by Pendle, Eve
“Yes. I can imagine,” he said grimly.
There was a long silence. Lydia turned away from Mr. Lowe and focused on Annie. She was sleeping quite soundly now. Lydia could almost deceive herself this was normal, and she was just a tired little girl. But it was only four o’clock in the afternoon. A ten-year-old girl shouldn’t be asleep at such a time. She took Annie’s hand and stroked the soft skin of her little knuckles.
Mr. Lowe sighed. “I’ll leave you to your ministrations and visit tomorrow.”
“Yes.”
He stood and then hesitated.
She didn’t look up.
“Here.” He placed the chocolates and the plate with the orange segments on the bed next to her hand. “Eat. Please.” She felt him beside her for long moments until she gave a jerky nod.
The front door closed downstairs.
It was dark when Lydia stopped holding her daughter’s hand and stood to relieve the ache in her back. On the top of the drawers sat the orange. Still fresh and sweet looking. Would it be wrong? It would a pity to allow the orange to go bad.
Piece by piece, she ate the tangy segments, her eyes never leaving Annie’s face. Her beautiful daughter with her dark blue eyes, so like her father’s, closed. She couldn’t lose Annie. Tomorrow she’d call for the doctor again to advise. Damn the cost and her pride and everything else.
Then she didn’t allow herself to think. She reached for the chocolates and ate them all in tiny bites, relishing the taste even as it didn’t fill the void caused by fear. Afterwards, her stomach was full of sugar. But without Annie being well and Mr. Lowe’s comforting presence, there was no sweetness.
Chapter Four
For the second night, Lydia watched her daughter sleep fitfully, mopping her brow to cool her fever as Doctor Woodward had suggested. In the morning, Annie was kitten-weak. Lydia struggled to feed her a little porridge before she fluttered her eyes closed again.
She quashed the impulse to shake her daughter back to the lively child she was. Seeing her inert ripped at her insides.
A knock sounded at the door. Lydia bit her lip. She wasn’t expecting anyone. It couldn’t be a visit from Mr. Lowe, since he taught in the morning. Her back clunked and tweaked as she rose from the chair beside Annie’s bed. She had no idea of the time. Her stomach was turning in on itself, perhaps because she hadn’t had any breakfast, as well as because her daughter was ill. She didn’t have a clock and the grey light gave no indication of the time. The church bells must have chimed, the chickens squawked, and the noisy mail coach must have rattled past at its usual hour, but Lydia couldn’t remember hearing them. Annie didn’t move, even when the knocking came again. Lydia hesitated by the door.
The knocking became louder and more insistent.
“I’ll be back immediately, sweetheart.” The reassurance was for herself, not Annie.
A woman she didn’t know was in the street when she opened the door, neatly clothed in black and wearing a white lace edged cap over her hair. “Good day, are you Mrs. Taylor?”
Lydia nodded cautiously. Probably this was some woman sent to ask about Annie’s absence from school.
“Lovely.” The woman’s face broke into a wide smile. “Lady Lakenham sent me to help you tend your daughter.”
“What?” It was so unexpected to hear her sister’s name here in Elmswell that it was almost a slap. How in heaven did Matilda know about Annie’s illness? The woman’s smile faltered only slightly. Lydia became aware that she’d left her mouth open, gaping in shock. “Um. Well, you had better come in.” Lydia stepped back. “And your name?”
“I’m Nurse Moylan, but please call me Elizabeth.” The woman removed her bonnet with efficient fingers. “Perhaps you would show me to the dear little patient?”
Bemused, and so tired she couldn’t protest or question, Lydia showed Elizabeth upstairs.
“Oh, poor little mite,” Elizabeth exclaimed. “But you’ve been looking after her wonderfully.” She picked up the flannel Lydia had been using to mop Annie’s brow and gently dabbed Annie’s cheeks.
Annie’s flushed face was in contrast to the bright blond hair that had escaped its plait and was fanned around her temple.
“Now, I’ll do her chamber pot and then shall I light the stove, warm some water and we’ll give her a bed bath together?” Elizabeth nodded in a way that brooked no argument, though it was phrased as a question.
Lydia watched Elizabeth every moment she was with Annie. They washed Annie with warm damp cloths. Elizabeth had careful hands, and she didn’t chatter needlessly. Neither did Elizabeth try to send Lydia away. Presumably she knew it was impossible for Lydia to leave her daughter. Elizabeth was from a nursing agency in Colchester, it turned out. She knew nothing more about why she was there than Lydia. A telegram had arrived from Lady Lakenham with a request for a nurse to attend Mrs. Taylor at this address, with a promise of double pay if she arrived that day.
Habitual wariness couldn’t let her relax. Elizabeth’s soft-spoken competence eased the racing of Lydia’s blood around her edges, and she was so tired. Even so, Lydia was on her guard. A woman with secrets as humiliating as hers learned to be wary.
* * *
It wasn’t until early evening, when the sun had set outside, that there another knock at the door.
“Shall I go, Mrs. Taylor?” Elizabeth asked, beginning to rise.
She ought to send Elizabeth. But what would the neighbors think of her sudden visitor answering the door for her? Answering herself meant leaving Annie with Elizabeth. But the neatly dressed woman had been sensible all day. An instant to answer the door wouldn’t hurt. Her silly, fluttering heart whispered that it could be Mr. Lowe.
“I’ll go.” Lydia stood. She swayed as she stood and had to clutch the back of her chair before she felt almost strong enough to manage the stairs.
At the door, hat in hand and with a look of worried anticipation, was Mr. Lowe. Her heart cartwheeled.
“How is she today?” he asked without preamble. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to visit earlier. I’ve come as soon as I could.”
His brow was furrowed, and he’d come despite the dark and the cold, like a father or a family member. Neither of which she had. She’d been alone, and now she wasn’t. First Matilda had sent a nurse and now this lovely man was visiting her. Pressure built up behind her eyes. Oh no.
“It’s very nice of you to come and enquire at all,” she choked out. The strain was about to spill in many inappropriate ways. She must get away from the street. Abruptly, she turned. The door to the kitchen blurred, but she grasped blindly and managed to get through it before sobs overtook her. There was only the agony of Annie being ill and hot tears dropping from her eyes.
Then she was being cradled, then held against a firm chest, hands stroking her back.
“It will be fine.” His voice rumbled through her like a purr.
She turned into him and allowed herself to cry. It was her fault. Her daughter, her perfect, illegitimate daughter might die.
When she’d first discovered she was with child, she’d wanted it gone. She’d felt her curved abdomen and wished it flat. She’d thought the child would always be disgrace and agony. She hadn’t been ready for the tidal wave of love when she’d first held Annie. This red, thrashing, yelling bundle of limbs who stole her whole heart.
In the salt storm of her fear, he was the rock she clung to. Mr. Lowe’s hand was rubbing her shoulder, saying words she could only feel through his chest. His cotton shirt was impossibly comforting against her cheek. And warm, oh so warm. He was firm and beautiful, she recognized as her sobs decreased to hiccups.
Gradually she came back to herself. Mr. Lowe was a teacher. An educated man, a virtuous man, and she’d just thrown herself on him.
“I... I’m sorry.” His shirt was wet with her tears. She moved to ease herself away from him and for the merest second he didn’t relinquish her, his strong arms keeping her braced with him. But then the air rushed between them and with it, awkwardnes
s.
“You didn’t bring this upon her,” he whispered. “This is not your doing, it’s the sadness of the world.”
The blood seemed to drain from her. “Did I...” She must have said something in her outburst.
His fingers touched her chin, then tilted her face up to his. Brown eyes full of compassion regarded her. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”
His look spoke of unshakeable confidence in her virtue. For an ephemeral moment she felt his equal in value. But then the sensation vanished. Once a lady fell, she was always fallen. But she couldn’t break his hold on her; his gaze kept her steady. Close to, his eyes were not as uniformly brown as she’d thought. They had little flecks of green around the inside edge.
“She’s going to live,” he said softly. “And you need to be well enough yourself to care for her. I...”
She looked up when he didn’t finish. He was holding out a book. She hadn’t noticed it in his hand earlier.
“I thought you could read to Annie. Or read yourself while she’s asleep, to keep your mind off things.”
“You’ve already done too much,” she demurred. A book. It was excessive and yet like the greedy woman she was, she wanted it. Years ago, before her rent had increased so much, she’d been able to afford occasional books and a subscription to the lending library. It had been one of the first things she’d culled from her budget. They were a luxury she couldn’t afford. Not like her previous life, when she’d taken such delights for granted.
“It’s only a yellow-back.” His mouth tugged up at the sides.
The cover featured a woman and a soldier. The title was Under the Red Dragon. A war novel then. She’d supposedly lost Captain Taylor in the Duar war, and perhaps Mr. Lowe thought this was what she liked. A woman fainting over a man who thought a lot of himself. Hardly.
“It’s a generous thought.” A lump formed in her chest. “Thank you.”
She accepted the book with the most grateful smile she could manage and put it on the table. It was difficult to know how she felt about her fictional husband. Hating the real man who ought to have married her was easy, but ‘Captain Taylor’ was blameless. As was Mr. Lowe. He was perfect. Unlike her.
* * *
It was a clear night when Alfred stepped out of Mrs. Taylor’s house into the street. It would be a late season frost by dawn, knocking back the spring buds. He breathed in deeply, taking the cold air into him. His lack of coat made him want to dash and get inside the warm vicarage where he lodged. But he lingered over every freezing step, keeping his hands out of his pockets to feel the bite as much as possible.
It was wrong to take so much pride that she’d leaned on him in her moment of weakness. A paradoxical mix of sympathy for her evident pain and gratification that he could offer solace had sung through him as he held her.
She’d choked that it was all her fault. Some of the great philosophers and philanthropists of the age believed vice brought about punishment from God. But try as he might, he couldn’t see evidence for that idea that didn’t have an equal and opposite example. For every man who swore, drank and fornicated who was struck down by a terrible disease, there were ten worse who enjoyed long life and robust health. He had no qualm, when hearing yet another mother castigate herself over ill child, in putting her right. Terrible things happened as trials not just to the person themselves, but also as trials of compassion and care to those around.
It tore at him to see her so distressed. Even more, it hurt him to leave her alone, so vulnerable. She’d told him about the appearance of Nurse Moylan, but that didn’t calm him. He wanted to stay till morning, holding her whenever she needed, bolstering her, and being close to her for every hour of the dark night.
He’d allowed himself to stroke her hair while she wept, telling himself it was to comfort her. Honestly, it answered a question he’d been wondering about for a long time - how did her springy, pale hair feel? Heavenly, was the inappropriate, but truthful answer. Her hair was silken and sensuous, inviting his fingers to curl into it.
But there was a more serious problem than his indulgence in the physical delight of her hair. Until now, he’d told himself marriage was a pragmatic matter for some unspecified time in the future. A sensible union with a woman who had a modest dowry could help him realize his dream of opening his own school.
As he’d held Mrs. Taylor as she cried, scared for her daughter, tenderness had overwhelmed him. His heart had felt three times too big for his chest, honored this strong lady condescended to rely on him. He’d recognized Mrs. Taylor’s beauty upon their first meeting. Whilst teaching he’d seen her diligence as a mother. But if he allowed himself to feel for her as a person, that was more problematic. Because then he must ask himself the question that he had been avoiding since Spring of ‘73. Why not court Mrs. Taylor, and if she would accept his suit, marry her?
The answer was simple. Because his meagre salary was barely enough to support a wife, never mind his ambitions, and as a widow she had no dowry to ease household expenses. She didn’t have enough to call a doctor when her child was unwell.
Poverty did not make for a happy marriage. He couldn’t afford to marry her. But he wasn’t sure he could stay away.
Chapter Five
“What do you think you’re doing?” Lydia kept her voice calm as she addressed Elizabeth from the doorway. The nurse had Annie’s leg in her hands and was slowly moving it up and down, bending it at the knee. “Get off my daughter.”
Elizabeth gently released Annie’s leg, allowing it to rest onto the bed, then backed away.
She’d left Elizabeth alone with Annie for an hour while making dinner and she returned to this. She pushed Elizabeth aside to get to Annie. “Are you all right, my darling? I’m so sorry.”
Her eyes were closed and her breathing labored, but Annie nodded sleepily.
“Mrs. Taylor–”
“No,” she snapped. “Polio should be treated with lack of movement. That’s what Doctor Woodward said.” She stroked Annie’s forehead and into her hair, soothing her back to sleep. Relief poured into her. Leaving Annie was a mistake. It was always a mistake. It had been two days since Elizabeth had arrived and Lydia had come to depend on her. Elizabeth’s presence allowed her to dress and wash. Elizabeth had made broth, which seemed helpful for Annie. Lydia could barely stomach anything. She hadn’t been out to see the chickens, collect eggs, or take them to Mrs. Dhesi at the shop for days. The lack of money nagged at her, but she couldn’t ask Elizabeth to do it and evidently she couldn’t leave Annie with the nurse.
Vigilance and constant worry over Annie’s condition was rubbing away at her energy like a bird scratching grass until there nothing remained but bare soil. The visits from Mr. Lowe were a conflict between the tug in her chest and the sinking in her belly that she was a charitable concern to the handsome schoolteacher.
“Yes, that is the common wisdom,” Elizabeth replied evenly.
“So why were you mauling her?” She stroked Annie’s forehead and over onto the top of her head. Annie’s hair was differently textured to her own, thicker and even more unruly. Her precious little girl.
“Mrs. Taylor, I was giving her just a little exercise,” Elizabeth said with exaggerated patience. “Polio wastes the muscles. I know people say one ought to preserve the muscles by keeping the patient from moving, but that seems contrary to nature. If we want Annie to be strong, she needs to keep using her muscles. Children who run around and play outside are stronger.”
Lydia observed Elizabeth out of the side of her eye. She was quietly waiting for her judgement. Annie didn’t seem distressed by Elizabeth’s actions. Her daughter’s stillness now ought to be reassuring, but it wasn’t. Doctor Woodward had said rest was essential. “Do you really believe movement is best?”
“Yes.” Elizabeth nodded emphatically. “Just a little, assisted activity.”
Lydia stroked Annie’s cheek and her daughter’s mouth strained into a smile. If one didn’t use one’s legs, how co
uld they keep able? Like oiling a gate, it couldn’t do any harm to move Annie’s limbs for her.
“Nothing that would put strain on her breathing,” Lydia said.
“Absolutely not.” Elizabeth’s breath held all the relief of a woman who knew she was correct and had anticipated being dismissed for it.
“Very well. Please continue.” It did rather make sense to keep her legs moving. She’d seen the shriveled legs of Polio victims. The thought of her daughter in such pain was the antithesis of everything she’d worked for.
“Yes, ma’am,” Elizabeth replied.
Lydia pursed her lips. She wasn’t a ma’am. She didn’t have servants, not even a maid-of-all-work. Elizabeth was a nurse, Lydia was not, and she had to trust her. “Though I would prefer if in future you would discuss your more unconventional ideas for my daughter’s care with me first, please.”
She held Annie’s hand in hers while Elizabeth proceeded to flex Annie’s legs. She watched her daughter’s face for any signs of discomfort, but there were none.
“And please call me Lydia.” It wouldn’t do for her to get used to any honorific. She mustn’t get ideas above her station, as if she were still the ambitious chit she’d been a decade ago. It would encourage unproductive impulses. Like the thought that Mr. Lowe’s manner yesterday had been more than that of a caring teacher for the mother of one his pupils. It had been more like... that of a lover worrying about his sweetheart. Something she would never have and could only bring disappointment.
She couldn’t let her emotions about Annie’s illness spill out into a girlish infatuation with Mr. Lowe. She squeezed Annie’s hand to remind herself of what was important. He was just doing his job. Acknowledgment of her skipping heart would embarrass them both.
“A few more days, Lydia,” Elizabeth interrupted her thoughts as she moved to the opposite side of the bed and began to move Annie’s other leg. “I think tomorrow we’ll see her begin to recover.”
