Saddle the Wind (3 page)

The July day was hot and on the hills herds of grazing sheep were dull white masses, hardly moving – reminders of the source of John Savill’s wealth. Most of the land round about his own acres – apart from the few fields with grain crops – were given over to sheep farming. When at last Sarah and the children reached the edge of the wide field where the men were at work, they waited until the foreman gave the call to signal the dinner break and then walked across the stubble, catching up with Ollie as he retreated from the sweltering sun to rest in the shade of an elm.

A few minutes later, sitting beside him, watching as he ate the bread and dripping, Sarah thought of the happiness at Hallowford House at the prospect of a child.
That
child, the Savills’, would be born into wealth and
comfort, cared for by parents who could dedicate their lives to its well-being. Her own child, on the other hand, had very little waiting for it – nothing more, really, than the love that she was so ready to give.

She had hoped that the passing of time would melt Ollie’s resistance, but it had not. As the baby had grown within her so it seemed had Ollie’s resentment. He made hardly any reference at all to the child she carried, acknowledging it generally only by a surly muteness. He was angry, too, she was aware, over the fact that she discouraged any advances he made to her at night; something else he held against the unborn child.

In truth, though, her reluctance was not only on account of the baby. It was because of Ollie himself. In the past he had been so tender with her, but over more recent times he had seemed to give no thought at all to her own wants or desires. Rather she felt that he had simply used her. What for? As a release? – a means whereby he could somehow gain forgetfulness for a few minutes and blot out the reality of his existence?

She watched as he drank some of the cider, then looked across the fields to where the back of Hallowford House was visible beyond the orchard wall. ‘I hear that Mr Savill’s to become a father too,’ she said. ‘In January, so Emmie told me.’ She waited but he made no reply. After a little silence she added, ‘Emmie says he’s just about over the moon.’

Ollie nodded and said shortly: ‘Ah, well, that’s fine for him. He can have as many children as he likes. He won’t have any trouble feeding ‘em.’ There was a short pause, then he went on, ‘And if he’s as keen as you say he is, perhaps he’d like to take on an extra one. God knows we’ve got no use for it.’

Sarah said nothing. After a few moments she got to her feet, called the children to her and started back over
the field. By the gate she stopped and turned and looked back. Ollie still sat in the elm’s shade, eating the bread and drinking the cider. There was no reaching him these days.

She worked right up to the time the baby was born.

During the afternoon of Friday, December 10th, she had just finished washing some of the Savills’ underwear when she felt the first pangs of her labour. She put down the petticoat she had just wrung out, stood quite still and tried, calmly, to analyse the little darts of pain that stabbed dully at her body. Aware that it was no false alarm, she wrung out the few remaining items and placed them in a large bowl. Then, calling Arthur and Agnes to her from the kitchen she took them to the adjoining cottage where she asked her neighbour, Esther Hewitt, to look after them for a few hours and to send her son Davie for Mrs Curfee, the midwife.

When Mrs Curfee arrived a little over half-an-hour later she let herself in and moved her considerable bulk up the narrow stairs; she knew where to go. Entering the bedroom she found Sarah lying on the bed and after satisfying herself that Sarah’s time was close asked if Ollie should be told. Sarah shook her head. ‘No, leave him be. He’s working. He won’t thank you for bothering him.’

Mrs Curfee clicked her tongue disapprovingly and raised her eyes to the ceiling, silently speaking volumes of men in general and husbands in particular, then got to work. The baby was born just after half-past-five.

‘You got a lovely little girl,’ Mrs Curfee said, smiling into Sarah’s sweat-damp face.

‘Is she all right?’ Sarah asked. Into her mind had flashed a sudden image of Artie. Mrs Curfee smiled at her. ‘Yes, don’t you worry. She’s a perfect little mite.’

When the baby had been bathed Mrs Curfee laid her
in Sarah’s arms and began to tidy the room. As she worked she said over her shoulder: ‘You timed it just right. If you’d left it much later I wouldn’t ‘ave been ‘ere. I’m off to join my son and ‘is wife in Bath in a few days – to spend Christmas with ‘em.’

Sarah nodded. ‘When’ll you be back in Hallowford?’ she asked.

‘Soon as Christmas is over, I reckons. Or maybe after New Year’s.’

‘In time to look after Mrs Savill’s baby, then.’

Mrs Curfee shook her head. ‘No – I doubt I’ll be needed there. They’ll be ‘aving the doctor and a monthly nurse, that’s for sure.’

When Mrs Curfee had gone, with a promise to look in again the following day, Sarah lay in bed with the baby at her side. She felt surprisingly well, and at peace. The baby was beautiful and perfect. Ollie would be sure to love her in time.

Later, when Ollie came in from work he was greeted by Mary who told him excitedly of the new baby. He went up the stairs and stood at the bedside looking down at Sarah as she lay with the baby in her arms.

‘Look at her, Ollie,’ Sarah said. ‘She’s going to look just like you.’ She watched him, waiting for his reaction.

He nodded noncommittally. ‘How are you feelin’? All right?’

‘Yes, I’m all right.’

‘Good. I’d best go and get on with dinner for the others.’

‘Thank you, Ollie. I’ll be back downstairs soon. Just give me a little time.’ With her words she recalled how once she had read in a copy of
Cassell’s Household Guide
that no mother should get up before nine days after the birth of her child.
Nine days
. Where did she have nine
days to spend lying in bed?
Cassell’s Household Guide
hadn’t been written for the likes of her. ‘I’ll be up tomorrow, Ollie,’ she added.

He nodded again and started towards the door. Sarah called after him:

‘– Ollie?’

Stopping in the doorway he turned his tall frame back to her. ‘Yes?’

‘What d’you think we should call her?’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. That’s up to you.’

‘Oh, come on, Ollie …’ She wanted to evoke some positive response from him; anything was preferable to this dull indifference. ‘What d’you think? You must have some idea. Isn’t there some name you’d like?’

‘No.’ He refused to be mellowed. ‘I’ll leave that to you.’

After a moment she said, ‘What d’you think of the name – “Blanche”? I mean – she’s so fair. Like you, Ollie.’

‘Blanche? Don’t you reckon it’s a mite grand?’ He paused. ‘Still, why not. It’ll be about the only thing about her that is. Like the rest of us she’ll never have more’n two ha’p’nies to rub together.’

‘Oh, Ollie …’ Sarah’s disappointment showed on her face. Ollie shrugged again. ‘You call her what you like. It’s your decision.’ He turned and went from the room.

As his descending boots sounded from the stairs Sarah lay back on the pillow and looked at the baby. How could Ollie be so sure that the poor little thing would never have anything? And to damn a child’s existence like that from the moment of its birth … All right, perhaps she and Ollie didn’t have anything, but it didn’t have to be that way with the children. It could be different for them. It
could, yes
– and whatever she could do to make it so, then that she would do.

Snow had been falling all day long, blanketing the earth and sealing in the house. Inside, though, beside the glowing fire in the library, it was warm. Glancing over at Catherine, Savill saw that she had just awakened. Now she smiled at him from her chair, one hand on the round swell of her belly. ‘You slept for a while,’ he said.

She sat up and reached down to the knitting basket beside her chair. As she did so Prince, the small King Charles spaniel that lay near her feet, lifted its head and looked at her. As Catherine took up the knitting Savill got up from his chair to turn up the flame of the oil lamp on the wall above her head. At fifty he was nineteen years older than his wife. Of medium height, he was straight-backed, with a lean, fine-featured face, grey eyes and thick grey hair. As the lamp flame burgeoned Catherine raised her head, dark eyes wide in the oval of her face. ‘Oh, John,’ she sighed. ‘I’m so impatient. I want the time to go by.’

He nodded, smiling. ‘I too. But it won’t be long now. Five weeks or so; they’ll pass quickly enough.’

‘Not for me.’

He turned, moved to the window and drew back one of the curtains. Putting his face near to the glass he gazed out.

‘Is it still snowing?’ she asked behind him.

‘Yes, heavily.’

‘I hope Mrs Callow’s all right.’

‘Yes, she’ll be all right.’

Mrs Callow, the housekeeper, had gone into Trowbridge that morning to visit her elderly mother. After her departure the snow had really begun to come down again, quickly adding to that which had already blanketed the area during the past two days. Many of the roads would be unpassable again. ‘She’ll be staying overnight,’ Savill added. ‘She won’t try to come back in this.’

He let the curtain fall, sat down and took up the remaining newspaper; the one he had read lay on the carpet near his slippered feet. After looking at the paper’s front page for a couple of minutes he set it aside again. Folding his hands over his stomach he looked at his wife as she bent her head over her knitting, a slight frown of concentration on her brow as she negotiated a particular stitch. He had a sudden image of her in an earlier time, in the spring, seeing her lying naked beneath him, her brow damp with sweat …

Catherine had brought into his life a happiness and contentment that in earlier years he had never expected, never looked for. And now she had brought to him also so much promise. He looked past the knitting in her moving hands and took in the swell of her body. In five weeks, come the end of January, the child would be here …

Glancing up, Catherine caught his gaze and smiled at him. She lowered the knitting, stretched, then leaned forward and looked up at the clock on the mantelpiece. Almost ten-thirty. ‘I won’t do anymore,’ she said. ‘I think I’ll go on upstairs.’

He nodded. ‘You must be tired. I’ll put out the lights and follow you soon.’

Dropping the knitting into the basket she got up from the chair. The dog arose, stretched, stood there for a
moment and then followed her to the door and out into the hall. When the door had closed behind her Savill put his hands behind his head, closed his eyes and, deep in his contentment, leaned back in the warm, snow-wrapped silence.

From the library, Catherine crossed the hall to the stairs and started up. She moved slowly. She was tired and her back ached. As she reached the little landing where the stairs turned she saw that one of the window catches had sprung and that snow was coming in through the crack. She clicked her tongue in annoyance and tried to pull the window closed again. She couldn’t do it, though, and after a moment she turned and moved back to the head of the stairs. There she hovered briefly, wondering whether to go back down and tell John, or trust that he would notice it when he came by in a few minutes. She turned away; he would see it himself. But then the next second she was saying to herself, yes, she would tell him. Turning quickly, she moved to step down, and suddenly, in a split second, she realized that the dog was right before her, beneath her descending foot. The realization came too late. She snatched at the banister rail, missed it, and the next moment she was falling, crashing down the stairs in a flurrying, rolling blur of blue woollen skirts and white petticoats, coming to a halt at the foot of the stairs in the hall below.

She groaned lightly, sighingly, her breath catching as though she was trying to stifle screams welling up inside her. Pressing her hand to her side she moved her pained gaze to her husband as he bent to her, his grey eyes filled with sudden tears of shock and despair. She lay on the carpet, one leg twisted around, the foot raised and resting on the lower step of the stairs.

Savill had roughly pushed the dog away and now knelt beside her, hands moving impotently, wanting to touch her, to hold her, but afraid to do so. ‘Oh, God …’ His head moved from side to side in his distraction. He could see the waves of her growing pain reflected in her eyes, hear it in the sounds that came from her parted, drawn-back lips. ‘Catherine,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Catherine …’ And then he was straightening again, hurrying towards the rear of the house. He started to call up the back stairs for the housekeeper, Mrs Callow, then broke off, remembering that she hadn’t returned. Then, throwing back his head he shouted for the other servants. ‘Emmie! Dora! Come quickly, for God’s sake!’ A pause and then again: ‘Emmie! Dora! Florence!’ his tone falling as he added, ‘For God’s sake where are you all?’

Hurrying back to Catherine’s side he bent beside her.

‘John … help me up … please …’ Her words came stuttering in his ear and he gave a small cry of anguish. Then, her voice very low, she added: ‘Take me upstairs.’

He nodded, lifting her up, holding her swollen body to him and turned to make the laborious ascent of the main staircase, her head on his shoulder, her dark hair close to the grey of his own. As he got to the landing, panting and out of breath, he saw Emmie come hurrying towards him from the direction of the rear stairs. He could hear the tears of fear in her voice as she cried out to him, ‘Oh, sir – sir –!’ She wore slippers, and a dressing-gown over her nightdress.

‘Quick,’ he gasped out, cutting off her words, ‘open the bedroom door, Emmie. My wife has had an accident.’ And then Emmie was moving past him, towards the door of the master bedroom.

As he entered the bedroom Emmie moved from turning up the flame of the oil lamp and stepped forward
to turn back the bedclothes. Catherine’s hair had come undone and as Savill laid her down it flowed like jet across the pillow and lay stark against her cheek, emphasizing her pallor. Turning to the maid he said sharply, ‘Quick – get dressed and run to the stables and wake James. Tell him he must take the phaeton and go at once for Dr Kelsey.’ Then, as the girl hovered for a moment in panic he rapped out, ‘Now! Go now! Quickly!’