A Carriage for the Midwife (51 page)

He leaned forward, keeping his hand on the money-bag. ‘Tell me in truth, Jack, why did your sister Susan run away? And what did you mean about her staying for Polly?’

Jack squinted up at the smoke-darkened ceiling and refilled his glass from the bottle. The talk and gusts of laughter from the other drinkers in the Galleon washed all around them. Jack gaped at the purse and appeared to hesitate.

‘Oi don’t know what ’ee wants Oi to say, Pa’son Calthorpe.’

‘Don’t trifle with me, Lucket, but tell the truth, no matter how bad it is. I shall not blame you for the wickedness of other men, but I have to know—’ He drew a quick breath and forced himself to utter the words, ‘Was your sister ravished by some farm hand or more than one – in the open field or – or anywhere?’

Against every instinct Edward now prompted this degenerate to tell what he knew: he heard his own voice begging for the information he feared to hear.

The rum was taking effect, and Jack leered hideously. He was enjoying having this Parson Calthorpe trying to worm out what only he, Jack, could tell. He remembered the Calthorpes of Beversley who thought themselves so fine but never raised a hand to help the poor.

‘So ’ee married Sukey, did ’ee, Pa’son?’ The words were a jeer. ‘And now ’ee wants to know who laid on her afore ’ee?’

Edward’s features hardened to a rigid mask. He could have thrust his fist into the middle of Jack’s face, but he kept one hand on the purse and the other clenched at his side.

‘Just tell what you know about my wife. Your sister Su-Sukey.’

Jack gave a conspiratorial, gap-toothed grimace that passed for a smile, and, stretching across the table, he put his mouth close to Edward’s right ear and began to tell.

As the words assailed him like a foul stench, Edward’s world trembled and shook like a ship’s timbers cracking up. Nothing was real any more, nothing was safe or secure.

‘What?’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘
What
did you say?
Who?
’

‘Oi says, Oi reckon Sukey got too old fur Bartlemy to come on her. Her got too big fur un. Her kicked an’ hollered an’ wouldn’ ha’ no more on’t. Oi see’d uns, Oi did.’

‘What?’ The word sounded faint and guttural. ‘What did you see?’

‘Many’s the time, out in the fields, down in the ditch, bottom o’ Bennett’s home field, in the bracken ’side o’ the woods – evenin’s when none but Oi was there to see uns – went on fur years, it did, till her got bigger an’ wouldn’t ha’ no more on’t.’

This was good sport to be paid gold for! Jack grinned scornfully at this ashen-faced fool who looked as if he’d been stabbed in the gut.

‘Aye, him ’ud come up on her from behind an’ grab hold on her. “Shut yer mouth, Sukey,” him ’ud say, and down her’d go, and him ’ud be in
by the back port
. Oh, ah, Oi see’d uns ’cause Oi used to look out fur un, same as Oi looks out fur the boats comin’ in!’

His excited hee-haw rose above the general babble, and then by degrees a silence fell on the company as Edward rose unsteadily to his feet. Necks craned to see what was going on behind the partition, and there were shouts as Edward grabbed the youth by the throat and began shaking him as a dog shakes a rat. Jack’s face turned purple and his eyes and tongue protruded as the fingers pressed hard against his windpipe; his limbs jerked like a body hanging from a gibbet.

‘Hey, lay off the boy, will ye?’ shouted the landlord. ‘Ye said ye wanted to give un gold, not choke un to death. Lay off un, let un go!’

Edward suddenly released Jack, who fell lifelessly across the table, knocking over the tankard and sending the bottle flying. The purse was grabbed by one of the men, who soon lost it to another, and in the ensuing fight the golden coins rolled in all directions, and men tumbled over each other for them.

Edward lurched blindly towards the door, his only thought now being to get out of this accursed tavern. And that was the moment when his stomach rebelled.

Heads ducked as the stream of sour, undigested food and ale spattered on tables and floor. At the threshhold Edward leaned on the door frame and shuddered violently, sending another shower of yellowish-green vomit cascading down his frock coat, soiling his white linen bands. The onlookers broke into jeering applause and clapping.

‘Tha’s right, Pa’son, give another heave – spue it up! Yer flock be waitin’ fur ’ee at the church!’

‘Got yer sermon ready, pa’son? Fetch it all up!’

Heaving, retching, eyes streaming and with a shameful wet patch in his breeches, Edward staggered out of the Galleon, still dribbling bitter green fluid, which was all that remained of his stomach’s contents. His new shovel hat fell off and blew towards the waste ground where it was eagerly seized by the children playing there. Swaying from one side of the unpaved road to the other, he crashed full tilt into a stall.

‘Look at un, did y’ever see such a sight?’ cried the woman selling fish. ‘A man o’ the cloth, drunk as any rat, spuein’ all over hisself an’ pissin’ down un’s legs – filthy swine!’

A passing housewife recoiled in horror. ‘Ay, things ha’ come to a pretty pass when a churchman ha’ no shame. What times us lives in, missus!’

But Edward only heard Jack Lucket’s demented braying over and over again: ‘Oi see’d uns, Oi see’d uns!’

He thought it would echo in his head for ever.

SUSAN FACED CHARLES PARNHAM
across his desk and heard him say what Sophia had said.

‘Edward must be told, my child. He must know the reason why he is being offered his freedom, and allowed to make his own judgement. There is neither sense nor kindness in letting him think himself an object of your fear.’

‘But ’tis not Edward I fear!’ she cried, clasping her hands together and shaking them in her agitation. ‘I ha’ loved none other but he, as God sees and knows.’

‘But how can you explain that to him without telling him the truth about yourself, Susan?’ reasoned the doctor. ‘Now be quiet, sit still and listen to me, I command you.’

It was difficult to be stern when he longed to comfort and console; but once again he had to repress his own feelings and consider the husband who also loved her.

‘
I
will tell him, Susan. Send him to me when he returns from Oxford. I will put the facts before him, and if necessary will tell him how the marriage may be annulled.’

And if he’s half worthy of you he’ll knock me down, he added grimly to himself.

She stared back at him, uncertainty written in every feature.

‘D’ye truly believe that any man could forgive such a thing, sir? If it had only happened the once, or maybe a couple o’ times, a man might overlook it, but I – it went on f’r four years, Dr Parnham –
four years
!’

To see this remarkable girl reduced to such degradation of spirit made Parnham long to get his hands on the throat of the guilty man and choke the life out of him. Yet he spoke quietly.

‘You were an ill-used child, and could not help yourself nor escape from it until you were old enough. I will put all this to Edward and let him make of it what he may. It is my firm belief that he will share my view and absolve you of all blame. And then you too must put the past behind and let him show his love for you as a husband for a wife.’

‘If only I could – if I but
could
!’ she cried, and Charles Parnham had to ring for the maidservant to bring in the teapot, or else he might have taken her in his arms.

Susan wiped her eyes. ‘Thank ye, Dr Parnham. Edward should ha’ been told before the wedding, I know that now. But I loved him so much, and thought I could forget – what I so much hated. But knowing how I’d been defiled – oh, I could never tell him. But as soon as he’s home again, I’ll send him to ye, Dr Parnham.’

She poured the tea and handed him a cup.

‘And, Dr Parnham . . .’

‘Yes, Madam Trotula? What else?’

‘If Edward wants to – if he chooses the way of annulment – how soon could it be done?’

Parnham’s attorney in Winchester had had the drafts of the affidavits drawn up for many months, ready for names and signatures to be added, upon which he would apply for a court hearing. Parnham knew how tardy the processes of the law could be; he cleared his throat.

‘In the unlikely event of such a decision, you would come straight to me, of course, to claim every help and assistance I could give while the case was ongoing. And I’d find you a place as midwife in another part of the country where nobody knew the circumstances. But come now, be resolute, put your faith in the future, Susan. I look forward to seeing you as wife of the rector of Great St Giles.’

When they had drunk their tea he took her arm to escort her out to the patiently waiting Brownie.

‘I’ll let you drive me down to the town square,’ he said, climbing up beside her in the trap. ‘My mare has sore eyes, and I must seek out the apothecary for some mercury ointment.’

When he took his farewell of her neither of them noticed the arrival of the Portsmouth stage at the Wheatsheaf him, to set down a solitary passenger.

The Widow Smart was anxiously looking out for Susan when she reached May Cottage.

‘Young Mrs Spooner started her pains this afternoon, just after you left, Mrs Susan. My Lizzie’s been there nigh on three hours,’ she added with more than a touch of reproach.

Susan was at once alert and apologetic, stopping only to snatch up her straw bag.

‘God forgive me f’r not being here,’ she muttered; this was Mary’s second child, thirteen months after the breech delivery on the day the
Royal George
had been lost.

Edward had chosen to ride on the open top of the stagecoach in spite of a stiff breeze. He was conscious of the unpleasant smell of his clothes, which he had not been able to change, though he had thrown away his soiled collar. In war and battle, and during his time as a prisoner, he had often worn dirty, ragged garments; but for an ordained priest of the Church to walk abroad in clothes smelling sourly of vomit and breeches rank with stale urine was an affront to his office. His stomach was empty and his head throbbed: of the money he had brought with him, not a penny remained.

This is a taste of the life of the poor, he thought: to have no facility for washing the body or the clothing, and to stink as a matter of course. He thought of the Ash-Pits, that malodorous huddle of one-roomed hovels where the lowest of Lower Beversley had lived – the drunkards, the feckless, the aged crone Goody Firkin, reduced to beggary.

And the children who grew up there. He had never faced it before, the squalor of his Susan’s childhood in deep poverty where want and disease claimed the lives of half the infants and women were old at thirty. Himself a child of comfortable minor gentry, never lacking for food, warmth and shelter, he had not had the slightest knowledge of what his wife’s life had really been like.

But now he felt he knew.

On arrival at the Wheatsheaf at Belhampton, he climbed stiffly down. The landlord stared at his creased and crumpled appearance, hatless and chilled by the journey; having no money, Edward refused a hot drink and asked for his box. He took out a grey jacket and a pair of buff breeches and changed into them, rolling up his black clerical garb.

‘Is there a wash-house nearby where I may leave some garments to collect in a day or two?’ he enquired.

‘We send our linen out to a washerwoman a couple o’ streets away,’ replied the man, eyeing him curiously. ‘If ye care to leave it here, sir, I’ll send a boy over wi’ it. And d’ye want to hire a gig, sir, fur yeself and the box?’

‘No, a good walk will stretch my legs. I’ll take this washing to the woman myself, and send for my belongings tomorrow, with payment for storage,’ replied Edwards, ashamed that anybody should see the state of his new clothes.

The washerwoman grimaced when she saw them.

‘Them’ll need careful hot pressin’ after washin’ out them kind o’ stains,’ she said, and demanded half payment on the spot. When he said he had no money on him she at first refused to accept the work, and only when he gave his address as Bever House did she reluctantly agree. Tired, cold and unrefreshed, he then set off to walk the five-mile distance, but before he was out of Belhampton a man’s voice called his name.

‘Good heavens! It
is
you, Parson Calthorpe – but this is providential, sir!’

Edward recognised the man-midwife, and felt at a disadvantage.

‘Let us walk together, Calthorpe, for I have to speak with you on a matter of the utmost gravity,’ went on the doctor quickly, seeing this meeting as a heaven-sent opportunity to save Susan the shame of sending her husband to him. ‘I take it that you are just returned from Oxford?’

Edward bowed, not wanting to be delayed further, especially by this man whose partnership with Susan was something that he had never quite trusted. And
a matter of the utmost gravity
had echoes of what Sophia had said; he was put on his guard, and was reluctant to parley with the doctor, to whom he gave the slightest of nods.

In the fading afternoon light Parnham took in the young man’s wan appearance – almost as if he had been indulging in some kind of dissipation, the doctor thought. And surely the Oxford stage had arrived soon after midday: it was now past six. And why was the man on foot, with no luggage and nobody to meet him?

‘You look cold from your journey, Calthorpe,’ he said. ‘There is a quiet little tavern over there, where we may talk.’

‘You will excuse me, sir,’ said Edward shortly. ‘I am on my way home, and have already been delayed for long enough.’

‘Stay, Edward, I crave but a little of your time. I promised Susan that I would speak with you, but I hardly dared hope for such an early opportunity to do so. For her sake, stay and hear me out, I beg of you.’

He laid a restraining hand on Edward’s arm to guide him towards the open doorway of the tavern, but Edward sharply withdrew.

‘Take your hand off me, damn you,’ he snapped, his pale features flushing. ‘And don’t ever dare to speak of Mrs Calthorpe in that familiar way.’

Parnham recoiled before the glare of the icy blue eyes.