by Val Wood
Jenny took a breath. There was no need for her to lie, but Stephen would be furious if he discovered he was being discussed. ‘I am Mr Laslett’s second wife,’ she stated in a matter-of-fact manner. ‘His first wife died some time ago.’
‘Ah! Well, I never heard about that. Beggin’ your pardon. It’s a pity I hadn’t heard, cos I could have come to attend to her. With laying out, I mean.’ She smiled and nodded affably. ‘But at least he’d no children for you to mother or argue with? It can be difficult when you’re a second wife. I know. I’ve seen it. I know what trouble they can bring. Specially when ’new wife is only young and can’t allus cope. But there, you’ll be satisfying him with two bairns and a few more besides I shouldn’t wonder.’
She took a look upstairs and decided that the single bed would be best for the confinement. ‘Then your husband can have a good night’s sleep in his own bed if you tek ower long,’ she said. ‘Though if your first was quick your second will be quicker, so be sure to send for me as soon as you get ’pains. I’ve no more due that month so I can come straight away.’
Stephen came in as Jenny was showing Mrs Burley to the door. ‘Your wife’s doing right fair, Mr Laslett,’ she told him. ‘We’ll not need to worry our heads about her. But fetch me when she’s ready and I’d appreciate a ride here and back to Etton, for it’s a fair pull up ’road to here.’
Stephen said that transport would be arranged, and as he was wishing her good day she turned back. ‘Will ’railway line affect you, Mr Laslett? They’re breaking ’first sod ’day after tomorrow at Cherry Burton. I’d go and see ’em ’cept I’ve a bairn due about then.’
‘No,’ Stephen said emphatically. ‘It won’t affect me. They won’t be coming on my land.’
She must have sensed some tension coming from him. ‘Dirty noisy things,’ she said in agreement. ‘I allus said them trains wouldn’t catch on, but I’ve been proved wrong and folks seem to think they’re here for good. There’s a few carriers out o’ work cos of ’em. Well,’ she said at last. ‘I’ve chattered a bucketful and I’d better be off or I’ll miss my ride back.’
Stephen closed the door behind her. ‘Is she going to be all right? I bet she wanted to know all about you? About us both?’
‘She’d heard already about you and Agnes,’ Jenny said. ‘But she assumed that Christina was yours and I didn’t put her right about that.’
He gazed at her. ‘What?’
‘Well, she said we were right to space ’children. She didn’t know that Agnes had died or that you had married again.’
‘Not that,’ he said bluntly. ‘About Christina. Don’t I treat her as my own? For heaven’s sake, Jenny. I was there at her birth.’ There was a flash of anger in his eyes. ‘She’ll think of me as her father. Will you tell her that I am not?’
‘I don’t know.’ She looked down at her feet. ‘I just don’t know.’
‘You still think of him, don’t you?’ It was almost an accusation.
‘Sometimes,’ she admitted. ‘I can hardly forget him, can I, after what happened? And’, she added, ‘when I have his child.’ Then she lifted her head and gazed directly at him. ‘But probably not as often as you think of Agnes. Her memory is constant, isn’t it?’ She swallowed hard to hide her tears. ‘But we agreed, didn’t we, that we understood how the other felt towards those we have lost?’
He blinked rapidly, then sat down at the table and put his hand to his forehead. ‘Yes. Yes, of course we did. I’m sorry, Jenny. I’m forgetting how overpowering young love can be. How unforgettable.’ He reached out to clasp her hand. ‘Sorry! It’s just that I do care for Christina as if she was my own, and when our child is born I will do as I promised and adopt Christina – if that is what you would like,’ he added swiftly. ‘Better for her to have an adoptive father than none?’
‘Yes,’ she replied huskily. ‘You’re a good father.’
‘A better father than a husband?’ he asked, his gaze holding hers.
‘I have no complaints on that score.’ She blushed, for his lovemaking was more passionate than she could ever have dreamed of, and she admitted that if she hadn’t known that it was only desire, and had thought that there was real love there also, well then, she tried to shake the thought away, well then, it would be perfect.
That night he was tender, treating her as if she was made of glass, but touching her so seductively, so fondly, while whispering of tempting allurements and need, that she felt she would swoon with craving and wishful appetite. He pulled away from her. ‘I don’t want to hurt you or the baby,’ he said softly. ‘So send me away if you want. Lock the door on me. Don’t let me share your bed.’
She breathed heavily. ‘It’s your bed,’ she said. ‘I should be the one to move out.’
He leant over her and traced his fingers over her cheekbones. ‘Your bed, yours and mine.’
A small breath of wistful longing escaped her lips. ‘Only by chance,’ she whispered. ‘If it were not for Agnes’s request, I wouldn’t be here. I’m but a thief stealing another woman’s bed.’
‘What? What are you saying?’ His voice was testy and in the lamplight she saw outrage. ‘What about Agnes?’
‘I – I don’t mean anything against Agnes! She was thinking of you and perhaps even of me, but I’m racked with guilt sometimes. I think of how happy you both were and that – well, perhaps you wish that she was here instead of me.’
‘I have – never – wished –’ He got out of bed and paced the room, shaking his fist. ‘Jenny! Does it seem –’ He came and knelt at her side of the bed. ‘Am I so inadequate? I know that I’m not young as Christy was, but don’t I show you how I care?’
She sat up in bed and started to weep. ‘It’s just that … I’m jealous!’ she confessed and felt relief at last at her own acknowledgement. ‘I’m jealous of ’love that you shared with Agnes. I want it! I want your baby but I want your love too, more than anything I’ve ever wanted before!’
‘Stop! Stop!’ Stephen put his fingers to her lips. ‘Are you telling me, Jenny, that you love me as I love you? As I’ve loved you since the day of our marriage and dared not tell you?’
She nodded and wiped her eyes on the sheet. ‘We entered into a marriage of convenience.’
‘So we did.’ He pulled himself onto the bed and put his arms round her. ‘But you have insinuated yourself into my very being, and I cannot think of life without you, even though I told you at the beginning that I would let you go if you wanted to. Now, if you left me, I would follow you to the ends of the earth to bring you back.’
He kissed away her tears and licked her wet cheeks. ‘I thought that you’d love Christy for ever, that no-one else could take his place.’
‘I didn’t know that it was possible to love again,’ she said softly. ‘I thought that when he died there’d be no other love in my life, apart from my child.’
He kissed her lips. ‘When I lost Agnes, I thought too that there would never be anyone else. We were so wrong.’ He stroked her face. ‘But we have found each other and life has taken on a brightness again, which I thought had gone for ever.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
Life seemed somehow sweeter after they had made their confessions of love for each other. Jenny was lighter in spirit and Stephen not as impatient as he sometimes was, for he admitted he was by nature inclined to be fractious when events didn’t go the way he wanted them to.
‘It’s my father’s fault,’ he said irritably. He had been to Cherry Burton and watched the navvies turn the first sod for the railway line. On returning home he then had to go and search for the sheep, which had escaped through a hole in a hedge. ‘He was such a cantankerous man sometimes and I have inherited his humours. I shall be a crabby old fellow, Jenny, if I live so long, so be warned now.’
‘You told me not long ago that you were already an old man,’ she teased. ‘Have you rediscovered youth?’
‘Well, yes, of course I have.’ He grinned. ‘Now that I am married to a slip of
a girl. But’, he gave a false groan, ‘that girl is wearing me out very fast!’
Jenny heaved a deep breath. ‘I feel fair worn out myself. I’m really tired and have been for ’last few days. I’ll be glad when this is over.’
‘Then you must rest,’ Stephen insisted and urged her to sit down. ‘Perhaps I’ll ride over for George to come and take a look at you.’
‘Better going for Mrs Burley. She’d know better than ’doctor,’ Jenny said, not wanting to admit that she felt not only tired but also unwell, something she hadn’t felt with Christina.
‘Shall I go for her?’ Stephen looked troubled. ‘How much longer before it’s due?’
‘Four or five weeks, I think,’ Jenny said. ‘Too early yet.’ And she hoped that the child wouldn’t arrive before its time. I wouldn’t like Dr Hill or Arabella to think that Stephen and I had been sharing a bed before our marriage.
‘All the same, I’ll go first thing in the morning,’ Stephen decided. ‘We’ll feel easier if she comes, and then she can decide if Hill should visit.’
The next morning it was apparent that he should fetch the midwife without delay. Jenny had woken during the night with pains in her back and had been sick. Stephen hitched a horse to the waggon and set off even before milking and as Jenny paced the floor she could hear the cow complaining.
She went downstairs and felt the weight of the kettle. There wasn’t much water in it, for she had forgotten to fill it the night before, but she swung it over the fire anyway, not trusting herself to go outside to the pump. Christina called to her and Jenny stood at the bottom of the steep and narrow stairs as she came down.
‘Careful. Don’t fall,’ she said, as Christina took one step at a time. ‘I shall tell your da how clever you are.’
‘Tell Papa,’ Christina pronounced. ‘Not Da! Tell Papa Christy is very clever girl.’
Jenny held out her hand as she reached the bottom step. ‘Christina,’ she said. ‘Not Christy!’ She led her towards a chair and sat down, lifting her onto her knee. Hugging her, she began to weep.
Christina patted Jenny’s face and then began to cry herself. ‘Christina make you cry,’ she wailed. ‘Naughty girl.’
‘No, sweetheart. You’re not a naughty girl. You’re a very good girl and now you’re going to help me by setting ’table for Papa’s breakfast for when he comes home.’
Christina eagerly trotted to and from the larder, the door of which was open, for she wouldn’t have been able to reach the sneck, and brought out one by one a loaf of bread, which she only dropped once, the milk jug, which she held in both hands and only spilt a drop, and the butter dish which proved to be empty when she took off the lid.
‘Fetch some from the dairy,’ the little girl piped, but Jenny emphatically declined the offer, afraid to let her out of sight until Stephen returned.
‘Get two dishes from the cupboard,’ Jenny told her. ‘One for you and one for Da.’
‘One for Papa, not for Da,’ Christina chanted and Jenny gave a small ironic smile as she realized that her children, hers and Stephen’s, would have a different upbringing from the one she had known. Though they might not know riches, Christina and the child she was carrying would speak differently, act differently and have higher expectations than Jenny had had as a child.
‘And one for Mama.’ Christina reached into the cupboard for another dish. ‘One, two, free, six.’
‘Did Papa teach you to count?’ Jenny asked in astonishment, and then took a deep rasping breath as a pain shot through her.
‘Christina count sheep,’ Christina said proudly. ‘And chickens.’
Stephen brought Mrs Burley back within the hour, but by now Jenny was creased with pain.
‘You’ll have to fetch Dr Hill, sir.’ After she had examined Jenny, the midwife went outside to find Stephen. ‘Your wife’s starting in labour early and she’s not looking very good.’
Once more Stephen rode off with Christina in front of him, but not before he had kissed Jenny and whispered that he loved her. ‘I’m so afraid for you,’ he murmured. ‘So afraid of losing you.’
‘You won’t,’ she said, ‘but I’m worried for ’babby. It’s very still.’
When George Hill arrived ahead of Stephen, riding at a faster pace on his sturdy cob than his friend could achieve on the shire, Jenny was about to give birth. Dr Hill took off his jacket, rolled up his impeccable shirtsleeves and delivered a girl child. The midwife glanced at him and gave a slight shake of her head.
‘I’m sorry, Jenny,’ the doctor murmured sympathetically. ‘The child is stillborn. A girl. So very sorry.’
‘A girl?’ Jenny turned her head to look at the babe who was being wrapped in a sheet by Mrs Burley. ‘Let me hold her for a moment.’
Mrs Burley handed her the child, whose tiny face was in repose, and she tucked her against her breast and kissed her brow. ‘Wasn’t meant to be, Mrs Laslett,’ Mrs Burley said kindly. ‘She’s onny a little mite; wouldn’t have survived even if she’d drawn breath.’
Wasn’t meant to be, Jenny thought as tears rolled down her cheeks. Is this a punishment for marrying for a purpose and not for love? Next time, our child will be born because of our love and not for any other reason. She glanced towards the window. It was dark and wet; the clouds hung low and grey. She heard Stephen open the kitchen door and the murmur of voices as George Hill acquainted him with the news, and knew how grief-stricken he would be. He had wanted this child, more than she had, and she had failed him. Failed him twice, for he had also wanted a son.
Mrs Burley took the child from her as Stephen came into the room. His hair was wet and his coat damp. He glanced at the child and drew his finger across her still cheek. ‘God bless her,’ he murmured, and then looked towards Jenny.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she wept as he sat beside her on the bed. ‘I know how you wanted this child. You and Agnes,’ she said in a low voice as Mrs Burley went out of the room. ‘But we’ll bury her with Agnes, then they can be together for always.’
‘Jenny, Jenny! Stop. Please. Don’t say that.’ His voice was anguished and he clasped her hand tightly. ‘This was our child, yours and mine. Don’t torment yourself in this way. I told you that I loved you from the day we married. This was our child,’ he repeated.
‘But we wouldn’t have married if Agnes hadn’t suggested it,’ she continued, and now her head was beginning to spin. ‘I would have gone on my way with Christina – and – and – you –’
‘And what would I have done?’ he asked in distress. ‘What would have happened to me if you hadn’t stayed? We can’t think of what might have been, Jenny! We can only think of what is now.’
Dr Hill came into the room and Stephen turned to him. ‘Jenny is overwrought,’ he said worriedly. ‘Can you give her something to calm her?’
The doctor nodded. ‘Don’t distress yourself,’ he told her. ‘There’ll be other babies. Lots of them, I shouldn’t wonder. You’re young and healthy, even if you are married to this old man.’ Then soberly he said, ‘Babies don’t always survive, but sometimes it’s nature’s way. Better to lose them at birth than later when you’ve grown to love them. She was a tiny baby; she would always have been weak.
‘Take Jenny back to her own bed,’ he told Stephen. ‘I’ll give her a mild sedative, then let her rest for a few days before she gets up. But what would you like to do about the burial?’ he murmured.
Jenny heard him. ‘We’re going to bury her next to Agnes. We must, Stephen.’ Jenny’s eyes were bright and feverish. ‘But we’ll have a parson here – if one will come – to say a prayer.’
That proved to be more difficult than they had imagined, for whilst Jenny lay in bed, sedated by medication and with the curtains drawn, Stephen rode around the villages with Christina, trying to find a parson willing to come and bless a stillborn child who was going to be buried in unconsecrated ground. Eventually he was directed to a young parson who said he would come to talk to them and visit the burial site.
‘Because there’s already a grave here, it could be considered to be sanctioned by usage,’ he said earnestly, rubbing his smooth chin and gazing down at Agnes’s stone. ‘And I see no reason why I should not bless this place. It is as good as any other. Shall we do it now?’
Stephen went back to the house to tell Jenny and at once she insisted on getting up. He wrapped a shawl around her and lifting her in his arms, he carried her downstairs, through the house and up to the meadow, with Christina following behind.
‘I cannot write what I felt.’ Jenny took up her pen again a few days later. ‘When the tiny coffin, which Stephen had made on the day she was born and died, was lowered into Agnes’s grave, I felt only numbness. No emotion or tears, but strangely, a kind of release or freedom. I dare not say this to Stephen, or indeed to anyone, for they’d surely think that I wouldn’t have loved the child had she lived, when of course I most certainly would. The release came, I think, because I had fulfilled my duty towards dear Agnes, who had so badly wanted a child by her husband. And now she has one. Stephen’s child, carried by me, now lies with her. We have named her Agnes.
‘The freedom is because Jenny kitchen-maid who was once accused of murder and cast out of Beverley, and who masqueraded under the name of the second Mrs Laslett, has now disappeared. That part of my life has closed as if in closing a chapter in a book. The next part of my life as Mrs St John Laslett, with my husband, Stephen, my daughter Christina and the child I hope soon to carry, is about to begin.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
‘Mama, Mama! There’s a man! Look!’
Christina was playing outside the kitchen door and had looked up to see a man opening the gate to their path. Behind him was another man. She ran inside and clung to her mother’s skirt.
