Sarah’s hopes that Alice was on the mend, raised by her apparent energy over the last couple of weeks, were dashed the following morning. When Elisabeth’s morning murmurings turned into grumbles, then into wails that went unheeded, Sarah rose to find out what was amiss. Alice lay in bed still, cheeks flushed and strands of hair plastered to her face. The tangled bedclothes were evidence of a restless night. When Sarah laid her hand to Alice’s brow, it was burning up with fever – as she’d feared.
Sarah scooped Elisabeth from her cot and took her away for the little ones to entertain, then hurriedly prepared yarrow tea for Alice. Ella had already left for the mill, so leaving Thomas in charge of stirring the porridge pot, with strict instructions not to burn either himself or the breakfast, she carried the steaming liquid up the stairs.
‘Come now, you must sit up and drink this.’ Sarah half lifted, half pulled Alice up until she was propped on her pillows, then sat by her murmuring words of encouragement and stroking her hair back every now and then until every drop had been drunk.
Thomas came up the stairs, Annie and Beattie trooping after him, to declare the porridge eaten and the pot put to soak. Sarah turned to find them jostling for position in the doorway, all wide-eyed and looking anxious.
‘It’s time to get washed and dressed now,’ Sarah said, and shooed them out. She knew that any washing done without the benefit of her first heating the water was likely to be sketchy, but she needed to sit with Alice to make sure that her temperature fell.
Within the hour, Alice’s colour had returned to normal and her skin felt cooler and less clammy.
Sarah had reason to be thankful for yarrow’s properties in ridding the body of infection. She was still worried as to what ailed Alice, though. The village had been free of contagious illnesses for a long time, and none of the younger children had been sick with any of the usual childhood maladies for some while. Perhaps what Sarah had taken to be a good sign – Alice’s energy in going out and about again – had been too much for her and she had simply overdone it?
Sarah stifled a sigh. Her daughter’s health was of increasing concern to her. Alice wasn’t as robust as you might expect a young woman of her age to be. Sarah had noticed quite early in Alice’s childhood that she didn’t have the same stamina and energy as other children. She tired quickly, needed more frequent rests, and dark shadows were nearly always smudged below her eyes. Bookish pursuits with old Mrs Lister had suited her well, and Sarah had begun to think that she’d outgrown whatever the problem was. When Alice had started to work full-time at the mill, however, Sarah’s hopes had been shown to be premature. She’d returned exhausted each evening, then risen exhausted again to face the new day. It was at this point that Sarah had tried out a heart tonic on her, adjusting the dose and the formula until she found something that seemed to suit her well, and restore some of her equilibrium. Alas, the pregnancy had put an added strain on Alice’s body and Sarah had been fearful for her health yet again. The last few months had seen many ups and downs, and as Alice slipped into sleep, still propped on her pillows, Sarah felt an overwhelming sense of sadness. She would fight hard in every way she knew to prevent it, but she had a feeling of foreboding, a fear that Alice’s life was not destined to be a long and happy one.
By early afternoon, though, Sarah’s fears had dissipated. Alice was up and about, seemingly none the worse for her bad night, all traces of fever gone. She set to work, helping Sarah with the household chores and taking the washing to peg out on the line. The heat of the last couple of weeks had blown away along with the storm and been replaced by a brisk breeze, sunshine and scudding clouds.
‘We’ll need to keep an eye on it, mind,’ Sarah warned. ‘It’s sunny enough now but it might change at any minute. At least it’s a good drying day, while it lasts.’
Alice felt a rising agitation, which she tried to quell by keeping busy. She was aware of Sarah observing her, but her mother didn’t say anything, beyond trying to persuade her not to do too much.
‘Take it easy, Alice. You’ve not been well. You don’t want the fever to return.’ Sarah persuaded her to sit down at the table to help prepare the vegetables for the evening meal.
Alice frowned as she peeled the potatoes, rinsing the residual mud away from the surfaces in a large bowl of water, then setting them aside, now shiny white, to chop. Sarah worked away quietly and watched her, removing the bowl and refilling it with fresh water when she saw that the rinsed potatoes were coming out dirtier than they had gone in. Alice showed no sign of having noticed.
Alice began to chop the potatoes, halving, quartering, then dicing them. Suddenly she flung the knife down and Sarah saw blood smeared over the white cut surfaces of the vegetables, dark-red droplets falling from her fingertips.
‘You’ve cut yourself!’ Sarah passed a cloth over to Alice, then went to wring another out in fresh water. She came back to see Alice staring, unseeing, as more drops fell and flowered on the wet surface of the table.
‘I’m to be married,’ she said abruptly.
Sarah, applying pressure to the cut in an effort to staunch the flow of blood, almost didn’t register what she had said.
Alice repeated, ‘I’m to be married. To – to Owen Williams.’
Sarah started back and stared disbelievingly at her daughter. Memories of the state that Alice had been in one night on her return from the mill flooded back. Shaken and distraught, she’d appeared on the doorstep, her arms scratched from where she’d struggled home along the path without the aid of a lantern, her face bruised from where she’d blundered into branches, she’d said. Privately, Sarah wondered what else might have caused these injuries. Weeks had followed where Alice hadn’t been herself, had been withdrawn, snappy, moody. Then there had been the day when Albert had brought her home from the mill, after the fall, and the terrible night that had followed. The bleeding, the pain, the furious weeping. Sarah knew that Alice believed she’d kept the truth hidden, but Albert had told her everything. She felt a sudden rush of anger, remembering her feelings of helplessness and rage against the person who had done this to her daughter. Against Williams, the man Alice now said she was going to marry.
‘Why, Alice? Why him? When did this happen?’
‘It was agreed yesterday.’ Alice spoke, looking down at the table, twisting the knife absently between her fingers. Sarah, seeing that the blood still flowed, silently removed the knife and bound Alice’s fingers with the wet cloth.
Alice looked up at her. ‘It has to be. He wants me. His position is safe at the mill, and it may be that I can get him to make Ella’s job safe, too. It’s the only way for us all to survive.’
‘No, Alice.’ Sarah felt tears well up. ‘No, there has to be a better way. We’ll manage, we always have. I’ll –’ She stopped, at a loss as to how to go on.
‘You see?’ Alice shrugged her shoulders. ‘There is no choice. There’s nothing else to be done. So many mouths to feed –’ She gestured at the doorway. The younger ones had come silently through, leaving their play behind, aware of the change in the tone of the voices in the kitchen.
Alice stood up. ‘Come and help me bring in the washing. The rain’s on its way.’ The children rushed ahead of her into the garden, fighting over who was to carry the wash basket. Sarah turned to look out of the window. Dark clouds had gathered and the first drops of rain struck the windows.
She stopped Alice as she made to follow the children outside. ‘He’s not Elisabeth’s …’ Sarah stopped, unable to bring herself to continue.
‘Father? No!’ Alice laughed bitterly, despite herself. ‘Maybe it would have been better if he was.’ She headed out into the gathering wind. ‘It has to be,’ she flung back over her shoulder. ‘There’s no other way.’