The Emerald Comb (14 page)

Bartholomew retired to the drawing room with Henry Harding, where he paced up and down. He heard the front door open as Polly returned with Dr Stockett, and again as Holland and Mrs Oliphant left to take their cab. Harding kept topping up Bartholomew’s brandy glass.

‘Don’t fret, man. Caroline lost a couple like this, before producing Henry Junior. Georgia’ll be right as rain in a couple of weeks, mark my words. And she’ll be pregnant again in no time, if you do your job right, of course.’

‘I should go up, to see her…’

‘No, leave this to the doctor and that lady’s maid of hers. It’s no place for a husband. There’s nothing you can do, anyway.’

The door opened and Caroline Harding entered, looking drawn and worried. ‘The doctor says there is no hope for the baby. I am so sorry, Bartholomew.’

‘Is Georgia all right?’

‘As well as can be expected. Her maid is doing a good job of calming and comforting her. I came downstairs because there’s nothing more I can do.’

‘Thank you. You have been very kind. I will ring for Polly to fetch you some refreshments.’ Bartholomew crossed the room to the fireplace to pull on the bell-cord.

‘No, don’t trouble your servants.’ Caroline glanced at her husband, who nodded.

‘If you don’t mind, old chap, I think Caroline and I will take our leave now. We are only getting in the way, here. But if there is anything we can do, please call on us.’ Henry Harding patted Bartholomew on the shoulder as he headed towards the door. ‘We can show ourselves out.’

Upstairs, Georgia was lying on her bed, covered by a light blanket, while Agnes sat at her side holding her hand. Dr Stockett was washing his hands.

‘Well, as I said, keep to your bed for the next few days. When the bleeding stops you’ll feel better. If it doesn’t stop in a week, call me again. In a month you’ll be ready to try to conceive again.’

He dried his hands on a towel and picked up his bag. ‘Don’t fret, Mrs St Clair. That won’t do you any good. Plenty of women miscarry their first pregnancy and then go on to have half a dozen healthy children. I’ll see myself out.’

Agnes tightened her lips. Well, he’d better see himself out, because she had no intention of letting go of Georgia’s hand to see him out. The poor girl. She had taken it very hard, and was still in a lot of pain. Agnes felt a brief pang of guilt.
She’d
caused this, with her potion. She hadn’t wanted to hurt Georgia. But she couldn’t have allowed the pregnancy to continue. A baby would spoil things. It was better this way.

When the doctor had gone, Georgia sobbed. Agnes passed her a handkerchief, and pressed her hand.

‘Ma’am, you heard what the doctor said. Try not to cry too much. Grieve a little for the lost baby but only a little, for it was only a very young soul that was lost. Not like a real child.’ How would Georgia cope with losing a live child, one of two or three or ten years old? Agnes considered how her mother had lost four of her children before they reached their fifth birthdays. As the eldest, she could remember every one of those heart-breaking funerals for her tiny brothers and sisters. Each time her mother had cried quietly as the coffin was lowered into the earth, then she’d gone home, taken off her good Sunday clothes and got straight back to work.

‘I so wanted to give Bartholomew a child,’ sobbed Georgia. ‘Now he’ll think I have failed him as a wife. He might not want me any more.’

Agnes turned away, and busied herself folding the towel the doctor had used. ‘Come now, ma’am. It’s not your fault, and I don’t believe your husband will think that it is.’

‘Why has he not come up to see how I am? I believe he doesn’t care!’

‘A woman’s sickbed is not the place for a husband. That’s why he hasn’t come up. He will no doubt call on you tomorrow, when the worst is over.’

Georgia sniffed, and wiped at her eyes with the handkerchief. ‘Oh, Agnes. You are my true friend. Don’t leave me tonight. Sleep with me, here in my room, please? I will feel so much better if you are by my side all night.’

‘Well, ma’am, I…’

‘Don’t say no, Agnes! Please, stay with me. If I had a mother or a sister, perhaps I would manage, but I have only you. Say you’ll stay!’ She pushed herself up onto her elbow and clutched at Agnes’s hands.

‘Very well, ma’am. I will stay with you tonight. I shall call Polly to make up a down-bed upon the floor.’

Georgia clutched even more tightly at Agnes’s hands, stopping her from reaching for the bell-cord. ‘No, lie beside me in my bed. There is plenty of space, look, I shall move over. Then I need not let go of your hand all night. It will be such a comfort.’

Agnes suppressed a sigh. ‘As you wish, ma’am. Let me go just for a moment, so I can prepare myself for sleep.’

‘All right, but just for two minutes. Be quick as you can!’

Agnes left Georgia to fetch herself a nightdress from her own room. She was about to go up the stairs to the top floor when a quiet cough made her turn. It was Mr St Clair. He gestured to her to go on up, and followed her.

‘Is my wife feeling better?’ he asked, when they were out of earshot of Georgia’s room.

‘A little, sir. But it will take time for her to recover completely.’

‘As I thought.’ He took a step closer to her. ‘Lie with me tonight. I feel the loss of the baby too. You will be a comfort to me.’ He held her face and kissed her, deeply.

She kissed him back, and then pulled herself away. ‘Sir, I cannot. Not tonight. Mrs St Clair has asked me to stay in her room tonight.’

‘You are turning me down, for her?’

Every fibre of Agnes’s being wanted him – her skin tingled at his touch and as always, his closeness made her feel more alive than she’d ever been. But she backed away from him, and put a hand against his chest to keep him away. She needed to make amends for what she’d done to Georgia.

‘Her need for comfort, sir, is greater than yours this evening. I must do my duty to my mistress.’ She picked up the items she needed from the room and turned on her heel, leaving him standing there alone.

Ten months had passed since Georgia’s miscarriage. Agnes and Georgia were out, enjoying the spring air, and walking through the Old Steine gardens, heading towards the sea. It was a fresh, pleasant day and Agnes was enjoying the exercise. They had done a little shopping and she was carrying the purchases. Passing the bandstand, she noticed that a band was just setting up ready to play.

‘Ma’am, would you like to stay and listen a while?’ she asked, hoping that the answer would be yes. She wanted to stay out, mingling with the people, enjoying the mild sunshine and fresh air.

‘No. I am becoming tired,’ replied Georgia. ‘I think we have had enough exercise for one day. Perhaps tomorrow, we could return, or maybe Bartholomew will bring me.’

Agnes pursed her lips. Maybe he would bring you, she thought. He’d never bring me. She forced a smile to her face. ‘Very well, ma’am. It has been a tiring day. Let’s go back before the crowds build up.’

‘Yes, let’s. But if there’s a quiet bench, let’s sit a while first. There is…something I would like to talk to you about.’

Agnes paled, imagining the worst. Did Georgia suspect something? But they were so discreet, always making sure Georgia was tucked up in bed, sleeping, before they crept to the same room. True, recently they’d been using Bartholomew’s more comfortable room rather than going up to Agnes’s, but even his room was at the other end of the corridor from his wife’s, so surely she wouldn’t hear anything?

‘There’s a seat over there, beneath that tree. Will that do?’ Agnes led the way. Might as well get this over with. The bench sat in dappled shade beneath an ornamental cherry tree, laden with blossom. She brushed some fallen petals off the seat and helped Georgia sit down. She did look tired. And a little pale. Surely she wasn’t still grieving for the miscarried baby, after so many months?

Georgia took Agnes’s hand in hers, and regarded her for a moment. Agnes kept her expression bland and hoped she was not giving anything away in her eyes.

‘You are such a good maid, no, more than a maid. A friend. You have worked for me – how long, now?’

‘Must be four or five years now, ma’am. Since you were a young lady of fourteen.’

‘But you worked in our house before then, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, since I was thirteen, and you were a child of five summers. I was a housemaid to start with. Then your father, God rest his soul, asked me to act as your lady’s maid.’

‘He made an excellent choice. You’ve been more like a companion than a maid.’ Georgia sighed. ‘I need to ask you, as my dearest friend, to keep a secret for me. Will you do that?’

Agnes nodded. ‘Of course, ma’am.’

Georgia looked down at her hand holding Agnes’s, and blushed slightly. ‘The thing is, I…I’m with child, again. But I don’t want to tell Bartholomew, yet. He was so upset last time, when I lost the baby. I couldn’t bear for him to go through all that again…’

Agnes’s eyes widened, then she smiled and squeezed Georgia’s hand. ‘But ma’am, this is good news! Many women lose their first baby. My ma said the body must practise first before it can grow a baby properly. Don’t you fret about this one.’

‘I have been feeling sick again. Would you make me that potion to prevent it, as before?’

‘Of course I will, ma’am. I shall make some right away as soon as we are back home. I have my herbalist’s box and I think Mrs Simmonds has some ginger in the kitchen.’ Agnes glanced at Georgia. Did she want the
same
potion as before? Or the
proper
potion to stop sickness? And could she bring herself to give it to Georgia again, now that she’d seen the pain and grief it had caused?

Georgia reached over and hugged Agnes. ‘Thank you. What would I do without you? But we must keep this secret from Bartholomew for as long as is possible.’

‘He will notice, when your waist starts to expand.’

‘I shall wear looser clothes. I shall tell him when he notices and not before. Promise me you won’t give me away?’

‘Of course I won’t, ma’am.’

Georgia kissed her on the cheek. ‘It is such a comfort to me to know I can always trust you, dear Aggie.’

Agnes looked away. She liked Georgia, despite the girl being childish and silly at times. If only she wasn’t married to Mr St Clair. But, if she wasn’t, then Agnes herself would not have met him either.

The potion worked more quickly this time. Agnes made a large batch, but it was only a week later that Georgia came knocking on her bedroom door at dawn one morning, sobbing and clutching a blood-stained nightgown. Agnes took the girl back to her own bedchamber and made her comfortable.

‘Don’t tell Bartholomew,’ Georgia begged. ‘Make up some story, that I have a fever or the like. Oh, please, don’t tell him the truth, whatever you do.’

‘I won’t, ma’am. I shall say you have a headache and must not be disturbed. But the doctor must know the real reason, of course…’

‘No! Don’t call the doctor. I do not want to see a doctor. You can nurse me, can you not? I have been through this before – there is not much the doctor can do in any case.’ Georgia clutched at the bed sheets and pulled them up to her chin, her brown eyes huge and scared. She looked like a frightened doe. Once again, Agnes felt a pang of grief for her mistress and the trauma she was going through. But it had to be done.

‘Very well, ma’am. If you insist.’ Agnes poured her a glass of water and set it on the bedside table. ‘I will tell your husband that you are unwell when he comes down for breakfast. Sleep now. I will bring you some laudanum for the pain.’

My dear Barty, you are wondering, are you not, how I can tell the tale of Georgia and Agnes conniving to keep this second pregnancy and its loss a secret from me. Well, the truth is that Agnes’s loyalties lay principally with me during this time, and not with her mistress. She told me, that same morning, what had happened. I had not known until then that my wife was with child. But while I sat drinking coffee and eating kippers with toast, Agnes perched on a stool beside me and told me of the chat on the Old Steine gardens bench. She told me too of the anti-sickness potion she gave Georgia, though it is my own, much later supposition, that the potion contained more than just ginger, and may have been the cause of the two miscarriages.

Poor sweet Georgia. So trusting of Agnes, that scheming witch. Though back in 1838, as you know, I was still completely besotted with Agnes. It was to be a considerable time yet before I saw her true nature.

There was a third pregnancy, and a third miscarriage, less than a year later. This one ruined our Christmas celebrations, as Georgia kept once more to her room, recovering. It too was kept secret from me by Georgia, but told to me by Agnes. And this time, did I see a glint of triumph in her eye as she told me? Was there a satisfied air about her, knowing of her power over both master and mistress? Our lives were in her hands. She had destroyed three of our potential children.

Or perhaps I am now super-imposing those thoughts on my memories, given my knowledge of the terrible events that were to come later.

I must rest a while now, and resume writing this manuscript when I feel a little stronger. When I resume it, we will skip forward a little, to the autumn of 1840. We had stayed living primarily in Brighton throughout this period, while I took occasional short business trips to London. My finances were at last in order, thanks to Georgia’s money. Charles Holland was in decline. I did not expect him to last another winter. But it was not his health, or Georgia’s failed pregnancies, that were my chief concern in the final quarter of 1840. No, it was the news, whispered to me one night while I partook of the pleasures of Agnes’s body, that our precautions had failed, and that Agnes was with child.

Chapter Ten: Hampshire, May 2013

On the morning after the storm the full extent of the damage was evident. The tree, thankfully, had fallen across the garden rather than directly onto the house. Just that one lower branch had gone through the kitchen window, and another had caught on the guttering and brought it down. The tree had flattened part of the fence on the left hand side of our garden, and its uppermost branches were entangled in next-door’s rotary washing line – one of the houses in Stables Close. Its roots, typically for a beech tree, had been wide and shallow. They had toppled the old garden wall: about ten metres of it behind the tree had fallen and lay crumbling across the lawn and driveway. The kids’ trampoline was a write-off; the tree trunk had fallen directly across it and had crushed it flat.