Beneath the Water

by Sarah Painter

  ‘I have no idea what the future holds and I don’t want to make any promises except that I will be honest. I have no interest in anybody else right now and no plans to go looking. I really like you and we’re at the brilliant beginning where all I want to do is rip your clothes off. If you feel the same way, I vote we enjoy it while it lasts and not worry about the other stuff until we have to.’

  Well, that sounded good in theory. Until you’re sat on the bathroom floor sobbing, with your heart ripped out of your chest.

  ‘I know you’re still recovering from your break-up and this is probably just a rebound thing, but I’m okay with that.’

  ‘I bet,’ Stella said, with more heat than she intended.

  ‘But I hope it’s more than that,’ he said.

  ‘Okay.’ Stella stood still, halfway to the door. Unable to move to either the safety of the hall or towards Jamie and the massive unknown he represented.

  He stood up and crossed the room, putting a hand on the curve of her jaw and tilting her face to his. ‘Are you going to take a risk?’

  Stella put her hand on his cheek, feeling the scrape of his stubble and feeling the kick of desire in her stomach. She thought about saying yes, but then went on tiptoe to kiss him instead. She pressed herself against him and felt his arms tighten in response.

  The kiss deepened, opening a black hole of mindless sensation and need, and she let herself fall into it.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  1st November, 1848

  My dearest Mary,

  Mr Simpson refused to visit. Apparently Mr Lockhart had been very rude to him on previous occasions and had written scurrilous articles. I had no idea and feel quite embarrassed. Worse still, my husband has decreed that I must dress in old clothes and go to Mr Simpson’s house alone, presenting myself as a different person in the hope that he will see me. I know that Mr Lockhart is desperate for a view into the interior world of Mr Simpson and of the way he practices obstetrics, but what he thinks I will be able to reveal by being examined is beyond my ken.

  To prepare for the role, he has bade me be counselled in the ways of the underclass by my maid, and has showed me anatomical illustrations from which I may never recover. I am feart J.Y.S. will see through my disguise and become angry. I am feart that he will not and that I must submit to his treatment when I have never been tended to by any other than our dear Dr Laird or my own husband. I wish with all my heart that I was not a married lady but a girl again. At home in Haddington, picking blaeberries with you and paddling in the burn.

  I will stop writing now and continue another day, when I hope to have better news. I will wait before sending this letter, as I do not wish to worry you but, more truthfully still, Mr Lockhart believes I write too often and I fear he will stop me from sending two messages instead of one.

  Mary,

  I have seen the great man. I must not refer to him that way in front of my husband, but I may tell you how kind and comforting he was. He says that everything is progressing perfectly well and that he felt no abnormalities or cause for alarm when he examined me. I almost gave myself away by asking after my uterus, not a word commonly used, but managed to cough instead. He said for me to send word when my time was near and not to go to the hospital unless absolutely necessary. He said that if I keep a clean home, I am better off there. I will be sent to the hospital by my husband, I know. Although he won’t be able to guarantee that it is J.Y.S. who attends me.

  I know that I must not let fancy take hold, but I feel terror when I awake and when I lie alone at night. The babe moves but I am frightened it will never draw breath. I feel a horrible foreboding and no amount of prayer helps. Mr Lockhart gives me nerve medicine but it does not help my mood. I must try harder to think of pleasant things.

  Your loving Jessie

  Dearest Mary,

  Good news! I am to be allowed to deliver at home. My husband seems to have given up his idea to spy upon Mr Simpson and has a new light in his eyes. He looks five years younger! He believes that he has a new way to prevent childbed fever and wants me to be the guinea pig. I have told him that if it will help his research, I am willing. In truth, I am feart, but if the experiment is a success, it could save thousands of lives. Imagine that, Mary! Thousands of women alive because of one little experiment. I know that the achievement would be Mr Lockhart’s, but it is nice to think that I would have played a small part. Besides, Mr Lockhart assures me that I would be in no danger and that he would never let any harm befall his ‘little dove’. How can I refuse?

  After the babe is born, Mr Lockhart will prescribe an ointment for the afflicted areas and I am to get up as soon as possible. Mr Lockhart believes that the reason there are so many cases of childbed fever is because women are forced to remain in the childbed for so long. He says it is the common factor (other than the birth, of course, and he cannot very well remove that from the equation) . . .

  Stella looked up from the letter. It was the last one in the bundle and it stopped abruptly as if Jessie had finished writing and had never had the chance to finish. She had barricaded herself in her office to get some work done, knowing that if she saw Jamie she would be distracted.

  The cardboard archive box which had held the bundles of letters had a slew of photographs in the bottom, and a few oddments such as a tarnished medal with threadbare ribbon and a ticket stub from a dry cleaners in Livingston, dated 1962.

  Jamie had abandoned James Munro’s journal, saying something about looking closer to home. Stella knew the lifeboat had sent his mind back to his parents and she hoped that he found something of comfort. He had barely been out of his teens when the accident had happened, and away at university. It must have had an enormous effect, but at that age you kind of accepted that the grown-ups knew what they were doing. It made sense that being back at Munro House had stirred up memories, but Stella feared there was nothing good for him to find. She wished he would stay focused further in the past, where his ancestors seemed to have been inventors and experimenters, and anything personal was too far removed to have any emotional impact.

  Stella began putting things away in the box, laying the journal on top of the photographs; then, knowing she didn’t have anything else to do, she took it out again and began leafing through. Jamie was right. It was all diagrams and lists of numbers. The name in the front was James Munro and then a squiggly signature, repeated a few times, as if he had been practising it.

  The binding was soft with age and a few pages were loose. Stella took them out and smoothed them down, tucking them back into the book as best she could. As she did so, she realised that one of the pages was a different colour and thickness to the others. It was another letter:

  Mary,

  I am very weak now, and the light hurts my eyes. I cannot get a breath and can hardly remember the wee girl who went blaeberry picking with you. I know I had my baby as my stomach is no longer full and swollen. I feel the loss like an empty room, but a room which was once beloved and warm and now sits cold and unused. I think I had a baby girl. Mr Lockhart will not speak to me of it. He will not speak to me. I know this letter will not be sent and that you will not read it. He will read it. And then he will place a cloth over my face and hold it there until I sleep. Maybe this time I will sleep and not wake up. I am swimming deep underwater and I cannot see the surface. I cannae rise.

  The writing was so small it was difficult to read. Jessie had filled every available space on the paper, as if there were a shortage, or she felt it was her very last piece.

  Dear Mr Wood,

  As you can see from the enclosed, written in Jessie’s hand, your daughter is unwell. She has become confused and violent and I am forced to treat her with calming tinctures for her own comfort and safety. I did not send this letter at first as I thought to protect you and your family from the horrors of her condition. I only relay it now to demonstrate that Jessie is receiving only the very best care that money can buy. Rest assured, I will do anything to make my precious wi
fe well again. As her husband, this is my responsibility and one I will not shirk. I ask that you respect our privacy at this difficult time and I will send word the very moment there is improvement. I understand that you are anxious to see your daughter, but I must insist that you do not visit as you suggested. Jessie is at a very delicate stage in her treatment and any upset to her routine could be disastrous.

  Yours, J. W. Lockhart

  Jamie knocked on the door and walked in. ‘Coffee?’ he said, and then, seeing Stella’s face, ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘She had the baby,’ Stella said. ‘But she was very ill after. I don’t think she survived. James Lockhart wrote to her father, anyway, and that’s the last letter. If she had survived there would be more, wouldn’t there?’

  Jamie reached out and touched her hand. ‘Mebbe they were lost.’

  Stella wanted to cry. ‘I don’t know why I’m so upset. It all happened so long ago. I don’t even know the woman,’ she added unnecessarily. Of course she didn’t know Jessie. But she felt as if she did. Jessie had been brave, had been determined to help her husband with his research, to do something good in the world even though she was a woman and had limited options.

  Stella felt her breath catch, the familiar hitch as she tried to fill her lungs.

  ‘Do you want me to check the journals? I can let you know if Jessie is mentioned again. Or her child.’

  Stella nodded, not trusting herself to speak. The paper felt thin and soft in her fingers, as if it might disintegrate at any moment.

  And then what would be left of Jessie Lockhart?

  Nothing at all.

  ‘At least she had a baby,’ Jamie said. ‘Perhaps they survived. Perhaps she lived on in that way.’ The words sounded awkward, forced, but Stella appreciated the effort. He hovered awkwardly, clearly uncertain, and then headed for the door. ‘I’ll get you some tea.’

  ‘No. I’m fine. Thanks.’ Stella just wanted to be alone.

  She wondered if Jessie really had been out of her mind. The cramped writing certainly looked like the hand of a disturbed person, and it was a world away from the gentle slopes of the early letters. There were more ink stains than usual, too, as if Jessie hadn’t had blotting paper or a good surface to lean on. She had likely written it in bed, of course, but perhaps her husband had refused to provide her with the tools she needed. Stella felt a spurt of anger on Jessie’s behalf. She couldn’t help thinking that her husband had probably discouraged her from writing at all. As she looked, Stella felt the handwriting looked less and less disordered and more intense.

  A word – ‘help’ – jumped from what Stella had thought was a large ink splatter. The word was at right angles to the rest of the sentence, and Stella turned the paper to read it better. At once, the marks between the lines, which she had taken as mistakes or nonsense words in among the cramped sentences, appeared as legible writing. Tiny, yes, and sometimes skew-whiff, winding crossways between the horizontal lines, but readable. Stella fetched the magnifying glass Jamie had been using and used it to follow the lines as best she could.

  Help me. I am trapped here. He will not let me up. I hear my baby cry but I cannae see. I am feart we will not see each other again. Find my baby. Tell her that her mama loved her.

  Stella felt her skin trying to crawl from her body. She thought of Jessie frightened and helpless. Sick and in pain and wishing for her family. She realised that she was holding her breath and forced herself to stop. She would make tea after all, or take a walk. Anything to disperse this nervous energy.

  On her way, she passed Jamie’s office and his door was open. He was sat in front of his computer, more still than she had ever seen him, and the sight made her pause. ‘Jamie?’

  He looked around, his expression bleak.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Stella stepped into the room, wanting to put her arms around him.

  ‘Did you know that you can look up criminal trials online?’

  Stella took another step closer. ‘No, why—’

  ‘I found James Lockhart,’ Jamie said, and Stella felt a jolt in her chest. ‘He was put on trial for the murder of his wife, Jessie.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Stella said, feeling weak.

  ‘He wasn’t found guilty. It was recorded as “not proven”, but I guess the trial ruined his reputation. He disappeared from Edinburgh soon after it was over.’ His mouth twisted. ‘There was a very helpful piece in The Scotsman all about the scandal.’

  Stella felt her legs buckle, and she sank to the floor to sit cross-legged before she fell down.

  Jamie was up immediately and by her side. ‘What is it?’

  Stella swallowed hard. ‘Your great-great-great-grandfather maybe murdered his wife. Don’t you find that upsetting?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ His voice was tight.

  ‘I don’t understand why Jessie’s letters are in your family’s archive, though. Surely those would be with Mary. Passed down through her branch of the family.’ Stella felt strange, like she was standing on the edge of a cliff. She closed her eyes and could see water boiling below, a swirling vortex. What was it called in Scotland? A corrie?

  ‘Put your head down.’ Jamie’s hand was on the back of her neck, pushing gently.

  Stella obliged and felt her mind clear, the crashing waves receding.

  ‘James Lockhart left Edinburgh in disgrace in 1849, the same year that James Munro arrived in Arisaig carrying a medical bag with J.W.L. stamped on the side and a bundle of letters from Jessie Lockhart.’

  ‘Don’t,’ Stella said. ‘I feel sick.’

  Jamie sat on the floor and put his head very gently against Stella’s. ‘I guess he collected the letters from Mary when he took the baby to her. He did a swap.’ Jamie’s voice was very quiet, thoughtful. ‘That’s what I would do in his situation. After the trial he didn’t want any evidence of his wife’s state of mind to be circulated, opening up questions or being used against him. He offered Mary the care of her sister’s child in return for the letters and her keeping quiet. Or mebbe he did it before the trial, to stop the letters coming to light during it. Mebbe before he was arrested, if he knew it was going to happen.’

  Stella was only half listening. Her hand was on her chest and her heart stuttering. ‘You think the baby survived?’

  ‘I hope so,’ he said. ‘And if so, leaving it with Jessie’s sister or some other family makes sense. James Munro didn’t arrive at Arisaig with a baby. At least, not as far as we know.’ Jamie was peering at her, concerned. ‘Okay?’

  ‘Fine,’ Stella lied. The revelations had been too much, too sudden, and her mind was only just beginning to catch up. However, one piece of information floated to the top: Jamie Munro was descended from the man who killed Jessie Lockhart.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ Stella said. ‘I need fresh air.’

  ‘I’ll come,’ Jamie said, reaching for his jacket.

  ‘No,’ Stella said, the word coming out more strongly than she intended. ‘I just need a bit of time on my own.’

  Stella left the dogs in the house, feeling guilty. She walked briskly up the road, trying to ignore the biting cold. The lights of the Arisaig Inn were too inviting to resist and Stella opened the door to the welcome warmth and the sound of voices.

  It was past the lunchtime rush and Stella got herself a small red wine and a seat next to the wood burner. She pulled her mobile out of her pocket and checked for a signal. Mercifully, one bar was showing and she began composing a text to Caitlin, striving for the right words to convey a casual-but-urgent invitation to the pub. Caitlin would know what to do. Even when they were both clueless teenagers, Caitlin had always known the right thing to do in any given situation. And if there was nothing that could be done, Caitlin had always known exactly what to say to make Stella feel better. Whether it was bad news from the hospital or Joshua bloody Cooper telling her that he had only gone to the cinema with her on her seventeenth birthday because he had felt sorry for the ‘sick girl’, Caitlin had always managed
to make it okay, make the pain manageable. Stella took a calming sip of wine before pressing ‘send’, but was interrupted when a woman slid into the seat opposite and held out a hand. ‘You’re Stella, right?’

  ‘Yes,’ Stella said, surprised into putting her phone down and shaking the woman’s hand.

  ‘Aileen McCartney. Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ Stella said, trying to work out if she’d met the woman before. She looked vaguely familiar, but in a place like this you tended to see the same faces.

  ‘I wanted to have a wee chat about your job.’

  ‘I’m sorry—’ Stella began, but the woman cut across her.

  ‘You work for Jamie Munro, right?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  Aileen’s face suddenly fell into a sympathetic expression. She put a hand on Stella’s arm. ‘I was so sorry to hear about Esmé. Is she back at the house yet?’

  ‘No,’ Stella said. ‘She’s staying with her sister for a while.’

  ‘Recuperating?’ Aileen said. She had a soft Glaswegian accent and eerily perfect make-up. Her nails were smooth ovals, shiny with pale-blue gel polish. The colour was oddly disturbing, but Stella couldn’t work out why. Then it came to her – they reminded her of her own fingertips when she had oxygen deprivation. Sexy.

  ‘Having a holiday,’ Stella said.

  ‘The police haven’t closed the case against Mr Munro yet, have they?’

  ‘What?’ Unease spread through Stella. ‘I’m sorry, how do you know Esmé?’

  ‘It is a bit suspicious. Are there a lot of dangerous substances left lying around the house?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Stella said.

  ‘You are perfectly placed to give your side of the story. Or Mr Munro’s side, if you prefer. He could really use a friend right about now. You could be that friend.’

  ‘Which paper are you from?’ Stella said flatly.

  ‘Record,’ Aileen said. ‘Jamie Munro is a Scottish success story; we’ve got no interest in dragging his name through the mud. If you agreed to talk about what it’s like to work with him, his daily routine, things like that, it would show his human side. Offset things, provide balance.’