The Emerald Comb (25 page)

He sighed. He knew that he could never leave the house while things continued as they were. Aside from not wanting to leave his sick wife and dear son, he knew he would not last long without his nightly visits to Agnes’s room.

As if she’d been tuned into his thoughts, Agnes tapped on the door and entered, as usual without waiting for permission. She was wearing the red satin dress that had been Georgia’s, and carried baby Barty on her hip. He was pulling at her necklace, trying to get the beads into his mouth.

‘Sir, your wife is asleep, and Polly is busy with the dinner. I have brought Barty in to see if you could watch over him for a while, as I have several chores to do.’ She put him down on the hearthrug, and handed him a rattle from her pocket, which he proceeded to bang on the floor. ‘If you don’t mind me saying, sir, now that the baby is older it’s time he had a proper nursemaid. Nursing Mrs St Clair takes up most of my time.’

Bartholomew moved a fire-guard into place, between Barty and the roaring log fire. ‘You are right, we should probably hire a nursemaid. I shall speak to my wife about it.’

Agnes rolled her eyes to the ceiling. ‘She’ll not have much to say about it. She doesn’t seem to care what happens. I’m more of a mother to that child than she is.’

‘I know it. I’m grateful for what you do for my son.’ He took a step forward, and put his arms around her. Little Barty shuffled towards them and clutched at his trouser leg and Agnes’s skirt.

‘And for what I do for you?’ she whispered.

‘Of course.’ He nuzzled her neck, breathing in her musky scent. He would employ a nursemaid, he decided. If one had been here now to mind Barty, he’d have been able to take Agnes upstairs to bed…

She kissed him, and then pushed him away. ‘Sir, it is time I spoke to you of what is on my mind. My own son, my own little Bartholomew – is it not time we brought him here to live with us?’

Bartholomew sat down and shook his head. ‘How could we do that? How could we explain the appearance of another child to people?’

‘Explain to whom? No one comes here.’

‘There’s Mrs Fowles and Libby…’ He reached down and picked up Barty, and dandled the child on his lap.

‘They’re servants! Why do you care what the servants think?’

He looked up at her sternly. ‘You too are a servant, might I remind you.’

‘Servant, pah!’ Agnes paced the room angrily. ‘I’m more of a wife to you than she is. I raise your child and sleep in your bed. And yet you won’t grant me my basic rights – of having my own son live in the same house as me.’

‘Agnes, please remain calm. Mrs Fowles is only across the hallway and might hear. Your position in this house is only possible if we maintain the utmost discretion.’

She stopped pacing and turned to face him. ‘I’ve been discreet, sir, you know I have. But I don’t know that I can continue, without my sweet son at my side.’

‘You have Barty to love. Is he not enough?’

‘I do love Barty, but he is not mine and it is not the same.’ At the sound of his name, Barty looked up and raised his little arms towards her. She reached down for him, and held him tightly against her.

Bartholomew regarded them. If only he was looking now at his wife and her child. Why did things have to be so complicated? Two women, two sons. He only wanted one of each.

‘Agnes, I am sorry. There is no possibility of bringing your son here. If you really want to see him, you will have to leave us and go to visit him. If I hire a nursemaid for Barty and a nurse for Georgia, we can spare you for a week or so. We can tell Georgia your mother is unwell again. I will pay your fares, of course.’

She stared at him over Barty’s head. ‘If I go, my ma will insist I bring my son away with me. I told her the next time I saw her it would be to collect him.’ She brushed away a tear. ‘Besides, I know if I saw him I’d never be able to leave him again.’

‘Then it seems you have three choices,’ he said, sadly. ‘Visit your family for two weeks and return to us alone. Stay here and continue as we are. Or resign your position and leave us for good.’

‘If I leave, who’d be a mother to this one? Not her upstairs, that’s for sure. It’d break this little mite’s heart if I were to go.’ She kissed Barty’s head. He giggled and wrapped his little arms tightly around her neck.

‘So stay, Agnes, please.’ Bartholomew got to his feet and put his arms around both her and the child. ‘We’ll carry on as we have been, until or unless something changes.’

He felt her stiffen and then relax in his arms. ‘You give me no real choice, sir. I’m not sure I could ever leave you, in any case.’ She raised her face to his for a kiss. ‘If something did happen, to the mistress, perhaps then we could be together openly, and bring my son to us to be a brother to Barty?’

He frowned. What did she mean, if anything happened to the mistress? Georgia was depressed, that was all. It happened to some women, after giving birth. Hardly life-threatening, was it? But Agnes was nuzzling into his neck, and little Barty was pushing his face between them in the hope of a kiss for himself, and the thought slipped quietly out of his mind as he held them both tightly.

Oh, dear Barty, that was a tender moment indeed between the three of us. But it was only a day later that things in our little household turned truly black, and reached a point from which there was no turning back. Let us see the next scene through Agnes’s eyes. She told me later, word for word, what had passed between herself and Georgia that afternoon.

Agnes was sitting in her usual place in Georgia’s room, sewing a new nightdress for her mistress. She was beginning to resent the number of hours she had to spend each day sitting by Georgia’s side in her room. Why couldn’t Mr St Clair employ a proper nurse for his wife? If only Georgia would allow someone else to tend to her. Agnes could barely remember the days in Brighton, when they would go out to parks and pleasure gardens, visit shops, receive visitors. Georgia’s world, and hers with it, had shrunk to this house, this room. Since she’d arrived in North Kingsley, she’d not left the house except to stroll around the garden for a few minutes when she was desperate for some fresh air. And all because her mistress had succumbed to deep melancholy, after the birth of her baby. Well, Agnes supposed if she was honest, she’d made it worse by giving Georgia such large doses of laudanum, but she wouldn’t have had to do that if Georgia had responded to her baby the way women usually did. She’d so wanted a baby – how upset she’d been by those miscarriages! And now that she had one, she didn’t seem to care for the poor little thing at all. It was so unfair. They were the wrong way around – it was Georgia who should be separated from her son, she wouldn’t even notice. And Agnes who should have her baby with her. Agnes who should be married to Bartholomew. Agnes who should be mistress of this house. She recalled the conversation with Bartholomew the previous day, and the impossible choices he’d given her. Unless something happened it was clear there was no hope of being permanently reunited with her son.

Georgia was stirring. Agnes put down her sewing. With luck, Georgia would just take another draught of her tonic and go quickly back to sleep. Agnes had been gradually increasing the amount of laudanum in the tonic. It was easier to keep Georgia asleep as much as possible. It was probably slowing Georgia’s recovery but at least it gave Agnes more time off duty – more time to be with Bartholomew either in his room or downstairs in the drawing room.

‘Aggie? What time of day is it?’

‘About three o’clock, ma’am. I heard the hall clock striking a few minutes ago.’

‘So dark!’

‘Usual for the time of year, ma’am.’

‘Yes, I suppose it is almost winter. I fear I shall not leave this room until the springtime. Not until the gorse blooms on that hill I can see through the window.’

‘Fresh air would help you, I believe, ma’am.’

Georgia shuddered. ‘It looks so cold outside. The hill is just a black outline against the sky today. It’s cold in here, too. Bank up the fire, would you, please Aggie?’

Agnes added a couple of logs to the fire. It was a mild day, not really cold at all, and certainly not cold in that room. But Georgia liked the room to be warm and stuffy. Sometimes she refused to allow the curtains to be opened at all, and Agnes would have to sew by candlelight. Or just sit doing nothing. Lord knows she’d done enough sewing over these last few months. No baby had as many nightgowns and bonnets as little Barty. Though she hoped that one day soon he might have to share them with another child.

‘Dress my hair, would you, please Aggie? If my husband should visit me today I feel I should try to look more presentable.’ Georgia heaved herself into a half-sitting position in her bed, and Agnes plumped up the pillows behind her.

‘Of course, ma’am.’ She fetched a hairbrush, and gently brushed Georgia’s hair. It was thin, brittle and dull, not at all like the glossy tresses she used to have. She twisted the hair into a loose pile and pinned it with the silver and emerald hair comb.

‘There. You look as lovely as ever, ma’am.’

‘Thank you, Aggie, but I am sure I don’t.’ Georgia groaned. ‘Oh, I am so tired.’

Agnes considered whether this was the hundredth or thousandth time she’d heard those words. ‘I know, ma’am. Maybe have another draught of tonic?’

‘I have had so much today. Should I really take it so often? Though perhaps I will, for it does make me feel better for a while.’ She reached out for the bottle, which Agnes had topped up earlier in the day. She was running short on supplies of laudanum. She’d need to despatch Polly to purchase some more. At least Mr St Clair didn’t seem to mind paying for it. Anything, he said, to make it easier for his wife. He paid fewer visits to Georgia’s room now. He too seemed bored by her illness and resentful of the restrictions it placed on his household. The way he had held her and the baby yesterday – it was as though he wished
she
was his wife and the mother of Barty.

‘Ma’am, you have only had one dose of it today so far,’ lied Agnes. She’d had at least three.

‘Well then, another won’t hurt.’ Georgia gratefully took a swallow of the tonic, leaned back against the pillows and sighed. ‘Sometimes I feel as though I don’t want to go on. I’m tired of living like this.’

‘Ma’am…’

‘I’m sorry. Morbid talk. I used to run and skip, on the beach in Brighton. I can’t imagine doing that now. I look at that hill through the window and know that once I would have run up to the top of it. Not now. I’m not at all the girl I once was. Sometimes I just wish it was all over.’

‘No, ma’am. You must fight it, not give in to it.’

‘I’ve no fight left in me. Bartholomew would be better off without me.’ Georgia stared at the ceiling. ‘So would the baby. What kind of a mother am I? He doesn’t even know me.’

‘Shall I fetch him for you?’

‘He’d only cry if I held him, like the last time. Who is looking after him now?’

‘He is in here, asleep in his cradle.’

‘Good. Leave him. I shall try to sleep again. Stay with me, Aggie. Knowing you are there in your corner is a comfort to me.’

‘Very well, ma’am.’ Agnes sat down in her usual chair and picked up the sewing again. Soon the light would fade and she would need to light a candle, or move closer to the fire to see. But for now the light from the window was just about good enough. She threaded a needle with white cotton and began stitching delicate tucks across the front of the nightgown. It would be nice to own something like this herself, rather than the coarse gowns she usually slept in. She imagined wearing it herself, lying herself in the large four-poster bed Georgia was now tucked up in. Seating herself at the dressing table, arranging her hair with the silver and emerald comb, ringing the bell for some other maid to help her. Oh, why couldn’t she have been born rich? If she’d been of a better class, Bartholomew might have married her and not Georgia. He’d be happier too, she was sure of it.

Bartholomew ate his dinner alone and in silence, as he did every night. Polly waited on him, sullenly. Really the girl was too much. He had a good mind to send her back to her family in Brighton, and employ a new maid-of-all-work, locally, and maybe a nursemaid too, to ease the burden on Agnes. He considered the evening ahead. Once the dinner things were cleared, he’d dismiss Polly and Mrs Fowles for the night, then see if Agnes was free to come and sit with him in the drawing room. As long as Georgia and Barty were both asleep Agnes would be able to come downstairs. And Georgia did little except sleep these days.

He pushed away his plate and poured himself a glass of brandy from the decanter on the sideboard. If Agnes was unavailable there’d be little he could do other than read the paper and drink brandy. Tomorrow he’d go out for a ride, if it wasn’t raining. There’d been a lot of rain lately and the ground was sodden.

He rang the bell for Polly, and turned down the offer of a pudding. Brandy was all the dessert he wanted. He drank another while Polly cleared the table, then left the dining room and climbed the stairs to Georgia’s room. He tapped lightly on the door with a fingernail, and it was opened by Agnes.

‘She’s asleep, sir,’ she whispered.

‘Good. Come down to the drawing room in half an hour. Drink a brandy with me.’

‘Very well, sir.’ Agnes smiled, that slow, seductive smile he knew so well. He resolved to bank up the fire in the drawing room – keep it nice and warm, throw some cushions down onto the hearthrug and, who knew, the evening might turn out to be a good one yet. Agnes appeared to have forgiven him for his refusal to let her bring her son to live with them. He hoped she would not raise the subject again.

‘Is she any better today?’ he asked, still standing in the doorway, his hand on the doorknob. He could just see Georgia’s white face on her pillow, in the gloomy shadows of the room.

‘No. If anything she is worse. She has been saying she wishes it were all over, and that she was no longer a burden to you.’ Agnes’s eyes glittered in the candlelight.

‘She is becoming a burden, it’s true.’ He sighed. ‘I too wish this was over. It is sad to see her so wasted, she who was once so vital, so lively. She is suffering so much.’