by M K Jones
Fiona had been in the loft and found the documents. At supper Maggie saw them on the coffee table. By the time they finished and Jack went off to join his cousins to play computer games upstairs, she couldn’t wait to see them. Alice elected to stay with her to see them too.
“Have you looked at them?” Alice whispered to Maggie.
“No, I have no idea what’s in there,” Maggie replied.
“It’s so exciting!”
“She’s getting as bad as you about this stuff.” Fiona commented from behind them, holding a coffee tray.
“So much for being interested in mum and dad’s papers,” Maggie thought wryly.
She and Alice sat on the settee in front of the box with Graeme sat opposite. Fiona wandered off upstairs to check that Jack was getting a chance to use the computer. Maggie noticed that Graeme seemed interested over dinner when she spoke about the papers, but a stern glance from her sister had shut him up. Now she wasn’t around, he leaned forwards, eager to see what the documents were going to reveal.
They were in a brown envelope, which Maggie pickedup and turned upside down, spilling the contents out onto the table. Old bills, receipts and letters appeared, some inside fading envelopes, others loose. She and Graeme went through them, checking for anything significant, which there wasn’t.
“Most of these can be thrown away,” Graeme murmured, putting aside a bill for a three-piece suite that had cost seventy-five guineas in 1955. “Unless you think there’s a reason to keep something like this.”
“There’s no reason, other than sentimental value. That was the only suite mum and dad ever owned.”
As they sorted through the pile, Alice had taken and opened two sealed envelopes, and was examining the contents.
“Wow! Look at these, Mum.” She handed Maggie a pile of certificates of births, marriages and deaths.
Maggie’s heart missed a beat, this was the sort of thing she had hoped for. Her mother and father’s certificates were there. The remainder were certificates of the births, marriages and death of her father’s parents, of which she already had copies. The opportunity to handle these documents was a source of wonder. The oldest of them was her grandfather George’s birth certificate, from 1883. The paper had worn thin with age and Maggie handled it carefully, showing it to Alice and Graeme.
“Look at the handwriting, isn’t it fantastic?” she said, pointing to the beautiful nineteenth-century copperplate of the registrar, a Mr Henry Shillingsworth. For quarter of an hour they admired and studied the certificates. It was very interesting, but they revealed nothing that Maggie didn’t already know.
She reached across to the second envelope, carefully pulling it open and upending the contents onto the table in front of them. It was a pile of monochrome photographs. There were holiday snaps, pictures of group outings taken in front of cars, buses, horses and carts. There was a wedding with many of the male guests in army uniform, which they guessed was of the World War One era, gathered around a solemn bride and groom. There was a series of portraits, classic Victorian posed shots of well-dressed individuals, and family groups staring disdainfully at the camera.
“Who are these people, Mum?”
“I have no idea,” Maggie replied. A few were dated and labelled only with first names, none of which Maggie recognised. The majority gave no indication of who the people were, or when they had been taken.
“It’s like looking at another world,” said Graeme.
“It is another world,” said Maggie, “but, whose?”
“Does it matter?” They were so absorbed that they hadn’t seen Fiona come back into the room. She stood by the door, frowning at the top of Graeme’s head.
“What do you know about these pictures?” Maggie demanded. “You knew they were here, didn’t you, Fee?”
“I’d forgotten.” Fiona shrugged. “I think they’re mostly dad’s family. They belonged to Nanna.”
“But you knew what I’ve been doing all this time, looking for our family’s history, and you’ve been sitting on this lot. It would have saved me hours!”
Graeme shuffled on the sofa, opened his mouth, then closed it again. The room was silent. Fiona balled her fists and drew in a deep breath but Alice screamed.
“Oh my God, look at this!” Alice was holding up one of the Victorian portraits from the bottom of the pile. She thrust the stiff card at Maggie.
“Look at it, Mum! It’s you!” Maggie took the portrait and stared at herself, in a Victorian floor-length dress with her hair dressed high off her forehead. She flipped the card over. The back was decorated with a floral pattern in each corner and the photographer’s stamp and the words: “Jones 1899.” Maggie looked up at Alice. “It’s not me. I think we’re looking at Great-Grandmother Ruth.”
Forty One
May to June 1883
Alice remained unconscious and still, but by the evening she was breathing quietly. Moira left her side for short periods and only to speak to Miss Eskwith about household arrangements, as the countess would be leaving the following morning to join the earl in London. Moira ate alone again that evening, and had just finished her meal when there was a knock at her door preceding the entrance of the countess.
“Please sit, Mrs Davies.” She sat opposite Moira. “Thank you for the message earlier. I’m relieved to hear that your niece is improving. I am also delighted that my advice was of some help. Sometimes, Mrs Fitzgerald’s knowledge is wondrous indeed.” The countess briefly stared into space. “I shall be leaving in the morning. Is there any other help you need? I believe that Nurse is relieving you so that you can sleep?”
“Yes, Your Ladyship, Nurse has been very attentive. I need nothing further, thank you. I must wait now to find out Esme’s state of mind when she awakes, and we can’t tell when that will be.”
“May I look at her again?”
“Of course, Your Ladyship.”
Moira followed the countess into her bedroom. Nurse stood as they entered and moved away from the bed. The countess walked to the bedside and looked down. Then she put her hand out and gently touched Alice’s hand and held it for a few seconds, and Moira Davies thought that she saw a moistening of tears.
“Well, Mrs Davies. You have some hope now.” She walked back into the sitting room, followed by Moira. She returned to her usual, business-like manner. “When the Earl and I return from London we will have a party of friends. I hope that you will be able to prepare?”
“Of course, Your Ladyship. Miss Eskwith and I will not let you down.”
“I know. Thank you. I shall write when we are to return.”
Almost immediately after the countess left, Mr Hughes appeared in the doorway with a tea tray. “I thought you might be in need of refreshment, Mrs Davies.”
She beckoned him in, to the seat vacated by the countess. They sat drinking tea in silence. Hughes regarded her with a look she knew well.
“You have something on your mind, Mr Hughes?”
He put the porcelain cup carefully back onto its saucer, set it down on the occasional table, and folded his hands in his lap.
“I’m pleased the child is improving. Have you considered the manner of her arrival, Mrs Davies?”
“I haven’t given it much thought, Mr Hughes. Except that I suppose she received my letter and came to find me. How else would she have known where to go?”
“Indeed, that would seem to be commonsense, Mrs Davies. Except, you don’t yet know if she can read.”
“Someone else may have read it to her.”
He nodded his head slowly. “And she managed to find her way here, alone and sick. That’s quite a feat, don’t you think?”
“A miracle. How else can I think of it?” She turned to look into the fire.
“I shan’t need this in the evenings any longer, Mr Hughes. It’s a little too warm in here now. I’m feeling rather sleepy.”
“Your niece is much… smaller than I expected her to be. I had understood that she was a rather large gir
l. ‘A big lump of a girl’ was how you described her.”
“The shock of losing her mother, being put in the workhouse, then travelling so far to get to me, has worn her away to a skeleton, Mr Hughes. When she’s well she’ll have a healthier look.”
He sat back in his chair looking at Moira as she gazed at the cup in her trembling hand, the only sound the gentle crackling of the wood on the fire. He shuffled forwards, hesitated, then sat up.
“I was in Newport earlier. There was a great to-do a few days ago. Some people thought they had seen a leper. Can you believe that? And the leper was looking for a girl who had been trying to get onto the paddle steamer. The constables and the crowd gave chase, but both disappeared. There’s now a great deal of concern to contain the leper.”
“But not the child?”
“No. The child had no sign of the disease.”
“Then we must hope they are discovered quickly.”
“Indeed. Of course, the child may not have been connected with the leper. There was also a farmer in town, searching for his missing daughter. He thought she might have crossed the Channel on the paddle steamer. He was going to there to view a body that had been washed up just off the pier”
“And did he find his child, Mr Hughes?”
“I don’t know, Mrs Davies. I didn’t hear the end of the story.”
“Poor man.” She looked up from the cup. “Although Esme is not my own child, I feel as much for her as if she were. I was in despair when she went missing. And the relief at finding her is great indeed, but I won’t be happy in my mind until I find out her condition.”
“You’ve endured a good deal this past twelve-month, Mrs Davies.”
“When my parents went I was very much saddened, but one loses parents. Arthur’s passing was different. When I heard that my sister had died in such horrible circumstances,” she stopped and put her cup down, knocking it so that some tea spilled out. She stared at her hands as she twisted and rubbed her long fingers, “I thought I would go mad. Now I have Esme. And whatever her condition, I will be her mother and father. I will be everything to her. We will be everything to each other.” She put her hands out to the fire as if to warm them, but quickly pulled back from the heat.
Mr Hughes stood up, shaking his head imperceptibly. “I’m going into Newport again in a few days. Shall I enquire about the end of the story?”
“As you wish, Mr Hughes. Now, if you will excuse me, I must go to my niece.”
“Of course, Mrs Davies. Good night.”
After he left, the housekeeper didn’t go to the sick room, but sat down in her armchair, in front of her fire and stared into the flames.
Forty Two
Three days later, Moira received a letter from the countess saying that she had been delayed in London and wouldn’t be returning for a further two weeks, which gave her and Hughes some time to themselves. The doctor had called twice, and found improvement in the head wound. Alice was still barely conscious, although able to swallow the liquid broth made up by Cook. Honora had recommended that the poultices and the drops could stop after five days, provided there was no relapse, but Mrs Davies could see her face clearly. There was no resemblance to her sister or herself.
“She undoubtedly resembles her father’s line,” she remarked to Cook, who was helping her to raise Alice by the shoulders to pour a few spoons of broth into her mouth.
On the fifth day, Alice was restless and sweating profusely and Moira had to change the sheets twice, which she thought might be a good sign. But now the child was still again, so she decided to rest in her chair for a few hours.
At daybreak, she awoke suddenly, startled by a noise. Seeing that light was coming into the room she assumed that one of the servants had called out. But then she heard the noise again, a low moan, like that of a wounded animal. Jumping from her chair, she ran to the bed and found a pair of unblinking eyes staring up at her, mouth opening and closing.
“Esme! My dear! You’re awake. Don’t worry about anything. Here, try some water.” Very gently she lifted the child’s head, put a glass to the lips and felt a thrill of relief as the girl swallowed a few sips.
“Carefully, my dear, carefully. You’ve been very ill.” She rested the head back on the pillow. “Can you hear me?”
The small head nodded very slightly. “You came to find me. I am your Aunt Moira. Do you remember?”
Her head shook once and she winced.
“Oh no! Don’t try to move your head. You have a bad wound on your temple that will hurt if you move.”
Her eyes closed again.
“That’s my lovely girl,” Moira whispered, bending down to kiss her brow. “Go back to sleep. I am going to be here when you wake again.”
One more, tiny nod of her head. Then stillness. Her breathing was measured and rhythmic.
Moira sat perfectly still, watching the sleeping child, tears tracking down her face unchecked. She didn’t look up when Cook came into the room half an hour later with a cup of tea. Seeing her tears, Cook opened her mouth to say something, but Moira looked up and put her finger to her lips, whispering, “She woke, Mrs Collins. She saw me and nodded and understood when I spoke to her. Her brain has survived.”
Cook put the tea onto the table, squeezed Mrs Davies’s hands, then ran to tell the rest of the servants.
For the next few days, although Alice didn’t fully regain consciousness, they were able to sit her up to swallow broth, which she did uncomplainingly. The doctor attended daily, and professed himself delighted with the improvement and confident that full full health would be regained with proper nursing. He prescribed a tonic, which Honora approved of when secretly consulted by Moira
On the tenth day, after increasing periods of semi-consciousness, Moira found the girl awake, lying still, but watching her move around the room. She sat on the edge of the bed and took hold of Alice’s hand.
“Can you hear me, my dear?”
“Does it still hurt to move your head?”
A nod and a wince.
Moira smiled and said, “Don’t move, now. I’m going to wash your head – very carefully, I promise. Squeeze my hand if I hurt you.”
Smiling reassuringly at her, Moira took up a flannel from the dish of hot water on the bedside table and carefully smoothed it over Alice’s face. She hesitated a few times as she neared the wound and little fingers squeezed hers tightly. Eventually, she moved the flannel down to the neck and arms, and then the hands.
“There, that’s that over with. Would you like to try to sit up and drink some tea?”
“Yes, please.” It was the tiniest whisper, but to Moira, it was like the trumpeting of angels. Supporting Alice’s back, she quickly pulled up the cushions behind her, gently moving her up the bed. She could see that this caused some pain, and she realised that Alice had no strength in her arms and legs, to help her to move. She put her arm around Alice’s shoulders and put the cup to her lips.
“Thank you.”
“You enjoy tea.”
“Yes.”
“Did your mother make tea for you?”
The girl looked puzzled, then scared. “I don’t know.”
Moira could see that her simple question had caused distress. The child’s eyes were moving around quickly, trying to make sense of the room, and failing, Mrs Davies could tell.
“You don’t know this room, Esme, so don’t be worried. I am your Aunt Moira and you are in my house. Don’t concern yourself now about how you got here or what has happened to you. You had an accident and have hurt your head. This is why you can’t remember. I’m taking care of you, and you are safe.”
A sigh of relief at the word “safe” told Moira that she had chosen her words well. No point taxing the child to try to remember yet. She saw the girl’s eyelids droop.
“That’s enough exertion for now. Time to sleep. Let’s slide you back down.”
Once Alice lay flat, she sighed and opened her eyes with a struggle, but her expression was agai
n one of fear.
“You’re frightened. There’s no need. You are safe and recovering. If you don’t remember now what happened to you, it will come back as you get better. Now, sleep, my dear.”
Her words and expression seemed to calm the girl. She closed her eyes again and slept.
Forty Three
Moira had spoken as she truly believed, that memory and understanding would return with improving health. But this didn’t turn out to be the case. As Alice’s health slowly improved and her strength returned over the following weeks, her memory showed no sign of improvement.
Increasingly, Moira found her awake and wide eyed in panic. She understood that the girl was trying to remember, but telling her about her life in Weston-super-Mare seemed to make things worse rather than better. Instead, Moira talked to her about the house, explaining her position, detailing her day-to-day life as housekeeper and telling her stories about the earl and countess. She told of parties, balls, and the famous people who had stayed there. She saw the child soak it all in, although she rarely spoke.
Because she liked stories so much, Moira read to her, and this became a regular and happy time for them both. Alice was particularly fond of stories by Mr Dickens, so every night, before supper, Moira read to her from Little Dorrit, Oliver Twist, and Great Expectations.
“One day soon, I will teach you to read these yourself,” Moira told her as she closed the latest book. “Would you like to learn your letters, Esme?”
Instead of nodding, the girl held out her hand for the book. Puzzled, Moira handed it to her and watched in amazement as the girl began to read slowly, mouthing the words silently to herself as she read them. Moira sat watching as the girl read through a few pages and put the book down and closed her eyes.
“Does that make your eyes hurt, Esme?”
“Yes.”
“But you are able to read well enough?”
