Forgotten Destiny

by Forgotten Destiny (retail) (epub)

  I do not know when I began to feel unwell. It crept up upon me, that queaziness, vague at first, a malaise I could not quite identify, a feeling that the swell of the waves and the bobbing of the boat were no longer quite so pleasant or enjoyable, and then I realized I felt very sick indeed.

  ‘I think I should like to go to my cabin,’ I said.

  Mr Paterson, who had been leaning on the rail, the better to watch the surging waves, turned to look at me, and shook his head when he saw my face, which I imagine was quite green.

  ‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘Oh dear, Davina, is it not suiting you?’

  A wave of nausea washed over me.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I really want to go to the cabin.’

  ‘You’re better off up here,’ he advised. ‘In the fresh air. Be sick over the rail if you must.’

  ‘Please!’ I felt quite panicky. Bad enough that Mr Paterson should be talking of it; to actually be ill in his sight, and that of the other passengers and crew, was too humiliating to even contemplate. ‘I must go to the cabin! If I can only lie down…’

  Mr Paterson sighed. ‘Very well, if that is what you want. But it won’t do you any good, I fear.’

  He was right; it did not. When I lay down upon the bunk, I felt worse than before, for the room seemed to go up and down around me, and my stomach pitched with it. The heaviness in my chest was no longer just wretchedness but physical sickness; when I could bear it no more and tried to get up, it rose in my throat and I had to run for the basin, where I retched violently. I should, I supposed, call for Perrett; I was a lady now and should not expect to clean up after myself even if I was fit to do so. But I could not bring myself to call for her; I was too ashamed of my weakness, and in any case, for all I knew, she had been made as ill as I by the relentless rocking motion. Again and again I heaved into the basin, and once, when I was too slow getting to it from my bunk, I vomited on to the floor and down the front of my smart new gown. And I felt so weak and ill I was almost past caring.

  After an hour or so, Mr Paterson returned.

  ‘Oh dear, Davina, I told you it would do no good coming below,’ he said.

  ‘Oh please – make it stop!’ I begged, like the child I seemed to have become. ‘I can’t bear it! Make it stop moving about, please!’

  Mr Paterson laughed – actually laughed!

  ‘I’m not God, Davina! Only God can stop the waves. And it’s raining now, too, and growing dark, so I cannot even suggest you go back on deck either. You’ll just have to put up with it, I’m afraid, until you get over it or we reach France, whichever is the first.’

  My first reaction was that he was quite heartless, but I suppose it was just his way to call a spade a spade, and all the platitudes in the world would not have made me feel one jot better.

  And for all that he had no word of sympathy for me, still he washed my face for me and called for Bray, his manservant, to dispose of the unpleasant contents of the basin, for, as I had suspected, poor little Perrett was, it seemed, suffering as much as I was. And he stayed with me, too, for a little while, sitting in a chair beside my cot, until I could bear him there no longer and told him to go and get his dinner and have a drink – if he had the stomach for it.

  ‘Well, if you are sure you will be all right, my dear,’ he said doubtfully.

  ‘Yes – yes I’m sure,’ I snapped, too sorry for myself to engage in any niceties.

  ‘I’ll look in on you later then.’ He crossed to the door, steadier, in spite of the rocking, than he had been last night on dry land. ‘Try to get some sleep.’

  As if I could! I did not think I could ever remember feeling so ill, not even when I had first recovered consciousness after my accident. I had been weak then, and plagued by the pains in my head, but oh, I had not felt as I felt now, surely! This… this was a sickness so all-consuming I felt I must die of it.

  But at least, I thought wretchedly, Mr Paterson would not be able to attempt to consummate our marriage tonight. It was some small compensation – a tiny crumb of comfort to hold on to as the ship bucked and rolled and my stomach, my every sense, bucked and rolled with it.

  * * *

  Mr Paterson had been right about one thing. The moment our ship docked in France and the surging waves became once more a gentle rhythmic swell, my sickness disappeared as if by magic. Though I still felt weak and my temple ached dully, I was able to swallow some soup and a cup of hot coffee, and by the time we were on our way south, I was myself again and even able to take some pleasure in the countryside through which we were driving. It was such an enormous relief not to feel so dreadfully ill that for the moment all my doubts and anxieties seemed lighter than before, as if, now that I was well again, I would be able to deal with anything.

  It was, of course, a euphoria that was illusory and short lived. That night, when we stopped at an inn, I was no longer able to avoid doing my wifely duty by Mr Paterson.

  I knew I must expect the inevitable when he paid me a great deal of attention over dinner, patting my hand and making little jokes, even laying his hand on my knee in the manner I could not help but find repugnant. Each time I laid down my fork and looked up, his eyes were on me, and there was a gleam of anticipation in them, mingled with just a trace of apprehension. He was anxious, no doubt, that there might be a repeat of the debacle of his first attempt to consummate our marriage. Certainly he drank very sparingly of the good French wine during the early part of the evening, and then, when we had almost finished our meal, he quaffed the entire remains of the carafe in one fell swoop, his need for fortification overcoming his caution.

  This time, however, it did not impede his performance. Perhaps wine is less debilitating than porter, I do not know, but certainly it tasted better on his breath.

  And when it was over and he lay beside me, exhausted and puffed up with self-satisfaction, I had to admit that perhaps it had not been as bad as I had anticipated. There had been no real pain, just a little discomfort, and it had been finished quickly enough, far more quickly than I had imagined. Yes, I had found it distasteful – a messy, awkward business – but, oddly, having to touch and hold Mr Paterson’s flabby body caused me more disgust than his violation of my own. That was the easy part, lying immobile whilst he worked in me. I found I was able to divorce myself from the gruntings and thrusts as if I were no more than a casual observer floating on the ceiling above the marriage bed.

  ‘So, now we are truly man and wife,’ Mr Paterson said when his breathing had become regular enough to allow him to speak. ‘It wasn’t so bad, now, was it? I think you even enjoyed it a little.’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied dutifully, though I had certainly not enjoyed it at all.

  ‘I thought so,’ he murmured happily. ‘I know it’s not considered proper for a lady to admit to it, but you are a warm-blooded girl, and the pleasures of the flesh are nothing to be ashamed of. Well, we shall do it again, as often as you like, and the next time, you will enjoy it even more now that you are no longer a virgin.’ He paused, then asked, as if it had only just occurred to him: ‘I didn’t hurt you too much, did I?’

  ‘No, not at all,’ I answered, this time truthfully.

  ‘Good.’ His tone had become self-satisfied once more. ‘That is where experience counts, you see. Some of these young bucks… virile they might be, but they are overeager. They rush and snatch and think of nothing but their own pleasure.’

  ‘Please…!’ I said. This discussion was even more repellent to me than the act itself. ‘I’m very tired…’

  ‘Oh my dear, of course you are! You sleep, and I shall lie here and remember the delights.’

  But in fact it was Mr Paterson who fell asleep, replete and satisfied, snoring almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth, and I who lay staring into the darkness of the unfamiliar room, feeling the small protesting aches in my stomach and a slight burning sensation between my legs, and trying not to think of a stolen kiss that had set my whole being on fire, and an unknown man who coul
d possess my thoughts and instil in me a bittersweet longing that I did not understand, but was powerless to ignore.

  * * *

  We travelled to Bordeaux on roads that I thought were more rutted, less well made than English ones, through villages where the houses had roofs of blue slate, and the sun, shining through the branches of the trees, seemed harsher than the one that had shone on the soft countryside of home. We dined well, on food scented and flavoured with garlic, and accompanied by fresh bread whose texture and taste was quite different from the bread I was used to, but was none the less delicious, and washed it down with wines made from local grapes. I saw carefully tended, yet dusty, little gardens, and tall old church towers, unfamiliar-looking trees and patches of wild flowers growing at the wayside, and there was a faint air of unreality to it all. And I became more used to Mr Paterson’s fumblings and gruntings as he exercised his marital rights, and resigned myself to them as my part of the bargain, an inevitable element of my new life.

  I looked forward, however, to my monthly bleed, since I thought it would give me a little respite from Mr Paterson’s attentions. But it never came. And then one day the same nauseous feeling I had experienced at the beginning of my bout of terrible seasickness returned. At first I thought it was the swaying of the coach, carrying us now towards the Italian border, then, almost in disbelief, it occurred to me there might be quite another reason for my feeling of malaise.

  I was with child.

  Quite suddenly I knew without a shadow of doubt that it was so. For some days afterwards, perhaps as long as the next two weeks, I tried to tell myself there might be some other explanation – the seasickness I had experienced, or even the trauma of the weeks preceding the wedding, might have upset my cycles. Yet in my heart I knew it was not so. And in spite of everything, I could not help but be glad, I would, I knew, be even more tightly bound to Mr Paterson, if such a thing were possible, for soon there would be not only my marriage vows and my duty to my grandparents to hold me, but the welfare of a living, breathing child. A child who would need the security of a loving home where his happiness was assured, as well as his material needs.

  There was all that to think of now. And there was also some apprehension deep within me which I could not understand. I was young, I was strong, I had survived a terrible, life-threatening accident – surely I could survive bearing and giving birth to a child? Then why did I feel this inexplicable fearfulness? In the small dark hours of the night, lying in some strange bed under foreign skies, I tasted something close to panic.

  And yet at the same time I could not help but be glad.

  I did not tell Mr Paterson of my condition at first. I hugged it to myself – my secret – and there was something strangely familiar about the keeping of it. But when he found me retching into the basin one morning and asked me anxiously what ailed me, I could keep it from him no longer.

  I told him, and never have I seen a man more delighted.

  ‘A child?’ His ruddy face, which the hot suns of the continent had made redder than ever, was incredulous. ‘We are going to have a child?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It will be born in the spring.’

  ‘Oh Davina!’ There were tears in his eyes, but his smile told me they were happy tears. ‘I never thought that I would be a father!’

  I could not help but laugh.

  ‘Surely you must have known the likely outcome of the marriage bed!’ I said, a little shamelessly, I dare say, but since I had left my grandparents’ rather restrictive household I had discovered I had perhaps less modesty than might be seemly.

  ‘Well, of course! But all the years I was married to the first Mrs Paterson, there was no such outcome!’ he said. ‘I suppose I got out of the habit of expecting there might be. But there you are – I am a very foolish man. I should have realized you are different. Well – I knew that, of course! I know that you are young and beautiful, and that you make me happy and very proud when I have you on my arm. I imagine other men thinking, How is it that an old goat, such as he, can have such a lovely young wife? But now – to be a father too! Davina, you have made me the happiest man alive!’

  ‘I’m glad you are pleased,’ I said.

  ‘Pleased? I’m more than pleased! But I can see I shall have to take better care of you than ever. I think I should get you home to England at once. We’ll cut the tour short and make our way back.’

  ‘There’s no need for that,’ I protested. ‘I am quite well really – apart from this wretched sickness, and that seems to pass as the day wears on.’

  ‘There is every need!’ Mr Paterson insisted. ‘I want you under the care of a physician I can trust – not these foreign johnnies. And consider how poorly you were on the voyage out – you’d do better to make the return voyage before the risk of winter squalls – and before you are too far gone. Just supposing delays occurred, and you were forced to give birth on this side of the Channel! I want my child born in England, not France!’

  I laughed again – really, there was no stopping him in his enthusiastic delight. And deep in my heart I knew, too, that I would be glad to be back on English soil. The tour had been a hiatus, a dash of unreality in my troubled life. But now, without doubt, I was ready to go home.

  * * *

  We set out at once, recrossing France and heading for the channel coast. When we boarded the ship, I waited with dread for the sickness to begin and worried very much that, if I was terribly ill, it might have some bad effect on the baby. For all Mr Paterson’s pontificating about it being best to get the voyage over early, and my own desire to be back in England, I could not help but feel it might have been better to wait patiently until the middle months before putting my body through the strain of the mal de mer, as I had heard the French call it.

  But I need not have worried. Surprisingly, the crossing had little effect on me. It was as if, having suffered so dreadfully once, I had found my sea legs. The morning nausea was no worse than it had been on land, and, if anything, the fresh salt air braced me.

  We spent the night after we landed at the same inn as we had spent our wedding night – to give me a chance to gather my strength, Mr Paterson said. He was treating me with the utmost consideration and there were certainly no fumblings to endure that night, as there had been on our previous visit. Then, next day, we journeyed back to Bristol.

  The weather was not as hot now as it had been when we left, and the tide was in, so the stench of the river was less overpowering. Though it was not now raining, it was clear there had been at least a sharp shower, for the cobbles gleamed wetly and when we reached the house in Clifton the leaves of the rose bushes near the front door were dripping, dark-green against the last overblown flowers.

  The door was thrown open at once and we went in. I felt only relief that the journey was over at last, though I had no sense of coming home. Why would I? I had never yet lived in this great house; I was mistress in name only.

  We washed off the dust of travel in our own rooms and I changed into a fresh gown. A dish of tea would be waiting downstairs, I knew, and I was more than ready for it.

  As I descended the staircase, I saw Thomas in the hall below, and was surprised when he came towards me, waiting deferentially until I reached the last little flight. There was something almost furtive about his movements, which was unlike him, since he was usually so proud and erect, and he glanced over his shoulder, then peered past me as if to be sure I was alone.

  ‘Thomas,’ I said.

  He extended a thin ebony hand; I saw he was holding an envelope, which he thrust in my direction.

  ‘This came for you, Mrs Paterson.’

  ‘For me?’ I echoed, surprised.

  I took the envelope. It was indeed addressed with my name, but the writing, bold, and in black ink, was quite unknown to me.

  ‘I would open it when you are alone,’ Thomas said. Then, without another word, he turned and glided back in the direction of the servants’ quarters.

  I stared at
the envelope, puzzled. Who would be writing to me, and why had Thomas urged me to open it when I was alone? Curiosity almost got the better of me, then I heard footsteps on the flight of stairs above me and instinctively thrust the letter into the folds of my skirt. Mr Paterson was coming down.

  ‘My, but it’s good to be home! You are ready for a dish of tea, I’ll warrant, my dear!’

  ‘Yes, but first I must fetch a kerchief. I quite forgot to bring one with me…’

  ‘Perrett can fetch it for you.’

  ‘No, there’s no need. And the exercise will do me good!’

  I passed him, keeping the letter guiltily concealed and feeling as furtive as Thomas had looked. Back in my own room I closed the door and stood with my back against it. Then, with fingers that trembled slightly, I tore it open.

  There was just a single sheet of paper inside. I read what was written upon it, in the same bold black hand, and gasped.

  Just a few lines, but so startling the world rocked around me.

  Rowan. Did you not know our daughter? She is two years old and she needs you. So do I.

  And it was signed: Richard Wells.

  Eight

  I was back in the maelstrom. I could not think a single coherent thought. I could scarcely breathe. What did it mean? Was this some new trick he was playing to get me back into his clutches, this ‘dangerous’ man my mother had sought to protect me from, and the thought of whom disturbed me so? I looked at the paper again, and the words leaped out at me.

  Our daughter.

  The little girl outside the cathedral, presumably.

  Our daughter.

  His child – and mine, if this madness was to be believed. But it was not possible! How could I be the mother of a child and not know it?