Another Kind of Life (30 page)

‘And I expect all of them to be filled. In due course, naturally.’ He was smoking, looking away from her as he said this. She waited until he turned to face her again, his expression
serious. Now it was her turn.

‘Well, I expect that’s up to you. I can’t do it on my own.’

Delighted, he beamed at her.

‘That’s my girl.’

She didn’t tell him what she already suspected. Something felt different inside her. It was far too soon to tell for certain, she knew that, but she was learning to trust her intuition. It
felt good. The prospect of a baby made the excitement of having her own home even greater. She didn’t care how modest it was. It would be hers, to make beautiful, show to her sisters, to
enjoy as a statement of her new status as wife and mother.

She wondered at how fickle she was. For now, she missed nothing of her previous life – not her music, not her sisters, not her old home, nothing. She wondered how long it could last.

M
ARY
WAS
DREAMING
. It was a dream filled with liquid noises, muffled echoes that seemed familiar but
never quite came into focus. At one point, she seemed to be in the middle of the rippling, undulating noise herself, conscious that she was asleep, aware that this was a dream from which she
wasn’t quite ready to waken. Suddenly, the noises seemed to solidify, to be identifiable as running feet: more than that, as feet running up a stairway. She jerked awake, seconds before the
frantic knocking on her doorway and Miss Mulqueen’s high-pitched voice.

‘Mary! Mary! Get up quickly, please! We need you to go for the midwife!’

The footsteps retreated rapidly, before Mary had time to respond. She stumbled around in the dark, pulling on her woollen dress, feeling around on the floor for her boots. She could finish
dressing later – this was enough for running down the street and around the corner. She pulled her shawl from the back of the small chair and threw it over her shoulders. She didn’t
stop to wonder about the panic in Miss Mulqueen’s voice: she was an excitable creature at the best of times. Surely there was no need for such urgency in a house as well appointed and as
experienced as this one? Even in Carrick Hill, birth was, more often than not, routine. She clattered down the back stairway and ran straight into the housekeeper. The gas lamps had been turned up
in the kitchen, and Miss Mulqueen was vainly attempting to light the range, which looked as though it had recently gone out. The October chill was everywhere, the damp insinuating itself into every
corner of the kitchen. Mary shivered, suddenly wishing she had taken the time to put on her stockings.

‘Be very quick, Mary,’ said Miss Mulqueen. Her face was grey with anxiety. ‘The master is worried – Madam has lost a lot of blood.’

Mary nodded. She’d better hurry.

‘I’ll be as quick as I can. There’s some kerosene in the scullery cupboard – throw a wee drop in the back of the range, and stand well back before you light
it.’

Miss Mulqueen looked horrified. Mary shook her head at her impatiently, pulling her shawl around her more tightly.

‘It’s safe, as long as you do it right. Leave it – I’ll do it when I get back. Twenty minutes’ll make no difference, one way or th’other.’

Gathering up her dress, she ran down the garden path and turned right into Dunlambert Drive. Mrs Croft lived just a few minutes away – but it was the return journey that worried Mary. The
midwife was elderly now, and not sure of her footing. Mary wondered how long it would take them to get back. There was probably nothing to worry about – a fourth child should be
straightforward enough; Miss Mulqueen always did like to dramatize.

Mary turned off Dunlambert into Seaview Drive. Here the houses were smaller, more crowded, some with a tiny patch of front garden – but still, a whole universe away from Carrick Hill. She
hammered on the door of number seven, suddenly realizing she didn’t know what time it was.

The top window opened. Mary saw the grey head, the short-sighted eyes peering down at her.

‘It’s Mary, Mrs Croft; Mr Long has sent me to get you. Madam needs your help.’

The window closed as abruptly as it had opened. Mary waited, stamping her boots on the damp ground, blowing on her hands with frosty breath in a vain attempt to warm them. The front door
opened.

‘What’s up, child?’

Mrs Croft was pulling on a warm coat. Mary was surprised at its quality, until she remembered that a midwife would need such a coat, being called out at all hours in all seasons. She was
frowning now at Mary, impatient, cranky at having been woken.

‘Miss Mulqueen says Madam has lost a lot of blood and . . .’

Mrs Croft grabbed Mary’s arm.

‘Quick, child! Not another word! Go for Dr Abernethy, quickly now – mind you say I sent you . . . not Mr Long.’

And she was gone, making her way up the street with surprising agility.

Mary did as she was told.

It all took no longer than twenty minutes, but they were too late. By the time they returned to Fortwilliam Park, the house was filled with a strange silence. Time seemed to hang suspended.
There was no flurry of activity on their arrival, no running footsteps up and down the stairs telling them there was still time, there were still things to be done. Mary understood that quietness,
knew it all too well: that deep emptiness that filled a house when someone had gone, called by a sometimes merciless God.

Then a cry shattered the silence in waves, an unearthly howl that rushed to fill all the spaces left behind by the departing sea of silence.

‘Dear God,’ said Cook, suddenly appearing at Mary’s elbow. Her face crumpled, tears made their way down the cracks and crevices of her old cheeks.

‘Poor wee scrap,’ was all she said, over and over again.

The following days were long and busy. Women came and went quietly, whispering to each other. Dr Abernethy arrived, bringing a nurse with him. A large, competent woman, she was
a generous mix of warmth and briskness. Mary liked her.

‘A wee boy,’ she confided to Mary, outside the bedroom door, once the fire had been built up for the night and Madam was settled. ‘Lived only a few minutes, poor wee
dote.’

Mr Long went about his business like a quiet, grey ghost. There was an air of tension about the house which grew steadily with each passing day. Everyone felt it. There wasn’t even the
semblance of a return to normality. Even Nanny was worried, confiding her fears to Cook over the now nightly glasses of sherry in the kitchen.

Eventually, the master called them all together. It was just as Nanny had feared. The house was to be shut up, the trunks packed, the children organized. Madam was being taken to Switzerland,
where the air was pure. A full recovery was hoped for – perhaps in six months, perhaps in a year. Whatever it took. Mr Long’s voice was abrupt, clipped. No one dared question him as to
their futures. Mary felt all the old fears again. Back to her needle. But where would she live this time? Her old home was closed to her, barred and bolted by now, gone for good.

At a signal from the master, Miss Mulqueen stepped forward.

‘Mr and Mrs Long have been good enough to secure alternative positions for all of us. I have the details. Let us reconvene downstairs.’

A reprieve, perhaps. Mary felt her eyes fill. Too much death, too much of it. She had already seen more of its callous hand than she cared to. She wondered what was coming next.

M
AY
KISSED
THE
two children goodnight, feeling almost ill with anticipation and fear. It was a heady mix
– a rush of emotion that kept her senses almost unbearably sharpened, her nights restless.

Philippe would be waiting for her, impatiently, out in the dusky gardens, hidden from view. It was getting more and more difficult to get away – Nathalie demanded another story, just one
more. Ever since they had found the volume of fairy tales in English, hiding away in the old bookshop in Rouen, the child’s appetite for bedtime stories had become insatiable. Jean-Louis
pretended indifference, but May noticed that he lay very still and silent in his bed, listening as she read. Sometimes his thumb crept towards his mouth, giving May almost painful reminders of
Ellie. She read aloud as though reading to her younger sister; it helped her keep the tone light and affectionate. She simplified the language for them, too, but they didn’t know that.

‘You’ve had two long stories already, Nathalie! We’ll have none left for tomorrow!’

Laughing, May gave her one more hug. Privately, she thought the children were sent to bed much too early, particularly now that the weather had grown so much more bearable. This was the time of
day made for running around the garden, chasing, playing hide and seek in the cool of evening. The late-September evenings were beautiful in a way totally unfamiliar to May. Autumn had never looked
like this at home. She had found too much of the summer oppressive, and had learned to respect and fear the heat of the sun. Philippe had teased her about turning into a Frenchwoman. August had
proved almost too much for her; September was a welcome change. The autumnal air was still and fragrant in the late evenings, the light golden, making everything in the gardens assume an
astonishing clarity, as though each tree, each flowering shrub had become a picture of itself, painted carefully against a shimmering, haze-green background.

But Madame feared what she called its ‘treacherous chills’: she would have none of it where her children were concerned. Running around raised the temperature, which was bad. It made
Nathalie’s face red, which was unladylike. It dirtied the clothing, which was unseemly. Having known her now for four long months, May had learned to give up. She and Madame had developed an
uneasy distance, each circling the other warily. May had been surprised, and disappointed, that Madame so obviously disliked her. Her initial attitude of cool hostility had never wavered, and May
had wondered more than once why she had wanted to employ a governess at all. She guarded her household jealously, and seemed resentful that she had had to make space for someone else. And yet it
was she who had accepted Constance MacBride’s suggestion with alacrity, she who assured her that she had already been seeking a recommendation – a young woman of good character, quiet
disposition, willing to teach and care for an eight-year-old and a six-year-old. The correspondence between both women had been purposeful, enthusiastic and May had arrived, if not with the
expectation of happiness, then certainly with the anticipation of welcome. But that had not happened. Madame was permanently chilly, always waiting, it seemed to May, for her to do something
inappropriate. And now, it would appear, all of the woman’s suspicions had been well founded, though in a way she could hardly have foreseen. May felt herself begin to shiver, her stomach
turning equally with dread and delight, when she thought about what she and Philippe were about to reveal.

He would have to tell Madame
soon
, and his father. May couldn’t keep their secret any longer. October was almost here, and with it, the move back to Paris, the children’s
return to school. Preparations for that journey were well under way: Isabelle had already gone back to Paris to prepare the apartment for the family’s return. She had grumbled a little before
she left about the amount of cleaning and organizing she would have to do on her own.

May was fearful of this removal to the city. She knew that once Madame was aware of May’s new standing, she would no longer want her, that it would not be appropriate for her
husband’s future daughter-in-law to work in her home as little more than a maid. Nor would May wish that for herself, although she had lain awake most of the night recently, distressed at the
thought of her connection with Nathalie and Jean-Louis being cut in anger.

She had almost driven herself distracted in the last four weeks, ever since Philippe had asked her to marry him. He had warned her it would not be easy, that they would encounter a lot of
opposition. She had felt ready for anything then, thrilled and amazed that her feelings no longer had to be kept in check – that he loved her as she loved him. But now, she and Philippe
needed to make plans. She wanted to know what was going to happen to her once the summer was over. Was she to seek another position, or would they simply marry at once, having overcome all
obstacles? What was she to go to Paris
as
? Governess, wife, disgraced foreigner? May did not like this feeling of her life being out of control. She wanted everything
settled
, so that
she would know how to behave, could understand what was expected of her. She wished Hannah was here: she needed to tell her in person how wonderful Philippe was, how much she loved him, how he in
turn adored her.

She made her way quietly down the servants’ stairs and out into the darkening courtyard. The air was filled with the hectic cries of crickets, the evening heavy with the scent of jasmine.
May felt herself expand with pleasure: this was the sort of place one should live, be happy in. It was open, free, the air warm and glorious. Paris would be different, of course, but at least she
would always have the summers to look forward to. Her life stretched before her, a wonderful vista of city and country, Philippe, children of their own.

He was standing under the oak tree, his white shirt almost translucent in the fading light. He moved towards her quickly, burying his face in her hair.

‘May,’ he whispered, kissing her, pulling her to him. She loved the way he said her name. ‘I thought you were not coming.’

She smiled up at him.

‘You can blame your little sister. She can’t get enough stories.’

‘I have very little time.’

He pulled away from her, his face serious. May could feel her smile collapse, her happiness crumble. Something was wrong. She had that sense of dread, familiar to her ever since she was a child,
that her whole world was just about to implode.

‘Philippe – what is it?’