by Erica Brown
Blanche watched Edith’s eyes follow the food, her bottom lip sagging as her mouth began to water.
‘P’raps a muffin or two,’ said Edith, her eyes never leaving the plate.
‘Yes,’ said Blanche with a light laugh, as though they had tea together every day at this time and were both dressed in silks and wearing little muslin gloves to protect the softness of their hands. Not likely with Edith’s, Blanche noticed. Her nails were broken, her fingers grimed with dirt and rough with work.
Edith had always been the one with the appetite when they’d been in service together.
‘Eat as much as you like,’ said Blanche, pouring tea from a Wedgwood pot into bone china cups. ‘Now, tell me what you’ve been doing with yourself. How many children did you say you had?’
Edith grabbed a muffin, ate it speedily, and then grabbed another. As she bit into the third, a trickle of butter ran over her chin, was wiped off on the back of her hand, which in turn was licked off by a greedy tongue.
Between mouthfuls of muffin and tea, Edith talked about her husband – Able Seaman Deke Beasley – her children – those still alive and those she’d lost.
‘As I think I told you, I lost a daughter to cholera last year,’ said Blanche, and was surprised at the strength in her voice. It bore no trace of grief, no quavering at the accompanying thoughts. ‘Cholera has to be beaten,’ she added and thought of one of her husband’s Sunday sermons; she sounded just the same.
Edith turned suddenly chirpy. ‘Never mind. Got some children left, ain’t you?’
‘Yes. I have three. One boy and two girls.’
‘And there’s always ’ope,’ said Edith, her tired eyes suddenly shining above her haggard cheekbones. ‘My little girl got saved by some doctor fella that I saved from being rolled – you know – robbed,’ she added on seeing the questioning look on Blanche’s face.
‘Doctor Budd. Yes, my husband told me.’ Blanche felt humbled. Edith had lost far more children than she had, yet was still grateful to those who cared. ‘A good man,’ she said.
‘One of the best. Glad to count him amongst me friends.’
Blanche smiled, but it diminished as a thought occurred to her. ‘My husband also said you were arrested for desecrating a graveyard.’
Although halfway through a muffin, Edith paused, her eyes downcast as she put it back on the plate with those not yet touched.
Her voice was suddenly very small. ‘Molly McBean’s little ’un had died. She didn’t ’ave any money to bury her, and there don’t seem to be any room anywhere at the moment to bury anyone without a bought and paid for plot. All this cholera and smallpox, there’s too many bodies and not enough earth.’
Blanche couldn’t think of a single word to say. Not until this moment had it occurred to her that she was totally out of touch with common people, people who worked hard for a living or were poor and needy like Edith. Things hadn’t always been that way.
She was well aware that she couldn’t help everyone, but she wanted to do something for Edith, to improve her lot so that she didn’t smell and could regain some of the old exuberance Blanche remembered.
When she asked about her family, her mother and brothers, Edith was very matter of fact.
‘Dead,’ she said flatly between mouthfuls of muffins.
‘I’m sorry.’
Edith went on eating.
Blanche continued to look at her over the edge of her teacup. Gone was the old Edith who told tall stories about her family’s achievements that were, in the main, outright lies invented by a fertile imagination. The new Edith looked beaten, ground down by altered circumstances.
What can I say next? thought Blanche. Edith wasn’t making it easy. At last she said, ‘Are you looking forward to working here?’
It seemed trite, but was all she could think of.
Edith nodded and muttered a reply through a shower of crumbs. ‘I’ve already ordered two pound of pork bones and a sack of pinky potatoes fer a stew this week.’
‘Pinky?’ Blanche had never heard the word before.
Edith enlightened her. ‘A bit past their best, but all right for a stew.’
Making an immediate decision, Blanche got to her feet and took a few coins from the velvet purse hanging from her belt.
‘Here’s a little advance on your wages.’ She handed Edith two shillings – a sizeable portion from a wage of eight shillings a week, but a fortune to someone like Edith, who, she suspected, had nothing even when her husband came home.
Edith stopped eating, her eyes wide and moistening by the minute. ‘That’s… that’s… very kind… ’ She sniffed back a threatening sob, swallowing both her pride and whatever food was still in her mouth. ‘But I ain’t earned it,’ she said and tried to thrust it back into Blanche’s hand.
Blanche closed her fingers over Edith’s. ‘No. You must take it. You have children. You need it.’
Both women looked into each other’s eyes, each too full of emotion to say anything. Their look said it all; this was old friendship and the gladness of two friends reunited.
‘Do you remember when I first came to Bristol?’ said Blanche. ‘You befriended me when I was at my lowest. Now our positions are reversed. I promise I will be a friend to you, just as you were to me when I needed one.’
Edith thought about it, then nodded and tucked the money into her cleavage. She also left with a brown paper parcel beneath her arm containing a decent work dress, underwear and various items of children’s clothing.
Blanche watched her leave from the second-floor drawing-room window. The poplars at the end of the garden were throwing long shadows across the lawn. Edith’s disappearing figure looked lonely and drab, the colour of her dress blending with the earth.
Blanche leaned her head against the coldness of the window. She stayed there until the side door from the kitchen garden slammed shut and Edith was gone.
‘I need air,’ she said to Mrs Henderson after the children had tea. I’m going for a walk.’
Lacing on a pair of walking shoes, she headed for Little Paradise. By the time she got there, the first scents of evening were rising from the honeysuckle and bees buzzed around spears of pink lupins and purple larkspur.
After bolting the door, she made her way upstairs and sat in the window seat, her gaze roaming the common. In the past she’d searched for a vision of her daughter as she remembered her that day. Today was different, though she wasn’t really seeing the waving grasses and rabbits bounding from burrow to burrow either. Horatia’s threat had chilled her to the bone. What was she hoping to gain by it? What was there to prove? Tom, she thought. It all boils down to Tom. Horatia had been livid that they’d met again, two old flames that she couldn’t seem to extinguish.
The leaves of the apple trees rustled suddenly and caught her attention. The sound of hoofbeats preceded a figure on a horse. She knew it was Tom. Horatia’s warning rang in her ears.
She dropped to her knees, her head and her arms resting on the window seat so she couldn’t be seen.
The sound of hooves ceased, replaced by footsteps coming up the path. The bolted front door rattled. She closed her eyes and prayed he wouldn’t call her name. Hearing his voice would weaken her resolve. Protecting her children was more important than anything, but her love for him after all these years was still strong.
‘Blanche?’
She closed her eyes. The way he called her name made the room spin. In an effort to block out the sound of his voice, she buried her head in her arms and covered her ears with her fists, though not tightly enough. She still heard him say something. It sounded like, ‘Never mind. I understand.’
She remembered their agreement when he’d been last here. If ever she no longer wished to see him, he would understand and not pursue her, though he would still love her.
His footsteps retreated then stopped. Her curiosity got the better of her. Slowly and carefully she raised her head and saw him bent over a rose bush. She ducked as he straighte
ned. Footsteps again, first to the front door, then down the path. Although her heart was beating with longing, she forced herself to stay down. Not until she was sure he was gone did she pop back up and look out of the window.
The garden was empty. Butterflies fluttered over the long grass beneath the apple trees and wasps buzzed among the slowly forming fruit.
Blanche heaved a sigh of relief. Once her heart had ceased racing and she’d confronted her feeling of loss, she went down to the front door and pulled back the bolt. The moment she’d done it she realized that he’d known she was here. The key was in the lock outside.
Her suspicion was confirmed. She swung the door open and saw the single red rose lying on the doorstep. Scrawled on the flagstone beside the rose with the aid of a chalky pebble were the words, ‘I understand.’
Chapter Fourteen
The carriage blinds were down, a brass-bound travelling chest was strapped to the transom and the coachman had been told not to spare the horses.
Iron-shod hooves struck sparks on the cobbles, as the coach turned into Trenchard Street, a narrow and unsuitable route to the Gloucester Road, but the only one in existence. It rolled and creaked, as it swept wide of the acute left-hand turn into Steep Street. The street certainly lived up to its name. Haunches bursting with muscle, mouths lathered and nostrils snorting, the horses climbed the cruel incline.
Inside the carriage, Sir Stanley Moorditch tried to steady himself against the green leather upholstery. He’d considered what Stoke had told him to do, but opted out at the last minute and decided to leave the city. What could a man like Sydney Cuthbert do?
Unfortunately, Moorditch hadn’t reckoned on his coachman or Stoke’s network of informers, one of whom was the judge’s own butler.
The coachman, flustered at being dragged from his dinner, wanted to get to their destination at Upper Wick as quickly as possible. They would be staying overnight prior to journeying on to Gloucester, and he was looking forward to the dinner he would get there. Because he was annoyed and his stomach was rumbling, he pushed the horses too hard. Their quarters slipped, their hooves flailed out in all directions as they lost their grip. The carriage swerved outwards then slewed inwards. The coachman tried to correct their swing, but it was too late. The carriage hit an iron bollard placed on the corner to prevent buildings being hit in the same fashion.
In one swift moment of bad judgement, all Sir Stanley Moorditch’s plans for escape came to a swift end. There was a smashing of wood against metal, then a sickening crunch as the wheel folded and the carriage settled on its springs as the axle hit the road.
Great commotion followed. Women leaned out of doors, children peered from windows and men spilled out from pubs like flotsam on the tide.
The coachman made his apologies to his master who clambered out of the carriage, his immense bulk sticking in the narrow doorway before he popped out like a cork from a bottle.
Moorditch was not in a forgiving mood. To the surprise then amusement of the onlookers, he began beating the man about the head. ‘How do I get to Upper Wick now, you fool? Do you realize how important it is? You idiot! You bastard son of a low-born mother!’
‘Perhaps I can help you travel to your destination.’
Much to the coachman’s delight, Moorditch, his face red and glistening with sweat, stopped beating him.
‘My word, but that’s very kind of you, sir,’ he said, his angry expression replaced by one of gratitude. Unable to turn his head by virtue of his huge girth, he continued to gush words of gratitude – until he was finally face to face with the man who had made the offer.
‘Cuthbert!’
Stoke smiled like a man who has only just understood a joke and is not impressed. ‘Sir Stanley.’
Moorditch blustered, ‘Look, Mr Cuthbert, I was just going—’
Stoke’s expression turned grim. ‘You are going to where you should be, and I am taking you there.’ He gestured with his cane for Magnus to bring his carriage. ‘Take Sir Stanley’s luggage back to his house once the wheel’s repaired,’ he ordered. I’ll make sure he’s inside his own door before you get there.’
The coachman did not argue. With luck, Cook would still have plenty enough supper left in the pot and half a gallon of beer to swill it down.
Moorditch had as much trouble squeezing into the other carriage as he had getting out of his own. Standing on his stiff leg, Stoke slammed his foot against the judge’s rump and rammed him in.
The second carriage rolled away, and men stepped forward to help repair the broken wheel of the first. One of them fetched axle grease from a carriage works at the back of a pub. As he came back out, someone leaning against the wall grabbed his arm.
‘Did I hear right? Sir Stanley? Would that be Moorditch? And Cuthbert?’
‘Aye, that’s right,’ returned the man. ‘Both gentlemen, though I think one of them is not quite the gentleman he makes himself out to be.’
The blind beggar who had hold of his arm smiled. ‘I don’t think either of them are if the rumours I’ve heard are true.’
He entrusted the facts to memory for Septimus Monk – if and when they were needed.
* * *
The rose and Tom’s sentiment stayed in Blanche’s mind. Her heart ached for him but was overruled by her head. In order to remove temptation, there must be no opportunity for her to be alone with him. Little Paradise had to go, and the best way to do this was for someone to be living there permanently.
‘I have a wonderful idea,’ she said to Conrad.
‘And what is that, my dear?’
‘I want Edith in my household and she wants to be here. She gets on with the other staff very well, but it’s such a long walk from here to Lewins Mead.’
‘Do we have a spare bed?’ asked Conrad as he helped himself to kedgeree from one of the serving dishes on the sideboard.
Blanche shook her head. ‘That wouldn’t be any good. She has four children. I thought we might install her at Little Paradise. Wasn’t that your original idea anyway?’
Conrad sat down and tucked a napkin beneath his chin. ‘It was indeed – until you and the children took it over.’
‘So you agree?’ asked Blanche, her face upturned to his, her eyes full of pleading.
Conrad munched thoughtfully on his breakfast and finally said, ‘I think it a very good idea. Have you told her yet?’
Blanche gasped with delight. ‘No. But I will. I’m taking her to the hospital with me today. I’ll tell her then.’
Conrad stopped chewing and looked concerned. ‘Why are you going to the hospital?’
‘Nothing to do with the children or me,’ she said with an amused smile, her hand stroking his. ‘Doctor Budd thinks it would be a good idea for me to get some experience of disease and poor people before I get too involved with his project.’
‘That sounds very sensible.’
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘I think it is.’
Conrad did not know it, but she was referring to both the doctor’s plans and her own. Edith and her brood living at Little Paradise would be a barrier between her and Tom. Once again she’d be safe within her marriage and beyond his reach.
* * *
Edith chatted all the way to the hospital. Her old exuberance was fast returning, but although she was better dressed, she was still a bit smelly. It will improve greatly once she has somewhere decent to live, Blanche decided.
The hospital, dedicated to St Peter, dated from 1492 and was supported by huge black beams carved into the most beautiful and beguiling of shapes. The doors were low and the windows small and lopsided. There was a dispensary on the right of the entrance. Dr Budd and others shared an office on the left. Beyond that was an operating room, the implements laid out in regimented rows on a cotton-covered table.
Blanche avoided looking too closely into that room. The thought of saws, pincers, forceps and scalpels was too terrible for her to cope with. She’d fully expected that, at the request of Dr Budd, other ladi
es would be attending this very important meeting. The last person she’d expected to see amongst them was Horatia Strong.
Blanche eyed her disdainfully – a look she’d never mastered before coming to Bristol and marrying a man of means. Now she found it easy to do, though rarely did. But today was different. Horatia was here, and Horatia always brought out the worse in her.
They greeted each other stiffly, Horatia looking grand as a duchess and Blanche as fresh as a daisy.
Blanche thought Horatia looked as if she were going shopping for a fashionable hat or a new silk gown. Horatia thought Blanche looked as though she were better suited to being a flower seller or dancer.
Horatia smiled. ‘How are the family?’ Her smile was as false as a tin leg.
Blanche sensed the menacing undertone. ‘Very well.’
‘And so they should be! They are your first priority, are they not?’
‘Always,’ Blanche answered.
Horatia looked smug. ‘What a good little wife you are!’
Rivalries were put to one side rather than forgotten as Dr Budd showed them around.
The hospital was rudimentary, the plaster peeling from the walls, the window panes cracked and the frames ill-fitting.
None of the women said a word. They were all dressed in their finest clothes, their hair curled, their complexions and hands unblemished by disease or hard work. They were like birds of paradise in the musty gloom of St Peter’s Hospital. They also looked frightened. Were they up to it? Could women from their particular background have any effect at all on how people lived?
Their silence made Dr Budd nervous and it worried him. He felt a need to explain. ‘The patients here are much poorer than at Brandon Hill where I have my other hospital. The poor are left to fend for themselves to a great extent. Indeed, in some quarters they are held responsible for the disease.’ He sighed. ‘I suppose in a way they are.’
