The Emerald Comb (22 page)

‘Too much for me?’ He laughed. ‘I’m perfectly capable of doing a bit of spadework, young lady. Don’t be writing me off just yet. I’ve worn my old clothes specially.’

I hugged him. ‘Thanks, Dad. Shall we go down? Cup of tea before you start?’

‘Thought you’d never ask. Yes, please!’

We went down where Simon already had the kettle on. Mum was poking around in the kitchen cupboards.

‘I’d put your pans in that one, if I were you. Nearer the stove. And your plates over there. Do you want me to sort it out for you?’ Mum’s eyes gleamed. She liked nothing better than to organise a kitchen.

‘No, thanks, Mum. If we move things around now I’ll never find them. I’ve only just got used to where everything is now.’ Mum’s face fell. I hugged her. ‘But you know what, if you want to make yourself useful, I could do with a hand to sort out the linen cupboard. Everything’s just piled in there topsy-turvy at the moment and I haven’t even managed to find a set of sheets for your bed tonight.’

Mum rubbed her hands in glee. ‘I’d love to help. Right then, it’s upstairs isn’t it?’

‘To the left of the bathroom. I’ll bring your tea up.’ I grinned as she skipped happily out of the kitchen and upstairs.

‘Right then, that’ll keep Christine out of mischief. Let’s get this soil shifted, shall we?’ said Dad to Simon. The two men went out to begin work, while I got started on making lunch.

By the end of the afternoon, the hole was filled, the trampoline had been removed, the bricks were stacked tidily, my linen cupboard was neatly organised, and my parents were sitting exhausted but happy on a pair of garden chairs in the sunshine, watching the kids kick a football around the reclaimed lawn.

‘Can’t help but wonder who those bones belonged to,’ said Dad.

‘Mmm, me too,’ I said, as I handed them a cup of tea each and put a plate of flapjacks on the garden table.

‘Must be some connection with people who lived here, I suppose. Can’t imagine some stranger coming in off the street and burying a body in a random back garden.’ Dad laughed at his own joke.

‘There’ll be no way of finding out who it was,’ said Simon.

Dad frowned. ‘Well, if or when your policeman finds out the age of the bones, we could try to research likely candidates. Maybe there’s some old newspaper report of a missing person? Actually, Katie’ – he leaned forward in his chair, wagging a finger; I recognised the signs of a plan brewing – ‘let me know as soon as you have the age of the bones. I’d love to have a go at researching who it might have been.’

‘Will do, Dad.’ I grinned. I’d already thought I’d like to try to do that research as well. It’d be great to have someone to help, and discuss it all with – someone who was actually interested in it, unlike Simon.

‘What will you plant in that gap?’ asked Mum, changing the subject. She pointed to where the tree had been. ‘A nice rhododendron or a camellia, perhaps? Something to add colour?’

‘Yes, something like that, I expect.’ If Dad and I did manage to find out who had been buried here, that would help me decide what to plant, as a kind of memorial. I didn’t feel I could explain that to Mum.

‘As long as it’s not another tree,’ said Simon. ‘I dread to think what damage that beech did to the house’s foundations. In some ways I’m glad it fell. Although I didn’t much like what was hidden at its roots.’

‘I wonder what other secrets the house is hiding?’ said Dad, gazing up at the attic windows.

Mum shuddered. ‘Stop it, John. One skeleton was enough. More than enough!’

‘What’s in the loft? Above the second floor bedrooms? There is a hatch, isn’t there?’ asked Dad.

‘There is, but it’s sealed shut. Not been opened for years, by the looks of things. To tell the truth, we’ve not had time to investigate it yet.’ Simon shook his head. ‘That’s a job for another day, I think.’

Chapter Fifteen: Hampshire, May 1841

Bartholomew strode into the house in his riding boots. It was a fine morning, sunny but windy, and he’d taken the opportunity to go for a gallop across the fields. He felt invigorated. He should join the local hunt, he supposed, and get to know the local gentry. He called for Polly to bring some tea to the morning room, where he flung open the French doors at the back of the house. There was an iron bench set against the wall. He sat down on it, and tugged off his boots. Out of the wind, the day was a warm one, and promised to become hotter later on.

Polly arrived with a tray of tea, and a salver holding the morning mail. She brought out a small table to put it on, beside him.

‘Will the mistress be joining you?’ she asked. ‘I can bring a chair outside if needed.’

‘I shouldn’t think so,’ he replied. ‘Agnes will ring for you to take tea upstairs if my wife requires it. Thank you, that will be all.’

Polly curtsied and scurried back inside.

Bartholomew picked up his tea cup and sipped it thoughtfully. He was worried. It had been two months since the baby’s birth and still Georgia had not left her bed. To his limited knowledge, the usual lying-in period after a birth was around two to four weeks. But Georgia would see no one except Agnes and himself. Mrs Fowles was banished from the room, as was Polly. A wet-nurse from the village had been employed. Mary Moulsford trotted up to the house several times a day, and sat in the nursery feeding Bartholomew Junior, brought to her by Agnes. After he’d been fed, Agnes took the baby to see his mother for a few minutes, if Georgia was feeling up to it.

He wondered if he should send for Dr Moore to check her over. But although the doctor had seen Georgia once, a day after the birth, she had refused to allow him into her room since then. Agnes could take good care of her, she’d said. But maybe Bartholomew should call the doctor anyway, and insist that she saw him? There was definitely something wrong.

He put down his tea cup and picked up the post. There were two letters. The first was addressed in his London agent’s familiar handwriting. Probably the report on his properties and investments as he’d asked. He shuffled it behind the other letter. This envelope was edged with black.

Bartholomew frowned as he broke the seal. Black borders meant bad news, but he couldn’t imagine who it could be. Since his father died he had no other living relatives. He flicked open the single sheet of paper inside and read it quickly.

The letter was from a Brighton solicitor, concerning the estate of Charles Holland. Georgia’s uncle had finally breathed his last, after clinging to life by his fingernails these last couple of years. Georgia was his heir, Bartholomew believed. So there’d be more money coming their way, plus the house in Brighton. He drank the last of his tea and stood up, tucking the letter into his waistcoat pocket. Time to go and break the news to Georgia.

Upstairs, Agnes was sitting sewing in an armchair, while Georgia lay on her bed staring out of the window. A small flask of medicine was on the bedside table – something Agnes had concocted for her mistress, no doubt. Agnes got up as soon as he walked in.

‘Sir, your son is with the wet-nurse in the nursery at present,’ she said.

‘That’s all right. I’ve come to see my wife. Please, continue with your work.’ She nodded and sat down again, bending her glossy blonde head over her work. He remembered how it felt to bury his face in that hair, and kiss that slender white neck.

‘Bartholomew?’ Georgia heaved herself into a sitting position. He plumped the pillows behind her and kissed her forehead.

‘Yes, my love?’

‘Will you read to me? Perhaps something from Longfellow’s collection?’ She gestured to a book which lay open, face down, on the bedside table.

It was the perfect way to put off telling her the bad news. He picked up the book and began. After a minute or two he glanced up. Georgia appeared to be barely listening. She was picking at a loose thread on her nightdress sleeve. Agnes looked up from her sewing and smiled sweetly. She, at least, seemed to be enjoying it. He wondered what it must be like to be illiterate like her. A life without books or letters was not one he would enjoy.

There was a tap on the door. Agnes put down her sewing and went out, returning a moment later with the baby in her arms, cooing and clucking over him, and dabbing dribbles of milk from his face with a muslin cloth.

‘Ma’am, the wet-nurse has gone to her own family now. Will you hold your son for a while, perhaps?’ asked Agnes.

‘Oh Aggie, I am so tired, I fear I might drop him.’ Georgia yawned, and pulled her covers up to her neck.

‘Let me take him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Hello Barty, my handsome little chap. Do you have a smile for your papa, then? Or one for your mama?’ He held the child near to Georgia so she could look upon his face.

She turned her back, and closed her eyes as if to sleep.

He looked questioningly at Agnes, who stepped forward to take the baby again, and place him in a cradle. ‘She is always like this,’ she whispered.

‘It’s not right,’ he whispered back. Louder, he spoke to Georgia. ‘My love, there is news. Rouse yourself please, you must see this.’

Georgia sighed and twisted her head to regard him with her sad, lifeless eyes. He pulled out the letter to show her, but she waved it away.

‘I am too tired to read it. Please, just tell me what it says.’

‘It is your uncle. I’m afraid to say…’

‘Has he died?’

‘Yes, love. Three days ago. I am so sorry.’ He took her hand and kissed it.

She sighed once more and turned back onto her pillow. ‘It’s of no importance. He never cared for me.’

‘I suppose you will inherit his fortune – you are his only living relative as I understand it?’

‘I am, but no. He will not leave the money to me. He told me many times I would get nothing from him; only my father’s money.’

‘Then who?’

‘Mrs Oliphant, I suppose. They were very close.’

Bartholomew suppressed a gasp. That disapproving old busybody! Who would have thought it?

‘The funeral is to be on Thursday,’ he told her. ‘Are you well enough to travel to Brighton?’

‘I cannot leave my bed, Bartholomew. I shall not attend.’ She took a sip of her medicine and closed her eyes again. ‘I think I should like to sleep now.’

He patted her arm and stood to leave. Agnes had resumed her sewing. She glanced up at him as he left, and gave a half-smile. He felt the familiar old stirrings – she still had that effect on him. But he must be strong and resist her. For the sake of the mother of his beloved son. Though in her current state Georgia was not much of a wife.

He nodded curtly at Agnes and left the room.

Halfway down the stairs he realised he had left the letter in Georgia’s room. He turned back to fetch it, and eased the door open as quietly as possible to avoid waking her.

Agnes was bending over the cradle, her back to him. She was holding a pillow. He watched, horrified but somehow powerless to move. Surely she wasn’t going to… She took a step closer to the cradle, then dropped the pillow on the floor, shaking her head. He coughed; she turned and reddened when she saw him.

‘Oh, sir, you startled me,’ she whispered.

‘What are you doing with that pillow?’ He crossed the room to retrieve the letter from the bedside table.

‘I – my back was aching. I was going to prop it behind me in my chair while I sew.’ She picked up the pillow and squashed it against the back of her chair as if to demonstrate.

Bartholomew shook his head slightly. He’d had the fleeting impression that she was going to smother the baby, though he did not know why. Agnes was a loyal and faithful servant – hadn’t she come back to them, leaving her own child to do so? She loved him, he knew it. And surely no mother could ever hurt another woman’s baby.

‘Of course. Do you want to work in your own room, perhaps? Polly could sit with my wife for a while.’

‘I would prefer to stay here,’ she replied. ‘There are no comforts for me in my own room.’ She held his gaze as she said this, making it all too clear what comforts she was missing. The message was clear. Later, after she had gone to bed, he would go to her. There was no point denying them both. Georgia would never know. And who knew how long it would be until Georgia was better?

Something was still niggling at him. ‘What is the medicine you are giving Georgia?’ he asked, abruptly.

‘It is just a tonic – a mixture of several ingredients – for the pain, for her tiredness. It eases her mind and allows her to rest. Sleep and time are the only true remedy in these cases.’

He nodded, and left the room. His wife was in good hands.

The weeks inched slowly by for Agnes. Her days were spent sitting sewing in her mistress’s room. Mrs St Clair was getting worse, not better. She would barely talk to either Agnes or her husband, and would not leave her bed, or allow the doctor in. She would not hold her baby; she would only glance at him briefly when Agnes brought him to her, perhaps smile wanly, and then turn away.

Agnes had heard her mother talk of women like this, who turned in on themselves after a birth. It could take months or years before they were well again. In the meantime others had to care for the baby and the mother alike.

At least Mr St Clair was coming to her room again. Agnes smiled to herself as she sewed a new nightdress for the baby, remembering their love-making the night before. One good thing from Georgia’s illness was that her husband had to turn elsewhere for his comforts, and of course, Agnes had been ready and waiting. She had not yet broached the subject of bringing her son to live with them, judging the moment not quite right yet. She needed to get Mr St Clair into a position where he needed her, and no one else would do. Then he would do whatever she wanted.

As long as Polly didn’t make trouble for them. She had hissed at Agnes only that morning:
I knows about you and the master.
Something would have to be done about her, before she went blabbing to Mrs Fowles.

Georgia stirred, and groaned. It was mid-afternoon and she was waking up from her midday nap. Agnes put down her sewing and watched her.

Georgia sat up and stretched. ‘How long have I slept?’

‘Perhaps three hours, ma’am.’