by Liz Trenow
‘It’s that time of year,’ Louisa said, trying to reassure me. ‘It’s only come on in the past day or so, nothing to warrant calling the doctor. He’ll be better in the morning.’
I slept poorly again, tossing and turning with dreams of silk and loss, but the following day she was proved right. By the time I rose, stiff and aching from the rigours of my journey, Peter was already up and dressed, with a great deal more colour to his cheeks, impatient to get on with the important business of the day.
For Christmas Eve is when we bring greenery into the house, to decorate the hallway, drawing room and dining room. Ambrose disapproves, claiming it to be a heathen custom, but the parishioners seem determined to decorate the church in the same way, so he has decided not to oppose them. Besides, Peter enjoys it, and Ambrose finds him difficult to deny. It has become a tradition for the pair of us to venture out, whatever the weather, gathering holly and ivy. It keeps us out of mischief, as my sister says, while she and cook are about their labours in the kitchen.
The weather was grey but not so cold as the previous day. We donned coats and hats and went via the gardener’s shed to collect a sack, a pruning knife and two pairs of sturdy gloves. There is nothing better than setting about a joint task to help ease the flow of conversation. As we searched for holly with its berries as yet uneaten by the birds, Peter talked about how his team had triumphed in the school rounders tournament. And then, stripping long strands of ivy from the trunks of oaks, he told me about how, after hearing raised voices from Ambrose’s study, he’d seen the church warden marching out, slamming the door, never to be seen since.
‘Is this the father of your friend, Gabriel?’
His face was sadder than I’d seen for a long time. ‘I keep hoping he will come back.’
‘Perhaps he will, some time. Perhaps your . . . Ambrose’ – I could not bring myself to call him ‘your father’ – ‘and Gabriel’s father will make up their differences.’
‘I hope so. I miss him.’ My heart yearned for the boys, their new friendship and their chess games ended so abruptly because of an argument between two bull-headed men.
But Peter was soon distracted. As we cut some handsome stands of glossy laurel he told me about going with his mother to Westford Hall, and how the youngest daughter of the house was the prettiest girl he had ever seen. When I asked whether she was likely to be in attendance at church for the Christmas Eve service he reddened to the tips of his ears.
By the time we got home the house was filled with wonderful aromas of baking and spices to which we added the smells of resinous pine and the aromatic rosemary plucked from the bush that grows so abundantly by the back door.
That afternoon we exchanged gifts, and I held my breath as Peter unwrapped his new jacket and went immediately to try it on. It fitted a little loosely on account of the growing room I had allowed, but he declared himself delighted. He would wear it to church. When I pointed out the oak design of the linings Ambrose quoted the old saw about ‘mighty oaks from little acorns grow’, and Peter squirmed with embarrassment.
Later, as his sweet voice reverberated through the church, singing the first verse of While Shepherds Watched unaccompanied by choir or band, I found my eyes filled with tears of joy and pride. Christmas was truly here, and as I climbed into my bed that night, my spirits could not have been higher. Thoughts of broaching with Louisa the subject of the silk were far from my mind.
Christmas morning brings more churchgoing, followed by the usual delicious dinner of goose and plum pudding, after which we clear up and take a brief rest before visitors from the parish arrive for tea. It was already gone seven by the time everyone had gone home, and I felt exhausted from making small talk with strangers, neighbours, parishioners and diocesan folk, and handing out drinks and the small savoury delicacies and cakes that Louisa and cook had managed to produce in almost endless supply.
I added another log to the fire in the living room and collapsed into a chair. Louisa joined me, sinking onto the chair opposite and pulling off her lace cap with a long, satisfied sigh. She looked as exhausted as I felt.
‘What a successful day, sister,’ I said. ‘You are a very generous hostess.’
‘I think Peter enjoyed himself too, do you not? That jacket is your best yet – I overheard him receiving several compliments.’
‘Sewing is the best way I know of showing my love for him.’
‘He deserved it. He’s a good lad,’ she said, fondly.
‘He is lucky to have such a loving family,’ I said. ‘It is my good fortune, too, Louisa.’
She leaned across to the small side table, retrieved her part-knitted mitten and began to untangle the wool.
‘Indeed, that good fortune was brought home to me only the other day,’ I went on. ‘You know I told you about that young woman I met in the street, who was offering me her baby?’
She twisted the wool around the needle and turned a stitch. ‘Did you ever find out what happened to her?’
‘Not exactly,’ I said. ‘But Jane Hogarth told me they had found the baby on the steps of the Foundling Hospital, and taken it in.’
‘How did she know it was that baby?’
I told her about the note. ‘Anyway, I was very relieved to hear that the baby was safe. I hope that one day she will be able to go and retrieve the child.’
Louisa nodded and continued her work. The fire crackled in the grate.
‘Jane said it reminded her of something William told her one day, when he came home from one of his meetings at the Hospital.’ Louisa twisted another thread, hooking it with practised fingers. ‘She said the mothers left tokens to prove their parentage, in case they wanted to claim the baby back later. It made me wonder what kind of token our mother left for me.’
The fingers stilled now, and she seemed to be studying the ball of yarn in her lap as I gabbled on. ‘Of course, when you went to find me they’d have known you were my sister at once without any such proof, for we’re like two peas in a pod, don’t you think?’ My words came out all wrong, nerves getting the better of me. ‘Really, dearest, I’m just being silly. It doesn’t matter. What Jane said made me curious, that is all.’
When at last Louisa raised her head, her dark eyes were burning. ‘We surely owe Mr and Mrs Hogarth a great debt of gratitude for helping to bring us together,’ she said in the slow, deliberate tone of one trying to control their anger. ‘And I know that she has long been a great friend and patron of yours. Being reunited with you has brought me the greatest happiness in the world, Agnes, and perhaps it would never have happened without her. But I wish she would stop interfering.’
‘She was not interfering, she was just . . .’ The words dried in my mouth.
‘It is none of her business, Agnes. Remember that.’ She gave me a look that could have sliced through stone.
‘My life would be nothing without you, Louisa. I love you deeply.’ My voice sounded brittle, over-bright, and I could feel the tell-tale prickle of tears already forming at the back of my eyes. ‘Had you not come to find me, I would probably have been fending for myself on the streets, and heaven knows what I would have done with Peter. He might even have ended up in that terrible place too.’
She started, as though stung. ‘Was it so terrible? I thought you were well treated there? At least you were clothed and fed, and received an education. Better than I ever knew.’
‘Of course, they did their best for us,’ I said, relieved that the conversation had moved on, her anger diverted. We had talked about my early years in the Hospital before, of course, shortly after being reunited, but never recently. It felt like firmer ground. ‘In many ways we were fortunate; it was better than being abandoned or left for dead, like so many others. But our hearts ached for love.’
‘It breaks my heart to hear you speak so.’
‘But I was one of the lucky ones. Luckier than I could ever have imagined. You came along and found me. We found our love for each other.’ She smiled and turned back
to her work. The storm had calmed and I should have stopped there, grateful for the reprieve; but something compelled me onwards.
‘Don’t you wish, too, that you could have known our mother better? I mean . . .’ I avoided looking up for fear that her expression might stop the words in my mouth. ‘If she was so destitute, where did she get hold of that silk?’
‘What silk? You are talking in riddles, dearest.’
‘The silk she left as a token. It is exactly the same as the silk I showed you at the shop, remember, when you last visited?’
It was clear that my words had caught her off guard. ‘What . . .? How do you know . . .?’
‘It was something Jane told me . . .’
Louisa stood suddenly, putting aside her knitting and moving over to the mantel, turning her back to me. ‘I really don’t know what you are talking about, Agnes. Why do you persist in asking such questions? How am I expected to remember any details from all those years ago?’
She began to snuff out the sconces between finger and thumb, careless of the burn it must have caused. ‘Why is it so important to know every wretched detail of our past? Can you not be content with the life you have, the family you have? You have us, you have your shop, your independence. Many would be envious of your lot.’
I tried to adopt what I hoped was a conciliatory tone. ‘I’m just curious. About the coincidence, that is all.’ I had goaded her to anger twice, and could not risk it again.
‘Coincidence?’ she scoffed. ‘More likely a mix-up at that wretched Hospital. You should not be so credulous, Agnes. Jane Hogarth should stop her meddling. Can you really trust what she says about something that happened so many years ago? Old women become forgetful, you know.’ She lit two chamber sticks that had been left on a side table and handed one to me before extinguishing the remaining sconce with a decisive puff. ‘And now I am going to retire. There is much to do in the morning. We shall not speak of this again.’
I followed her meekly up the stairs. At the landing, she turned away before our customary goodnight kiss, and I went to my room with a heavy heart.
My candle soon burned away, and lying in the cold bed in the dark lent me plenty of opportunity to berate myself. What a fool I was, so anxious to solve every mystery of life. Why had I pursued my questioning to the bitter end, antagonising my dearest sister? And, in the end, to no avail.
She was right. I enjoyed a life many would envy: why did I need more? I must leave it be, for now. My relationship with Louisa was too precious to jeopardise.
I was drifting off to sleep when I heard voices.
At first I believed them to be coming from outside in the street; men returning from the inn, perhaps, a little worse for beer. But it was a woman’s voice, followed by an anguished cry that made me sit up and then climb from the bed, taking the few short paces to the window. Outside, the street was in darkness, no torches or movement, all still.
The man’s voice came again, a deep rumble that I now realised emanated from inside the house. I ran to the bedroom door and opened it as silently as I could. Listening further, it became clear that it was Ambrose.
‘. . . you know perfectly well. Do not anger me further, wife.’ Something banged, like a book thrown to the floor, so suddenly that it made me start.
A pause, and then Louisa’s voice, pleading. ‘But Jane Hogarth . . .’
A chill draught seemed to creep along the landing. They were talking about me.
‘What if . . .?’
‘That is my final word. Otherwise I will not be held responsible for the consequences.’
They must have moved further into the room, for the conversation became muffled and inaudible, although his voice was still raised. A second later there was a second banging noise, followed by a harsh squeal.
And then nothing. What was going on now?
I listened into the silence until my ears burned. I longed to run along the corridor to find out what was happening, and had to engage every muscle in my body to hold myself back. After several long minutes I managed to persuade myself that I must not interfere.
Closing the door, I retreated to my bed once more. But there was to be no sleep for me that night. What had she told Ambrose that so angered him? What was it that he was so adamant I should never know? My wretched curiosity had already tested her patience and resulted in an ill-tempered exchange with her husband. Why had I been so weak, and meek, and not rushed to the aid of my sister? But there was nothing more I could do now, for fear of causing even further upset.
It was already dawn when I finally fell into a deep sleep, and by the time I woke the household was silent. I guessed that Ambrose was already out on his rounds. My sister was chopping vegetables in the kitchen. I glanced at her, covertly checking for any sign of bruises or scratches. But there was no indication of injury, nor did she seem to be suffering any pain as she moved.
‘You have missed breakfast,’ she said calmly, as though nothing of the previous evening had taken place. ‘I hope you are not unwell, dearest?’
‘It is nothing, thank you. Just a little disturbed in the night.’
Her knife paused a second, before resuming its work. ‘What was it?’
‘Probably just some voices in the street.’
‘Those men spend every evening at the inn. It is a mystery how their wives tolerate it.’ She retrieved a pot and lifted the chopped vegetables into it. ‘Cook is seeing her family today, and I must prepare this so I can get the meat on to broil. Help yourself to bread and butter. There’s cheese in the larder, or preserve if you prefer. The pan is on for coffee. We can walk after luncheon if that suits, once Peter is home from his friend’s?’
It was as though the previous night’s events had never taken place. As time went by I became more convinced that my imagination had run away with itself, heightened by anxiety and the darkness of the hour, and the noises I’d overheard were easily explained: simply the banging of a door and the closure of a squeaky drawer.
Even so the uneasiness remained, along with a feeling of guilt for having caused discord between my sister and her husband. I sensed that raising the topic may have put her in danger, and I must never ask again.
I marvelled at the way she could resume such a normal, easy tone, regardless of the fractiousness between us just a few hours before. How I blessed what appeared to be her infinite capacity for forgiveness. Perhaps that is what happens, in families.
A few moments later we heard the front door and Ambrose entered and, without taking off his coat, slumped heavily onto a chair.
She went immediately to his side. ‘My poor dear. Let me get you a cup of something? Hot milk, perhaps?’
He brushed her hand away a little too brusquely. ‘Leave me be, wife. I don’t need you fussing.’
The room fell into an uncomfortable silence. At last she ventured, ‘And who have you been visiting this morning, dearest?’
He sighed. ‘Old Chapman.’
‘His lungs playing up again?’
‘Not this time. He has a high fever and a rash. I called for the doctor and waited for his visit. He says the old fellow may not be long for this world.’
‘Oh no! Poor Mr C. Whatever ails him this time?’
Ambrose lowered his voice. ‘The doctor fears it may be the typhus.’
11
Mob cap: also known as a ‘bonnet’. A hair covering made of round, gathered or pleated cloth (usually linen) worn for undress under a linen caul, with frilled or ruffled brim and lace lappets to either side of the face.
The word snatched at my heart. Typhus. A terrifying scourge that seems to have no pity, sparing no one in its path, whatever their age or circumstances.
Louisa went deathly pale. ‘But I thought that was one of the reasons we left the city, Ambrose. How can typhus come here into the countryside, where the air is so healthy?’
The disease is common in prisons, of course, and no one is overly concerned about the deaths of a few villains. But it is no respecter
of status; it was said that a judge and a lawyer had died of it only a few years ago. It has also been known to occur in quite ordinary small towns and villages far from the city. No one can understand how it travels so fast and attacks so indiscriminately.
Ambrose shrugged. ‘Chapman said there was a lad loitering around the cross not so long ago. Word was he’d been in gaol and was trying to trace his family around these parts. Perhaps he brought it with him.’
‘I hope he’s been sent packing?’
‘He hasn’t been seen since.’
‘My darling,’ she said. ‘You must not visit the Chapmans again, please. Will you promise me?’
‘It is my duty.’ Ambrose straightened his back, lifting his chin and rolling his eyes to the sky as he does in the pulpit. ‘Jesus commanded us, remember? “Is anyone among you sick? Let them call the elders of the church to pray over them and anoint them with oil in the name of the Lord.” We shall know soon whether it is as the doctor fears but until then, dear heart, there is no need to distress yourself. The Lord will protect us.’ He rose from his seat. ‘There is nothing further to be done today except for commending Mr Chapman and his family in our prayers.’
Panic threw my head into confusion. I had been planning to return to London the following morning, for there were two important clients booked, both requiring urgent alterations to the gowns they planned to wear for the prestigious Twelfth Night ball at the Inns of Court. But how could I leave my precious boy in danger?
Ambrose retired to his study, and we were alone again. ‘I’ve been thinking, sister. Why don’t I take Peter back with me, to keep him safe?’
Her brow puckered in puzzlement. ‘Are you fully in command of your senses, Agnes? School starts next week. Why would he want to go to London?’
‘Just for a few weeks. I cannot bear him being in danger of the typhus.’ Peter has my blood running in his veins but I have never been able to mother him, not in the truest sense. The burden of grief and guilt weighs heavily, every moment of every day.
