Shadows of Doubt (10 page)

“God, if she can't be better, then please take her quickly and peacefully,” Gwen whispered.

“Should we call in the doctor, Miss?” Hettie asked worriedly.

“He already said there was nothing more he could do.”

“There has to be something can be done. 'Tisn't natural,” Hettie tsked.

“No, it is not natural, but the doctor is out of suggestions. I'm afraid we, and she, will have to suffer through it,” Gwen replied despondently.

“It can't go on forever like this. She hardly be eatin’ enough for a wee one. Not that we hasn't tried. She's taken to her bed mostly, or she falls.” Hettie stated the facts out loud as if it would make a difference. “You think she knows what is happenin'?”

“Sometimes she does, and that, Hettie, is the part that will forever bother me when I think of this time.” It also made her have false hope when she would catch a glimpse of her mother in a seemingly normal state of mind.

“’Tis a pity.” Hettie shook her head. “Such a waste.”

The servant walked out still shaking her head. Gwen agreed, but she had few resources to do anything else. She wasn't sure that, were she to have all the riches in the world, anything would have been different. Sometimes things happened that there was no earthly explanation for.

Mr. Abbott,
 

I'm sorry I have been a poor correspondent, but I have had little of note to write about. My mother is declining rapidly, and I have not left the house for weeks, if you can believe that. She is frequently out of her senses, and agitated. The doctor has prescribed calming drops, but now she has become dependent on them and sleeps the day away. If this continues, she will soon waste away.

I confess I am saddened by this change, and it is more difficult to bear without your grandmother’s kindness. I look forward to your letters; they are a ray of sunshine in this dark time.

Your pitiful correspondent,
 

Gwen Lambert

Chapter Eight

The end had arrived quickly, yet not quickly enough. During the past few weeks Gwen had watched and waited for her mother to die. Her mother had known it was coming, Gwen had seen the terror in her eyes. That look would haunt her forever, because she hadn't been able to save her mother.
 

When it was finished, Gwen had been so busy making arrangements she had not had time to grasp the full reality of her situation. The solicitor had already come to call on her and inform her she had one week to leave her home. Only seven more days to pack up what was left of her life and find another situation. Days when she wanted to crawl into her bed and cry, but instead had to force herself to continue on. First, she pulled out of the attics the old mourning gowns from when her father and brother had died. She'd hoped to never see them again. Second, she wrote to the Dowager as promised.

Next, she would pay a visit to Mr. Scott and accept the offer of teaching. She hoped she could make enough to find a room at a respectable boarding house for ladies, and perhaps keep Hettie, who had been with her family for as long as she could remember, and did not deserve the cruel fate of being deposited on the curb. Hettie had already done without wages for six years. Gwen had not deserved her fate either, but she could find work somehow.
 

She donned her darkest gown and set out for Milsom Street.

“Good morning, Mr. Scott.”

“Hello, Miss Lambert. Please accept my condolences for your loss.”

“You have heard, then.”

He nodded. “What shall you do now?”

“I was hoping the offer of teaching still stood.”

He let out a small gasp of mortification.

“Oh, Miss Lambert. The position was given away not two months past. I confess, when I saw you with the London swell, I thought something finer was in the works.”

Gwen blushed. “I'm afraid not, sir. Are there any students I might take on privately here?”

“I do not have any students at the moment, but I will be happy to send them your way should I hear of anyone. Shall I give them your direction?”

“I am afraid not. I must leave our current accommodation. If I stay in Bath, I shall let you know.”

“I'm terribly sorry, Miss Lambert.” He looked at her with deep sorrow and affection for his old pupil. “If you have any paintings you would like me to sell for you?”

“I will consider it. Thank you kindly, Mr. Scott. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Miss Lambert.”

Gwen exited the shop and fought for composure. This was a heavy blow indeed. She took a deep breath. She did not have time to indulge in self-pity. She headed towards the employment agency, hoping she could find work as a companion. She was not precisely qualified to be a governess or a maid, but she was a quick study.

She was turned away kindly but promptly. The proprietress informed her that without experience or reference, she was not useful to the agency. She was too pretty to be a governess at any rate, and she would require more genteel abilities such as languages and musical talents to be sought after. The woman hinted at a career open to comely young ladies who had fallen down the ladder, and she could recommend a decent house where the girls were well fed and not beaten. How was that for a recommendation?

Gwen walked around, attempting to think of where else to look, dejected and reflecting on what the agency proprietress had said. Sadly, she realised that after a week or two of hunger and filthy accommodation, she might not be so condemning of the profession. She'd always felt sorry for the girls who had to use their bodies to survive. She would swallow her pride and beg the Dowager first if it came to that, but she would only ask if desperate.
 

Afterwards, she visited her old school to enquire of other teaching positions, but she had not completed her schooling and was unqualified. No, the headmistress said, she did not know of any other available positions.
 

As a last resort, Gwen decided to see what might be available at the nearby inn. She did not last five minutes inside whilst waiting to speak to the owner. She was immediately ogled, and when the first drunkard had pinched her bottom, she escaped before he could pinch anything else. She returned home after a long, fruitless day of searching, exhausted and discouraged.

She went up to her bed, curled up and cried. She felt alone, grieving, and for the first time, frightened for her future. Night-time was the most difficult, for she was alone with her loss. She would be overcome with sadness and tears and had to force herself to remember her mother’s suffering. The passage from
Robinson Crusoe
kept repeating itself in her mind:
My heart dies within me. Alone. Forever alone
. She could not compare to being alone on an island, but for all the people surrounding her on this island, she felt so alone with no one to turn to or take care of her. It was difficult to erase her last vision of her mother when she closed her eyes. She missed her mother so desperately that she ached physically. She would give anything to have her mother back—if healthy.

The next morning, things looked slightly less grim by daylight. She decided to begin packing, knowing that leaving was becoming an inevitable reality. Going through her mother’s things was a necessity—forced into grieving at the solicitor’s pace instead of her own. There was little left after six years of being poor. She folded up each garment lovingly, reminding herself that her mother was no longer in pain as tears streamed down her face.

 
Her mother had given up her will to live. Gwen tried not to be angry at her mother for dying. Selfishly she'd wanted her to fight for her, not to abandon her! She'd stopped eating, because it was too difficult to swallow. She'd often choke, and Gwen feared she would watch her die of suffocation. She’d tried desperately to get her mother to eat, but Mrs. Lambert had pushed it away or shaken her head, except for occasional sips of tea or broth.

Gwen held a momentary flash of irritation that the Dowager had also appeared to abandon her. But that was ridiculous. Neither she nor her mother were the Dowager’s responsibility. However, it had cheered her mother and given her something to look forward to everyday. Gwen had not been enough. She folded the last of her garments as warm tears turned into sobs. She sat down on the empty bed in the empty room and let herself go until she had no tears left.

Hettie eventually came into the rooms and put her arms around Gwen.
 

“Thank you, Hettie,” Gwen said as she pulled back. “I've finished here.”

“And I've finished downstairs. What would you like me to do with the painting things Mr. Abbott left you?”

“I will see to those. We only have the attics left, then?”

“I believe so. I'll take the things 'round to see what I can get for them when we've finished.”

Gwen nodded. She rose and went to the dressing table. She'd forgotten about the small drawer. She opened it and found a small velvet purse. Though she had no hope of finding anything in it other than paste, nevertheless she pulled out a necklace from inside. It certainly looked like her mother’s old pearl necklace, but that had to have been impossible given their near impoverished state.
 
She decided to hold onto the necklace for memory’s sake, and to sell it if necessary: even paste pearls might be worth something. For now, it was all she had left of her mother.

She went to the parlour, where the last things remaining were the easel, a few canvases and paints. She had a flash of a scene in her mind, and suddenly she needed to paint to release her built-up emotion. She felt mildly guilty for being so indulgent when Hettie was upstairs packing, but if her picture was decent, she would take it to Mr. Scott to ask him to try and sell for her.

She stood at the easel and closed her eyes, and saw a vision of a dark, sinister sky. It came to life on the canvas before her, her heart pouring its grief out. Soon she had painted tumultuous waters beneath, and added only a small hint of colour in the sun that fell beneath the horizon, providing a counterpoint to the dark emotion, the last small ray of hope in the depths of her despair.
   

“Help me find that ray,” she prayed. She somehow knew that she would find a way, though she had no idea how. She had to be strong. There was no one to do so for her.

She went upstairs to her room one more time, a little less emotional; perhaps she had simply become numb. Whatever the cause, she slept all night for the first time in months.

***

The next morning, she finished packing her small valisse. Hettie had managed to sell their belongings and delay their destitution a bit longer. Hettie was returning to live with her sister. There was no other choice. They said their tearful goodbyes, “It just don’t sit right with me, leavin’ you all alone, Miss Gwen,” Hettie wailed.

“I am not happy to part with you, either, dearest Hettie. But there is nothing for it. My funds will go farther on my own. I’ll always have the Duchess to fall back on.”

 
With these tearful reassurances, she saw her last measure of comfort onto the stage.

After one final pass through the house, she made her way downstairs after saying her final goodbyes to the rooms she'd called home these six years past. It somehow seemed more final than when they had been forced from their manor house. She'd still had her family then. Now she had no one. The full reality of her situation still had not sunk in, even though she knew it would hit her hard, and soon.

She wished Mr. Abbott was here, or that she was in America with him. She quickly pushed those thoughts aside. She missed his company, but he would have felt obligated to do something for her, just as the Dowager would. She was not their problem. She needed to try to make her own way. If that failed, and she was desperately afraid it would, she would then see if the Dowager could provide a reference and help her find a position.

She carefully wrapped the painting to be carried to Milsom Street. She looked at the easel longingly, but she would arrange for Mr. Scott to pick it up and possibly sell it. She packed her remaining paints and canvases, hoping she might be able to make a little from her work until she found a permanent position. She set her valisse down, intending to return for it after the painting had been delivered.

Mr. Scott had been delighted with the painting, even calling it remarkable and not commenting on her detour from her usual style. That task taken care of, she walked slowly back towards her room to fetch her bag in preparation for travelling to the boarding house.

There was a carriage in front of the building when she arrived at her rooms again. The solicitor had not wasted any time, she thought spitefully. She hoped Mr. Scott would come for the easel soon. She walked to the door, and a footman nodded to her while he held the horses. She took a breath and turned the handle, hoping she at least appeared pleasant.

She did not want to speak to another soul at the moment. She wanted to be allowed to have her final moment of closure alone. Perhaps she could ask them to give her one more hour. She took a deep breath and opened the parlour door. The easel was still sitting there, as was her valisse and small trunk: her last worldly possessions. She walked further into the house and looked into the parlour. A gentleman stood there looking out of the window with his back towards her, holding an ebony malacca cane and a high-crowned beaver hat.