Thora’s eyes glistened.
Mrs. North glanced over and moaned, “I’ve spoilt your new carpet! And your favorite room! I am so sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry for, Mrs. North. Don’t give it a second thought.”
The woman looked down and plucked at her bloody nightdress. “I don’t want anyone to see me like this.”
“Then we shall get you cleaned up. The doctor or midwife should be here soon, to make sure nothing else needs to be done.”
Mrs. North shook her head, lips trembling. “Nothing can be done. I know that full well.”
“There now. You just lie still. I’ll be right back.” Jane reached up, grasped a pillow, and gently laid it under Mrs. North’s head. Then she rose and stepped to the door.
“Miscarriage?” Thora whispered.
Jane nodded, chest tight. “Colin has gone to fetch the doctor and Mrs. Henning.”
Thora lifted the basin and rags in her hand. “I found Alwena at the bottom of the stairs clutching these, afraid to come up. But it looks like we’ll need a lot more water. Perhaps even the hip bath. Shall I go, or would you like me to stay with her?”
Jane was momentarily tempted to go. A part of her wished to be anyplace besides that red-stained room thick with the iron smell of blood. But she said, “I will stay. But thank you.”
Thora returned shortly, and together she and Jane bathed Mrs. North and cleaned the floor. They asked Alwena to bring up a bucket of cold water to soak Mrs. North’s nightdress until they could get it to the laundress. Glimpsing the garment, Alwena swore she had never seen so much blood and would not believe Jane when she assured her the woman had not tried to harm herself, nor had some murderous thief climbed through her window and stabbed her, nor any of the other wild theories she spun in her frightened frenzy. The chambermaid was imaginative—Jane would give her that.
Jane sent Cadi to the keeper’s lodge to bring back a nightdress and dressing gown for Mrs. North to wear, despite the woman’s protests. “I may spoil them yet.”
“Don’t fret. It doesn’t matter.” Besides, Jane thought, there was no one to see her in her fine embroidered linen anyway.
As she helped Mrs. North into them, Jane could not help but notice the woman’s pale limbs tremble and the slight mound of her abdomen that had yet to subside.
The midwife and doctor arrived on each other’s heels, but Mrs. Henning quickly shooed the man away, saying she would tend the poor woman on her own. After examining her and assuring Mrs. North she would heal and be able to try again, Mrs. Henning gave her a soothing herbal tea to drink and plenty of cotton wool to use as padding until her bleeding stopped completely. Before she took her leave, the midwife recommended Mrs. North rest and avoid travel for a few days.
When she had departed, Mrs. North turned her head on the pillow toward Jane. “Again, I am sorry to inconvenience you.”
“Hush. It is no trouble at all. And hardly what is important at present.”
“You are very kind. Apparently, I will need the room for another few nights.”
“Stay as long as you like. We will take care of you.”
Jane’s gentle words seemed to cause the woman pain, for her face crumpled and tears filled her eyes again. “Thank you,” she whispered, voice hoarse.
“Is there anyone I should send word to?” Jane asked. “Or I would be happy to bring up paper and pen if you wish to write a message to whomever is expecting you.”
Mrs. North shook her head, sending a tear rolling down her wan cheek. “No one is expecting me.”
Jane tucked the bedclothes around her and sat on the edge of the bed, hoping her guest would not be offended by her familiarity. She waited for the woman to explain but did not pry.
“I was going to surprise Geoffrey,” she began. “Before he left for the West Indies. He is to be gone a full year at least. I wanted to tell him in person.”
“You just found out you were expecting?” Jane asked.
Mrs. North nodded. “I put off seeing a doctor for confirmation. Thinking that if I just let things be a little longer. . . . Not become excited and blurt out the news to my husband prematurely, as I had done before, to my great regret.” She shook her head. “I don’t think men can care about a child they have never seen. Never held. Or at least Geoffrey could not. He was disappointed, of course. He is not heartless. But he could not understand why I was so upset. Why I could not move past it.”
Jane nodded. John had never quite understood either, nor took the losses to heart as Jane had.
“And when I finally sent a note to our family physician, I learned that he was out of town at some medical lecture. So I waited. Geoffrey was not due to leave until the first of the month, so I thought I had more time. But then a letter arrived, asking Geoffrey to come as soon as may be. Some urgent business—I don’t recall exactly what—a ship was leaving in a few days’ time. As he packed to leave, I thought about telling him what I suspected. But I don’t know . . . I felt to do so was to risk things somehow. I will sound as superstitious as your chambermaid.”
Jane winced to recall all that Alwena had said. “Heard her, did you?”
Mrs. North nodded and resumed her account. “My physician called on me very soon after my husband left. When he examined me, he seemed so optimistic, estimating my term, and saying he felt quite certain this time would be different. I would soon have a baby boy or girl in my arms, to keep me company while my husband was away.
“That jolted me into action. My husband was about to leave the country for a year. Perhaps longer, especially if he had no specific reason to return earlier. I suppose I thought, if he knew, he might change his mind about going altogether. About leaving me to face confinement and childbirth alone. I haven’t much family, you see. And I wanted a loved one with me.”
“Of course you did.” Jane reached over and squeezed her hand, surprised to find tears stinging her own eyes.
“But I had very little hope of a letter reaching him before he embarked. So I decided to book passage on the fastest coach I could find and try to reach the port before his ship sailed.”
She slowly shook her head. “But after all those hours on the road yesterday, I began to dread that I had made a horrible mistake. I began to feel ill, and my back to cramp, and I feared the worst, as has happened before. That is why I decided to stay the night. To rest. And hope the illness and pain were due to the lurching carriage and nothing more. How foolish. How stupid.” Her tears flowed again.
“You could not have known this would happen, Mrs. North. My mother-in-law used to boast about how she never missed a day of work during her confinements. Even traveled with her husband to a horse auction in Salisbury a few months before she was due.”
Jane had overheard Thora tell the story more than once, when John had attempted to explain to his tireless mother why his young wife would not be helping with the heavy annual spring cleaning, or bailing water from the cellar the year it flooded, or why she remained in the lodge so much of the time. Jane didn’t recall Thora’s exact words, but her tone had been rife with exasperated disapproval over John’s “indolent” wife. Thora didn’t know Mrs. Henning had suggested longer and longer periods of resting in bed—both to hopefully help Jane avoid another loss and then to recover afterward. Like Mrs. North, Jane had decided it was less awkward and disappointing for everyone if she kept the truth of her condition—temporary as it turned out to be—to herself.
“Thank you for trying to make me feel better,” Mrs. North whispered.
Jane nodded. “I know I can’t, really. Words are scarce comfort. But I understand your pain.”
Mrs. North looked at her closely. Too closely. “You do understand, don’t you.”
Jane nodded again.
“How long has it been?”
Jane opened her mouth to reply, but stopped, seeing Thora in the partially open doorway. Had she overheard? Their gazes met and held . . . then Thora bustled in with a tray as though she’d heard nothing. P
erhaps she had not. Perhaps Jane had only imagined that look on her mother-in-law’s face.
After Mrs. North had been cajoled into sipping a little broth and tea, she eventually fell asleep.
Thora said, “I’ll sit with her a while. You must be exhausted.”
“Thank you, Thora. I do need to use the privy.”
Thora walked with her as far as the passage, gently closing the door behind her. She said quietly, “You handled that well, Jane.”
“I hope so. I wish there was more I could do for her.”
Thora studied her. “How did you know what to do?”
Jane hesitated. “I . . . don’t know.”
Thora said, “I remember Mrs. Henning coming to the lodge a few years after you and John married. Were there . . . other times?”
Jane pressed her lips together, heart pounding. “Yes,” she answered dully.
“And . . . were they all early on, in the first few months?”
Jane took a long, slow breath. “No.”
“Jane. Were you expecting when I left?”
Jane swallowed. Managed a nod.
“I thought I noticed a change in you. And you did not tell me, because . . . ?” Thora’s words trailed away, as she searched for the right phrase.
Jane tensed, expecting her to say something critical like, “You didn’t think I might want to know you were carrying my grandchild?”
Instead Thora said evenly, “Because you thought I would be unsympathetic.”
Jane whispered, “I saw no point in raising anyone’s hopes, not when I was sure to disappoint them again.”
“How far along were you, when . . . ?”
Jane fidgeted. “Four and a half months. The last time.”
Thora winced. “I wish you had written to tell me. Did you tell anyone?”
“Only Mrs. Henning.”
“I am sorry, Jane. Sorry I was not here for you.”
Jane was surprised at this but told herself not to read too much into Thora’s kind words. She shrugged. “Not your fault. You were away with your sister.”
Thora shook her head in regret. “But you had no mother or sister. I should have helped you.”
Jane’s eyes stung, but she said stoically, “Thank you, Thora. But it’s all in the past.”
Jane walked away, down the stairs, and outside, feeling oddly numb. She had hoped God would spare the child during that last pregnancy, since He had taken John. Jane had carried the babe longer than any of the others, her gowns becoming snug, her bosom and belly filling out a bit. But with the current fashion of high, indistinct waistlines her secret was safe. She had been on the cusp of confiding to Mercy when the bleeding began. She had gone into premature labor, and nothing Mrs. Henning did could stop it. Jane had lain there, tears streaming down her cheeks, as her child came into the world, though he had already left it. No newborn cry. No flailing limbs and squalling little mouth. He just lay curled in the midwife’s hand, still and silent. Small and strangely . . . translucent, but unmistakably a baby. Her baby. There had not been much physical pain in the ordeal. But emotionally? Oh yes, the wound had yet to heal. It probably never would.
Jane spent several hours with Emily North over the next two days, then returned to number three one last time after Mrs. Henning had declared her fit for travel. Emily did look a little better, Jane thought, though still somewhat weak.
“What will you do now?” Jane asked.
“Go home, I suppose. Geoffrey will have sailed by now.”
Jane nodded. “You mentioned you have little family, but I hope you at least have a friend or two in whom to confide? And to keep you company while your husband is away?”
“I have many acquaintances, Mrs. Bell—”
“Jane,” she reminded her.
“Jane. But none I would call bosom friends. Not anymore.” She lifted a hand. “No. Don’t feel sorry for me. It is my fault. I have never been a good friend. Always too busy, caught up in my own concerns. After I married, I saw my two closest friends less and less. One of them visits now and again, but I feel the distance between us. The other, I lost contact with altogether. Now that Geoffrey has left, I wish I could talk to her. Apologize. But I fear it is too late.”
Jane hoped that wasn’t true. She said, “Well, you know you are always welcome here if you ever want to visit or write. I can offer you a listening ear if you need to talk to someone who understands.”
“Thank you, Jane. I appreciate that more than you know.”
Chapter
Thirty-Seven
During Mrs. North’s crisis, Jane had put off the pressing fact that they were going to lose the Royal Mail unless they thought of a solution and soon. She had less than a month now to present her plan to Mr. Blomfield—and she had no idea how she could prove increased profitability if they lost the traffic and revenue the Royal Mail regularly brought them.
She had called another meeting. But now she expanded her plan. This time, instead of limiting it to only those in positions of authority, she had decided to include the entire staff to help determine what to do.
She shared the plan with Thora, then quickly raised her palm before Thora could say a word. “And no foolishness like last time in assuming I don’t want you there. Of course I do.”
“It wasn’t foolishness,” Thora said, a shimmer of vulnerability in her eyes. “John made it clear you didn’t want me here long before he died.”
Jane stared at her. “I never said that. Never. I may not have wanted you overseeing the way I managed our little lodge, but I never begrudged your involvement here in the inn. Nor am I sorry you are back now.”
“Oh? Well . . . good.”
Jane lowered her voice. “What about your sister? You’ve been here two months now. Won’t she be disappointed if you stay on much longer?”
Thora shook her head. “Oh, I’m sure her new husband doesn’t want a spare wheel hanging about.”
“Did he actually say that? Or are you assuming again?”
“Actually, he was quite gracious. But I could not stay there any longer. I am not cut out for idleness.”
“And thankfully so—I can think of no better person to help save The Bell.”
Thora drew back her shoulders, her cool stoic expression back in place. “Well, then. Let’s not fail.”
They all crowded into the coffee room, quiet at that time of day. Jane stood and stated the problem, and grumbles of protest instantly arose.
“They haven’t even got a proper cook!” Mrs. Rooke thundered. “A Frenchie can’t satisfy the hearty appetites of a Charlie Frazer or Jeb Moore. And there’s still sawdust and plaster everywhere, I hear.”
Bobbin added, “And their cellar and taproom can’t match ours. There’s got to be some way to prove we’re better.”
Tall Ted nodded, insisting, “There’s no way Mr. Drake’s ostlers can complete a turnout faster than we can. We’ve been at it longer.”
Gabriel held up his hand. “Well, I’m afraid it isn’t about experience alone, Ted. When I was in Epsom recently, I spent time at the coaching inn there. They can complete a turnout in two minutes flat.”
“Two minutes?” Old Tuffy scoffed. “Impossible.”
“I saw it myself. They showed me their method.”
“Hmm . . . Then maybe you’d better show us.”
Jane interjected, “Mr. Hightower did say his decision would be based on efficiency and speed. If we could prove that we are faster than the Fairmont—that it is in the Royal Mail’s best interest to stop here instead—then perhaps he would change his mind and award us the contract.”
Ted said, “I know two of the fellows Mr. Drake hired down at the Fairmont. Wishford men, the both of ’em. I could take either one of them in any contest you put before me. I’m stronger and faster . . .”
“And taller.”
“Than any of ’em. And Tuffy here, well, he’s . . .”
“Got experience.”
“Right.”
“But tha
t don’t mean I’m agin learnin’ new ways,” Tuffy said. “Not if it means keepin’ my job. You teach us, Gable, and we’ll learn. We’ll give them Wishford boys a drubbing.”
Walter Talbot leaned forward. “I think you’ve hit on something there, Ted. Hugh Hightower loves sport more than any man I know. Cricket, boxing, you name it. A contest might be just the thing.”
“A contest?” Patrick asked, skeptically.
“Yes . . .” Talbot looked up in thought, warming to the idea. “If Hightower wants speed and efficiency, let the fastest and most efficient hostelry win the contract. How can he have any idea what sort of service the Fairmont will provide when it’s not yet open for business? No doubt Mr. Drake has sold him a pretty tale of how the Fairmont will be a “model of modern efficiency within old, elegant surroundings,” as he’s printing in his advertisements. But how can he prove he’s more efficient when his ostlers have not yet changed a single Royal Mail team?”
“True, but don’t forget Mr. Hightower is also keen on Fairmont’s location along the turnpike,” Jane said. “We cannot compete with that.”
“Why not?”
“He says he’d like to avoid the Royal Mail coaches having to make the climb up Ivy Hill.”
Gabriel nodded. “That does cause strain on the horses, you can’t deny.”
Talbot spread his hands. “But remember, my friends, what comes up, must go down. Yes, coaches lose a bit of time on the way up our hill, but can take it easy on the long gentle descent back down. Momentum coaches would be missing if they remain on the turnpike.”
“That’s going to be a tough argument to sell,” Thora said. “Or prove.”
“It’s worth a try.”
“But would Hightower even agree to such a contest?” Jane asked. “It’s unorthodox to say the least. He has the authority to make the decision on his own.”
“Well, it won’t hurt to ask. But who should approach him?”
Sheepish looks were exchanged, but no one offered to take on the assignment.
“Seeing no other volunteers . . .” Jane said wryly, “I will ask him, although I wonder if we should broach the subject with Mr. Drake first. If he is willing, it might go a long way to convincing Mr. Hightower.”