The Emerald Comb (19 page)

Soon, the phaeton pulled up outside a flat-fronted, Georgian house, set just outside the village. It looked much as Bartholomew remembered, although in need of some renovation and a new coat of whitewash.

‘Well, here we are. Welcome to Kingsley House,’ he said.

‘It’s perfect!’ Georgia pushed back the top of the phaeton and grinned in delight. Bartholomew lent her his arm, and she heaved herself down from the carriage. She climbed the three steps to the front door, which opened as she approached. Mrs Fowles stood in the doorway, round and smiling, holding her hands out in welcome.

‘Come in, Mrs St Clair, I’ll put the kettle on and fetch you some refreshments. Oh, the journey be so long from Brighton, you must be fair famished, and in your condition too! So brave you are, Mrs St Clair, to travel such a way. And Mr St Clair, why, how good it is to see you again after all these years! So lovely to have young people in the house again. Your poor father, God rest his soul, he were so quiet in those last years. Never went anywhere, never had no visitors, did nothing except read his books and exercise his horses. Such a quiet life he did lead, and us along with him. Ah, what am I prattling on for, and keeping you on the doorstep! Come in, do, the parlour is made ready for you and my old George will light the fire when he have done with the horses.’

‘No need for a fire yet, it’s a warm enough day,’ said Georgia, as she crossed the wood-panelled hallway and entered the parlour. ‘Tea, however, would be delightful.’ She smiled at Bartholomew as Mrs Fowles bustled away to make the tea. ‘What a lovely welcome. You’d never think she only had two days’ notice to make the house ready for us. Look, there’s even fresh flowers on the table!’

Bartholomew had to admit it, the room looked most inviting. Although the furniture was old and worn, it was clean and bright, and the housekeeper had done a good job of arranging it. If he spent a bit of money sprucing up the place and buying some new furniture, it could be an acceptable place to live. And certainly Georgia seemed to like it very much.

The funeral took place the following day, at St Michael’s church in the village. Bartholomew insisted that Georgia remain at the house, telling her a funeral was no place for a woman in her condition. There were not many in attendance – Bartholomew’s father had been something of a recluse in his later years. Besides, he’d outlived most of his closest friends. Bartholomew gazed around at the clutch of people who stood at the graveside as he cast the first handful of dirt onto his father’s coffin. Old George Fowles and his wife, the parson, the landlady of the local inn, a half dozen of his father’s acquaintances from the local gentry, who exchanged a few desultory words with Bartholomew. He recognised no one besides the Fowleses. Despite having been estranged from his father for the previous ten years, he found himself grieving for him. He wished he’d allowed Georgia to accompany him – he would have welcomed her sympathy during the funeral service.

He shook his head slightly. Well, what was done was done. There was no chance now to make amends, and no point in looking backwards. Especially not with so much to look forward to.

The funeral over, he shook hands with everyone and walked back through the village to Kingsley House, with George and Mrs Fowles following him, two steps behind.

Bartholomew wasted no time getting the house organised and fit for his wife and child to live in. He asked the Fowleses to engage some new servants – Mrs Fowles took on a kitchen maid and Old George a stable boy. Mrs Fowles would act as Cook. Polly joined them from Brighton the following week, and was collected from the station by Old George. She turned her nose up at the worn furnishings and muddy lanes. Bartholomew fleetingly wondered what Agnes would make of the house, but quickly banished the thought. Her baby was surely born by now, but she had not returned to the Brighton house. Well, they had no need of her. Perhaps she had made a new life for herself, back in her parents’ village. Good for her. He did not wish her ill, but he did not want her back in his life. She was nothing but trouble.

He made several trips to nearby Winchester by phaeton and train, to order new furniture including a crib for the baby, and to engage workmen to repair the rotting windows and replace missing roof slates. A carpenter came to fit a range of shelves, drawers and cupboards in the small room at the front of the house, which Bartholomew had chosen to become his study. There were open shelves on the top half, and carved-fronted cupboards below, with a line of drawers at the mid-height, and a fold-down desk. The whole thing was made of a rich burr walnut. He was pleased with the work. There was a place for everything, just as it should be. As he arranged his books and papers he wondered why he had ever moved away from the country. He felt at home here. It was, of course, where he had grown up. And when Georgia’s confinement was over, they would pay visits to all the good families of the neighbourhood, and become a true part of the county society.

Georgia kept to the house and garden at this time, and busied herself making plans to replant the flower beds and prune the neglected fruit trees. She was so huge Mrs Fowles was convinced she was having twins.

‘Mrs St Clair, I do think you should let the doctor see you, afore you goes into labour. If it is twins, ’tis better to know this before they start to come, so we can be prepared for them. Polly will need to sew a second set of baby clothes if ’tis twins.’

Georgia reluctantly agreed. She had not seen anyone outside of the house since she’d arrived, but Mrs Fowles was right. Better to be prepared.

When Dr Moore arrived, he was not the genial old man Bartholomew remembered from his boyhood. It was the old doctor’s son, plump, red-faced, short-sighted Jonathon Moore, whom Bartholomew had once played with, fishing in the nearby stream and setting traps for rabbits.

‘My father died last year,’ explained the young doctor. ‘I’ve taken over the practice. Good to see someone living in this house again, Mr St Clair.’

Bartholomew shook his hand. ‘Call me Bartholomew, Jonathon. Good to see you again. You always did want to follow in your father’s footsteps, as I recall.’

‘Indeed, and I have, though my eyesight’s a bit of a problem.’ Dr Moore pulled out a pair of the thickest glasses Bartholomew had ever seen, and perched them on his nose. ‘Still, I can make my diagnoses well enough by listening to my patients. And in your wife’s case, I shall need to go by feel to see whether she’s carrying twins or not.’ He coughed and shuffled his feet. ‘May I also offer my condolences on the loss of your father. I’m afraid I never attended him before his accident – he would have no one in the house except for your housekeeper. I called once or twice but sadly I was turned away.’

‘Thank you,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He always was rather stubborn. Now then, on to today’s patient, if you wouldn’t mind.’

Mrs Fowles showed the doctor up to Georgia’s room at the back of the house, where she lay on the bed in her shift, ready for him. Bartholomew paced up and down on the landing outside the door. He hoped it would not be twins. Although two sons were undoubtedly better than one, he feared for the additional difficulties a multiple birth would give Georgia. Childbirth was dangerous enough in any case.

When Dr Moore emerged blinking from the room a while later, he confirmed it would not be twins. ‘Without a doubt, there’s only the one child in there,’ he said. ‘One head, one rear, one pair of elbows is all I can feel. Going to be a bonny big baby, though. I reckon he’ll make his appearance within a week or two now. I’ll call on old Mrs Miller, who lives in the village, next door to the bakery. She’s the best midwife around these parts. Send for her the moment your wife feels anything start to happen.’

‘I will. Thanks, Jonathon.’

‘You’re welcome. You’ve got yourself a fine wife there, Bartholomew. Take good care of her, now.’ The doctor folded his glasses and tucked them into his waistcoat pocket. He groped for the banister at the top of the stairs, and carefully descended, nodding to Mrs Fowles on the way out.

It was only five days later when Georgia’s pains began. She had just finished her breakfast when she doubled over and groaned. A moment later she vomited.

‘My dear, are you ill?’ Bartholomew cried, jumping to his feet to ring the bell for Polly.

‘I think – I think it may have begun,’ Georgia gasped. ‘Oh – I think I should go upstairs…’ She hauled herself to her feet, clutching at her swollen belly.

‘I shall help you,’ Bartholomew said, hooking her arm around his neck. He gestured for Polly to support her on the other side. Another pain hit Georgia halfway up the stairs and the trio stood on the half-landing while she groaned through it. Bartholomew called for Mrs Fowles to send for the midwife.

At last they reached Georgia’s room, and laid her on her bed. Polly arranged a pile of pillows under her head, then turned, blushing, to Bartholomew.

‘Sir, it’s not my place and I know as she’s your wife but my ma always said a birthing-room is no place for a man…’

‘It’s all right, I shall leave as soon as she is comfortable. Georgia my dear, the midwife has been sent for. Shall I send Mrs Fowles in or…?’

‘Oh, please do send Mrs Fowles in,’ cut in Polly. ‘I ain’t never been at a birthing, and what if the baby comes quickly afore the midwife gets here?’

Georgia was gasping her way through another contraction, and only managed to nod her head at Bartholomew’s question.

‘Very well, I shall send her in.’ Bartholomew took his wife’s hand and kissed it. ‘Good luck, my sweet. Be strong.’ He turned and left the room, letting out a sigh as he closed the door behind him. Another few hours and he would be a father, God willing.

Mrs Fowles bustled past him up the stairs, carrying a pile of linens. ‘Mr St Clair, sir, it will be a busy household until the baby’s here, for sure. I am sorry I can’t bring you your coffee this morning. If you put your head into the kitchen the girl Libby will fetch you some.’

‘It’s quite all right, I shall manage. Has the midwife been sent for?’

‘Danny the stable boy is on his way now, sir. It’s a wild day out there, but she’ll not be long. I’ve known Jemima Miller all my life and no better midwife could you ever hope for. Your wife will be in safe hands.’

‘That’s a comfort. Now you attend to my wife, if you please.’

‘Right away, sir. Though I don’t know as I’ll be much use to her afore the midwife comes. Old George and I only ever had the one youngster, and I’ve not been at no other women’s birthings. I’ll do my best though, sir, be sure of that.’

Bartholomew nodded, and went down to his study. Outside it was raining heavily and a strong wind was wrestling with the trees. He lit the fire and opened up his pull-down desk, which the carpenter had recently completed. Might as well get on with some correspondence, he thought, while he waited for things to progress upstairs. He slid some heavy cream paper out of a drawer and sat down to write.

It was hard to concentrate, knowing what was going on up in Georgia’s room. Despite himself, he could not help but wonder about Agnes – how had she fared giving birth to her baby? His baby too, he supposed, not that he would ever bless it with his name. Well, she was gone now, and likely he would never set eyes on the child, or see her again. And that was for the best. It was a chapter of his life he was not proud of, and needed to put behind him.

A commotion in the hallway roused him from his thoughts, and he stepped out of the study. Libby the kitchen maid was standing, wringing her apron in her hands, while Danny the stable boy stood white-faced and dripping.

‘Like I says, Libby, Mrs Miller ain’t able to come. You got to tell the master… Oh! Sir, I di’n’t see you there, sorry sir, I’ll be on me way now, sir.’ He tugged at his sodden cap and backed out of the hallway, but not fast enough. Libby caught him by the ear.

‘Danny, you’ve to tell the master what you jest told me, now. He should hear it straight from you, not garbled through another set of ears and mouth.’

‘What is it, boy? Come on, out with it,’ said Bartholomew.

The boy was blushing now, and staring at the puddle of water around his feet. Bartholomew realised he’d probably never been inside the house before, at least, not beyond the kitchen and scullery.

‘Tell me what’s happened,’ he said, more gently.

The boy took a deep breath, then all his words came out in a rush. ‘It’s Mrs Miller, see. The midwife. She ain’t able to come. There be another baby coming today and that one be lying cross its ma’s body which ain’t an easy birth. Mrs Miller got to turn the child to make it come out right. Ain’t no one else can do that round here. And cos of that she ain’t able to come here to see to the mistress.’

‘I see. And is there another midwife in the village?’

‘Mrs Miller is the only one,’ answered Libby.

‘Danny, you must fetch Dr Moore from Winchester. Saddle up the bay and ride as fast as you can!’

‘Right ho, Mr St Clair, sir.’ Danny tugged at his cap again, turned and ran out via the kitchen door.

‘Libby, go upstairs and call Mrs Fowles out. Tell her what Danny said, and that she and Polly must cope alone. Don’t let my wife hear.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Libby began to run up the stairs.

‘Oh, and Libby?’

She stopped and turned.

‘Do you have any experience of birthing?’

‘No, sir. I’m second youngest of my ma’s. Only ever seen lambs being born. Ewes make it look easy, but I know it ain’t really.’

‘Well, you might have to help, if Mrs Fowles requires it.’

A howl of pain from upstairs sent Libby scurrying up. Bartholomew stood helplessly in the hallway. He prayed that Georgia and the baby would be all right. But it was her first child, and he knew that a woman’s first experience of childbirth was usually the hardest. And this was a big baby, according to Jonathon Moore. He thought of Georgia’s slim, almost boyish hips and shuddered.

Time passed agonisingly slowly, while Bartholomew paced the hallway, glancing occasionally at the stairs. Libby ran up and down a few times fetching and carrying, but each time she carefully avoided catching his eye. Well, there was nothing he could do, and any news, good or bad, would reach him eventually. He resolved to return to his study and deal with some correspondence.