Honey's Farm (46 page)

‘I'm going to take time off soon,' Eline said. ‘I need to rest before the baby is born.' She seemed sad rather than elated, her eyes shadowed, her mouth etched with lines of weariness.

‘I'm sorry,' Arian said quickly. ‘I don't think I realized how far along you are – I mean the baby – it will be born soon?'

‘Quite soon,' Eline agreed, ‘and in my absence I want you to take complete and sole charge of the workshop and the other workers.'

She smiled, and her features softened. ‘You are young, but already you have an air of authority, and you know how to manage people. You are quick to learn, and I want you to have your chance to rise to the top of the cordwaining profession. There will be a substantial rise, of course, and a house and staff of your own.'

Arian felt elated. This was something she had not imagined in her wildest dreams. ‘I'm honoured,' she said quickly, ‘if you really think I can do it.'

‘I do, or I wouldn't be offering,' Eline said firmly. ‘Now, one thing, what's really happened between you and Price? Is there a problem?'

Arian looked at Eline thoughtfully. ‘Yes, I'll admit there is a problem, but one I'd much rather deal with myself.'

Eline seemed to relax. ‘I hoped you'd say that.' She smiled. ‘That's the stuff good managers are made of.' She pointed to the desk. ‘Now, I think I should show you all the account books. You must see what we are owed by our various customers. You will be responsible for keeping the records of what is paid into the club each week.'

‘Not enough is paid in, that much is obvious to me,' Arian said quickly.

Eline returned her smile. ‘No, not enough,' she agreed, ‘but the object isn't really to make money.'

‘I realize that,' Arian said. ‘The object, as I see it, is to provide shoes for those who can't really afford them while letting them keep their pride.'

‘Perhaps,' Eline said, ‘but I want you to organize things better for me. At the moment it is all rather haphazard; payments come in irregularly, and it's difficult to keep an accurate check on it all.'

Eline smiled. ‘My husband looks on the business as a way of saving some of his taxes, because the workshop does not make a profit, you see.'

Arian didn't see, but she would, she vowed; she would learn the entire business from the inside out.

Eline took a red book out of the drawer and spread it open on the table. ‘Have a look, at your leisure,' she said. ‘I've got a carriage coming to take me home in about half an hour, and I'll tell you something, I'll be glad to have a rest; my back aches like toothache.'

She handed Arian a bunch of keys. ‘These are yours to take charge of, and, Arian, I have every confidence in your ability to run a first-class enterprise.' She smiled. ‘I wouldn't be surprised if somehow you managed even to make a profit.'

Arian felt elated. ‘Why are you doing all this for me, when you have other, more experienced shoemakers working for you?' she asked.

‘Perhaps because I see a little of myself in you, perhaps because I'm pleased to see a woman making a success of things; but most of all because you have the ability to assimilate all aspects of the shoemaking business.'

‘I'm not quite sure what you mean by that last statement,' Arian said thoughtfully.

‘Some people are cobblers, some designers, some only see one straight track before them. You have vision; I think you will make a name for yourself some time in the future. You have courage, Arian, and I admire that.'

Eline rose. ‘I'm going to talk to the others in the shop, tell them what I've decided. They won't like it, I warn you of that now; but it's up to you how you handle things.'

Arian looked down at the keys in her hand and for a moment she was frightened. Of all the staff who worked for Eline, Price was the one she most feared trouble from. She squared her shoulders; she could handle Price Davies, she told herself. But a cold hand of doubt reached out and touched her shoulder. Arian shuddered; she
could
deal with the situation, she must – she had no option.

Eline sank on to the bed and closed her eyes. It was so good to rest. She felt tired and disillusioned with life, and it seemed she was in a trap with no way out. Here she was expecting a baby, the child of the man she really loved; but that man was not her husband.

As for Calvin, he was looking forward so much to having an heir, a son who would some day take over the Temple empire. His delight only served to fuel Eline's terrible feelings of guilt; how could she let him believe that everything in the garden was wonderful when it was all a lie?

‘My darling!' The door had opened and Calvin appeared at the side of the bed as if in answer to her thoughts. He fell on to his knees and took her hand tenderly in his. ‘Are you all right? Are you having pains? Is the baby coming?'

She smiled and touched his cheek. ‘No, silly, it's not due for a few weeks yet.' She looked up at him, but her eyes failed to meet his. ‘I'm just a bit tired, that's all. I'll sleep for a while and then, I'm sure, I'll feel much better.'

‘My dear girl, whatever you want.' Calvin kissed her forehead, pushing aside a stray curl, his mouth turning up into a smile. Eline touched his cheek briefly, the words of her awful confession trembling on her lips; and then, wearily, she closed her eyes.

When Eline awoke, it was to find that she'd slept for longer than she'd intended. She sat up and stared around the elegant room, feeling disorientated, wondering, for a moment, where she was. Then, remembering, she covered her eyes with her hands as a feeling of unhappiness swamped her. She was living a lie, and she felt she couldn't bear it any longer; she must tell Calvin the truth, that the baby she was carrying might not be his. Any decision he might make then, she would abide by. Anything was better than this awful, tearing unhappiness and guilt. In any case, her disturbed emotions could not be doing her child any good.

She slid from the bed, staring out of the window unseeingly for a moment, undecided what to do next. A nice warm bath and a change of clothes might make her feel better, she decided; then, perhaps, a walk through the gardens to blow away the cobwebs that clouded her mind?

Eline reached out to ring the bell for the maid, and it was then that the pain caught her. She doubled up, clutching her stomach, gasping as the pain strengthened and tightened around her body. It was as though an iron hand was wrapping itself around her, gripping mercilessly.

But it was too early for the baby to come – weeks too early, she thought in panic.

With an effort, Eline pulled at the silken rope that hung beside the mantelpiece, and somewhere in the deep kitchen regions of the house she knew a bell would ring and bring someone to help her.

She slumped back on the bed and bit her lip to stop herself from crying out. How did women bear this tearing pain, time after time, giving birth to a brood of children?

Eline closed her eyelids tightly together, feeling sweat bead her brow; she heard a low guttural moan and knew with surprise that it was her own.

When the pain receded, she became aware of the frightened face of one of the maids staring at her from the doorway. The girl bobbed a curtsey, unsure what she should do next.

‘Send Lord Temple to me,' Eline gasped, trying to resist the panic that was deepening as her pains increased.

‘He's gone out, my lady.' The maid bobbed a curtsey once more, her face white. ‘But I'll tell the housekeeper to come, shall I?'

‘Just see that the midwife and the doctor are sent for.' Eline regained some of her composure; there was no point in giving in to the fear that beat through her at the thought of being alone in her ordeal, with only strangers to tend her.

The maid disappeared and shortly afterwards the housekeeper knocked on the door. ‘Everything is under control, my lady.'

Mrs Mort was the antithesis of all her name suggested. She was plump and smiling, her cheeks pink, her eyes those of a startled baby, wide and blue. And more, Eline saw with a sense of relief, she was the embodiment of reassurance.

‘Come, my lady, me and Bella will change you into a fresh gown and get you as comfy as we can by the time the midwife comes.'

She talked smoothly and quietly, her smile motherly, and Eline was suddenly aware of how little she'd been involved with her staff. She had been remiss, had failed to get to know the people who worked in the house, and it was a wonder that she was being shown such kindness now.

‘Thank you, Mrs Mort,' she said breathlessly. ‘I'm very grateful.'

‘No trouble at all. Fetch a basin of warm water, Bella!' Mrs Mort addressed the maid a little sharply, for the girl was standing around, arms hanging at her side, as though she was at a loss what to do next.

‘Move, girl!' Mrs Mort carefully undressed Eline, her hands gentle. ‘I'll give your face a little swill,' she said. ‘It will freshen you up a bit, make you feel better.'

Eline grimaced. ‘I don't think anything is going to make me feel better. I feel already as if I've been wrung out through the mangle.'

‘Don't you worry,' Mrs Mort said. ‘More women have babies than you'd imagine; they do it every day – can't be anything to it. Never had any myself, but then it's a natural enough happening, so it can't be all that bad, can it?'

Eline felt like telling Mrs Mort that she should try childbirth herself before being so confident; but another pain washed over her and she bit her lip, lowering her chin against her chest, eyes tightly closed.

It was a relief when the midwife came bustling into the bedroom, her tall, imposing figure swathed in white, a large bag under her arm.

‘Good evening to you then, Mother,' she said, briskly. ‘Let's clear this room and see what's happening, shall we?'

Underneath the cover of the sheet, the midwife prodded and probed and emerged satisfied. ‘Right, we're doing fine.' She smiled rather grimly as she patted Eline's stomach with little respect. ‘Coming a bit early, isn't it?' Her voice held a note of accusation, as though Eline had been a disobedient child.

‘I think so,' Eline agreed unsteadily. ‘Will it be all right – the baby, I mean?'

‘Well, I didn't think you meant next door's cat,' the midwife said acidly; but she didn't, Eline noticed, answer the question. She folded her arms across her thin chest. ‘I'm Mrs Conran,' she introduced herself. ‘I believe Dr Mayberry is attending you?' She sniffed. ‘He's very
young
.'

She uttered the word ‘young' as though it was something contagious, and Eline half-smiled before another band of pain began to tighten around her body.

‘Breathe easy, now,' Mrs Conran urged. ‘Don't fight against the pain, just let yourself go with it, and it'll all be over before you know what's happened.'

Eline moaned softly. The pains were rapidly intensifying; she didn't think she could bear it, and she sucked in her breath sharply.

The midwife urged her to lean forward and proceeded to rub Eline's spine in a way that was strangely comforting. ‘Come on, now, you can do this; it's nature's way, after all, nothing to worry about.'

Eline's head began to spin. In her mind she was confusing the midwife with the housekeeper, though Mrs Mort and Mrs Conran couldn't have been more different from each other.

Eline wished Calvin would come home. His presence was always so reassuring; she always felt that he was in complete control of every situation. But what he could not help her with, she told herself ruefully, was this struggle that was going on within her. She alone was responsible for bringing a child into the world, a child whose parentage was in question.

When the doctor arrived, he took charge and instructed Eline to kneel on the bed with her hands grasping the brass bedstead for support. The midwife clucked her tongue in disapproval, but Eline's only concern was that she had gained a little comfort from the new position.

When the pains started to come at rapidly decreasing intervals, she tried to relax, to go with the flow, as Mrs Conran had told her; but it was becoming more and more difficult to keep a hold on reality. Images danced before her closed eyes, images of Honey's Farm, of the wide rolling spaces on the hilltop. Then, as though chronicling her life, she saw images of Joe, of the oyster boats, of Nina Parks stealing her husband from her. And Gwyneth, dead now, arm in arm with Will.

‘Will!' The name was torn from her lips as a surge of strength forced the last effort. There was a sudden silence, and then the angry cry of a baby.

‘Good girl!' Mrs Conran enthused, but there was an odd note in her voice. ‘It's over.' Eline knew the woman must be wondering why a woman would call out a name at the moment of childbirth that was not her husband's.

‘Let's just see what you have here, Mother. Well, now, it's a fine handsome son, a small but perfect little boy; your husband will be pleased.'

She wrapped the baby in a sheet and held him up. ‘Just look at him and
listen
to him! Fine pair of lungs he's got; aye, he'll do.'

Mrs Conran was as proud as if she'd borne the child herself. She gently wiped the baby's mouth and eyes, her smile broad.

‘Here,' she said to Eline, ‘hold him while I see to the rest of the job.' She glanced up at the doctor, as though his presence was superfluous, as indeed it was.

‘No need to hang around, Doctor,' she said firmly. ‘I'll see to Mother now.'

Eline looked down at her son as he nestled in her arms. She searched the screwed-up face, and her heart lurched as she saw, immediately, a great likeness to Will. The hair, the thrust of the chin, the shape of the eyebrows shouted the baby's paternity. Or was it, Eline thought, all a product of her guilty conscience?

By the time Calvin returned, Eline was propped up with a multitude of pillows, the baby, neatly wrapped and dressed, lying against her breast.