The Wet Nurse's Tale (15 page)

I tried for a long while to nurse the babe. It would suckle, just a drop, and then cease its pulling too soon. It fretted but did not seem to learn how to swallow without that it coughed. Finally, it dropped to sleep and I put it in its cradle and went to seek some supper.

“How’s the mistress?” said the cook when she gave me my stew. “Does she stir?”

“She sleeps, though not well,” said I. “Is she a good mistress?”

“They’re quite kind, the both of them,” said the cook. “This’ll kill her, I think. Her others are at her brother’s house.”

“And how many?” said I.

“There’s five others, though there’d’ve been more, had she borne ’em. But she’s lost as many as she’s had. Tis a pity he can’t leave her alone.”

I nodded. After my supper, I went to see about the child again. It waked up and suckled a bit more, but not enough to last, I thought. The mother moaned and I went to her with the babe at my breast, thinking it would do her good to see that it was suckling at all. But she was very feverish and could see nothing. Her shift draped open and I saw from her tits that she’d nursed her babies, the ones that had lived, by herself. I thought that from the looks of things here, she’d never nurse this one.

It came to pass as I had thought. The baby lived for five days and suckled each day; not enough to keep itself alive, but enough to use my milk but very gradual, so that when it died, I was very reduced. Its mother died two days before it did. Twas a sad thing, to be sure. I was hard put to find someone to pay me for the little I had done; the mistress’s sister finally saw what I was about, and paid me a pound which was more than I deserved for the time I was there, but she did not know that.

I took it from her though. Having sent my wages home except for what I secretly kept back, I wondered how I should live. I stopped by the hospital to inquire if they knew of someone who might need my services but the doctors had no good news for me. “The foundling hospital could use you,” one of them told me, but I did not want to go there as they do not pay enough to keep a mouse in crumbs. I thought I would go home. I knew from my mother that my milk would freshen if I could find a baby quick, and that was what I hoped to do when I got there. I thought that my father would send me to the city again and soon, but I wanted to see my mother’s face so I waited for two days at a public house til the coach came for Leighton to take me home.

MRS. GAINSBOROUGH’S REASON

I am Henry Gainsborough which name you might know as my great uncle daubed and made his way with it. My uncle is the Earl of Q**** and sets the finest table you can imagine: we dine with him often. We are intimate friends with Lord and Lady S**** and are often invited to their country manor to shoot. Lord S**** is most considerate to his guests and Lady S**** the very picture of elegance.

My wife, Mrs. Gainsborough, and I have been married for ten years. I rescued her, not to put too fine a point on it, from her eccentric family. Her father and mother both hail from ancient British lines, and yet they seem to deem themselves irresponsible as to their duties: they cannot conceive of how they should and must set themselves as examples for their lessers. They do as they wish. They have no house in town, they do not visit, they set but the meanest table I believe I have ever seen and explain that they are vegetarians and therefore may serve no meat: no mutton, no beef, not even pork!

I am amazed that my poor Aerial survived her childhood intact. I chanced to meet her at the opera—twas
Il Capelli de la Luna,
which I recall because that very evening I bowed to the viceroy and he caught my eye and bowed back! It was indeed a high point. At any rate, at intermission, I immediately noticed that old Mrs. Beaumont was attended by a lovely young girl who shone as brightly as the many diamonds she wore in her hair. I made my way to Mrs. Beaumont at the conclusion of the opera and was introduced to Miss Westin, as she was then. She was staying with Mrs. Beaumont, her aunt, because her parents did not care for London. I must have looked surprised, for the poor girl blushed and turned aside. Mrs. Beaumont explained that Miss Westin’s parents were not much in society, but by choice not necessity. “No indeed,” she told me. “If they wished, they could afford a palace here but they do not.” The next day I called by to speak with Miss Westin and then again the next and the next until I had sealed the fate I so desired.

When I asked Mr. Westin for Aerial’s hand, the conversation passed strangely but I shall relate it here for your amusement.

I had ridden out to visit the Westins at their home in Oxfordshire where the family had lived for centuries. The manor is enormous, but much of the surrounding land is quite wild, with deep forests very near to the house rather than the tidy green lawns that we think of as the proper setting for a place of such size. The family was friendly but very sparsely waited upon: indeed, I watched with my own eyes as Aerial and her two younger sisters cleared away the dishes after we had breakfasted. Supper was more decent, with several servants to do the setting and the clearing, but they spoke to both Mr. and Mrs. Westin whenever they liked and even laughed at the jokes and parries that the family passed at the meal.

After supper, when the ladies had retired to the parlor (and I must confess, I do not think that this was their habit, in general), I asked Mr. Westin if I might have his daughter’s hand in marriage.

Rather than the smile I had anticipated—for my name, I assure you, is at least as good as his own—he asked me if I loved her.

“Ardently,” said I, “and with all my heart.”

“And she feels the same?” he asked in what seemed to be some astonishment.

“She tells me that she does,” I said humbly.

“Aah,” he said, and then was quiet for a moment. “But, sir,” he continued, “what is it that you do?”

I was quite amazed and somewhat insulted. What was he about?

“Do?” I said. “Sir, my family is . . .”

He interrupted me. “Ah yes, your family,” he said, waving at me as if shooing a fly from his face. I felt most abashed.

As you have surmised, we overcame his objections and were married in the springtime of the next year. Aerial found herself to be with child soon thereafter, and our baby, Elizabeth, was born at the Westin manor, so that Mrs. Westin could attend at the birth as is, of course, proper.

After the baby was born, Aerial and I found ourselves at a small crossroads of opinion. Aerial was quite ready to nurse the child herself, as it seemed to be—and I must say it did not surprise me to hear this—a tradition among the women of her family. But I stood against it. I explained that it was simply not done, that it would mis shape her, that it was not good for the infant’s health and that, of course, it would limit our ability to go into society for yet another five or six months, when we had already lost almost the same amount of time due to her pregnancy. She wept and carried on, but I remained fixed to my opinion. It is simply no longer done in our set.

In the end, she capitulated to my wishes, and a wet nurse was found, a Mrs. . . . , well, it does not matter. Suffice it that the nurse lived in Leighton which was a good distance from London. It is too bad that little Elizabeth perished under her care from a fever. Two other children born to Aerial fared well enough at their wet nurses, including my son Henry, who will inherit.

Seven

M
y mother laughed and cried to see me and I did the same for her. The family seemed well. There was news to hear. Mary had married and moved to Seagrove; her husband had got a job on the docks there. Father boasted that he would take Mother there for a holiday one day, but I saw my younger brothers roll their eyes to each other at that. Our cousin Ann had just posted her banns. John, my eldest brother, was groom at the Great House and had men under him and told them what to do. He had taken Bill to teach him but Bill would not attend, so John had thrown him off, for which my father complained bitterly, but I said I thought it was the right thing, for if you cannot do the work, you ought not to be allowed to stay. The little ones still ran amuck, as my mother would say, in and out of the house. The littlest one looked so much like Ellen that I caught my breath when I saw her.

“I thought I saw a ghost, when I saw Janey,” I said to my mother, and she nodded and caught the little girl to her and kissed her. “And my Joey,” said I, looking at my mother’s face and she nodded and said, “And Ellen and Ada,” and then we wept together, wiping our tears away with our aprons.

After supper, with my father off at the tavern, I told my mother about the two years since I’d seen her and the adventures I had had. Then I asked her if she knew of an infant. “It would have to be an older one,” said I, “for my milk is drying up fast, so what needs to suck, must suck hard.” But my mother did not know of any baby. I thought I would ask at the doctor’s on the morrow.

“If you do not find a babe,” said my mother, “you can return to the Great House, can you not?”

And I thought I would try. I thought to ask at the laundry house, for then I’d avoid both the housekeeper, who was still Mrs. Hart, and also Mrs. Bonney, the mistress. I did not know for certain whether Mrs. Hart knew that I’d left the house for being with child, but if I hid myself in the laundry where she needn’t see me, then it might not matter. And the same with Mrs. Bonney. I decided to go there and ask for a position for what else was there to do but that?

It turned out easy enough. The laundry mistress was Mrs. Hubbard and you could tell she tippled, but she seemed kind enough and let me in right away. “You’ve great arms; you can stir,” said she and there I had my job. It was a deal of toil and I hated it soon. The sheets were heavy to stir and the room, hot, but as I had not found a nursing baby in time, I had dried up and had no choice but to take what work I could find. Twas not all gloom, though. The other maid, called Martha Camp-bell, was a girl I’d known when we were small and as I’d always liked her, we had plenty to talk of and no one to tell us not to.

The laundry building stood some steps away from the house and the treat was to deliver the fresh linens to the kitchen entrance. I always gave my turn up to Martha which made me seem queer, for the break from stirring or ironing or wringing was our great delight. But I did not want to take the chance to see Mrs. Hart or any of the family. And so I always made an excuse about my foot hurting, or that I was doing some delicate stuffs and had to take care, or that I needed to piss, could Martha please go. Soon enough, Mrs. Hubbard no longer asked me if I’d like a turn and that was that.

A big difference between us laundry girls and those who worked in the Great House was that we did not board. Martha and me and Mrs. Hubbard might live in town if we wished and we all did. It meant a deal of walking, but I’ve never been afraid of that. I walked with Martha, and either we went through the fields if it was fine or if we was tired, we used the road. Most times, a carter would stop and give us a ride. So I could go home at night and see my mother which was a great comfort to me.

At this time, Reader, it seemed to me that I’d lost my way. Joey was dead, my earnings diminished, my life seemed to have got a deal smaller in a short while. I had agreed to work on Sundays in exchange for my own evenings and thus was never in the church which was a sadness to me. In Aubrey, at least, there was new things to look at on my half-days but while I lived here at home, the faces of those lost loved ones rose up at every turn. Twas the doldrums, for sure, though to say the honest truth, if I had known what I would yet gain and lose, I might have been content to stay and stir the laundry til my arms stretched to twice their length, and never once look up from the kettle.

One day not long after I’d started at the laundry, Mrs. Hubbard asked if I could stay on a little to help with the great pile of ironing we had to do. The Bonneys had many guests that week and it seemed they’d all soiled their shirts. Martha was all crampy with her bleeding and lay asleep on a pile of sheets; when she woke, Mrs. Hubbard said she might leave a bit early. I stayed extra and ironed perhaps twenty gentlemen’s shirts: in between the buttons, starched cuffs folded just so. Mrs. Hubbard thanked me for staying and then she told me I might go on home. The road was quite empty as the carters mostly had gone home for their suppers. I sang as I walked to pass the time.