Abigail (28 page)

Once, when Celia was not with them, she told him so.

“But she’s not an artist,” César said. “What she does—it’s nothing to you and me. You want Molière to write fashion reports? That’s all Celia can be—a fashion reporter. An illustrator. But she’s a very good one. So I tell her.” After a long silence, twenty minutes during which they sketched, he added, “Besides, she can make a living perhaps. It can be useful.”

There were, she realized, depths to this man.

***

Annie did not like César; she pointedly left any room as soon as he entered. More tiresomely, she grew very jealous of the time Abigail spent with him, though it was only an hour or two a day.

Around this time Annie began to suffer night terrors—on account, she said, of never having slept alone. The only cure was for her to sleep with Abigail. At first, Abigail, who had never regularly shared a bed with anyone, not even as a child, resented it; but Annie was such a compulsive and colourful talker, had experienced so much that Abigail would never (she hoped) experience, and was so richly revealing of herself that Abigail soon looked forward to the nightly flow of Annie’s chatter.

But she also realized that the words she had once jokingly spoken, “You’re a baby yourself,” were close to the truth. When Annie went over to London to attend the sale of her pub, and actually received quite a bit more than she had originally sunk into it, she came back to France and handed the whole lot over to Abigail. “You keep it, gel,” she said. “It’s all for you. Just give us a bit at a time.” Of course, Abigail transferred it all to an English bank in Annie’s name.

Annie loved to cuddle up to Abigail, to put her ears to the barely perceptible mound of Abigail’s stomach and swear she could hear “the little gel’s heart a-beating.” And she could not sleep until Abigail had stroked her hair and neck. She talked endlessly of her childhood; it seemed to amaze her, no less than it amazed Abigail, that despite all the outward trappings of misery they had been so happy. The days when her father got steady work and was able to take the rest of them out of the workhouse and orphanage—Annie could make that joy ring out all over again.

Annie talked a lot about their future, too: how happy the three of them were and always would be, how they’d find a little place somewhere and settle down and “never need no bleedin’ men except for chopping logs and fetching coals.” The one thing she never talked about was men—the hundreds she must have known in her years on the streets. She behaved as if she had wiped them out of her life. But Abigail wondered if that was really so.

She put a lot of Annie into Catherine, the heroine of
Into a Narrow Circle—
not, of course, her misanthropy, but her honesty, her sensuousness, her glad acceptance of each day, her childlike but fierce loyalty to those she loved. In the same way William, the hero, owed a lot to César. He had the same apparent simplicity, the same animal-like directness in satisfying his few basic wants, the same lack of guile, the same dedication to himself, the same generosity. It was a pity Annie and César did not get on; they were very alike once you penetrated their obvious differences.

By the end of November they decided it would be wise soon to transfer their household to the Villa Mancini. Soon not all the lacing in nor all the loose-flowing “druid costumes” would be able to disguise Abigail’s condition. Annie was delighted, of course, for it meant leaving “that blackbeard beggar” behind.

Abigail tried to break it to César gently, but he merely smiled. “I’ll come, too,” he said.

She laughed. “That’s out of the question.”

“It will be better.”

“No doubt! Better for whom?”

“Better for me. The light is better in north Italy. Also the mountains and the lake.”

“There won’t be room for you.”

“I know the Villa Mancini. There’s a tower. No one else could live in it in the winter, but I will.”

“I’m sorry, César,” she finally had to insist, not without a feeling of panic, “but no!”

“It’ll be better to have a man when the baby comes.”

“But you know very well that Mrs. Oldale doesn’t like you.”

“I mean
your
baby.”

She sat down abruptly. The assurance in his smile ruled out any bluff on her part. She felt dead; it had all been wasted. “How long have you known?” she asked.

“Long enough.”

“Does your mother…have you told anyone?”

“Of course not!”

“You still can’t come with us, César. It’s out of the question.”

But he came with them all the same.

Of course they did not own the train; they could not push him back onto the platform. His ticket was as valid as theirs. They could not refuse his help with their luggage nor the coffee he procured en route when no one else could find so much as a glass of water. Abigail was furious but she could see that Celia was secretly delighted. More surprisingly, Annie, who was outwardly even angrier than Abigail, was obviously excited at this development—she protested far too much.

***

The Villa Mancini was a large, dignified house in the Borgo Vico. It stood facing south, on the shore of Lake Como at its southwestern end, opposite the town of Como itself, which was fifteen minutes away on foot. It had a high-walled garden stretching down to the lake edge, broken only by a small wicket gate that allowed access over a pebble shore to the water. Because of this wall the lake was visible only from the upper floor of the villa and from the tower. In December the level was usually low, but with the spring thaw up in the Alps, the waters rose over the pebbles and nudged into the garden itself. On the northern side of the house was a formal garden and courtyard, also enclosed behind a high wall. Only when the heavy iron gates were opened could the house be seen, and then only from the road.

Abigail had forgotten the tower until César mentioned it, but it was the ideal place for him. He could stay there out of the way, making what mess he wanted, and, yes, it would be useful to have a man about the house. As soon as she herself was settled, she went up to see that all was as suitable as she had remembered it. He was unpacking and arranging his paints and other materials.

“It’s good,” he said.

“Why did you really come here?” she asked.

“I love women,” he said. “Especially Celia, Annie, and Abigail.”

“I’m still very angry at you,” she warned.

“It’ll pass.” He grinned again. “Life is too short.”

She stumped back down the stairs. Her complaints against him were so bitter that even Annie was moved to say, “Come on, love. He ain’t doing that much harm.”

Between then and Christmas, Abigail stayed in her room, finishing
Into a Narrow Circle.
The final chapter seemed to take as long to write as had the rest of the book. It concerned the events that led up to the death of Catherine and William, and she fought against this inevitable climax every word of the way. For hours she stared at the blank garden wall, trying to conjure up the shape of the Alps and the face of the ice-floed lake, and plotting ways to save the two lovers; when that became impossible, she would pretend she was a painter, gathering information for a picture—anything rather than complete each sentence. But at last they were both decently dead, and the respectable world had tut-tutted and clucked them into the grave, and there was nothing left for her to do but to put the manuscript away until she could safely send it to Pepe.

Had César developed some strange telepathy with her—was that how he had divined her pregnancy? The very day after she finished the book he stood below her window and blew a kiss at her.

She had a suite of rooms at the eastern end of the house, on the ground floor; a French window gave out onto a balcony and then down five stone steps to the garden. She pulled on a stout woollen cloak, for despite the crisp sunshine the day was cold, and went out to join him. His smile was so warm, she could not prevent herself from smiling back.

He took her arm and, saying nothing, led her with a measured tread around the lawn. Now she was glad he had come; in a strange way, she was even glad he knew about the baby, too. He pointed to a network of shadows on the ground, where the sun shone through the branches of a Judas tree. “Blunt lace,” he said.

She laughed, it was so strange and yet so apt an image. It was all he said in the entire twenty minutes of their stroll, until she was on the point of going back indoors. “All will be well with you,” he said.

She was more than glad he had come, and did not need to tell him so in words.

***

As near as they could reckon, the baby was due toward the end of February. Annie still slept with Abigail, not only because she needed to and because Abigail wanted her there, but also because it was now becoming expedient. The villa was tended by an old housewife and her somewhat simple daughter, who was also pregnant, though not so far advanced as Abigail. The daughter’s husband did a few hours of unspecified work in Como each day and spent the rest of his time pottering about or asleep.

From the moment they moved in, Abigail naturally had become “Mrs. Oldale” (mourning and all), Annie was “Mrs. Crabb,” and Celia was “Lady A.” And it was “Lady A” who dealt exclusively with the servants; they understood that neither of the other two ladies had any knowledge of Italian. If they also chose to infer that “Mrs. Oldale” was French, because she spoke so much French to the monsieur in the tower (and perhaps he was her cousin?), no one bothered to disabuse them.

It was pretty watertight. No one would ever inquire, of course, but if they did—if any ultrasuspicious people came poking around—they would soon be forced to conclude that the old woman and her simpleton daughter were good for nothing in the way of information. Anyone who could imagine that cockney Annie Oldale was French…

It did not occur to any of the three women to ask what would come of the deception if Abigail died in childbirth.

***

The pains began one wet afternoon in the middle of January. Abigail, who had seen no doctor (who might have detected that she was a month out in her reckoning), had no idea what to expect. Neither Annie nor Celia had borne children, so they had no firsthand knowledge either. But Annie had seen a number of births in her childhood and teens and it was on her “authority” that the others hoped to rely.

Each pain was searing; it seemed to rip a path inside her, from her knees to the pit of her neck. She wondered at her survival when each had passed and she lay bathed in cold sweat.

Celia went at once and told the housewife to send for the doctor. Moments after she had returned to Abigail, then in the throes of another pang, the old woman herself came bustling into the room and elbowed them all aside.

“I told you to get the doctor,” Celia said.

“It is done. And what have we here?” She looked at Abigail and shook her head. “Get some hot water,” she told Annie. Celia had to translate. “You,” she told Celia, “build up that fire. Get the Frenchman to help until my son-in-law returns.” Celia ran to obey. Somehow the old woman radiated a competence they dared not question.

“And now, signora,” Abigail heard through the receding mists of pin, “I know you don’t understand me, but if I know that doctor, we’ll probably have to get this baby into the world all by ourselves. And it’s twenty years since I was last a midwife.” Her smile conveyed none of the sense of her words.

She threw off the sheets and began to push her strong fingers into the mound of Abigail’s stomach. She did not like whatever it was she felt.

When Celia returned, Abigail, keeping up the pretence, asked her to find out what the old woman had said. “I said the doctor would be here soon and she was not to worry as I am the midwife in these parts.” Her fingers went on exploring the lump of the baby. “It is presented the wrong way,” she said. “Tell the signora I must try to turn it. She may drink some wine if she wishes—or something stronger if you have it.” Abigail waited for the translation before she refused.

If the earlier pains had been bad, the pain that now racked her, when the woman made the first attempt to turn the baby, was beyond endurance. A fierce claw seemed to seize her guts and tear and crush them. For a moment she passed out; when consciousness returned she heard her own voice, far off, whimpering.

“But the baby must be turned,” the woman was saying.

They covered her hastily while César came in with fresh logs and built up the fire. He stared indecisively at Abigail until the glares of the women sent him out.

An hour—and three more futile attempts—later, Abigail was held in constant pain; and the birth itself had not even started. The pangs were mere crests of torment in a sea of suffering; she had not known there was so much pain in all the world.

The son-in-law returned and said the doctor was on his way; twenty minutes later the doctor still had not come. The woman made one more attempt to turn the baby. Abigail’s screams filled the house. Until that moment she had prayed to live, if only from moment to moment; now she prayed for death to intervene and separate her from this agony.

There was a commotion outside: someone was striding toward the bedroom door. The doctor! But no—it was César. Yet he was carrying a doctor’s bag.

“What game is this?” Celia asked sharply.

He threw off his jacket and pushed the women aside.

“’Ere!” Annie cried.

He paid no attention but, taking an auscultation tube from his bag, placed it on Abigail’s chest, above her heart. At the same time he felt her pulse. His businesslike attitude brooked no further questions. He put the tube to her abdomen. He nodded. “It lives,” he said.

He felt it as the old woman had done. He looked at her and nodded grimly. She nodded back.

“It should have been turned weeks ago,” he said, almost as if he blamed himself.

He sorted through his bag and pulled out a bottle of ether and a frame. He hesitated before standing the frame over Abigail’s face. “But we have no choice,” he said.

When the frame was above her face he let several drops of ether spill upon it. Abigail’s eyes were closed. From time to time he raised an eyelid and peered into her flickering eye. Once he felt her pulse again.

At last he was satisfied. Her face was relaxed. “Watch her face,” he told Annie in English. “Tell me if she frowns or if her mouth moves. Also watch her breathing.” He gave her a small mirror.

“Now,” he said and took a knife from his bag. “Bring a lamp right here.”

“No!” Annie called when she saw the knife.

“If you have a voice,” he said, “pray.”

Before he made his incision he told Celia to get the largest embroidery needle she could find; then he set her to work threading it with as many silk threads as she could poke through its eye, each about two yards long and doubled. He poured a bottle of phenol into a bowl and told her to soak the needle and thread in it when she was done. Then she was to swill it out in whisky, brandy, or any strong spirit.

He swilled his own hands and scalpel in the phenol and, for good measure, he held the scalpel over the lamp. As he carried it to her he made the sign of the cross with it. The old woman crossed herself, too. His glistening fingers walked and probed over Abigail’s abdomen. They stopped, pushed, splayed, and waited. He glanced at her. At Annie.

Annie nodded. Still breathing.

“Look away,” he said.

None did. He heard their gasps as he cut through the skin.

Twenty minutes later he was tying the last silken knot and their gasps were of relief. He alone knew how premature they were.

The baby, a struggling, uncoordinated, eight-pound boy, would certainly live, barring accident. But Abigail…? He did not put her chances high; he should have operated hours earlier.