by Pip Williams
‘And what would that be, Miss Thompson?’ said Mr Shaw-Smith.
Beth turned her whole body towards the question and paused before speaking.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘It’s scandalous, really. I’ve been writing a novel, of the very worst kind, and by some miracle it’s going to be published.’
I noticed a smile flit across Ditte’s face as she reached for another slice of Madeira.
‘What is it called?’ he asked
‘A Dragoon’s Wife,’ Beth said with pride. ‘It’s set in the seventeenth century, and my task over the next few months is to add a little more steam to the narrative.’
‘Steam?’
‘Yes, steam, Mr Shaw-Smith. And I can’t tell you how much fun I’m having.’
The young man finally understood and took refuge in his teacup. I reached into my pocket to feel the stub of a pencil and the edge of a slip.
‘Gestures are important, of course,’ Beth continued. ‘He might offer his hand; she might take it. But arousal is a bodily function, wouldn’t you agree, Mr Shaw-Smith?’
He was speechless.
‘Of course, you do,’ she said. ‘If you want a bit of steam in a novel, the skin must flush and the pulse must race – for characters, and for readers, in my opinion.’
‘You’re saying that desire should be exposed,’ said Mr Brooks.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘More tea, anyone?’
I excused myself and the men all stood. Mr Shaw-Smith seemed grateful for the disturbance. I wanted to write down Beth’s words before the exact quotation faded.
When I returned, there was another visitor.
‘Esme, this is Mrs Brooks.’
Mrs Brooks stood up to greet me. She barely came to my shoulder.
‘Don’t you dare call me Mrs Brooks,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘I only answer to Sarah. I’m Philip’s wife and chauffer.’
Her grip was firm and her shake efficient. I suspected there was nothing small about her character.
‘It’s true,’ said Mr Brooks. ‘My wife has learned to drive and I have not. Feel free to be amused – most of our friends are – but it is an arrangement that suits us quite well.’ He looked at Sarah. ‘I do not fit easily behind the steering wheel, do I, dear?’
‘You do not fit easily anywhere, Philip,’ Sarah said, laughing. ‘And the motorcar was not made for my stature either, but how I love it.’
Another pot of tea was drained, and barely a crumb of cake remained on the plate when Sarah insisted it was time to go.
‘I must deliver these gentlemen to their homes before dark,’ she said.
We all rose. But as each gentleman bade Beth farewell, she’d engage him in some small aside. After ten minutes Sarah was forced to clap her hands like a school mistress to get them to follow her out the door.
The sisters enjoyed hosting afternoon teas, and over the next month I became acquainted with more people than I had in all my years at the Scriptorium. Mr Shaw-Smith was never seen again, but Professor Chisholm was a frequent caller.
‘He magically appears on our doorstep whenever Mrs Travis bakes her Madeira,’ whispered Beth one day. ‘It’s extraordinary, really.’
Philip Brooks joined him once, and on another occasion Philip and Sarah came alone. Mrs Brooks was quite plain to look at, and when she spoke she was often blunt. I suspected her intellect paled against those of the sisters, but she had a way of saying things that somehow highlighted the truth. She reminded me of Tilda.
When my belly became too difficult to hide, I began organising outings to coincide with afternoon teas. At first it was to Victoria Park or the Baths, and when it rained I would shelter in the Abbey and listen to the choir boys practising. But Ditte soon put a stop to this.
‘You have an historian’s aptitude for investigation, Esme,’ she said one evening over dinner. ‘Rather than having you wander aimlessly around Victoria Park tomorrow, I’d like you to visit the archives at Guildhall.’
‘Edith, don’t forget the ring,’ said Beth, taking another slice of beef and drowning it in gravy.
Ditte took off the gold band that she wore on her little finger and gave it to me. I knew what it was meant to do, so I slipped it on. The fit was perfect.
‘I’ve never been able to wear it on that finger,’ said Ditte.
‘You’ve never wanted to,’ said Beth. ‘But it suits Esme.’
The next time the sisters had visitors I was in London, searching the archives of the British Museum and spending a few days with Da. The time after that I was in Cambridge, staying with a sympathetic friend of Beth’s who never once enquired after my husband.
I took my research seriously, and my skill grew with my belly. Rather than restricting me, Ditte had given me a kind of freedom. She’d paved the way with letters of introduction. She wrote that I was her niece and gave me her last name. She was careful not to associate me with the Scriptorium. Wherever I went, I was expected – my entry to archives and reading rooms was automatic; the documents I needed were organised in advance and waiting for me to scrutinise.
At first, I was sure I convinced no one. I stumbled around and apologised too much, and I was far too grateful when admittance was given. At the entrance to the Old Schools reading room at Cambridge, I saw an attendant double-check Ditte’s letter, and my heart ached at the thought I might be expelled before I’d had the chance to breathe in that heady combination of aged stone, leather and wood. When he noticed the band of gold on my hand, the belly beneath it became of little consequence. He let me pass, and I stood on the threshold a moment too long.
‘Are you alright, madam?’ the attendant asked.
‘I could not be better,’ I said.
I made my way with steady steps towards a table at the far end of the room. The wooden floor announced me to the bent heads and absorbed readers; the architects of that great room had not considered the clip-clop of a lady’s shoe. I acknowledged the curiosity of every gentleman scholar with a straightening of my aching back and a curt nod of my head. By the time I sat down, I was exhausted from the effort.
I never thought anywhere could rival Oxford for its history and beauty, but every time I ventured out on my own I was forced to reflect on how little I knew. Oxford and the Scriptorium had always been enough. Our visits to family in Scotland had always seemed a little too long, and the one time I’d been away on my own had made me wary of ever leaving again. Despite myself, I began to enjoy this new adventure – though the reason for it was becoming harder to ignore.
The sisters were not only complicit in my predicament, but seemed to delight in it. At breakfast they would quiz me about the quality of my sleep, about my appetite and desire for strange foods (none, which was a particular disappointment for Beth). My weight and sleeping patterns were recorded in a small notebook, and one day Beth asked, with uncharacteristic shyness, if I would allow her to see my body naked.
‘I would like to draw it,’ she said.
I had become used to standing naked in front of the mirror, tracing my curves from breast to pubis. I was trying to commit them to memory. I agreed.
While Beth drew, I stood beside the window in my bedroom and looked out at the garden. It was a mess of colour and overgrown edges. The apple tree was full of life, and its blossom littered the ground beneath. It was beautiful, I thought, in its unpruned neglect. Sunlight fell across my belly, and its heat was proof of my nakedness. But I felt no shame or embarrassment. Beth sat on the bed, and I could hear the scratching of her charcoal against the paper.
When she asked me to lay one hand above and one below the bloom of my belly, I complied. My skin was warm, and I pressed against it. Then there it was: a movement beneath the tightening skin. A response. Against all reason, I caressed the growing thing inside me and whispered a few words of greeting.
I didn’t notice when Beth put the sketchbook down. She draped a dressing gown over my shoulders and went to the door to invite Ditte in.
‘Beauti
ful,’ Ditte said, looking at the sketch, but she struggled to look up at me. She left as quietly as she had come, but I saw her wipe her eyes.
‘Sarah Brooks will be coming for afternoon tea today,’ said Ditte while we were eating lunch. Normally she would have told me the day before.
‘I’ll go for a walk around Victoria Park. It’s a lovely day.’
Ditte looked at Beth, then back at me. ‘Actually, we’d like you to stay.’
I looked down at my belly, now huge and undeniable, then I looked quizzically at Ditte.
‘They’re good people,’ she said.
At first, I didn’t understand. I’d been deprived of any company other than that of the sisters since April, when Da visited for my twenty-fifth birthday. It was almost June; I was huge.
Beth rose from the kitchen table and began to busy herself with the coffeepot. ‘They have been unable to have a baby of their own, Esme,’ she said. ‘They would make good parents for yours.’
The words were falling into place as Ditte reached her hand across the table to take hold of mine. I didn’t pull it away, but I couldn’t return the gesture of her gentle squeeze. I was winded, unable to speak from the vacuum that had just been created in my chest. It wasn’t just a lack of breath; it was an inadequacy of words. I had a feeling that I understood precisely, but had no words for.
On the periphery of that feeling, I could see Beth turn from the stove, coffeepot in one hand, her features uncomfortable with the smile they were trying to support. What did she see to make her face collapse and her hand shake? A little coffee spilled on the floor, but she made no move to clean it up. Instead, she looked to her sister. I’d never seen her so unsure.
I couldn’t settle on what to wear, though my choices were few. The last time I’d seen Sarah, I’d thought my belly well hidden. Now, I wondered if she had known all along. The idea made me uncomfortable, annoyed. I put on a dress that accentuated my bosom and sat too tightly around my middle, then I stood in front of the mirror. There was something obscene about it, and something wonderful. I traced my funny fingers over the curve of my breast, over my nipple, over the swell of baby beneath the tightened skin. I felt it move and saw the undulation beneath the fabric of the dress.
I changed into a blouse and skirt, both borrowed from Ditte. I wore a housecoat over the top.
As soon as I came into the sitting room, Sarah stood up. The sisters wanted the afternoon to be more comfortable than it could possibly be, so they remained seated and threw out casual phrases of welcome that sounded forced and overly cheerful: ‘Here you are’; ‘You’ll have tea, won’t you, Esme?’; ‘We were just commenting on how warm it is’; ‘A slice of Madeira, Sarah?’
Sarah ignored them and came straight over to where I stood. She took both my hands in hers. ‘Esme, if you would prefer this not to happen, I understand. This will be far harder for you than for anyone. You must take your time, and you must be sure.’
It was regret and sorrow and loss. It was hope and relief. And it was other things that had no name, but I felt them in my gut and could taste their bitterness. The frustration of not being able to articulate any of it came in a flood of tears.
Sarah caught me, wrapped her strong arms around me and let me sob on her shoulder. She felt solid and unafraid.
When Beth finally poured the tea, we were all blowing our noses.
We drank tea and ate cake, and I watched a crumb stick steadfastly to the corner of Sarah’s mouth. I noticed how she listened to everything Beth said, never interrupting but not always agreeing when she had a chance to reply. I listened to the sound of her voice and was reminded of how easily she laughed. I wondered if she could sing.
I had avoided thinking about what would happen when the pregnancy was over. I didn’t ask questions and the sisters had only ever hinted at it. Was this always the plan? I thought.
Of course it was.
Did it need to be?
Of course it did.
The baby was a girl. This I knew, though I couldn’t say how. And I’d begun to love her.
‘Esme?’ Beth said.
All three women were waiting for me to reply to something I’d not heard.
‘Esme,’ Sarah said, ‘would it be alright with you if I visited again?’
I looked to Ditte. When the review of her history was complete, I would return to Oxford and resume my work at the Scriptorium. She’d said this, and I’d agreed.
There should have been a word for what I felt right then, but despite all my years in the Scriptorium I couldn’t recall a single one.
I nodded.
The warm weather held, and I grew enormous. Ditte was happy with the research I had done, and insisted I spend long hours reclining on the couch and proofreading the edits she’d been making to her history. Sarah came for tea each Tuesday afternoon, and I sat quietly observant. I found something else to like about her every time, but they were uncomfortable hours, and my ambivalence didn’t shift. So much needed to be said, but the pouring of tea and handing around of Madeira cake kept getting in the way.
Then, one Tuesday, I waddled into the sitting room to find Sarah still wearing her hat and driving gloves.
‘I thought I’d take you out,’ she said.
It was an unexpected relief, and I took a deep breath as if I was already in the fresh air.
‘Just the two of us,’ she continued, turning to the sisters, who nodded in unison.
I was surprised when she opened the passenger door of a Daimler and helped me in. I’d rarely travelled in a private motorcar, and never one driven by a woman. Sarah had short legs and short arms, and her whole body was engaged in making the car move. She kept leaning forward to shift the gears, back to press the peddles. It was as if her arms and legs were being worked by a puppeteer. I coughed to disguise a laugh.
‘Are you poorly?’ she asked.
‘Not at all,’ I said.
Sarah never insisted on conversation and was unusually clumsy with small talk – she once responded to a comment on the weather by explaining the relationship between barometric pressure and rain – so our journey was silent except for the crunch of gears and the occasional disparaging comment about other people’s driving.
By the time we arrived at the Bath Recreation Ground, I had filled three slips with various quotations for damn-dunderhead. They looked as though they had been written in a fit of palsy.
‘Somerset are playing Lancashire for the championship,’ Sarah said, helping me down from my seat and craning to see the scoreboard. ‘Lancashire are chasing 181 runs, not a difficult target, so Philip has his work cut out. Do you like cricket, Esme?’
‘I’m not sure. I’ve never sat to watch a whole game played.’
‘You’re too polite to say that it goes for too long and that watching grass grow would be more exciting. No, don’t deny it, I can see it in your face.’ She put her arm through mine, adjusting with ease to my height, and we started walking around the perimeter of the oval. ‘By the end of the afternoon, you will be astonished you could ever think such a thing.’
Mr Brooks was already on the pitch, and I wondered if Sarah had been deliberate in her timing. Since their intentions had been made clear, he had not joined his wife for tea at the sisters’. I had assumed he felt that this whole business was best kept to the women. It wasn’t until I saw him deliver his first ball that I thought ‘this business’ may not be finalised. I was being courted, I realised, and at some point I would have to accept or reject what was being offered. He’d given his hat to the umpire, and the sun shone off his bald head. He was as tall as Sarah was short, and he loped towards the pitch on long thin legs, releasing the ball from a windmill of arms.
‘It was Philip’s idea,’ Sarah said after his second wide delivery.
‘What was?’
‘To bring you to the match. Oh, that was short. It’s going to go all the way to the boundary.’
There was applause from one section of the crowd sitting on the other
side of the oval.
‘Our lot won’t be happy. I daresay he’s distracted. Poor man, he so wanted to impress you.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes; as I said, it was his idea. He’s been desperate to come to tea, but I kept putting him off. It was uncomfortable, don’t you think?’
I just looked down.
‘I think he was hoping to demonstrate his credentials for fatherhood by putting on a good show in the middle.’
Though I liked it, her directness still took me by surprise.
‘Well, that’s him done. Fifteen runs off the over. He’ll be glad it’s tea.’
I watched as the cricketers walked from the pitch towards the club rooms. When Philip looked in our direction, Sarah waved. Instead of following his team mates, he made his way across the ground to join us. Long strides, a slight stoop.
‘Please tell me you’ve only just arrived,’ he said, as he drew close. He might have been blushing or sunburned, I couldn’t tell.
‘Can’t do that I’m afraid, darling. We arrived just as Sharp came out to bat.’ Sarah stood on tip-toe to kiss him, and I couldn’t help wondering whether Philip’s stoop was an adjustment to marriage.
He looked at the scoreboard. ‘I’ll be fielding from now on, I expect,’ he said. Then he turned to me, his hazel eyes shining.
‘Esme,’ he said. ‘It’s so lovely to see you again.’
I wasn’t sure what I should say. I offered a nod, but barely a smile. When he held out his large hand, I gave him mine. He saw my funny fingers and didn’t flinch, but I still expected his grip to be limp from the fear of crushing what looked so fragile. Instead, his grip was firm enough to keep my hand from slipping free. When he let go, it was at just the right moment. You can tell a lot from the way a man takes your hand, Da once told me.
It was Tuesday, and Mrs Travis had left for the day. Sarah was due for afternoon tea, and the sisters were in the kitchen getting the tray ready. When I came in, Ditte was arranging slices of cake on a plate, and Beth was heating the teapot. I was about to ask if I could help when I felt a trickle down the inside of my leg. Before I could register what it was, I felt it gush out. I gasped and the sisters turned.
