Obsession

by Claire Lorrimer

‘Not to be wondered at!’ said the tall nun, her mouth tightening. ‘God punishes those who sin as he thinks fit.’

  Not sure what she meant, Harriet closed her eyes and drifted back – not into her previous coma, but into a deep sleep. When she woke again, the room was in near darkness, only a single candle giving a glimmer of light from a table by the window. Above it, Harriet saw a framed picture of Jesus on the Cross. Somewhere at the back of her mind she recalled seeing a nun – two nuns. The room, bare of anything but necessities, was unfamiliar, as was everything around her.

  She called for Bessie, who she knew would explain things to her – why she was here and what they were doing in this strange place, but no Bessie answered her call. Instead, the tall, thin nun came into the room and stood by the bedside.

  ‘Please, can you tell me where I am?’ Harriet asked. ‘And could you kindly call Bessie for me?’

  Ignoring Harriet’s request, the nun came closer to the bed. ‘You may call me Sister Mary Frances,’ she announced. ‘I am in charge of the infirmary in our Convent of the Sacred Heart, and you are very fortunate indeed to have been found and brought here. Sister Brigitte has remained at your bedside every night for the past three weeks. We have all been praying for your recovery if such was God’s will. Frankly, we thought He was going to take you, but Doctor told us there was a chance you would come out of the coma you were in.’

  She turned to pick up a note book from the bedside table. ‘If you feel well enough, perhaps you would kindly answer a few questions. That …’ she pointed to Harriet’s dress hanging on a hook on one of the walls, ‘… that …’ she repeated in a tone of disgust, ‘… is the only garment you were wearing when you were found, other than your cloak.’

  She stared down at Harriet, her eyes steely as she continued, ‘We reached the conclusion that you had probably been thrown out of one of your customer’s houses for not carrying out the ungodly duties for which you were being paid; that they beat you over the head to punish you. Young women like you,’ she added scornfully, ‘must know the risks you take when you decide to ply your trade on the streets. You will consider yourself fortunate, I imagine, to be rid of your poor, innocent baby?’

  Unable to make sense of what Sister Mary Frances was saying, Harriet stared up at her. Was this a dream, she asked herself before saying, ‘What baby? I have no baby!’

  ‘No, young woman, you miscarried the unfortunate child that was in your womb.’

  ‘You mean I have had another miscarriage?’ Harriet said faintly, now sure that she must be dreaming.

  ‘Yes, a miscarriage!’ Sister Mary Frances said scathingly. ‘Did it not once occur to you, when you plied your disgusting trade, that you might endanger the innocent life of your unborn child? You truly deserve whatever punishments God chooses to mete out to you, young woman …’

  Harriet stopped listening. There was only one conscious thought in her mind – not that this nun seemed to think she was a harlot but that she’d had a miscarriage and must, therefore, have been pregnant when she left home despite her certainty that this had not been the case. When had she left home? Why? Where was Brook …?

  Her mind came to a halt as a fresh set of anxieties beset her. She remembered now that she and Bessie had been on their way to Ireland – to stay with Una. If she had known for certain that she was once more carrying Brook’s child, she would never have risked a fourth miscarriage – not when both she and Brook had begun to wonder if they would ever have a live son or daughter. It was not even that her figure had changed or that she had noticeably put on weight.

  If it was true that she had had an early miscarriage, she must never tell Brook. He would be angry that she had risked losing yet another baby by journeying so far. She closed her eyes, but the nun’s sharp questioning fought through her desire not to listen.

  ‘Who are you? What is your name? Who is this Bessie you called for so often? Do you not know who fathered your child? Why else were you trying to get money? Was the man not willing to have the finger pointed at him? I want some answers, young woman. You are here because we are sworn to Pity and Charity, but it tries me that with our limited resources we must be charitable to wicked young women like you …’

  As Harriet now drifted back into sleep, she heard another voice – a quieter, gentler one saying in a soft Irish brogue, ‘She is still very poorly, Sister Mary Frances. I think we should allow her to sleep now. I will sit with her, and when she wakes up, I will give her some food. Then, when she is stronger, I will question her for you.’

  In the days that followed, it was the kindly Sister Brigitte in whom Harriet longed to confide, but she dared not mention her name or where she lived. If the nuns were ever to find out, they might – almost certainly would – ask Brook to send them money for the care they had been giving her. He would learn of her miscarriage brought on by her own unwillingness to remain at Hunters Hall alone. She could not expect him to believe – indeed, she could barely do so herself – that she had shut her mind to the possibility that she may have been with child in his absence. If she were totally honest with herself, there had been some tell-tale signs but she had ignored them, assuring herself it could not be so since she had none of the usual discomforts she’d suffered in the past. What saddened her most of all now was that Sister Brigitte told her that her unborn child had been a boy – the son Brook had so much wanted.

  Memory of the fire and the thieves’ attack slowly returned in full, but she made no mention of it to either nun, lest they somehow traced her name through the landlord of the inn where she and Bessie had stayed. Knowing Brook could never discover what had occurred, her only certainty was to go on insisting that she had no memory of events. All Harriet told them was that she had a sister living near Dublin whose name she could not recall but with whom she would go to stay when she was well enough; that although she could recall the short route from the port to her sister’s house, try as she might, she could not recollect its name either.

  After several weeks, a doctor came to examine her and told the nuns that the wound on her head had healed and she could, therefore, leave the convent as soon as she felt strong enough to do so.

  Harriet now revealed through necessity the existence of the coins, undiscovered by her assailants, sewn into the hem of her dress. As Sister Brigitte unstitched the hem for her, Harriet pondered yet again over the unexplained absence of Bessie. Surely, she told herself, if Bessie had managed to run away from the thieves who had attacked them, she would by now have found her way somehow to Harriet’s side? The two policemen, who Sister Brigitte told her had carried her to the convent that fateful night, would have been able to tell Bessie what had happened to her. Was it therefore likely that she had been more seriously hurt or, God forbid, killed?

  At night Harriet found it hard to sleep, fearing that some other dreadful fate had overtaken her faithful maid. It brought fresh tears to her eyes when remembering that it was thanks to Bessie’s insistence upon hiding the money in her skirt that she could still pay for her passage to Ireland. Sister Brigitte had reassured her that only a small amount would be deducted for her keep and care.

  Sister Brigitte tried to soften the harsh words Sister Mary Frances used whenever she visited Harriet’s sick room. The gentle Irish nun had realized from Harriet’s speech that before her fall from grace she had come from a well-to-do family. She wondered if the unfortunate girl had brought disgrace on them by running away from home. Why else, she pondered, would a well-bred girl like Harriet have need to earn money on the streets? And if she were not earning a living that way, why did she not deny it? Sister Brigitte had asked all her fellow sisters to pray for Harriet, and to dedicate a special Mass to fallen young women like her. Sister Mary Frances, conversely, gave Harriet a prayer book and a book about the saints to read, whilst bemoaning the fact that Harriet was not of the Catholic faith and would not go to Confession, so would remain unpardoned.

  Once again, it was the kindly Sister Brigitte who counteracted s
uch lectures by telling Harriet that God was kind to sinners, and that if she prayed for forgiveness, He would grant it even if she was not of their faith.

  Harriet hated deceiving this caring little woman, but she dared not relinquish her pretence that she had lost her memory, despite the horrifying thoughts they had about her. For them ever to know her name meant that she could be found to be Brook’s wife, and he would learn the truth about the miscarriage she need never have had. She would do anything to prevent that, even if it meant letting the nuns continue in their delusions. Often she was unable to check her tears; the fact that she had lost the baby boy who would have been Brook’s precious son as well as hers hurt even more painfully because she herself had caused it. She longed to be able to confess the truth to her kindly carer, who kept assuring her when she found her weeping that it was not her fault that she had miscarried. The good Lord, she said, gave life, and it was His to take away as He thought fit. Harriet must not feel that she was being punished by God for trying to earn a living on the streets.

  SIX

  1865

  It was early on a surprisingly warm, early November morning when Sister Brigitte escorted Harriet on to the ferry boat tied up at Clarence Dock. The kindly nun, pink-cheeked and flustered, said for the umpteenth time, ‘You shouldn’t be travelling on your own, child. I know you think you can manage, but in that lovely gown we have mended and laundered for you, you look quite the lady who should be travelling with a maid. Are you quite sure you still cannot remember who you are? Looking after you as I have, I feel sure you are accustomed to such attentions.’

  Harriet’s heart doubled its beat. Despite having begged the nuns to enquire after Bessie, who she had referred to as a friend, there had been no news of any kind. According to Sister Brigitte, there were accounts every day in the Liverpool Daily Post of thefts, assaults and drunken fights, but as Harriet did not know the name of the alley in which she and Bessie had been attacked, it had proved impossible to discover what had happened on the night of the fire.

  The thought which from time to time crossed Harriet’s mind – that Bessie might have been killed by their attackers – filled her with distress, which added to her guilt over the loss of the baby she’d not known she was carrying. Part of her longed to be able to write to Brook and let him know what had transpired, but she did not dare risk the withdrawal of his love for her, or, indeed, want him to be worried and upset by what had befallen her when there was nothing he, at such a distance, could do about it.

  Sister Brigitte was approaching an elderly lady with a great deal of luggage, about to board the ferry. A chill wind was blowing and Harriet shivered in her velvet mantle as she watched the two women talking. Beside her, another woman who appeared to be her maid was instructing one of the crew members as to which of the portmanteaux he must take to her mistress’ cabin. For a few moments Sister Brigitte remained in conversation with the passenger, during which they both turned to look at Harriet. Then the nun returned to her side.

  ‘The lady’s name is Lady Cavanagh,’ she told Harriet, adding happily, ‘and she has agreed to keep an eye on you during the voyage. She will ensure that her maid sees you safely into a hansom cab when you dock at Dublin Port. It is to be hoped your cabin is not too far from theirs. She will look for you there from time to time to ascertain you are all right. I told a little fib – I said you were a governess on your way to a new position.’

  She gave a sigh. ‘I shall have to confess the lie,’ she said with a wry smile, ‘but I expect Father will give me as many penances as necessary to ensure God’s pardon!’

  She still looked worried, wondering whether with Harriet’s loss of memory of her sister’s name as well as her own, she would really be able accurately to recall the route to her relative’s house. Privately, she had disagreed with Sister Mary Francis that Harriet was a ‘fallen woman’ whose dire situation had been brought about by a love affair disapproved of by her parents, and that she had run away with the unsuitable gentleman who had deserted her, thus forcing her on to the streets. This suspicion was reinforced by the number of times, whilst in her coma, that Harriet had called for someone whose name had sounded like Luke to ‘come back’ to her.

  Now, despite Harriet’s assurance that she could clearly recall the route to her sister’s house, Sister Brigitte still doubted if her patient, whom she had grown fond of these past weeks, would ever in fact arrive safely. Mother Superior had refused to allow her to travel with Harriet to Ireland, so she had taken the precaution of giving her the name of the convent in Dublin where she must tell the cab driver to take her if she became lost.

  She now clasped Harriet’s hands, saying, ‘May God go with you, child, and keep you free of sin.’

  There were tears in Harriet’s eyes as she watched the warm-hearted nun who had taken such limitless care of her, often throughout the long nights, walk slowly down the gangplank and disappear amongst the milling crowds of sailors, dock workers and people on the jetty. She turned to find Lady Cavanagh staring at her.

  ‘Your nun told me you had been very ill,’ she said. ‘I hope you will not feel ill during our passage to Ireland. It can be very rough at times, you know.’

  Harriet smiled. ‘It is kind of you to ask,’ she said. ‘As it happens, I am a very good sailor. Two years ago I crossed the English Channel in a gale, and …’ She broke off, aware that mention of her husband and their honeymoon might arouse this woman’s curiosity, and cause her to ask awkward questions such as why she was without her maid or, indeed, her husband or a relative to escort her.

  ‘I do assure you that Sister Brigitte was worrying about me quite unduly,’ Harriet said. ‘Please do not let me delay you as I am sure you want to get settled in your cabin. I will find a steward to show me to mine.’

  Seeing the older woman hesitating, she added, ‘If I should have need of assistance, I can ask for his help, but thank you for your kind offer.’

  Relieved that the young girl sounded so self-reliant, Lady Cavanagh departed to her cabin with her maid. A steward appeared to take Harriet to her cabin. Having deposited her few belongings in the small space available, she decided to find a sheltered spot on deck. A passing sailor opened out a deck chair for her and she settled down to watch the crew making preparations for departure. The sight brought back memories of similar occasions on her honeymoon and a deep pang of longing for Brook.

  Her thoughts were distracted by the crowds of men, women and children pushing past her on their way down to steerage below deck. All were loaded with luggage for the journey. It was a full half hour later that she heard the sound of the boat’s engines throbbing as the steamer prepared to leave the dock.

  A number of passengers were now braving the cold and were standing at the rails waving to their friends or relatives who had come to see them off. It was not long, however, before the steam packet had left the shelter of the dock walls and was heading out into a choppy sea.

  Harriet could look down to the lowest deck, where the passengers were competing to take possession of one of the wooden-tiered bunks lining each side of the cramped interior. The only light came through the open hatchways. The noise of people talking and children shouting or crying was deafening as families climbed into the bunk beds which were stacked to the ceiling above in three tiers. Although Harriet’s cabin was tiny and there was only standing room beside the bunk, she did at least have the much-needed privacy she wanted.

  She unpacked her few belongings from the parcel Sister Brigitte had given her, and then the box containing food and drink for the journey – bread, cheese, fruit, a flask of milk, tea, a piece of cooked mutton wrapped in cheesecloth and a small packet of oatmeal to make porridge. The nun, who had travelled by steam packet many times, told her she could heat water to make the porridge in one of the two galleys at either end of the deck.

  Afraid that the steerage passengers unknown to her might include pickpockets or thieves, Harriet decided to conceal her belongings beneath her wooden bun
k before attempting to go back on deck and find the galleys to make herself a hot drink. It was a great blessing, she told herself, that as a child she had been able to watch Bessie’s mother in her kitchen as she had never in her life in her own home made so much as a cup of tea – Mrs Kent, the cook, disliked any unnecessary family invasions of her kitchen.

  She took from her pocket the copy of The Life of the Saints given to her by Sister Brigitte and read for a little while before deciding to go up on to the top deck to get some hot water for a cup of tea and some fresh air. The weather had deteriorated, and a cross wind was causing a marked swell. Several passengers were already being seasick. It was strange, Harriet thought, that she should feel no discomfort from the swell when she had been so plagued by early-morning sickness during her past pregnancies. The thought brought a sudden sting of hot tears to her eyes as she allowed herself to remember the boy baby who had failed to survive – something she had tried very hard not to do when she was in the convent. She had pushed the grief to the back of her mind, concentrating her strength on the difficulty of deceiving the nuns about her lost memory. Uppermost in her mind ever since she had regained consciousness following the attack upon her and Bessie was that she must not let Brook know she had undertaken the journey to Una’s in her condition lest he never forgave her. But for the fire at the inn and the attack upon her, she might have kept the baby. He must never know the truth; it was the only way she could save what mattered most in the world to her – Brook’s love.

  Now, as she mingled with the crowd on deck who were trying to get to one of the galleys to cook the food they had brought with them, she closed her eyes, wishing above all at this moment that she had Bessie with her. Bessie had always managed somehow to make her feel happier when she was downcast: to convince her that things were never as bad as she feared. Even when she had suffered the previous miscarriages and the doctor had suggested she might never be able to carry a child full-term, Bessie had shrugged off the suggestion, insisting that babies survived when God and Nature intended, not when a doctor decreed.