Nelly Dean

by Alison Case

  The impulse to flee had been too strong to resist, but now that I was secure in my damp little nest, I had leisure to think about what I had done. It made little sense, I knew. Whatever I had seen in my mother’s face, she meant no harm to me personally. I was sure of that. And whether she meant harm to my unborn child, or had acted in ignorance, the result would be much the same. The shuddering waves of pain that passed over me, the blood that by now had soaked the pillowcase, made that much clear. When this ended as I knew it would, I would be safer indoors, and under her care. All I had to do was answer her calls. But I could not. Looking back now, I think it was instinct that led me, the instinct that leads any animal, wild or tame, to creep off from its fellows into some hidden nook, to bear its young, or to die.

  When the babe came at last, it was no bigger than the palm of my hand, and already dead. I had to feel for it amid what came with it, but when I had it, I could not bear to look. I untied Hindley’s neckerchief from my neck, and gently wrapped the babe in it, folding and rolling until I had a soft, dry little bundle, which I tucked in my bosom. Then I rolled onto my knees and felt about me for a rock to dig with. The ground was not yet frozen, but even so, it took a long time to dig a hole deep enough to be safe from dogs or foxes. The soil was hard-packed, and full of rocks, each of which had to be dug round and prised out before I could continue. Many times I sat back on my heels and sobbed, longing to give over, but I could not. While I worked, the air cooled, and the fog and rain resolved themselves into gentle flakes of snow. When the hole was as deep as my arm, I took the little bundle from my bosom, kissed it, and laid it in the bottom. I put small rocks all around it, and a larger flat one on top, to make a sort of coffin. Then I piled more rocks on top of that, before filling in the soil and packing it as hard as I could with my hands – for I could not stand to stamp my foot on it. When it was filled to a small mound, I covered that with a few larger rocks, piled into a simple cairn no higher than my calf, and then eased the heather back around the spot again. Anyone coming upon it would think they saw only a little boulder poking through the heath, but I would always be able to find the spot. When I was finished, I crawled a little distance away, wrapped the cloak tightly around me, lay down in the heather, and sobbed. Even through my pain and grief, I felt sleep hovering near. I knew I should get up and go to the house, or call out, that if I let myself fall asleep now I might not wake in this world, but I was past caring. I closed my eyes, and let sleep take me.

  *

  When I awoke, there were two pairs of eyes looking into mine, set in two childish faces peering under the lifted hood of my cloak.

  ‘Nelly, is that you?’ asked Heathcliff.

  ‘Of course it’s her, ninny,’ said Cathy, and then raised her head to call out, ‘We’ve found her! She’s over here! Quick, Heathcliff, climb up on that hillock and wave.’ He hastened to obey. The multiple shouts that followed told me that more than the children had been pressed into service to search for me. I wondered how long I had slept. It seemed to be late afternoon, though with the snow still falling it was hard to tell.

  Heathcliff came back shortly, and they both began plying me with questions.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Why did you run away?’

  ‘Are you ill? You look ill.’

  ‘Did you have a fight with your mother?’

  ‘Why are your hands so dirty?’

  ‘Why were you asleep? Don’t you know you mustn’t fall asleep in the snow?’

  ‘No questions,’ I said shortly. ‘Can you help me to get up?’ They each took an elbow and helped me stumble to my feet. Once on them, I felt weak, but in no immediate danger of falling back down. I shook the snow off my cloak as best I could without taking it off, and then wrapped it tightly around me and cast my eyes about the site. Of the whole scene of my travails, nothing was visible but a pristine blanket of new-fallen snow, with a faint undulation where I knew the heather gave way to a small pile of stones, and a bare patch where I had just been sleeping. I turned away.

  ‘Do you think you can walk, Nelly?’ asked Cathy.

  I opened my mouth intending to offer a cheerful ‘Yes, of course’ so I was rather startled to hear from it instead a quiet ‘No’. I absorbed that information. ‘Wait for them to come,’ I said.

  ‘Shall we run to fetch them quicker?’ asked Cathy, clearly eager to be of more active service.

  Again, I opened my mouth to tell them to go, and heard instead, ‘Stay here, please.’ Their eyes widened at this, but they stood to either side of me like guards at attention. We were all silent, except when one of the children hollered now and again to guide the searchers. In a few more minutes my mother arrived, one of the hired hands with her. She rushed to embrace me.

  ‘Nelly, thank God you are found. What madness made you run off into the rain like that? And you so ill, too! Poor child, you might have died,’ she said, and on and on in the same vein. She was clearly distressed, but I neither embraced her nor responded, standing still as a statue. Now that she was here, I felt as if I would never speak again. ‘Come, poor girl, you’re half frozen. Don’t try to speak yet. Here, Burt, take her other arm and we’ll walk her back between us. Children, can you fly ahead and put the kettle on the hob? And put all the bed stones into the fire to heat up too – we’ll tuck her up warm with them after we’ve got some hot tea into her.’

  ‘No tea,’ I said.

  ‘No tea if you don’t want it, of course not,’ said my mother quickly. ‘Hot milk with a bit of brandy, maybe, or whatever you will. Hot water and honey, if you’ll take nothing else. Just to warm you up. No tea, no tea.’

  I suffered myself to be led back to the house, stripped of my damp cloak, and placed on a bench near the fire. I was given a mug of hot milk and brandy, which I tasted cautiously with the tip of my tongue before I began to drink, to be sure there was nothing else in it. After a few minutes, I could feel the warmth of the fire and the hot drink beginning to penetrate me, but I was still half-stupefied with cold. I watched dumbly, occasionally sipping from my mug, as my mother poked the stones from the fire and wrapped them in rags, then tucked them in a basket and went upstairs. When she came back down, she felt my clothes for dampness, chattering to me all the while, and, having concluded that they were not dangerously damp, told me I had best sit a while longer, and drink another mugful, if I would.

  ‘Water,’ I said.

  ‘You’d rather have hot water, dear? That’s fine. Shall I just put some honey in it, to sweeten it?’

  ‘Just water.’ My stomach was already rebelling against the milk, but I felt very thirsty. I would have preferred cold water, to be honest, but I didn’t think she would give it to me. But the hot water, when she brought it, was not so hot but that I could drink it quickly. Then I gathered my strength and my courage for what seemed to me, just then, a heroic effort. I stood up. ‘I am going to bed,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said my mother. ‘Let me just come with you, and help you off with your things.’ She was heading towards the stairs with me as she spoke.

  ‘No.’ I had been trying for just the right tone – firm enough to discourage dispute, but not so vehement that she would think I was hysterical, but I heard an edge of desperation in the word as it came out. My mother hesitated, looking disturbed. ‘Please,’ I said, fighting down the sobs that were threatening to rise, ‘please, Mother, I want to be alone.’ It was almost a whisper by then, but it swayed her.

  ‘I’ll just see you up the stairs,’ she said, and took my elbow. I was relieved to have her help there, actually, for the stairs, which normally I ran up and down twenty times a day, loomed just now as a fearful obstacle. Together we made our way up, and at my door, true to her word, she left me. Once inside, I closed the door. There was no lock, so I propped my little chair under the handle. Then I began to undress. I had lifted up my skirts as I lay down on the heather, when I knew what was coming, so my dress was unsoiled except by some mud, and my underclothes not
so bad as I feared. Still, I did not feel equal to explaining them to my mother, so I folded them flat and slid them under my mattress. I would wash them later, after she was gone. I poured a little water from the pitcher into the basin, and cleaned myself as best I could, then tugged my little window sash open a crack to squeeze the sponge outside. That done, and the window closed again, I slipped into my heaviest nightgown, removed the chair from the door, drank most of the remaining contents of the pitcher (for I was still thirsty), and got into bed. I had forgotten that it was full of hot stones, wrapped in rags. They had warmed it up nicely, but there were too many to sleep among, so I pushed all but the one at my feet out onto the floor, where they made a dreadful clatter.

  ‘What was that!’ called my mother in alarm, so quickly that I thought she must have been listening outside.

  ‘Just the bed stones.’

  ‘May I come in and get them? Else the rest of us will sleep cold tonight.’

  ‘Later, please,’ I said. It was still only twilight – it would be hours before the rest of the family went to bed. I wanted to be asleep, or at least be able to feign it, before my mother came in.

  ‘Very well,’ she said. I heard her footsteps recede.

  I lay in my bed. I was dry, warm, clean, and free of pain and fear for the first time in what seemed an eternity, though it was really only half a day. I had a great deal to think about, I knew, but I could not think of any of it yet. My mind was numb, and my heart ached like a fist clenched for too long. I stared at the ceiling, wondering if sleep would ever come. And that thought is the last that I remember.

  When I awoke the next morning, the first thing I saw was Dr Kenneth’s face. He had my wrist in one hand, and his watch in the other, and behind him hovered my mother, looking anxious.

  ‘Good morning, Nelly,’ he said with a smile, ‘how do you feel today?’ I pushed myself up to a sitting position, and took stock. There was some soreness, but nothing worrisome.

  ‘I feel well,’ I said cautiously.

  ‘No aches or pains, no unusual symptoms of any kind?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Good. Mrs Dean, could you perhaps leave us for a few minutes?’ My mother went out, but left the door ajar. The doctor went over and closed it firmly. When he returned, he sat down and took both my hands in his. ‘How far along were you?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘How far along was your pregnancy? Do you know?’

  I blushed. ‘How did you know? I didn’t think it showed yet.’

  ‘You had the look. About your face. The mask of pregnancy, they call it. I saw it when you came to town.’

  ‘Does my mother know?’ We were both whispering.

  ‘She didn’t say, and her face is harder to read than yours.’

  ‘Will you tell her?’

  ‘Not if you don’t want me to. You should tell her yourself, though. It may feel difficult now, but you will be happier for it, in the long run. Now tell me, how far along were you?’

  ‘Not quite three months.’

  ‘Do you know what brought on the miscarriage?’

  ‘My mo—’ I stopped, suddenly worried. Could my mother be guilty of child murder in the eyes of the law? And if so, would Dr Kenneth’s discretion extend to concealing a crime? I had no idea, and didn’t want to find out. I paused, and arranged my words carefully.

  ‘My mother had some herbs, from Elspeth. She said they were a stomachic. She brewed some for … for herself, one night when she felt ill, and they cured her. There was some left, and I drank it the next morning, when I was feeling ill. I thought it would help. But instead …’

  Dr Kenneth nodded, and then questioned me closely about what had followed, while he carried out his examination. At the end of it, he pronounced himself satisfied.

  ‘You’ve come through it well,’ he said. ‘I see nothing to worry about. You may get up when you’re ready to. And send for me again if you have any alarming symptoms. Will you promise me that?’ I nodded. ‘Good, now let’s bring your mother back.’ He opened the door, and announced to my mother that I was ‘sound as a nut’ and past danger.

  ‘Thank God,’ she said, ‘and thank you too, Dr Kenneth, for coming so quickly. I was quite worried.’

  ‘Well, you need have no further worries – she’ll be up and about today, I should think. But can you tell me, Mrs Dean – Nelly says she drank some herbal tea, a stomachic you had from Elspeth, that you had brewed up for yourself, and she went and drank the rest of it, and it made her ill. Might I have a look at it?’

  My mother shot me an unreadable look. ‘Oh, there’s none of that left – I brewed up the last of it yesterday, and threw the leaves on the rubbish heap.’

  ‘Do you know what was in it?’

  ‘Why, a good deal of mint, and some fennel, but I don’t know what else. Is that what made her ill, do you think?’

  ‘More than likely. Elspeth knows her herbs, all right, but they are not to be treated lightly. Did you follow her preparation and dosing instructions exactly?’

  ‘Why, I … no, I suppose not. I thought a little more could do no harm. It is only herbs.’

  ‘Only herbs can kill you, Mrs Dean, if you take the wrong ones, or too much,’ said Dr Kenneth sternly. ‘Or do great harm to someone else, if you leave them lying about. I would have thought you knew better than that, especially with children in the house.’

  ‘I’m very sorry, sir,’ said my mother contritely. ‘I’ll be more careful in future.’

  Dr Kenneth pronounced himself satisfied, and took his leave. He shut the door on us as he went, leaving my mother and me to face each other. My heart was pounding. What did she know, and what would she ask?

  She sat down in the chair Dr Kenneth had vacated, and took both my hands in hers. ‘Nelly, dear child,’ she said, ‘I am so sorry that I made you ill with my foolish mixture, and frightened you too, for you must have been frightened, or delirious, to run off like that! And you frightened me too, but I suppose I deserved it, and I have learned my lesson now.’ She spoke quickly, and would not meet my eye. I saw how it was: she would admit nothing, and sought no confession from me. Otherwise, would she not have commented on my lie to Dr Kenneth, and questioned me more closely about yesterday? I felt relieved, but a little disappointed too. And a deeper shade fell between my mother and me.

  In the quiet days that followed, though, I found myself doubting my own conclusions. My mother seemed so calm and cheerful and loving to all of us, so absolutely normal in herself, and in her behaviour to me, that to imagine her setting out in cold blood to kill the babe in my womb, without ever saying a word to me about it, seemed too monstrous to think of. It was more comfortable to think that it had all come about unwittingly, and that it was indifference, rather than guilt, that made her pass over my lie to Dr Kenneth.

  The day after New Year, my mother announced that it was time for her to return to Brassing, for her duties there had been neglected long enough, and the master was due back any day.

  ‘The master and Hindley,’ I said. ‘I wonder if they will bring the ram, too?’ My mother coloured and looked uncomfortable.

  ‘Sit down, Nelly,’ she said. ‘I have something to tell you.’ I sat. ‘Hindley is not coming back,’ she said quickly. ‘The master has decided that he must go away to finish his studies. He is worried about his progress. That was why he went to York, to take advice from his uncle and cousins on a likely place to send him.’

  I jumped up. ‘What! Why? Why now? And why keep it secret? I don’t understand!’ I was shouting.

  ‘Sit down again, Nelly,’ said my mother firmly. ‘I cannot speak to you while you are shouting and flailing about like that. The master reached this decision during his trip. He had no intention of keeping it secret – he told it to me. I thought it might grieve you, so I chose to hold off telling you until after the holidays. That is all.’

  ‘But I thought they were getting on so well! They were before they left. What happened?’ I str
uggled to keep a rising sense of desperation from my voice.

  ‘Perhaps the master was less pleased than he appeared. Perhaps Hindley did something to make him change his mind. I don’t know.’

  ‘How long is he to be gone?’

  ‘Until he finishes his education I believe. A year or two at least.’

  ‘But why … why so sneaking about it?’

  ‘There is no “sneaking” involved, Nelly. Mr Earnshaw is not obliged to share his plans for his family with you, any more than with the children.’

  ‘But … but …’ My mind was whirling. That my mother had hidden this news out of kindness, I might just have believed, as I had managed to believe that she killed my babe unwittingly, but the two together? And yet … I longed to question her more closely, but I could not see how to probe her secrets, without revealing my own. And Hindley gone, too, without a word, for years perhaps … between anger, grief, and suspicion, I thought I would explode. I fled to my room, shut the door, and flung myself sobbing on the bed.

  I had half expected my mother to follow me, but she let me be until the storm subsided. And what a storm it was! I raged, I sobbed, I stomped around the room, pounded the bed, kicked the walls, and pulled my hair – I did everything but scream out loud, or faint. But like all storms, this one passed, and in its wake I sat quietly on my bed, numb to everything but a dull ache in my breast, that felt as if it would never leave. Not long after I reached that point, my mother opened the door, and quietly came in. I buried my face in my hands, so as not to look at her. She sat down next to me.

  ‘Nelly,’ she said gently, ‘have you and Hindley become fond of each other?’