by P. B. Ryan
From the direction of the greenhouse came men’s voices. Opening the glass door, Nell greeted portly old Father Donnelly, her parish priest, and relieved him of his sodden overcoat.
“You’ll have to wait your turn, Father,” said Mrs. Bouchard. “Mrs. Hewitt and Annie are—”
“Mrs. Hewitt and Annie are done talking,” Dr. Greaves declared. “If I wait much longer to operate, it will be too late. Father, do you think you can...do whatever you have to do while we’re moving Annie to the kitchen?”
“I...suppose—”
“Good. Mrs. Bouchard, if you would give me a hand with Annie... Nell, make sure we’re all set up in here.”
It took mere minutes to get Annie settled on the table and prepared for surgery, with Father Donnelly muttering over her all the while. The poor girl, her face red from weeping, shivered with fear despite their reassurances.
Banishing everyone but Mrs. Bouchard, Nell and himself from the kitchen, Dr. Greaves said a brief prayer—a Protestant prayer, but Nell and Mrs. Bouchard crossed themselves just the same. He attached the drip spout to the tiny brown bottle of chloroform while Nell fitted the inhaling mask with fresh gauze.
“Close your eyes, Annie,” Nell murmured as she placed the mask over the girl’s nose and mouth. “When you wake up, you’ll have a baby.”
o0o
“I say—she’s a beautiful little thing, is she not?”
Nell, cradling the swaddled infant in her arms, smiled across the kitchen table at Viola Hewitt. “All babies are beautiful,” Nell said.
It was well past midnight; the gas lights were low again, casting the immense kitchen into amber-tinted semidarkness as the storm continued to rage outside. Dr. Greaves and Mrs. Bouchard were down the hall with Annie, watching for post-operative complications. Mrs. Hewitt, ignoring her nurse’s exhortations to turn in, had lingered in the kitchen to oversee Nell’s bathing and diapering of the newborn.
“They’re not all as beautiful as that one.” Mrs. Hewitt returned Nell’s smile, her melancholic fog having dissipated over the past couple of hours. She had a distinctive voice, deep-throated and a little gritty, its rough edges burnished a bit by the remnants of a genteel English accent. “She’s so plump and pretty, with that big, lovely round head. My boys all had a rather squished, stomped-upon look, as I recall.”
“The round head is because of the Caesarean. She didn’t have to pass through the...” Nell looked away, chastising herself for having made such a reference in polite conversation, especially with the likes of Viola Hewitt; what would Dr. Greaves say?
Mrs. Hewitt chuckled. “I’m afraid I’m not particularly easy to shock, Miss Sweeney. Mr. Hewitt is of the opinion that I ought to be a bit more prone to swooning, but I could never quite get the knack.”
The baby yawned, quivering, then settled down again, weighty and warm in Nell’s arms; how it gladdened her heart whenever she had the chance to hold a baby. She tried to fluff the thatch of black hair, but it was still matted, despite her bath. “Is her father dark?” she asked, thinking of Annie’s golden locks.
Mrs. Hewitt frowned slightly. “No, Mac is...sandy-haired, I suppose you’d say. But newborns are funny that way. My Martin was born with a full head of thick, black hair, but now he’s the fairest of all of my...” She trailed off, no doubt reflecting that “all of” her sons now numbered just two.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Nell said.
“Yes. Well. We’re usually back in Boston by now, but I’ve been putting it off because—” Her voice snagged. “I’ve been saying it’s because of Annie, because she couldn’t travel in her condition—she’s part of our Boston staff, you know. But we could have gone on ahead and sent for her after the baby came. It wasn’t that. It was going back to that house on Colonnade Row, where those boys were little...”
The baby squirmed in Nell’s arms, mewing and smacking her lips, her head jerking this way and that.
Mrs. Hewitt watched with interest as Nell dipped her little finger in the teacup of boiled sugar water with which she was keeping the hungry infant appeased. “She’s ravenous, that one. I do hope Annie’s up to feeding her soon.”
“Me, too,” Nell said as she slipped her fingertip in the baby’s mouth. There was fresh milk in the ice closet, and an old baby bottle to put it in, but giving it to her at this point could spoil her for the breast.
“I would ask to hold her again, but she’d only fuss, as she did before. She’s happiest with you. I’ve rarely seen anyone handle a baby with such...tender assurance.”
Gratified by the praise, Nell murmured her thanks as Dr. Greaves returned to the kitchen. “Our new mother is awake and doing splendidly,” he reported with a smile. “Why don’t you bring the baby to her and see if she’ll nurse? And then perhaps we should locate that Brady fellow and ask him to drive us back to East Falmouth. Mrs. Bouchard will sit up with Annie tonight, and I’ll return in the morning to—”
“You mean to travel in this rain, and at this hour?” Mrs. Hewitt asked. “I’ve got half a dozen guest rooms, all standing empty—I can certainly spare two for the night. I’ll have you brought night clothes and whatever else you need, and then Brady will take you back to town after breakfast.”
Dr. Greaves accepted her offer of hospitality, to Nell’s relief; why endure a late-night carriage ride in such weather?
In the cook’s room, she found Mrs. Bouchard propping pillows behind Annie’s back. “Look who’s here,” said the nurse as Nell sat on the edge of the bed with the baby. “It’s your—”
“Take it away,” Annie moaned, whipping her head to the side.
Nell looked inquiringly toward Mrs. Bouchard, who appeared dismayed but unsurprised at this reaction. “Now, Annie, don’t be that way. You’re her mother, after all, and she needs—”
“I don’t want to see her. Take her away. Please.”
Mrs. Bouchard nodded resignedly to a stunned Nell, who left with the child, closing the door behind her. Walking down the hallway toward the kitchen, she heard Mrs. Hewitt say, “Four years? And you’ve been pleased with her?”
“More than pleased,” Dr. Greaves responded. “Nell’s a hard worker, and clever. Nothing slips past her.”
Nell stilled near the entrance to the kitchen.
“She’s got a great deal of common sense, too,” he continued, “and a strong stomach. I never have to worry about her keeling over at the sight of a gruesome injury.”
“From a good family, is she?” inquired Mrs. Hewitt.
Nell held her breath for the long seconds it took Dr. Greaves to answer. “They were from the old country, ma’am. Both gone now, first him and then the mother, when Nell was just a child.” Nell’s father was gone, all right, but it wasn’t his Maker he’d met; it was that greasy-haired barmaid from Dougal’s Tavern.
“And there’s no other family?”
Nell steeled herself, wondering if he’d mention Duncan.
“She had a number of younger siblings—that’s how she learned to care for children. Disease took most of them—cholera, diphtheria—but one brother lived to adulthood. She assumes he’s still alive, but it’s been years since she’s seen him. James—she calls him Jamie.”
Nell released a pent-up breath.
There came an interval of silence punctuated by the muted bong of a clock somewhere off in another part of the house, striking one.
“She seems...” Mrs. Hewitt paused. “I found myself telling her things...”
“Yes,” said Dr. Greaves; Nell could hear the smile in his voice. “She has that effect.”
“I don’t suppose she has any Greek or Latin.”
A pause. “No, ma’am. She’s quite proficient in French, though.”
“Any Italian or German?”
“None to speak of. But she’s got a better command of the three R’s than I do, and she reads whatever I put in her hands. Lovely penmanship, and a fine hand with the drawing pencil.”
“She’s of good character and cha
ste habits, I take it?”
“She’s never given me any reason to censure her, ma’am.” Which didn’t precisely answer the question.
“That little scar near her left eyebrow—may I ask how...”
“An old injury. I stitched it myself.” As he had the several others that weren’t so readily visible. Before she could ask him to elaborate on his vague answer, he said, “May I inquire as to the nature of your interest in her?”
“I just... I need to consult with my husband first, and I’m not sure if he’s still up reading. If I don’t get the chance to speak to you again tonight, perhaps...after breakfast?”
“As you like, ma’am.”
Nell heard the wheels of the Merlin chair rolling away over the slate floor. She listened as the sound grew softer and disappeared, then reentered the kitchen to find Dr. Greaves staring at the door through which Mrs. Hewitt had just departed. He turned to look at Nell as she came up behind him, his expression contemplative, and perhaps a little sad.
“What was that about, do you suppose?” Nell asked.
He just sighed and turned away. “Eavesdropping, Nell? I’m surprised at you.” Before she could protest that he might have done the same had he found himself the subject of a similar conversation, he said, “Let’s finish cleaning up in here. It’s been a long night.”
o0o
Nell hastened to the guest room door as a second knock came, her fingers fumbling with the mother-of-pearl buttons on the dressing gown she’d found laid out for her when she was shown to this room about an hour ago.
Must be Mary Agnes, with another down pillow to heap upon the bed, another little perfumed soap or lush towel, she thought as she reached for the knob. But in fact, it was Viola Hewitt, not in her chair but standing with the aid of the two ivory-handled canes. “It’s dreadfully late, I know, but I saw the light under your door, so I thought perhaps... May I...?”
“Yes, of course.” Stepping aside, Nell held the door open for her visitor, whose gait, although halting, had an odd, birdlike grace about it; perhaps it was her height. A metallic scraping could just be heard beneath the silken swish of her kimono and nightdress.
“Leg braces,” she explained. “They get me up and down stairs, but it’s an ordeal. I say, how very pretty your hair looks down. You’ve no need of the curling tongs.” She nodded toward the dressing gown. “Not too long? It’s mine, you see.”
“Oh, no, it’s lovely.” It was, in fact, the loveliest thing Nell had ever worn, a satin-trimmed cashmere peignoir the color of butter, worn over a matching silk nightgown. Now that she’d finally felt the liquid slide of silk over her bare skin, Nell understood why women prized it so. The ensemble was a far cry from the patched cotton nightdress and threadbare wrap hanging in her little dormer room back at Dr. Greaves’s.
“You’re comfortable here, I hope?” Mrs. Hewitt embarked on a torturously slow tour of the room, smoothing the counterpane on the tall half tester bed, adjusting the angle of the cheval mirror. She opened and closed the dressing table’s single drawer, rearranged the roses in a fat Chinese urn. Their fragrance mingled with a whisper of lemon oil. The room smelled sweet and exotic and a little old; it smelled like wealth.
Nell couldn’t help wondering why she was being treated to such luxury. Most people in Mrs. Hewitt’s position would have berthed her upstairs with the servants.
“I went to Dr. Greaves’s room, thinking I’d speak to him first, but he’s not there. Perhaps he’s downstairs unwinding after the evening’s ordeal. I did tell him where he might find the sherry.” Mrs. Hewitt glanced at the door to the dressing room, which stood slightly open.
“How is the baby faring?” Nell asked. Mrs. Hewitt had had a cradle fetched from the attic and put next to her own bed.
“Fast asleep, with a nice, full belly. I’m so glad she took to the bottle. Good heavens.” She crossed to the little writing desk in the corner. “Did you do these?” Lowering herself into the chair, she lifted the two drawings Nell had inked on paper she’d found in the middle drawer—thick, creamy vellum embossed with a single word: FALCONWOOD. They were sketchy portraits, one of the baby and the other of Viola Hewitt herself.
“They’re just rough,” Nell said, heat sweeping up her throat as Mrs. Hewitt studied them. “When I have time, I’ll add some more detail and--”
“Don’t. They’re perfect fleeting impressions, just as they’re meant to be. I must say, though, it’s remarkable how well you captured me—both of us—just from memory.”
“I don’t have a great deal of time to draw from life. I’ve learned to fix things in my memory and draw them later. It’s almost like...making a photograph in my mind.”
“It’s a gift, being able to do that.” Still contemplating the sketches, Mrs. Hewitt said, “Annie doesn’t want the baby. At all. She means to give her up.”
“Ah.”
“Do you know why?”
Nell paused to choose her words carefully.
Mrs. Hewitt said, “I can’t be shocked, remember?”
“Is it because her husband isn’t the father?”
Mrs. Hewitt laid the sketches down carefully. “It was a year and a half ago that Mac enlisted in the Boston Volunteers, and he hasn’t been able to get home since then. I’ve forbidden the servants to speak of it. These matters are...” Nell thought she would say “unseemly.” Instead, she said, “...complicated. But we live in a world that likes to pretend such things are simple.”
Too true, Nell thought; still, the older woman’s acceptance of the situation struck her as bizarre.
“I’m adopting the baby.” Viola Hewitt’s smile evolved into a full, girlish grin when Nell’s mouth literally dropped open. “Mrs. Bouchard doesn’t approve. Neither does my husband, but he’s humoring me because of...” Her expression sobered. “Because he knows it will make me happy to have a baby round the house. And a baby girl! I always wanted a daughter, but I ended up with four sons instead. Not that I didn’t love them more than life itself, God knows. But there’s something about a little girl...”
“Yes, there is.” Still, rationalizations aside, for a society matron to adopt a maid’s bastard... It was outrageous.
“Annie doesn’t want her, and she doesn’t want her husband or family to find out about her. If I don’t take Grace, she’ll be...” Noticing Nell’s puzzlement, she smiled. “I’m calling her Grace. It was my mother’s name. If I don’t take her, she’ll be doomed to some squalid orphan asylum, or worse yet, the county poor house. That’s where they put the absolute dregs, the type of paupers who would simply die on their own—drunks, lunatics, people with the most dreadful contagions, all thrown in with the motherless little children. I’ve done charity work in those places. My dear girl, if you’d ever seen the inside of one...”
If only she hadn’t.
“Annie will leave my employ and relinquish all legal claim to the child. Our attorney will draw up the necessary papers. In return, I’ll ask Mr. Hewitt to recommend her to the Astors in New York—making no mention of the baby, of course. It will be an excellent position for her, and I’ll see to it that they hire Mac, as well. They can always use another driver.”
“Won’t her husband question the scar on her abdomen?” Nell asked.
“She can tell him it was an appendectomy.”
“You’ve thought it all through.”
“More completely than you know. We’ll be returning to Boston next week, with the baby, and...Nell, I’d like you to consider coming with us.”
Nell stared at her. “As a...nursemaid, you mean?”
“We actually have one of those—well, she’s been retired for some time, but she still lives with us in Boston. Miss Edna Parrish. She was my nanny back in England, and I brought her here for the boys. The thing of it is, she’s quite elderly, and somewhat infirm. She’ll be insulted if I don’t ask her to take care of Grace, but she can’t possibly manage on her own. I’d do it myself, but I’ve got these useless legs to deal with. Infa
ntile paralysis, you know. Caught it in Europe right before the war.”
“I’m so sorry,” Nell said, but in truth, she was somewhat intrigued by the exotic ailment; she wished it wouldn’t be considered rude to ask about it.
“I was thinking perhaps you could assist Nurse Parrish in her duties while Grace is little. Then, when she gets older and needs to be educated and learn comportment and so forth, you’d be more of a governess.”
“A governess? Me?” A nursemaid might hail from the working classes, but Nell had read enough governess novels to know that their heroines were nearly always, despite their reduced circumstances, as wellborn as the families that employed them—and always well educated. “I’m not equipped for a position like that.”
“I think you are,” Mrs. Hewitt said. “You’re intelligent, capable...and you seem to adore children.”
“But governesses are teachers, and I’ve had so little formal schooling. And I’m...I’m not from your world, Mrs. Hewitt. I don’t know anything about your way of life.”
“You’re clever. You’ll learn. Besides, for the first eight years or so, you’ll be what’s known as a nursery governess, and to be perfectly frank, one doesn’t generally expect as much of them as one does of a preparatory governess. You’ll have plenty of time to fill any gaps in your own tutelage before taking on the more rigorous aspects of Grace’s education. Even then, one does expect to hire outside masters in various subjects... languages, piano, dancing... A good governess is as much a moral guide as an instructress, and I can’t help but think you would excel in that role.”
If only she knew. “Mrs. Hewitt, I...” How to put it? “You may be harboring illusions about me that—”
“Gentlewomen have no monopoly on virtue, Nell—a minority view in my particular circle, but I’m accustomed to being regarded as an eccentric. I suppose I am—but I’m also, if I do say so myself, an astute judge of people. I know in my heart you’d be wonderful for Grace.”
