The Painted Bridge A Novel

THIRTY-EIGHT





Emmeline curled the toes of her right foot inside one of Querios’s slippers. She rotated her ankle in a small circle clockwise and then anticlockwise. The movement was coming back to her leg, despite the swelling that lingered. There was a tap on the door and her face creased into a frown. She found herself strangely reluctant, even now, to sack the girl. Hannah Smith had trained up nicely and had made herself so useful in the sickroom after the accident. Present when she was needed and absent when she wasn’t.

Emmeline gave herself a mental shake. She had to do something. Hannah’s bulk had become impossible to ignore and her time must be near. Catherine didn’t seem to see it, which was fortunate.

“Come in,” she called.

Hannah Smith stood in front of her, puffing lightly.

“You wanted me, ma’am?”

Hannah was wearing a pink dress, the bodice flattening her breasts into a broad band of flesh across her chest, her belly standing out before her in a proud mound. Emmeline thought she saw movement in it, a rippling interruption underneath the fall of sprigged cotton. She jerked her eyes away, remembering the feeling of kicks and stirrings, of independent life inside oneself, safe from harm. For a moment, she wanted to invite Hannah to sit down and take the weight off her feet, rest a little.

Such foolishness. Emmeline composed her face, tried to convey in her voice both severity and kindness.

“Yes, Hannah, dear. I’ve been meaning for some time to speak with you.”

The door opened again and Benedict came in, looking warily at Emmeline, dumping a pile of books on the table.

“Hello, Mother,” he said. “How are you today?”

“Ben, darling. I have to talk to Hannah and then …”

Ben and Hannah Smith were in front of her, standing shoulder to shoulder, almost touching. Both of them with that look of youth visible only to those who have lost it. Why was she thinking of “them”? Both? Emmeline felt suddenly, horribly exposed. The expression on Hannah’s face wasn’t apprehension. It was pity. Benedict looked at her with the same sorry, proud air. Her mind swam with the effort of understanding.

Emmeline cast her eyes around for her workbag, her laudanum, assistance in any form.

“Not now, Ben. I’m speaking with Hannah.”

“Mother. We’ve got something to tell you.”

Ben knelt down by the side of the chair and took hold of her hand, looked up into her eyes. Preoccupied with Catherine, how long had it been since she had noticed her son? The whiskers on his cheeks followed the same line as Querios’s and there was silver in his hair at the temple. Even children aged, if they lived. It was obvious of course and yet so difficult to believe. She struggled to hear the words swimming around her ears.

“I’m sorry, darling. What did you say?”

“I said that Hannah and I are going to be married.”

Emmeline struggled to get to her feet and, feeling a sharp pain in her bandaged leg, collapsed back into the chair.

“Utterly impossible,” she said, summoning every last scrap of authority over her child, her servant. “You wouldn’t understand, Benedict. The girl is enceinte quite apart from anything else.” She turned her eyes to Smith. “I am so very sorry, Hannah. You will have to leave today. I will provide references, a character for you. I always liked you, you know.”

Hannah swayed and groaned. She cupped her hands under her belly and a flood of liquid coursed out from under the hem of her dress, trickling off the edge of the rug and onto the floorboards. Her waters had broken. Emmeline looked down at her treasured silk rug, that Smith had so often cleaned. Hannah sat down heavily on the chaise longue and gripped her knees, her face contorted and her knuckles white.

“Oh, ma’am, I’m so awfully sorry. We wanted to tell you but there was Catherine missing and then you had the accident and couldn’t be troubled.”

Catherine had entered the room and was standing looking at all of them. She wore one of the dresses they’d chosen for the trip to Italy and was losing the haunted look she’d had all winter. She’d become bossy and practical in the sickroom; she was going to be a poet, not marry one. They planned to travel through France first and arrive in Italy by train. Emmeline had sold her mother’s diamond brooch to finance it. She must prevent Catherine’s knowing anything about this business with Smith.

“Catty. I am having a private talk with your brother.”

Catherine had the same look on her face as Ben. It was a careful, kind expression.

“Yes, Mother. I’m just going to sit with Hannah for a minute. I think she may need some help.”

Emmeline felt another lurching shift in what she thought she knew. Hannah gave a long groan that rose at the end then subsided. Emmeline moaned too. Ben had hold of her arm, had somehow lifted her to her feet.

“Go and rest, Mother.”

He propelled her toward the door and finally, Emmeline understood. She was dreaming. It was the only answer.

Emmeline limped out of the room. She had forgotten her stick and her leg had begun to throb painfully. Grasping the newel post, she pulled herself up onto the first stair and then the second. On the landing, she stopped to rest, sat on the stool placed there for the purpose since her accident. Emmeline sat for some time, thinking about babies. She had loved hers more than anything in this strange world, she concluded, and did so still, despite anything that might happen. Anything at all.

Through the window, in the distance, she could see a figure appearing to walk across the top of the sham bridge. It was a woman, wearing only a blue dress, no bonnet or shawl, her arms held out on either side. She hesitated in the middle, swayed, and for a minute Emmeline held her breath, thinking she was going to fall. The woman regained her balance and continued, jumping off the end with a bold, airy leap.

* * *

The door flew open, below. Catherine ran into the passage with the bell in her hand, ringing it hard and fast. Catherine looked up and caught sight of Emmeline on the stairs.

“Oh, Mother,” she said, “isn’t it the most wonderful thing ever? I’ve been longing for this day to come.”

Catherine’s face was radiant, as beautiful as she’d ever seen it. She looked like a woman. As Emmeline watched, she disappeared down the stairs toward the kitchen, shouting for Cook. A minute later, Dr. St. Clair pounded up the stairs and rushed into the parlor, rolling up his sleeves. Cook followed on his heels with a kettle in her hand and there was Catty again, with her arms full of sheets.

It was the longest and the strangest dream Emmeline had ever had. She must tell Querios about it. She got to her feet, ascended the last stairs, and, leaning on the wall, made her way along to her own bedroom. The old man, Septimus Abse, was standing by the door with a letter in his hand. She looked again. It wasn’t Septimus. It was Querios. She limped up to him and put her arms round him, rested her face on his chest, and felt the beat of his heart. She was not dreaming. She was as far from dreaming as she had ever been. She must give him the news, before he heard the animal cries coming from the parlor.

“Come and sit with me, Q. I have something I must tell you,” she said, opening the bedroom door.

“No, Emmeline,” he said, looking down at the letter. “There is something that I must tell you.”