When Fate Dictates

by Elizabeth Marshall

  “What happened to this child after the stranger saved him?” he asked.

  “Well they couldn’t find his real mother and father, so the stranger kept the baby, but Grandmother would never finish the story, so I don’t know what happened in the end.”

  “You do know that we can’t keep this child, don’t you?” Simon asked, a frown furrowing his brow. I frowned back, not having a thought about what would happen to the baby next.

  “What if we don’t find its mother?” I asked.

  “Then Corran, it must go to the Parish and they must take care of it.”

  “But why could we not just keep it?” I said, feeling the panic rise inside me.

  “We just can’t,” Simon said simply.

  “What do you mean, we can’t?” I cried angrily at him.

  “I mean just that. This child is not our responsibility.”

  “No Simon. We can’t just hand it over to the Parish. I will not do it.”

  “We can’t care for it Corran. How will we feed it? It can’t live by drops of milk off a linen cloth. That may have saved its life but it won’t make it grow.”

  “I don’t know yet but I will not hand it over to a life as a pauper. I will not do it Simon, I just will not.” I pulled the child tightly against my chest.

  “Listen to me Corran. People die all the time, especially in places like this and children are left with no parents to care for them. We cannot save the world. This child is not our responsibility.”

  I shot him a look of defiance even though I knew he probably would not be able to see it in the dim light of the candle in the room.

  “I don’t care if it is our responsibility or not. God has brought this child to us and I will not let it go.”

  “Alright,” he said, clearly becoming exasperated and reaching for his coat.

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “I am going to find out what to do about this child.”

  Cradling the baby to my breast, I watched him go through the door.

  “I will keep you safe, little one,” I whispered lovingly. I closed my eyes and called my grandmother’s face to my mind, asking her to help me, willing her to finish the story and tell me how to look after this child. I sighed deeply, looking down at the baby whose eyelids hung heavily over the pale blue eyes with impending sleep.

  “How old are you sweetheart?” I whispered, wishing there were some way it could tell me.

  Laying the baby gently on the wooden floor, I noticed for the first time that its little body was crusted and caked with the dried blood of birth and guessed it had probably not been too long since it had entered this world.

  I needed to go to the post house and buy some fresh water from the well to wash it with. Wrapping the baby tightly in a blanket, I picked up the wooden bucket and hurried out into the night air. The post house was a busy place but I managed to push my way through the crowds of customers and it was not too long before I had the bucket filled with water. Dragging it and carrying a small baby proved less simple and I found myself having to stop every few yards to rearrange either the sloshing bucket’s position in my hand or the baby in my arm but eventually the baby, bucket and I returned home intact. Laying the child once more on the floor, I warmed some water on the fire and removed the little blanket to discover this little one was no longer just a baby but a little boy.

  “Hello little man,” I said gently, “I wonder what you want us to call you?” He wriggled as I wiped the marks of birth off his little body and gently cleaned the sticky mess from his eyes.

  My next thought was for where he would sleep. Optimistically, I hoped against all hope that Simon would not return with the authorities from the Parish. I was quite sure the child’s mother would not be found. To my mind if she were still alive and wanted the baby, then she would not have abandoned him. The Parish's mercy was not of benefit to anyone, let alone a small defenseless child. If I let Simon hand him over to the authorities I would be all but signing his death warrant, and that was not something I was prepared to do, not now, not ever.

  Pushing thoughts of the authorities to the back of my mind I set about making up a cot. I eventually opted to place it next to our bed, for I had seen enough newborn babies to know that this little chap was going to be demanding a lot of attention over the next couple of months. I also liked the idea of having him next to me, where I could not only get to him easily but also keep a watchful eye on him.

  I sat on the bed and waited for the little boy to wake; watching as he slept and praying with all my heart that Simon would not have him taken from me.

  The baby woke and I lifted him quickly into my arms, gently pushing a clean rag soaked in milk into his eager little mouth. He struggled initially, instinct driving his mouth to my breast, but eventually he found the source of food and sucked eagerly at the sodden rag. Finally, the little boy settled to sleep again, his full tummy lying softly against my chest. I moved to rest my back against the cushion of my bed and wrapped my arms protectively around him, brushing the top of his head gently with my lips I whispered: “I will take care of you little one; I will not let them put you in the poor house.”

  Simon returned that night resigned to the fact that the only moral choice he had was to keep the child with us. He had searched for its mother and been as unsuccessful as he had expected to be. He was quite sure she would be from the brothel that operated out of a street behind the warehouses. Having made a determined effort to extract the truth from the residents of the house, he reasoned that the mother was either dead or did not wish to be found. This result was mostly what he had expected, but for the sake of the child he had felt the need to put his best efforts into a search for the mother. Like me, he had no wish to hand the child over to the authorities. Against most odds, the child had survived this far and he had no intention of being responsible for his demise. With this in mind Simon closed the door of our home that night, with the certain knowledge that he now shared his life with not only a wife; but a small child, which from this day forward he would call his son.

  ******

  CHAPTER 13

  There is nothing in life that can adequately prepare you for the gift of a child. To suddenly find oneself responsible for the survival of another human being is quite the most daunting of experiences. Despite having watched many a new mother and her baby in the glen and hearing tales aplenty of the trials and challenges of raising children, I had not the faintest idea where to start with my own.

  “Should we not name the baby?” Simon said as I blew the candle out yet again that evening. Sleep had become a dream of pre-parenthood and candles were costing us a small fortune. Daytime was an unimaginable whirlwind of activity, where we flew from one task with the baby to the next and as such small details like naming the child had remained unattended to.

  “Aye, what do you think we should call him? We don’t know much about his past, so we can’t know what his mother might have wanted to call him.”

  “You are his mother now Corran; it is up to us to choose his name.”

  The baby stirred and I raised my finger to my lips. “Shh... whisper, or we will wake him again.”

  “Okay,” Simon whispered, “Sorry, I know he is a little nightmare to get back to sleep.”

  “So what should we call him?” I asked, rolling over in bed to face Simon and keeping my voice as low as possible.

  “You know, Corran, he has a look of my uncle about him. I know it’s a strange thing, but sometimes you see the people who you were close to in others.”

  “What was your uncle’s name?”

  “He was called Duncan.”

  “My grandfather was also called Duncan. I think it’s a fine name and it will suit him, so Duncan we shall name him,” I said, feeling a great sense of accomplishment at having solved the problem so promptly.

  “Thank you, that means a great deal to me Corran.”

  “Tell me about your uncle. What was he like?”

  “He was a go
od and kind man and when my pa was at sea, he looked out for me.”

  “You say he was a good man – do you mean that he has died?”

  “Aye, he was killed a few years back now by his son.”

  “Oh Simon that is shocking, what happened?” I asked, horrified.

  “It’s a long story, and it’s too late to tell now, another day perhaps.”

  I suddenly realized that I knew very little of his life, and wondered why he had not talked much of his past but the hour was late and sleep was a precious commodity.

  “Simon, have you time to mix Duncan’s oats before you leave?” I called, grabbing hold of the child’s tiny feet as he tried to scramble away from me. “Oh, no you don’t, little man,” I said, rolling him onto his back and trying to pull the gown over his head.

  He giggled, twisting his body in an attempt to roll back onto his tummy.

  “Do you want some help there?”

  I looked up to see Simon smiling down on us.

  “Yes please. If you can hold him still, I’ll get his gown over his head.”

  Simon swung the child into his arms, planting a loving kiss on the top of his blond head. “Now what are you doing to your mother?” he asked, moving the baby to arm’s length so I could slip the gown on.

  “There you go, that wasn’t so difficult now was it?” he said calmly, passing the little boy back to me. “Oh and the answer is yes, by the way.”

  “Yes?” I asked.

  “I have got time to mix his oats. I have put his bowl on the table downstairs.”

  “I love you Simon, thank you,” I said, going on my toes to kiss him lightly on the cheek.

  “I must go now, I have a meeting, but if you have a mind to, you can both come down and see me this afternoon.”

  I had little in-depth knowledge of the feeding habits of a baby, but to my mind Duncan had developed a very healthy appetite. For a limited period, the rags soaked in milk had worked to satisfy his needs, but it had not been long before we had to move onto mixing the goat’s milk with something more substantial. Now his morning meals consisted of oats mixed with milk and on the odd occasion where we were unable to find oats, bread soaked in milk. It was with great pride that I watched the spoon in his little plump hands as it waved, uncoordinated, from the bowl to his mouth. He giggled as I gently wiped his pink round cheeks, which had received the majority of the content of the spoon. “Mummy loves you,” I said, setting him down on the mat.

  Simon was down at the river, busying himself with the forging of new business relations and acquaintances, carving out a seemingly profitable existence from the import of foreign goods. York’s rivers proved especially useful in this regard and most days we could find him at his warehouses on the banks of the river Ouse. He was always either awaiting the arrival of some goods from some far off country or loading up the crates that had come off the boats ready for transport elsewhere in Britain. I didn't have a great mind for business and thankfully Simon never requested my input.

  One late afternoon toward the end of September, Duncan and I wandered down to the river to watch the boats as they sailed the waterways, industriously going about their business. We found Simon at his warehouse, supervising the loading of a consignment bound for London. He smiled across at us as we wandered toward him. Duncan fought wildly with me, trying to escape my arms when he saw his daddy. Shouting excitedly the only word he had as yet learned to say, “Dadda, dadda,” repeatedly, until Simon took him in his arms and hugged the excited child.

  “Have you been a good boy for your mummy young Duncan?” he asked, smiling with obvious pride at his son. “Well wee Duncan, do you know what I have got for good little boys?” he said, tickling his sides as Duncan squealed and wriggled with delight. Simon handed him gently back to me and thrust his hand into his pocket pulling out a white bent stick resembling a miniature shepherd’s staff. I gazed in wonder at it, thinking it must be made from porcelain. Then much to my surprise, Simon handed it to Duncan.

  “You can’t give him that; he will put it in his mouth,” I said indignantly, grabbing the white stick off the boy. “Have you taken leave of your senses, Simon?”

  His body shook as he let out a loud deep laugh. “That’s exactly what I hoped he would do with it Corran.” I looked at him, eyes wide and startled.

  “Why do you want the lad to put a porcelain staff in his mouth? If he bites it he will cut himself and if he swallows it he will choke. I can’t see much good coming from it either way,” I barked.

  “Try it Corran, put the stick in your mouth.”

  “Simon, you are just being silly.”

  “No, Corran, I mean it. Put the stick in your mouth and you will see what it’s about.”

  Agitated I did as he asked. “Oh my goodness!” I exclaimed in delight, as the silky sweetness of the white stick ran over my tongue, “What is it?”

  “It’s a sugar stick,” he replied, watching Duncan with obvious delight as he grabbed another stick off his daddy and followed my lead in sampling the gift.

  “Where did you get it from?” I asked.

  “They are part of my latest consignment. They are going to London, to the Palace for the King,” he said, his ego clearly inflated by the prospect.

  “That is impressive,” I whispered, not wanting to commit treason or bruise his ego too badly, but compelled to mention my own personal feelings toward the King. “I am sorry Simon, but I’m not too big a fan of the English King as you well know and I didn’t think you were too fond of him yourself.”

  “Aye, and he may want more of these little sugar canes. It is a very good thing to have the King as your customer, like him or not,” I nodded understanding the wisdom of his words but a hint of fear crept through me, for I could not see how this alliance could ever be a happy one.

  “You see Corran,” he began, pausing briefly to sample his own sugar cane. “It would be very good if I could go to London and speak with the advisors to the King personally. There is a lot of potential trade to be had off the Palace.”

  “Oh Simon do you have to? We don’t want for anything, your business is doing well and you still have the gold. Why do we have to dabble with the Crown?”

  He frowned thoughtfully. “I hear you Corran and you are right, but to pass up this opportunity would be madness. We can never do better than to have the Crown as our regular customer and to get the Crown I will need to go to London.”

  Putting my hand in my pocket I removed a white square of linen cloth; walked slowly away from Simon to the river and dipped the cloth in the foul smelling, thick muddy water. Duncan protested loudly as I removed the white stick from his hand and proceeded to wipe forcibly at the gooey mess it had made of his hands and face. I kept my back to Simon, neither of us choosing to speak for some time, each of us busy with our own thoughts.

  “I had hoped we could all go to London,” Simon called eventually, “I have made inquiries and there is every chance that we could find a decent place to live in the city. It is a wonderful, vibrant and exciting place Corran and I am sure you and Duncan would love it.”

  I stood for a while considering what he had said, absently rocking the child in my arms. “When are you planning to go?” I asked softly, still not turning to face him.

  “January or February next year.”

  I raised my eyebrows, knowing there was no one to see the look. “That soon?” I questioned, finally turning to meet his eyes. I could feel the panic rising inside me and tried to hide it from my face. “Does it have to be so soon; could we not wait a year and then go?”

  He shook his head. “No Corran, it has to be soon. If we wait, we risk losing the interest of the Palace.”

  “But you have this business and we have the house and how could we make so many arrangements in only six months?”

  “Don’t worry Corran, I will make the arrangements. You won’t have to do anything, other than see to our wee baby.”

  Despite my objections, it was becoming painfully obviou
s that Simon had made his decision and I doubted that there was anything I could say, or do, which might change his mind. Resigned, I turned my attention to the practical aspects of what he was proposing.

  “I guess Duncan will be nearly a year old by then, better than if we were to try and travel with him now. But by then the weather will not be in our favor,” I said, more to myself than Simon. “Going south at that time of the year will be difficult but I suppose it can’t be as difficult as the journey we had to make here.”

  Again, silence fell upon us as my mind focused on the life he was about to take us to and the one we were about to leave. The baby weighed heavily in my arms and I looked around for somewhere to sit down; settling eventually on a sturdy looking wooden box.

  “How far is London from here?” I asked, reminding myself that regardless of any objections I may have to this plan, Simon had made up his mind to go and that undoubtedly meant that we would go.

  “It is a fair distance,” he said honestly, “but there are carriages we could take that would make the journey a lot simpler.”

  “A carriage?” I questioned. “That sounds like an awful extravagance?”

  “It’s only money Corran, and I have made enough of it already off these little sugar sticks to pay for a carriage three times over.”

  “I am taking Duncan home for his dinner, we will see you back at the house later,” I said, shaking my head at his frivolity and rising to leave.

  “Corran, don’t be angry with me. I just want to give you and Duncan the best.”

  I ignored him. He could justify his actions anyway he wanted to himself, but I knew that he was not doing this for the baby and me. He was a gambler and this adventure had far more to do with his personality than it ever would have to do with Duncan and me.

  So it was that with much sadness I came to be packing and preparing to leave our home in York, for what Simon perceived to be the gold paved streets of London and the Palace. I had to admit that the prospect and adventure of the trip had brought a buoyancy and excitement to Simon I had never seen before. Duncan, who had grown into an active, robust, little boy, was definitely buoyed by the general buzz of activity around him. But for myself, I could not shake the feeling of dread and doubt that hung heavy around me. It seemed that what we had in York was as close to perfection as life could offer. The sense in gambling all that on a dangerous and long journey to London, where we may or may not attract the attention of the King – who had been the one to order the massacre of my people and the decimation of my home – held little joy for me. I was frightened; it was that simple. Frightened and struggling to justify the gamble Simon had forced upon us. But then I reminded myself I was married to a gambler, a gambler I loved more than life itself, and by association that meant my life would always contain great risk.