Shoddy Prince

by Sheelagh Kelly

  Even before dark Anderson was looking for a place to make camp and chose to do so by a huge mirror of emerald glass. Never an expressive boy, even Nat had to give way to a bout of exhilaration, jumping down from his horse and sprinting around the wooded perimeter of the lake, leaping into the air, making wild grasps at the sky. His antics made Anderson smile. ‘I think this is just gonna work,’ he told his mount as he unsaddled her.

  With a campfire burning, the horses fed and hobbled, they settled down to their own meal, looking out across the lake. It was still not quite dark. Here on this sandy bank Nat could almost have imagined he was at the seaside, offering this to Anderson by way of intercourse.

  The man thought this observation quaint in the face of such grandeur, but gave soft affirmation. ‘It’s certainly a beautiful place. You enjoying yourself, eh?’

  Nat delivered an enthusiastic nod and continued to eat, occasionally wafting at the small cloud of mosquitoes that danced around his head.

  ‘Don’t say much, do you, Nat?’

  Someone else had said that to him a long time ago. Here, with little occupation, Nat had time to think of her. ‘I’m not one for talking, I’d rather listen.’

  Anderson corrected him. ‘I didn’t say you don’t talk much, I said you don’t say much, there’s a difference.’ Breaking off from his meal, he used his fork to make patterns in the food. ‘Take your Aunt Lucy, she can rackety-rack like a threshing machine but her talk don’t amount to much, at least most times. Yet me, I don’t talk as much as her but when I say something to somebody I’d like to think they’re a bit more informed by what I’ve just told them. Understand?’

  Nat understood very well but shied away with a non-committal shrug.

  ‘What I mean is, Nat, I think we’ve told you a great deal about us, personal things, but well, we hardly know anything about you.’

  Nat was swift in his reply. ‘There’s nowt much to know. I got sent to Industrial School for playing truant when I was ten and I’ve been there ever since, more or less.’ He omitted to mention his crimes.

  ‘Must be more to you than that,’ Anderson pondered. ‘You said you ain’t got no folks…’

  ‘Dead.’

  ‘Both of ’em?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Anderson, stopped playing with his meal and put the tin plate on the sand, choosing his next words. ‘Your Aunt Lucy thinks a great deal about you, Nat. So do I. We couldn’t think any more of you if you were our own flesh and blood.’ He waited for a response. The chirrup of crickets signalled that night was closing in.

  Nat felt awkward, making silent apology. You’re asking me to love you and I can’t. I’m sorry, you’re nice people, I like living with you, but I just can’t love you. I don’t think I can love anybody except Bright. In answer he gave what he hoped was a grateful nod, with which Anderson had to be content.

  ‘Well, I hope in the next few days we’ll both learn something, eh?’ Anderson gave a disappointed smile and went back to his meal.

  By the time they came down from the Rockies a few days later Nat had watched a mountain goat leap from crag to crag, woken each morning to blue jays, and had fallen asleep to the deep-throated howl of wolves. Once he had even seen a grizzly bear come down to the lake to drink. He had learned all kinds of things from Mr Anderson about survival in the wilderness, but Mr Anderson had learned only as much about his companion as Nat would allow.

  They descended into the foothills. Along with the sweet smell of prairie grass Aunt Lucy was there to greet the two dusty riders when they came through the gates that balmy evening, their long shadows preceding them. Broom in hand, she gave one last whack at the pigs who had invaded her garden and came forth, her plump smiling face shaded by the frill of her sunbonnet. Anderson jumped down from the saddle to receive her delighted kiss. ‘Good to see you, darlin’!’

  ‘Good to see you, too, dear.’ Her lips left his cheek to whisper into his ear, ‘Was it worth it?’

  Anderson glanced at his dishevelled companion. ‘I think we had a good time, didn’t we, Nat?’

  ‘And are you any the wiser?’ Aunt Lucy assumed her words to be too cryptic for Nat to interpret, but as the youth led both horses to the barn he caught the sad shake of head from the man and guessed that the trip had been the result of some conspiracy between them, an attempt to get closer to their adopted son. They must think he was stupid. Only one person could ever unmask his true feelings. He wondered as he unsaddled his horse what she was doing, and if she missed him as much as he missed her.

  13

  Bright was secured in an asylum for several weeks, during which time she was forbidden access to her child. Initially, she went about in a stupor: am I in a dream? Do I really exist? In this hazy condition she refused all food, to which the nurses responded with authority. After one example of force feeding Bright immediately conformed and hitherto life improved to a degree. The medical staff encouraged her to talk and listened to her fears. ‘I’m terrified of all these mad people!’ she wept to one nurse.

  ‘Why?’ came the level response. ‘They’re just like you.’

  Reading the horrified expression on Bright’s face she added more kindly, ‘You’re worried that we’re going to keep you locked up in here, aren’t you? Well, we’re not. You’ve been through a great ordeal and your body and mind need to rest, that’s all. And that’s what’s wrong with most of the others in here. So don’t look down on them.’

  With this sobering revelation, Bright learned to cope with life in the asylum, went along with the other inmates to make baskets, ate with them, cried with them, treating them not as mad people but as friends. The only friends she had.

  Her mother had managed to visit once and tried to reassure her that Oriel was being well cared for by the Sisters, and had been baptized. This threw Bright into a frenzy and it was decided that the child be transferred to the asylum in order to show the patient that there was no conspiracy to rob her of motherhood; Oriel would be returned to her when she was able to care for her. Mrs Maguire was requested not to come again.

  When she was deemed to be no longer a hazard to herself Bright was sent before the Bench for attempted suicide. Mercifully, the magistrates agreed that she had been suffering from temporary insanity due to parturition, and imprisonment was thought to be too harsh. Therefore she would not be sent for trial if she agreed to continue her treatment at the hospital, which she did. Still, there was no lessening of tension for Bright. She had met other women in the asylum who had been certified by their relatives for the crime of having a child out of wedlock. With no one to sign them out, they had become permanent residents. If no one signed for her…

  Whilst she twisted her fingers in apprehension, the spokesman for the magistrates concluded with some heartwarming news: ‘On your release, you are to be put into the care of a Miss Mary Bytheway. You will work for her as her servant and in exchange she will feed and house you. Miss Bytheway has also charitably consented to accept your child under her roof.’

  Bright collapsed into tears.

  The magistrate cleared his throat. ‘I trust that you will show your gratitude by serving her well and will not try to dispose of yourself again.’

  ‘Oh, no, sir! Thank you!’ An earnest Bright clasped her hands to her breast. The magistrate gave an acknowledging nod and the ordeal was over.

  I won’t cry, Bright told herself as she was taken to be reunited with her baby. When I see her I won’t cry, or they’ll think I’m still mad; I won’t cry.

  She wept torrents. The moment a nurse appeared holding Oriel the tears just would not hold. She sobbed when the child was placed in her arms, dripping tears over Oriel’s face. How she had grown! Four weeks’ separation had made a huge difference to her appearance. She looked enormous. Still within the confines of the asylum Bright retained the fear that those who had witnessed her uncontrolled sobbing would keep her locked up. Not until she was out of the grounds did she begin to calm down, and even then
she was not wholly relaxed.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she told the middle-aged nurse who was to accompany her to Miss Bytheway’s. ‘I can’t seem to stop crying.’

  ‘It’s understandable.’ Her companion spoke kindly. ‘You haven’t seen your baby for a month. I’d be weeping buckets too if I was parted from my son – when he was a baby, I mean. He’s grown up now.’

  Bright donated a watery smile. ‘Ye’ve all been very kind. I don’t know what I’d have done without the clothes ye’ve given me.’ She indicated the bundle in her left hand. Wrapped inside her shawl – the only reminder of her old life – were two nightgowns, a hairbrush, stockings and a change of underwear.

  ‘Actually they were from Miss Bytheway,’ explained the nurse. ‘She’ll probably have one or two more things for you when you arrive.’

  ‘Who is she?’ The young mother had not dared to ask before. ‘I mean, why does she want to help me?’

  The nurse frowned. Bright, who had noticed a large wart with a hair growing from it on the other’s chin, was unable to tear her eyes away. ‘I’m not sure why she took to you in particular. It’s the first time to my knowledge that she’s taken anybody in, but she’s a regular visitor of ours, always bringing gifts for the patients. A very charitable lady.’

  Bright managed to remove her fascinated gaze from the wart and looked down at the babe cradled in the hook of her right arm, as if including her in the conversation. ‘She sounds nice. I was a bit nervous of meeting her.’

  Even so, the apprehension did not entirely evaporate as she proceeded to the home of her benefactress, which was near the village of Fulford. The house was a tall, four-storey building in the middle of a terrace of ten, fronted by an iron gate and railings and miles of open countryside. Bright could not believe she was going to live anywhere so grand. The nurse rang the doorbell and, when the occupant answered, transferred Bright to her charge and left immediately.

  Miss Mary Bytheway looked about sixty years old. She was very prim and clean, and dressed in grey from neck to toe. Her skin was pale, her eyelids thin as tissue paper – Bright could see tiny mauve veins in them as the woman stared down at her; stared down because she was very tall. Her back was a ramrod with no sign of a dowager’s hump. She had white eyebrows and hair, but this was very sparse, a fact which she had tried to conceal with a huge black bow. Her lips were full but, as if to deny any form of sensuality she kept them pressed together in an unremitting line of disapproval. There would be no joking with this one. Without a word, Miss Bytheway summoned the young girl inside. Bright took the two steps up to the front vestibule and moved past her employer, catching a whiff of buttermilk soap.

  She lingered in the hall cradling Oriel, who was asleep. There was no sound. It was as quiet as the convent, an ambience which was enhanced by an expanse of stained glass in the vestibule door.

  ‘I’ll show you to your quarters.’ Miss Bytheway conducted her to the stairs. Bright shadowed her up four flights to a landing, by which time both were short of breath, then through a doorway which obviously led up to the roof space. This flight had no carpet on the tread, neither was there any on the landing they had reached. Bright noticed a row of bells, then took three further paces into an attic room in which was a bed – nothing else, just a small iron bedstead covered in a patchwork quilt. Oh yes, there was something else, a chamberpot; but no mirrors, no chair. Bright looked around at the bare whitewashed walls, at the low sloping ceiling, empty cast-iron fireplace, then at the skylight. This was home.

  ‘It’s very nice,’ she said politely, receiving a curt nod. Oriel was beginning to grumble. Bright went to put her down on the bed.

  ‘Not there.’ Miss Bytheway, clutching a lace handkerchief, indicated for Bright to follow her again and went into the other attic room. This much larger one had a fire burning merrily in the grate. There was a multi-coloured rug on the floor, a cupboard on which sat a row of dolls, a small enamel bath and a child’s cot. Bright turned to the woman and grinned for the first time in weeks. ‘This is wonderful! Thank you, thank you so much. It seems too generous to let us have a room each. Maybe I should move my bed in here?’

  Miss Bytheway did not return her smile. ‘No. This will be the child’s room. Besides, if you move in here the warmth of the fire will induce you to oversleep and I will not tolerate that.’ She looked at Oriel, who had started to grizzle again. ‘You may attend to her, then come down and prepare tea.’ She turned to go.

  Bright spoke up in embarrassment. ‘I…’

  Miss Bytheway turned an enquiring blue eye upon her.

  ‘I’ve nothing to feed her with. While I’ve been in hospital my milk dried up.’

  There was a look of faint disgust. ‘That is all attended to,’ said the woman in a prim manner. ‘You will find nursing bottles in that cupboard. The milk is downstairs in the pantry. Follow me.’

  Bright laid Oriel in the cot and hurried after Miss Bytheway, returning in five minutes with a jug of warm milk and another of hot water. Oriel was by now red-faced and screaming to be nourished. Flustered, Bright opened the door of the cupboard to find the nursing bottle, paused briefly in wonderment as she saw the array of toys inside, then hurriedly removed the rubber teat from the end of the bottle and reached for the jug of warm milk. The child didn’t appear to want it. Bright tried to insert the teat into the wailing maw but Oriel repelled it by craning her head in all directions. ‘Come on now, don’t be soft,’ urged her mother, and let a drop of milk fall onto the baby’s tongue. Oriel still shrieked. The milk trickled down her tongue and into her throat making her gag. Perhaps she needed changing, thought Bright. She put the infant down to search for a napkin.

  Miss Bytheway appeared. ‘I cannot have this noise! It can be heard in the drawing room. Why are you not attending to your child?’

  ‘I am…’

  ‘No you are not! Look at her, she is almost demented with hunger.’

  ‘I’ve tried to feed her but she won’t take it.’

  ‘Stupid girl! Why do you think she’s crying?’ Miss Bytheway was still clutching a lace handkerchief in one hand.

  ‘Perhaps she wants her nappy changing.’

  ‘Tut! I can see you’re not fit to cope alone. That child would be dead in two days. Give her to me.’

  Bright held up the napkin she had just found. ‘But—’

  ‘Give her to me!’ Miss Bytheway jerked her outstretched arms impatiently.

  Bright had no option but to relinquish the screaming Oriel to the other woman.

  ‘Now pass me the bottle.’ Miss Bytheway took a chair by the fire and when handed the bottle put the teat to Oriel’s lips. The child instantly began to suck. ‘There! Didn’t I say what was wrong. You have a lot to learn about children, Maguire.’

  Bright hovered there lamely, watching the woman feed her child and feeling betrayed by Oriel. Looking around the room she noticed the amount of care that had gone into preparing it. Even the baby’s name had been spelled out with letters on building bricks. Resentment goaded her to point out Miss Bytheway’s mistake, though she did it in crafty fashion by altering the bricks herself.

  The woman could not help but notice. ‘May I ask why you have done that?’

  Bright pulled the child’s birth certificate from her pocket, her only valuable possession, and held it out for Miss Bytheway to see. ‘Cause that’s how her name is spelled.’

  ‘Good heavens! What on earth possessed you to name your child after a window?’ demanded Miss Bytheway.

  ‘It’s not a window, it’s a bird.’

  ‘That’s O-r-i-o-l-e,’ corrected Miss Bytheway.

  Bright felt foolish. ‘Well, I like Oriel.’ She replaced the certificate in her pocket.

  Miss Bytheway was annoyed at this truculence and snapped, ‘Well, if you wish to retain your ignorance then let it be so – and there’s no point in you wasting time watching! Go down and start preparing tea. There’s some ham and some eggs in the larder.’

  Without redre
ss, Bright left the room and on her way downstairs investigated the rest of the house. Underneath her own bedroom were two more, one of which was obviously her employer’s. It was like a palace. There was a brass bed with a canopy of rich material and tassles, pillowcases edged with thick lace, a bedspread which was the finest example of crochet work – it must have taken twenty years to make with thread as delicate as that – and there was a chest at the foot of the bed, a plump armchair, a bookcase, ornamental globes on the gaslamp that was suspended on a brass stalk from the ceiling, and – oh no, a bath. How many jugs of water would Bright have to carry up these four flights of stairs before it was filled?

  The other room had a bed in it but looked unused. Bright descended a flight. On this floor was another bedroom and a huge drawing room with an elegant marble fireplace. There was far too much to take in at one glance. Bright merely gasped before continuing to the ground floor.

  Shafts of light permeated the stained glass of the vestibule door, casting its colours onto the floor. At the foot of the stairs she was presented with four doors: one obviously led to the back garden, another under the staircase led to the cellar. She opened the one nearest to the front door and found a very pretty dining room-cum-parlour. The carpet was somewhat faded but it had been a grand one in its prime. The wallpaper was a pinky beige decorated with crimson roses and green sprigs. At the centre of the room was a small walnut table and four balloon backed chairs. Atop the cast iron fireplace sat an ebony display cabinet crammed full of pottery, china and glass. There were several gilt-framed portraits on the wall and dozens of prints and a few photographs of an elderly couple. There was a dark red velvet sofa, and a most ornate coal scuttle with what Bright considered to be a work of art painted on the lid – a galleon on wind-tossed seas. There were tapestries, lace runners and anti-macassars, macrame panels, exquisitely embroidered pictures, all done by Miss Bytheway she was later to discover, a beaded footstool, and stacks of cushions. The mantelpiece wore a red velvet skirt edged with bobbles. There was a lace curtain at the window, an arrangement of wax fruit under a glass dome, and a delft paraffin lamp with an opaque globe. On the sideboard there was an ornate ruby glass centrepiece from which hung ten little icicles. It was all very plush and forbidding, nothing like the family home Bright was used to. Feeling that she didn’t belong here, she ducked back into the hall to enter through the last door which opened onto the kitchen. This was comparatively austere with only a pine table, a few chairs and all the necessary implements for cooking. Yet another door and two steps led to the scullery, where Bright set to work preparing tea.