Chapter Twenty-One

Conception

 

 

The Confession of Mary Carson

 

TIME PASSED, YET seemed to stand still. The memory of that summer remains almost precious to me; sorrow and delight are so bound up with my experiences at Springcross House I cannot recall one without the other.

Each night Arodias came to my bed, and each night I found fresh delight there. The difference in our ages seemed to disappear – in the dark, grey hairs were far less visible, and all that remained was his body’s leanness and strength. His kisses were passionate and deep; his caresses, when our lovemaking was at an end, tender and consoling. I could not remember being so happy. I was loved, with the prospect of marriage, children and a secure future, and a husband I had redeemed from his earlier harshness.

It was like a dream, I admit – not least because, in daily life, we still played our accustomed roles of employer and secretary. Even our luncheon conversations rarely touched on any topic they would previously have avoided. From morning until night I outwardly remained the upright spinster; smartly dressed, a pillar of rectitude. But after dark, when he came to my room... ah, then I lived in another world, Mrs Rhodes, one so glorious that when I woke some mornings I could no longer be certain what was a dream and what was not.

Below the hill on which Springcross House stood, the city churned out soot and murk, but the house’s gardens were clean and bright. It was a glorious summer, at least to me; one, seemingly, without end. And yet, one morning I looked out of my window and saw the garden’s brightly-coloured blooms dead or dying, the trees’ leaves turning red and gold and brown, and falling to the paths. Autumn had come.

The days began to shorten. I, in my turn, took advantage of the evenings before they drew in too far, walking through the gardens after dinner to savour the rich scent of fallen leaves decaying into loam. There is a peace and stillness to autumn no other season quite possesses. It is a beautiful time, yet melancholy, for its beauty is born of dying and heralds the coming of winter. After walking, I would retire to my rooms to make ready for my lover.

And if, on those autumn walks, any doubt ever intruded as to my lover’s promises, I dismissed them. I was happy, and wished to remain that way; and besides, to doubt my lover was to dishonour him.

Yes, that’s how I thought. I was by then five-and-thirty years of age and thought myself wise enough, but in these matters I was as green and foolish as a young maid.

The end of my brief idyll – not that I so recognised it at the time – came one October morning, when I awoke feeling bloated and queasy. I waited as long as I dared for it to pass, but I could not delay rising indefinitely. When I did, I was forced to run to the water closet, where I was violently ill.

I assumed that I had eaten something that disagreed with me, although I had no idea what. The cook, Mrs Cowling, was as charmless and coarse-spirited a soul as any other servant at Springcross House, but her deficiencies did not extend to her kitchen skills: Arodias, after all, was scarcely likely to settle for a sub-standard bill of fare.

My nausea passed quickly. I made my toilet as per usual and went on to enjoy another day in that now-familiar pattern. But the following day, the sickness seized me again; and then, once more, the day after that.

Discreet enquiries among the other servants assured me that no other member of the household had suffered any digestive upset in recent days. I continued in my duties and daily routine, but I knew something was awry. To Arodias I said nothing; I did not want to voice my suspicions. Indeed, the two or three nights that followed were more abandoned than the rest as I sought to forget my worries – and to hope that the following morning would find me with settled stomach, the attacks of vomiting no more than a memory.

But, of course – as I am sure you, Mrs Rhodes, if not you, Mr Muddock, will have doubtless guessed already – that was not to be. The bouts of morning-sickness continued, and then, worse still, my monthly courses, normally regular as the tides themselves, did not come as usual that month. Nor, indeed, I realised with horror, had they arrived the month before.

Of course, it had been foolishness to believe I could sin without consequence. Had I but waited until Arodias and I were married, all would have been well, but as it was, what faced me but disgrace and the life of an outcast?

I could only hope Arodias was the man I hoped him to be, and would not prove some pious hypocrite. The thought had never occurred to me before, but I could not keep it away. I was no longer a woman of certain prospects, but one whose entire future hinged on whether one man chose to keep his word or not. He had been so concerned hitherto about his reputation, after all, not wishing to marry too early. How many times worse would this be? How much easier to cast me adrift and damn me for a whore, with child from some other servant? What would my word be against his?

I was surprised at the sudden sharpness of my fear and suspicion of the man I loved. Time and again I told myself that I was wrong to entertain any such doubt, but still almost a week went by before I dared tell him.

“Arodias, I am with child.”

That is how I said it, Mrs Rhodes, in the middle of our customary half-hour luncheon. He went still, halting in the midst of chewing a mouthful of cold chicken, and looked at me for a long moment. Then he put down his chicken leg, swallowed a long draught of tea and set the cup down before saying, “You’re certain?”

I nodded. I felt tiny, fragile, a withered leaf the first strong wind would blow away.

Arodias picked up a napkin and dabbed at his mouth. “We will talk further this evening,” he said, “at the accustomed time.” It was the first thing he’d ever said that made reference to how we spent our nights. He looked at my face, and doubtless read the fear and confusion there. For all my attempts at composure, I was, doubtless, an open book. Then he smiled, reached out and touched my hand. This, too was unprecedented, being the first display of affection he had made towards me anywhere outside the bedroom. “Don’t worry, Mary,” he said. “All shall be well.”

Of course, his words only served to worry me more. I picked them apart and studied them as if under a magnifying glass throughout the hours that followed. What did he intend? There were those who could abort a child, once conceived: there were draughts you swallowed, or surgical instruments, intended to preserve life, bent to the opposing purpose. Was that his plan? And what then did he intend – to pay me off and dismiss me, or continue as before and marry me when the times were convenient? Could I countenance such a design? And if not, what else might he propose?

I passed the day in a daze, barely picking at the evening meal, wandering through the gardens in the twilight until it was very nearly dark. When I realised that the hour for our nightly assignation had almost come, for the first time I went reluctantly to the rendezvous.

I had no idea what Arodias expected. If he wanted to postpone all discussion until we had coupled, I was not sure I could oblige him. Thankfully, he spared me that. Entering the room as he usually did, in his brocaded robe and bearing a candelabra, he quickly set the latter down, sat beside me upon the bed, and took my hands in the tenderest fashion.

“My dearest,” he said. “I am so sorry. This is all my fault. It should not have been a great hardship to wait, not for so little time as a year. I am to blame.”

I had not expected this. I had expected blame and recrimination, so much so that I said, “So am I, darling. I should have thought to take precautions of some kind –”

But he was already shaking his head. “You’re an innocent, my dear,” he said. “Before you came to Springcross House, you were pure, unsullied. I am a man of the world. All my life I have had to consider the consequences of my actions, in order to ensure I attain my goals. It was always obvious that there was a risk of matters ending as they have.”

“Ending?” The fear was back again, but he squeezed my hands gently.

“Developing, I should say. This is no ending. Rest assured of that, Mary. We will still be married. This changes nothing, do you understand me? Nothing. But... we must be wise.”

“How do you mean, wise, Arodias?”

“As I told you, there are those who would care nothing about the conditions in my factory, however harsh, but would seek my ruin for a transgression such as this. It was politic to delay our engagement until a suitable time had passed. It is even more so that this matter be kept quiet.”

My hands went, almost automatically, to my belly. “It will be a hard matter to keep quiet, surely.”

“You rarely go far from the house. Work, and, if necessary, illness, can provide an adequate excuse for a low profile on your part until the child is born – and you may be certain that I shall ensure discretion on the servants’ part,” he added, “lest you have any concerns on that score. After the child is born, you can be seen in public again, and soon enough after that, our engagement can be announced.”

“And the child?” I asked.

Arodias merely shrugged. “We will adopt him,” he said. “He – or she – will live here, in secret, until in due course it can be announced that Mr and Mrs Thorne, unable to conceive children of their own, have chosen to adopt one whose lot would otherwise be bleak. And if we have more children” – he smiled – “we shall have confounded the doctors. It will hardly be the first time one of those quacks has been proven wrong.”

I was speechless; the plan’s audacity and thoroughness had taken me wholly by surprise. Arodias chuckled. “My wits and guile have been vital to my prosperity for more years now than I care to recall,” he said. “I would be foolish if I had no idea how to overcome a crisis.”

“But our child – to lie to him about the very circumstances of his birth –”

“Mary, my darling. Make no mistake – those who would use this to harm me would harm you and our child as well, without even a thought. Be guided by me on this, and we shall marry, with a child legitimate in the eyes of society and the law. He – and you – will be safe from calumny and ill-fame.”

I could not fault his logic. Even should I decide honesty to be the better course and to take responsibility for my own weakness, how could I condemn an innocent child to suffer with me? “Very well,” I said.

“We will find clothing that will conceal your condition as it progresses,” he said. “When your time of confinement comes near, another story will do – illness of some kind, brought on by overwork. You’ll leave the area for a spell – the Lake District, perhaps. When you return,” my husband-to-be went on, “you will be fully recovered, and our child will be cared for in secret. Then, as I say, we announce our engagement at the required time, marry, and finally – voila! – present the child as our adopted offspring. And so the crisis is neatly averted and we are a family. No?”

I smiled. “It seems –” I wanted to say ‘foolproof’ but that would have felt too much like tempting fate. “It seems a sound plan.”

He smiled back. “Indeed it is,” he said. “All that is required is that you trust me. And now...”

With that, he began to kiss and caress me; I found I could not hold back.

We made love again, and soon Arodias drifted off to sleep – but rest, even though I was cradled in his arms, eluded me.

A life was growing inside me, that should have been cause for celebration and joy. But I could not shake the sense that any possible happiness was already tainted, because our marriage and our child’s birth would be shrouded in deceit.

At some point, Arodias gently slipped out of bed. I pretended I was asleep too, and soon my bedroom door closed behind him.

Outside, a storm-wind blew, and the branches of the gardens’ trees hissed and lashed the air, shedding falls of leaves. I lay sleepless and alone in my bed, coming – it shames me to say – to hate the child I bore for the shadow its scarce-formed life had already cast on mine.