“Neither can I,” she said, pointedly. “We are in the same boat, you and I, Bruno. We both live in exile now.”
I was tempted to detail for her all the ways in which our situations could not be compared, but I wanted to hear the rest of her story.
“So your aunt was determined to make you repent …?”
“I never knew how much my father had told her of the circumstances that brought me to her house. She was certainly of the belief that I had been wilful and disobedient and had made my long-suffering family pay the price for my dishonour. And she made it very clear that I would have no choice about the life I lived from then on, if I expected to be given food and shelter.” She stopped abruptly, looked away to the window, and swallowed hard. I sensed we were nearing the heart of her story; she had kept up the careless bravado convincingly so far, but I noticed she had barely mentioned the child. Perhaps she found it too painful to talk about.
“Her plan was this,” she continued, when she had taken another drink. “That I should wait out my confinement in her house, hidden away, stuffing my head with Bible verses day and night. Then, when the child was born, if it was healthy and a boy, it would be adopted by a couple of some standing in a neighbouring town, who could not have a child of their own. She had it all worked out, it seems, and I am certain that money changed hands, though I never saw a penny of it. But she was very insistent that a boy would be the best outcome for all concerned—as if I could influence what was in my belly.”
“And if it was a girl?”
“I suppose they would have found a place for her, somewhere. There’d have been less reward, though.”
“But it was a boy?”
Finally she looked up and met my eye.
“Yes. I had a son. And he was healthy—so I was told. I only held him for a few minutes. They didn’t even let me nurse him. She said it was best that my body did not get used to him, nor him to me. Someone came at night to take him away, under cover of darkness. Those people—the people who
Here her voice cracked a little; I wanted desperately to reach out for her hand, but she held herself proud and upright, and simply clenched her jaw together until the danger of showing emotion had passed.
“I don’t remember much about those days, to tell you the truth, Bruno. I was in a lot of pain while my body recovered from the birth, but that was nothing compared to the blackness that descended on me after they took him away. I had always believed I was someone who could bear grief with fortitude—I had done so in the past—but this was different. I could not eat or sleep nor even cry. All I was good for was lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling, and wishing it would all come to an end somehow. At first my aunt was terrified I had taken an infection and would die—she had the physician out to me every day, at her own expense, and she had to pay extra for his discretion. I foolishly imagined she was doing this out of genuine concern and a sense of family duty.”
“It must have been terrible.”
She shrugged again.
“I suppose it was. But I had reached a point where I no longer cared what happened to me. I could feel nothing—not hope, nor fear, nor anger. Only blankness. I thought my life was over. I might as well have taken my chances being drowned on a boat to France.”
She held my gaze steadily as she said this, and although she had spoken the words gently, they cut to my heart. The previous spring, Sophia had been all set to flee Oxford for the Continent; it was my actions that had prevented her. I had intervened because I believed—with good reason, I still felt—that by stopping her flight I was saving her life, and that of her child. Over the months since then I had thought of her often and wondered how her life had unfolded as a result of my interference; I remained sure that I had done the right thing, but there was always room for a sliver of doubt. I feared, however, that even now she clung to her romantic hopes, and blamed me for stealing from her the future she had planned.
“But then your child would not have lived,” I said softly.
She lowered her eyes and picked another splinter from the tabletop.
“True enough. And he is alive and well, somewhere, I trust. I hope they are kind people,” she added, with sudden force. “I wish I could have seen them, to know what they are like.” Her voice shook again, and she wiped her eye brusquely with her sleeve.
“They must have wanted a child very badly, whoever they were. I’m sure they will treat him like a little prince.”
She looked up, her lashes bright with tears, and forced a smile.
“Yes. I’m sure you are right. So I lay there in the dark, day after day, until eventually the bleeding stopped and the milk dried up, and my body was my own again. I’m sorry if this detail offends you, Bruno, but it is a messy and unpleasant business, being a woman.”
I spread my hands out, palms upwards.
“It is difficult to offend me. But I am sorry to hear you suffered.”
She watched me for a moment, her expression guarded. Did she blame me for her suffering?
“The physician came and bled me daily, which only made me weaker, but he could find nothing wrong. Of course, once my aunt was satisfied that I had no bodily affliction, she concluded it was just monstrous idleness and warned me repeatedly that as soon as I was able I would be expected to take on some of the household chores. Hard work was the best cure for melancholy, in her view.” The note of bitterness had crept back. She took a deep breath, steadied herself, and continued. “One morning I woke—I think it was around the Feast of Saint Nicholas— with the sun streaming in through the shutters, and for the first time in weeks I felt like getting up. It was still early and the household was asleep, so I put on some clothes, wrapped myself in a woollen cloak, and went outside. My aunt lived on the outskirts of a small town with rolling countryside all around, and in the early-morning sun, all laced with frost, the view was so beautiful it took my breath away. I walked for an hour, got myself lost a couple of times, but although I almost wore out my poor exhausted body, I felt I was coming back to life.” She smiled briefly at the recollection. “My aunt was furious when I returned—I think she feared I’d run away. She railed at me: What if the neighbours had seen me in that state, looking like some wild woman of the woods? She had a point; I had not washed in weeks and I was thin as a wraith. In any case, she made me undress and looked me over thoroughly, as you would with a horse, then she heated water to bathe me and spent a long time untangling my hair and washing it with camomile. I was surprised, as you might imagine—she was not usually given to such extravagance. She fed me well that evening and told me I was welcome to walk in the countryside if I chose, so long as I stayed away from the town and one of her housemaids accompanied me. So over the next few weeks, this is what happened. I recovered my strength, and something of the balance of my mind, or at least I learned to lock away my pain where it could not be seen and appear human again on the surface. But I was suspicious of my aunt’s changed attitude— she seemed almost indulgent towards me, and I knew enough of her to doubt that this was prompted by affection. She had also taken to locking me in my room at night.”
“What happened to the household chores she had threatened?”
“Naturally, I wondered. Until the child was born, I was protected, because they needed me. I had tried not to think too much about what my life would be once I’d served my purpose—I supposed that at best she would use me as some kind of cheap servant in return for a roof over my head. I expected her to hand me a broom the moment I was on my feet again, but instead, she started coming to my room in the evenings to comb out my hair—it was still long then,” she said, rubbing self-consciously at the back of her neck—“and smooth scented oil into my hands. Not what you’d usually do for someone you mean to do laundry or wash floors.”
“She had something else in mind.”
Sophia nodded, her mouth set in a grim line.
“I found out a few days before Christmas. She came into my room one morning with a blue gown. It was beautiful—the sort of thing I used to wear—” She broke off, turning away.
I remembered how she used to dress in Oxford; her clothes were not expensive or showy, but she wore them with a natural grace that cannot be purchased from a tailor, and always managed to look elegant. Very different from the dirty breeches, worn leather jerkin, and riding boots she was dressed in now.
“I hadn’t thought I cared about such trifles anymore,” she continued, “but when she laid it out on the bed, I couldn’t conceal my pleasure. She told me it was an early Christmas present, and for a moment I really thought I had misjudged her, that there was a buried vein of human kindness under that crusty surface. I was soon disabused of that, of course.”
