London - Edward Rutherfurd [456]
Why was it so? she used to ask herself. What had he done? He was quite a good-looking figure of a man. If only, she sometimes told herself, he was not so cautious. If only he would take some wild risk – though not one, she admitted to herself, that could jeopardize their comfort. What did she want, then? A year ago she could scarcely have said. But now?
Now she wanted Jack Meredith. And as long as he was in London, her husband was insupportable to her.
“You gave me,” he reminded her gently, “an heir once before.”
She closed her eyes.
“I know.” Dear God, she thought, why must he mention that?
“I’m sorry. Poor little George.”
It was an area of darkness, the thing they did not mention. The death of the baby boy eight years before. Even now, Lord St James remained mystified by the business, and for her ladyship, who had been quite devastated at the time, it was the subject that must never be discussed. Lord St James had just broken the rule. But today, it seemed, he was not prepared to act the penitent entirely.
“Summer is a long way off,” he said briefly, and retired, leaving Lady St James staring into silence.
Lady St James sat quite alone.
That night. The horror of that night, eight years ago, when the child had been born.
Her labour had been long; afterwards she had lain exhausted for a time and dozed a little, glad that it was over. She had not enjoyed the business of being pregnant. To be so big, so clumsy: it was terrible. But now, at least, she had felt a sense of achievement. The baby was born a boy, to be called George, after his grandfather. But what really mattered to her was that he was the heir to an earl, with a courtesy title of his own from the moment of birth: little Lord Bocton. Hearing the baby cry, she had told the nurse to bring him to her. Smiling, she had held the baby up, to inspect him by the candlelight. And then her face had fallen.
She had expected the child to be pretty. Fair at least, like its parents. But the little creature already had hair that was dark. Stranger yet, there seemed to be a curious white streak in the middle. Even this, however, was nothing to what she found next. For as she had taken the baby’s tiny fist and opened the hand with her finger and thumb, she had discovered something else.
She let out a little scream. The baby’s fingers were webbed.
“It’s not mine,” she shrieked. “You’ve brought me another child. Where’s mine?”
“No, your ladyship,” the nurse promised. “It’s yours.”
“Witch! Thief! It can’t be.” But just then the doctor entered and assured her that this was, indeed, just how the child had been born.
Dear God, she thought, how could she show such a thing to her friends? A sense of horror filled her: horror at the baby; horror at herself – but no, this could not be her fault; horror at her husband therefore, who had caused her to have such a thing.
“Take it away,” she cried, and fell back on the pillow.
It had been fortunate that, soon afterwards, Lord St James had been obliged to make a journey to the north of England, leaving her alone in London. For by this time she had formed her plan.
The interview with the wet-nurse had given her the idea. It was, of course, unthinkable for a lady of the countess’s station to suckle her own child. A buxom young woman had been found, who was due to give birth the month before. And it was during the interview that the girl had casually remarked:
“I’ve always plenty of milk, my lady; enough for yours to share. Unless my baby dies. Then yours will have it all.”
“Do so many babies die?” the countess had asked. She knew vaguely that they did, but had never troubled her mind about the matter before.
“Why indeed, my lady,” the girl had replied. “Scores every day, in London.” Even the rich were at risk: any fever could carry off an infant. As for the poor in their crowded, insanitary tenements, hardly one newborn baby in three lived to the age of six. Abandoned