by Tania Crosse
‘My God, that’s incredible. She always told Morgan her father died when she were little.’
‘In her mind, she probably believed that was true. It’s amazing what people can convince themselves of when they want to. It’s my guess she struggled all her life. When she got married, it brought her respectability, even if Morgan’s father was just a market trader back then.’
Tresca chewed on her lip, utterly dumbfounded. ‘Morgan said his father built up the business from nothing.’
‘With Charity pushing him all the time, no doubt.’
‘You’re probably right. They had a tiny shop in Duke Street before they moved to the big one they have now. They lived over it for quite a while before coming to live here.’
‘Climbing the social ladder all the time. And Charity’s guarded her new position with jealousy ever since.’
‘And when I came along, it were too great a reminder of her own past.’
‘I would say so, yes. People can be very strange sometimes. But things are much better now from what you say.’
‘Yes. I’ve done my best to live up to her standards and she seems to be accepting me. But it’s good to understand her attitude. It even makes me feel a little sorry for her.’
‘You’ve a big heart, Tresca Trembath. I don’t think I’d be as forgiving.’
‘None of us is perfect. Life has taught me that.’
‘Yes, but be careful all the same. Now where’s my godson? It was him I really came to see!’ Vera teased.
Tresca led her into the nursery, lost in thought. She really couldn’t take in all her friend had revealed. Good heavens, whatever next?
Twenty-Seven
‘’Asn’t you folded they napkins yet, Tresca? I doesn’t know, you cas’n get the staff nowadays.’
Lucy’s teasing tone reached Tresca’s ears in a happy song. She was standing by the nursery window with the untouched pile of freshly washed towelling squares on the chair next to her. Outside, the long garden rose in several steep terraces and on one of the middle levels, Charity was sauntering along the gravel path, Callum in her arms, pointing out to him the cloud of snowdrops among the grass.
Tresca gave a deep sigh and absently picked up one of her son’s napkins. Charity really did seem to love Callum. In fact, she seemed to love him too much, if that were possible. But it was certainly useful to have an extra pair of hands to cope with the child’s inquisitive nature as he crawled about the house getting into all kinds of innocent mischief. Tresca refused to have him confined to the nursery, but he was very much into opening cupboards to investigate their contents, which he would scatter across the floor in a fascinating array.
‘Anither grand day for February, bain’t it?’ Lucy joined her young mistress at the window, and she too gazed across at Mrs Trembath Senior as she entertained the small child. ‘So mild an’ still.’
‘I don’t reckon it’ll last,’ Tresca replied contentedly. ‘Winter could return just like that. The fresh air’s good for Callum, mind, and Mother-in-Law’s clearly enjoying it, too.’
A smile curved her lips as Callum, bored of the tiny white bells that bobbed among the green spiky blades, decided that the greying hair of the familiar woman who held him was far more interesting. His little hands made a grab at it and tugged. Through the slightly open window, Tresca caught her mother-in-law’s faint chuckle and saw her blow a raspberry on to Callum’s chubby fist. He screamed with glee and Tresca shook her head. Charity, whose own life had been a secret struggle, had found her peace at last.
A sharp pain of envy circled Tresca’s heart. If only . . . She tried to stop herself. But no. She must voice the words in her heart. If only Connor was there to see his son. But he wasn’t. Fifteen months now and still nothing. She should stop counting, stop hoping. Connor was gone. Something had happened to him. And if she was wrong and he suddenly turned up with some valid reason for his disappearance, what then? Part of her would hate him, blame him for deserting her, while the other part would still love him with a passion beyond her own comprehension. And where did dear, kind Morgan fit into the broken jigsaw that once had been her true and steadfast heart?
She turned from the window in a chaos of confusion as Lucy stated fiercely, ‘Besotted wi’ the babby, she is. Unnatural if you ask me.’ And with pursed lips, the younger girl began to fold the napkins herself.
Down in the garden, Charity’s sly glance saw Tresca move away from the window, and a poisonous smirk twisted her face. She grinned down at the child in her arms, chucking him under the chin, and he laughed back, his little face utterly trusting.
‘I hate you, you little bastard,’ Charity cooed at him, her voice soft while her eyes glinted malevolently. ‘And one day I’ll have my revenge. Huh! Don’t understand a word I’m saying, do you, you little idiot?’ Her lips curled back from her teeth in a lurid smile, and she glanced up at the window again. ‘Get even with that trollop of a mother of yours, I will,’ she promised with a smile that would have made the devil quake.
Tresca heard Morgan’s key in the lock and something made her fly down the hall to greet him. She just felt so much more at ease when he was there, the glue that had bound her life together when everything had been falling apart. He returned her expectant smile wanly.
‘Oh dear, have you had a bad day?’ she asked sympathetically. ‘You look tired.’
Morgan rubbed his hand over his brow with a deep grimace. ‘Not really. But I’ve had a splitting headache come on this afternoon. In fact, I ache all over, especially my back. Would you mind very much if I went straight to bed? Make my excuses to Mother, would you? I really don’t fancy facing her inquisition tonight.’
Tresca blinked at Morgan in alarm. It wasn’t like him at all, so he must be feeling rough. ‘Yes, of course. Oh, you poor soul. Shall I bring you up some laudanum?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
He paused for a moment, and before Tresca could turn towards the kitchen, he lifted his hand to stroke her cheek. Then his mouth closed grimly, and Tresca watched him wearily climb the stairs.
Some time in the dead of night, Morgan’s restless body woke her and she heard him groan softly as he attempted to turn over. She at once shifted round in the bed.
‘Are you all right?’ she whispered.
‘No, I’m not. I feel bloody awful.’
The pit of Tresca’s belly squeezed tightly. She had never heard Morgan swear before, so he must really be suffering. ‘Sounds like influenza. I’ll fetch you another dose of laudanum.’
‘You couldn’t refill the hot-water bottle, could you?’ Morgan croaked into the darkness. ‘I’m so cold.’
Cold? But Tresca could feel a scorching heat radiating from his body. She shot out of bed and wriggled into her dressing gown. ‘I’ll have to wait for the range to get up to heat.’
‘You’re an angel,’ Morgan murmured as she lit the oil lamp and made her way to the door.
Downstairs in the silent, shadowy kitchen, the night closed in around her as she opened up the vents of the range, willing the banked up coal to catch without delay. She waited impatiently, feeling strange and uneasy, and wishing for the millionth time that she could curl up safely in her father’s arms as she had done as a child, and let the world and its problems fade away.
Back upstairs at last, Morgan muttered his thanks as he snuggled down with the refilled stone bottle. Tresca could feel him shivering beside her, but soon the laudanum did its work and he fell into a fitful slumber. It was Tresca who couldn’t sleep now, listening to Morgan’s occasional muttering in his fevered sleep. Tresca’s mind was fully awake, pondering on how fate had led her to be sharing her life – and her bed – with a man who had, at first, been little more than a stranger. He had won her respect, her trust, and her affection . . . but had he won her heart? His love for her had entwined itself about her soul, but could she return it? How could she when her true and passionate self belonged to another?
In the morning, Morgan was no better. Th
e daylight hurt his eyes and when he tried to drag himself out of bed, he stumbled to his knees and Tresca had to assist him back into bed. Oh, Lord. It must be a bad strain of influenza. It would probably go through the entire household. A storm of fear broke over her. Callum. Everything must be done to keep the illness from him. He was nine months old and probably not strong enough to . . . Oh, good God, Tresca couldn’t bear it if . . .
She stood at the door to the dining room where Charity was taking breakfast, and told her mother-in-law of Morgan’s condition.
‘Well, I’d better go into the shop today, then,’ Charity announced, getting to her feet with a triumphant glint in her eyes. Tresca didn’t like the expression on the older woman’s face, but it was the least of her problems just now. ‘It’s about time I had some authority there. And I suppose you’ll want to nurse Morgan on your own,’ Charity sniffed, lifting her chin haughtily.
‘It would be wise,’ Tresca reasoned cautiously. ‘I’ll isolate myself in the room with him. Perhaps Mrs Lancaster can leave food trays and anything else outside the door. We don’t all of us want to catch it. Especially Callum.’
‘Oh, no, especially Callum,’ Charity repeated, and Tresca couldn’t quite fathom the strange intonation in her voice.
It was on the third day that the rash appeared. Tresca had spent the night dozing in the armchair, and as the morning light filtered into the room, she crossed over to the bed where Morgan was stirring. As he turned to her, she recoiled in horror. His face was peppered in flat, angry spots.
‘Oh, do you know, I feel a deal better this morning,’ he smiled faintly at her.
‘Oh, do you?’ She hesitated indecisively, but felt she had to say something. ‘I hate to tell you, but you’re coming out in a rash.’
‘Really?’
‘Er, yes. On your face. And, look, on your hands. Oh, Morgan, I think I should send for the doctor.’
Tresca bit her lip. Whatever was it? She went to the door and called out softly, hoping someone would hear her. She didn’t want to holler in alarm as she felt like doing. The last thing Morgan needed was to know how worried she was.
To her relief, Lucy emerged from the nursery, already fully dressed.
‘I need you to fetch the doctor at once,’ Tresca told her without preamble. ‘Morgan’s come out in a proper fearful rash.’
Lucy blinked her eyes wide. ‘I’ll go directly. Callum’s awake, so I’ll ’ave the mistress take care on ’en.’
Within seconds she had rapped on Charity’s bedroom door. The older woman opened it a few moments later, her face tight with annoyance at being disturbed when she was still in her dressing gown. But the landing soon became a whirlwind of activity and Lucy was out of the front door, grasping her hat and coat as she went.
Tresca shut the bedroom door, trying to take a calming breath. Lucy’s gammy leg would prevent her from running to the physician’s house, but Tresca knew she would go as fast as she could with her odd, lopsided gait. A river of emotion flooded through her. Morgan seemed better in himself, but his face was raw and inflamed. Oh, Morgan, my poor love, whatever is it?
The words went through her brain without pause, without hesitation. And somehow she was glad. Connor – and all he had meant to her – was a fading dream. But Morgan was the here and now, and Tresca’s heart lurched with dread that whatever it was had struck him down might end up taking him from her.
It seemed an eternity before Lucy returned with the doctor. There were other physicians in the town, but since her acquaintance with Dr Greenwood in the workhouse, Tresca always considered him as their family doctor. She was surprised, then, when she opened the bedroom door to a much younger man.
‘I’m Dr Franfield,’ the stranger introduced himself. ‘Dr Greenwood was already out on a visit and I’m his junior colleague. I was at his house when this young lady called,’ he continued, smiling over his shoulder at Lucy. ‘Now, if I can see the patient, please?’
He asked Morgan lots of questions, lifting one eyebrow slightly when Morgan reported the sore patches he had felt in his mouth the previous day. Then he gave his patient a thorough examination. He might be young, Tresca considered, but he certainly seemed very professional and possessed a kind and encouraging manner.
‘Now, this might sound more alarming than it really is,’ he said at length, ‘but I believe we’re dealing with a case of smallpox.’
Tresca stepped back, her hand over her mouth, and she saw the blood drain from Morgan’s face. Smallpox! But surely . . . ?
‘I can’t be sure for another few days,’ Dr Franfield explained. ‘If more waves of spots appear, then I will be proved wrong and it will be chickenpox. But the prevalence of the rash on the face rather than the trunk, and the fact that there are spots on the wrists and feet, would suggest smallpox. I’ve only recently returned from my seven years’ training in London, and I saw several cases there, and there are strong similarities.’
‘But . . . how could he have caught it?’ Tresca stammered, still in shock. ‘I thought vaccination is supposed to protect you?’
‘Indeed it does, which is why your husband’s case will be mild. And why the likelihood of him developing any of the serious complications which can make the disease so dangerous will be absolutely minimal, as will any scarring from the rash. Our patient is feeling much better today, he tells me,’ Dr Franfield went on, beaming down at Morgan, ‘which is excellent news and quite usual as the rash appears. As to how he caught it, well, probably from someone who has also been vaccinated and has the disease mildly but hasn’t developed the rash, which is actually more normal. So that person has no idea they have smallpox, but perhaps thinks they have a touch of influenza. So,’ he concluded with a confident smile, ‘the danger is very small indeed. However, I understand from your maid that you have a young child in the house. Has he been vaccinated?’
Tresca’s blood ran cold and she saw Morgan sit bolt upright in the bed. Oh, God. ‘Yes, he has. It’s the law, isn’t it?’
‘Well, nowadays you can opt out by registering at the police station, but it’s highly inadvisable. However, it would be preferable to keep the child away from his father or indeed from yourself, just in case. And do call myself or Dr Greenwood if the child shows any sign of illness.’
‘Yes, of course. I’ve already been keeping the baby isolated. I’ve stayed in this room with my husband ever since he fell ill. We thought, like you say, that it were influenza.’
‘Very sensible. I wish all my patients had your foresight. Now above all, I don’t want you to worry. Keep the rash clean and dry. It will erupt in its various stages, I’m afraid. Wash your hands frequently with carbolic soap, and might I suggest clean sheets and pillowcases each day? Now if I may wash my own hands now, I will leave you in peace. Either I or Dr Greenwood will call every day, but please don’t hesitate to contact us if you have any other concerns.’
A few minutes later, Tresca was showing Dr Franfield out of the room, her nerves still on edge despite his reassuring words. Dear God in heaven. And Morgan’s poor face. He had never been what she would consider strikingly handsome, but neither was he unattractive. She had come to love – yes, love – those open, kind eyes, that firm, sensitive mouth. She must not let him down, must restore him to full health, the rock that she clung to, she realized now, like life itself.
The knock on the door startled her, and when she answered it, Charity was standing on the landing, fully dressed now, Mrs Lancaster on one side and a wide-eyed Lucy on the other.
‘That nice young doctor has explained everything,’ Charity announced. ‘But just to be sure, I’m going to take Callum to stay at my sister-in-law’s in Okehampton. We cannot risk the child developing the disease, however mildly. Just think if the poor mite ended up with a scarred face! And you will need all your strength to nurse poor Morgan. Now you know it makes sense,’ she cajoled as she saw the alarm on Tresca’s face. ‘We must put little Callum first. Mrs Lancaster will send a telegram to my sister-in-
law telling her to expect us later this afternoon. Mrs Lancaster will accompany me as she has been there before, and Lucy can stay here to help you.’ With that, she swept into her own room, closing the door behind her, leaving Tresca and Lucy staring at each other in utter turmoil.
It was Lucy who regained her senses first. ‘You’m never gwain fer let ’er take ’en, are you?’
Tresca’s face contorted in anguish. What Charity had said was true, but . . . She turned into the room and hurried over to the bed again.
‘Your mother wants to take Callum to her sister-in-law’s in Okehampton,’ she told Morgan. ‘Do you think that’s wise?’
‘To Aunt Faith’s? Oh, yes,’ Morgan nodded firmly. ‘She’s a good sort. You can rely on her. Callum will be perfectly safe.’
Tresca went back to Lucy, chewing her lip. ‘Morgan says Callum’ll be fine there. And I’ve got to trust my mother-in-law, haven’t I? She dotes on him, after all. And I must do what’s best for Callum, mustn’t I?’ But as she turned back into the sickroom, she wasn’t at all sure she had made the right decision.
Twenty-Eight
‘Well, I’m pleased to say I can pronounce our patient cured.’ Dr Franfield’s serious face broke into a kind smile. ‘And Mrs Trembath, you’ve shown no symptoms, which you would have done by now if you were going to catch it.’
Tresca met Morgan’s gaze and both their faces echoed the doctor’s relief. The past three weeks had been a nightmare and Tresca felt utterly drained, but now a dazzling light had shone through and dispelled the darkness. It was over, and life could return to normal.
‘And you think being a dairymaid for so long might’ve helped?’ Tresca asked as euphoria bubbled up inside her.
‘Quite possibly. You were doubtless exposed to cowpox on occasion, and that is very close to smallpox. And you were vaccinated as a child. Very wise. I don’t suppose vaccination will ever entirely eradicate the disease, but it would be nice to think that it might one day. Not in my lifetime, though, I don’t suppose.’ He sighed wistfully, but then the smile returned to his face. ‘So it will be perfectly safe for your little boy to come home,’ he concluded, picking up his medical bag. ‘I’ll see myself out unless I meet young Lucy on the way. And much as I have enjoyed your acquaintance, I do hope not to see you again soon. Not in my professional capacity, at least.’
