Heritage of Shame

by Meg Hutchinson

  ‘What?’ Unity scalded the tea leaves. ‘What were he if not drunk… sober folk don’t go seeing fog rise from a motor car!’

  Turning back to face the fire Laban held the pipe in a slightly shaking hand and let his gaze drive deeply into the glowing depths. ‘I’ve seen men drunk and I’ve seen men sober.’ He paused and it seemed to Anne his bent shoulders shuddered beneath the deep breath he drew in. ‘I’ve also seen men feared. That were the look I saw on that man’s face today, Sir Corbett Foley were a man feared.’

  ‘Feared!’ Unity’s rejection of the notion evident in the scorn wrapped retort, she stirred sugar vigorously into freshly poured tea. ‘What’s a man like him have to be feared on!’

  ‘The amulet.’ Anne’s quiet interjection had both faces turn towards her.

  ‘That be nonsense, wench!’ Swift precise movement disguising the tremble in her mind, Unity took charge of the baby Anne had bathed and changed an hour before. Settling him once more into the drawer which was his bed she returned to the table, fussing unnecessarily with the teacups. ‘Talk like that be naught but nonsense. How could a piece of jewellery, a thing wrought by the hand of man, give rise to fear? I’ll tell you how, it be caused by daft folk spreading tales that be no more than superstitious blether… feared of a trinket; Lord, whatever will I hear next!’

  Swivelling slowly in his chair Laban looked hard at his wife. ‘What’s this about an amulet?’

  ‘It was something I brought from Russia,’ Anne answered quickly. ‘I – I asked Unity not to speak of it to you, not because I didn’t trust you not to talk of it but because of its power to harm. I should never have mentioned it at all… I have opened the way for evil to strike at you both.’

  ‘Evil!’ Laban frowned.

  ‘You best tell him everything, wench.’ Unity handed her husband a cup of steaming tea before lowering herself into her chair.

  Fingers tight about her own cup Anne retold the whole of what had happened since being handed the amulet, finishing with the words spoken to her as Sir Corbett turned from placing the covered trinket in the drawer of the cabinet: ‘like a flood, once evil begins it cannot be stopped but must run its course’.

  ‘That was the all of what he said?’ Laban broke the silence he had kept during the long explanation.

  She had not wanted to repeat those final words… did not want to speak them now. Anne stared at the tea which had gone untouched. Was it that she felt them to be too incongruous, too illogical to be believed? But Sir Corbett Foley did believe in what he had said and so had Mikhail Yusupov before him.

  ‘Were that the all of what were said?’ Laban repeated his question, his eyes intent as they looked at Anne.

  ‘No.’ It was almost a whisper. ‘No… he – he said almost the same words Andrei Yusupov said to me at our parting… “I fear time is running out for the peace of nations.”’

  ‘The peace o’ nations, now what were that supposed to mean? The things folk do say, an’ ’im an educated man an’ all; I swear sometimes the smarter a man be supposed to be the dafter he is… peace o’ nations… bah!’ Unity shook her head.

  Placing the pipe between his teeth Laban removed his glance from the two women. Gazing deep into the fire he saw not the dancing flames but the spearpoint flash of gunfire and the black pall of smoke lying over fallen bodies.

  *

  … the hounds of war are straining at the leash…

  War! Tying the ribbons of her cotton nightgown Anne’s fingers trembled. Could there really be any credence to those words? No… she stared at her own frightened face reflected in the mahogany framed mirror set on the wall, no… it was as Unity had said as she had set the supper table… superstitious senseless prattle which none with the least bit of brain would believe. And Corbett Foley of all folk should know better than to go spouting rubbish which only served to frighten them as brainless as himself.

  Sir Corbett was very far from brainless and so was Mikhail Yusupov. They were men of a different world to that of Laban and Unity, they moved in circles whose information was not always given to the ordinary people… but war! The country had lived through the horrors of that.

  In the quiet of the bedroom that had once been shared by Unity’s sons, Anne took her own sleeping child, holding him protectively close to her breast. How many times must Unity have held her children this way, how many times soothed their infant cries and as they grew quieted their fears and sorted their troubles? And what had she truly felt when they had left her to go fighting in a foreign country, in a world so different to their own? Heartbreak? Was that what she herself had felt when it seemed she must part with her son? No, it was not a strong enough word to describe the emotion that had ripped her heart to shreds, and it held only a shadow of the feelings which must have lain beneath the smile forced to Unity’s lips, the smile which underlay the pride she had felt in her tall strong sons. No, heartbreak was a poor word. Anne touched her mouth to the soft downy face, feeling the warmth of smooth velvety skin. It must have been a nightmare of anguish, a torture more painful than could be described, it was the death of the soul; but that death had not ended the woman’s pain.

  Anne’s heart twisted in sympathy. She had seen it on that kind face, a lost haunted look, a look of searching for something she would never find; had heard the echoes of it those first weeks when Unity had come quietly into this room to give the baby his nightly feed and had known the agony of it lived on, returning in the silent hours, even the night not setting her free from the torture of remembering.

  ‘But we will try to help,’ Anne whispered against the tiny cheek. ‘We will love her and you will be the grandson that dreadful war denied her.’

  Returning the baby to his own bed Anne tried to settle to sleep but closing her eyes gave access to the shadows of fear, to the cries of women robbed of their children. It must not happen again… it must never happen again! But earnest as her silent prayer was the answer which echoed chilled her heart.

  Evil finds many ways.

  *

  She had to be given a second chance. There had to be a way… there must be a way.

  Heaven helps those who help themselves.

  It was an old adage and for many perhaps a true one. Lying sleepless in her bed Clara Mather stared into the flickering shadows cast by the oil lamp set close. She could hardly expect heaven to help with what it was she wanted… but she could help herself.

  That first time… she had been so close that day. With her thin lips clamped she let the episode run again in her mind. If only Unity Hurley had stepped from that poky kitchen, just a moment was all it would have taken, a moment and it would have been done, and half of the threat which hung over Quenton would have been wiped away. But it had not happened, Jacob Corby’s grandchild still lived and with it the threat to her own son.

  Quenton! Clara’s fingers gripped the sheet. If just a quarter of his brain was set to thinking of the future! But he was an almost carbon copy of his father… leave things to her, Mother would take care of things. It would be the same in this; if Quenton’s path was to be swept clear she would have to wield the broom. Well, the broom stood ready. She glanced to where the wardrobe stood wreathed in shadow. All that was needed was the chance to use it.

  The chance would come. Clara closed her eyes but her fingers retained their hold on the sheet. The problem was when and where would opportunity present itself? That was the crux of everything… the second time could well prove the last; if she didn’t strike when that moment came she might well never have the chance again.

  Prepared! Her eyes slowly opening Clara smiled into the shadows as if welcoming an old and dear friend. That was it, she must be prepared. True, the essence of wolfsbane was ready and more than powerful enough to see a child safely out of this world, but left where it was in the pocket of her mourning coat meant any opportunity she might have to use it would needs be coupled with time, time to take it from that coat and place it in her bag. But chance was not always so
favourable.

  Throwing off the covers she padded quickly across the room, throwing open the door of the tall wardrobe. Touch born of experience she reached into the dim interior taking out the carefully covered suit. Reaching into the ruched muff she felt the small bottle cold in her hand. This must be always with her. Lifting her bag from its place on the shelf of the wardrobe she slipped the bottle inside. From this moment she would carry it everywhere she went.

  Returning bag and suit to their respective places she had half closed the door then paused as light from the lamp caught its mirrored front in a pale gold gleam. A smile cold and venal touched her thin lipped mouth, her eyes following the shift of the limpid reflection which faded into obscurity as she slowly pushed the door closed.

  Light was so easily snuffed out. Slipping into bed she let the smile play. So was the life of a child!

  14

  ‘But what if he refuses, what if he says the circumstances of birth forbid it?’

  ‘I doubts he’ll do that.’ Unity smiled at the girl whose lips trembled on her words. ‘Vicar be an understanding man, he won’t allow no dictates to prevent a soul being brought to God.’

  Fastening the coat which years before had become too small, Anne let her glance wander to the child gurgling happily in his bed, her fingers clumsy as she realised what Unity was asking of her: to tell her son was a bastard, a child born of lust… of rape.

  ‘If only I could be sure.’ Unaware she had given voice to the thought, Anne was startled by the sharp response.

  ‘There be only one way of knowing that. You go to the vicar and asks; we can give that child of your’n his name, we needs no help in that but only a man of the cloth can enrol him in the community of heaven. He needs be baptised, taken into the church.’

  ‘Are bastards accepted into the church?’ Anne’s heart tripped on the thought.

  Her hands falling to her sides Unity glanced at the photograph adorning the mantel shelf. ‘The love of Jesus Christ be given all babes,’ she said softly, ‘no matter the way of their coming nor of their going. The vicar along of St Lawrence knows that, he be more’n a man in a long frock wi’ a book in his hand, he be a man with a soul and I be thinking he won’t turn you away.’

  … he won’t turn you away…

  Her hand on the brightly polished brass knocker set high on the heavy door of the vicarage, Anne hesitated. What if Unity’s words proved empty, what if this representative of church and faith refused to baptise her son, turned her away with nothing but condemnation? But she had done nothing to be condemned for.

  ‘Oh, I didn’t ’ear you knock.’

  Anne blinked at the woman who had opened the door.

  ‘I ’pologises if I’ve kept you standin’. You’ll be wantin’ to see the reverend; come you in, hisself be in the study.’

  Why had she come here, why had she listened to Unity? Every sense telling her to turn and run from this house, Anne followed in the woman’s wake.

  Middle aged, silver at the temples, eyes a faded blue beneath sensitive brows, the white collar a shriek against the dark grey black of his cassock, a man looked up smiling as his housekeeper ushered Anne into the pristinely neat yet small room.

  ‘Welcome,’ his smile deepened as he rose to his feet. ‘What can I do for you?’

  Would his smile be so warm, his welcome as genuine once he heard? Anne perched unhappily on the edge of the chair he pointed to.

  ‘My name is John,’ he smiled again, showing strong, well cared for teeth, ‘Father John Pickard.’

  Almost too quiet to be audible Anne answered, ‘Anne – Anne Corby. I – I want to ask will you baptise my child?’

  Blue eyes regaining a little of their lost radiance the man resumed his seat, drawing to him a sheet of paper then dipping the nib of a pen into the well of a glass inkstand.

  ‘Baptism, is it? Bringing a soul into the family of God is a service which never fails to fill my heart with gratitude and pleasure. Now, if we can take a few details, Mrs Corby…’

  ‘Miss.’ Anne swallowed hard. ‘I am Miss Corby, I am not married.’

  A slight frown drawing the sensitive brows closer together, the pen hovered over the empty page.

  ‘But you said the infant was your child.’

  Clutching her fingers together, her breath catching in her throat, Anne nodded.

  ‘And the father… is there a reason why he should not marry you?’

  Silence following the question seemed to press in upon Anne, a weight threatening to push her into the ground. This was the moment she had known would come, he would no doubt express a sorrow at having to refuse her request yet still he would turn her away; bastards were not welcome into the fold of the faithful.

  ‘There is every reason.’ She forced the words to come. ‘He is not in this country.’

  Was it a sigh of relief she had heard? Anne raised her head at the soft sound, meeting the return of a smile.

  ‘Does he – the father – know of his child?’ A shake of her head answering him the vicar went on. ‘Then you must write to him, a letter will surely bring him home—’

  ‘That will not be possible.’ The interruption was filled with a quiet assertion that had the frown return to the man’s face. ‘You see I do not know the name of the father of my son.’

  The chink of pen being returned to the glass ink stand the only sound disturbing the oppressive stillness, Anne rose to her feet. She would not embarrass the priest by staying longer. Thanking him briefly for seeing her she turned for the door, but before she had taken a step the man spoke quietly.

  ‘We do not have the confessional in this church, Miss Corby, and the forgiveness of any sin we view as being the prerogative of our Lord and no other; however we as His ministers are ever ready, and I hope willing, to listen and if possible to offer help.’

  ‘It was no fault of my child… the church is wrong to allow the sins of the father to fall upon the child!’ Words ripping from her in a vehement mixture of defence and admonition, Anne whirled to face the priest. ‘He deserves the right to be counted amongst the children of God, to be baptised into the love and faith of Christ. Who are you to deny any child that, regardless of his begetting!’

  ‘Who indeed!’ Clean, long fingered hands spread wide on the gleaming desk. ‘And who am I to say where any fault may lie? But again I say as a man of God I am willing to listen if my doing so might bring any sort of solace.’

  Solace! Anne dropped heavily to the chair she had just vacated. What comfort could anyone give a girl who had pushed a man to his death, a spike through his throat, who had watched a mother she loved dragged from a sleigh and tom to pieces by ravening wolves then days later had been raped by a laughing beast of a man: what words could anyone use which would erase the horrors she had endured? Yet even as the thoughts raged in her mind Anne began to speak, telling the priest the tale of abuse which had led to the birth of a child, the finish of which was a further imploring.

  ‘God knows he is innocent of any blame, a perfectly innocent child who must carry the stigma of his birth all the days of his life. Can the church add to that by denying him baptism?’

  His kind eyes relaying his sympathy, Father John Pickard reached again for the pen. ‘No, my dear,’ his finely marked mouth smiled with the reply, ‘the church will not add to that, your son will receive baptism, he will be welcomed into the body of Christ.’

  *

  Joshua Laban! Unity smiled through a mist of tears. The child were to be named for her Laban. The vicar had agreed to the baptism and Anne had chosen the names. Laban. She sniffed loudly. Anne Corby had given both herself and Laban something they had never dreamed to have… a child to carry his name.

  ‘And a proud one you’ll make it, you see if I don’t be right.’ Lifting the gurgling infant she lay him in the old fashioned, deep bodied perambulator Laban had bought from the pawnshop. She had pushed this so many times, Luke laid snug beneath its covers while Matthew perched on its end, his legs da
ngling beneath the handle, his heels drumming against its wicker frame.

  Glancing at the photograph which was a copy of that kept in the parlour and lovingly dusted each day she smiled. ‘You would have loved her and the child, loved them as we do.’

  ‘I have the purses wrapped—’

  Anne entered the kitchen, interrupting the whisper.

  ‘—is there anything you want me to bring from the town?’

  ‘No.’ Unity blinked her eyes clear. ‘No doubt, you’ll have enough to carry home with what Laban will have waiting, seems there be more work every day, ’sides I’ve the intention of going into Darlaston meself and this here young man be going to escort me.’

  ‘I see!’ Anne pretended offence as she looked at her son, his dark eyes wide and alert, watching every movement. ‘So you prefer another woman’s company, do you! Well, listen to me, my lad, misbehave and you are in serious trouble.’

  A gurgle her answer, Anne laughed. ‘A fat lot of notice he takes. Seriously though, you don’t have to be burdened with him, I can just as easily take him with me.’

  ‘He be no burden.’ Unity buttoned her coat determinedly. ‘And you and me can walk together as far as the leather works then him and me will carry on. You need have no fears for this lad, I’ve got a feed all wrapped and keeping warm ’neath the blanket should he need it.’

  ‘I will never fear for him so long as he is with you.’ Anne kissed the lined cheek, aware of the stifled sob greeting her words. These two people, Unity and her husband, she would trust them with her life, no – she smiled, following after the older woman as she left the house – she would trust either of them with far more than that, she would trust them with her son’s life.

  ‘Now you make sure Laban don’t go piling too much on you.’ Unity had chatted all the way from Blockall, now nearing the middle of Church Street she glanced at Anne when there was no reply.

  ‘You mark what I says…’

  But Anne was not marking what she said, instead she was staring towards the grounds of St Lawrence churchyard, the look on her face one of horror. But what was there in the churchyard that could possibly frighten the wench? Unity’s frown deepened as Anne drew closer to her side, the girl’s glance still resting on something she alone could see. Was it something yet in those grounds or something which had been there before… something which had happened, and had put the fear of the devil into Anne Corby? Whatever it was the wench had kept it to herself.