Chalice of Darkness, page 26
The pain reached an unbelievable peak, and a cup of something warm and syrupy and strangely scented was held to her lips.
‘To help with the pain,’ she heard Aunt Hilda say, and then Lily’s voice protesting.
‘Ain’t right – ain’t natural – she’s got to stay awake for the birth—’
‘The master was most insistent she be given it,’ Aunt Hilda interrupted. ‘Laudanum is frequently used in childbirth, Lily. Do as you’re told. Maude, drink it.’
Maude drank obediently, and it began to pull her back from the pain, into a vague drifting world where nothing mattered any longer. From a distance she was aware of Lily’s voice saying not to give way, not to let the laudanum take her.
‘Fight it off, mum, the filthy unnatural stuff that it is. Stay with us – it’ll soon be over, and you got me here for you when it is.’
Maude was vaguely aware of Aunt Hilda telling Lily to fetch something – towels, was it? Hot water? And of Lily going to the door, but pausing by it, and calling out to her.
‘Soon be over, it will. And you’ll have the child. You’ll have the child, remember.’
She thought Aunt Hilda shut the door after Lily, and as Lily’s steps went down the stairs, Maude heard her own voice saying, very faintly, ‘Yes, I’ll have the child …’
But she did not have the child, at all.
When, some immeasurable time later, she came up out of the strange drifting world, Aunt Hilda was sitting on the side of her bed, and saying something about being sorry and sad.
‘Deeply sad, my dear Maude, to have to tell you …’
She broke off, and Maude, exhausted and still seeing the world through a confused, half-drugged blur, understood dimly that her aunt was at a loss for words, which was strange and unlike Aunt Hilda. Even stranger was that she took Maude’s hand.
She said, ‘Maude, everything was done that could be done, but I’m afraid the child didn’t … It wasn’t strong enough to live.’
Maude tried to make sense of these words, then said, ‘The baby died? You’re telling me it died? But didn’t you send for a doctor, or …’ She stopped, trying to remember, but only able to recall the pain and then the strange, unreal world after she drank the laudanum.
‘We did everything possible,’ said Aunt Hilda, but by this time Maude was coming sufficiently back to the world to see that her aunt’s eyes slid away when she said this. She’s lying, Maude thought. She can’t look me in the face and say everything possible was done, because it wasn’t. They didn’t try to get a doctor – I would have remembered it. They let it die – my child – the one thing I was going to live for and see as hope for a return to an ordinary life. And then – was that because it was easy for them to hide a murderer, but it would have been very difficult indeed to hide a child? And if they saw it as a murderer’s child …
In a sharper voice, she said, ‘Was it a boy or a girl?’
‘Maude, it can’t matter now. It never lived …’
‘Was it a boy or a girl?’ Maude said again. ‘Tell me!’
She waited, and at last, with what seemed to be extreme reluctance, her aunt said, ‘It was a boy.’
Saul thought he could be justifiably pleased at the way his plan was working out.
Maude had surprised him once or twice over these months, he would acknowledge that. That insistence on the provision of a piano, for instance – that had indicated a streak of defiance for which he had not bargained. It was a small price to pay, though, and he had agreed to it.
She was secure in those rooms and, even if she did get out, once beyond Vallow’s grounds she would be helpless. Indeed, if she were to be found wandering around the lanes it would confirm any rumours about her mental state. Saul could put such rumours out himself, of course, but the timing would have to be prudently judged.
But Maude was unlikely to try to get out. Apart from anything else, Saul had been very careful to plant in her mind the belief that her sojourn in the attic rooms was not indefinite. She would go on believing that one day she could come back to a normal life, and she could be made to believe that for a very long time.
Everything had been neatly dealt with. Lily, the light-minded little slut, had played straight into Saul’s hands by getting herself with child. He had been stern with her, but forgiving. He would not ask Miss Grout to dismiss her without a character, he said, although it was what almost any other employer would have done. The child would be placed in a respectable children’s home – it would have a good and useful life and be taught a trade. Lily could remain at Vallow Hall – although in return he would ask that she help look after the mistress. But there must be no gossip beyond these walls; that must be understood.
Lily was vociferous in her gratitude and her promises of loyalty, and Saul was satisfied. The brat could go to St Botolph’s. He knew one or two of the governing board through his JP work, in fact he had recently been invited to take a seat on the governing board himself. He was not going to accept, though. For one thing it was too far to travel with any regularity, particularly since he needed to be here at the Hall to keep an eye on Maude and to make sure Hilda Grout did not overstep her place. But, more importantly, he did not care for the path that Botolph’s seemed to be taking. Some nonsense about an education programme for the children – even the awarding of scholarships where it was thought they might be beneficial. The governors were appointing a new chairman, and it seemed he was very enthusiastic about the idea. The trustees were enthusiastic, too. They said it was the way of the future, and you had to move with the times.
They could move with the times as quickly as they wanted; Saul did not want any part of such new-fangled schemes. Still, the place would do for Lily’s brat and it would mean she would feel obligated to Saul. Accordingly, he wrote a careful letter to St Botolph’s. A sad case, he explained. A young girl in his household, innocent and trusting, had been taken cruel advantage of without Saul’s knowledge until it was too late.
‘The girl is local and her family most respectable,’ he wrote. ‘I should therefore wish to give her the reassurance that the child will have a fair start in life. I would, of course, make some suitable donation to the home, since I appreciate that your means are slender.’
They agreed to take the child. Of course they did. Saul read, with some cynicism the reply sent by the new chairman of the governors.
… most grateful for your kind offer of financial endowment, which we should receive very gladly. As I believe you know, we are committed to providing education, and possibly apprenticeships, for as many of our children as we can. I have only recently been appointed to my post here, so I am not yet familiar with local people. I was sorry to hear that you are unable to be a part of St Botolph’s managing board; your experience as a justice of the peace and also your local knowledge would have been very valuable. I should like to have met you to see if you could not be persuaded to change your decision, and also, of course, to thank you for your generous donation. Sadly, though, I am unable to travel much nowadays.
Saul folded the letter away in his desk. He was relieved that the new chairman did not travel, since Vallow Hall must remain in its own isolation. But at least he had been able to give the man the impression that Saul Vallow of Vallow Hall was kindly and philanthropic. He wondered, vaguely, if the man was elderly, although an elderly person did not somehow match the reports of an enthusiastic educationist. Not that it mattered.
Maude thought of all the difficult and painful things she had had to do in her life, letting Lily talk to her about her fortnightly visits to St Botolph’s home to see her little boy were the most difficult and the most painful so far.
But Lily had no one else to whom she could talk, and Maude was grateful to Lily who had been kindness itself to her, so she always listened.
‘Ever so bright they say he is, mum – even at this age. I talked to one of the ladies there about him. They think he can be moved into the school when he’s old enough – they’ve got a classroom all set up these days. It’s the new head one there that’s done it all. My boy’ll be taught reading and writing, and figures and everything.’ A pause, then, ‘Mum – am I a bad girl to feel he ain’t really a part of me now?’
‘You’re not bad at all, Lily. It will be because he was taken away from you straight after he was born.’
‘I’m making up for it, though,’ said Lily, determinedly. ‘I’ll go to see him regular, and I’ll talk to the teachers and everyone there about him.’ She sent Maude a look from the corners of her eyes. ‘Don’t upset you, do it, mum, me talking about him? You not having … I mean your baby not …’
‘It doesn’t upset me now,’ said Maude. ‘Not in that way.’
‘I wish I’d been there when the birth happened,’ said Lily, her eyes wide and sad. ‘But Miss Grout, she’d sent me out for towels and hot water. You was getting fuzzy like from the laudanum, so you wouldn’t have been much aware of anything by then.’ She paused, then said, in a rush, ‘I didn’t want you having that stuff, mum – I wanted you knowing what was happening, but Miss Grout insisted on giving it you.’
‘Laudanum,’ said Maude, remembering the strange dreamlike state where the pain had receded, and the world had seemed to float out of her grasp.
‘I keep thinking that if I’d been with you – still in the room – I might have thought of something to do that might’ve saved your baby. But I don’t think there was anything that could’ve been done, not from what Miss Grout said.’
‘I don’t think there was, either. But I’d like you to tell me about your little boy,’ said Maude, firmly. ‘That way I’d feel I had a small share in him.’ Then, as Lily still looked unhappy, she said, ‘What’s the matter? Is there something still wrong?’
‘No, but … I don’t know how you’ll feel about it, mum.’ Lily looked as worried as one with her cheerful disposition could look. She said, in a rush, ‘I took that name you liked. I liked it, as well, see. I called him after that hymn they did at the school.’
‘Crispin,’ said Maude, very softly.
‘Yes.’
Maude had expected Lily’s visits to the St Botolph’s institution to gradually cease, but rather surprisingly they did not. Lily went off to Alnwick without fail every two weeks, dressed in her Sunday best, catching a train from Vallow Halt at midday, and getting on an omnibus at Alnwick to reach the home itself.
She returned to Vallow by a six o’clock train, which Hilda Grout said verged on taking advantage of the master’s generosity, but which Mrs Cheesely did not mind, since it gave her the entire afternoon to put her feet up and read one of the gossipy magazines to which she subscribed. Anyway, the master did not dine until eight.
Maude was glad that Saul was allowing Lily to visit St Botolph’s, even though she knew it was one of his ways of ensuring Lily’s loyalty. She thought Lily was feeling guilty at having had the child at all – that strict, religious father who played hymns every Sunday and thought music was the instrument of the Devil – and that she was trying to atone by her visits.
What did surprise her, though, was that she found herself looking forward to the visits herself. Lily always came running up to the attics when she returned from Alnwick, full of her afternoon’s exploits. Maude liked hearing about it all – she was glad to hear that the home was friendly and clean, and that little Crispin was growing up to be sharp and bright. ‘Although a bit naughty at times, so they say,’ added Lily, with a grin. ‘Mr Mischief, that’s what he is.’
Maude could share Lily’s delight when, later on, Crispin was given a place in St Botolph’s small school, and when, at Christmas the following year, he was chosen to be one of the shepherds in the Nativity play.
‘Although I don’t know how he’ll behave on the afternoon, mum, for he’s likely to play some trick on the others, and it ain’t my day to go to Alnwick so I won’t know. They’ll tell me all about it next time, though. Got really friendly with a couple of those teachers, I have. Nothing wrong, though – wouldn’t want you to think that. Learned my lesson with the poulterer’s boy. But they let me help with the work while I’m there – only bits of cleaning, it is, and tidying up, but …’
‘But it makes you feel part of Crispin’s life,’ said Maude.
‘Thought you’d understand,’ said Lily, pleased. ‘One of the teachers says how Crispin might be given what they call a scholarship, and it’d mean going to a proper school with the scholarship paying for it. Somewhere like the one we got here.’
‘Chauntry?’
‘Yes. Somewhere like that.’
It was after the Christmas of the Nativity play – halfway through a snowy January – that Lily brought more news. She sat down facing Maude’s chair – they had long since got past the servant-standing, mistress-seated arrangement – and said she had something to show her.
‘Something about Crispin?’
‘It’s because of the one they call the governor at Botolph’s, mum. A real gentleman he is, but he don’t walk very well – he ain’t in a wheelchair, but he has to use a stick and he only moves about very slow. I only seen him once or twice, but he smiled at me once, and said good afternoon. Well, he got someone to take photographs of the Christmas play. All the children on the stage, and pictures showing the crib and the manger and all. It weren’t somebody from a shop as took the photographs, it was someone the governor knew who likes taking photographs.’
Maude felt as if a hand had suddenly closed around her heart. She said, ‘Lily – who was it who took the photographs?’
‘Nobody said. But quite a lot was took, and I asked to have one, and – well, mum, I brought it for you to see. It’s of the children who were in the play, and Crispin is in it. I thought I’d like you to see him.’
Maude said, ‘Of course I’d like to see him.’
‘But it give me a bit of a start,’ said Lily. ‘Seeing him on that photo. He looks different somehow. Made me feel a bit odd seeing him like that.’
She brought out the photograph, which was wrapped in paper to protect it, and placed it on the small table in front of Maude’s chair. It was late afternoon, and the oil lamps had been lit. The glow fell across the table’s surface and across the photograph.
Maude sat very still. The small room seemed to be closing around her – she thought if she had not been sitting down she would have fallen. It did not need Lily’s voice saying that Crispin was at the centre of the little cluster of children on the left-hand side; to explain that he had lost the shepherd’s head covering and no one had been able to find it, which was why he was bareheaded.
‘And can you see why I never felt like he’s mine? Not like me at all, is he?’
The boy was looking straight into the photographer’s camera. His eyes were dark and there was somehow a dreamy look to them. The word that leapt to Maude’s mind was slumbrous. His hair was dark, as well, slightly rumpled, and it would probably be glossy under a light. It would feel silky if you touched it … The lines of his face, even in the black and white of the photograph, were clear and definite. Rather wide cheekbones, and quite full lips, and a jaw that was a little too heavy for conventional good looks.
She could not take her eyes from him. She had never seen him before, but she knew his features at once. These were the features, in childish mode, of the man who had smiled at her at a dinner table, who had given her champagne, who had lain with her in a bed …
The boy in the photograph was not Lily’s son. It was Maude’s son, conceived with the man she had known as Eddy. Taken away while she was barely conscious from the laudanum. Placed in St Botolph’s as Lily’s child while Maude herself was told her baby had died.
Did that mean Lily’s child had died? That Saul and Cousin Hilda had switched the babies? Maude’s mind was spinning with horror, but also with hope. Surely it would have been too outrageous, too bizarre, too cruel an act, even for those two. But she looked at the photograph again, and she knew it was what had happened.
She could not let anyone know, though – certainly not Lily. But as she tried to think what to say, Lily said suddenly, ‘He ain’t mine, is he?’
‘Lily, just because he doesn’t look like you—’
‘’Tisn’t that,’ Lily put in. ‘I dunno how to put it, mum, but it’s – it’s something you know that don’t have anything to do with looks or hair or a voice. I think I’ve known it for a long time now. It’s …’
‘Something at a deeper level than his appearance?’ said Maude, still not knowing how far she dared go.
‘Yes.’ Lily stared at the photograph. ‘Know what I think? I think it was your little boy they took to Botolph’s that night. They didn’t want you to keep him – couldn’t keep a child up here, could you? Soon as he was old enough, it’d have got out that you’d been shut away up here. So what I think, is that it was my boy that died. I said he was what we call pingling, didn’t I?’
‘Oh, Lily …’
‘Don’t matter, not that much. I got a share in this one, haven’t I? Crispin. I’m glad I called him that – that name you liked.’
‘So am I.’
‘And, see, I can keep going to visit him, and telling you about him. That way you’ll know a bit about him, and one day … Well, things got an odd way of working out sometimes.’
Maude could not speak. She was aware that Lily had taken her hand – Saul and Cousin Hilda would be appalled at such behaviour from a servant, but Maude did not care. Tears were streaming down her cheeks, but she did not care about that, either, because her mind was alight and alive with the knowledge that her boy had not died. He was alive – he was learning and seemingly proving to be clever – occasionally he was naughty. He was at St Botolph’s Orphanage and, if Lily had the facts correctly, he might be going to Chauntry School.
Despite the confines of the attic – despite the knowledge that she had committed a murder and she might never be able to go out into the world again – Maude was aware of hope unfolding within her mind. One day I might meet you, she said to the small figure looking out of the photograph.
