by Valerie Wood
‘I don’t want a jug, leastways, onny if tha’s offering. A midwife’s needed; there’s a woman in labour down yonder.’ She wiped her sleeve across her nose. ‘She’s been makin’ a hell of a row all night. I’ve had no sleep for her moaning.’
‘And where in blazes do I find a midwife?’ He leaned on one elbow and stared at the woman. ‘I wouldn’t know where to start looking. Can’t tha see to her?’
The woman bridled. ‘Me? No, I can’t. I can’t stand sight o’ blood. Anyway,’ she said contrarily, ‘it’s pitch black back there and me candle’s nearly snuffed it. Tha can get me another while tha’s out.’
Defeated, he got to his feet and reached for his top hat which he carefully placed on his head. ‘Give us some money then.’ He put out his hand and then ducked as she swiped at him.
‘I’ll give it thee when tha brings ’candle,’ she glowered at him. ‘Tha doesn’t catch me like that. Now hurry up afore she has ’bairn on her own. There’s no joy in that, I can tell thee.’
Joe came out blinking into the brightness of cold day and stood with his hands on his hips. Where would he find a midwife, today of all days? It was Christmas, wasn’t it? Or was that yesterday? He shrugged. It made no odds to him, one day was very much like another. He walked down into the Market Place. There were a few people about. Some, sitting cross-legged and their heads bowed onto their chests, were gathered around the still warm dusty ash which were the remains of the previous night’s bonfire. But they were all men and vagrants, and wouldn’t have known about midwives.
A stallholder had set up with some vegetable produce and was sitting behind a stall with an empty pipe in his mouth.
Joe approached him. ‘Does tha know of a midwife hereabouts?’
The man shook his head, then took the pipe from his mouth. ‘Has tha got some poor lass into trouble?’
‘No! Not me,’ Joe protested. ‘It’s a woman down in ’cellars. She’s having a babby.’
‘God help her then.’ The stallkeeper stuck the pipe back into his mouth. ‘They say it’s as black as Hell down there. They should fire it.’
‘Oh, yeh?’ Joe glared defiantly. ‘It’s all right for some folk, but there’s others who’d have nowhere to go if it was fired.’
The man sucked on his pipe. ‘There’s allus workhouse for them as can’t get an honest job of work.’
Joe turned away, an angry retort on his lips. If the man had said as much to any of the youths who shared the cellars with him, they would have turned his stall over and trampled his produce into the dirt. He was sick, sick to the stomach of complacent folk who, though they hadn’t much themselves, assumed that everybody could pull themselves out of the gutter.
But not everybody was like that, he pondered. Billy Rayner, for instance. He’d been here all night giving out soup to those who had nothing, and he even looked the same as them, though you could tell he was different just by hearing him talk. Yes, he was all right. Him, and the doctor that he’d brought to help him.
What was his name? he wondered. Stephen something; he’d heard Billy Rayner say his name. Reluctantly he turned back to the stallholder.
‘Does tha know of a doctor called Stephen summat or other?’
‘How would I know of a doctor by his first name?’ the man countered. ‘Who does tha think I am? Prince Consort?’
‘A young doctor,’ he persisted. ‘He’s from round here.’
‘Sheppard, tha’ll mean. He has a place down at ’bottom of Lowgate; he’s with Doctor Fleming.’ He started to pack up his produce. ‘I might as well be at home listening to ’wife blathering as standing here wi’ nowt to do but answer questions from ’likes o’ thee.’
‘Thanks.’ Joe set off at a run, then stopped as the man shouted to him.
‘Here!’ He threw an apple which Joe deftly caught. ‘Merry Christmas.’
* * *
Doctor Sheppard trod carefully down the cellar steps, following in the footsteps of the youth who had summoned him. He held up a lantern which he had had the forethought to bring, remembering the darkness which he had entered previously when treating the cholera victims.
‘I didn’t think I’d have to come down here again,’ he muttered. ‘I thought everybody had gone.’
‘No,’ Joe said. ‘There’s still a few of us here, us lads and a few drunks who can’t go anywhere else. And then there’s old Peg. She’s lived down here for years, even before ’fire. Nobody knew she was here. She said she thought she was going to burn to death. As it is, I think ’smoke has addled her brain,’ he added cheerfully. ‘If she ever had one.’
‘Who looks after her?’ The doctor stepped over a recumbent form and wrinkled his nose at the smell of spirits which emanated from it.
‘Me and ’other lads. We fetch her a bit o’ bread or sausage and her ale, and scrounge a candle for her. She’s quite happy.’
Doctor Sheppard heaved a sigh. ‘That’s all right then. As long as she doesn’t feel deprived.’
‘It was Peg who asked me to fetch help. She said that ’young woman was disturbing her sleep; she thought it was her time or summat.’
‘Well, where the deuce is she? I didn’t realize that the cellars went so far back.’
‘We’re nearly there. There’s Peg’s candle burning up yonder. She’s onny one who lives so far in. She says it’s more private.’
‘She’d be right,’ Doctor Sheppard agreed. ‘You don’t get more private or exclusive than this.’
The old woman came towards him. ‘She’s in here. Found herself a nice little hidey hole. I might have it meself when she’s gone.’
Joe turned and went back, and the doctor wondered how he managed to find his way in the darkness, for it was as black as pitch outside the halo of lamplight.
He bent down into the alcove and caught his breath as he recognized the girl who had queued for soup the night before. He lifted the lantern and spoke to her. ‘I’m a doctor. Someone sent for me. They said you were ill.’
She turned her head towards him and he saw pain and suffering. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘I am. But leave me. I don’t want your help.’
‘Will you let me take you out of here? I can get you a place in the hospital. I can’t treat you down here.’
‘I don’t want you to treat me.’ Her voice broke as pain ripped through her. ‘It’s too late. I’m going to die.’
‘Come now, none of that sort of talk.’ He put his hand on hers and felt the cold. Then he transferred it to her forehead and felt the heat.
He looked down and saw the swollen abdomen and the thickness of her ankles. ‘What do you think is wrong with you?’ he asked gently.
‘Dropsy,’ she said faintly. ‘I’ve got dropsy.’
‘You’re in labour, Betsy,’ he said softly. ‘You’re going to have a baby.’
‘No!’ Her voice was harsh. ‘I’m not. I’ve got dropsy. I’ve got dropsy.’ Then she looked at him through narrowed eyelids. ‘My name isn’t Betsy. It’s Mary.’
‘I’m a friend of Billy’s.’ He took hold of her hand and stroked it. ‘He’s been looking for you. Don’t be afraid. We’ll take you out of here. We’ll make you comfortable and you can have your baby in a proper bed.’
‘No,’ she interrupted him fiercely. ‘You don’t understand. I’m not having a baby and I’m not moving from here. Go away. Leave me alone.’
The words were no sooner out than she arched her back and screamed and her hands clutched the air. ‘Dear God,’ she wept. ‘What punishment is this? I didn’t mean to be wicked. I only wanted something better.’
‘You’re not wicked, Betsy.’ Doctor Sheppard bent over her and whispered. ‘You’re in labour. I can help you, ease the pain, if only you will let me take you out of here.’
Old Peg came over and bent down over her. ‘Tha’s not got long to go. Be a good lass and go wi’ doctor. Tha’ll dee of pumonia down here, and thy babby as well. Besides,’ she added as she straightened up, ‘there’s men down here, and it doesn
’t do for them to be knowing what goes on at a childbed.’ She didn’t seem to include the doctor in this homily as she sagely shook her head. ‘It’s not right for them to be there, and it’d frighten ’em to death besides.’
Betsy clutched Doctor Sheppard’s hand in an iron grip as another pain wracked her and she gasped. ‘All right, I’ll see Billy. If he says I should go to hospital, I will. But I’m not having a baby.’ Her eyes were wide. ‘I’ve got dropsy, that’s all.’
Stephen patted her hand. ‘Yes, yes. Rest now between the pains, try to relax, and I’ll go and find Billy.’
He asked the old woman to sit beside her, to stay with her until he returned, and with his head and shoulders bent low, he made his way back to the entrance.
The boy who had come for him was sitting by the doorway and got to his feet immediately when the doctor asked if he would go to Billy’s lodgings, while he went back to his own lodgings to collect medication to relieve Betsy’s pain.
Twenty minutes later, Joe was back, hammering on his door. ‘He’s not there, sir. Missus says he hasn’t been there all night.’
Doctor Sheppard pondered. It was still early, barely eight o’clock, yet time was of the essence as far as Betsy was concerned. Her colour, as far as he could ascertain in the darkness, was poor and when he held her hand her pulse was weak.
‘I don’t know where else he’ll be,’ he muttered. ‘I’ll have to go back without him.’
‘I could try at Masterson and Rayner’s yard.’ Joe was eager to assist. ‘They might know, he’s a relation, cousin or summat, they give us wood for ’fire last night.’
‘Yes.’ Doctor Sheppard remembered Billy’s words of the night before when he mentioned Gilbert’s name. ‘Of course.’ He spoke quickly. ‘Tell them I sent you and that I need to get hold of Master Billy urgently. Ask them if they can send to Mr Gilbert Rayner straight away, or,’ he looked at the boy’s dishevelled appearance, and fished in his waistcoat pocket for his calling card, ‘show them this and tell them that it’s a matter of life or death, and that you will go for Mr Rayner yourself if they will give you the address.’
Joe preened and, taking the card, he adjusted his hat at a rakish angle and set off at a run towards the High Street.
Gilbert lay silently in the bed at Harriet’s side. Sleep had entirely deserted him since the rude awakening of Billy ringing the doorbell. He brooded that here was another problem for the family. Not, he reasoned, that it concerned him directly, but he had always been fond of Betsy, and of Uncle Thomas, and had had a good relationship with Tom. He hadn’t cared much for Mark, he always seemed so boorish, and George was a mere country lad with nothing much to offer in the way of conversation or intellect. Still, he sighed, I wouldn‘t like anything terrible to happen to any of them, but I’m so beset with my own troubles that I’m inclined to think that if Betsy is foolish enough to run away on a mere whim or because of some foolish family upset, then she should accept the consequences.
He sighed again, and Harriet turned towards him. ‘Gilbert.’ Her voice was tremulous. ‘Are you still awake?’
‘Sorry, my darling.’ He moved closer and put his arm around her. ‘Did I wake you?’
‘I haven’t been to sleep,’ she whispered. ‘I can’t remember the last time I slept all the night through.’
‘I’m going to ask the doctor to call and give you a sleeping draught,’ he said firmly. ‘You really mustn’t worry so.’
‘I can’t help it.’ She removed his arm and sat up in bed. ‘I’m getting up.’
‘But you haven’t had breakfast yet. I told Tilly not to come up too early.’
Her dark hair fell about her face as she put her head down and her hands across her eyes and he heard the smothered sound of her weeping.
‘Harriet! What is it? Tell me. Please don’t cry.’
‘I can’t help it.’ Her face was blotched with tears as she turned towards him. ‘When I think how hard it is for you. When I think of how my father has brought you down. The money you have lost. Your good name; maybe even to lose your company, yet not once have you censured me.’
‘Censured you!’ He couldn’t believe what she was saying. ‘Why should I blame you? You were not to blame for your father’s shortcomings.’
‘But I am my father’s daughter, and fingers have been pointed.’ She climbed out of bed away from his entreating hand and stood at the foot of the bed. ‘I have heard whispers. People whom I thought were friends have turned their backs on me, yet not one word of reproach has come from your lips. I don’t deserve you, Gilbert, and if you should turn away from me, I would understand, even though I should break my heart.’
She must be ill, he worried, to talk in such a manner. Her father’s violent death must have unhinged her. He groaned. Why else would she think he would blame her for what had happened? It was his own stupidity, his inexperience and arrogance that had brought him into this terrible situation.
His conscience troubled him. Harriet was so humble, so contrite. If she only knew how often he had been close to confessing his own indiscretion and his dereliction of duty towards his son. His deceit had been furthered when his mother announced that she would take responsibility for the child on James’s behalf, and once again he had said nothing. This and the worry over the missing ships and the possible foreclosure of the company, had given him weeks of disturbed sleep and ill-humoured wretchedness.
‘Harriet!’ He looked at her tear-stained face and was afraid. It was because of Harriet’s virtue that he hesitated to confess his lapse, and the pain of deception because he loved her, cut deeper than ever. She was so innocent, unblemished in spite of her father’s indiscretions and her mother’s constant withering carping; yet this self-same innocence created a transparent barrier between them which he dare not cross, for fear he should shatter her idealized image of him, and turn against him.
‘Harriet,’ he repeated. ‘You must not say, must not even think such things.’ His voice broke. ‘I am the one, I am the one who is undeserving of you.’
Instantly she was at his side, comforting, reassuring, and the moment for disclosure was gone as the doorbell again rang out in an urgent peal.
47
Billy and Gilbert sped across the town, following Joe who had tracked and sought out Billy and found him at his cousin’s house.
Billy had appeared downstairs at Gilbert’s summons that he was wanted immediately by some young varmint who wouldn’t leave until he had spoken to him in person. He stretched his face muscles in an attempt to waken. He had borrowed a spare robe of Gilbert’s and stood shivering in the doorway as he listened to Joe.
‘It’s that young woman that tha was calling to last night,’ Joe explained, and in his haziness, Billy vaguely wondered if there was anything that Joe didn’t know about what happened in this town.
‘’Doctor says to come straight away. She won’t leave ’cellar till tha comes, and she might not even then.’ He suddenly and respectfully took off his top hat, holding it in front of him like a shield. ‘But old Peg says it’s no place for having a babby, and if that’s what she thinks then it can’t be – but I don’t know about that o’course,’ he added bashfully as if his tongue had run away with him.
Gilbert and Billy had looked at each other in dismay, and had rushed to dress, Billy borrowing a pair of trousers, a clean shirt and a jacket of Gilbert’s as his own seemed to have mysteriously vanished.
‘But where has she been all this time?’ Gilbert heaved, he was unused to running, especially in such an undignified fashion, and was glad that there were few people about. ‘She’s been missing for weeks.’
‘Months,’ Billy panted. ‘She went to the opening of the park, apparently. Then I saw her briefly one day, and I feel terrible about the fact that I barely had time to talk to her, though I didn’t know then that she was missing, but no-one saw her again after that. Oh, why didn’t she tell someone? Sammi or my mother?’
Gilbert slowed down, his heart was raci
ng. ‘Shame, perhaps.’ His words were low and not just because of his breathlessness. He was confused and miserable; he had briefly told Harriet of Betsy’s trouble and she had immediately said that they must bring her back, and had called to the maid to make up a fire in the room where Billy had slept, and to bring up fresh sheets for the bed.
There was a chaise outside the cellar steps and a boy holding the reins of the horse. ‘’Quack’s inside.’ He indicated with his thumb and was rewarded with a cuff around his ear by Joe for his insolence towards the doctor.
‘You’d better wait here, Gilbert.’ Billy bent his head to enter. ‘It’s dark without a light and you don’t know your way like I do.’
Gilbert gratefully conceded that it would be as well to remain above ground, that he would not be of use anyway as it was Billy that Betsy wanted to see.
Billy could hear the sound of crying and the murmur of voices as he approached the furthest reaches of the cellars, and he followed the sound by instinct rather than sight, for he had no light, and trod carefully with arms outstretched until he saw the pinprick of lamplight from Doctor Sheppard’s lantern.
He wanted to weep when he saw her. Betsy’s hair was matted and her face grey, her eyes creased with pain. He put his arms out to her and held her as he would a child, and she clung to him, sobbing that she was so sorry for the trouble she had brought.
‘The doctor says I’m having a baby, Billy.’ She took a deep shuddering breath. ‘I am, I know. I’ve not wanted to admit it, not even to myself. I’ve said all along it was dropsy, hoping that it wasn’t true. It wasn’t Luke’s fault,’ she said defiantly. ‘It was mine just as much as his.’
‘Luke?’ he said. ‘Luke Reedbarrow?’
She nodded and then grimaced in pain. ‘He doesn’t know. I never told him. I just kept on hoping that it would go away.’
‘He’ll have to know, Betsy, you can’t hide a baby. He’s all right, is Luke,’ he added. ‘He won’t shy from his responsibilities. If you still want him, that is.’
