A Carriage for the Midwife (35 page)

POLLY HAD NO
idea how long she had wandered through swirling space where the stars circled in their courses or suddenly shot across the night sky in a flash of dazzling light. The pain that throbbed in her head had spread out to every part, turning into a general tingling sensation that didn’t hurt so much. Voices drifted around her, whispering, cajoling, telling her to sip from a spoon, go to sleep, put her trust in God and repent of her sins. The words buzzed round her head like flies, getting mixed up and in the wrong order, so that she forgot them all and clung to one word only:
Osmond.

Where was her fair, blue-eyed prince among men, he who had smiled upon her in the Bever stable-yard, gazed across at her from his pew in Great St Giles, leaned down from his horse to her as she hung washing on the line?

I shall return and have thee, pretty Polly! Wait for me!

How she had teased him with her mischievous smiles and pouting lips. What good times those had been, while she still resisted him! And what joy had filled her heart on the night of the Bever House ball, when he had chosen her out of all the young ladies in their fine gowns. How Rosa Hansford had stared when she saw the little maidservant in her cap and apron, dancing down the line with Osmond!

But now he has vanished again, and Polly’s memory of the beech grove is hazy and confusing; one moment a warm, thrilling contact with his eager body, and then a wet disgrace and Osmond is calling her a dirty little vixen – and Sukey has somehow taken his place and is tucking her up in bed, looking both sad and cross.

Ah, but everything changed when he came back from the war, a wounded hero, thin and ill-looking, with a leg that stunk so badly that it had to be cut off. How she had longed to be at his side to comfort him! But his mother kept everybody away from him except for that old black-browed Mrs Ferris.

Until that Sunday when she had slipped out of church: how his face had lit up at the sight of her!

My pretty little Polly, by God! – quick, a kiss now!

And she could refuse him nothing. Oh, the midnight creeping, the barefoot pattering along passages, the return to her own quarters in the cold dawn; for there had been no more teasing, only pleasing of the man she adored, the lover who had taken her so hungrily, even violently at times. She had sat astride him, riding to heights of happiness: even when he had hurt her she had let him have his way, biting her lip rather than cry out. She had been his best physick, he had told her, better than any of Turnbull’s.

And now comes the wonderful news that cunning old Sukey has actually got Edward to marry her! Polly is overjoyed for her sister, and dreams of becoming another young Mrs Calthorpe.

Only it never happened. Instead she was beaten and turned out of Bever House in the early morning, since when life had grown duller and drearier every day; first that moaning Mrs Twydell, then the weary winter months at Miss Glover’s, feeling sicker and heavier with every week that passed.

And then, like a vision –
Osmond
! He had come to her at last, but when she went towards him he backed away and said she was a monstrous size – and then he vanished again, leaving her feeling worse than ever.

A gentleman from Belhampton had come and frowned at her, ordering her to lie on a feather bed in the dark. Miss Glover had read the Bible to her, Mrs Coulter had put an ear to her belly to listen to the babies’ heartbeats, and Tess had grumbled about all the extra work she had to do.

And now here was dear old Sukey at her side again, with memories of that magic September night when they had danced with their Calthorpe sweethearts.

But now the night is closing in after a great storm that raged around Polly, rolling the bed from side to side and sending lightning flashes through her head. Her tongue feels swollen and sore, and there is a strange, still heaviness deep down in her belly, not a flicker of the movements she has got used to. They had said that there were two babies waiting to be born, but Polly now feels too ill to care. Only let God be merciful to her, and send Osmond again for one last time – and then she will never ask for anything more.

Where be thee, my sweet master? ‘Twill soon be too late
.

But the only sounds that come from her throat are wordless groans. The other voices are growing fainter and further away, and Polly is sliding down towards the edge of the world.

Soon, Osmond, soon, or ‘twill be too late
 . . .

To arrive at Portsmouth docks a day earlier than scheduled was an unexpected bonus, and although First Lieutenant Hansford was due to board another troopship at noon on the morrow, he seized his opportunity with eager joy. While other officers and crew had gone off into the town to seek what entertainment was on offer, he opted to travel four-and-twenty miles just to spend one night at home. Tired as he was after a fairly rough Atlantic crossing with a cargo of wounded men, some of whom had died before reaching port, Henry desperately needed to look upon her whom he loved more than life.

At first he had thought to hire a horse, but then he chanced to see a timber-truck departing for Wychell Forest. Trees were being felled in ever larger numbers for ship-building, and the long, low drays drawn by teams of eight or ten horses were frequently to be seen on the Portsmouth Road, sometimes blocking the way while the draymen exchanged high words with stagecoach drivers. An unloaded dray travelled much faster and needed only a couple of horses, so Henry eagerly leaped aboard. It was dark when he arrived at the forest edge, and now had to complete the journey on foot. It was some seven miles to Beversley, and once he got on the Winchester Road, Henry struck out, his strength renewed by the prospect of seeing Sophia before the day was done.

He smiled contentedly to himself. Would she have retired by the time he reached the cottage? Henry knew that she would wake at once at hearing his special knock, and swiftly come to answer, whatever the hour. She would say his name and hold out her arms to him; brief though the visit would be, it was worth every mile of the double journey.

Henry Hansford was tired; a deep weariness seemed to have seeped into his very bones. His eyes had seen enough of ghastly sights, his ears had echoed with the groans of injured and dying men. He was heartily sick of the war, and knew that there was now no hope of a British victory. He needed Sophia, the sight of her beloved face, the sound of her sweet voice. The thought of her love was balm to his mind and body, giving new impetus to his aching legs. Soon, soon he would see her again, hear her, touch her, enfold her in his arms . . .

Susan sat alone beside her sister, and the presence of Death drew closer. Polly had partly recovered consciousness, and her breathing was quiet and shallow, though at intervals she took a deeper intake of air, a sharp involuntary gasp that made Susan start; it was followed by a long, sighing exhalation.

‘Ha’ ye any pain, dear Poll?’ Susan asked gently, touching her sister’s cooling forehead.

The only answer was a slow turn of the head until Polly’s beseeching eyes met her sister’s. The dry, cracked lips moved soundlessly.

‘Osmond . . . my master . . . Osmond.’

She mouthed the words with difficulty, as if she were using the last of her strength to beg for her lover to come to her once more. One last time.

Susan held her hand and knew that life was ebbing. She leaned over and kissed Polly’s lips.

‘I’m here wi’ ye, little Poll. I be right here beside ye,’ she whispered, and began to say the twenty-third psalm.

‘The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.’

The sudden knock at the door broke upon them, shattering the silence: a knock followed by three short taps and another loud knock.
Rap!
Rap-rap-rap,
rap!

Susan raised her head. Had Joby returned at last? Or was it Mr Turnbull? Could it possibly be Dr Parnham here already? She rose and opened the door, to see Sophia emerging from her room in her nightgown, a wrapper thrown over her shoulders.

‘I will go, Susan – I will answer!’ she said, her eyes alight with joyful surprise at hearing that special knock, unexpected as it was.

Susan stood on the landing and heard the front door open, the sound of a glad greeting and eager exchanges between Sophia and a man. She looked back into the bedroom and saw Polly’s face: she too had heard the arrival of a night visitor.

The strangest thought occurred to Susan. Had the hopes and longings of her dying sister summoned her faithless lover to her bedside at this late hour?

As if propelled by an inner force she did not understand, Susan made her way down the stairs and stood on the bottom step, just out of sight of Sophia and her visitor.

‘Henry!’

‘My own Sophia, how I’ve dreamed of beholding your face again – oh, my darling!’

‘But where have you come from at such an hour? How have you got here?’

‘From Portsmouth on a timber-wagon, and I must return by tomorrow noon. Oh, Sophia, kiss me. I have so little time!’

He bowed his head over her upturned face, and their lips met in a kiss that told of their mutual yearning more than any words could have done. Her arms went round his neck and his encircled her body, drawing his cloak around to enfold them both.

They looked up quickly when Susan stepped forward, a dishevelled figure whose round eyes stared straight at Henry.

‘Susan’s sister Polly lies gravely ill upstairs,’ Sophia told him hurriedly, feeling his arm still around her waist as if unable to let go of her. ‘She is great with child – with twins, in fact – and young Joby Lucket has gone to Bever House for a message to be sent to Dr Parnham, the man-midwife.’

She became conscious of Susan’s eyes fixed upon Henry. ‘How is Polly now, Susan?’ she asked. ‘Is there any change?’

Susan forgot all rules of conventional behaviour. She had only one idea in mind, and rushed forward to seize Henry’s arm.

‘I took ye for Osmond Calthorpe, sir, an’ so may my sister. Her mind wanders, and she’s sinking fast. Come to her, Mr Hansford, come to my poor sister, I beg ye!’

‘Dear Susan, Lieutenant Hansford has come up from Portsmouth today and has to return by noon tomorrow,’ remonstrated Sophia. ‘Dr Parnham has been summoned, and—’

‘
No!
’ Susan’s voice rose and she gripped Henry’s arm, pulling him towards the staircase. ‘No! My sister be beyond human aid, an’ longs only to see him who betrayed her. God must ha’ sent ye, sir, so come up an’ sit alongside o’ her, let her see ye. Take her hand an’ call her Polly, I beg o’ ye. ’Twould be such comfort!’

‘Susan!’ cried Sophia with a half-apologetic glance at Henry, who now found a voice.

‘Hush, Mrs Calthorpe, try to calm yourself,’ he said awkwardly, though not unkindly. He was unable to believe his ears when he understood what he was being asked to do. ‘In Miss Glover’s house your sister is getting every care, but how can I, a complete stranger and a man, walk into her bedchamber? It would be improper – indecent, even – and when it got to be known, I would be censured wherever it was spoken of. Is that not right, Sophy?’

Genuinely horrified at Susan’s request, he turned to his beloved Sophia for support.

But to his dismay he found none, for she had become convinced by Susan’s belief that this was the will of the Almighty, and should be obeyed.

‘It never
will
be spoken of, Henry,’ she said with that seriousness that was characteristic of her and which especially endeared her to him. ‘All of us here under this roof tonight will be sworn to secrecy – myself, Mrs Calthorpe, the two maidservants, Job Lucket when he returns, and Dr Parnham if he gets here. Only do as she says, Henry – come up to the bedside and speak kindly to this poor girl – and none will know of it but ourselves and the Lord, Who has surely brought you to this house tonight.’

‘But, Sophy . . .’ he protested at the bizarre turn his dream had taken.

‘Do as we ask you, dearest Henry, for it is a service that only you can give,’ Sophia replied, her blue eyes irresistible. ‘Let Susan lead the way, and we will follow. I will be there.’

Very reluctantly Henry Hansford accompanied the two women up the stairs to the landing and into the candle-lit room where the foetid air seemed stifling after the cold wind outside.

Polly lay quiet and still upon the bed, her belly like a mound under the covers. Her eyes were closed, her mouth slightly agape. Sophia motioned Henry to the chair at her side, and he obediently sat down.

‘Take her hand,’ whispered Susan, praying that Polly would respond.

He reached out to take hold of the limp hand that lay upon the counterpane.

‘Polly?’ he muttered, then cleared his throat and spoke with stronger conviction. ‘My little Polly.’

She half-opened her swollen eyes and slowly turned her head towards him. Her parched lips trembled, opened, closed and opened again to form words that could only just be heard.

‘Osmon’ . . . master Osmon’, Oi
know’d
’ee’d come back to me.’

It was all she said, but it was enough to draw sighs of relief from the two women who watched from the corner of the room. They saw Polly look upon the man she saw as Osmond Calthorpe, returned to her at last: all the love of her heart was in her eyes.

Pity swept over Henry, and he was almost ashamed of his former gentlemanly scruples. He held Polly’s hand and gently stroked the mottled skin of her face, now touched with a ghostly shadow of former beauty. Apart from her shallow breathing the room was quiet and peaceful.