Wild Heritage

by Wild Heritage (retail) (epub)

  Kitty shrugged the hand off. ‘I won’t upset her. I’ve come to take her home.’

  From the bed came Marie’s voice. ‘She’s my sister. She’s come for the baby, she’s come for little Kate.’

  Kitty looked down at her with wondering eyes. ‘For Kate?’

  ‘Yes, for my baby,’ said Marie. ‘You’ve come to take her home with you.’

  ‘You’ve called her Kate,’ whispered Kitty. ‘Yes, I’ve come to take her home.’

  The kind old man was standing in the open doorway beside another nun. Kitty went over to him and said, ‘She’s here. We’ve found her. I’ll have to stay with her now. Thank you, I’d never have found her without you.’

  He shook her hand. ‘I enjoyed it. I’m glad you found your friend.’ Then he turned and walked away.

  There were two nuns in the room now: the angry one and the serene one who had directed them to the room where Marie lay. Surprisingly the first one was English.

  ‘You must not upset her. She has consumption and is in the final stage. She is very weak. In fact, she is dying,’ she told Kitty angrily when she tried to walk back to Marie’s bed.

  Kitty shook her head. ‘I won’t upset her. We’re sisters. I’ve come a long way to find her.’

  ‘You don’t look like sisters,’ said the nun.

  ‘We had different fathers,’ said Kitty, remembering Grandma and Sophia… ‘It’s the women who count,’ she said in tribute to them.

  ‘You will take her baby?’ was the next question.

  ‘Yes, she wants me to have it. Can I see the baby please?’

  Kitty, who had never had any desire for a child, longed to hold Marie’s baby in her arms.

  ‘We would keep the child. We told her that,’ said the nun but Kitty shook her head.

  ‘No, I’ll take the baby back to her village, back to Scotland. Is she really dying, Sister? She’s so young…’

  The angry nun softened. ‘Yes, she is, I’m afraid. She knows it now. She is peaceful so do not upset her, please.’

  Kitty swallowed the lump in her throat. It was essential to maintain her composure. ‘I won’t upset her. Can I see her baby?’

  ‘It’s in the nursery. We keep it there for fear of infection but she likes to be shown it every day. We bring it to the door and hold it up for her. I’ll fetch it now,’ whispered the nun and hurried off.

  Kitty went back to the bed and took Marie’s hand again. ‘You’re going to get well,’ she said with determination.

  ‘Am I? Did they say that?’ Marie’s voice showed how much she hoped this was true but she was very weak and did not have the strength to sit up.

  ‘Yes, they did, and I’m going to stay with you till you’re well and then I’ll take you back to Camptounfoot,’ said Kitty, defying facts.

  From the doorway she heard a little cough and turned to see the English nun standing there with a white-wrapped bundle in her arms. Holding the baby out she tenderly pulled the cover back from its head and Kitty cried out quite spontaneously, ‘She’s lovely! What a beautiful child!’

  Without thinking she rose from her seat and went over to the nun with her arms held out. The baby was placed in them and she clutched it to her heart, staring down at a perfect little face. Marie’s child had a cap of silky black hair that curled on her neck. Her face was like that of a cherub and she had very finely drawn, arched black eyebrows and long silky lashes. The lashes flickered as she slept. Kitty lifted one of the curled little fists and slowly opened the fingers. They were long and tapering.

  ‘Aristocratic hands,’ said the nun softly.

  It was impossible for Kitty to put the baby down. She held it to herself, breathing in its sweet smell, and felt something deep inside her open and blossom like a flower. This, she knew, was love.

  Marie’s huge eyes were watching intently. Kitty smiled across at her and held the baby tighter.

  The nun intervened. ‘The child must not stay here for too long – all the patients in this room have consumption and there are germs, you see… She’s still being breast-fed and we’ll keep her till she’s weaned. You will be staying in Paris with your sister…?’ Her voice trailed off and they looked at each other searchingly.

  Kitty nodded. ‘I’ll stay as long as it takes,’ she said and handed the baby back with reluctance.

  The nun had sharp blue eyes which she fixed on Kitty’s face as if trying to tell her something. ‘Before you leave, come and speak with me,’ she said.

  Marie tired quickly. She fell asleep in a short while and Kitty walked back along the corridor in search of the English nun, whom she found in a tiled pantry.

  They looked at each other and the nun spoke first. ‘Your sister will never leave here, you know. If you wanted to save her you should have come at least a year ago,’ she said sternly.

  ‘No one knew where she was. No one knew she was ill. How long has she got?’ asked Kftty bleakly.

  ‘She is very weak. When she came to us a month ago she had been drinking and there were signs she’d also taken opium but that wouldn’t have killed her. She has advanced disease of the lungs and we do not think she will last more than another week. I’m sorry.’

  This was received in silence and Kitty stood twisting her gloves with her head down. Then she looked up and said, ‘I’m living in a hotel on the other side of the river. I’ll move so as to be nearer to her.’

  ‘I know she has a room in the artists’ building over the laundry. It was women from there who brought her to us. We know many of them. You might be able to live there,’ suggested the nun.

  Kitty said, ‘I know the place.’ All she wanted was to go somewhere private so that she could think, make plans and shed tears for Marie.

  She had always possessed a good sense of direction and found her way back to Mancini’s building without trouble. His room was full of people and when he introduced Kitty to them, a young man jumped up and came across to her.

  ‘My name is Pierre. I’m a friend of Marie,’ he said in English, extending a hand.

  She looked at his dark hair and asked, ‘Are you the father of her child?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, I’m not. I wanted to marry her but she wouldn’t. The father’s a Hungarian sculptor called Tadi. He’s gone to Berlin.’

  Mancini growled from the back of the room, ‘It’s a good thing for him he’s gone away. He’d better not show his face here again.’

  Pierre undertook to show Kitty to Marie’s room and when they opened the door, she was appalled by the grime and squalor of the place. A few canvases were propped against the wall and her guide waved a hand at them saying, ‘Those she did not really start. I sold the others one at a time for her. They fetched good prices. She could have been famous.’

  ‘What have you done with the money?’ asked sharp-minded Kitty.

  ‘I gave it to her. She drank it. Poor Marie. She was very sad.’

  Suddenly Kitty was overcome with a feeling of intense weariness and sank down on the tumbled bed.

  Pierre went towards the door saying, ‘You’re tired. I’ll leave you now but I’ll come back tomorrow and we can discuss things more deeply.’

  Though the bedding was filthy and there were mice scrabbling around on the floor, Kitty fell asleep and did not wake till morning. Then, galvanised with energy, she dragged the covers off the bed and took them to the laundry downstairs; borrowed a pail and washed the floor and threw out all the accumulated rubbish and empty bottles Marie had left behind. She lit the stove, went out to shop for food and was eating it when Pierre returned.

  He looked around with approval but made no comment as he sat on a rickety chair and asked, ‘What are you going to do about Marie’s child?’

  ‘She’s given the baby to me,’ said Kitty. She was utterly determined that no one else was to have the child. It was her legacy from her friend.

  ‘The nuns said they would like to keep her,’ said Pierre, but Kitty shrugged.

  ‘They can’t. They think I�
�m Marie’s sister. They can’t stop me taking the baby back home with me.’

  ‘You are a married woman?’ he asked, looking curiously at the statuesque redhead with the imperious face.

  ‘No, but the nuns don’t know that. They call me Madame and I haven’t corrected them. Don’t worry, I can afford to keep a child. It won’t suffer if it comes to me.’

  ‘I’m sure it won’t,’ said Pierre with respect.

  Every day the people in the building watched Kitty stride with her countrywoman’s walk to the hospital. She held her head high and, wearing one of Freddy’s big hats, made an imposing sight as she swept over the Parisian pavements.

  Every day she found Marie weaker. It seemed that she was melting away. By the time a week had passed, her flesh looked transparent but her cheeks were often hectically red and her eyes blazing. When fever seized her she liked Kitty to sit by the bed and talk about their childhood. Her scarred thumb lay upwards in Kitty’s hand and she stroked it gently while she talked about Camptounfoot.

  Though sometimes Marie seemed to have accepted the fact that she was going to die, at other times she allowed herself to hope and whispered of how she longed to see the village and Tibbie again. Kitty did not tell her anything sad. She did not talk of Tim’s death or of David’s hard intransigence until she saw that the end ofher friend’s life was drawing near.

  Then she whispered, ‘Would you like me to telegraph to your brother and ask him to come to see you?’

  Marie shrank back in bed. ‘No, no, no,’ she said emphatically. ‘I never want to see him again. He wrote awful things about me to Amy’s family and that was why Murray wouldn’t marry me.’

  She whispered the details of her love for Murray and how devastated she had been when he married Julia.

  ‘I’d never have allowed Tadi to make love to me. I’d never have needed him the way I did if it hadn’t been because of losing Murray,’ she said brokenly.

  Kitty soothed her. ‘Don’t cry. It doesn’t matter any more. Everything’s going to be all right now.’

  Marie smiled through her tears. ‘I know it is. You’re here.’

  At the beginning of the second week, she was only intermittently conscious and Kitty sat by her bed for hours till one of the nuns forced her to go home to sleep.

  Next morning the sun rose in glory and she woke feeling unaccountably light and free. When she looked out of the window she saw that the streets were gleaming slickly with water and the people all looked fresh and cheerful as they went about their business.

  She did not wait to eat breakfast but hurried to the hospital, hitching up her skirts and running through the streets. She was met at the door by the English nun whose name, she had learned by this time, was Sister Dominique.

  ‘I’m afraid Marie has gone,’ she said softly, taking Kitty’s arm and leading her to a small room with a crucifix on the wall.

  It was not really a surprise. She felt she had known from the moment she woke but still a rush of tears burst from Kitty.

  ‘You should have sent for me. You shouldn’t have let me go home last night,’ she sobbed.

  The nun patted her arm consolingly. ‘She wouldn’t have known you. She died in her sleep. Do you want me to help you with the interment arrangements?’

  ‘Yes, yes, please,’ sobbed Kitty wiping her eyes.

  Marie was buried in the nuns’ tree-shaded graveyard behind the convent. The mourners were the nuns, Kitty, Isabelle, Mancini, Thérèse, Félice, Pierre and Luc. No one informed Tadi or David and they would not have taken the trouble to attend even if they had known.

  The careful nuns had been supervising the weaning of little Kate and on the day a week later, when Kitty set out to take the train back home, she carried a baby in a basket.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The first thing Kitty did when she got back to London was deliver a message to Robbie’s London office saying that Marie was dead and telling him how well she’d been cared for by the nuns. With the note she enclosed the money left over from the sum he had given her. She did not mention the baby.

  Then she went to the Excelsior Club to say goodbye. The girls enthused over little Kate, who Kitty carried around on her hip in the same way as she had seen women carrying their children at Camptounfoot.

  ‘You never looked as if you were pregnant. Where did you get her? She’s not Freddy’s, is she?’ asked May-Belle.

  ‘She’s my sister’s,’ said Kitty. ‘I’m taking her home to Scotland.’

  At last she was going home and she was in a fever to start.

  First, however, she spent a fair amount of her hoarded savings on clothes for the baby. She wanted them both to arrive in Camptounfoot in style. She travelled first class on the train and hired a carriage at Rosewell station to drive her to the village.

  The cab-driver had known her as a child but did not immediately recognise her in her new transformation as a fashionable lady, for her giveaway hair was tucked under her hat.

  As they drove along, he kept glancing over his shoulder and at last could contain himself no longer.

  ‘I ken you, don’t I?’ he asked.

  Kitty stared haughtily back at him. ‘You might.’

  ‘Whereabouts in Camptounfoot are you going?’ he asked.

  ‘Tibbie Mather’s.’

  ‘She’s no’ in. She’s ower at Falconwood with Lady Maquire, looking after the poor soul. Her husband was killed in London last month.’ Cab-drivers were great sources of information in the country.

  ‘In that case take me to Falconwood and wait for me there,’ said Kitty grandly. She was not going to satisfy his curiosity but, knowing the locals, she guessed it wouldn’t take long before he found out who she was.

  Tibbie was alone in the drawing-room when the maid announced a caller. ‘A Miss Scott has come to see you, madam,’ she said.

  ‘Miss Scott?’ Tibbie frowned. The only Miss Scotts she could think of in her acquaintance were Craigie’s sisters. Joan had recently died but the surviving sister, Helen, would never visit Tibbie at Falconwood or anywhere else.

  She did not have long to wonder, for a tall, elegant woman appeared at he maid’s back. She was carrying a baby basket.

  When Kitty saw that she was not immediately recognised, she slowly took off her hat, shaking her head, and then Tibbie gasped, ‘Kitty! Kitty! It’s you, Kitty! What are you doing here? Is that your bairn?’

  Kitty told a lie. ‘It is,’ she said. ‘But I didn’t come about the baby. I’ve something sad to tell you, Tibbie.’

  ‘Oh, lassie, I don’t think I can take much more sadness.’ You’ll have heard about Tim, have you?’ said Tibbie brokenly.

  ‘Yes, I heard. I went to his funeral as a matter of fact. This is about Marie. Sit down and listen to what I’ve got to say.’

  Taking Tibbie’s hand she led her to a chair and kept hold of her as she said, ‘I’ve just come from Paris. I went because Robbie Rutherford sent me to find Marie. She was very ill when I got there. She had consumption and there was no saving her. I’m sorry to have to tell you that she died, but it was very peaceful. She was in a little hospital looked after by nuns and they were wonderfully kind to her.’

  Tibbie looked up at Kitty’s face with tear-filled eyes and nodded. ‘Poor lassie, poor, poor lassie. I knew something bad had happened to her. This is heartbreaking. Her brother David’ll go daft when he hears. I’ll ask Dr Robertson to tell him. He comes down here every day to see Emma Jane…’

  ‘No, don’t ask the doctor to do it. I’ll go to Maddiston and tell him about Marie,’ said Kitty firmly.

  She wanted to see David in order to decide whether she should tell him about Marie’s baby, though already she was so fond of the child that she doubted she would ever give her up.

  ‘Will you?’ asked Tibbie. ‘The trouble between him and Marie wasn’t all his fault. He’s never got over losing his mother and he tried to stop his sister going away too. All he lives for is work. He’s rich but he doesn’t enjoy it.
Poor David and poor Marie. What a sad story… first their parents and now them. They never had a chance somehow. It breaks my heart.’

  Kitty put an arm round the old woman and hugged her tight. When Tibbie dried her eyes, she looked down at the baby in the basket at Kitty’s feet and said, ‘That’s a lovely bairn you’ve got. Your mother’ll be pleased to see you with a bonny baby. Wee Jake’s not all there, I’m sorry to say…’

  Kitty lifted up the sleeping child and handed her to Tibbie.

  ‘She’s never going to be a bondager. She’ll never work for Craigie, I’ll make sure of that,’ she said fiercely.

  Every time she looked at Kate, she was overcome with the wonder of her and had quite forgotten her old dislike and fear of children.

  Tibbie hadn’t forgotten, however, and looked curiously from the woman to the child. Kitty had certainly changed, she thought. There was sleek dark hair on the baby’s head and she asked, ‘Is your man black-headed?’

  Kitty laughed. She was not going to tell the secret of the child’s parentage till she’d seen David. ‘I haven’t got a man but, yes, the baby’s father had black hair.’

  ‘What’s her name?’ asked Tibbie, holding out a finger which the baby grasped tightly.

  ‘She’s called Kate.’

  ‘After you?’ asked Tibbie looking up.

  ‘After me,’ agreed Kitty proudly.

  She put the baby back in the basket and said, ‘I’ll have to go to the village now. I want to see my mam. How is she?’

  Tibbie’s face went solemn. ‘They’re in trouble, lass. One o’ Craigie’s sisters died in the winter and the one that’s left is the daftest of the two. She’s absolutely away with the fairies now. Sits huddled in the house all day and won’t even speak when she’s spoken to but she’s told Big Lily to get off the farm. They’re going at term time.’

  ‘That’s in a week,’ gasped Kitty.

  ‘Aye, that’s right. They’re going to the Poors’ House because Big Lily’s past working. She’s fair crippled with the rheumatics. She canna walk properly any more. Your mother can’t do the farm work on her own and Wee Jake’s no help to her. He just wanders the village all day long.’