The Emerald Comb (20 page)

As he reached for the study’s doorknob the doorbell rang. He looked around for a servant to open the door, but of course they were all busy upstairs. It was still pouring with rain so whoever the visitor was would be drenched. He crossed the hall again and opened the door.

‘Can’t you afford servants now, Mr St Clair? Or are they all too lazy? Good job I’m back. I’ll soon set them in order.’ A very wet, black-cloaked woman pushed past him into the house, and stood, dripping, in the middle of the hall. She threw back the hood of her cloak.

‘Agnes!’

‘Glad to see you remember who I am. Didn’t remember to tell me you’d moved though, did you? I had to call at old Mr Holland’s house in Brighton. He told me where to find you. You said I’d be welcome back, and there’d always be a job for me. So, here I am.’ She bobbed a mock curtsey. ‘By train, farmer’s cart and Shanks’s pony, if you’re interested.’

Bartholomew opened his mouth to speak but at that moment, an animal-like wail came from upstairs. Agnes stared at him, wide-eyed. ‘Is that the mistress? She sounds like… Oh! Is she in labour?’

‘She is, yes. And the midwife is engaged elsewhere.’

‘How long has she been screaming like that?’ asked Agnes, as she divested herself of her cloak and dumped it in a sodden pile on a chair. Her wet hair clung to her face, accentuating her fine cheekbones.

Bartholomew glanced at the hallway clock. ‘I don’t know – two or three hours, perhaps?’

‘It’s not going well, then. I’ll go up. I’ve helped at many a birth including four of my ma’s.’ She headed towards the stairs, but stopped, her foot on the first step, and glanced back at him, her green eyes proud. ‘It’s a boy, by the way.’

‘A boy? But…how do you know?’

‘Not hers. My child. Your first-born son.’ She ran up the stairs as another scream shook the house.

Bartholomew returned to his study and sat down heavily. She was back. His heart beat with excitement at having been in her presence. She was as irresistible as ever.

Agnes followed the moans until she found Georgia’s room on the first floor. A mousy young maid came out carrying an empty bucket as she approached, and scurried past her, giving her only a brief backwards glance. She pushed open the door.

Georgia was lying on the bed, her face almost hidden by her huge swollen belly. An elderly woman with a kind, round face was dabbing at her face with a damp cloth, while Polly, whom Agnes recognised from the Brighton house, was holding her hand and murmuring words of comfort. Agnes tutted. There was no one attending to the business end. She stepped forward.

‘Hello, Mrs St Clair.’

Georgia groaned, gasped and opened her eyes. ‘Aggie? Is it you? Am I dreaming?’

‘No, ma’am. It’s me. I have returned as I said I would. And just in time, by the looks of things.’

‘Who are you, young lady?’ asked the older woman. ‘Are you a midwife?’

‘I have some experience of birthing,’ Agnes replied, as she rolled up her sleeves. ‘My name is Agnes Cutter.’

‘I knows her, Mrs Fowles,’ said Polly. ‘She were the mistress’s lady’s maid afore she upped and left her last year.’

‘Well, whoever she is, if she knows how to birth a baby she’s welcome here,’ said Mrs Fowles.

Agnes gave her a tight smile. ‘Just going to have a look below and see how you’re getting on,’ she said, pushing Georgia’s nightdress up over her bent knees.

‘Must you go looking down there?’ asked Mrs Fowles. ‘Can’t the poor soul keep her dignity?’

‘Down there’s where the baby will come out,’ said Agnes. ‘If I don’t look how will I know how close the baby is? Now, ma’am, this won’t hurt.’ She pushed her fingers inside Georgia. Only two inches dilated. The girl had a way to go yet. She swept her finger round inside, the way her mother had taught her. That should speed things up a little.

Georgia gasped, then groaned as another contraction hit.

‘Ma’am, try not to cry so loud. Think about your breathing, steady in, just a little, puff it out. The harder you think on your breathing the easier the pain.’

‘Is the baby nearly come yet?’ asked Polly.

‘It’ll be a little longer,’ replied Agnes. ‘Fetch me some tea. I’ve had a long journey. And some bread and jam.’

Polly snorted. ‘Back to boss us around I see. I takes my orders from the master, the mistress and Mrs Fowles only.’

Mrs Fowles looked up. ‘Fetch the poor woman some tea like she asked, Polly. She’s here in place of the midwife, and very grateful for that we all are, I’m sure.’

Polly turned on her heel and flounced out of the room without another word.

Georgia smiled weakly at Agnes, her contraction now subsided. ‘She’s been doing your job, while you were away. Oh Aggie, I am so glad you are back. What took you so long – you said it’d only be a fortnight, and you promised me!’

‘My mother was ill for such a long time,’ Agnes sighed. ‘But ma’am, let’s not speak of it. It is past, and I am here now with you, and will stay with you. But for now, we have more important matters at hand.’

‘Your mother, of course. Did she recover?’

‘Yes, she is quite well now.’ Agnes turned her head away for fear Georgia might guess there was a bigger reason why she had stayed away so long.

‘Well, I will leave you to it,’ said Mrs Fowles. ‘I shall bring in your tea in a moment, then I shall wait outside the door if you need more assistance.’ She rose stiffly and left the room.

Agnes sat in the chair vacated by the old woman, and took over the task of sponging Georgia’s forehead and holding her hand.

‘I am so
very
glad you are back,’ said Georgia again.

A couple of hours later, Georgia was making progress. Agnes checked her a couple of times. ‘Won’t be long now, ma’am, before your body wants to push the baby out.’

‘How will I know when that is?’

‘You’ll know it, ma’am. There is no mistaking that feeling.’

Georgia squeezed her hand. ‘You are so wise, Aggie. You know so much about childbirth – it’s almost as though you’ve been through it yourself.’

‘I – I was with my ma through four of hers. She is midwife in her village, and I have helped her with many other women’s babies.’

‘I am glad to hear it. Though I shall not…oh, oh, I think…it is coming, it is coming, ohhh!’

‘Squeeze my hand. Push, ma’am. Push.’

‘I am…ohhh!’

‘That’s good. Keep pushing with the pain. And now let me look…yes – I can see the top of the baby’s head…’

Minutes later, the baby was born. Agnes quickly cut the cord with a kitchen knife Mrs Fowles brought in, tied it with a piece of string, and expertly swaddled the baby in a linen towel. She handed it to Georgia. The baby mewled and turned its head towards its mother.

‘You have a healthy son, ma’am,’ said Agnes, as Georgia took the baby.

Agnes remembered so clearly her mother passing over her own baby, just a few short weeks earlier. How proud she had felt! How strong the bond of love between mother and son had felt, right from the start. At the sound of this new baby’s cry, her breasts began prickling. She’d weaned her son off her and onto a wet-nurse before returning to the St Clairs’, but she was still producing milk. She hoped the wads of cotton tucked into her chemise would soak it up so she wouldn’t show wet patches on her dress. How she missed him already. But she must be strong. There would eventually be a future for her and her son, here with Mr St Clair, if only she played her cards right. Meanwhile she needed to bide her time and await her chance.

‘Aggie, call my husband in, do. He must meet his first-born son!’

‘In a moment, ma’am. When the afterbirth has come and I have cleaned you up a little. You wouldn’t want Mr St Clair seeing you quite like this, I shouldn’t think.’ Agnes went to the door and called in Mrs Fowles and Polly. Might as well have some help now.

‘You’re right, as always, Aggie. Here, take the baby from me, please. Put him down somewhere. I fear I am too tired to hold him now.’

Agnes took the newborn and placed him beside Georgia on the bed, where he could smell his mother and feel her warmth. Strange that Georgia did not want to hold him. She remembered when her own son was born, she had not wanted to put him down at all. She had wanted the soft warm feel of him, the milky smell, the perfection of his tiny fingers and toes to fill her senses at all times. Her ma had to prise him away from her to allow her to sleep.

Later, Agnes washed her hands in a basin of fresh water brought by Polly and went downstairs, leaving Georgia resting, her baby sleeping beside her. He was not as handsome as her own son, she thought. His head looked too flattened, no doubt from being squeezed out through Georgia’s narrow hips. Still, he was a good weight and looked healthy.

She tapped on the door of the study, and without waiting for an answer, opened the door.

‘Sir, you have a healthy son.’

‘And my wife?’

‘She is well. She would like you to go up, now.’

‘Thank you.’ He paused at the door, and turned back towards her, his eyes shining. ‘Thank you, Agnes,’ he said, again.

Agnes followed him up the stairs and into Georgia’s room. She watched as he fell to his knees beside the bed and clutched at his wife’s hand, kissing it, too overcome to say anything. She watched as he picked up the child, cradled it gently, stroked its head and gasped at the perfection of its tiny features. She imagined how it would feel to see him bestow the same attentions on her own son; how perfect life would then be, if he loved her son the way he loved this one.

Bartholomew looked at Georgia. ‘What shall we call him?’

She smiled. ‘After you, I had thought. Bartholomew junior.’

‘Very well. Welcome to the world, little Bartholomew.’ He bent his head and placed a kiss on the infant’s forehead.

Agnes felt emotion rise up and threaten to choke her. Blackness clouded her sight and she found it difficult to breathe. She stumbled out of the room and pulled the door closed behind her, then leaned back on it, breathing heavily.

‘Are you well?’ Mrs Fowles was peering at her, a concerned expression on her face.

‘Just a little tired. I shall go and sit downstairs in the morning room. Perhaps you can send your kitchen girl to me with a cup of tea.’

Mrs Fowles blinked. ‘Libby’s in the kitchen. You can ask her for whatever you need. Shall you be staying here tonight?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well I must get Polly to make a room ready for you. Where is your trunk?’

‘At the railway station in Basingstoke. Perhaps Mr St Clair will send a man to fetch it.’

‘Perhaps he will. I will leave that for you to arrange.’ Mrs Fowles pushed past her and into Georgia’s room. As she entered, Bartholomew came out. His eyes were bright.

‘Agnes! A boy! My little Bartholomew!’

‘Yes, sir. I am very pleased for you.’

‘This calls for a celebration. I think I would like a brandy. Care to join me?’

‘No, thank you.’ She would not raise a glass to this baby’s health.

‘Oh. Very well, then.’ He began to descend the stairs, then stopped, and turned back to her. ‘I forgot – in all the excitement, I didn’t inquire – what name did you give your son?’

‘Bartholomew, sir. After his father.’ She watched as the words hit him like a fist. He pulled himself upright as if to absorb the blow, nodded curtly and continued on his way down the stairs.

Barty, my son. I have told you now the story of your birth and your naming. Two mothers; two babies born in the same month and given the same name; and one man, caught in the middle, by his own doing. I wanted to ignore Agnes’s son, but I knew at that moment, once she had told me the child’s name, that I would not be able to ignore the child completely. He was as much mine as the tiny mite Georgia was cradling upstairs. I would need to provide for him, one way or another. And with Agnes back in my household, things would no doubt change. Would I be able to resist her and stay true to my wife as I had promised myself? Should I send her away again? How would Georgia react? And could I do such a thing, after she had been such a help during the birth, indeed, surely, sent to us by God himself in our moment of need.

It was too much for me to contemplate right then. I went into my study and drowned my problems in brandy.

Chapter Fourteen: Hampshire, May 2013

Simon had a grown-up daughter? One he didn’t know about until last week? I gasped.

But something didn’t make sense. ‘Simon, if you haven’t heard from Sarah for twenty years, how do you know this?’

‘I haven’t heard from Sarah. But I’ve heard from her daughter.
My
daughter, I suppose I should say. Her name’s Amy. She tracked me down via my university’s alumni society and LinkedIn.’

‘So, what does she want?’ Simon stared hard at me. I kicked myself. That hadn’t come out quite as I intended. ‘I mean, why contact you now?’

‘She lost her mum. Sarah died in a road accident last year. She’d never told Amy anything about me other than that I’d been at the same university as her, and my name. But when Sarah died, Amy decided she wanted to find me.’

‘Oh, how awful about Sarah. That must be hard on the girl. Have you met her?’

‘Not yet. She’s written to me – emails and a couple of letters. She wants to meet.’

Simon’s daughter. Did that make her my stepdaughter? Suddenly I realised this girl, this Amy, was half-sister to Lewis, Lauren and Thomas. They would have to be told. I looked up at Simon. He looked haunted and drawn. I guessed the strain of finding out he had a grown-up daughter had been difficult to come to terms with. And probably he’d worried and fretted about how I’d take it. I wasn’t sure myself, yet, how I was taking it. I expected I’d need a few walks alone on Irish Hill to think it all through.

‘How do you feel about it?’ I asked him.

He shook his head. ‘To tell the truth, I’m not sure yet. It doesn’t seem real.’

A horrible thought struck me. ‘Simon, it may sound stupid, but are you sure it is real? I mean, how do you know she really is your daughter? You’ve only got her word for it, she could be some kind of…’

‘She’s telling the truth. The dates work out. And in any case, why would someone make up something like this? It’s not like I’m rich, or a celebrity or anything. There’s nothing to gain by being my daughter.’