by Alison Case
‘Well, here is your tea,’ she said, ‘and now it is time for this little man to have his.’ She put him to the breast, and he soon settled down to nursing in earnest. His eyes were closed, and his tiny hand rested on her breast, the picture of contentment. As I watched him, I felt my eyes fill with tears. Mrs Dodd was too occupied with Hareton, at first, to notice, and I struggled to control myself before she did, but she chanced to look up just as a large drop gathered and fell down my cheek.
‘Poor Nelly,’ she cried, ‘this must have been terribly hard for you.’ It was the first gesture of real sympathy I had had, and it loosed the floodgates. I put my head down in my arms and sobbed in earnest, as I had not done since Hareton’s troubles began.
‘Shoosh, shoosh,’ she said soothingly, patting my back with her free hand. ‘All will be well now, you’ll see. Just look at your little one: he’s eaten all he can and fallen fast asleep, peaceful as can be. I’m going to tuck him up in the cradle next to Jonnie, and then you and I can enjoy our tea in peace.’ She got up to do as she said. While she was at it, I had drawn a few deep, quivering breaths to calm myself, and wiped my face with my apron.
‘I don’t know how to thank you enough,’ I began, drawing my purse from my bodice.
‘Oh, go on with you,’ she said impatiently, waving it away. ‘There’s no need for that. My Jonnie is fat as a pig, thank the good Lord – just look at him!’ she added proudly, and indeed he looked to be three times Hareton’s size, and round as a barrel. ‘And he’s already begun taking the odd spoonful of porridge. He can well spare a bit for a hungry neighbour.’
‘What’s this about a hungry neighbour?’ came a man’s voice from the door. I looked up to see John Dodd in the doorway.
‘Oh John, this is Nelly Dean,’ said Emma, as we both rose.
‘So it is,’ he said with a friendly smile, as he offered his hand for me to shake. John Dodd was about ten years older than his wife, and I knew him mostly by reputation, as an honest, hard-working man.
‘Good day, Mr Dodd,’ I said politely.
‘No, no, call me John. We are none of us silly enough to stand on ceremony like that. Is that a fresh pot of tea, Emma? I should be very glad of a cup, if it is.’ Emma assured him that it was, and hastened to pour him a cup of his own. While she worked, she retold all I had told her about Hareton’s troubles, and my errand there.
‘Is Mr Earnshaw looking for a wet nurse, then? I’m afraid we can’t help there – Emma has duties enough at home.’
‘Not exactly,’ I said carefully. ‘Mr Earnshaw is still quite lost in grief …’
‘Drowning in it, if what I hear is true,’ said Dodd frankly.
‘Yes, rather, and I have not wanted to disturb him with requests about the household – at least, well, he doesn’t like it if I do, so I have been trying to take care of things myself. I thought if I could just see for myself whether wet-nursing was what Hareton needed, or if anything else would do, I would be better able to make what arrangements were needed.’
Dodd looked thoughtful.
‘I wonder that you didn’t go to Mrs Hoggins. She’s a good deal nearer by, and I should think she’d be glad of some extra money.’
There was no doubt that John Dodd was a sharper questioner than his wife, and under his examination I was growing increasingly flustered. Now I flushed and stammered like any schoolboy caught in a falsehood.
‘Come now, Nelly, you are not telling us everything, are you,’ he said firmly, though not unkindly. ‘Let’s have the whole story, or we can’t help you.’
I thought it best to make a clean breast of it, so I told them everything, from Dr Kenneth’s expulsion to Hindley’s threats against me. Emma looked horrified, and made little sympathetic noises to encourage me. Dodd merely looked grave. When I was finished, he leaned back in his chair, and let out a low whistle.
‘Well, that is a fine pickle,’ he said.
‘I am so glad you came to us,’ said Emma, reaching across to press my hand. ‘I am sure we are glad to help, aren’t we, John?’
‘I don’t see that we can help much,’ he replied to her. ‘You can’t be going there, and for Nelly to come here every time the lad needs feeding, she’d spend the whole day running back and forth, and Mr Earnshaw’d be bound to notice that.’
‘It’s only for a short time,’ I said hastily, ‘while I search out something better to feed him with myself, or see if Mr Earnshaw can be won over to having a wet nurse come to us – perhaps Mrs Hoggins, as you said. I would only bring him by once a day, so I can be sure he’s got one good meal in his belly, at any rate. And I would pay, of course,’ I added, pulling out my purse again.
‘Is that Earnshaw’s money?’
‘Oh no, it’s my own savings. I may go behind his back for his son’s sake, but you can’t think I would spend his money on something he has forbidden.’
‘I’m glad to hear it, else I couldn’t take it in good conscience. Well, Emma,’ he said, turning to his wife, ‘what do you say? Are you willing?’
‘Of course I am,’ she said eagerly. ‘It will be worth it, just for the pleasure of having Nelly here every day for company.’
‘How much should I pay you?’ I asked.
‘A shilling a day,’ said Dodd, at the same time as his wife said, ‘Nothing at all.’ They looked at each other awkwardly.
‘The Lord bids us be charitable to those in need,’ Emma ventured.
‘Yes, but I don’t think that applies to a wealthy gentleman’s son,’ said Dodd.
‘But Nelly would be paying from her own wages!’
‘I’m happy to pay,’ I interposed hastily. ‘I always expected to. A shilling then?’
‘Sixpence,’ said Emma, sending her husband a stern look. He hesitated.
‘Say ninepence, then,’ I said.
‘Sixpence,’ she said firmly, ‘and not a penny more. Else I shall be so ashamed of myself the milk won’t flow.’ We both looked at Dodd, then, and he looked down.
‘Sixpence it is, then,’ he said, ‘if you will have it so. It’s all for you, anyway, my dear.’
‘Well, that is the strangest bit of bargaining I ever did,’ I said. ‘I wish the tradespeople on market day bargained as you two do.’ They both laughed at that, and gave each other such a warm look that it made my heart ache. I made ready to leave, then. Emma tried to coax me to stay, offering to feed Hareton again when he woke, but I thought it best to get back before my absence grew too conspicuous. Before I left, though, I asked if they knew anyone nearby who kept goats for milk.
‘Smith keeps a few. You may not know him – he’s another six miles further on from here. His wife’s a Frenchwoman, and she makes a kind of cheese from the milk that she fancies, as it reminds her of home. I tried it once, and couldn’t abide it, but there’s no accounting for tastes, is there? Why do you want to know?’
‘I’ve been told that babies who can’t tolerate cow’s milk may thrive on goat’s. I thought if Hareton took to it, I could buy a nanny goat, and solve the problem for once and all.’
‘Well, Smith would be willing enough to sell one, I think,’ he replied. ‘His wife was sure there would be a ready market for the cheese, since she thinks it superior to anything we have here, but most folk here like it no better than I did. So they have more than they need.’
This was hopeful, and between it and Hareton’s peaceful sleep and full, round belly I felt quite cheerful on my walk home.
Almost a week went by before I could make an expedition to the Smiths’, though. Maggie came down with a bad cold, and I banished her home lest she pass it to the baby in his weakened state. Without her to cover for me at the house, it was much harder to find time even to sneak off to the Dodds’ every day, let alone to make the longer trip six miles beyond them. In the meantime, and with one good feeding a day to fall back on, I resolved to see whether there was any other sort of milk nearer to hand that might sit better in his stomach. Mare’s milk and sow’s milk were both tried, wi
th no success. I even made an attempt to milk our mastiff bitch, who was nursing a litter of puppies, but she let me know in no uncertain terms that she was having none of it. At last Maggie was sufficiently recovered to return, and at that point I claimed a long overdue half-holiday, and made my trip. I brought the nursing bottle with me, thinking I could try Hareton on the fresh milk right there. If he liked it, I could purchase a nanny goat to bring home that very day. I planned to stop at Dodds’ on the way there, to get directions for getting to Smiths’, and for a light nursing, so he would not be in discomfort from his long fast. He would not be happy to be torn from the breast before he was finished, but I wanted him still hungry enough to try the new milk. If he didn’t take to it, I could stop again at the Dodds’ on the way back.
Emma took Hareton eagerly when we arrived, and settled in to nurse him, but she seemed anxious and unhappy.
‘Is something wrong?’ I asked. ‘You seem distressed.’
‘I am, a little,’ she said reluctantly.
‘If it is something you can share with me, I am happy to listen,’ I said.
She paused for a moment, and then burst out, ‘I’m afraid it is something I must share with you.’
‘What do you mean?’ My heart was pounding – I guessed something of what she would say, but dreaded to hear it.
‘John says I must stop nursing Hareton. He says Mr Earnshaw becomes such a madman when he’s in drink, the whole county is talking of it, and John is afraid of what he might do, if he found out we were crossing him. He says it was only ever to be for a short time, anyway. I am so sorry Nelly, I truly am.’ Indeed, tears were streaming down her face as she spoke. I opened my mouth to plead with her, and then shut it again. Even if I could convince her to go against her husband’s judgement, what right had I to bring strife into an otherwise happy marriage? She looked miserable enough already.
‘I am sorry to hear it,’ I said, fighting to keep my voice level, ‘but I understand. And I thank you for all you have done already. God willing, Hareton will take to the goat’s milk, and all will be settled that way. If he doesn’t,’ I hesitated, ‘would it be all right for me to bring him by here again today, on my way home?’
‘Of course it would! And for another day or two yet, until you can make other arrangements. I didn’t mean to banish you instantly – that would be too cruel altogether. I only wish we could keep on, as long as you need me.’
‘It’s all right, Emma. John is quite right in one sense – even without Hindley’s threats, we could not keep going on at this rate. A baby cannot thrive on just one good meal a day.’
It was hard to pull Hareton away from her and set off on another long walk, knowing how much rode on what we found at the end of it. So many expedients had failed me already, I was beginning to feel that failure was fated – that perhaps God, for my many sins (which I enumerated to myself as I walked), was punishing me by letting me come to love this child as my own, before taking him from me to rejoin his true mother in Heaven. I tried to feel more hopeful, remembering that it was goat’s milk, after all, and not that of a mare, ewe, or sow, that was specifically recommended by Dr Perkins. Nonetheless, it was a weary walk, made no easier by Hareton’s wails at being denied half his breakfast. I talked to him continually, telling him again and again that he would get the rest of it, soon enough, but of course he couldn’t understand that.
At length a farm, meeting Emma’s description, appeared before me. Cows dotted one pasture, and what I took to be goats, as they were taller and thinner than sheep, were scattered about another. A row of straggling grapevines, trained over a fence, claimed a south-facing patch of hillside, and I guessed that goat’s cheese was not the only French comestible Mrs Smith was attempting to cultivate in Yorkshire. As I approached, a woman in ordinary clothes, but a queer-looking cap, emerged from the house and greeted me in an accent as odd as her headgear. Half a dozen children, ranging from a toddler of three or so to a young fellow who looked about Heathcliff’s age, clustered around her. I introduced myself and Hareton, and explained my errand. She nodded, and turned to give rapid orders to the older boy, in a language I took to be French. ‘Yes Mum,’ he said, respectfully enough, but for some reason this unleashed a torrent of angry French from his mother. He mumbled something I couldn’t hear, and then his mother waved him off.
‘The childrens do not like to speak my tong,’ she explained. ‘They say the other childrens tell them they are traitors to England if they do. But if that is so, why do they teach it to the yong ladies and gentlemens? Speaking a different tong is not making one a traitor, is it?’
‘I don’t think so. But country children have narrow views.’
‘That is so. My boy Onry’ (so I understood the name) ‘has gone to bring in a milker for you. We do not milk them for some hours yet, but she will have enough for your baby to try fresh. Come inside – would you like to try the shev?’
‘Shev?’
‘The cheese of the goat’s milk. Is delicious. I will give you some in a way that you will like.’ She saw me hesitating. ‘Onry will be back soon, and we will get the milk for the babe then. You will please me by trying the shev?’ She smiled encouragingly, and tilted her head towards the door.
‘Of course,’ I said. John Dodd’s report had not been encouraging, but I thought for politeness I could make myself swallow a bit. Besides, I was starving – I had not eaten since an early breakfast, and had walked many miles since. Inside, Mrs Smith commenced to cut a slice from an ordinary-looking baker’s loaf. This she spread with a layer of soft white cheese from a crock she reached down from a shelf. Then she took down another crock and spread a layer of what appeared to be gooseberry jam over the cheese. She cut the slice into four triangles and arranged them, points outwards, on a little flowered plate. This she set in front of me, and then sat down opposite me and gazed at me in happy expectation. ‘At least she is not feeding me frogs,’ I thought to myself. I picked up one of the slices and took a tentative bite from the tip. It was wonderfully good. Perhaps it was only my hunger, or my expectation of tasting something foul, but it seemed like the most exquisite food I had ever eaten.
‘But this is delicious!’ I exclaimed in happy surprise. Mrs Smith positively clapped with joy. I finished the slice with gusto, and willingly accepted a second, as it was clear my hostess was even more pleased to supply it than I was to get it.
‘You will tell others, that is good, yes?’
‘That I will, with pleasure. We are not in a populous neighbourhood, but I will certainly do my best to spread the word.’
‘Thank you so much. I am very happy that you like it. And now I hear that Onry is back.’
She picked up an empty pitcher and started to go out of the door, but I stopped her.
‘Could we scald it first?’ I motioned to the kettle, and mimed swirling water in the pitcher.
‘Wee-wee,’ she said, to my great puzzlement, but she did as I asked. I had brought the bottle and calf’s teat with me, wrapped in clean paper, and I took them out now. Onry was leading the nanny goat with a rope halter. She was a pretty thing, all white, with a dainty face and delicate legs. I had not thought a goat could be so pretty.
‘This is Celeste,’ said Onry, with no trace of his mother’s accent. ‘She’s our best.’
Mrs Smith crouched down by the goat’s side, and quickly obtained a half-pint or so of milk, which she handed up to me.
‘Is enough?’
‘Yes, that’s plenty,’ I said. I was still carrying Hareton, so we both went into the house, and I gave her the baby to hold while I poured half the contents of the pitcher into the bottle, tied on the teat with some string I had brought with me, and then took Hareton back to see what he thought of it. He grabbed the teat eagerly as ever, and this time he did not spit it out, as he had done so many times before. Instead he drank almost the whole of what was in the bottle, and then drifted off into a peaceful sleep. My heart lifted, and Mrs Smith smiled happily.
�
�How much to buy her?’ I asked directly.
‘Celeste?’
‘Yes, I want to buy her, to bring home with me.’
‘I cannot sell Celeste, she is … is special to me. Another milk goat you can buy. We have many.’ But I had my heart set on Celeste. It was her milk that Hareton had taken to, and after the last few weeks’ experience, I was taking no chances. Besides that, her dainty form, pure white coat, and angelic-sounding name made her seem the perfect antidote to my superstitious fears. I tried to explain some part of this to Mrs Smith, but she seemed to grow confused. Eventually she called in Onry to translate for her. She chattered to him for some time in French, and then he turned to me.
‘Mum would never sell Celeste,’ he said bluntly. ‘She is our best breeder, and improves the whole flock. And her milk is the sweetest.’
‘But that is just what I’m afraid of!’ I cried. ‘If the others have inferior milk, the baby may not take to it so well.’ Onry translated this to his mother, and she shook her head and replied.
‘She is sorry, but she cannot let Celeste go. She would sell you Celeste’s daughter; her milk is almost the same. And all goats’ milk is healthy for babies.’
I stopped and thought for a bit. ‘I only need her for a few months, until Hareton can be weaned,’ I said at last. ‘I could bring her back to you before she needs to be bred again. I will pay you well.’ Onry explained this to his mother, and a rapid conversation ensued, after which the boy left the cottage.
‘Onry has gone to bring my husband to us,’ she said to me at last. ‘He will talk to you, and then we will decide what is best. No?’ I asked how long it would be before her husband returned.
