Long before another Sabbath day dawned Janet’s plans to leave Braeheights Farm were thrust aside. It was dark and cold in the farm kitchen. Wull Foster, accompanied by Joe and Luke, had gone out to begin the morning feeding and milking. Mrs Foster called urgently to Janet. She had not yet kindled the range and she shivered in the frosty air.
Janet’s first thoughts were that Mrs Foster had at last given way to the grief of Molly’s death. She had not wept since Molly’s body had been found. She had remained pale and silent, withdrawn, even from her babies. Now she huddled on the straw mattress, curled into a ball, her whole body shaking as though with violent sobs, yet she made no sound. Janet almost jumped out of her skin when Mrs Foster uttered a sudden scream of agony. Young though she was Janet knew it was a scream of pain and fear. She had heard such a scream once before when Joe took her to check the rabbit traps.
‘It’s the babe!’ she gasped. ‘Tell Joe … run for Mistress McClure….’ The pain came again and with it Mistress Foster’s whole body seemed to contort, her skin grew damp and waxy. Janet gathered up her skirts and ran out of the house and into the darkness of the muddy yard. A strong arm shot out and seized her around her waist, swinging her off her feet. Wull Foster had stepped out of the darkness of the stable door as she passed.
‘Coming tae find me were ye, lassie?’ He leered with satisfaction. Janet could not see his face in the darkness but she hated his arm, holding her tightly against his hard body. ‘We’ll just gang intae the stable….’
‘No! Joe!’ she yelled instinctively at the top of her voice. ‘Let me go….’ she panted. ‘Mrs Foster needs the midwife. The babe is coming. Joe!’
A square of yellow light appeared in the darkness. Joe was standing in the byre doorway, the storm lantern swinging behind him from a nail.
‘Oh, Joe,’ Janet almost sobbed in relief as his father released his grip on her. ‘Y-your mother wants you to get Mistress McClure….’
‘What? Now…?
‘Yes. She says the baby is coming.’
‘The bairn isna due until February,’ Wull Foster muttered. ‘That’s three months away. Tell her—’ he broke off as he saw Joe clench his fists and stride towards them.
‘Your mother is in terrible pain, Joe. Please….’
‘I’ll go.’ He tugged her arm and pulled her with him towards the house, his young face grim. Once there, he took only the briefest look into his mother’s room. His face was white and young as he turned to Janet. ‘I’ll gang richt away.’ Janet saw the fear in his eyes. Joe loved his mother. It was for her sake he stayed at Braeheights Farm.
She busied herself kindling the fire and filling the big black pot and the kettle and setting them to boil. She knew little of the birthing of babies. Molly had always attended her mother, along with the midwife, but every time Mistress McClure had visited Braeheights Farm she had demanded large quantities of hot water. Then Janet went back to the bedroom and lifted the two sleeping infants from the crib they shared. It amazed her that they slept undisturbed while their mother stifled her screams of pain and the bed creaked with her writhing. Mrs Foster was barely aware of either her or the bairns, Janet thought, as she carried them up to the loft and tucked them up in the space Joe and Luke had vacated earlier.
‘Cuddle up to your wee brothers,’ she whispered to the other young Fosters. ‘Mark, you’d best get up and dress. Joe has had to leave the milking. Luke will need you.’ Mark grumbled but he did as she asked. Of all the Foster boys, he was growing most like his father. He was big and sturdy for his age and he hated school and welcomed any excuse for staying at home.
Joe returned with Mistress McClure in the trap. She praised Janet for getting the fire lit and the hot water ready, little realizing that Janet performed these tasks, and many more before dawn, every morning.
Two hours later, she asked Mr Foster to send for the doctor.
‘Pay ten shillings and sixpence for a birthing? She should ken what tae dae by now!’
‘This is no ordinary bairn….’
Wull Foster drained his mug of tea and strode out of the kitchen, ignoring all Mistress McClure’s protests. Janet looked after him anxiously. Didn’t he care if his wife died? she wondered.
The late November day was fading fast and Mistress McClure asked Janet to light a lamp, that she might see better. Her plump face was drawn and tired but darkness had descended completely before Hannah Foster found any relief from the dreaded pain. Mistress McClure had delivered twins. They were far too early, and both were dead.
‘God knows there’s plenty o’ weans up here at Braeheights Farm without wishing for any more,’ Mistress McClure said wearily as she sipped the hot mug of tea which Janet had prepared for her. ‘They were lassies, though, and they might have brought the poor woman a bit o’ comfort after sae many laddies, especially now Molly’s gone.’ The older woman eyed Janet speculatively, revived by the welcome drink of tea. Not many places gave her their precious tea, and when they did it had usually been dregs from the day before. ‘Did ye ever hear exactly what happened?’ she asked curiously. ‘With Molly…?’ Janet shook her head, refusing to be drawn into gossip.
‘There wasna a proper funeral, I was told. They never asked me to do the laying out, and I do most folks frae Molden and this end o’ Rowanbank parish.’
Janet was just about to change the subject and ask Mrs McClure if she would pass on her letter to the Reverend Drummond when the woman went on gravely, ‘I just hope I dinna end up laying out the poor lassie’s mother. It’ll be touch an’ go for the next few days. Even if she pulls through, it’ll be many a long day before she’s on her feet again. She’ll need a lot o’ care. Who else comes to help i’ the hoose, lassie?’
‘Nobody,’ Janet said, staring at her, wide-eyed with shock. ‘You d-don’t think Mistress Foster might – might die?’ she said in a hushed voice.
‘It wouldna surprise me, lassie. She must have been ill long before the birth to be in such a state. Getting rid o’ the babes early is the best thing could have happened for her, her being sae swollen everywhere. But it’s more than that. I’ve been at the birth o’ all her bairns and I’ve never seen Hannah Foster sae weary o’ life as she is now. If ye ask me she’s lost the will tae live noo her lassie’s dead. Och, but I shouldna be talking like this tae ye. Ye’re little more than a bairn yourself. A fine bairn ye are, though. There’s shame on that miserable creature, Foster. He should have got another woman in tae help with the washing and cleaning with all these wee mouths tae feed.’
‘B-but what should I do, for Mistress Foster, I mean?’ Janet asked fearfully. ‘I-I didn’t mean to stay here, not now that Molly…. But if Mistress Foster is so ill…?’
‘She’s ill all right, but dinna ye worry, lassie. I’ll be back in the morning and I’ll give Foster a bit o’ ma mind. He’ll need to get a woman in tae help ye. Mean wretch that he is. There’s only one thing he’s good for….’
Janet made up her mind then.
‘I-I’ve written a letter for the Reverend Drummond,’ she said breathlessly. ‘C-could you give it to him? Please, Mrs McClure? B-but would you tell him how things are with Mistress Foster? Tell him I must stay with her until – until she is well or at least until Mr Foster gets someone to take care of her….’ She pulled the letter from the pocket of her pinafore. It was crumpled now and she smoothed it out slowly, still undecided whether she should send it until Mistress Foster recovered, but this might be her only chance to get the letter away from Braeheights Farm. Supposing Mrs Foster were to die…?
‘It’s not often I see the Reverend Drummond, lassie,’ Mrs McClure said, taking the letter. ‘Molden is my kirk, ye see. It’s nearer for me. But I’ll give it to him when I see him.’ She glanced at the envelope. ‘My, but this is bonnie writing, lassie!’ She tucked the letter safely into her bag.
‘It would have been much better with a proper quill,’ Janet said wistfully. ‘My grandfather taught me to write,’ she added with pride. There was ne
ver any opportunity to write since she came to Braeheights Farm. She had borrowed the bottle of ink, which Mistress Foster kept on the high mantle above the kitchen range, but she had had to make do with a feather from a hen. She knew that a crow’s feather would have been harder and better, but even if she had had one, she had no way of preparing it properly with hot sand and a sharp knife, as her grandfather had shown her. As it was, Mark Foster had seen her replacing the ink bottle the next morning. She wondered whether he had told his father for she had noticed the ink had been removed.
‘I was forgetting the old dominie was your grandfather.’ Mistress McClure was shaking her head. ‘He was a fine man. He’ll be turning in his grave, I shouldna wonder, if he kens ye’re working as a maid for a man like Foster. I’ll see the minister gets the letter, never fear.’
‘What’s that about a letter?’
They both jumped, startled by the sound of Wull Foster’s deep voice. They had not heard him come into the kitchen. He must have come through the wash house. Mistress McClure flushed, but she faced him squarely.
‘Ye’re just the man I’m waiting to see. Your wife will need a lot o’ care if she’s tae pull through this time, Wull Foster. There’s o’er much for this lassie tae manage. I’ll come back in the morning, but that’s all I can promise….’
‘Never mind yer blethers, woman! Where’s that letter?’ he thundered impatiently.
‘I havena any letter for ye….’
‘I didna say the letter was for me. Our Mark said ye’d used the ink.’ He glared accusingly at Janet. ‘If there’s any letters tae be written in this hoose, I’ll be writing them. Now hand o’er the letter she gave ye.’ Mrs McClure clutched her bag and stepped back but before she could leave the house Wull Foster snatched the bag from her and opened it. He saw the envelope immediately and pulled it out. ‘I’ll show ye where that belongs.’ He strode to the fire and shoved the letter into the flames. Janet felt tears well in her eyes. It would be impossible to write another. She bit her lip. Mrs McClure looked from one to the other, her mouth compressed. She had neither liking nor respect for Wull Foster. She knew well enough why Hannah Foster had married such a man, but she was far too good for him.
‘Ye dinna deserve a lassie like Miss Janet in your hoose, Wull Foster. There’s far o’er much work for one pair o’ hands wi’ all these bairns tae wash for and to feed, even without a sick woman tae tend, so….’
‘You mind your ain business, woman! Now get yoursel’ awa’ home and nag at yer ain wee bit o’ a man.’
‘My Billy might be a wee man but he’s worth ten o’ your sort, Wull Foster,’ Mrs McClure flared angrily. ‘And if your ain wife dies ye’ll never get another in this parish!’
‘Get awa’ oot my hoose!’ Wull Foster growled.
True to her word, Mistress McClure returned to Braeheights Farm the following morning and attended her patient, though her efforts at coaxing Hannah Foster to eat were unsuccessful.
‘I dinnae think she’ll take the birthing fever,’ she said to Janet, ‘but it’ll take a good while afore she gets o’er this. She needs chicken broth and plenty o’ milk, if he’ll let her have it….’
‘I’ll see she gets milk,’ Joe announced sturdily, ‘whatever he says. I’ll dae anything for Ma, Mistress McClure.’ He looked and sounded young and vulnerable despite his tweed cap and clogs. She remembered it was only thirteen or fourteen years since she had delivered him into the world. Her face softened.
‘Well, wring the neck o’ one o’ them old hens out there, then, laddie, then get the feathers plucked off if ye really want tae help.’ She turned to Janet. ‘D’ye ken how tae make a pot o’ soup, lassie?’
‘Of course Janet can make soup,’ Joe gave a mocking laugh. ‘She’s done all the cooking since Ma’s been bad.’
‘Aye, I see.’ Mrs McClure frowned thoughtfully, then she seemed to make up her mind. ‘I’ve asked around to see if any o’ the women would come up to lend a hand until your Ma’s on her feet again. There’s only Lily Bloddret….’ She shook her head in the way Janet was beginning to recognize. It meant that she was troubled. ‘I wouldna send her up here wi’ so many young lads about if there was anybody else…. But there isna,’ she finished briskly, and tossed her head. ‘Tell your father I want to see him, will ye, laddie?’
Wull Foster argued and blustered, telling her that the boys would help Janet until his wife was on her feet again.
‘Help? They’re no more than bairns. They’re all needing their mother, including young Joe, fine laddie though he is. Either ye get Lily Bloddret or somebody else tae help in the hoose or I’m taking the lassie away wi’ me. Now.’ She faced him squarely, hands on her ample hips, feet apart. He frowned and blustered but in the end he agreed that she should send Lily Bloddret up to the farm.
‘Her ain hoose is no more than a hovel. She’ll manage fine on the hearth if ye give her a blanket or twae. Dinna be having her sleeping up them stairs, mind, not with the laddies just a few feet away frae her.’
‘A-ah, I see. Like that, is she?’ His eyes gleamed speculatively.
‘Aye, she is, but I’m warning ye, Wull Foster, she’ll be giving ye more than ye want, or bargain for, if ye mess wi’ Lily Bloddret. She’s wandered the length and breadth o’ the country, and been in many a port. Come the spring she’ll take tae the road again, I shouldn’t wonder. I guarantee she’ll hae left a packet o’ sorrow behind for any man fool enough tae seek his pleasure at her door.’
Mistress McClure gathered up her bag but before she left, she warned Hannah Foster what kind of woman she was sending to help.
‘She’s the only woman free and willing to come up here tae Braeheights Farm,’ she said in troubled tones, ‘but yon lassie canna manage all this work on her own.’ Hannah Foster made no response. She lay in the big bed, white-faced, eyes closed, her hands folded across her breast as though preparing for death. ‘I hope ye’re listening, Hannah? I wouldna have any man near me if he’d been with Lily Bloddret and her ilk,’ she said urgently. Still Hannah Foster made no response. Even opening her eyes seemed too great an effort. Mrs McClure frowned and shook her head anxiously.
Back in the kitchen, she took Janet’s arm.
‘Listen carefully, lassie. The woman I’m sending up is a good enough worker, but she’s – she’s….’ She looked into Janet’s wide-eyed innocent face and wondered whether it would be better to leave the girl to manage as best she could, rather than have a woman of the roads up here. She glanced around the big farm kitchen, she glimpsed the washing basket piled high with washing waiting to be hung and another pile on the wash house floor. Two of the toddlers crawled over her feet and the youngest began to cry in his crib by the fire. ‘Lily Bloddret isna the kind o’ woman for decent company, but there’s nobody else. Set her to do the washing and scrubbing, but whatever ye do, lassie, dinna let her near your mistress. Make sure you prepare all the food and you take hers in to her yourself.’
‘Yes, Mistress McClure. I’ll do my best,’ Janet promised, bending to lift the baby from the crib and hush him. She pushed back a tendril of hair which had escaped from her cap. Mistress McClure shook her head. ‘This is no place for a lassie like you.’ She lowered her voice and leaned close to Janet. ‘If I should see the Reverend Drummond shall I give him a message instead o’ the letter, lassie?’
‘Oh yes, please.’
‘Whisht.’ She held her finger to her lips and looked towards Mark and his younger brother standing at the door of the wash house. She leaned closer and Janet whispered in her ear.
‘Tell him I must stay here until Mistress Foster is on her feet again, b-but say I would be obliged if he could help me find a new position.’ She looked up into Mistress McClure’s face. ‘He-he did say he would help me if he could….’
‘Aye, and I’m sure he meant it, lassie. I’ll tell him. But I reckon it’ll take Hannah Foster a good six months or more before she’s back to her old self…. If she ever is,’ she added, more to herself than
to Janet.
Chapter Eight
Lily Bloddret arrived at the farm two days later with a pathetically small bundle. She had the darkest hair Janet had ever seen and her eyebrows and lashes were black too. Janet realized that if the woman bothered to keep herself clean, she would be beautiful. Her green eyes seemed to have a constant sparkle and she flashed them at Wull Foster from the moment she set eyes on him, and even at the boys. Joe regarded her curiously but he had met Mistress McClure on her way down the track and she had told him plainly what kind of woman Lily was and the sort of trouble he was likely to get if he had anything to do with her. She had instructed him to pass her warning on to his father and his brothers, though Joe couldn’t see himself or them satisfying a woman like Lily Bloddret.
It felt strange to Janet to be telling a woman so much older than herself what she had to do, but Lily nodded and smiled, swayed her ample hips and sallied forth to tackle the tasks she was set. She did everything Janet asked, but she was not as thorough or as clean as Janet had been brought up to be and she understood now why Mistress McClure had insisted she should do the cooking herself. Although it took her most of the morning cleaning and peeling vegetables to feed so many hungry mouths, she enjoyed the satisfaction of preparing a tasty pot of broth or a pan of stew, as Hannah Foster had shown her. She had been quick to learn and she had an instinct for cooking, inherited from the grandmother she had never known.
Except for the presence of Wull Foster and the way he eyed her, Janet felt life at Braeheights was bearable. Hannah Foster was always grateful for everything she did to tempt her appetite and build up her strength and slowly she began to improve. She knew that as soon as her husband saw her on her feet again and in her clothes he would be back to making his demands, in spite of Mistress McClure’s warning that she should bear no more children.
Beyond Reason Page 10
