by M K Jones
The following morning, after speaking to Miss Eskwith about the arrangements for the following week she put on her coat, pinned her hat in place and made her way to the servants’ entrance door at the back of the house. Most of the servants who lived out arrived at around six o’clock. She guessed that some might be there already. Pulling back the bolts on the great wooden door, she opened the door to find not servants, but a small, muddy girl lying senseless on the doorstep.
Thirty Seven
It took a moment of open-mouthed incredulity before her brain began to work again. Looking around the cobbled yard, and seeing that no-one else was yet about, she bent and picked up the child. She carried her to the sitting room, laid her in a chair, then ran across the corridor to the servants’ hall, where she shouted at an under butler to find Mr Hughes immediately and ask him to come to her sitting room.
When Hughes arrived, somewhat out of breath and startled, he found her knelt over the body of a half-dressed girl with a pile of wet filthy clothes on the floor.
“Mrs Davies! What is this?”
“On the doorstep,” she muttered, pulling at shoes and stockings, “unconscious and can’t be woken.” She patted the girl’s hands and cheeks again, and as her hand touched her right cheek, the girl moaned.
“Look at this wound, Mr Hughes. It’s festering and stinking. Why is her face so black? Please organise one of the maids to fetch some clean hot water, cloths and some arnica. It must be cleaned at once.”
He went next door to the kitchen where he found the senior seamstress lingering in the kitchen for a cup of tea with the pantry maids. All were waiting to hear the reason for the commotion from the housekeeper’s room.
“Mrs Fitzgerald, please fetch hot water, cloths and arnica, at once.”
“Yes, sir,” the woman responded. “Shall I fetch Nurse?”
“What?” He was distracted, both by concern for Mrs Davies and by Honora Fitzgerald’s strong Irish accent.
“Nurse, sir. In the nursery?”
“Oh, yes. Good idea. Fetch first what Mrs Davies has asked for, then get Nurse down.”
The woman left the kitchen, watched by the pantry maids who had been whispering to each other. The butler rounded on them. “Carry on with your work. No fuss, please. Mrs Davies is dealing with the situation. Return to your work now!” The firmness of his words sent them scuttling. A bell rang in the corridor.
“His Lordship’s valet,” Hughes said to the cook who had just appeared in the kitchen. “He’ll be wanting the tea tray. Get on with it.”
When Hughes put his head around the door of Moira’s sitting room half an hour later, Honora Fitzgerald had delivered the water and cloths, and Nurse was in attendance, gently examining the head wound. The child was moaning, her eyes still closed. He called softly to Mrs Davies for news.
“Not good, Mr Hughes. Nurse is very concerned. The wound is festering and the child is shivering from cold, although her skin is hot. There is a severe fever.”
At that moment the girl cried out and opened her eye. Seeing the people gathered around her, she tried to stand, but fell murmuring.
“What is she saying, Nurse?” Mrs Davies demanded, going back to stand next to the chair.
“A name, I think, Mrs Davies. I asked her who she is. She cried and shook her head. The she said ‘mamma’ and ‘Esme’ and ‘sorry’, I think.”
Moira put her hands to her mouth and shrieked, so loudly that the butler ran into the room to catch her, fearing from her white face and swaying body that she might be about to faint. But her face looked joyful.
“Esme. She said Esme. Are you sure, Nurse?” She took the startled nurse by the arm. “Are you certain she said Esme?”
“Yes, Mrs Davies. That’s how it sounded.” She shook Moira Davies’s gripping hand off her arm. “This child is very sick indeed and may not survive. The doctor should be summoned.”
Hughes stood beside Moira Davies and whispered so that the others could not hear. “Do you know who this child is, Mrs Davies?”
“This is my niece, Esme Peach,” she whispered back. “She has come to find me.”
Thirty Eight
Despite opening her one good eye, Alice became more deeply unconsciousness as the hours passed, unaware that she had been carried into the small bedroom next to Mrs Davies’s sitting room, undressed and put into the bed, and her head wound cleaned and dressed. She continued to moan and attempted to turn her body from time to time, but spoke no further.
The doctor, who had been summoned from Newport, arrived in the early evening. Having spent a half hour with the girl, he finally turned to an anxious Moira, who was hovering in the doorway.
“I can give you no good account of her condition, Mrs Davies. It’s a serious fever, which may be the result of a contagion, or may be simply from becoming very cold. I believe it to be pneumonia. The lungs are weak. This child had not, I think, drunk well enough for many days before she arrived here.”
“But you can save her, doctor?” She pleaded with him, in a voice filled with passion that he had never heard before from this normally aloof woman.
“I’m sorry, Mrs Davies. I make no promises. She is going to need careful nursing. The wound on her forehead has become septic and may be affecting her brain. The blackness is the path of infection. If it spreads further, then it may be fatal. It must be kept clean and covered and place this on it.” He handed her a pot of black ointment, and seeing her forlorn face, put a hand to rest on her arm. “Time, and good nursing, will tell. I shall call again tomorrow morning. In the meantime, try to get her to take some broth, whatever you can get into her.”
Moira nodded and turned to the girl, but not before she saw him pause in the doorway, look at Hughes and shake his head.
“You will not die,” She whispered in Alice’s ear. She took her hand and buried her face in the pillow next to her head. “You will not die.”
By the following morning, as the servants arrived, the sudden appearance of Mrs Davies’s niece, and Mrs Davies own state of mind, were the only topics of discussion in the kitchen. Cook and Nurse had spent much of the day helping Mrs Davies, but they could see the girl’s condition was deteriorating, as her face swelled with infection and her breathing became more and more laboured. Rumours of imminent death had run through the house throughout the day, even reaching Her Ladyship’s personal maid.
At seven o’clock, after dinner, the countess appeared without warning in the kitchen, throwing the thirteen-year-old kitchen maid into a nervous skitter.
“You, maid, what is your name?”
“Mary Evans, Your Ladyship.” The girl bobbed an off-balance curtsy.
“Don’t shake, girl. I’m not going to eat you. Where is Cook?”
“I think… I’m not sure,” she quailed and her lip quivered under the countess’s frown, but Her Ladyship was not an unkind woman.
“Just tell me,” she spoke in a softer voice.
“She has gone to see if she can be of help to Mrs Davies, Your Ladyship,” the girl stuttered, her head bowed.
“Thank you, Mary Evans. Please return to whatever you were doing. Don’t sniff, girl. I can’t abide it.”
“No, Your Ladyship. Sorry, Your Ladyship.” She had never seen her employer in her three months at the big house, and had never expected to speak directly to her. In a state of great excitement she leaned around the kitchen entrance, watching the elegant swishing silk bustle disappear down the servants’ corridor and around the corner into Moira’s sitting room.
Moira was sitting in the armchair facing the fire with her eyes closed, but not asleep. The swish of silk alerted her to a presence and as soon as she saw the countess, she stood up, swaying slightly.
“Please, Mrs Davies, sit down. You look exhausted.”
“Your Ladyship, I… I… yes, I am very tired, but I wasn’t sleeping, just resting. Mrs Collins is sitting with my niece.”
“I heard the story from Jane. How is the girl?”
“
Not well, ma’am. Not well. She has a pneumonic fever and a badly infected wound on her head. The doctor has given us some medicine but there is no relief as yet. And she seems to have a damaged ankle.”
“May I see her?”
“Of course.” She walked to the door of the small bedroom and spoke back over her shoulder. “There’s no risk from the infection, Your Ladyship.”
As they reached the doorway Moira stood aside and the countess was able to look in. The cook, Mrs Collins, sat in a high-backed chair at the bedside, mopping the brow of the girl, who lay motionless. The swelling had spread across her forehead and down her cheek, the skin stretched and black, making the face look grotesque. Cook looked up and the countess could see from her expression just how serious the situation was.
“No improvement, then?”
“I’m afraid not, Your Ladyship.” Mrs Collins glanced across at Moira. “In fact, I think the badness is spreading. I think the doctor should be called again.”
The countess saw that Moira had put her hands behind her back to hold onto the door jamb.
“I shall ask Jane to telephone to the exchange to bring the doctor immediately.” She waved away the thanks from Moira. “And, Mrs Davies, would you come with me back to your sitting room, please.”
Moira nodded and followed. The countess indicated for her to sit and she sat also, which would have amazed Moira if she had thought about it, for the countess had rarely visited her sitting room, let alone sat with her.
“It seems that the doctor’s remedy is having no effect?”
“It’s getting worse, ma’am.”
“I see. This child is your only family now, Mrs Davies?”
“Yes, ma’am. I have no-one left but her.” Tears came to her eyes and she made no attempt to wipe them.
“Speak to Mrs Fitzgerald. At once.”
“Ma’am?” This was most unexpected. What was the point of speaking to the Irish seamstress? The countess saw her puzzled expression.
“I have spoken many times with Mrs Fitzgerald, about her past and what she knows. Her mother was a herbalist and, well… a woman of certain abilities in Ireland, as was her mother and her grandmother before. They passed on… special knowledge to Mrs Fitzgerald. She knows a great deal about the relief of many conditions, probably more than the doctor.” She paused, and leaned forwards towards Moira. “She may be able to help you, if the doctor has nothing further to offer.” With that, she stood up, nodded briskly at Moira, and left the room.
Moira sat, quite stunned, as what she had just heard sunk in. She had rarely spoken with the seamstress on any matter, other than those that directly affected her work. The woman was a talented mender and maker with any kind of material, but that the red-faced, squat Irish woman with the voluminous pockets would have anything else to offer was unthinkable. But she would ask, rather than risk offending the countess.
Cook was the servants’ everyday provider of poultices and other simple medicines, usually made from things she kept in the kitchen. Moira was unfamiliar with herbalism, but inclined to think of it as a primitive practice. But the past six months of nursing her husband through his illness, decline and death, the death of both of her parents from influenza, and her sister’s recent horrific death, gave her pause for thought. If the doctor could do nothing, she would do anything she had to do to save Esme.
Thirty Nine
Within an hour of the countess’s departure the doctor arrived in his carriage, wrapped up in his greatcoat against the wind and rain, looking rather put out.
“I said I would return in the morning, Mrs Davies. Why have I been summoned?”
“My niece is worsening, Doctor. Your remedy is not working. And her breathing is becoming more laboured. Her Ladyship asked that you be called immediately.”
At the mention of the countess he raised his eyebrows. “Take me to the child immediately.”
“Of course, doctor.”
As they walked towards the patient’s room, Mrs Davies saw Honora in the doorway of the kitchen, so she beckoned to her.
“Mrs Fitzgerald, I need to speak to you as soon as the doctor is gone. Will you wait?”
“Of course, ma’am. I’m ready.”
“Ready for what?” Moira wondered, but the doctor was already in the bedroom, so she nodded and followed him. As she shut the door she noticed that Honora was fingering something in her pocket.
As soon as he looked at Alice, the doctor shook his head. He carefully removed the bandage covering the wound and as he did so, the foul smell of pus oozing from the gash hit Moira. More than half of the little girl’s face was obliterated by the swelling and was black.
“As I feared, Mrs Davies. The illness is too far advanced. I believe the poison has spread into the blood. I can do no more. You must be prepared.”
Moira sank heavily into the chair next to the bed. “Nothing?”
“The infection is spreading. If you wish I could take her to the hospital, but I don’t believe that their nursing would be any better than that she is receiving here. Until the new hospital is built, the current building is not very… satisfactory, on any account.”
“No, thank you, doctor. If the worst is to happen, I want my Esme here with me.” Moira knew the reputation of the hospital at Newport for killing more of its poorer patients than it cured. Indeed, it was one of the reasons why the earl had set up a board of subscriptions to build a modern institution which was nearing completion. But not in time for her niece.
“Very well. Keep her warm and clean, ma’am. Try to get her to take nourishment of some kind. And hope and pray.” He smiled compassionately at her, but was momentarily taken back by the look of fury she cast at him. He put it down to grief. “I shall return in the morning.” He went to shake her hand but she turned away from him and returned to the bedside, her stiff back making it clear that she wanted him to leave.
Moira sat, unmoving, by the bed, holding Alice’s hand and listening to the sounds of the doctor’s departure. She stood and turned to the door, where Honora Fitzgerald was standing, silently staring at Alice in the bed. The bandage hadn’t been replaced and the candlelight cast dancing shadows over her blackened face, making it appear to pulsateand seep. Honora moved to the bed, never taking her eyes off the girl, signalling to Moira to move away. She sat and leaned over, putting one hand on Alice’s forehead and one on her chest.
Moira had her back against the wall to steady herself. She was momentarily distracted by an idea that, as they touched the child, Honora’s hands gave off tiny green flashes, but it must have been a trick of the candlelight. The only sound in the room was Alice’s laboured breathing. The seamstress nodded decisively.
“This is very bad indeed… but maybe not fatal.”
Moira let out the breath that she didn’t know she had been holding as Honora turned to her.
“The thing is, Mrs Davies, I’m not a medical. I have knowledge, as Her Ladyship has told you. My remedies are old, but you must decide if you want me to try.”
“I have nowhere else to turn. Do whatever you can.”
“You have faith, Mrs Davies.”
“I don’t know what I have, Mrs Fitzgerald. I just know that she will surely die and you are my last hope, whatever the outcome,” she added, looking directly at the other woman. “And I think you knew already.”
Honora reached into the pocket where the Moira had seen her fingers move earlier, and brought out a small tin. As she removed the lid, sweetness filled the room.
“Honey is part of the blend, good for wounds. But there’s more in here than that, Mrs Davies. A strong… remedy. You’re sure, now?”
“Yes.” Moira didn’t hesitate. She felt certainty now, making the decision without needing to think.
“Is this water clean?”
“No, I washed her face before the doctor came.”
“I need clean water, boiled and cooled. Can you arrange that?”
“Yes, but…” Moira felt reluctant to leave.
Moira left and ran to the kitchen, as Honora poured a few drops of the liquid into Alice’s mouth.
When Moira returned, Honora hadn’t seemed to have changed position, and was still intently watching Alice, while swaying gently backwards and forwards, muttering under her breath. It also seemed to Moira that the child’s breathing was easier.
“I think the breathing is a little relieved. But it’s early yet. Sure now, we’ll start on her poor face. Put the water here, ma’am.” Moira did as she was told, gratefully.
Honora carefully washed Alice’s face in the clean water, then took a wooden stick, dipped it in the tin, and applied the thick paste from within to the wound and its surrounding flesh. All the time she gently swayed back and forth, eyes closed, chanting incomprehensibly. The paste seemed to ripple and flutter around Alice’s face. Moira told herself it must be the candlelight causing the apparition.
“Are you going to need a fresh bandage?”
“No, ma’am. This will work best without covering. It must stay on for four hours, then be removed. Very gently mind, peeled away, and re-applied. We’ll do this for twenty-four hours. Only then we’ll know what will be.” She looked at Moira.
“I would like to suggest, ma’am, that I’ll stay with the child for the night.” She saw a protest coming and put up her hand. “I’m versed in this. Begging your pardon, ma’am, but you are not. You look like you haven’t slept for days. If you care to go next door you can refresh yourself and sleep a little while. I can call you if there’s a change.”
“You were about to go home, weren’t you, Mrs Fitzgerald. What about your family?”
