Chapter 27 Dorothea
DOROTHEA
It wasn’t that she had intended a swim today, or that it was especially hot, but somehow they found themselves at the lake after lunch.
Had Francis suggested it? Dorothea couldn’t recall.
She was bone tired, the baby crying through the night.
In those cold hours after midnight, she felt so alone and so wretched, as if every living bit of her had been wrung out.
Late last night she went to make a cup of tea, and Mrs Wilson had been sitting in the shadow of a kitchen lamp, a glass in her hand. She looked at Dorothea with a sceptical air. ‘Nightcap?’ she offered.
‘Oh, no. Thank you.’
‘What’s got you creeping around at this time, then?’
‘Louis is fussing.’ She gave a tired smile. ‘I’ve tried everything, so thought a cup of tea might at least settle me down.’
Mrs Wilson reached into the timber cabinet that lined a wall. She poured from a bottle of liquor into a mug and handed it to Dorothea.
‘No, really. Thank you, anyway.’
‘Put it in his milk. Or a drop in his mouth. It will soothe him.’
It sounded like a terrible idea.
‘You won’t function in the day if you’re up at night with him too.’ Mrs Wilson tutted, as if this should have been obvious to Dorothea, who had no idea about the stages of babies, apart from what she’d read from Dr Spock. But it had been weeks since she’d had time to pick up the book.
‘He’s not half as colicky as Francis was,’ Mrs Wilson said, lowering herself into her chair. ‘He’s likely just got some wind. The whisky will knock him out.’
‘You know a lot about babies, Mrs Wilson,’ said Dorothea lightly.
Perhaps she had nieces and nephews in the local village.
Dorothea noticed that Mrs Wilson was wearing fitted trousers and a turtleneck, and her figure was lovely.
Had she been out somewhere? Was this the real Mrs Wilson beneath the uniform of old-fashioned floral dresses, dowdy aprons and sensible shoes?
The woman glanced down at the floor, then back up at Dorothea. ‘I know a lot about a lot of things, Miss Stewart.’
‘Oh, yes. I just meant I didn’t think you’d be so knowledgeable about babies, but …’ Dorothea trailed off, worried she had offended the woman somehow.
Mrs Wilson gave her a stony stare. ‘You pretend you’re one of us, just because we’re both employed here.
But I know your background.’ She took a pensive sip of her drink.
‘It’s not surprising you’re caught off guard by my knowledge because the likes of you don’t give the likes of me a second thought. ’
Dorothea opened her mouth to respond but couldn’t think what to say.
There was too much in the sentence to tackle, and so she let an uncomfortable silence settle, although she had the feeling that Mrs Wilson, Edith, was perfectly at ease; that she had been longing to begin waging this class battle.
Dorothea’s accent gave her away, she knew.
Her mother had been raised in privilege, in the shadow of castle walls.
The war had provided her mother with an excuse to spread her wings.
She was intelligent and fluent in French.
She had worked in counter espionage and somehow—at a nightclub apparently—met a charming Scotsman who had risen through the ranks to become a warrant officer.
They had fallen madly in love. He, lowborn but handsome and ambitious; her mother with a headstrong nature and an equal penchant for bending the rules.
Lady Beatrice Montgomery had become Mrs Beatrice Stewart.
Baby Dorothea had arrived six months later.
Edith Wilson was staring at her. There was something in the look that was inexplicably dark. Dorothea took the mug of whisky. ‘Thank you for the advice. I’ll use this later.’ She walked back up the stairs towards her bedroom. At the top, she drank the whisky in one, burning gulp.
Now, with Louis in the pram sleeping soundly after his fretful night, she stood on the first timber slat of the jetty.
Francis had no interest in fishing for the trout that had been stocked in the lake.
He was lying on his stomach at its edge, his face above the still depths of the water, peering at the reflection.
He liked the colour, the clouds, the lightest touch of wetness on his eyes and nose.
He blew on it, so that ripples shivered then waned.
He blew again. Each new breath was a fluttering change in his small ecosystem and Dorothea was mesmerised by the perfection of it.
A whistling noise began from behind a camellia hedge and Stan emerged with his hedge clippers. He grinned at them. ‘What are you three up to today?’
‘Hello, Stan!’ called Francis, then he rolled over and put his hands beneath his head and looked up at the sky.
Dorothea walked towards the gardener. ‘We’re doing well, Stan, but Louis had a bad night, so we are both a little fuzzy-headed.’
‘Colic perhaps?’
‘Goodness, everyone knows about babies around here!’ Well, not everyone, Dorothea conceded to herself. This morning, in the breakfast room, Cricket had hovered in the doorway, as if she wanted to say something. Dorothea lifted Louis and said, ‘Would you like to hold him?’
Cricket had taken him, peered down into his sweet face, and Dorothea had held her breath. ‘Isn’t he something?’ she whispered.
There was a dip of the girl’s chin, a flicker of emotion. She nodded and handed him back. After a moment, she said, ‘Surely, two sons is enough?’ The pain in her look was so real it had stolen Dorothea’s reply.
Stan was saying now, ‘Had a couple of my own, Dorothea. They’ve grown up, and it’s just me since the missus passed so they don’t bring the grandbabies home much. But you don’t forget. It’s like riding a bike.’
‘You have grandchildren?’ exclaimed Dorothea. The man looked only a decade or so older than her. But weathered and strong and kind.
‘We started young, and so did our daughter. She has twin baby girls.’
‘Congratulations then. How wonderful. I feel so inexperienced. Mrs Wilson seems to know a lot about babies too.’
Stan nodded thoughtfully. ‘Sad story there.’
‘What do you mean?’
A shadow crossed his face. ‘Had her own family once.’
‘She did?’
‘Terrible accident. She was away and her house burned down. She lost the little ’uns.’
Dorothea gasped.
‘Their father was burned trying to save them. His injuries healed, but he was never the same after. Couldn’t see a way out in the end. She found him in the barn one day after she’d been away overnight. He was almost frozen when they cut him down.’
Dorothea’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Good heavens, Stan. How dreadful!’ She glanced at the pram, then at the murky depths of the lake.
She considered the baby’s fragile lungs, the slope and the gently rippling water, which now seemed to morph into something darker.
How had Mrs Wilson kept going? ‘I can’t believe I didn’t know.
I mean, we’ve worked together for more than two years.
I just thought she was devoted to this place, and single by choice. I should … I should have been kinder.’
‘Folks say she drove her husband to his death, blaming him. But you couldn’t help wanting to blame, could you?’
‘Oh gosh. I don’t know. It would be impossible to recover.’
‘She’s recovered a bit I expect. Found a home for her affections.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She has a soft spot for Francis. Haven’t you noticed? Hates it when his Lordship has a go at the boy.’
‘I …’ Dorothea thought about this. Edith Wilson was frequently hovering just as Edward lost his temper with Francis.
Was she running interference? She often brought the boy treats too, but never made a fuss about it, leaving a plate of his favourite biscuits in the schoolroom when they were outside.
Dorothea simply hadn’t taken much notice of the woman and now felt ashamed.
A cry sprang from the pram and her heart spiked.
Being in this place was too much. Being around Edward, fearing every day.
Each cry, each hesitant mewl had her on edge; like the tip of a sword pressing at the watery caul of her sanity.
She wondered if one day it might break; if the terrible images that ran through her head in her most sleep-deprived, fretful hours might leak out, and Mad Thea might be let loose. She stared at Louis in the pram.
She must have had a strange expression on her face, because Stan was peering quizzically at her. She tried to loosen her jaw, her cheeks. She tried to breathe.
‘You’re all right, Dorothea.’ Stan gave a hesitant smile. ‘You’re doing a good job.’ He looked at her a fraction too long, then walked back to the hedge and began clipping.
Louis began to make cooing sounds. She reached into the pram and scooped him up.
She regarded the birthmark on his arm, the curve of his sweet mouth.
She wondered why she was still here in this evil place; wondered how it was possible to love this baby when he was part of Edward.
She thought of Adeline Fitzhenry. Her marriage to Edward must have been awful.
All those times in the bookshop when she’d been sad; those months they’d spent hidden away together in the cottage in Clovelly enjoying the cobbled hillside streets, the donkeys pulling sleds of groceries past their little front window up the hill.
They had watched the lace-makers working as they sat in front of their cottage.
She pictured the finger-mark bruises on Adeline’s arm when she returned from Bleddesley that first week, the pregnancy prosthetics hidden in her luggage.
She looked at Francis—Adeline’s only true love—as he lay on the grass. He was Dorothea’s responsibility now.
She held on to the cold metal handle of the pram with both hands. How could she have let so much of her essential self be stolen by this place? How could she get away? She stared down at her hands and wondered exactly what they were capable of.