by Peg Kingman
“Of course four months is nothing, in geological time,” said Mrs Chambers to her husband that evening in their bedroom, as he undressed, “but in Spring Gardens time—in Balderstone time—well! I had begun to suppose that she might never go! I had begun to fear that she might indeed remain here with us upon a geological time scale: for an epoch—an age—an era! Bullying the children all the while! She advised Nina, by way of farewell, that by drawing anatomical subjects she was blighting not only her own marriage prospects, but those of her sisters also; and counseled her to stick to flowers—or butterflies, if she must.”
“My brother tells me that at his house, lacking children to scold,” said Mr Chambers, climbing into bed beside his wife, “she endeavors instead to improve the morals of his servants. Well, there was not much of pleasure to be had from her visit—and it must have been far more disagreeable for you, my dear, than for me—bearing her company as you did, day after day.”
“I had to bite my tongue nearly to bleeding, on several occasions; but I can declare in good conscience that I never quite said anything altogether rude to her, despite severe provocation. Though I did run dangerously near it, once or twice, in defense of Mrs MacAdam.”
“Paragon! Virtue beyond compare!” said he, teasingly.
“Nay, it was only because I had resolved never to owe her any apology; so it was pride, you see, which regulated my speech; not virtue at all.”
“Well, as your conduct has been blameless, we need not inquire too closely into the purity of your motives. You have earned garlands of laurels, and wreaths of olive branches. But I should like to point out that Lady Janet—vastly trying though she was—has demonstrated during her residence with us an important principle of great interest to geologists.”
“Has she? What do you mean?”
“We have had demonstrated in our own house, under our very noses,” said he, “the immense cumulative result which can be effected by even a puny and minuscule cause—such as erosion, or sedimentation, or a lady with a pen—when in operation over a sufficiently vast span of time. I believe that she quite nearly finished blackening one entire side of that cabinet, one slight penstroke at a time; and in so doing, she has—unwittingly—furnished evidence in support of a theory which she would probably disapprove on doctrinal grounds. She has proven the Adequacy of Actual Causes.”
“Oh! Aye, she would disapprove that principle, to be sure, if ever she heard of it,” said Mrs Chambers. “As for my part, I am only relieved that her pens, her brushes, her terrifying bottles of ink, are well away at last, out of the reach of Jemmie and Willie. During all these long months, I have been dreading a catastrophe to the landlord’s carpet; it might have happened at any moment.”
“Oh, aye, might have happened,” he agreed easily. “But—like so many of the innumerable catastrophes which might engulf us all at any moment—it did not. Come, Mrs Balderstone, give me a kiss; and tomorrow I shall bring you laurel and olive, if any are to be had.”
Of course neither laurel wreaths nor olive branches were to be had in Edinburgh, but he brought an armful of pungent flame-coloured chrysanthemums instead.
9
LATE IN NOVEMBER, the Chambers family moved at last into their Edinburgh house at 1 Doune Terrace. Under Mrs Chambers’s generalship, this arduous manoeuvre—this Great Flitting—was executed almost as swiftly and silently as the Jacobite army’s flanking night march at Prestonpans. So it seemed to the children, at least; and to Mr Chambers who—having slept at Spring Gardens and gone up to Edinburgh by tram as usual to work all day at his premises in Roxburgh’s Close—upon emerging at dusk turned northward; crossed the Mound; and, walking up Castle Street and Gloucester Lane, arrived in twenty minutes’ time at his new house, where his over-excited children and a quantity of tables, chairs, japanned trays, beds, lamps, and carpets all awaited him. Dinner, too.
The new house was tall, north-facing, many-chimneyed. On the street front, the windows were large and regular, but in back, levels did not line up; inside, odd brief flights of steps, three or four at a time, married the front storeys of the house to the back. There was no garden to speak of; only a small walled enclosure lay behind the house, but across the street was unbuilt ground sloping down to the Water of Leith, where the children were allowed to play when weather and waning daylight permitted.
Constantia was allotted a room at the back of the house beside the night nursery, on the second (or was it the third?) storey in the southwest corner, where afternoon sunshine sometimes played briefly, even in late November. She missed the spaciousness of Spring Gardens, but Doune Terrace was far better built; here, stout walls of timber, plaster, and stone—not plank partitions—contained the family chatter and clatter within rooms.
There was no doocot. Constantia’s last remaining pigeon had to be billeted where it and its fellows had been housed before the jaunt to Musselburgh: in the chicken-coop behind Mr and Mrs MacDonald’s house at nearby Deanhaugh, just across the Water of Leith.
IT WAS HIGH TIME that Jemmie, nearly five years old, should be breeched: taken out of frocks and put into trousers. Mrs Chambers issued a few select invitations to this important occasion marking her son’s development from child to boy; and one Saturday afternoon, a small company of relations and tolerant, kindly friends gathered, to fill every chair ranged around the new-furnished drawing room. Jemmie and his father were not to be seen. To ease the expectant waiting, Mrs Chambers and her daughters passed trays of cold refreshments: scotch eggs; prawn paste on crisp toasts; caraway shortbread. Presently—at last!—the door opened, and Jemmie appeared in breeches and jacket for the first time in his life. Mortified, reluctant, and very near tears, he was drawn into the the room by his father.
“O the darling mannie!” and “Our braw wee chiel!” exclaimed the ladies fondly.
“It’s bonny callants they fancy themselves, every one,” said Lady Janet.
Sweets from the ladies soon quelled his bashfulness. Better still, the gentlemen offered him pennies, to be put into his new pockets. Before long, sucking upon a butter toffee, he was confident enough to show his Uncle William (a portly man, all round belly, seated upon a stout settee) the buttons of his new garment. “Very handsome buttons, to be sure; and such a great many of them!” said Uncle William.
Jemmie—gaining rapidly in the urbanity and assurance conferred by wearing trousers—asked, “And have you buttons to your breeches, Uncle William?”
“Indeed I have, young chiel!” replied Uncle William briskly, “very nearly as neat as your own!” and stood up to prove it, by showing them—to gales of laughter from all present.
“ARE YOU still quite fixed in your determination, my dear, to be away at Hogmanay—at the New Year?” Mrs Chambers asked Constantia, soon after this. “Cannot we induce you to remain yet a while?”
“It is not in my power to remain any longer,” said Constantia, “although I shall be very sorry to leave you and Mr Chambers; and my darling Charlie, and every one of the children, too, for you have all become so very dear to me, and been so very kind to me; but I am sure you will understand that I am exceedingly eager to rejoin my husband, after so long a separation, and am pledged to do so at the New Year.”
“I shan’t try to dissuade you, then; and had better lose no time in finding another wet nurse to take your place. And as for that other matter . . . of—of Charlie’s operation, to have off his extra fingers and toes: I had hoped to delay it for a little longer—but it is best, I suppose, to have it over and done while you are still with us—oh, aye, yourself, Mrs MacAdam; so calm, so steady! Dr Moir says the operation is next to nothing, now; but it will be a far more serious matter if we wait until he is older. It is true that they heal quickly at this tender age, and practically without scars. All the same, it is dreadful to a mother’s feelings. I remember only too well when it was done to my poor little Jemmie. He was just the same age; four months. But in Jemmie’s case, it was only one supernumerary finger, on his left hand. He did
heal very quickly—and remembers nothing of it. All four at once is best, Dr Moir assures me; both hands and both feet, all at once. They scarcely feel it, he says, although . . . oh, Mrs MacAdam! I am sure he is wrong about that! But my husband, too, tells me that it must be done, and the sooner, the better. He knows whereof he speaks, for he himself was five years old when his superfluous ones were taken off. Aye, from both hands, and both feet, like Charlie’s. His feet have never been quite right since, and he has often said it had been better done sooner. His brother had them too, you know; aye, Mr William Chambers had them. It does run in families, and most often in the male line.”
“But why must it be done at all?” said Constantia. “May not Charlie go through life quite well just as he is? What a harpist he would make, with that extra finger!”
“Ah! No,” said Mrs Chambers sadly. “Indeed, we harpists do not even use all the fingers we have. The smallest finger is never used, of either hand. I do not know why; it simply is not done, c’est tout.”
The surgery was performed by Dr Moir one morning in the nursery, with an assistant from the medical school in attendance, while Mr Chambers was at Roxburgh’s Close, and Mrs Chambers stayed downstairs in her room. Even in this well-built house, Constantia could not help but hear it. It was not over quickly; it was four times performed.
By the time Charlie was brought to her afterward, he had fallen quite silent and still: stunned by shock. His hands and feet looked like clubs wrapped in their layers of gauze dressings; like the tree branches one sometimes sees along Paris avenues: pollarded. She put him to suck, but he nursed only briefly, feebly; and slept within moments. Constantia, though warned (and, as she supposed, braced), felt horror; she could not look away from this gauze-swaddled paw, like a kitten’s, resting upon the swell of her breast. Laid gently in his cradle, Charlie slept for twelve hours, and when he woke, he did not cry or squirm or kick off his bedclothes as usual; he only lay still and looked, blinking, again and again, as though he could not believe what he saw.
What did he see there, in the air above his cradle?
On the third day following the amputation of Charlie’s surplus fingers and toes, a putrid inflammation set in. The virulence began in his left hand. Dr Moir, after an overnight vigil, conducted a cleansing operation, excruciating to all concerned. It did no good, however, and two days later, the baby’s left hand, now gangrenous, had to be amputated just above the wrist. By the following morning, his right hand was seen to be affected as well. “Morgadha,” whispered Hopey, reverting in her distress to Gaelic: “mortification.” Everyone in the house spoke in whispers, even little Willie, who didn’t know why. Our darling, our darling! The inflammation and fever acted with all deliberate speed; within ten days of the initial operation, Charles Edward Chambers was dead, having lived nearly twenty-one weeks in this world.
Hopey sought solace in a tune. She sighed it to herself—in and out, upon each breath—whenever she was not asleep: “Tha Loingeas fo breide”—A Nurse’s Lamentation for the Loss of Her Foster Child.
Once more, Constantia’s breasts were painfully hard and heavy; engorged with far too much milk, just as in the days after Livia’s twin had died. Now, as Livia suckled at one breast, the other breast leaked, dripped, sprayed. O the sad waste of it! Constantia’s clothing was wet, no matter how often she changed her linen. She was drenched not only with milk, but with tears. Tears ran down her face as she suckled Livia; tears for Charlie and for her own dead nameless son; and for waste, loss, terror, pain, grief. For all the horrors; for all the unbearable pain that must only be borne.
Mr and Mrs Chambers had lost two children before this one. Veterans in affliction, they understood that letters containing sentiments such as these, from Lady Janet, were intended to console:
Our Almighty God hath entrusted unto you the dear babe, to be brought up for Him; knowing, as He knoweth all things, that no one, could fulfill His purpose so well. Now your task, Mrs Chambers, has been done; aye, well and faithfully done; know that the sweet dear babe, all garbed in white, walks now with Him; walks now in joy with his, and our, Heavenly Father.
10
GO. NOW.
Constantia had expected to remain in Edinburgh with the Chambers family for some weeks longer, until the turn of the year; but one morning soon after Charlie’s burial she awakened to an impulse both imperative and urgent: It is time to be away. Now. Her milk was no longer necessary to anyone but Livia. Before breakfast she found Mrs Chambers at the writing table in the library, and declared her resolution of taking a place on the next morning’s southbound mail coach.
Drawing a sheet of foolscap over her writing paper (black-edged, for mourning), Mrs Chambers set down her pen. “I knew this day must come,” she said, “but I did not expect it quite so soon. How are we to part with you, Mrs MacAdam? I trust that fortune will contrive to bring us together again, in this life. And you must promise, my dear, to send word from time to time, wherever you go, to let us know that you are well; and darling Livia, too. Oh! But wait; I have something for you. Aye, we did know that this day must come, sooner or later; and while we have all admired your pretty fringed mantle during the warmth of summer—well! I have been annoying the mantua-maker for weeks to finish something warmer for you—and here it is, my parting gift to you,” she said, bringing out a large paper-wrapped parcel from a cupboard. “Something to remind you of us, and of Scotland.”
Opening the parcel, Constantia unfolded a new long cloak in a tartan of pink, green and brown wool, with a capelet over the shoulders, crimson gimp trim, a green quilted satin lining, and an ample hood. It was achingly fashionable, the most clever and knowing thing going in Edinburgh just now, and Constantia (though suspecting that it might appear very curious indeed on the boulevards of Paris; even astonishing) was much moved. The gratitude she expressed was sincere: So beautiful! So ample, the cut! Such softness and warmth! What charming colours! So generous of Mrs Chambers to think her worthy of so handsome a garment! She would do her best to live up to its elegance, and would cherish it always as a memorial of the warmth and kindness she had enjoyed enfolded here in the bosom of the Chambers family.
“Oh, the bosom! But that is yourself!” exclaimed Mrs Chambers.
At breakfast the girls tried to dissuade Constantia from leaving so soon; and Tuckie wept. “Nor will you get to meet Mam’selle, which is a great pity,” said Mary mournfully—for the returning governess was now expected any day.
But after breakfast the girls all came to her room to assist, discuss, advise—and to amuse Livia while Constantia put her belongings in order. Livia could now sit up with some help, and she was always enchanted by the girls, who would tirelessly play peekaboo with her. Constantia had no trunk, only a carpet-bag; and made presents to the girls of inessentials that would not fit into it: a light summer bonnet in need of refurbishing; a parasol, still useful though not quite pretty; and that small volume of sermons bestowed by Lady Janet.
“But I daresay that Mamma might gladly spare you a trunk, Mrs MacAdam,” said Nina. “The box-room is crammed with them.”
“No, thank you, my dear; no trunks for me. I have resolved to take no more than I can carry myself, as porters and footmen are scarce, where I am going.”
“I do wish you would say where,” said Annie plaintively. “We are quite wretched, not knowing. I do think you might tell us.”
“It is dreadfully heavy,” said Mary, testing the carpet-bag’s weight.
“How are you to carry Livie and your gear too, if there are no porters?” asked Jenny.
“And your pigeon, in its creel?” said Lizzy.
Bags, parcels, cases, trunks, and creels were rightfully the business of porters and footmen, not of their owners. Even babies of the more comfortable classes were not always carried by their own mothers, but were likely to be entrusted instead to the arms of nursemaids who followed close behind. Such babies were generally dressed in very long embroidered and laced gowns, which cascaded decorativel
y halfway to the ground. Livia’s gowns, while long enough to satisfy convention, were rather plain. Constantia’s carpet-bag was stuffed with additional baby-gowns, caps, and waistcoats, equally plain; an abundance of well-washed clooties, woven of diapered flax; and a sheepskin pilch to spare, oiled for waterproofing. How were people to know that Mrs MacAdam was respectable, if she carried her bag and her plainly-dressed baby herself?
“I shall carry Livie like this,” said Constantia, knotting her long paisley shawl over one shoulder to make a sling across her chest. She tucked Livia snugly inside, as poor women do the world over. Still, it was not easy to arrange Livia securely and comfortably inside this sling, and Livia protested at having her face pressed against her mother’s bodice; she squirmed, and slid downward, precariously. But when Constantia turned her around, to face outward, the shawl did not support Livia’s head properly—unless it covered her face, which, to judge by her protests, was intolerable.
“You look like a fisherwife, up from Newhaven,” said Annie.
“In paisley, not stripes, whatever,” said Mary.
How did those Newhaven fisherwives manage to carry their babies thus? How did those barefoot young mothers in India manage? Hopey might have known how the knotted shawl ought to be contrived, but Hopey was out, having been sent to fetch a parcel from the apothecary. “I suppose it may be a matter of becoming accustomed,” said Constantia, dubiously. “But perhaps I had better make a trial of this arrangement—just as far as Mrs MacDonald’s house. I must go make my farewells, and fetch that poor lonely pigeon, too.”
Do let us come with you! clamoured the girls, but as Signor Ricci the dancing master could already be heard moving the chairs against the wall in the drawing room, they were obliged to go down to their lesson instead; even in mourning, these essential lessons continued. Constantia, with Livia tied snugly against her, descended the steps to the street unaccompanied.
