by Merry Farmer
Another long silence fell between them. Clara studied James’s drowsy face as she worked up the courage to say, “You must hate me now. You probably don’t want anything to do with a woman like me.”
Her fears seemed confirmed when Arthur didn’t answer at first. Clara’s heart started to sink, until he said, “Some of Jesus’s closest companions were sinners. He came to redeem us all, not just to form a club with those who have never been faced with harsh decisions.”
Clara glanced up in surprise, wanting to smile but hardly daring to.
Arthur smiled for her, sadly, but with growing confidence. “If you’ve truly left that life behind, then who am I, who are any of us, to deny you the chance of a clean soul?”
“So…you don’t think I’m irredeemable?”
She didn’t really need his answer of, “Of course not,” but the words made her heart soar anyhow. That and the fact that the fondness was back in his eyes, just as it had been before. Although perhaps with a little less enchantment, and a little more understanding, than before.
“Nobody knows,” Clara added in a rushed whisper. “Only Mr. Croydon. And sometimes, the way he has been acting, I don’t think he remembers about my past.”
“Your secret will go with me to the grave,” Arthur said. He reached out and laid a hand on Clara’s knee. It was a gesture of friendship and support, but it sent an excited thrill up her leg to a particular spot all the same.
“Thank you,” she said, leaning toward Arthur.
Before she could say more, Mr. Croydon marched into the room. Clara and Arthur both leapt to their feet, as though they’d been caught in an inappropriate situation. Mr. Croydon didn’t seem to notice. He looked worse than the last time Clara had seen him. He hadn’t shaved for days, and a salt-and-pepper growth of hair covered his jaw. There were dark circles around his eyes, and he seemed unfocused enough that Clara wondered if he’d been drinking.
“Alex, you look awful.” Arthur seemed to agree with Clara’s assessment. He strode over to meet his friend, rubbing his arm and studying him with concern.
“I feel awful,” Mr. Croydon said, his voice thick, confirming Clara’s assessment about drinking. “I deserve to feel awful.”
“No, you don’t. Come here and sit down.”
Arthur attempted to usher Mr. Croydon to one of the large chairs by the fireplace, but Mr. Croydon brushed him off, his balance unsteady.
“Say what you want, man, and leave me to my well-deserved grief.”
Arthur pursed his lips. He sent a look Clara’s way. Clara did her best to communicate her support with a nod and a weak smile. Arthur nodded in return, then went on.
“I’ve come about James,” he began.
Mr. Croydon’s face darkened. “What about him?”
Arthur shifted uneasily and sighed. “No one in town is willing to take him in. The mothers that are nursing all have some excuse for why they can’t provide wet-nurse services for him.”
“So, he’s to starve?” Mr. Croydon interrupted, raising his voice.
“No, no.” Arthur put a hand on his shoulder and managed to steer him to one of the chairs, in spite of his protest. “There are all manner of powdered infant milk formulas available these days. They’re all scientifically created to provide all the nourishment babies need. That’s what I’ve been feeding him these last few days. But James needs more than just nourishment. He needs long-term care.”
Mr. Croydon sagged into his chair and rubbed his forehead. Clara wasn’t certain that he was listening to Arthur at all.
“I think the time has come to find a home for little James,” Arthur said. When Mr. Croydon didn’t respond, he went on with, “And by ‘home’, I mean a suitable orphanage. Now, there’s one in Chippenham that—”
“No.” Mr. Croydon leapt to his feet so fast that Clara started, which caused baby James to fuss and wiggle. Mr. Croydon swayed as he fought for balance. He didn’t look at the baby once as he went on with, “This is the boy’s home, and he’ll stay here. Violetta would have wanted it that way.” His voice shrank to a cracked whisper at the end.
“But…” Arthur held out his hands to catch his friend if he needed it. “But no one will take him in.”
“You’ve taken him in,” Mr. Croydon went on. “So keep him.”
Clara’s brow shot up. Arthur opened his mouth, but couldn’t think of a reply at first. He exchanged a puzzled glance with Clara. All Clara could do in reply was shrug and try to settle James again.
“Alex, surely you know that a single man, a vicar with a congregation to look after, cannot raise an infant on his own,” Arthur said.
“I won’t let you send him away,” Mr. Croydon insisted. “This is his home.”
Arthur pursed his lips, his back and shoulders tense, as if he were trying to think his way out of an impossible situation. Clara’s heart ached for him, and for James.
“But surely you see that it is not appropriate for me to be a father to this boy,” Arthur tried again.
“You are not his father,” Mr. Croydon said, wincing as though guilt or grief were gnawing at him.
“And James does deserve a father. And a mother,” Arthur went on.
“You will not send him away,” Mr. Croydon insisted.
It was clear to Clara that there would be no arguing with the man. Not in his current state. But it wasn’t her place to even be there, let alone put in her two-cent’s worth.
Arthur seemed to see the truth of things too. He sighed, and his shoulders sagged. “All right, then. I’ll keep him with me for a little while longer. But Alex, you know this is not a permanent solution.”
“She didn’t deserve this,” Alex said, rubbing a hand over her face. “This was never supposed to happen. It…it all got out of hand.”
“I know.” Arthur stepped closer to his friend, patting him on the back. “We all make mistakes.”
A jolt of sorrow and shame hit Clara at Arthur’s words, but at the same time, her admiration for him grew.
“Most mistakes don’t cost people’s lives,” Mr. Croydon whispered. For the first time, he glanced in Clara’s direction, at the baby in her arms. “Most mistakes don’t ruin lives before they can begin.”
“I’m sure it won’t—”
Before Arthur could finish, Mr. Croydon broke away from him and charged out of the room. A humble, sad sort of awe filled Clara at his exit. She didn’t know the whole story of Mr. Croydon and Violetta, but she could imagine that, like her own life, what had started out as a simple, bad decision had turned into a mountain that seemed impossible to ascend.
“I guess I’ll take him home,” Arthur said, crossing slowly to Clara and taking James from her arms. “Though heaven only knows how a bachelor like me, who can barely put two words of a sermon together every Sunday, is going to raise a child.”
CHAPTER 5
T he work that needed to be done in a house as grand as Winterberry Park never seemed to be finished. But that didn’t mean that Clara had the focus to throw herself into the tasks she was assigned. Especially not when her mind was a mile away, down the hill and through the meadow, in town.
“I still don’t understand why not a soul in town will lift a finger to help Rev. Fallon take care of poor baby James,” she said as she worked alongside Ada, the kitchen maid, sweeping the floor in the afternoon sitting room.
As far as Clara understood it, Ada wasn’t really supposed to be upstairs, but the girl had ambitions of moving up the ladder of service, and it was all hands on deck to get the floors swept while the footmen rolled up the carpets and took them outside for their yearly beating.
Ada paused in her sweeping to stare at Clara in disbelief. “You do know who that baby’s father is, don’t you?” she whispered, darting a glance to the door to make sure no one overheard them.
“Well, yes, I can guess,” Clara said with an impatient sigh. “That’s what puzzles me, really. You would think that someone in town would want to gain favor with Mr. Croydon by—
”
“Ssh!” Ada silenced her, eyes wide.
“What?” Clara looked around. It was still only the two of them in the room, but she heard Mary and Martha’s voices and footsteps coming closer. “Don’t they know too?”
“Know what?” Martha asked as they entered the room.
Ada turned downright pale and focused on her sweeping as though she’d never said a word to Clara in her life.
Clara let out an impatient breath. “Know about baby James,” she said.
Mary and Martha stopped in their tracks, the bucket Mary carried, presumably for washing the room’s windows, swaying and sloshing. The sisters exchanged looks, then walked on, sniggering.
“You don’t like having a position here, do you?” Mary asked.
“What does that have to do with anything?” Clara’s frustration grew.
“You’re bound to lose it if you keep talking about things you shouldn’t,” Martha said.
Clara clenched her jaw and watched as the two sisters went to work on the windows. While she could understand why it wasn’t polite to talk about someone who had died, she simply didn’t understand what all the fuss was about when everyone already knew the truth. Back in Wyoming, no one would have batted an eye when it came to talking about someone’s baby born out of wedlock. If someone as distinguished as Howard Haskell had fostered an illegitimate child, everyone would have known about it, shrugged, and gone on with their business. Not that Howard would have dared to stray from Elizabeth, his wife. Clara supposed that English people were just more squirrely about that sort of thing.
“Of course, it’s not the baby’s father that keeps people from wanting anything to do with him,” Mary said after Clara had gone back to sweeping. To any outside observer, it would have appeared that she was talking to Martha alone, and that Clara didn’t have anything to do with the discussion.
“Hmm,” Martha agreed. “Like mother, like child, after all.”
“And that child’s mother was certainly not the sort who would be allowed in polite society,” Mary said.
Clara frowned, but kept sweeping. She tried to exchange a look with Ada the same way Mary and Martha were doing, but the kitchen maid kept her back turned to Clara. That small slight made Clara’s chest feel hollow. It also sent her thoughts flying back to town, to the vicarage, and to Arthur all the more.
“She never should have settled in town in the first place.” Martha continued the conversation she and Mary were having.
“He never should have brought her back here, you mean,” Mary added.
Martha made a knowing sound. “Should have left her on the streets in London with the rest of the garbage.”
Clara’s frown darkened. She glanced sideways at the sisters only to find the two of them staring at her as if everything they’d said was intended to scandalize her. Well, she’d seen enough of scandal in her life to be immune to it. But she would never grow immune to downright mean behavior, and directed toward someone who was now dead at that.
She straightened and planted a fist on one hip, her broom gripped in her other hand. “Well, I for one feel very sorry for Miss Violetta.”
Mary and Martha turned away from their window, mouths dropped in shock. Ada swept her way to the far end of the room, then dashed out through the door.
“You heard me,” Clara told the sisters. “I feel sorry for any woman who is forced to stoop that low. Especially since she’s passed on now. And none of us know what kind of relationship she and—” She stopped herself from saying ‘Mr. Croydon’ at the last minute. For all she knew, saying something like that aloud really could get her fired. Instead she said, “They might have had something beautiful and tragic.”
Mary and Martha’s shocked looks shifted into snorts of disbelief and unkind giggles.
“Oh, Clara,” Martha said with false caring. “You’re American. You don’t understand these sorts of things.”
“Violetta was a bad woman.” Mary whispered the last two words. “She did bad things, and that child is the rotten fruit of those bad things.” She turned her nose up and returned to washing the window.
Clara’s anger burned so hotly she started to shake. It was no wonder she had never become friends with the sisters, or anyone else in the house for that matter. If they all only saw things as black or white, if they didn’t allow for unfortunate circumstances and the choice between doing bad things or starving to death, then she didn’t want to become friends with them.
“I am simply concerned that a poor, innocent baby is being rejected for unfair reasons,” she said, all but beating the floor with her broom instead of sweeping. Dust flew everywhere, forming a cloud around her feet as she vented her anger. “Rev. Fallon is a saint for caring for James when he has so much else to do. Any other man would have taken the boy to an orphanage without consulting Mr. Croydon, but no. Arthur has that poor, dear child with him right now, although heaven knows how they’re managing.”
She wanted to throw her broom across the room in frustration. She might have at that, but as she sent another cloud of dust into the air, she glanced up to see Mrs. Musgrave standing in the doorway, watching her with narrowed eyes.
Clara started, dropping her broom. She bent to pick it up, wondering how much of her angry rant the woman had heard. Judging by the fact that her face was still hard as a rock when Clara stood and made a clumsy curtsy, she’d heard all of it.
The room went silent. Mary and Martha stopped their window-washing. They peeked over their shoulders to see what would happen, although Clara didn’t think they could have overheard her muttering. Ada poked her head around the corner from the hall, making Clara wonder if she’d gone running to tattle as soon as the conversation had started. But it was a long, awkward time more before Mrs. Musgrave said anything.
“If you’re so concerned about the situation,” she said, hands planted on her hips, her expression unreadable, “they why don’t you stop making such a mess in here and run down to town to find out how Rev. Fallon is getting along.”
Clara blinked. She wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly. Behind Mrs. Musgrave, Ada looked surprised.
“Really?” Clara asked. “You’d really let me leave what I’m doing here to go check on them?”
Mrs. Musgrave’s expression only grew stonier. “You’re only making more work for everyone in here. Ada can finish the floor by herself.”
Ada scurried back into the room, taking up her broom from where she’d left it against the far wall and going back to work as though her life depended on it. Mary and Martha were watching unapologetically now, their jaws dropped.
“You mean, I can leave Winterberry Park, go down to the vicarage, and help with the baby?” Clara asked one more time, just to be sure.
“Go,” Mrs. Musgrave said, gesturing for the door. “Before I change my mind.”
“Yes, Mrs. Musgrave.” Clara remembered her manners at last and bobbed a curtsy. She started to run out of the room with the broom in her hand, remembered that too, then dashed to the wall to leave it there. As soon as she let go, the broom slid and fell over, but Clara was in too much of a hurry to go back and pick it up. She felt like a bird that had been let out of a cage, free to fly to where she knew she was needed.
“There, there, James. There, there.”
Arthur rushed from the sink, where he’d been attempting to sterilize the glass bottles he’d purchased for James’s formula, into the parlor where he’d left the boy to nap. In the last few days, his life had been turned utterly upside down. Where once his humble vicarage was littered with papers and books—not all of them of the religious variety—now it felt as though it was piled floor to ceiling with nappies in various stages of cleanliness, bottles he’d forgotten to take into the kitchen, infant clothes that he’d fished out of the donations basket at the church—along with the ones James had come with—not to mention half-eaten plates of his own, rushed meals and articles of his own clothing he’d had to take off when James soiled them.
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br /> “There, there,” he repeated, heading to the sofa where he’d left James to nap.
Only, the boy wasn’t on the sofa. Arthur stared at it to be sure, even lifting one of the cushions for good measure. James’s cries continued to fill the room, but it took another few seconds for him to remember that he’d left James in a large basket he’d found and filled with blankets. He’d placed it in the corner, where the unusually balmy, autumn breeze was coming in through the window.
“Sorry, old chap,” he said rushing to pick James up, basket and all. “Sorry. But you have to admit, I am getting a little better at this.”
He set the basket on the sofa, lifted James up, only to have his nappy slide right off, the weight of a post-nap surprise pulling it down.
Arthur muttered an entirely un-vicar-like oath, then carried James at arm’s length across the room and into the kitchen. He held the boy with one arm while he worked the pump in the sink, then held his backside in the stream of cold water. It only went so far to clean up the mess, and the temperature of the water had James screaming even louder.
“Sorry, sorry.” Arthur gave the baby’s bum a quick scrub, then reached for the closest towel on hand.
He struggled to hold James securely. The poor thing was red and wailing in fury. Just as Arthur thought he had the boy’s backside taken care of, a quick stream burst forth from his front side, wetting Arthur’s shirt.
“Yes, I suppose I deserved that,” Arthur sighed.
He draped the towel over his shoulder and held James close as he rushed back into the parlor, searching every which way for a clean nappy. The dirty one appeared to be leaking onto the sofa, but there wasn’t time to deal with it quite yet. If he didn’t find something clean and warm to wrap James up in…well, things couldn’t get much worse than they already were.
Or so he thought until a knock sounded at the door. Arthur muttered another oath, glancing around at the sorry state of his home. For days now, every time one of his congregation knocked at the door with parish business, he’d flown into dread, worried that some authority would come and take James away.
