29

Alamode: a thin, plain tabby-weave lustered silk, usually black. Used mainly for mourning and for the linings of expensive garments, as well as the outer fabric, especially for outerwear such as hoods and mantuas.

I was woken by the slam of the chamber window closing shut. The sun was already shining brightly – it must be morning.

‘Whatever are you doing? Do you want him to catch a chill?’ Louisa said, wrenching the curtains across once more. ‘Ambrose will be furious.’

As I raised my head the swollen cheek, almost forgotten in the height of last night’s emotions, pulsed with pain once more. ‘He’s furious with me anyway, what difference will it make?’

‘My goodness, that’s quite a bruise you’ve got,’ she said more tenderly. ‘He won’t be happy about you going out looking like that.’ Of course. The doctor’s leeches go missing and the vicar’s sister-in-law appears with a black eye. Such gossip would be the very thing Ambrose feared most.

‘How is he?’ she asked, placing her palm on Peter’s forehead. ‘He seems much cooler today.’

‘Bathing him with water seemed to break the fever. He even recognised me.’

‘He spoke?’

‘Just a few words.’

‘Do you think . . .?’ At that moment his eyes opened. ‘Hello, my darling boy. Are you feeling better?’

He nodded. ‘Thirsty.’

She lifted his head and brought the cup to his lips. Before long we were both weeping with joy. Peter had returned to us.

At breakfast Ambrose barely acknowledged me, averting his eyes from my disfigured, discoloured face. Soon after, the doctor arrived once more.

‘He seemed pleased with Peter’s progress,’ Louisa told me, once he’d left. ‘But he warned the disease is unpredictable and can relapse at any moment. He advised warmth, darkness and further purging should he show any more signs of fever.’

Over my dead body, I thought to myself. ‘No mention of the leeches?’

‘No more leeches.’

‘Thank heavens for that.’

Ambrose called us all to Peter’s bedside and led us in an overlong series of prayers, praising God and the good services of the doctor for his son’s recovery. Still he would not meet my eye. I bowed my head and spoke the words along with everyone else, thinking to myself that while God might have played his part, the ministrations of the doctor had been worse than useless. What had really helped to ease the fever at the critical moment was fresh air and water bathing; of this I was utterly convinced.

During the rest of the day Peter made numerous small steps towards recovery, each more encouraging than the last. He slept and woke again, every time a little more responsive than before. We read to him and he seemed to enjoy listening for just a few moments before falling asleep again, but the next time he stayed awake longer, and then longer.

Maggie glanced at my bruised face and turned away without remark before closeting herself in the kitchen, soon producing a nourishing broth of which Peter took a few sips, proclaiming it to be delicious. She beamed with delight: it was the first time he had taken anything but water for nearly a fortnight. Later in the day he took several more sips, and a small square of bread.

He began to ask questions: what had happened to him, why did he feel so weak, why did we have to keep the curtains drawn and why hadn’t his friend been to visit him? We tried to answer as honestly as possible without causing alarm.

‘But I want to see Gabriel. When can I get up?’ he asked.

‘Not for a while yet, my darling,’ Louisa said. ‘You have been very unwell, you know.’

His face fell. ‘Then if I’ve been so ill, why do you both keep smiling?’ How could we explain our delight at the return of his youthful impatience? Our boy was back with us, once more.

I dreaded Ambrose’s return that evening. Each sight of myself in the glass or window pane was a reminder of that terrifying fist, the shock of that blow. Further punishment would surely come soon enough. Would he threaten me once more, or just send me away under the cover of darkness? I tried to share my fears with Louisa, but she brushed them aside.

‘It’s done with now,’ she said. ‘He forgives and forgets easily. It’ll be fine.’

I did not feel so reassured, so it was some relief when he begged to be excused from supper. ‘I’m all in, wife,’ he said. ‘It’s been an arduous day and I have no appetite. I need an early night.’ She fussed over him for a while, taking a tray to his room, but he sent her away.

‘He’ll be better in the morning,’ she said.

Instead we took our own meals to Peter’s chamber and ate at his bedside, to keep him company. He even took a couple of spoonfuls himself. We told stories and teased him about his vanity when he asked for a looking glass. The sound of his laughter was like music to my ears.

He slept, soundly and peacefully, throughout the night.

The next day was Sunday. Maggie offered to stay with Peter while Louisa and I went to church.

‘You’ll be wanting to thank Him for the boy’s recovery,’ she said, a little pointedly, I thought. ‘And the Reverend would be pleased to see you there.’

‘But how can I venture out in public looking like this?’ I asked Louisa, hoping that my bruises would provide a legitimate reason for avoiding another of Ambrose’s rants. But she insisted that we should go together and produced a jar of mercury paste and some cinnabar rouge which she applied with such gentleness and practised ease I realised she must have developed the skill of covering up her own bruises many times in the past. Blended smoothly onto my skin, these ointments concealed the discolouration so effectively that it was barely detectable except from very close quarters. Finally she brought out a hat with a broad, netted brim under which the swelling could hardly be seen.

Ambrose seemed to have recovered from the previous night’s exhaustion. Though still pale-faced, he seemed uplifted by the passion of his faith, preaching with great enthusiasm about the power of God’s mercy. What about your own mercy, towards your own family, I felt like asking.

He was about fifteen minutes into the sermon, really getting into his stride, when it happened. Without warning, his face contorted and he folded at the waist, grabbing the sides of the pulpit to steady himself. I watched him gulping for breath, trying to force the words from his mouth.

It was a pitiful sight, even though I could feel no sympathy for the man. From our vantage point in the pew below we could see beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead, gathering into a trickle running down either cheek. He made no move to wipe them away as he struggled to continue, but after just a few more minutes his legs crumpled completely and he slid slowly down into the pulpit, out of view. The congregation of some fifty people or more seemed to gasp, as one.

Louisa was on her feet in an instant, but became ensnared in the rush of others running forward to help. The church warden took her arm, holding her back. ‘Let us see to him, Mrs Fairchild. I’m sure he will recover in a few moments.’

The usual calm solemnity of the building became pandemonium as everyone dashed about talking all at once, calling for the doctor, making suggestions, shouting for this and that: water, blankets, air. Shortly it became clear that Ambrose could not get to his feet. Struggling to manoeuvre in the confined space and with much grunting and arguing, three men managed to bring his heavy form down the narrow winding stair from the pulpit. Someone produced a door on which they laid him, and carried him away into the vestry, out of sight.

Louisa returned to the pew, her face ghostly pale, eyes darting wildly from side to side.

‘What can I do, dearest?’ I asked.

‘Go home, and look after Peter,’ she said. ‘I must go to my husband.’

An hour later a procession led by Louisa appeared carrying Ambrose’s still prone form on the board, making their way along the path between the yew trees and into the house. They carried him upstairs into his chamber, with the doctor following close behind.

I hid in the kitchen, listening behind the door when he returned downstairs to the parlour. ‘I fear it is not good news, Mrs Fairchild,’ he said.

Her anguished howl chilled me to the bone. ‘Oh please God, not again.’

‘Do not despair, I beg you. God may send mercy to our brother in the same way as he has done to your son.’

She ran into the kitchen and collapsed into my arms. ‘What if he dies, Agnes? Whatever will I do without him?’ she wailed.

You would be happier and stronger and not in so much danger, I wanted to say. The three of us could live together in peace without his constant threats. But at this moment she needed reassurance: ‘He is strong, sister, he will survive,’ I said.

‘It’s typhus, Agnes. Typhus.’

‘Peter has beaten the disease.’

‘But Peter has youth on his side. Oh God, please, please don’t let him die.’ Sobs racked her thin shoulders, wet tears staining her Sunday best gown. ‘He is everything to us.’

We sat her by the fire, and Maggie brought tea.

‘It ain’t right, madam,’ she sighed, shaking her head. ‘The reverend has worked hisself to the bone to help others. Is this how God repays him?’

We kept the news from Peter for as long as we could, fearing that the shock might send him into a relapse, but he was now much more aware of what was happening in the house around him, and it became impossible to conceal.

‘I heard the doctor, but he didn’t come to see me,’ he said. ‘Tell me the truth. It’s Father, isn’t it?’

‘I’m afraid so, my darling. But he is strong and I am sure that like you he will beat it. In a few weeks’ time the pair of you will be up to your usual tricks, of that I’m certain.’

His darling face crumpled. ‘I don’t want him to die, Mama,’ he cried pitifully. ‘Whatever would happen to us?’

But there was little time for such speculation. Over the next couple of days, Ambrose’s condition declined pitifully. The fevers were as violent and terrifying as anything we had seen. Louisa, Maggie and myself took turns keeping vigil. There was endless soiled bedlinen to wash and hang out to dry, visits of the doctor to supervise and meals to prepare, especially since we were trying to encourage Peter to make up for those days of starvation.

The doorbell rang almost constantly with a stream of well-wishers bringing notes of condolence, posies of flowers, fresh-baked loaves of bread, boxes of eggs and other kindnesses. Everyone spoke, without exception, of their deep love and respect for their vicar, and it left me wondering how such a good man – to whom people regularly referred as a saint – could have such a dark, violent side to his nature. However well we believe we understand someone, we can never truly know them or the demons that haunt their innermost thoughts.

A large bunch of roses arrived from the squire and his family, along with a box of luxury foodstuffs: a joint of venison – ‘shot on the estate, I’ll be bound’, Maggie remarked – a small side of bacon, a sizeable cube of chocolate, a pound of butter, two loaves of soft white bread, a hefty round of Cheddar cheese and three bottles of blackberry wine. Louisa bade the messenger wait while she penned a thank you note.

On the second day of Ambrose’s illness Peter declared that he was going to see his father. We tried to dissuade him, fearing he could be reinfected by the disease, and pointing out that he was still too weak to walk unaided, for his muscles were so withered that he might stumble and fall. But he refused all help and with jaw set in grim determination, raised himself from his bed and took his first slow and tentative steps along the landing. Once he reached the chamber where Ambrose lay, only half-conscious of his surroundings, he took a seat by the bed and took his father’s hand.

‘Can he hear me?’

‘Of course, darling,’ Louisa said. ‘Although he may not reply.’

‘I love you, Father.’ The boy’s voice trembled, and I could see my sister fighting her own tears. ‘You must get well. I did, so you can too.’

Louisa and I were so utterly exhausted that we frequently fell asleep in our chairs. Even during Anna’s trials I had never felt so tired, nor could I remember a period when I had not lain flat in my bed for so many nights. But nothing, not even the doctor’s purging, leeching or cooling him with damp towels – to which Louisa acceded reluctantly – seemed able to abate the course of Ambrose’s illness.

Late one evening he began to call out in his delirium, much as Peter had done. His words were clear. ‘Get my curate.’

‘He will be abed, my dearest,’ Louisa said. ‘We will call for him in the morning.’

‘No!’ he bellowed. ‘Now. Get my curate. Go now.’

Dull-faced, she went for her cloak. ‘He’s going, Agnes, and he knows it. Why else would he call for the curate in the middle of the night?’

Ambrose was right. We gathered to witness the prayers the curate spoke with great tenderness, blessing the now silent form of his revered vicar. Afterwards, we sat at the bedside to watch and wait. In the early hours of the morning, his heart stopped and the breath stilled in his chest.

This man, larger than life, filled with such powerful faith and selfless duty towards his fellows; this man who had saved my sister from the gutter and helped rescue me from servitude, and yet who harboured beneath this apparently beneficent exterior a contradictory character of terrifying violence and cruelty, was no more.

I was so tired I barely knew what to think or to feel. Louisa and Peter were distraught, of course, and I did my best to comfort them, but with his passing a great weight seemed to be lifted from my shoulders. The atmosphere in the house, too, seemed calmer, easier, more straightforward. We spoke openly and without fear, we came and went as we wished, within the constraints of mourning, of course. We ate when we chose, and what we chose, and rested when we felt like it.

In a curious way our family bonds felt stronger without him.