Chapter Twelve #5
Nina looked down at the small face and thought how odd it was that she didn’t recognise her, when they had been together all these months.
It was a strange and awe-inspiring feeling that here in her arms was a whole new person who hadn’t existed before, starting out on the long journey to become someone with thoughts and feelings and habits all their own, an individual unlike any that had come before.
The baby opened one eye in a squint, and moved her lips as though trying to speak.
Nina put a finger against the tiny, starfish hand and it closed instantly around it, holding on to her tightly.
She felt a pang deep in her stomach that she recognised as love.
She hoped Mr Cowling would be pleased. Would the baby grow up to look like him?
Just now, she looked only like a baby. There was nothing to be traced in the features, such as they were.
She hoped she would look enough like him to secure his love.
The world was a difficult and hostile place, and a girl needed a father’s protection. Nina had lost hers.
It was almost one in the morning before Mr Cowling arrived, having caught the last train from St Pancras. His clothes were crumpled, he smelt smoky, and his face looked old with weariness and worry.
Bobby met him in the hallway. ‘She’s perfectly all right,’ she said, before he could even ask. ‘There were no difficulties, and she’s resting comfortably.’
‘Thank God!’ he said fervently. ‘And the baby?’
Bobby grinned. ‘She’s perfect.’
He stared. ‘It’s a girl?’
‘Yes. I hope you don’t mind too much.’
‘Aw, no! A girl? I’m glad! I’d love a little girl to pet and spoil. I’m happy it’s a girl. Does Nina mind?’
‘She’s only worried that you would be disappointed. You’d best reassure her.’
‘Is she asleep?’
‘She might be.’
‘I’ll go up, but I won’t wake her. I just want to look at her.’
‘And your daughter.’
Cowling’s face broke into the first real smile. ‘My daughter. I like the sound of that.’
Nina woke as Cowling came into the room, though he had moved quietly. She looked at him blankly for a moment, still lost in the fog of dream. ‘What time is it?’ she heard herself say.
‘One o’clock in the morning. I didn’t mean to wake you. How are you feeling?’
‘Just tired.’
‘I’m glad it’s a girl,’ he said. ‘I hope she’ll grow up just like you. Is that her?’ He had spotted the crib in the corner, and went over to look. When he came back, there were tears in his eyes. ‘She’s beautiful.’
‘She will be by and by,’ Nina said, trying to be reasonable.
‘She is now,’ he asserted. ‘So tiny and perfect! I never thought…’ He had to stop to clear his throat. ‘I thought there’d never be a little one for me. You’ve made me so happy, my Nina. I’m so grateful.’
He had taken possession of her hand, and in that moment she understood what the baby meant to him. Some emotion must have shown in her face, because he said, ‘You’re tired. I’ll let you sleep. I’ll see you in the morning. Sleep well, my love.’
Angus stayed on for the funeral, and spent the intervening days trying to help Fritz get used to his new position.
His mother was glad to have him there, and the others, after an initial awkwardness, relaxed and behaved more naturally towards him, though he could never, he feared, retake his old position in their hearts.
Only Beata remained aloof, blaming him for his father’s death – ‘It was the strain of what you put him through that brought it on!’ But Beata had been his father’s pet and had never known the rough side of his tongue.
He had one or two sessions with Allardice, getting a fairer idea of his new rank and finances.
The funeral plans had all been laid down some time ago so there was nothing for him to do.
When the moment came, despite Beata’s objections, his mother asked him to be a coffin-bearer along with Fritz, Ben, and Beata’s husband, Sir Roland Elrick.
There was a good turn-out at the church: if Sir Gordon wasn’t loved, he was respected, and had provided much employment.
The lessons were Scottish-Presbyterian-stark and the hymns were solemn; the coffin was covered with white lilies, which filled the air with their dying scent.
At the graveside, the familiar words from the Book of Common Prayer were spoken, and who could hear them without weeping?
His mother clung to his arm, and he felt his eyes burn, and said inside his head, Goodbye, Father.
I’m sorry. I wish I could have been what you wanted.
The minister shook everyone’s hand as they filed from the grave, like a receiving-line in reverse.
He was a tall, gaunt, silver-haired man, older than Sir Gordon.
He shook Angus’s hand with a hand as cold as death, despite the warmth of the day, and peered down into his face, and said, ‘I’m sorry for your loss, Sir Angus. ’
Angus flinched at the title, which he was not yet used to. And wondered what the minister meant by ‘his loss’. Everyone must know about the disinheriting and his banishment. His loss of innocence, perhaps?
The next day he said goodbye to everyone, promised his mother he would not stay away for ever, and started south.