‘Chérie—’ practical Genevieve said, for at least the dozenth time, ‘you either have to get rid of it or you have to tell him—’
‘No.’
‘But—’
‘No!’ They were in Kitty’s small, pretty sitting room. The day was hot and the shutters were closed beyond the long, elegant lace curtains. Daggers of golden light pierced the cool shadows, and dust-motes danced. Kitty restlessly stood and walked to the hall windows, parting the curtains and pushing one of the shutters with her hand so that it swung a little open, letting in the sound and light of a bright Parisian morning. ‘No,’ she said again, more calmly. ‘I can’t do either of those things. Do you think I haven’t thought of it? God! I seem to have thought of nothing else for weeks! I will not kill my baby. I won’t. I can’t. And if I tell Luke’ – she turned from the window, her face desperate – ‘he’ll never let me go. Never. And I won’t have the strength to resist him. And the child will be brought up in violence and in fear, and in the shadow of the gallows.’
‘Perhaps he’ll change, chérie?’ Genevieve suggested, gently. ‘You say he would want this child – perhaps fatherhood would—’
She was interrupted and struck to silence by the sharp and bitter little sound that Kitty made. ‘Change? Luke? As soon expect the sun to set in the east this evening! He as good as said so himself last night. Jem – you know him – tell her. Tell her what he’s like—’
Jem it had been who had very sensibly insisted that she confide in Genevieve, for whom over the past weeks he had conceived no small respect, and in whose affection for Kitty he had justifiable faith. He had been sitting in silence for some time. Now he ran stained fingers through his fair, shaggy hair and shook his head. ‘Kitty’s right, I’m afraid. The man won’t change. Not that much. Not enough. And she’s right too when she says that if he finds out he’ll never let her go.’
‘He’d kill me first,’ Kitty said, bleakly.
Genevieve made a small, protesting, negative gesture at that. Jem said nothing. Genevieve stood and walked gracefully to where Kitty stood dejectedly fingering the fine lace of the curtains, slid an arm about her waist. ‘Kitty, my dear, I won’t have you looking so very sad. It isn’t the end of the world.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘But no.’ Briskly and comfortingly Genevieve kissed her cheek and then, her brow pensive, began to pace the room, talking almost as if to herself, counting off the points she made on long, slender fingers. ‘You cannot tell him. Eh bien, we will for the moment accept that. You will not accept a doctor’s help—’ She paused in her pacing and looked compassionately into Kitty’s white face. ‘You are sure, chérie? I know of a very good, a very reputable—’
‘No!’
Genevieve shrugged. ‘Eh bien,’ she said again, ‘so that too is out of the question. So. With what are we left?’
‘Kitty has the baby—’ Jem said.
‘—and is ruined by the scandal,’ Kitty finished. ‘And then Luke will find out anyway and – oh, God, what a mess! What a bloody, horrible mess!’
‘Mais non.’ Genevieve was sucking her lip thoughtfully. She resumed her pacing. ‘Let me think.’
The other two watched her, Jem curiously, Kitty with affection and no trace of hope. She herself was beyond thought, almost beyond worry. The past weeks, and especially the past few days had exhausted her.
Genevieve had stopped in front of her, and was eyeing her contemplatively. ‘It does not show.’
Kitty shook her head. ‘Not at all. In fact – as you’ve all been pointing out so often – I’ve actually lost weight. It must be something to do with the way I’m built.’
‘When is the baby due?’
‘I think, so far as I can be sure — Christmas.’
Genevieve was again counting on her fingers. ‘So you are – four months gone?’
‘About that.’
‘Your contract with Charles is until October?’
‘Yes.’
She counted again. ‘Three months. It is too long.’
‘Too long for what?’
‘Too long to hide it.’
‘But – Genevieve – how can I possibly—?’
‘Hush now. Listen. We embark, we three’ – she included Jem in the warmth of her smile – ‘upon a small conspiracy. Come’ – she took Kitty’s hand – ‘sit down. We’ll talk. Jem, would you be kind enough to ring for fresh coffee?’
‘What kind of conspiracy? What good would it do? In a couple of months at the latest I’ll start to show—’
‘Exactement. A couple of months. The end of September. If we can keep your secret until then, then we might be able to keep it forever. It depends upon you. Can you manage it? Can you keep on working for another couple of months?’
‘Yes, I think so. Physically I’m fine. Even the sickness is passing. I think it’s the worry that’s been making me ill—’
‘Precisely. So – if we make a plan, and you no longer need to worry, then all will be well, yes?’
Kitty shrugged doubtfully. ‘I suppose so.’
‘But of course. So. This is what we do—’ Genevieve stopped as the door opened and a little maid in neat black dress and crisp white apron and cap entered carrying a silver tray upon which was set a steaming coffee pot and three delicate china cups. They sat in silence as she set it upon the table. ‘Merci, Lisa,’ Genevieve said pleasantly. The girl left the room. Unhurriedly Genevieve poured the coffee and handed out the cups. ‘Eh bien. I was saying. This is what we do. First – absolutely nothing for a month. Kitty works as if all is well. You can do that?’
Kitty nodded.
‘Good. Then – towards the end of August you complain a little of tiredness, of lack of appetite, of inability to sleep. To Charles I shall speak – delicately – of a crise de nerfs, of women’s weakness – he will be sympathetic. All of Paris will be sympathetic. We shall enlist the help of our favourite journalists – a word here, a word there. By the end of September no one will be surprised if you have to break the contract with Charles and go home to rest, to nurse your poor overwrought nerves and repair the damage done to a delicate constitution by so much hard work—’
Kitty had to laugh at that. ‘Me? A delicate constitution?’
‘There, you see? You feel better already, non?’
Kitty sat thoughtfully for a moment. ‘We don’t tell Charles?’
‘Pouf! Tell Charles? Don’t be absurd. You know what a terrible gossip he is! He couldn’t keep a secret if his life depended upon it! No. We don’t tell Charles. We don’t tell anybody. The less people who know, the better. And also – you don’t go to England. You stay here, in France, where I can keep an eye on you and this – Luke – cannot find you. If he comes – he gets the same story as everyone else. We get you away to the country where for a few months you become a poor bereaved widow about to give birth to your first child. No one will know, chérie. In January – February, perhaps – you will return. And no one will be any the wiser.’
‘Might they not guess?’ Jem ventured, not wishing to deflate such positive optimism.
Genevieve waved an airy hand. ‘So they guess? What can they do? What do they know? Kitty – this is the only way. Between us we will manage it.’
Kitty cleared her throat. ‘And – the child?’ she asked, hesitantly.
Genevieve looked at her in surprise and with a trace of exasperation. Why – it will be adopted, of course. It’s the only sensible thing.’
‘I – yes. I suppose so.’
‘Don’t worry, my dear. I will arrange everything. You just get through the next couple of months.’
Kitty’s face had cleared a little, the lines of strain relaxed. Impulsively she leaned forward and took Genevieve’s hand. ‘I don’t know how to thank you. Why didn’t I tell you before? It’s been so horrible—’
Genevieve patted her hand comfortingly. ‘Well it isn’t over yet, but at least you are no longer alone. Now, one question remains. Where shall you go to have the baby? It must be in the south, I think—’
‘There’s a chance I might be able to help there,’ Jem said, unexpectedly.
The two women looked at him in surprise.
Jem thought for a moment before continuing. ‘There’s a place I know in the Lot valley. It’s very quiet – miles from anywhere, in fact. Just a small village and – about a kilometre downriver – a ruined watermill called La Source. The mill belongs to the family of a friend of mine. The mill itself is ruined, but the house is fine – they use it each summer for a month or so. Apart from that they’re only too pleased to let Gaston’s friends borrow it. The valley is a wonderful place to paint, and I think they rather like the idea of lording it as patrons of Gaston’s penniless artist friends. In the autumn and winter there’s never anyone there. I’m sure I could get them to let us have it. It would be perfect—’
‘But – alone? In the heart of the country? When she does not have the language?’ Genevieve shook her head vigorously. ‘I had in mind a small town – somewhere civilized, with shops, and—’
‘And people to ask questions,’ Jem put in. ‘Like – why should an English widow with very little French choose to have her child anywhere but England?’
‘That we must risk. We cannot bury poor Kitty in the middle of nowhere alone—’
Jem hesitated for just one second. Then, ‘She won’t be alone,’ he said quietly, ‘I’ll be with her. If she’ll have me for the duration, that is—’
Kitty stared at him in astonishment. ‘Jem! I couldn’t impose on you so!’
‘But why ever not? I shouldn’t have offered if I didn’t want to do it. There’s nothing for me in Paris at the moment. I can as easily paint at the mill – easier, perhaps. There’ll be fewer fatal distractions. No bars. No cafes—’
‘No absinthe,’ Kitty said.
He laughed. ‘Well – just a little perhaps. You can’t expect me to go without the delights of civilization entirely! Don’t you see, Kitty – we’d be helping each other. You have to get away, and it would be better for me to leave the temptations of Paris for a while before they ruin me entirely. La Source is the perfect answer for both of us. There’d be no questions asked – the locals have long since got used to the comings and goings of Gaston’s eccentric artist friends. And anyway, what is more natural than a penniless American and his pregnant English wife escaping from Paris for the winter?’
Genevieve was staring at him in dawning delight. ‘But it’s wonderful!’ she breathed. ‘Wonderful!’ She turned to Kitty. ‘You see? Between us we have arranged it all—’
Kitty looked from one to the other, blinking, her heart too full for words. Jem and Genevieve, an unlikely enough alliance, smiled at each other well satisfied. ‘More coffee, I think,’ Genevieve said.
Never, Kitty thought, had the old adage of shared troubles being halved been proved to be truer. With the strain of facing alone an uncertain future that had seemed to threaten nothing but trouble and eventual ruin eased, she immediately felt better. Under Genevieve’s watchful eye she rested more, ate more sensibly, and her health improved. The terrible and until now all but constant nausea eased. Her energy returned; she no longer felt drained at the end of each performance. She was confident that Genevieve’s practical timetable would work. She could last out until the end of September. Luke she did not see again. With no word or sign he had apparently returned to London as abruptly as he had come, a fact for which in her present state of mind she could feel nothing but thankful. She thought of writing to Pol with her news, but resisted the temptation, knowing Genevieve to be right when she said that the fewer people who knew the secret the better. There was, in any case, nothing Pol could have done but worry, and in that there was little point. She would tell her later, when it was all over; hopefully her friend would be too involved with her new husband to spare too many thoughts for Kitty. Her real remaining problem – what was to become of the child once it was born, a problem she declined to share with Genevieve, who so blithely assumed adoption – she put determinedly to the back of her mind. She would have months in which to decide – months of peace and of quiet. The secret now, she was sure, was to take life one step at a time. And the first step was simply to get through to September.
With the help of Genevieve and of Jem it proved quite surprisingly easy. She was strong and she was healthy. Her rangy build continued to abet her deception – although as the weeks passed and a blazing August drew to a close she began to realize that even she could not retain her boyish shape forever and both she and Genevieve spent a feverish day or so unpicking and stitching, adding a little here, a little there, to encompass her expanding waistline and abdomen. And then, as September wore on, still very hot and muggy, it was not difficult to enact the scenario with which Genevieve had presented her. Her temper really was short, and she really did find herself tiring easily. Charles, worried by the change in her and totally deceived by his wife’s connivances, agreed readily, if with regret, that the summer had been too hard for her and she should take a rest. With a concerned alacrity that shamed her he agreed to waive the last month of her contract. And so, in the last week of September she found herself at last safe out of the public gaze and on a train with Jem heading south to the River Lot and the little village of St Sauvin.
The months that followed were the most peaceful and the most contented that Kitty had known since her Suffolk childhood. From the moment she first saw it, set within its sylvan valley, glowing now with the first fire-colours of autumn, the broad and tranquil River Lot enchanted her. On the day that they arrived and were driven the fifteen or so kilometres from the station to the village of St Sauvin in a rattling farmcart the dipping sun lit a sky of molten gold and glittered through the trees as they rode, dazzling their eyes. Small stone houses were scattered along the rutted road. At each wayside home dogs barked, chickens ran squawking from the great plodding hooves of the carthorse and dark-eyed children watched gravely as they passed. The lovely, slow-flowing river gleamed intermittently as it meandered between its willowed banks beside them. Paris – and for that matter London – the traffic, the bustling crowds, the ever-present noise and movement belonged, it seemed, not just to another world, but to another life.
‘Jem – it’s lovely! Truly lovely!’
He smiled, pleased. ‘You’re all right?’
She nodded. She was tired, certainly, after the trying journey, and her back stabbed pain with each lurch of the unsprung cart, but the sunlit countryside, the sight of the calm and beautiful river, fed strength and hope into her wearied bones. Not for the first time in the past few days she felt herself relax into a strangely fatalistic and far from unpleasant mood: the thing was done, the die cast. The baby grew steadily within her and nothing now could change the course of the next few months. So be it. She had struggled for long enough. The time had come to accept – accept the inevitable, enjoy each day as it presented itself. Let tomorrow’s worries wait upon tomorrow. Today’s concern would be wasted upon them anyway.
‘There’s the village,’ Jem said.
The cluster of stone and timber houses, sited at the southern end of an ancient, narrow bridge that spanned the gently flowing river from one thickly wooded bank to the other, apparently dozed in the late afternoon sunshine. As they rolled from rutted mud onto a short stretch of noisy cobblestones curious children stared, a goat lifted an inquisitive head, steadily chewing, and a toothless ancient, ensconced comfortably with a carafe of dark wine at a table beneath a canopy of full-fruiting vines, watched them, deep-lined face impassive. They passed the handful of houses and wound their slow and steady way through the fertile valley bottom – cultivated land on the whole, dotted here and there with stone-built farmhouses. In some fields a late harvest was being gathered, others lay ready for the plough and the seed. At last Jem leaned forward and spoke in his rapid French to the driver. The man – who had spoken not a dozen words in as many kilometres – grunted.
‘We’re nearly there,’ Jem said. ‘There – the roof through the trees. Do you see?’
Kitty strained her eyes against the low, dazzling sun. Within a great stand of trees by the river, some distance from the lane, she caught a glimpse of terracotta tiles and a golden stone wall. Then the cart had turned ponderously into a long, rutted drive that curved within a tunnel of branches. Sunlight glittered and dappled the cart as it rolled across the first-fallen of the turning leaves. Through an arch of branches ahead she could see a tumble of buildings – sun-coloured stone walls, small windows, moss-grown clay-tiled roofs. As they rode closer she could see that some of them – those closest to the riverbank – were in a bad state of disrepair. But as they turned and creaked into the mill clearing she saw that the sturdy, four-square house had been well repaired and renovated. New shutters guarded the windows, the stonework was clean and cleared of moss.
She stared at the house in unfeigned delight. ‘Jem! It’s beautiful!’
Jem surveyed the buildings, smiling a little. ‘You couldn’t be seeing it at a better time. The colours are wonderful, aren’t they? There’s a spring there – beyond the house – where the bamboo is growing, d’you see? It feeds the pool that once fed the old mill race. Wait till you see the pool – it’s as blue as the sky, and never cold.’ He vaulted lightly from the cart and then turned to hand her down more carefully. ‘Welcome to La Source.’
The river glittered beyond the picturesquely derelict mill buildings. A single bird called, piercingly sweet on the autumn-scented air. The sun had dipped suddenly lower, gleaming red upon the tree-obscured horizon. She stood quite still, savouring the moment, absorbing the peace and the beauty.
‘You like it?’ Jem asked, softly.
‘I love it,’ she said.
She never changed her opinion; on the contrary, in the ensuing months she came to love the place in the truest sense of the word. At first she walked every day, exploring the countryside and the river’s banks, delighting in the gentle autumn weather, the shades of red and gold that flamed about the splendid trees. Physically – to her surprise after those first, difficult months – she had never felt better. As her body thickened and her pace necessarily slowed so it seemed to her that her mind and her soul quietened. She had time at last – time to watch a bird as it flittered through the branches of a tree, time to listen to its song, time to sit in the great stand of feather-leafed bamboo, planted by some imaginative unknown hand years before, beside the opaque, miraculously blue, spring-fed pool that gave the mill its name, and watch through the trees the cool, steady flow of the waters of the Lot as they moved tranquilly on to the distant sea. She woke with delight to the first morning of rain and walked still, cloak and hood drawn close about her, savouring the freshness of the air, the living, fragrant scent of it. As the nights closed in and began to chill they would light a fire each evening in the great rustic sitting room, each curled into a favourite chair, reading, or talking, or simply enjoying a companionable silence as she sewed for the coming child and he drew out the inevitable sketch pad and pencil.
She did not question their rapport, as she did not question anything else. In that place, at that time, it seemed the most natural thing in the world that they should live so, in friendship and in peace. It was as if, together with the other troubles of the outside world, the exhausting conflict, the extremes of feeling that so often characterized the more common relationship between man and woman had been for this short space of time suspended. They lived in harmony, each looking to the other’s comfort and happiness and demanding nothing. Perhaps, Kitty reflected a little wryly one day as she sat upon the riverbank beside a stand of gracefully weeping willows, they had both needed this rest from the rigours of passion more than they had themselves realized. She half-smiled at the thought. It was a delightfully mild, damp, sweet-smelling late autumn day. The narrow, gold-green leaves of the willows fluttered to the dark waters and drifted lazily downstream. Within her the child stirred and she laid her hand soothingly upon the mound of her belly in the age-old gesture of pregnancy. She hummed quietly to herself, and then found herself singing softly aloud, to the river, to the trees, to the stirring life within her—
‘All round my hat I will wear the green willow – All round my hat for a twelvemonth and a day—’
Pictures flickered in her mind. Faces long dead, or long forgotten, faces that no longer held over her the power of pain, but whose memories were transmuted now to a sweetly sad nostalgia.
‘Oh, young men are false and they are so deceitful, Young men are false and they seldom prove true—’
On the opposite bank she saw movement and a flash of colour beneath the trailing branches of the trees. She did not move, nor did she stop her singing.
‘For rambling and ranging, their minds always changing, They’re always a-looking for some girl that’s true—’
The branches moved again. She lifted a hand and waved, smiling. There was a sudden, smothered squeal of giggling and two little girls in muddy homespun, their plaited hair tangled with leaves and twigs, scampered from their concealment and disappeared into the woodland, laughing and calling, casting impish glances over their shoulders at the strange foreigner who sat by their river and sang.
Kitty watched them go, smiling. Their skin was sun-browned and their dark eyes bright with a childish mischief. She felt her own child stir again, impatiently. A daughter, she thought, with a sudden, irresistible rise of longing – it would be wonderful to have a daughter. She pulled herself up sharply. Don’t think of it. Not now. Not yet. She clambered awkwardly to her feet and strolled back towards the mill, her wide-brimmed hat dangling from her fingers, her voice echoing still through the quiet woods,
‘My love it grows older, but never will grow colder, I wish ’twould fade away like the morning dew—’
Halfway through November the inevitable happened and a spell of wild, windy and wet weather set in, signalling the true approach of winter. The last of the bright leaves were stripped from the branches by the gale, the river muttered sullenly as it swirled, muddily high, against its banks. Kitty heard its murmur as it rushed against the great broken wheel of the mill, and moved her chair a little closer to the dancing flames of the enormous fire that burned upon the deep hearth. The wind blew gusts of rain against the windows and tossed the treetops wildly against the storm-dark sky, yet here, within the solid stone walls, the sound was muted and the damp and cold kept at bay. Jem had walked into the village – with his command of the language it was he who shopped, picked up the occasional letter from Genevieve, visited the tiny bar and took a glass of the local wine with the men in the village. Kitty had had no contact with the village at all – even the arrangements for the attendance of the midwife at her lying-in had had to be made through Jem. The thought, as despite herself it did more and more often lately, caused a small frisson of anxiety that she tried to ignore, but could not. Remembering Martha Isherwood’s anguish and near-death, the birth itself was something she did not care to contemplate at too great length – but as the days and the weeks passed and her burden swelled and grew it became more and more difficult not to dwell on the ordeal ahead. With Jem’s cheerful presence in the house it was easier, but alone sometimes she found herself brooding, a little fearfully, upon the inevitable and unknown trial the future – the near future now – must hold. She stood now and wandered restlessly to the tiny window that overlooked the drive, rubbing away the condensation, peering through the bare, waving branches to the lane. And there Jem came, whistling, apparently oblivious of the rain and wind, his wet hair plastered across his face, in his arms a parcel of provisions. She smiled at the sight, her fears fading, and hurried to the scullery to set the kettle upon the stove.
It never got really cold in that clement southern valley. Even December, with mists and drizzle, did not bring the bite of a northern winter. As Christmas approached, Kitty decked the house with evergreen and sent Jem off to the village for the provisions for the seasonal feast. In the long hours spent by the fireside she sewed him a new shirt, hiding it when Jem appeared, enjoying the small, childish excitement of secrecy. On Christmas Eve she tidied and baked with a surge of energy that neither of them were experienced enough to recognize.
In the dark early hours of Christmas morning her pains started.
She lay alone, fighting fear and pain and waiting for Jem to bring the midwife. The great, griping pain seized her again, and she clenched against it, bringing blood to her knuckles with her teeth, refusing to cry out into the desolate silence of the deserted house.
In God’s name, where were they? Why didn’t they come? She seemed to have been lying so, alone and waiting, for hours—
The pain receded a little. In the relief of the aftermath she almost slept, only to be awakened again by a fresh fierce clutch of agony, fiery pincers that gripped her back and her belly, and then at its unbearable peak receded, leaving her panting with effort and drenched in sweat. She dozed again, a half-sleep peopled with the demons of a child’s nightmare. Then – at last! – voices, and light. Jem’s worried face bending over her, a woman’s voice, brusque and confident. Firm hands shook her. She moaned and tried to turn away. The pain came again, taking her unawares, drawing from her a shriek that blanched Jem’s face. She reached for and clutched the hands that held her. The woman’s voice crooned, soothing her. But when the pain receded the briskness was back.
‘She wants to know how often the pains are coming,’ Jem said.
Kitty shook her head on the pillow, her hair plastered in strands across her face. ‘I don’t know. Often.’
‘She says you should walk a little, if you can. She says it will help—’ Jem’s face was taut with fear, his voice strange.
Beyond him, through the mists of pain, Kitty saw a small, shapelessly plump woman with the lined face of a peasant and sharp dark eyes. The woman rattled totally incomprehensible French at her and held out her hand. Kitty took it and struggled to sit up. There was a shocking, hot gush of liquid between her legs, a momentary easing of pain.
The woman spoke again, sharply, pushed her back onto the bed.
Jem disentangled his hand from hers. ‘I have to get hot water—’ he said, and the helpless anxiety of his expression brought the wan shadow of a smile to her face. ‘Hurry,’ she whispered. ‘All the things I’ve prepared – they’re in the scullery. In the warm cupboard, by the stove—’
‘I’ll get them.’
The pain assaulted her again, and with it this time came an overwhelming need to push, to expel the agony, to be finished with it. The midwife caught her hand and spoke urgently, shaking her head fiercely. Somehow the meaning of the words communicated itself to Kitty. She forced herself to relax, to ride the pain, not to struggle, her breath shallow gasps in her throat. The agony ebbed. She was vaguely aware of Jem back again, of the woman’s hands upon her, of Jem’s anxious eyes. She reached a hand to him. ‘Don’t go.’
‘I won’t.’
She knew later what it cost him, and never forgot it. But for the moment the urgency of pain and of the immense and exhausting effort of birth took her and she only knew that a familiar hand held hers as she struggled, shrieking, to deliver herself of her burden.
And then it was over. Incredibly, and with the greatest sense of relief that she had ever experienced, she felt the child slide suddenly into the world and the tearing pain was gone. She lay panting, utterly exhausted, drenched in sweat. The midwife’s busy hands worked about her. There came another small pain, an echo only of the earlier agony. And then, reedily and strange to the ear, a small, wailing cry, swiftly hushed. Kitty blinked open sweat-slick eyes. Jem knelt before her, his face a transformation of wonder.
‘Kitty – see – your son. Born on Christmas Day. A lovely little boy—’
‘A boy—’ She lifted a weak hand to the bundle that Jem held, parted the swaddling with a finger. Jet-black hair plastered to the tiny wet skull, eyes as dark as night, unsighted in the wrinkled, newborn face. Luke. She closed her eyes for a moment, fighting a wave of exhausted disappointment, the weakness of tears. Not a daughter, then.
The midwife took the baby from Jem and shooed him from the room. Kitty lay still as death, eyes closed, as the woman cleaned her and made her comfortable. Then, slowly, she felt the weakness in her limbs ebbing. She was aware of the dull ache in abused muscles and bones, but despite it, and despite that initial, bitter disappointment the first faint stirrings of a triumphant happiness surprised her. She had done it. She – no one else – had come through that ordeal and had given birth to a new life. Luke’s son. She sat up. The woman, smiling and talking, plumped up the pillow at her back. The baby lay in a wooden drawer laid on the floor beside the bed. Kitty leaned to look down at him. The woman restrained her, bent herself to pick up the child and laid him in Kitty’s arms. Kitty stared down at him. Her son. The midwife leaned forward and tugged at the ribbons that held Kitty’s gown together at the neck. Kitty frowned for a moment, uncomprehending. The baby mewed a little, soft red mouth opening and closing like a little, hungry bird’s. The midwife cupped her own ample breast in her hand, graphically, and pointed to the child. Slowly Kitty unlaced her nightgown. Her breasts, usually so small, were swollen and blue-veined, the nipples taut and dark. A little clumsily she drew the child to her. He turned his head and the tiny, greedy mouth fastened upon the nipple. There came a momentary, dagger-sharp pain and then an intense pleasure. The dark, downy head was heavy upon her arm. She leaned back against the pillows tiredly, letting contentment rise within her like the winter-swollen waters of the river beyond the window.
She had, she supposed, always known.
This was her son.
She would not give him up.
‘What are you going to call him?’ Jem asked, later, when the midwife had left, well compensated for her spoiled Christmas, and he sat by the bed watching the child asleep beside Kitty. ‘Do you know?’
‘I thought – Michael. After my father.’ She hesitated, lifted a defiant head. ‘Michael Daniels. It sounds well, doesn’t it?’
He glanced at her, his face startled.
‘I’m going to keep him,’ she said, flatly.
He did not, she thought, look as surprised or as shocked as she had imagined he would be. And yet there was a flicker of something in his eyes that she could not identify. ‘I suppose I always thought there was at least an even chance that you might,’ he said after a moment.
‘He’s mine. I won’t give him away. I can’t. I’ll manage somehow. I could foster him, perhaps – buy a little cottage in the country somewhere – no one need ever know—’
He looked at her, his face sombre. ‘Not even Luke?’
‘Least of all Luke.’
He shook his head. ‘You can’t do that.’
‘I can. I’m going to.’ Her voice was very calm.
‘If he found out—’
‘Who’ll tell him?’ She lifted a challenging head, a tigress defending her young. ‘You?’
He shook his head.
‘I’ll manage it,’ she said again, as if in the repetition she would convince herself. Then her voice softened, and she held out a hand to him. ‘Jem – thank you. For everything. For now, and for the past months. For bringing me here. For giving me time.’
He ducked his head. ‘It’s nothing.’
‘It’s everything,’ she said, firmly. ‘I couldn’t have done it without you. And look at him – isn’t he worth it?’ Gently she fondled the soft, baby head. ‘Jem, if – when – I have Michael christened – would you stand as his godfather?’
He looked at her for a long moment, on his face that same baffling flicker of emotion. Then he smiled. ‘Of course. I’d love to.’
It was not until after he had left her alone to feed the child that it came to her with a shock of surprise that what she had seen in his face had come very close to pain. And then she dismissed the silly thought. Motherhood was making her fanciful.
She recovered quickly from the birth. Within a few days she was up and a few days later was active again. The child absorbed her totally. She carried him with her everywhere, resting in a sling that Jem had contrived for her of canvas and linen, which she slung around her neck so that the baby rested securely against her breasts. He was a contented child, rarely crying, and he grew very fast. Inexperienced as she was in such matters yet still Kitty could see that he was a fine child, healthy and strong. In the weeks that followed she devoted herself to him utterly, feeding him, watching him, playing with him, talking to him, singing for him. Jem watched, strangely quiet and with a sadness in his eyes that she was too absorbed to notice. There was a cold snap in January that kept them within doors, though still it was not the bitter weather that they were both used to at that time of the year. Even on the coldest days the spring-fed pool kept its warm and steady temperature and the grass grew green as emerald on its wooded banks. The place was idyllic, and in its peace Kitty grew strong again, nursing her child, noting with pleasure that apart from her milk-swollen breasts her figure had returned completely to its normal, boyish shape.
Of the future she simply refused to think, though once or twice and more often as the month drew to its close Jem questioned her. She would think about it tomorrow – next week… The baby needed time, time to grow and to strengthen. She would make plans soon. But not now. Not right now.
Time drifted on. January slid into February almost unnoticed. At the back of her mind she was aware of it, as she was aware that she must eventually leave this enchanted place and face the world once more; but again and again she pushed the thought away. When she discovered a tiny cluster of fragile snowdrops upon the banks of the pool her pleasure at their beauty was marred by a pang of something close to panic. She could not stay here forever: yet she could not – she could not! – yet face the thought of leaving.
In the end her indecision proved to be for the worst, for the world, too long ignored, came to her, and the shock was the greater.
It was a chill, sunny day in mid-February. With Michael in his sling, safe and warm within her woollen cloak, she had walked the little way to the pool and then followed the path past the derelict mill buildings to the curve of the river’s bank. There she stood for a while watching the swirling, cold-looking waters that glimmered in the pale winter sunshine. She would have liked to walk further, but the bank path was muddy and treacherous in places and with her precious burden she would not take the risk. Instead she struck out at an angle through the wet grass around the front of the house to the rutted drive. In the distance a horse and cart plodded along the lane. She narrowed her eyes against the bright light; earlier that morning Jem had set off for the market in the nearby town of Fumel. It was surely too early for him to be returning yet?
Michael stirred sleepily at her breast. Her eyes still idly upon the approaching cart, she rocked him gently, making small, soothing noises.
The cart had stopped, and through the trees Kitty saw a small figure clamber awkwardly from it before it set off again, continuing along the lane. The lone figure stood for a moment looking about him. From this distance she could see nothing familiar about him. It most certainly was not Jem.
Curious, she strolled towards him, half her attention still upon the restless baby.
The small man, head down, shoulders hunched, was trudging up the drive towards the house.
She recognized him while he was still yards away and before he had seen her at all. She stood stock still, dry-mouthed, feeling as if every drop of blood had drained from her heart. Of all the people she had thought to see, this incongruous figure was the last, and oddly the most ominous.
He stopped when he saw her, stood for a moment, taken back by her unexpected appearance. He wiped his dirty coat sleeve across his nose, sniffing.
She could not speak. Her heart that the moment before had seemed to stop entirely was pounding now, taking her breath with fear. Luke. Something terrible had happened to Luke. He was dead. Imprisoned. What—?
‘Spider,’ she said, and her voice sounded strange, lost in the dry winter’s air. ‘What are you doing here? What’s happened?’
‘I bin lookin’ fer you fer weeks, Miss,’ the little man said, unsmiling and with no greeting. ‘No one knew where you were—’
‘How did you find me?’
‘Found a girl named Lucette. Friend of Jem’s ’ad told ’er ’e was ’ere. It was ’er guess you were with ’im.’
‘What’s happened?’ Her voice was dull. Her sudden grip upon the child had startled him. He started to whimper. She saw Spider’s eyes open wide in his wrinkled face. She caught his arm. ‘It’s Luke, isn’t it? Something’s happened to Luke?’
He shook his head, his bemused eyes still on the child where the smooth dark head appeared in the opening of Kitty’s cloak. ‘It ain’t the Guv’nor, Miss, no. It’s yer brother. It’s Matt. They got ’im in Newgate. They say ’e murdered Moses Smith. They’re goin’ ter top ‘im for it—’