?’ she said. It sounded as though it was coming from the next room and, as there was a communicating door between them, she set Milly on the floor and the two of them went to see if they could find out what was happening – not that there was much doubt what it was, given that there’d been a death in the house. The door opened easily and beyond it was another white and gold room, carpeted, curtained and full of delicate furniture. There was a small pale girl in a crumpled white dress, lying on the carpet crying bitterly, and another one, slightly older but equally pale, kneeling beside her, weeping silently with tears rolling down her cheeks.