small reading table.
Jemima moaned and I bit my lip, unsure how to proceed. ‘There now,’ I said softly, the way Mother had tended me when I was sick with the scarlet fever. ‘There now.’
She shuddered, made three quick gasps for air. She clenched her eyes shut.
‘Everything’s all right,’ I said. I soaked the towel in the water and folded it in four, draping it across her forehead.
‘James…’ she said. ‘James…’ His name on her lips was beautiful.
There was nought I could say to that and so I remained in silence.
There came more groans, more whimpers. She writhed, moaning into the pillow. Her fingers chased elusive comfort across the empty sheet beside her.
Then the still returned. Her breathing slowed.
I lifted the cloth from her forehead. It had warmed against her skin and I dipped it again in the bowl of water. I wrung it out, folded it and reached to lay it back across her head.
Her eyes opened, blinked, searched my face in the dim. ‘Hannah,’ she said through a sigh. I was startled by her mistake. And pleased beyond measure. I opened my mouth to correct her, but stopped when she reached out and took my hand. ‘I’m so glad it’s you.’ She squeezed my fingers together. ‘I’m so frightened,’ she whispered. ‘I can’t feel anything.’
‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘The baby’s resting.’
This seemed to calm her a little. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It’s always so, right before they come. I just didn’t… It’s too soon.’ She turned her head away. When she spoke again, her voice was so low I had to strain to hear. ‘Everybody wants a boy for me, but I can’t. I can’t lose another one.’
‘You won’t,’ I said, hoping it was so.
‘There’s a curse upon my family,’ she said, face still hidden. ‘My mother told me so but I didn’t believe her.’
She has lost her sense, I thought. Grief has overtaken her and she has given into superstition. ‘There’s no such thing as curses,’ I said softly.
She made a noise, a cross between a laugh and a sob. ‘Oh yes. It’s the same that robbed our dear late Queen of her son. The bleeders’ curse.’ She went quiet then, ran her hand over her stomach and shifted so that she faced me. Her voice was little more than a whisper. ‘But girls… it passes girls over.’
The door flew open and Myra was there. Behind her was a thin man of middle years and a permanently censorious expression, who I took to be the doctor, though he wasn’t Doctor Arthur from the village. Pillows were plumped, Jemima was positioned, and a lamp was lit. At some point I realised my hand was once more my own, and I was pushed aside, ferried from the room.
As afternoon became evening, evening became night, I waited and wondered and hoped. Time lagged even though there were plenty of chores with which to fill it. There was dinner to serve, beds to be turned down, laundry to be gathered for the next day, yet all the while my mind remained with Jemima.
Finally, as through the kitchen window the final shimmer of the sun’s corona slipped behind the west heath, Myra clattered down the stairs, bowl and cloth in hand.
We had just finished our dinner and were still sat around the table.
‘Well?’ Mrs Townsend said, handkerchief clutched anxiously to her heart.
‘Well,’ Myra said, setting the bowl and cloth on the kitchen bench. She turned to face us all, unable to keep the smile from her lips. ‘Mother was delivered of her baby at twenty-six minutes after eight. Small but healthy.’
I waited nervously.
‘Can’t help but feel a little sorry for her, though,’ Myra said, raising her eyebrows. ‘It’s a girl.’
It was ten o’clock when I returned from collecting Jemima’s supper tray. She had fallen asleep, little Gytha swaddled and in her arms. Before I switched off the bedside lamp, I paused a moment to gaze at the tiny girl: puckered lips, a scrap of strawberry-blonde hair, eyes screwed tightly shut. Not an heir, then, but a baby, who would live and grow and love. One day, perhaps, have babies of her own.
I tiptoed from the room, tray in hand. My lamp cast the only light in the dark corridor, throwing my shadow across the row of portraits hanging along the wall. While the newest family member slept soundly behind the closed door, a line of Hartfords past carried on a silent vigil, gazing silently across the entrance hall they once possessed.
When I reached the main hall I noticed a thin strip of soft light seeping beneath the drawing-room door. In all the evening’s drama, Mr Hamilton had forgotten to turn off the lamp. I thanked God I had been the one to see. Despite the blessing of a new grandchild, Lady Violet would have been furious to discover her mourning conditions flouted.
I pushed open the door and stopped dead.
There, in his father’s seat, sat Mr Frederick. The new Lord Ashbury.
His long legs were crossed one over the other, his head bowed onto one hand so that his face was concealed.
Hanging from his left hand, recognisable for its distinguishing black sketch, was the letter from David. The letter Hannah had read by the fountain which had made Emmeline giggle so.
Mr Frederick’s back was shaking and at first I thought he was laughing too.
Then came the sound I have never forgotten. Will never forget. A gasp. Guttural, involuntary, hollow. Wretched with regret.
I stood for a moment longer, unable to move, then backed away. Pulled the door behind me so I was no longer a hidden party to his sorrow.
A knock at the door and I am returned. It is 1999 and I am in my room at Heathview, the photograph, our grave unknowing faces, still in my fingers. The young actress sits in the brown chair, scrutinising the ends of her long hair. How long have I been away? I glance at my clock. It is a little after ten. Is it possible? Is it possible the floors of memory have dissolved, ancient scenes and ghosts have come to life, and yet no time has passed at all?
The door is open and Ursula is back in the room, Sylvia directly behind balancing three teacups on a silver tray. Rather more fancy than the usual plastic one.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Ursula says, resuming her position on the end of my bed. ‘I don’t usually do that. It was urgent.’
I am unsure at first as to what she means; then I see the mobile phone in her hand.
Sylvia passes me a cup of tea, walks around my chair to present a steaming cup to Keira.
‘I hope you started the interview without me,’ Ursula says.
Keira smiles, shrugs. ‘We’ve pretty much finished.’
‘Really?’ Ursula says, eyes wide beneath her heavy fringe. ‘I can’t believe I missed the entire interview. I was so looking forward to hearing Grace’s memories.’
Sylvia places a hand across my forehead. ‘You’re looking a little peaky. Do you need some analgesic?’
‘I’m perfectly fine,’ I say, my voice croaky.
Sylvia raises an eyebrow.
‘I’m fine,’ I say with all the firmness I can muster.
Sylvia humphs. Then she shakes her head and I know she is washing her hands of me. For now. Have it your way, I can see her thinking. I can deny it all I like, but there’s no doubt in her
