Your friend,
Harriet
I tidied the parlour and the bedroom and washed the floors, for want of something to do, and took the sheets to the laundress on the corner who will deliver them back to us when they are done. I took the letter to the post and suffered only a moment’s hesitation before sending it. I spent some time preparing a supper of chops and potatoes for Frances, and when she came in she said she thought I looked a little brighter, although by that time I was feeling unwell once more and went to lie down on the bed, for the smell of the chops was making me nauseous. When she had eaten, Frances came to the bedroom and asked me if I should like her to send for the doctor.
‘I am just a little tired,’ I said, ‘and anxious about Arundel.’
She stroked my cheek very softly and said, ‘You know you are welcome to stay with me for as long as you wish,’ and then she added that she could spare a few shillings a week if I wished to send them to my mother; my company, not to mention my diligence in tidying the rooms and cooking her meals, required more compensation than merely her friendship.
I told her I should not expect that of her, and thanked her all the same, and she kissed my forehead, and told me I was welcome to stay whenever I wished, and for as long as I wished, and that she wanted to have every minute of my time until I left for Arundel, and was vexed that she had to share me with my mother and my sister, who did not appreciate me.
Frances thinks highly of me now. She will think less of me when she knows, as she surely soon must. Spinster she may be, but she is no fool, and she knows my body well enough now to be marking the changes taking place within it.
I am mourning the loss of my friendship already, even whilst it still burns brightly in my heart, and in hers.
Friday, 22nd September
Sick into the pot this morning. Mary Ann had nothing to say other than, ‘You’re always sickening for something or the other,’ and ‘I hope you’re going to clean that up yourself and not leave me to do it.’
I did, for the smell of it made everything very much worse. There seemed little point in going back to bed afterwards, as the sky was already lightening, so I swept the fire and cleaned the stove, and washed the floor in the kitchen, all the while trying not to be overcome with it. I made some tea and had some bread, and felt a little better.
Mary Ann walked to town to buy meat and eggs and flour, and a few other items, and I stayed with Mother and read to her while she sewed. The postman has brought a letter for me, from Arundel. They ask me to attend the school for the first week in November – a little over six weeks from today – and they will provide me with board and lodging with a respectable Christian family in the town, paid for at a deduction of three shillings a week directly from my wages. The letter confirms that I shall have sole charge of the new girls’ infants, and I shall report directly to the board. I am permitted to appoint up to two pupil teachers from the senior girls’ school, which is adjacent to but entirely separate from my own, in consultation with the senior school’s headmistress, Miss Pargeter.
I never knew it was possible to feel elated and desperately miserable at the same time. Already I am thinking of the Arundel school as my school, as the infant girls as my girls; and yet, if I am right in my supposition, then it cannot be. I am with child, and my belly is already too big. Another month and surely it will be plain for all to see. Even if I were somehow to disguise it, the time will come to bring the child into the world, and what shall I do then? How shall I manage? Shall I hide the child – Richard’s child, I want to believe – and send it to a woman somewhere to be cared for? Shall I take it to London and leave it in a basket on Richard’s doorstep, a foundling for Maria to bring up with their own son? Shall I go somewhere else, somewhere nobody knows me, and pass myself off as a widow, and take in laundry? All of those things make me want to weep.
Perhaps I am getting ahead of myself. The Lord may yet decide to take the child from me; my sister suffered the loss of the first three of her infants, and my own mother lost a child before Mary Ann was born. It is wrong to pray for such a thing, and I shall not do it, but still I cannot assume that the child will yet live. It may be that I will be able to go to Arundel after all. So much is in the Lord’s hands! He would not send me such a gift, only to wrest it out of my grasp before I have had the chance to experience it?
Wednesday, 27th September
I have been in bed for five days, with a head cold. I spent a lot of time asleep, so that Mary Ann thought me truly ill. I told her not to send for the doctor, for Mother cannot spare the money for it, and I repeated to her that it was just a chill, and I should recover well enough with rest. She brought me broth, and beef tea, and I slept, and in so doing escaped from my troubles for a short while.
Richard should have received my letter days ago, and there has been no reply. Perhaps he will never write to me again. Should I write to Maria instead? I think I should have written to her in the first place!
Frances came to visit me after school, which was very kind. She brought me apples, and a copy of Miss Edgeworth’s Helen, and a pudding she had made, to be shared with Mother and Mary Ann, and some of Mr Storer’s gingerbread, ‘for fortitude’. I told her that the Arundel school required me for the first week in November, and she frowned, and said, ‘If you are well enough by then.’
I assured her that I was only suffering from a little cold, and that a few days would see me back to full strength. I think perhaps she thinks me weak, after my brief sojourn in St Albans – that I cannot cope with the life of a schoolteacher after all. I wish I could tell her what truly ails me! But Verrall is right: she has a reputation to guard, and she is right to treasure it, and it would undoubtedly cost me her friendship. I value it above everything else, now. Perhaps it is all I have left.
Thursday, 28th September
A letter from Richard this morning.
My dear Harriet,
Thank you for your last, although I admit I am uncertain as to how best to respond. I am sorry for your troubles, and I hope that you find a swift resolution to them. There is, as I am sure you understand, very little I can offer you in the way of assistance, as Maria and our son need all of my attention at the present time. Will you go to Arundel, as planned? Perhaps I shall see you in London before you continue your journey further, although, as I am sure you will agree, it would be best if you stay at a boarding house, rather than coming to Fieldgate Street.
I remain, as ever,
Your friend
Richard Field
The letter made me very ill. He seems so cold towards me now! I suppose I should expect it, for I am no longer his Harriet, the girl he took into his care and claimed to love; I am cast aside, a woman who is threatening to bring trouble to his door.
I should have waited until I was calm, but the fresh wave of fear overcame me, and I wrote back immediately.
Dear Richard,
Your letter has vexed me so very much! My troubles have a cause, and you are that cause: I find myself in this desperate situation because of you, and I trust that, as my friend, if not as my love, you would offer me every possible assistance. Is there nobody of your acquaintance, who might be able to help? Or any other solution, that might be offered to a woman in such a predicament? Perhaps there is somewhere I could go, to be delivered of the child safely, and find a good person to take care of it? I am sure there are discreet establishments to help unfortunate women, and if you would only send me a little money you need not even trouble yourself to find out such a place, but I should do it myself.
I find myself in this matter very much alone and friendless, and I trust that in my hour of deepest need, dear Richard, that you will be the true friend that you have always promised to be to your own,
Harriet
Saturday, 30th September
Dear Harriet,
I found your last letter very disturbing. As you know, I have very little money to spare and what I have is spent on my wife and son, to ensure their com
fort and continuing good health. You mention that there might be an establishment to which you could go, but I am certain I have no knowledge of such a thing, and to suggest that I should have is, I must say, insulting. I am sure you did not mean to imply that I have had cause to recommend such a place before?
You say in your letter that I am the cause of your trouble, and that, too, is a matter of concern to me, since, as you must well appreciate, I have only your word that I am the cause. In your letters and during your visits you made frequent mention of gentlemen friends – perhaps I should hesitate to call them that? – for example, your cousin George, and the young men at the chapel, and your very own dear friend the Reverend Mr Verrall, to name but a few. I should also perhaps remind you of Samuel Phipps, whose acquaintance you made in this very house, and with whom you displayed a very free manner more than once at dinner parties here. These aforementioned gentlemen should perhaps also be considered by yourself as worthy of approach, as you might find one of them in a better position to assist you than am I.
Richard Field
This time I have not replied immediately, but determined to wait, so as to find the most appropriate response to this foul epistle. All day I have swung between extremes of emotion, from anger, to fear, to pain, and back to anger once more. Oh, I have been most terribly wronged! I know that some fault lies with me, for I lay with him, and did not deny him what he asked; and for all that I loved him I should have seen the consequences of that love, and run from it!
That he should mention Samuel Phipps to me! I recall matters rather differently: that Richard suggested he should sit next to me at supper, and then behaved like a peevish child all evening when he found that Samuel and I were enjoying a lively conversation. Afterwards, I laughed and accused him of being jealous, and he sulked for days, only deigning to speak to me again when I had pandered to his mood and apologised.
Although the letter has brought to mind that I might also approach Mr Verrall for his help. It is, after all, also possible that he is responsible for my condition, given our association, although I expect he will deny it. He is that sort of man. Whether he believes himself responsible or no, he might still be willing to help me, given that he is a man of considerable wealth, and a Christian (I shall not say a good Christian, for I know him to be otherwise) who preaches forgiveness of sins and the helping of those unfortunate souls who have found themselves cast low. He might, indeed, have counselled other young women in my situation, if not here in Bromley, then perhaps in his previous time at Peckham.
It may be an error of judgement to approach Mr Verrall after the last time, but he has left me alone since then, and I think perhaps he has realised that he has used me ill, and has repented, and is leaving me in peace.
Monday, 2nd October
I am with Frances, and, as is always the case, I feel so much better with her than I do at home. She has such a lightness of spirit, I cannot help but be gladdened by it. For a short while I forget my troubles, and am absorbed in the news of the school, and the pupils, and Mr and Mrs Campling. But then she asks me for my opinion, or about Arundel, or chapel, and I am reminded of it all over again.
I have been hoping that some illness will befall me, that will carry the child away peacefully. I cannot pray for this, of course; even though the thought of losing the baby – Richard’s baby? – fills me with a strange sort of relief, it is a child, and it is God’s Holy Will that I find myself thus burdened, and I must make the very best of the matter. But how? Which avenue is the best course to take? I have followed the thread of every possible thought to its conclusion, and I am dismayed that there is none that I like better than any other.
The best way, the righteous way, is this: to write to Arundel, and offer my sincerest apologies, but inform them that my circumstances have changed and I shall not be able to take the situation after all. Then I should present myself at the nearest workhouse, or, better yet, walk to Sydenham or Brixton or somewhere even further than that, where nobody knows me, and take on a made-up name, and there go to the workhouse and ask them for help; and I shall have the child, and it will be taken from me and put with the other children, and we shall have a difficult life if we have one at all, but at least we might not starve to death on the street.
Or I could throw myself on the mercy of my family; not my mother, or Mary Ann, but perhaps my brother William and his wife Anne, who have been married a year but as yet have no child: perhaps I might stay hidden in their house until the baby comes, and then Anne could take the babe herself, and pretend it is her own? But they are not rich: Will is in service at a house in Belgravia, and Anne takes in laundry. I could promise her money from my own income to compensate them for the extra mouth to feed? Nobody need know anything about it but us. Will was always the kindest of all my siblings; surely he would take in his niece or nephew, rather than see it raised in a workhouse?
But the years would pass, and I should see my own child brought up within the family but not by me, and my heart should be broken by it; for this is my child, my own, and how should I see the dear little face and recognise it, and not love it for my own?
Tuesday, 3rd October
Today I walked through the fields, which are newly turned and muddy, and smell of rain. I think perhaps this child will kill me after all, for I cannot imagine living to see the wheat growing tall again, after this. I try hard to picture it, and the months ahead – the weather turning colder; Christmas, and the dark days and nights, and then spring – and I cannot see it. Nothing but blackness lies ahead for me.
It was thus engaged in my own bleak situation that I came across Thomas Churcher, who was on the path ahead of me beside an old, bent oak tree and had crouched to look at something in the hedge beneath it, that separated this field from the next, alongside which ran the path. He heard me approach and turned, and placed his finger upon his lips to urge me to be silent. I crept forward and reached him, and asked him what he was doing.
‘Look,’ he whispered, and pointed into the hawthorn, below the tree.
I followed his indication and saw a mother cat had made a nest there in the old roots of the tree, quite well hidden; and at her belly were suckling three tiny kittens. At this very little thing I found tears starting in my eyes, and I had to wipe them quickly away, lest he should see and ask me why I wept.
‘I have been bringing her scraps,’ he said, and brought from his pocket some pieces of meat, and a dead mouse, which he said had been in the trap this morning, and when the mother cat saw this she got to her feet and left the small blind kittens where they were, mewling. She came to Thomas and let him pet her, and rubbed up against his knee, her tail curved into a perfect arch, first this way, and then that.
‘They are so very tiny!’ I exclaimed.
‘Would you like to hold one?’ he asked.
‘Will she let me?’
He nodded, and put his hand inside the hedge and brought out a kitten, while the mother cat watched the kitten and Thomas and continued to rub her body against his leg. He placed the kitten in my cupped hand, its little mouth opening and closing, its tiny pink paws splayed helplessly across my palm. I felt certain that I should drop it, or harm it, and I felt so very sorry for the mother watching me and thought that she must be terrified, so I passed it very carefully back to Thomas, and he placed the baby back in the shelter of the hedge. The cat went straight to the kittens then, and proceeded to wash them vigorously.
Thomas stood up, and offered me his hand to help me up too. I took it gratefully, and we continued walking towards the town. I stumbled a little, and he offered me his arm, and I took it. We carried on in that manner, neither of us speaking and yet with no requirement on either of us to do so. I was thinking of how very gentle he was, and kind, and how fortunate was Emma Milstead to have promised herself to a man that would take the trouble to care for a stray cat and her kittens.
We reached the end of the lane. Ahead of us sat a small, squat building rather like an outhouse, the town C
age. It is no longer used for drunks and thieves, since the police station was built, but it has been left behind as a place to store things, and because nobody is quite sure who owns it.
At the sight of the Cage, Thomas let my arm fall from his, and stood still. I turned to him.
He said, ‘You won’t tell anyone, will you?’
I thought he meant about taking his arm, that Emma might be jealous of it, as innocent as it was, but he added, ‘About the cat.’
‘No,’ I said, ‘of course not. I hope she is safe there until her babies are grown.’
Even though his concern had been for the cat and not for my reputation, strong emotion had overcome me, then, and I had to turn and step quickly into the lane, lest he should be seen in my company. After all, his reputation is intact; and mine, such as it is, shall soon be ruined.
In my state of distress I did not wish to venture further towards the Market Place, and the only destinations then available to me were to go further up Widmore Lane, towards the Verralls’ house, or to return to the field and back home again, or to try the gate to the chapel, and go within and pray for a while, or at least sit for a moment in peace.
I did the latter. The vestry door was open, and there was no sign of the reverend, although I did not look for him. I sat at the back and prayed for my soul, and for that of my child, and for Thomas, and for the cat, and the thought of the brave mother cat bringing her kittens into the world under a hedge in the cold autumn air made me want to weep, for she might as well be me, and perhaps that same fate would befall me.
I heard the back door of the chapel open, and stayed very quiet and still, that the person who came might not notice me; but a moment later I became aware that someone stood beside me. I thought it could only be the reverend, and I steeled myself to rebuff him, to tell him that he should use me no more, for I had troubles of my own.
The Murder of Harriet Monckton Page 39
