Nelly Dean

by Alison Case

  ‘There is nothing wrong with a nurse becoming attached to a child she reared from birth,’ Bodkin snapped. ‘It is only too natural that she should – so much so that I doubt you would wish to employ one who didn’t. And you of all people, Mrs Linton, should understand how it is that grief and worry can make one ill. But whether you approve of its cause or not, I can assure you her illness is real now. She needs rest and treatment, or she will get worse. Mrs Linton, you wanted her service badly enough to drag her here against her will – I only hope that means you care enough for her to let her have the care and rest she needs now.’

  I had never heard Bodkin truly angry before. It seemed to surprise Mr and Mrs Linton, too, for they replied in soft, conciliating tones, and the three of them moved out of earshot. I carefully pushed myself up into a sitting position, and performed the examination of my breasts that I had refused Bodkin. They felt hard as stone, hot, and painful to the touch. I tried to press some milk out, but none would come, and binding them was too painful to endure. What was I to do? And what would happen if I did nothing? I ought to confide in Bodkin, I knew, and get his advice, yet I felt no inclination to do so. The pain felt right and proper. Perhaps, I thought, what was happening to me now was a punishment for what I had done at Pennistone Crag. A feverish waking dream took hold of me, in which I seemed to see my breasts swelling until they burst open. Streams of blood and milk poured down my front, weaving themselves in and out of my long, loose hair until they formed a thick rope, which writhed like a snake and crawled up to wrap itself around my neck – I screamed.

  A housemaid came running in, looking flustered. I told her that it was only a nightmare. She must have reported to Mrs Phillips, though, for a few minutes later that personage arrived, puffing a bit from her trip up the stairs. She felt my forehead and nodded grimly.

  ‘It’s a fever all right. Now there’s a fine start to your employment – scarcely two days in, and already you’re a burden on the household.’

  ‘I’m very sorry,’ I said. I felt miserable, and tears were already filling my eyes.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure it’s not your fault,’ she said, softening just slightly. ‘Do you get fevers often, girl?’

  ‘Never before,’ I said. ‘Nor colds, either.’

  ‘Mmm. You don’t look like the sickly type, that’s true. Well, no one escapes for ever, I suppose. It’s time for your medicine now anyway – I’ve just sent the housemaid for some tea and honey to help it down. I’ll just sit here until she gets back.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, though in truth her presence was anything but comforting. Was I to talk to her? And if so, what about? After a few moments of awkward silence, though, Mrs Phillips took the conversation upon herself, and commenced telling me the names, duties, age, and history of every person, male or female, who worked in the house and grounds. I had scant hope of remembering half of what she said, but still, it was needful information for me, and certainly preferable to answering questions or making conversation myself. At last the housemaid arrived with a tray bearing tea, dry toast, a pot of honey, and a glass bottle half filled with golden liquid. Mrs Phillips poured some tea into a cup, measured in a dose of the willow powder, and added a spoonful of honey before mixing it all up and handing it to me.

  ‘Drink that,’ she ordered, and I obeyed.

  ‘And now I’m to give you some of these drops, Dr Kenneth says. I’m putting them in a little glass of my own cowslip wine, which is a fine medicine in its own right.’ This too, I was ordered to drink. I found it very pleasant, and said so. ‘It’s a recipe as belongs to the household here – perhaps you’ll help me make more, next spring when the cowslips are out,’ she said. ‘This here’s from last year’s crop – it’s best to let it sit for a year or so.’

  The medicine administered, Mrs Phillips encouraged me to eat some of the toast, but I had no appetite. So she piled everything back onto the tray, and left. The drops and wine had made me sleepy, and after she left I did sleep for a while, but the pain in my breasts was intense, and kept waking me up again, so that I drifted in and out, wavering between nightmares and my waking pain. It was so bad that I was half resolved to confess it to Bodkin on his next visit. But something else happened, to make that unnecessary.

  The next morning, Mrs Phillips came as usual to administer my doses, but before leaving this time, she gave me an appraising look.

  ‘I’ve a job for you, Nelly, if you can manage it,’ she announced. ‘It’s one you needn’t leave your bed to do, but it would be a help to us.’

  ‘Is it sewing?’ I asked. ‘I think I could sit up to do some.’

  ‘Nay, not like that, but no harder, certainly.’ Mrs Phillips went to the door, and called out, ‘Abel, you may bring her up.’

  A loud clomping followed, and then a weather-beaten man appeared at the door, holding in his arms a tiny lamb – small even for a newborn, I thought.

  ‘Born too soon, and the dam died not long after,’ he said, by way of explanation. ‘She’ll need to be kept warm all the time, and fed every few hours. Can you manage that?’

  ‘What am I to feed her?’

  ‘We’ll give you a bottle with a leather teat, and bring you a pitcher of milk each morning to fill it from,’ said Mrs Phillips. ‘Abel here will put a packing crate filled with straw next to the bed, so she won’t soil the bedclothes.’

  ‘It seems like a great deal of trouble for you all,’ I said doubtfully.

  ‘She’ll be more trouble downstairs,’ said Mrs Phillips irritably, ‘with every lass in the place hovering over her, and fighting over the chance to feed her, there’ll be no work done at all. It’s always that way with the orphan lambs, till where I think we shouldn’t bother with them at all. But they say Heaven rejoices over every lamb saved, so I suppose we must do our best. Anyway, Dr Kenneth says you’ll need a week in bed at least, and you’ve nothing better to do in the meantime. And who knows, maybe she’ll be a comfort to you, and help you get well that much quicker.’

  Abel gently deposited the lamb in my arms, and promised to send a boy up with the crate and a bottle as soon as possible. Then he and Mrs Phillips took their leave, and left me in possession of my new charge.

  The lamb was a stroke of luck. As soon as the lad had come and gone, and I was sure of not being disturbed for a while, I put her to my own breast, but it was so painful that I gasped and pulled her away instantly. If I were to go through with this, I realized, I would need something to bite down on, to bear the pain. I cast my eyes about the room, but saw nothing that would serve, until my eyes lit on my little copy of Paradise Lost. It was the right thickness, and dense enough to bear the pressure of my teeth, but I hated to damage it. Still, there was nothing else that looked as if it would serve. I put the bottom corner of it into my mouth, bit down gently, and put the lamb to my teat again.

  I have never felt such pain, before or since. It was as if my flesh was being ripped off me. But then, when I thought I could not bear another moment, the pressure suddenly released. I pulled the lamb away and saw the tiny white threads of milk spraying out of their own accord. I hastily put a towel over them, and got ready to put the lamb to the other side. Before I did, though, I took the book from my mouth and looked at it. The impress of my teeth had gone deep into the cover and partly compressed the pages inside. I turned the book to another corner and bit down again before recommencing my operation. If anything, it was more painful than the last. The lamb, frustrated at being pulled from her meal, suckled harder than ever, and I bit down so hard I felt the cover giving way in my mouth. Then I snatched up a pillow and held it over my face so that I could cry out without being heard. By the time I felt the release, and could relax a little, the pillow was wet with my tears, and the corners of my poor book’s covers were bitten clean off. But the worst was over. I could manage now, I knew, until my milk dried up properly, by binding my chest during the day, and turning to the lamb only when the pressure grew uncomfortable.

  The poor lamb was no
t so pleased by the operation. Twice she had been pulled off a teat, and she was objecting now in no uncertain terms. I gave her the bottle, which she eagerly sucked dry before falling asleep in my arms. I bedded her down in her crate. Now that my bodily pain was gone, the deeper pain from which it had distracted me surged to the fore again. I was never to see Hareton again. He would think I had abandoned him – perhaps Hindley would tell him so, for spite. He would be so grieved, and his grief would make his father angry, and then – it did not bear thinking of, yet I could think of nothing else. Over and over I plodded in the same weary circles, like a donkey turning a mill. I was dead to everything but the leaden pain in my heart.

  I am not the first woman to lose a child – children die every day hereabouts, all too readily, and their mothers grieve for them bitterly, every one, I am sure. Yet I almost envied such women their grief: it was so clean, so final: they could at least no longer be tortured with fruitless hopes and cankering fears. The worst was come; they would never see their child again. But then, they could be sure it was safe in Heaven, and in time that must bring some comfort. And then, too, those around them would understand their claim to grief, and sympathize in it. I had left my child in a very Hell, that no one seemed to see but me, and my grief was treated as a mere inconvenience by those who had caused it. Is it any wonder I turned my face to the wall, and wished never to rise from my bed again?

  Bodkin returned the next day, felt my forehead and my pulse, and declared me somewhat improved. Mrs Phillips hovered nearby, offering information on what I had taken, and when, interspersed with her own observations. Bodkin listened patiently, but as soon as she paused, he asked her to leave us.

  ‘Why, I don’t know,’ she began, looking flustered.

  ‘Please, ma’am, I am a married man and a doctor – there is nothing improper in it. Nelly and I are old friends, and she scarcely knows you as yet – she will speak more easily between the two of us.’

  Mrs Phillips looked at me, and I nodded. She left. As soon as the door was shut, Bodkin leaned in close to me.

  ‘I have been to Wuthering Heights,’ he said softly.

  ‘You have?’ I gasped. ‘When?’

  ‘Shh, speak more softly – the dragon is just outside the door, I’m sure. I went there yesterday, after I left you. I thought it would do you more good than all my powders and pills, to hear that Hareton is well.’

  ‘And is he? How did he seem? Is he very unhappy?’

  ‘He misses you sorely, I will not deny it. The poor fellow seemed sadly puzzled that you had not returned, but I was able to explain that that was not by your choice, and that you were at least as grieved by it as he could be. That seemed to comfort him a little.’

  ‘How does Hindley treat him? I have been so afraid of what he will do if I’m not there to protect him!’

  ‘Well, I won’t pretend that Hindley has suddenly turned into a loving father – and you wouldn’t believe me if I did. But children adjust to new circumstances faster than you might think, and Hareton is a sturdy, sensible lad. He’s found his feet pretty well – he seems to know when it’s safe to be around Hindley, when to disappear, and when to run to Joseph for protection. Joseph grumbles at him, as might be expected, but in his own sour way he’s devoted to the lad, and makes sure he’s decently fed and clothed at least. Mostly the boy is left to himself, except for meals, and he seems happy enough when he’s playing by himself. He’s got hold of a kitten, too, that he takes about with him, and talks to a good deal, and I think that’s been a comfort to him.’

  ‘He will forget everything I’ve taught him.’

  ‘Yes, very probably he will. He’ll run as wild as a little moor pony for a few years, growing healthy and strong rather than learned. And then when the time comes he’ll learn it all over again, and be surprised at how fast it comes back to him.’

  The picture Bodkin painted was not a cheerful one, but it was a good deal better than the ones conjured by my fevered imagination. Hareton alone and unmolested, amusing himself on the moors for hours on end, as I knew he could do, with a kitten for company … my heart unclenched a little. But I was not ready to give up all my worries yet.

  ‘But how long will that be? Do you think Hindley will ever get round to sending him to the curate?’

  Bodkin hesitated. ‘No, I don’t,’ he said frankly. He paused a moment, then took both my hands in his. ‘Nelly, I know you are fond of Hindley, for all his flaws.’ I shook my head, tears streaming. I didn’t know what I felt for Hindley, any more. ‘The truth is that he is destroying himself. I never saw any man set at it with such determination. In a very few years, he will be bankrupt, or mad, or dead – if not all three in turn. When that happens, Hareton will naturally fall to his uncle’s care, and you may be sure Mr Linton will see to it that he gets a gentleman’s education. And then he will have you back again as well, to give him love and guidance. Think of this as but a season in the wilderness for both of you.’

  ‘I wish I could,’ I sobbed. ‘But who will even notice if Hindley runs mad, and kills his own child, as I have seen him come near to doing before?’

  ‘I will,’ said Bodkin firmly. ‘That is the other thing I came to tell you – I have made up with Hindley, and have agreed to join him and some other fellows for cards and drink at his house each Tuesday evening. Sometimes I will be out on cases, of course, but more often than not I’ll get there, and have a chance to check in on the boy and Hindley both.’

  ‘But you promised Mrs Kenneth you wouldn’t!’

  ‘I have spoken to Anna about it, and she understands the need. And Nelly, I will promise you this’ – here he pressed my hands firmly – ‘I will tell you if anything changes there, and if I see real danger to the boy, I will take what action I can. Do you believe me?’

  I nodded. ‘Thank you,’ I whispered.

  ‘Have I comforted you?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘Good. And now to my usual Nelly Dean pharmacopoeia: have you clean linen? Can I fetch you a cup of tea? I know better than to try to make you laugh just now.’

  ‘You have made me smile, at any rate.’

  ‘So I see – I am glad of it.’ Until now Bodkin had scarcely glanced at the lamb, but now he turned his attention to it.

  ‘And who is this little creature?’

  ‘I was wondering when you would notice her. I was beginning to think you thought it so commonplace to keep a lamb in a sickroom that it was not worth remarking on.’

  ‘Ah well, I had heard something of her from Mrs Phillips already. But how are you getting on with her? It is not too much trouble?’

  ‘Oh, scarcely any, to me. Someone brings up the milk for her, so I’ve very little to do really. Mrs Phillips claims she’d make the housemaids neglect their work if she were kept downstairs, but I can’t help thinking that it’s a great deal more trouble having her up here. I suspect they mean her to be a comfort to me,’ I added bitterly.

  ‘And is she?’

  I snorted. ‘I am not a child, to be consoled with a peppermint stick for the loss of a playmate. I’m only glad it’s a ewe lamb, and not like to be butchered for table. To raise up a creature from birth, and then have it ripped from my arms to be slaughtered, would be a bit too much like what I’ve been through already.’

  ‘Perhaps Mrs Phillips thought of that, and made sure it was a ewe.’

  ‘Perhaps she did,’ I acknowledged. ‘And if so, it was a kind thought. The creature is some company, to be sure. I suppose I would rather have her than not.’

  ‘Have you named her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Why should I? It’s not as if I need to call her, or distinguish her from all the other lambs in the room.’

  ‘Come now Nelly. I know you of old. The cat in the barn could not finish licking her newborn kittens before you had them all named.’

  ‘Perhaps I have learned my lesson.’

  Bodkin’s face grew serious, and he took hold of
my hand again.

  ‘God knows you have cause enough to feel both grief and anger, Nelly. I don’t dispute that. But do not cling to those feelings, nor get in the habit of feeling that taking pleasure in anything again is a betrayal of your love for Hareton. It will do no good to him, and it will only undermine your own health. I am speaking as a doctor now – I have seen it too often.’

  I felt my face flush, and looked down. What he said was only too true.

  ‘Take comfort and cheer where you can find them,’ he went on, ‘and keep yourself well. Then you and I will both do what we can to see that you and Hareton are reunited in time. Will you promise me that?’

  ‘You have taken a great deal of trouble on yourself to ease my worries about Hareton a little,’ I said, ‘and I suppose that gives you the right to offer advice, too. It’s good advice. I will try to take it. But I feel as if my heart is broken. I cannot just tie it up with string, and go bounding on my merry way.’

  ‘Of course not. It will take time for you to recover – I don’t deny that. Only don’t stand in the way of your own recovery.’

  ‘Yes, Dr Kenneth. I will obey your instructions.’

  ‘See that you do. You don’t want to find out what I do with refractory patients.’

  ‘I have already found that out, and it is really nothing very frightening. But I will try to do as you say anyway.’

  After Bodkin had left, I picked up the lamb to feed her again. What Bodkin said was true – my heart had yearned towards her, her tiny warm body so similar in weight to a human infant, and like one in being dependent on me for all her needs, but I had fought the yearning. I fought it no longer. I named her Leveret, and for the remainder of that week she spent more time in my arms than in her straw-filled crate. She did not heal me altogether, but, together with Bodkin’s assurances, she gave me my first hint of ease from the gnawing pain at my heart. Lambs grow a good deal faster than children, of course. Leveret was slower than most, from having been born prematurely, but even so, by the time I was deemed ready to rise from my bed she was more than ready to try her legs in some space larger than my tiny room, and that added to my own drive to be up and about as soon as possible. On the appointed day, I rose at dawn and carried her down to the pen that had been rigged up for her near the kitchen door. She bleated piteously when I left her there, but I was not too much distressed by it, knowing that I would see her again at her next feeding. Then I went back upstairs and washed and dressed to be ready to wait on Cathy when she woke up.