by Iris Gower
When Sterling left Mali, he walked rapidly towards the Mackworth Arms. As bitter rain had begun to fall and he cursed himself for his foolishness in not bringing the Ascot. And yet he knew it was not the inclement weather that made him restless and moody, it was the feeling deep within himself that he had somehow betrayed Mali.
‘Don’t be absurd,’ he told himself harshly. Even Mali herself recognised there was no future for them together.
He cared not a fig for convention nor even for the fact that Davie Llewelyn had warned him against pursuing Mali, but common sense told him it would not be fair to take her from her natural surroundings. She was not the sort of girl who could indulge in an illicit affair and he had no intention of forcing her against her better judgment.
As he entered the foyer of the hotel, the night porter touched his cap in salute.
‘Nasty night, Mr Richardson. You look wet through, shall I bring you something hot, sir?’
Sterling shook his head. ‘No, but you can bring me a bottle of whisky.’
In his room, he threw his coat savagely over a chair, listening to the rain tapping miserably against the window. He supposed he should be grateful that matters had not got out of hand, at least there had been no lasting harm done and the sooner he forgot Mali Llewelyn the better.
He undressed and drew on a warm robe and, returning to the window, peered out into the darkness of the night. For the first time in his life he knew what loneliness meant and it wasn’t a feeling he liked.
Perhaps he had better settle down as soon as possible with a good and suitable wife. He immediately thought of Bea; she was a warm and passionate woman, they had always been friends and lately they had become so much more. And yet there was no joy in the thought of asking Bea to marry him. His blood cried out for Mali Llewelyn and in his mind’s eye he could see her features warmed by the happiness they had shared that day on the beach. He heard the gentle lilt of her voice like a song, and the touch of her lips beneath his own had stirred his blood.
But desire was something that soon faded, he told himself, and Mali Llewelyn had been an experience that would soon be nothing more than a memory.
Chapter Sixteen
Bea Cardigan sat often in the privacy of her own room. She refused invitations to afternoon teas and even the occasional grand ball in favour of quiet evenings spent at home. She allowed no one to share with her the terrible grief that had clouded her entire life, changing her from a sociable woman into a recluse.
But she had come at last to the only possible solution to her problem and now, in her room, she dressed slowly, trying to prepare herself to face the coming ordeal with courage.
Her hands fumbled over the buttons of the richly embroidered voile dress as though reluctant to see the task finished. She sighed softly and at last she placed a large, heavily decorated hat upon her glossy hair and stood staring at her reflection for a moment, hardly recognising the pale drawn face that looked back at her.
She left the house silently as a shadow for she did not wish to see or speak with anyone, not even Bertha. The young maid had been the only person in the world in whom Bea could confide her trouble and it had been Bertha who had found a clean and trustworthy midwife.
Out in the lane leading from the house to the roadway, the sun fell in patches through the trees. Bea felt disembodied, not quite real, and she was glad when she reached the hubbub of the busy main street.
Why did this have to happen to me? Bea asked herself for the hundredth time. It was like a nightmare to know that she carried within her the child of her half brother. Her being revolted against the idea and yet, God help her, the love for Sterling remained.
She had avoided him of late and she was quite certain that he had not even noticed that she no longer swept joyously into his new house to help with the decoration. But how could she be near him and not fling herself desperately into his arms?
She walked slowly down the hill and away from the elegant buildings of the western slope of the town and gradually she left the main streets behind her. She was on unfamiliar territory now, walking alongside the canal, turgid and slow with brown fronds of grass waving like dead fingers just below the surface of the water.
She shivered, she must not be fanciful and yet her stomach turned over as she thought of the ordeal to come. She told herself that she must imagine going back home to tea, sitting in the familiar warmth of the drawing room, looking out of the long windows at the bay far below. And yet the hands clasping her bag were trembling.
The exterior of the house in Canal Street was respectable enough, lace curtains hung in the windows and the doorknob was brightly polished but the stone walls were begrimed by the copper smoke that hung like a pall all over this part of the town. Bea tapped on the door and waited in trepidation, half hoping Mrs Benson would not answer her knock. She glanced around her, fearful of being observed, realising that it had been a mistake to put on her new hat, for the women who passed her in the street either wore shawls over their heads or the tall Welsh hats that were falling from fashion now.
‘Ah, come inside there’s a good girl.’ Mrs Benson was a large reassuring woman with a greying bun fastened up at the back of her head. She was, Bea noticed, immaculately dressed with a spotless apron covering her skirt and blouse. She was nothing like the dragon Bea had expected, her cheeks were pink and fresh and her eyes clear and direct.
‘Come inside,’ Mrs Benson repeated, ‘don’t give the neighbours a free show, is it?’
Bea hovered uncertainly in the sudden dimness of the small kitchen. A good coal fire glowed behind gleaming brass fenders and a large chest of drawers, smelling of polish, stood alongside her.
‘Come on through to the other room girlie, and don’t be afraid, there’s nothing to worry about, I’ve done this job so many times, it’s second nature to me now. Don’t like it, mind,’ she said honestly, ‘but I feel there’s always a good reason for a girl to come to me and I don’t ask no questions.’
Bea followed Mrs Benson into the small room which probably served as a parlour, for a white sheet covered what appeared to be an upright piano and on the wall hung pictures, presumably of Mrs Benson’s family.
‘That’s my daughter there, Sally,’ she smiled. ‘Working down at the Canal Street Laundry, she is, good job too, mind.’
‘Yes, she’s very pretty.’ Even to her own ears, her voice sounded strange and Bea put a trembling hand up to her mouth. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘it’s just that I feel so . . .’ The words trailed away as Mrs Benson began to set instruments out on a tray.
‘There’s a silly girl, don’t I know how bad you must be feeling? Come on, chin up, you’ll be all right so don’t worry about a thing.’
She pointed to a screen in the corner of the room. ‘Go behind there and take your underdrawers and your stockings off if you please. No need to be shy, I’ve seen so many tuppences in my life that I’ve lost count.’
Her motherly cheerfulness was reassuring and Bea quickly did as she was bid, telling herself it would soon be over and then she could start to pick up the pieces of her life again.
When she was ready, Bea stood uncertainly waiting for the midwife to call her to the table that was covered in a white pristine cloth. Suddenly the enormity of the situation overwhelmed her and she wrapped her arms around her stomach as though to protect her unborn child. A pointless and stupid act if ever there was one.
‘Come on, over here if you please, that’s right, let me help you up. Good, now lay back and try to be easy, let yourself go loose, that’s a good girl, don’t fight me now.’
Bea lay back and stared up at the cracks in the whitewashed ceiling, trying to detach herself from what was happening, but her heart was beating so furiously that she felt she would choke.
Mrs Benson sighed. ‘Quite a few months gone, aren’t you dear? You really should have come to me sooner but don’t worry, we’ll cure everything, you’ll see.’
Bea closed her eyes, in a sudden and ter
rifying panic. She heard the scrape of instruments against the metal tray and did not even want to imagine what might be happening.
She longed to scream out for Mrs Benson to cease her ministrations, she did not want to continue this terrible nightmare. But she remained tight-lipped and silent, for what was the alternative, and had she not gone over and over it all in her mind on countless sleepless nights?
‘This may hurt a little but it will soon be finished, there’s a good brave girl, aren’t you? That’s right, keep quite still.’
From outside the window Bea heard the sweet sharp note of a bird in song; her heart contracted in pain and she wondered if she would ever get over the experience she was forcing herself to endure now.
Mrs Benson had moved away and was washing her hands in a basin nearby. Bea looked up at her questioningly. ‘Is it all over?’ she asked.
‘Bless your innocence! No, it’s not quite over girl, there’ll be some bleeding but it’s nature’s way, nothing to worry about. Keep this bowl at your side and call me if you need me.’
Left alone, Bea lay on the hardness of the table and tried to keep calm. There was nothing to worry about, hadn’t Mrs Benson said so? And she did this sort of thing all the time. Yet in spite of herself, tears welled in her eyes, she had never been so alone and unhappy in all her life.
The midwife returned after a time with a cup of steaming tea. Bea gulped it gratefully for her throat still ached with the effort not to cry. The liquid was hot and sweet and soothing and Bea began to feel a little better.
‘That’s right, drink it all down. It won’t be long now, girl, just you be brave and we’ll soon have you on your feet again.’
Bea looked at her imploringly. ‘What is going to happen now?’ she asked.
‘It will all come away from you, of course,’ Mrs Benson said gently. ‘Just keep the bowl near you and use it when the time comes. I won’t be far away, so don’t worry your little head about anything.’
Then Bea was alone once more, staring at the whitewashed walls. The only window was covered by a heavy curtain that gaped a little. Through the aperture Bea could see a tiny sliver of back garden and to her surprise the sun was still shining. Yet she felt as though she had been in the small house in Canal Street for hours.
She turned her head restlessly and began to sit up. Suddenly, she could scarcely breathe for the pain that was beginning low in her stomach. Sweat broke out on her forehead and she remained motionless, afraid to move lest she would do herself some damage.
The pain was growing larger and soon it seemed to become the centre of her universe. She moaned softly in her fear as a strange sensation caught her and she was forced to bear down.
She placed the bowl in position, her hands trembling. She took a deep ragged breath trying to summon the strength to call Mrs Benson. She groaned low in her throat and looked downwards and to her horror, the bowl was no longer empty.
The foetus was perfect, no bigger than the palm of Bea’s hand. Minute arms and legs were splayed as though in distress. Bea’s heart constricted and she felt violently sick. She closed her eyes but the image remained to haunt her. She felt faint and must have called out in her pain for the door opened and the midwife bustled into the room.
‘That’s all right dear, come on, give it to me now.’ Bea became aware that her hand still grasped the bowl and it took all the older woman’s strength to prise it away from her.
A red haze was floating behind Bea’s closed lids. Nothing was real, the horror was only a nightmare from which she would awake. But now she was tired, she must sleep and what did it matter if the world was slipping away from her?
How Bea had got home she did not afterwards clearly remember. There had been a vague awareness of Mrs Benson and a girl whom she called Sally, helping her into a small cart that smelled sickeningly of fish even though a rough blanket had been laid against the planking. The ride seemed to go on interminably and she – half fainting, half waking – felt every rut and bump on the roadway. She heard Mrs Benson speaking and had to strain to catch her words.
‘Never seen one like this before, nothing gone wrong with her, not lost a lot of blood, only what’s normal like but she’s having such a bad attack of the vapours, must be her delicate upbringing I spects, not hardly like the usual girls who come to me.’
‘Well you’ve done all you can, Mam.’ The voice was rough and harsh and Bea withdrew into herself, instinctively disliking the girl whose face swam before her eyes.
At least the midwife had the sense to take the carriage round the back of the house and as fortune had it, Bertha came to the door.
‘Oh my dear God, Miss Bea.’ The maid supported her while Mrs Benson made hurried explanations.
‘Taken poorly she was, right afterwards, nothing gone wrong, it’s just the shock of it all I suppose.’
‘Right,’ Bertha spoke firmly. ‘I’ll get her to her bed and look after her, never fear.’
It was a relief to be in her room with the fire roaring in the grate for by now Bea was shivering uncontrollably. She felt Bertha lower her onto the bed and begin to take off her clothes, murmuring sympathetically all the while.
‘You’ll be just fine after a good sleep Miss Bea. I’ll see to you, don’t you worry. You need good red wine and plenty of beetroot to build up your blood again and before you know it, you’ll be the same as you was before.’
Bea sighed heavily, leaning her cheek against the pillow, feeling herself sinking into the softness of her own bed. She might grow well and strong again but she would never be the same again, ever.
Bertha proved to be an invaluable friend and a dedicated nurse in the days that followed Bea’s visit to Mrs Benson. Neither of them spoke of the matter and it was almost as though her ordeal had never happened, Bea thought sadly, except that the sight of the tiny perfect child haunted her mind, waking and sleeping, and she knew she would never be free of the memory.
James came to see her every day, readily accepting the story that she had been struck down with a summer chill. One morning he sat beside her, his eyes anxious as he held her cold fingers in his strong hands.
‘My dear girl,’ he said softly, ‘I don’t think I have ever told you just how much I need you and appreciate you. Since your mother died there’s been no one close to me; perhaps that’s my own fault. But seeing you sickly like this makes me realise how very fortunate I am to have such a devoted daughter.’
Bea smiled up at him, trying for his sake to be cheerful. ‘You’re a young man yet, Daddy,’ she said, ‘you should go out and about more, meet people, you might well marry again, you’d be a catch for any woman.’
James was gruff in his pleased embarrassment. ‘Maybe you’re right, Bea, I suppose I have allowed myself to become a bit of a hermit over the years and one day you’ll be finding a fine young man to marry, which is only right and proper. Perhaps I shall begin to invite people here again, perhaps hold a ball at Christmas time, we shall see.’
As the days passed into weeks, Bea’s strength gradually returned, she still kept to the house, even though the summer sun was pouring hot and strong through the long windows. She did not feel that she could face people, not yet, and so she remained at home, sitting in her chair, staring out into the softly scented gardens.
It was Bertha who coaxed her into going for a walk in the grounds. ‘Please, Miss Bea, I’ll come with you.’ Her young face was eager, her eyes alight with affection and Bea’s throat constricted.
‘Just a moment,’ she went to her jewel box and took out a small cameo that had been one of her mother’s gifts to her. ‘Have this, Bertha, it’s my way of saying thank you, so don’t refuse.’
It was so fresh and so balmy in the gardens with the bees droning between the roses and birds swooping overhead that Bea suddenly knew how good it was to be alive. She sat on the small wooden seat under the arbour of roses and breathed in the scents of summer as eagerly as a thirsty man drinks water.
‘Miss Bea,’ Bertha’
s voice sounded low in her ear, ‘you’ve got visitors.’ The maid stepped back a pace or two and Bea, glancing up, was startled to see her father leading someone across the soft green lawns towards her. Her heart plummeted in her breast and her hands began to shake as she recognised the tall figure walking alongside James.
‘Sterling.’ She breathed his name and somehow found the courage to smile in welcome. Then he was seating himself beside her, capturing her hands within his, and unbidden came the ironic memory of him saying that he and she were as close as brother and sister.
‘Bea, I’m sorry you’ve been laid up with a chill, I hope you’re feeling better now, though I must say you’re still looking very pale.’
James stood over them, his face closed and set and Bea understood him for the first time. She could even pity her father for carrying the knowledge within him that he could never claim his only son.
‘I’m going back into the house,’ James said, speaking carefully. ‘Sterling has brought his mother on a visit and I’d better not leave her alone for too long, I don’t wish to seem unwelcoming. Will you be all right dear, there’s no point in tiring yourself out?’
Bea looked up at him. ‘Of course I’ll be all right father,’ she said reprovingly. ‘You know that Sterling and I have always been good friends, he’s just like part of the family. You go and keep Aunt Victoria company by all means, I’m sure you two must have a great deal to talk about.’ She could not keep the edge of bitterness from her voice and yet how could she blame her father for what had happened many years ago. How could he possibly have known the terrible repercussions his actions would cause?
Bertha hovered protectively behind the seat, out of earshot but within calling distance should her mistress require her services. Bertha knew nearly everything about Bea’s association with Sterling for she was a bright girl and had missed nothing on the trips she had made with Miss Bea into town. She was an accomplice, and yet without possession of the truth, she could only assume that Mr Sterling had let her mistress down badly.
