Burnt Norton (24 page)

They stood on the bank, staring at the nightmare in front of them. Occasionally small pockets of smoke burst through the rubble, and though most of the internal walls had gone, one fireplace remained intact. Dorothy looked at the blackened skull buried amongst the foliage She called to the workmen. ‘Pull that chimney piece down – take it away, every part of it.’

Two days after the inferno, when the ashes had cooled, George Heron put on his best white gloves as a mark of deference and searched amongst the rubble for any remains of his master. Dorothy held her mother back, while Thomas joined him in the search.

‘I’m sorry, my lady,’ Heron said sadly, his gloves soiled, his breeches covered in the powdery residue, ‘but I have found only his hip bone, his gold pocket watch and his keys. Perhaps more will be found as we continue. It’s a bad do when all is said and done.’ He placed the meagre remains into a small clay casket and they followed him across the courtyard to Sir William’s study. Standing in a circle around the fire, her mother led a few short prayers.

‘Dear God, take my husband to your side,’ she said gently. ‘May you give him peace at last.’

George Heron spoke. ‘Sir Thomas, my lady, I expect you will no longer need my services.’ Dorothy saw uncertainty in his face.

‘Mr Heron,’ her brother replied, ‘your services and your loyalty have been invaluable to this family. As long as I am able, I will continue to keep you in my employment.’

Dorothy was instantly aware of the change in position. Her brother was now head of the house, the new baronet.

‘If you will forgive me, Mama,’ he continued, ‘I must talk to the household. I have asked them to assemble in the hall in ten minutes.’

‘Of course, you go, and Dorothy, if you don’t mind, I will sit in the library.’ Dorothy took her mother’s arm and settled her in a chair.

‘I’ll be back in a minute, Mama. I won’t be long; there is something I must do.’

‘I’ll be fine, don’t worry. I’ll be fine.’

Dorothy left her mother and returned to the study. She looked at the urn on the mantelpiece, all that remained of her father. If she had gone to him, would things have been different? If she had seen him, could she have prevented this?

‘Tell me, Papa,’ she whispered, ‘was this my fault?’ She remembered his diary. She knew the answer would be there. She opened the drawer, but the diary had gone. She was about to search in the bookcase when she saw the letter.

The envelope had her name upon it.

My dearest Dorothy,

By the time you read this letter, I will have committed my soul to God.

You will look for my diary as you have before, but this time you will not find it. I have taken it with me, my companion to the grave.

You would ask me how I know. On the day you left Norton with your mother my suspicions were confirmed. I found the comb I had given you on your ninth birthday on the floor of my study. Look in the drawer below and you will find it.

She put the letter down, and opened the drawer; it was empty, save for a small jewelled comb. She turned it over in her fingers, and suddenly it was her ninth birthday once more and her father was handing her the tiny wrapped package. Clutching it tightly she continued reading:

I kept it, Dorothy, I couldn’t let it go, but there is something else. There is a velvet box. Find it and open it. You always were inquisitive. You love riddles; this shall be your last from me.

She pulled open the other drawers, but they held only papers. She looked around the small panelled room. There was nothing beneath the wing chair in the corner – John’s chair. She remembered her brother sitting there, his chubby legs tucked beneath him. Behind the velvet curtains she found nothing. At last she saw the box; it was resting on the telescope. She opened it, and her father’s ring fell to the floor. She knelt to pick it up, when a smaller note dropped from the box.

Dorothy, you must have it. You have always loved it. I probably wouldn’t have given it to you yesterday, even if you had come in. Of course I wanted to see you, but I quite understand. You hate me, and quite rightly so.

‘I don’t hate you, Papa, I don’t hate you,’ she cried, her tears blotting the paper.

You may now have the perfect wedding, and when you are Lady Paxton-Hooper, I will not be around to embarrass you. But make your choices well, and go where your heart lies, for position is not everything.

Wear the ring, my child, wear it with pride. One day, if Thomas has a son, give it to him; if not, give it to your own. Know that I have loved you especially, for we are quite alike, you and I. We desire things we should not desire, and we both know jealousy.

Tell my beloved wife that I have loved her always. I have never stopped loving her.

Be happy, my child, and forgive me.

Your loving father, always.

PS Please ask Thomas to discharge all outstanding debt. There is a sum of money hidden beneath the floorboards in this room.

Dorothy put the letter down. As she slipped the ring upon her finger, she sank to the floor once more.

‘I should have gone to him,’ she moaned. ‘I should have forgiven him.’ Cowardice and pride had prevented her. She buried her face in her hands and sobbed.

At the end of September, Molly received a letter from her brother.

My Dear Molly,

Our mam has asked me to write to you. What I have to say will shock and distress you, for it is news of the gravest nature.

On the ninth of this month, Sir William burnt himself and his new mansion to the ground. The butler tried to save him, but he locked the bedroom door and set fire to the bedclothes. They thankfully managed to save the old house, but that is of little consolation.

They say he was mad when you left, as mad as a raging bull.

Forgive me, my dear sister, for imparting such wretchedness, but I would rather you heard from people who love you, rather than from those who do not. Our father, as you can imagine, is not of good heart. He had great hopes for his daughter, and they are now buried along with Sir William.

Loving you always,

Will

Post Scriptum

Why did you run away? Why did you not talk to me?

I was able to obtain your address from Ruth, but only under duress. Please let us know how you are.

Night and day Molly tortured herself, haunted by images of William’s charred and frightened face. She wallowed in guilt, but guilt does not stop an unborn child from growing. In October she made an appointment to visit Captain Coram at the temporary Foundling Hospital in Hatton Garden.

‘Your baby will be safe within our care,’ Captain Coram assured her, his long silver wig moving with his jaw as he spoke. Although he was of dishevelled appearance, his round belly bursting through his crumpled red coat, his black stockings sagging, she was struck by the compassion and understanding in his eyes.

‘Did you know that seventy-four per cent of children born in London die before they are five? In the workhouses the death rate is over ninety per cent. We offer a far safer alternative; we have every intention of giving our foundlings the best start in life.’

She trusted Captain Coram and began to believe wholeheartedly in her decision. The Foundling Hospital would provide for her child’s good.

‘Come, my dear,’ he said. ‘I will show you around. Forgive me if I’m a little proud, I have faced many years of struggle. It’s only a start. One day every child will have a future, but at least for now, a few children will have a home.’

He ushered her through the long tiled corridors, into the simple accommodation for girls and boys. She was struck both by the cleanliness of the spotless beds and the scrubbed faces, and the longing in the children’s eyes.

Do any of them know love? she wondered sadly, then shook the thought from her mind, knowing it was better than the alternative.

They were near the front door when Captain Coram pointed to an architectural plan. ‘This,’ he said, tapping the wall with his stick, ‘is the design for our wonderful new hospital in Bloomsbury Fields. The foundation stone will be laid next year, and it will house up to four hundred children. It will be built almost entirely from private donations, proving that the people of England are finally developing a social conscience. There will be a large garden, giving our children freedom to run and play in safety, and in the glorious chapel they will learn that despite everything, God still watches over us. We shall have choirs chosen from amongst the children. They will learn music, as well as scripture and Bible reading, and the girls will learn needlework and the domestic duties necessary for their future lives. Is it not incredible?’

Molly said goodbye to Captain Coram, certain that within the austere walls of the Foundling Hospital her child had a chance. She walked past the railings, past the desperate women who held out their babies for the weekly selection. That torment, at least, she would not have to endure.

The following week she looked for temporary lodgings near Hatton Garden.

‘Don’t forget me,’ she said, hugging the Misses Hogarth on her final day. ‘I can never thank you enough.’ She walked up the iron stairs for the last time, and entered her own small room to await the birth of her child. As the baby turned within her body, she worked upon two mementos: a handkerchief for herself, her initials embroidered within the centre of a heart, and a matching tiny stitched heart as a trinket for her child. Even at the Foundling Hospital, her child would know a mother’s love.

When the contractions began she sent an errand boy to fetch the midwife. ‘For Christ’s sake, be quick!’ she yelled. As the pain ripped through her body she cried out, and screamed at the poor woman who knelt between her legs, until several hours later, she gave birth to a fine and healthy son.

She spent one week of perfect contentment with her child. She examined every inch of his tiny body. She counted the fingers, the delicate pink nails, and stroked the soft down upon his head. ‘Charles,’ she whispered, looking deep into his blue eyes, ‘you shall have your father’s middle name.’

On the eighth day she opened her eyes, with a crushing pain in her heart. She dressed her son in a delicate gown she had made; she put a shawl, knitted from the finest yarn, around his shoulders, and a tiny woollen hat upon his head. She carried him the short distance to the Foundling Hospital. As the fog came down on the cobbled street, she hurried on.

Reaching the tradesman’s entrance she pulled the bell. It echoed down the corridor. The seconds ticked by: she pulled again, a flicker of hope expanding in her chest.

‘They can’t be expecting me,’ she whispered, daring to hope. ‘We can go, love. We’ll manage.’ She kissed her son’s head and was about to leave when the door opened. A scrubbed, unsmiling face appeared.

‘I heard you the first time, Miss Johnson. You’re late.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered. ‘I had to feed him, he was hungry.’

‘Late is late, miss,’ the matron replied. ‘You are lucky to have a place. Half of them will have to take the bairns away.’ She gestured to the women who lined the railings. ‘You got lucky, just listen to them wailing. They know their babes will die of disease or starvation, so I have no truck with the likes of you, someone who knows someone. There is no preference in here. They are all treated the same. Now give him to me, I have fifty babies to attend to.’

When Molly could not let go, the matron’s voice became harsh. ‘Are you able to provide for this child? I think not, or you wouldn’t be here. Looking at you, you probably earn it on your back at night, and drink it during the day. If you know what is good for your child, you will unhand him. If you stand there blubbering in the cold he will die, and that will be one less child to trouble with.’

‘I don’t want to give him up!’ she moaned. ‘You don’t know anything about me! I will collect him soon and take him home.’

‘That’s what they all say,’ she replied callously, pulling Molly’s son from her arms. ‘We’ll give him a medal engraved with his number, and a new name, and when the documentation is done, he’ll be sent out to a wet nurse, so it’s no use you coming for him.’

She was about to close the door when Molly grabbed her sleeve. ‘His name is Charles, please call him Charles, and give him this when he is old enough to understand,’ she pleaded. ‘Tell him his mother loves him. I beg of you, if you have any mercy, tell him his mother never stopped loving him.’ She put the embroidered heart in the woman’s hand, and the matron’s harsh face softened.

‘I’ll do it. I’ll tell him one day,’ she said. ‘Now be away with you before I change me mind.’

As the door closed behind her, Molly dropped to her knees, keening with despair.

For three days she drank little and ate nothing. Only the sound of the landlady’s key in her lock forced her out of her soiled bed. She dropped the coins into the landlady’s fingers. ‘Here is your rent. Now get out,’ she screamed, shutting the door to the woman’s prying.

She hardly recognized the wretch in the washstand mirror – the greasy hair, the pallid skin. She hardly knew the demented eyes that stared back at her from the dirty glass.

When the fever took her she prayed for death. As she tossed and turned, she lost consciousness, and William laughed at her from the flames.

When the fever abated she lay exhausted, her sheets wet with sweat, her breasts tender and full of milk. Crawling to the cupboard, she found some bread and forced herself to eat. Binding her breasts until she cried out with pain, she resolved to return to the country and build a new life with one aim: to reclaim her child.

Before leaving London, she returned to James Street. If the Misses Hogarth were surprised by her appearance they did not show it; instead, they took her hands and led her to the fire.

‘Sit down, my dear. Perhaps you would like to talk,’ Miss Mary said.

The sisters listened quietly to her story. They neither judged nor condemned, but nodded their heads in sympathy and concern.