Three Times Removed

by M K Jones

  “Yes, Aunt.”

  Moira bit her lip. She asked no questions for weeks, fearing the return of the panic attacks and the nightmares that had started when she begun to question. But this was not what she had expected and it was troubling.

  “Esme, I must now join the servants for supper. I shall call in afterwards to bid you goodnight.” She kissed her and received a contented smile in return. The relationship between them was growing in confidence and trust. But Moira went to supper with a frown.

  She returned to find the girl awake.

  “Esme, you have done so well lately, that I have a treat for you.” The girl’s eyes opened wide, in surprise and expectation.

  “How would you like to leave this room, and go outside to look around the gardens?”

  The excitement in the return look spoke volumes.

  “How?”

  “The best surprise of all. The doctor has brought us a chair on wheels. Tomorrow morning, as soon as it’s warm enough, we shall put you in the chair and take you outside.”

  The smile widened across the girl’s face and gave Moira a feeling of warmth and pleasure that she hadn’t experienced since her husband’s death.

  In truth, the doctor hadn’t been at all keen on letting Alice outside. He believed in bed rest. The urging had been Honora’s.

  “Sure, the girl needs to breathe fresh air now, ma’am, and see something new. Her limbs must move more. Get her into a wheeled chair and take her around a little. Talk to her about the flowers and the gardens.”

  Moira saw the reason in this, but as much fear as anticipation by the girl’s memory returning.

  The two women had continued to speak about the girl’s progress. Honora had reluctantly provided more remedy for the terrible headaches that Alice had been experiencing since she regained consciousness. The doctor’s remedy had produced no relief and he had recommended laudanum, but Moira was averse to the use of the drug, having had experience of the state to which her husband had been reduced, and his eventual dependence on it.

  Honora had produced a liquid that she instructed should be used only when the headache occurred. It was an exceptionally bitter-tasting and cloudy liquid. Alice hated the taste of it at first and struggled to keep it down, but it relieved the headache within minutes and the feeling of relief was so great that she learned to bear the taste.

  The following morning Alice woke an hour before Moira brought her now regular breakfast of tea, and bread and honey. “Well, look at you! Would you like to sit alone?” She encouraged every effort by Alice to take control of her recovery, against the doctor’s wishes.

  Taking Alice’s head and shoulders in both arms she slowly sat the girl on the side of the bed. Her small spindly legs hung down to the ground and the feeling of pressure on the soles of her feet caused her to squirm and almost fall sideways, but Moira caught her.

  “Not too much, Esme. Your ankle was damaged and is still weak. Does your head hurt? Do you feel faint?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Then we shall sit here for a few minutes more. I have work to do this morning. No, don’t worry, we’re still going outside, at about eleven o’clock. His Lordship and Her Ladyship are returning tomorrow, with several guests, so we’re in for a busy time. So, I thought…” she looked down at the girl and smiled in anticipation of the pleasure she was about to bring, “that this afternoon I would take you around the ground floor, to look at some of the special rooms.”

  A beam of delight in return was her reward.

  “Back into bed, now. Finish your breakfast and sleep a little more. Cook will be looking in and I’ll return for you with your chair at eleven.”

  “Thank you.”

  Up to this point, Alice had been wearing nightdresses, but Moira had paid Honora generously to make a day dress and pinafore. Just before eleven she brought these with her and some fresh undergarments. It took a while to get Alice dressed and manoeuvre her into the wheelchair. Once in, Moira strapped her in around the chest to keep her upright, and placed a light blanket over her legs.

  Watched by the smiling and gently applauding Cook and junior kitchen maids, they made their way down the long corridor that led from Moira’s sitting room out of the back entrance, outside and to the formal garden.

  As they passed through the archway, Moira heard a gasp of surprise and an “Oohh!”

  This part of the garden was enclosed by high red-brick walls, with a central lawn divided in four by pathways, an enormous ancient oak at the centre, and in one quarter, a monument to a horse ridden by a previous earl at the Battle of Waterloo. Around the edges of the walls were deep flowerbeds, filled with exquisite shrubs and scented blooming flowers. The mixture of colours, shapes, and smells caused Alice to turn her head and reach out as they passed each new part.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it, Esme? Your Uncle was head gardener here for ten years, and a junior gardener before that. He loved plants, especially the early summer flowers.”

  “Beautiful.”

  “Now, let’s go to look at the monument.”

  Moira wheeled the chair to the shade of the great oak. The morning was warm, with a light breeze. The only sound was the buzzing of bees and the chirping of birds. She went to sit on the grass next to the chair, but the child held out her arm and, taking the blanket from her legs, she gave it to Moira.

  “Don’t get your dress dirty, Aunt.”

  “Thank you, Esme.” This was the longest phrase that Moira had heard from her niece and she was thrilled. She sat and told the story of the bravery of a horse and its rider at the Battle of Waterloo. As she spoke she could see that Alice had relaxed into the chair and was twisting her legs from side to side.

  “You know, Esme, if you keep moving your legs like that, you may like to try standing on them.”

  Another beam.

  “Now, let’s go a little further. Shall we go to the side of the lake?”

  “No! No! No!” The outburst caused Moira to run to the front of the chair, where she Alice was holding her head in her hands and shaking violently.

  “Hush now, child, hush.” She took the girl in her arms and hugged her as tightly as she could. “We won’t go. We won’t. You don’t want to go near the water, I understand.”

  The suggestion to go the lakeside had been thoughtless. Alice had been having nightmares for weeks in which the words “drowning her!” and “help me!” were frequently shouted, suggesting to Moira that they were not mere dreams, but memories of some terrible event.

  “You’re safe here, Esme. Nothing can hurt you. Do you understand?”

  “Not safe, not safe.”

  “Esme, look at me. Look at me!” She waited until the girl’s gaze met hers, and was horrified by the wild look she saw.

  “You are safe with me and you always will be. Whatever happened to you has gone. I won’t ask you to try to remember, but if you ever need to talk to me, you know that you can.”

  She nodded slowly. Then she leaned forwards onto Moira’s shoulder. “I don’t remember. Anything.”

  “You don’t need to remember. Whatever happened is gone,” she repeated, holding the girl’s hands. “This is your life now, with me. A safe life, here at Knyghton.” Alice sighed with relief.

  Forty Four

  May to December 1883

  It took John a further two hours to find Ruth and another hour to carry her back down the mountain. The doctor’s advice was that, because the baby was still alive, she should be nursed at home, but that they should expect recovery to take some time. Ruthie sent John back over the mountain to let her husband William know she would be staying for some time, then set herself to nursing Ruth.

  Ruth had rare moments of consciousness, but was never lucid and she developed a fever. For the next month, she lay close to death. She became pale and skeletal and fought attempts to feed her.

  In the first week of her unconsciousness, Richard Robinson returned to the chapel, Robert Pugh, true to his word, departed within
a day of his announcement. But the most surprising news came at the end of the following week when William returned home from school.

  “Dada, Miss Probert has gone.”

  John was deep in thought in the parlour and didn’t take in what William had said.

  “Dada, don’t you want to know?”

  “I’m sorry, William. Was that something about your teacher?”

  “She’s gone, Dada. Mr Robinson taught us today. He told us that Miss Probert has gone to Herefordshire. Mr Pugh invited her to work in the school.” William was grinning. “That’s better, isn’t it?”

  John smiled back at him. “Yes, William, I think so.”

  “Oh, and Mr Robinson said to tell you he’ll be round this evening, as usual.”

  Richard Robinson had visited daily since his return to Garth Hill. He had also spoken to everyone about John and Ruth and had prayed for Alice at chapel on Sunday, and at every other opportunity. With the support of the Ellises and other friends, he had made sure that there would be no more stories about Esme Ellis’s death.

  That teacher was a nasty piece of work, so good riddance as far as I’m concerned. But, there was something familiar about her. I wish I could remember what,” said Ruthie. John had heard this several times since his mother-in-law had arrived, so took no notice.

  “I’ve been wondering how I might recall. I think it might have something to do with my sister in Carmarthen. Do you think we could write to her, John?”

  “Yes, Mrs Evans, if you wish. What would you like to say?”

  “Describe the woman and ask my sister if she sounds familiar to her. There’s something about a teacher and a child, but I can’t remember the story.” She shook her head. “Margaret might remember. Did you write to the school board?”

  “No. I had intended to do so, but there doesn’t seem much reason, now. The community is better without her, and Richard will find a good replacement. We should let it lie.” Ruthie wasn’t sure that her daughter would agree.

  Richard Robinson’s visits had proved to be of benefit to all the family. Unlike Pugh, he was played with the children, sat with Ruth, and spent hours discussing matters with John. However, even he was unable to move John on the matter of re-starting the search for Alice.

  After two months, Ruth’s fever was gone and she regained consciousness but without much memory of what had happened. She was well into her pregnancy and the swelling and dizziness was increasing. She was conscious each day, and whenever she opened her eyes her first question was for news of Alice.

  One afternoon in mid-September, she awoke to find her mother sitting in the rocking chair beside Ruth’s bed, holding a letter.

  “What’s that, Mam? Is it about Alice?”

  “Yes and no, girl. It’s from my sister Margaret in Carmarthen. You remember your grandmother Ruth who lived there?”

  Ruth nodded.

  “Well, her mother was also called Ruth, that’s my grandmother. I told you, you should not have used the name Alice!”

  “She’s called Alice Ruth, Mam. It’s good enough. And you know I don’t hold with family tales and bad luck.”

  Her mother grimaced slightly. “Ever since I met Eira Probert something in my mind has been telling me that there was a story in the family, but I couldn’t remember what it was.”

  Ruth rolled her eyes to the ceiling and turned away. Not only was her mother not of the Baptist faith, but she clung to the traditional. She treasured old folklore and superstitions which Ruth had abandoned as soon as she attended chapel and met John. Ruthie caught the exasperated expression.

  “Well, just so you know, my sister has replied to tell me that one of our grandmother’s first-born children, twin girls, drowned one day after school when she was ten years old.”

  “Why do I need to know this, Mam?”

  “Their names were Ruth and Alice. And suspicion fell on a schoolteacher in their village, who disappeared shortly after the accident.”

  Ruth turned slowly towards her mother.

  “When was that?”

  “It would have been about seventy years back.”

  Ruth had begun to sit up, but shrugged and lay back. “How can that matter to us? I see that the names are the same, but all children go to school.”

  “Not then, girl. Our family, the Gwyllims, were well-to-do farmers. They paid for their children’s schooling. They chose it.”

  “Do you know any more details?”

  “No, Margaret doesn’t remember any more.”

  “Does she remember anything about the teacher? Or why he was suspected?”

  “No, that’s it, really. Just coincidence.”

  “Yes.” Ruth looked away.

  “Just a couple of things that Margaret says, too. The teacher disliked our family, for no reason they could understand. That’s why he was suspected. And no child in our family since has been called Alice. It’s bad luck.”

  Ruth sat up so quickly that she swayed with dizziness. “Are you saying that this happened because I chose the wrong name!”

  “No, of course not! I was just telling you what Margaret said. Lie down, now.”

  “No, I think I’ll walk a while. It seems sunny. Perhaps it will do me good to sit in the warmth.” She saw her mother’s frown. “Don’t worry, I’ll sit under the tree in the shade. John moved the bench to make sure there’s no sunlight on it. The baby isn’t due for at least another six weeks, so I’m fine to move around a little.”

  With huge effort, she reached the bench an hour later and sat under the shade of the oak tree at the corner of the garden. This was the furthest she had been for some time. The weight of the baby, her massively swollen extremities, and the pain of being upright had made it impossible to leave the bedroom. As a result she had existed in isolation, connected only by visitors.

  The journey to the far corner of the garden had made Ruth feel light-headed. She sat as still as she could, breathing deeply and listening to her mother and Gwen chiding the children trying to make sense of her life.

  She accepted that, for now, there was nothing she could do to search for Alice. John was implacable. She knew that he’d received a couple of reports from the detectives at Newport telling him that the trail was cold. She’d remonstrated with him until he left the room in exasperation. And when he returned she told him that she hated him and would never forgive him for abandoning their daughter. That was three weeks ago. Their relationship since then had been polite, but frosty. John enquired about her health, but made no further comment. His former habit of discussing all matters of the farm management with her ceased, he said from concern of tiring her, but she knew that he wouldn’t speak to her openly again until he was sure that she wouldn’t bring up the subject of Alice.

  Sitting under the tree, thinking of John’s behaviour - his refusal to speak and his pushing her away - Ruth finally understood that she was being asked to choose between her husband and her child. She was in no doubt what that choice would be. Ruth closed her eyes as a wave of dizziness overcame her. She decided to walk back to the farm. Although she’d promised her mother that she wouldn’t attempt this without assistance, she was in no mood to call for help.

  Holding firmly onto the arm of the bench, she pulled herself to her feet. Immediately she felt a rush of heat throughout her body, and looked down to find a pool of blood at her feet. She screamed for her mother. The world spun as she felt a spasm in her stomach, then everything went as dark.

  George was born two hours later. The massive loss of blood again caused Ruth to hover close to death for weeks after his birth, unable to nurse him. Her mother, who had delivered the baby, was never far from her side.

  Insensate to happenings in the world around her, Ruth didn’t know that John had told the detectives to stop searching for Alice, at the end of October. Not a trace had been found. It was as if she had disappeared from the world. November saw Ruth’s recovery, and at the beginning of December she felt well enough to leave the bedroom.

&
nbsp; She ventured downstairs, where she was greeted with delight by the children and by Gwen, who had managed the family’s domestic affairs in her absence. There was a fire in the range and food on the table.

  “Gwen, I cannot thank you enough, there are no words,” but she stopped when she saw tears run down her cheeks.

  “I’m so pleased you are recovering, Mrs Jones. Arthur and I have prayed every day.” Ruth smiled, then turning to hermother, who was sitting with a bottle of milk in George’s mouth, “I’ll do that, Mam. A few more days and I should be well enough to take up the reins again.”

  “Weeks, I think, girl. You’re still unsteady on your feet. Here,” she stood, motioning Ruth to sit, and handed over the baby. “He’s a hungry one. No harm done to him for appearing so early. Three fine, great boys, eh!”

  Ruth bent over her newborn baby as pain stabbed at her like a stake. “But no fine girls,” she muttered to herself. She felt a guilty that she had reacted without considering Maud but Alice’s loss was catastrophic.

  When John came home at the end of the day, he warmly acknowledged her presence with the family again, and spoke movingly of how much they had all missed her. Then, to her surprise, he began to talk about Christmas. He had decided to invite his family to share Christmas dinner with them, plus Ruth’s parents.

  “We shall be a crowd indeed!” He beamed at the excited children. “I shall be going to Shirenewton to visit my family next week. It’s a pity you can’t travel yet, Ruth. But perhaps I shall take William and Walter with me.” The boys smiled politely. “You’d like to see Great-Grandma Eliza, wouldn’t you?”

  “Of course, Dada.” William replied for both of them. He and Walter had visited before and didn’t like the small, dark cottage with its open hearth that choked them with smoke, nor the old woman who muttered and swore at them.

  When the evening meal was ready and Gwen had gone home, they sat around the table.

  “So, let’s look forward and give thanks for what we have.” He glanced at Ruth as he began their prayers. “It’s good to have you here again, my dear. The children have missed you so much.”