by Anita Frank
‘So, there was another baby,’ Tristan said. The corrosive suspicion we shared was eating away at him. I could see it in his haunted expression, an expression I knew mirrored my own.
‘My baby was born with forceps.’
Lady Brightwell spoke with shocking timidity. She shrank away as we all turned to her, cowering in the spotlight of our attention. Her imperiousness had been replaced by dawning terror.
‘It was a most difficult birth. I couldn’t … the doctor had to pull him out, my boy, he pulled him out with forceps …’ She rallied, her shoulders squaring, the weak chin lifting with innate pride. ‘But lots of babies are born with forceps,’ she said almost with defiance, though the furrows remained in her brow and the quiver in her voice. ‘And this couldn’t be my baby because Hector is my baby and he is alive and well.’ The laugh she meted out was tinny, lacking in substance. ‘Hector is my baby.’ The words trembled.
I will never forget the fearful sound Miss Scott made at that moment. It was borne deep within her, in the very bowels of her soul, and it came scuttling up her insides, forcing its way through the ventricles of her heart, to burst from her as a mortifying wail of misery mired with guilt.
‘I’m sorry, my lady, I’m so, so, sorry.’
Tristan closed his eyes and I longed to do the same. We stood on the brink of catastrophe and I had no desire to witness it. Annie’s fingers brushed mine as they hung, splayed, at my side – in sympathy, in unity, in vindication? I didn’t know which, but I took comfort from the light touch and the reassurance that I was not alone.
Lady Brightwell was quaking as she turned to her long-serving maid. Miss Scott had slumped against a chair and its sturdy arm was all that propped her up, as her body folded with wrenching sobs. Mrs Henge’s stolid demeanour at last showed signs of cracking. She started towards her, her hands raised in comfort but was stopped by the harsh ‘No’ that cut from the companion when she got too close. The housekeeper jerked back as though physically slapped.
‘Ruth – you don’t have to do this.’
‘Yes, I do, dear God I do!’ Miss Scott sobbed. ‘I can bear it no longer.’
‘Bear what, Scottie?’
‘Hector is my son.’
Under the insurmountable pressure of nearly thirty years’ labour – the daily propagation of a terrible lie – the dam of deceits finally gave way, and the emotional confession poured from Miss Scott as we watched on in astonished silence.
‘You must have known he left me with child,’ Miss Scott sobbed. ‘That was the real reason I went away.’
‘No, you … you went to look after your parents.’ Lady Brightwell delivered the line with the aplomb of a well-practised lie. Perhaps once, all those years ago, she had suspected – perhaps even known – the true reason for her maid’s absence, but she had recited the concocted story so many times she had convinced herself of its veracity. But now Miss Scott, her face swollen and blotched by the disease of guilt, decided to disabuse her of her convenient fantasy.
‘No, my lady, you know – deep down, I know you do. I went away to have his child and I would have done the right thing, I promise I would. I was all ready to give him up, even though I had come to love him so fiercely. I would have given him up if there had been no other way—’
‘Ruth—’ Mrs Henge’s warning went unheeded.
‘But my lady, your baby …’ Miss Scott’s words raced away from her and she had to gulp to recapture them. She adopted a steadier pace, ensuring their gravity would not be lost, nor the empathy and compassion she so eagerly wished to convey. ‘Oh, my lady – your baby, your precious boy, I’m so sorry – but he passed away.’
The rhythmic ticking of the mantel clock was the only sound that pierced the deadened silence. Lady Brightwell’s lips moved as she silently repeated Miss Scott’s words to herself, as if in her own inner voice she might be able to grasp their meaning. As she did so, her bewildered gaze slid towards the blanketed bundle lying on the sofa.
‘My baby passed away?’
‘Oh, my lady …’ Miss Scott took a step forward. Her instinct was to fly to her mistress, but unsure of her reception her courage failed, and she ended up hovering where she stood. ‘You were so ill, and no one knew except Mrs Henge. And I loved my boy so much … and suddenly, I didn’t have to give him up, and you didn’t have to grieve.’ Her tone softened, as she attempted to cajole understanding. ‘And it was still his son – his flesh and blood, his heir …’
And here was the warped logic, I realised. She had convinced herself of the righteousness of her actions for all these years. She saw the placing of a cuckoo in the nest as a kindness. There would be no need to experience the terrible loss of a child if another was substituted in its place, for the parent to love and raise and cherish as their own. But just like the cuckoo, the placing of an imposter came at a murderous cost – something Miss Scott chose to overlook in order to perpetuate her own sense of justification, but I could not. Lucien would not permit it.
‘But Lady Brightwell’s baby didn’t die of natural causes.’ I had hoped there would be a forcefulness to my voice, but so awful was the revelation, the words crept from me, as if hoping to go unnoticed, but that was not to be the case. Released from the confines of my thoughts, they were now exposed with nowhere for them to hide, and I was glad of it. Annie nodded her approval, shimmering with fervour. Encouraged by her support, my voice rang out like a striking sword. ‘Lady Brightwell’s baby was smothered to make room for yours.’
‘Stella!’ Dr Mayhew blustered, but I ignored him. Miss Scott was shaking her head in sheer disbelief, darting frantic glances between us as she spouted her defence.
‘That’s not true, it’s simply not true. What an awful thing to say.’ Her long fingers pressed against her cheeks, nudging her glasses askew. ‘Why would you say such a thing? Lady Brightwell’s baby died a natural death, as so many poor mites do.’
‘Is that what Mrs Henge told you, when she wrote to you at the home in Silver Street?’ Tristan demanded. ‘She must have urged a quick return to Greyswick – you absconded, stealing a child already promised to another.’
‘It was my child.’ Her voice was low and defiant as she met the accusation head on, unrepentant. ‘How could I steal my own child?’ She lowered her hands. ‘What would you have done if fortune had smiled on you and allowed you to keep your baby?’
‘Fortune didn’t smile on you, Miss Scott – Mrs Henge did.’ I whirled round to face the housekeeper. Only her balled fists gave any indication that her composure was slipping. ‘A baby for a baby, who would know? Was that your thinking?’
Her apparent complacency fuelled the fire of indignation smouldering in my chest, as I thought of Lady Brightwell’s ill-fated babe and brave Lucien refusing to be complicit. I would hold my tongue no more. The intricate fragments had coalesced, the mosaic was staggering. I took a deep breath and like an Old Bailey barrister summing up, I laid out my case before the jury.
‘Everyone was stricken with the Russian influenza – who then would notice the swap? Lady Brightwell, struck down by malaise, was still confined to her bed and had barely laid eyes on the child; Sir Arthur was already back in London and I imagine in no hurry to return; and Nanny, poor devoted Nanny, succumbed at last to the illness when she saw Lucien on the road to recovery – allowing you to insinuate yourself into the nursery and put into effect your plan. You would have revenge on the master you had come to detest, while at the same time securing the eternal gratitude of the woman you loved, by enabling her to care for the child she longed to keep, however terrible its conception.’
I looked at the stricken faces before me. ‘The awful reality was both boys – though begotten in very different ways – had the same father. So, who would be able to tell, in the long run? There were bound to be sufficient physical similarities to make his paternity beyond question – who would look at him and wonder about his mother? Only Mrs Probert knew about the assault and suspected the results’ – I tu
rned to Mrs Henge, my hatred bubbling – ‘but you had threatened her well enough to ensure her silence. It was a perfect solution. Was that what you told yourself as you held the pillow over that poor pathetic creature? Tell me, Mrs Henge, did you feel him struggle?’
Tears pricked at my eyes, but I swallowed hard and steeled myself for the rest. ‘But Lucien Brightwell witnessed your crime, and he wasn’t prepared to let you get away with it, was he? That brave little boy who declared the imposter in the cradle was not his brother – even though he was, truth be told. But you couldn’t take the risk, could you? And when the opportunity afforded itself, you struck again – pushing him down the nursery stairs to his death, achieving the perfect fait accompli.’
My allegations reverberated around the smoking room. I was shocked to see silver trails scarring Lady Brightwell’s withered cheeks as she struggled to compute the full meaning of what she had heard. This grief, the grief of a lost baby, was a new emotion to her, and utterly confusing, for the child she had raised and loved lived on. She now nursed this unfamiliar burden, allowing it to grow into something comprehensible. She may not have known the child she lost, but it was still part of her and precious, and it deserved so much more than the paltry hand it had received.
She was not the only one crying. There was a different grief in the room: Miss Scott was grieving her own lost innocence. She looked at me in blank disbelief, her thin lips twitching denials, yet something whispered to her, convincing her my words were true. The pleasant veil she had drawn over the intricacies of it all had been yanked aside to reveal the twisted abomination beneath.
‘This cannot be … Her baby wasn’t killed, he just died … And Lucien? Lucien fell – poor, poor boy. An accident.’ A sob caught in her throat as she turned to Mrs Henge. ‘Dear God, Constance, tell them what happened. Disavow them of these terrible lies – let them know the truth.’
A stale smile spread across the housekeeper’s face. ‘The truth? But you know the truth, my dear. The truth is simple: everything I have ever done, I have done in the best interests of this family. What you call murder, Miss Marcham, I prefer to think of as an example of Mr Darwin’s natural selection: I acted to ensure the best of a generation went forth into the next.’
Chapter Fifty-Two
‘Natural selection?’ Tristan echoed in disbelief. ‘You took the lives of two children.’
‘It was in the best interests of this family,’ she reiterated, animated by the manic conviction of a travelling evangelist as she swept towards him. ‘What chance did that baby have pooling the character of those two? It was already a mewling brat – with his arrogance and her conceit, what would that child have become? A curse on the Brightwell name. But Ruth’s child …’ she spun about, her whole face easing as if caressed by a lover’s breath, ‘… at least it shared her goodness, her kindness, her beauty—’
We faded away as she gazed, enthralled, at the companion, delivering a love letter of sorts – one that bore the bloody prints of the hand that wrote it.
‘He would be legitimised, take his rightful place, rather than be cast out like a piece of rubbish, labouring under the badge of bastard all his life – when it hadn’t been his fault, when it hadn’t been of Ruth’s doing.’
She pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead as she tried to control her mounting fervour and a second later her feverishness abated, and her characteristic aloofness was restored. She continued in a chilling prosaic tone that captivated us all. ‘I hadn’t intended to harm Lucien. I didn’t know he’d seen me – I hadn’t realised he was well enough to understand – but when he began with his careless comments, I had no choice. And besides, it meant Ruth’s boy would become the sole heir, and after what had happened, there was poetry in that.’
There was no regret, no remorse, just an unwavering sense of her own vindication as she stood proudly before us, daring us to challenge the twisted logic of her appalling actions.
‘Oh, Constance – how could you?’
Miss Scott’s whisper tore the silence. Mrs Henge regarded her with genuine confusion.
‘I did it for you, Ruth.’
‘No, no, don’t say that, never say that! I want no part in this. I told you before – I want no part in murder, but you didn’t listen. You didn’t listen – and now you make me carry the guilt of two murdered babes as well? No, don’t say you did this for me.’ She covered her face with her hands, blotting out the horror.
‘What do you mean, you’d told her “before”?’ Tristan asked, but Miss Scott shook her head, still refusing to look, wallowing in denial. ‘What else has she done?’
‘You killed Sir Arthur Brightwell,’ I gasped, looking at the defiant housekeeper. It had been no coincidence after all – I had just cast the wrong woman in the role of murderess.
Miss Scott began to sob. From the corner of my eye, I noticed Lady Brightwell steady herself, one gnarled hand tightening on her silver-topped cane, the other gripping the nearest armchair. My heart contracted – how many revelations could the poor woman take?
‘Sir Arthur died in a motor accident.’ It was Dr Mayhew who protested, albeit half-heartedly. He tugged at the edge of his tweed jacket, hopeful yet of restoring some order to the chaotic proceedings. ‘I remember it well, it was reported in The Times. He collided with a tree – he was dead by the time they found him.’
‘I’m willing to bet Mrs Henge played a part in that crash,’ I said. The housekeeper’s mouth tweaked in approval, as if pleasantly surprised by my aptitude. ‘It seems too much of a coincidence that his “accident” occurred mere hours after he’d written Miss Scott’s dismissal letter.’
She stared into space, deliberating whether to grant me the full story. In the end, she saw no reason to hold back. Perhaps she was revelling in the attention – or perhaps she expected gratitude for services rendered.
‘He was going to get rid of her – discard her, just like that, after all those years of service, and after what he’d done. I wasn’t going to let him treat her like that – treat me like that. I knew what he was. I always made sure I hired girls who would titillate his fancy – and he knew what I was. But when you arrived …’ She paused, casting a desperate glance at Miss Scott, but she turned her tear-streaked face away, refusing to even meet the housekeeper’s eye.
Mrs Henge could see she was losing her, second by second. Any hope she had fostered of their relationship being restored was turning to dust, and the raw pain of this realisation was a pitiful sight. But I felt no pity, for I could not forget, nor could I forgive the misguided acts of love that had brought this misery upon her. My heart refused to be affected by her lovelorn words.
‘You were everything I had ever wanted, and he knew that. I tolerated his crudeness, his ribald jokes – I let them roll over me like water off a duck’s back. But when he did what he did to you … I knew I’d have revenge. It might take a lifetime, but I was determined to have it.’
Through her sobs, Miss Scott begged her to stop. Mrs Henge reached for her in silent appeal, eager to draw her into a comforting embrace, but Miss Scott now felt only revulsion for her former friend. Seeing all was lost, the housekeeper’s arms fell to her sides, her shoulders bunching with defeat as her chest lifted and fell on great gasps of mounting despair.
Passing clouds drained the early evening light from the room, casting us in macabre shadows as we stood, inert, all of us struggling to process the lurid events that had taken place in this monstrosity.
I wondered then whether Greyswick had always been like this – dark and inhospitable – or whether over time, corrupted by these evil events, it had come to reflect the hatred and unhappiness trapped within its walls, gradually infecting all those that occupied it.
I certainly had been contaminated during my time here. I had longed to be cleansed by the truth but now, doused in it, I felt more sullied than ever. But details eluded me still and so I swallowed down my abhorrence and pressed on.
‘What did you do to S
ir Arthur?’
Miss Scott’s rejection had left a rancid taste in the housekeeper’s mouth. Her lips contorted into a cruel smile.
‘Oh, it was easy. He took his racing car out on the same route around the estate every day at the same hour, driving as fast as he could for the pure thrill of it. He was like a child with a toy! I chose my spot and lay in wait, readying myself for his approach. I knew it was risky, but I was careful about the timing. I stepped out just at the right moment. He was so startled, he yanked the wheel to avoid hitting me, and slammed into the tree instead. He had it coming to him.’ She paused, revelling in the recollection, closing her eyes to savour the destruction she had wrought, the life she had taken. ‘Well, someone had to do something,’ she said, then quick as lightning, she rounded on Lady Brightwell. ‘Because we all knew you would do nothing, just as you did nothing that night! You were in the adjoining room, listening to her screams and yet you didn’t even get your sorry soul out of bed to stop it.’
Lady Brightwell buckled under the verbal assault. Her cane slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor as she tottered against a chair, wretchedly lamenting her guilt.
‘She might have forgiven you for your despicable cowardice that night, but know this, your ladyship, I never shall.’ Shoulders hitched, her fists clenched, her face hardened with hatred, Mrs Henge advanced on her crumpled mistress. ‘You deserve all the misery I have cast upon you and more besides.’
