The Emerald Comb (23 page)

‘Three hours? I still feel so tired.’ She leaned back in the bed.

Agnes crossed the room to plump up the pillows. ‘Would you like me to fetch little Barty, ma’am? He is with Mary.’

‘Who?’ Georgia frowned.

‘Mary Moulsford, ma’am. The wet-nurse.’ Agnes realised Georgia had never set eyes on the wet-nurse. It had always been Agnes who brought the baby to and from her. In fact, from the way Mary curtsied to Agnes and called her ‘ma’am’, it was as though she thought Agnes was the child’s mother, and mistress of the house. That was not a misunderstanding Agnes was in any hurry to clear up.

Georgia sighed. ‘Oh yes. I remember. No, leave him with her. He needs to feed as much as possible, doesn’t he?’

Agnes chuckled. ‘There’s no danger of him not feeding enough. He’s a right guzzler, that one. He’ll grow up fit and strong, you can be sure of that.’

‘Good. My husband will be pleased with a strong, healthy son.’

‘And you, ma’am? Are you not pleased with him too?’

‘Yes, I am pleased with him. Of course I am. I’m his mother, aren’t I? Why wouldn’t I be pleased with my son?’ Georgia sighed. ‘I just wish I didn’t feel so tired and ill all the time. Oh, Aggie, when will I get better? It can’t be right to feel like this for so long.’

‘Perhaps you should let the doctor see you, ma’am.’

‘No! I can’t have anyone see me like this.’ Georgia sighed again and closed her eyes. ‘I can’t see what a doctor could do for me. It’s like – it’s like my body is well but my mind is not. A doctor cannot fix a person’s mind. He cannot give me energy, can he? He cannot make me want to get up. He cannot make me love my son!’ She burst into tears and buried her face in her hands.

Agnes rushed to her side and sat on the edge of the bed, an arm about her mistress’s shoulders. It was hard to see any woman, a fellow mother, in such a state. Even if that woman had the one thing Agnes wanted above all else.

‘Ma’am, calm yourself, please. It does not do to be so upset. Come, take a draught of your tonic.’ She poured a measure into a small glass and handed it to Georgia, who drank greedily.

‘Thank you. You are right. I must be calm. Your tonic helps so much.’ Georgia lay back against her pillow.

Agnes smiled. Of course the tonic helped. It was mostly laudanum, with a little lemon and sugar added to disguise the bitter taste. It relaxed her, of course, but also made her sleepy and lethargic. Agnes had been gradually increasing the dose. The more Georgia slept, the more time she could spend with Mr St Clair.

She stayed by Georgia’s side, stroking her hair until she had calmed down.

‘Aggie, you are so good to me. I must repay you, somehow.’

‘Oh, ma’am, it is my job, and besides, I don’t like to see you upset.’

Georgia smiled faintly. ‘Nevertheless I should like to show my appreciation for all you do for me. Open my wardrobe, would you?’

Agnes did as she was asked.

‘That deep red gown – I don’t think it would fit me now that I have had a child.’

Agnes took out the dress in question. ‘Would you like me to alter it for you, ma’am?’

‘No, I would like you to have it. It would look well on you.’ She sighed. ‘And I am not in need of any gowns these days, beyond my nightgowns.’

‘Ma’am, I can’t take this!’ Agnes fingered the fine satin gown. Georgia had given her cast-off gowns before but never one as beautiful or fashionable as this.

‘You can, and you shall. Go and put it on, I should like to see you in it.’

Agnes raised her eyebrows. ‘Very well, ma’am. I shall be back in a moment or two.’ She took the dress and went up to her own room to change into it.

The gown fitted her perfectly, as though it was made for her. She unpinned her cap and brushed out her hair so that it fell in waves onto her shoulders. On a whim, she took out the only piece of jewellery she owned – a set of glass beads Georgia had given her – and fastened them around her neck to finish off the outfit. Then she went back down to Georgia’s room, tapped lightly on the door and walked in.

Mr St Clair was perched on the edge of his wife’s bed. He stood up and gasped as Agnes entered.

‘Agnes! You look… Look at you!’

Georgia smiled at her. ‘I knew it would suit you. And it’s a perfect fit. I’m glad I’ve given it to you. She looks lovely, doesn’t she, Bartholomew?’

‘Yes, indeed,’ he replied.

Agnes smiled and went to stand before the full-length mirror to see for herself. She was aware of Mr St Clair’s eyes following her around the room. Georgia was right. The colour did suit her. Her hair was glossy and bright, and there was a spot of colour in each cheek. Probably because of the presence of Mr St Clair in the room, she mused.

Georgia yawned. ‘I am sorry; I think I need to sleep again, now. Agnes, would you wake me when you bring my dinner up, please. Till then, you are free to do as you choose.’

‘Of course, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.’

‘Sleep well, my sweet.’ Bartholomew kissed his wife and left the room with Agnes. As soon as the door closed behind them he grabbed her around the waist and kissed her.

‘Sir! Polly might…’

‘Polly is downstairs setting a fire in the drawing room grate. Mrs Fowles is in the kitchen preparing dinner, with Libby helping. Old George is tending to the horses, along with Danny. And Georgia will be snoring already.’

Agnes giggled, and snaked her hands around him, under his waistcoat. ‘She doesn’t snore, sir.’

He kissed her again. ‘Perhaps not. But she’ll be asleep. Come to my room. I want you.’

Half an hour later, Bartholomew emerged from his room, checked the corridor then nodded to Agnes to follow him out. She was giggling a little still, and trying to smooth the creases from her red gown. He felt pleasantly satiated. Georgia had never allowed him to take her in the middle of the day. Their couplings had always been at night, under the bedclothes, with Georgia’s nightdress pulled up only as far as was necessary. Unlike Agnes who was much less inhibited and, indeed, seemed to enjoy sex at least as much as he did.

‘Come and sit in the drawing room with me,’ he said to her, as they went downstairs. You can bring some sewing in, if you like. Georgia doesn’t need you, and I would like some company.’

This was the first time he’d ever asked her to sit with him in the drawing room. She looked surprised but pleased, and nodded. ‘I am making some new nightgowns for the baby. I should be happy to sit with you and work on them. I’ll fetch them.’ She turned and went back upstairs.

It was a gloomy afternoon, with dark clouds blocking the sunlight. Bartholomew went into the drawing room, and rang the bell for Polly to light the fire and bring some tea.

Polly answered the bell, with baby Barty in her arms. ‘Sir, I would make tea, but what shall I do with the baby? The wet-nurse has gone home, the mistress is asleep and I can’t find Agnes.’

Agnes walked in at that moment. ‘I’ll take him, Polly, so you can do what Mr St Clair requires.’ She put her sewing things on a chair and took the baby. Polly glared at her, sniffed and flounced off. Bartholomew smiled to himself. There was no love lost between those two, for sure.

They were barely settled in the room with Agnes sewing, the baby laid on a shawl on the hearthrug kicking and gurgling happily, when the doorbell rang and Polly announced the arrival of Dr Moore. Not wanting the doctor to question why he was sitting in the drawing room with a servant, Bartholomew jumped to his feet and went out to the hallway to greet him.

‘Jonathon, my old friend. Come in, take some tea with me in my study,’ said Bartholomew, shaking the doctor by the hand.

‘No, I can’t stop long,’ the doctor replied. ‘I was passing and wondered how your good lady wife is? It has been some time since I last saw her. And what of the baby? Is he thriving?’ He blinked short-sightedly at Bartholomew.

‘Little Bartholomew is doing very well, thank you. He seems larger every time I see him.’

‘Ah yes, they do grow quickly in the early days. That’s good to hear. And Mrs St Clair?’

Bartholomew shuffled his feet. How could he explain how Georgia was? Jonathon would insist on seeing her, but she’d made it clear she would not see a doctor. He didn’t want to upset her.

‘She’s coping…’ he began.

‘Ah, and there’s the lady herself!’ exclaimed the doctor, striding towards the open drawing room door.

‘What?’ Bartholomew was startled. Had Georgia come downstairs? But Jonathon was standing just inside the drawing room, looking directly at Agnes.

‘You’re looking well, Mrs St Clair. And if I may say so, what a charming picture of domesticity – the young mother sitting with her sewing beside the fire, baby at her feet. Well, it’s clear you’ve recovered very well, and I’m delighted to see it.’

Bartholomew opened his mouth to contradict the doctor, but then said nothing. Best not to embarrass his old friend. He shook his head slightly at Agnes, who had risen to her feet.

‘Don’t get up, Mrs St Clair. I can’t stop – got a house call to make in the village. Well, good to see that all is well in this household at least. Don’t hesitate to call on me if you need me, Bartholomew.’ He gave a small bow towards Agnes, and backed out of the room.

‘I’ll see myself out, old chap. Now then, where’s the door handle got to?’ He groped around on the panelling until Bartholomew took pity, stepped forward and opened the door for him.

Returning to the drawing room, Bartholomew sat down in a chair opposite Agnes. She regarded him with wide, questioning eyes.

‘He’s as blind as a bat, poor Jonathon,’ he said. ‘But you do look rather like her, especially in that gown and with your hair unpinned.’

Agnes said nothing, but picked up her sewing and bent over it, a secret smile playing at the corners of her mouth. Bartholomew watched her for a moment, feeling aroused once more. She really was quite special. If only she were Georgia…

Chapter Sixteen: Hampshire, June 2013

It was three weeks since the discovery of the bones in our garden. We’d bought the children a new trampoline, and had replaced the broken windows and guttering. The lawn was recovering well. The storm and its aftermath just seemed like a bad dream now. There was only the garden wall waiting to be rebuilt. Simon was planning to do that himself, but needed to find some suitable old bricks first, as some of the originals were unusable. He’d spent the previous weekend scouring local reclamation yards, looking for bricks to match the one in his pocket from our wall.

As far as I could work out, all the reclamation yards in the area were within a ten-mile drive. But Simon had spent a whole day at them, and had refused to take Lewis with him, even though the boy had pleaded to be allowed to go. I hated being so suspicious, but couldn’t help myself wondering what Simon was up to. I was still fretting that perhaps he was having an affair, even though the more rational parts of my brain knew that he couldn’t, wouldn’t do such a thing. But I had no alternative explanation for his continuing late nights and now, whole weekend days away from home, or for his evasiveness when I asked him about them.

I was busying myself with drawing up plans on my laptop for a new kitchen, using some nifty free-to-download software to arrange cupboards and appliances, and change the work surfaces and cupboard doors at will. It was great fun, though my gut churned at the predicted expense of it all.

I’d just clicked on a cream-coloured option with wooden work surfaces when the doorbell rang. It was DI Bradley.

‘Mrs Smith, sorry to disturb you without warning, but I was in the area and thought I would drop in. Is now a good time to bring you up to date on the investigation?’

‘Er, yes, of course.’ I stood aside to let him in, and showed him through to the kitchen where I put the kettle on. I could still remember his tea preferences – milk and one small sugar. He gazed out through the kitchen window at the restored garden.

‘You’ve worked hard. That looks so much better than the last time I saw it.’ He grinned, and sat down at the table. ‘Well, you’ll be pleased to know we’ve had some results back from the lab. The bones have been carbon-dated to some time around the middle of the nineteenth century. Definitely not modern, and I’m afraid young Lewis will be disappointed to find it’s not a Roman legionary either. We can’t be very precise with this technique, but it points to a date range of around 1840 to 1860. However, dendrochronology can be much more accurate, and we’ve calculated that the tree began growing in 1842. So my guess would be that she was buried around that time, and a sapling planted on the spot.’

I took a moment to take all that in. ‘She?’

‘Yes, sorry, I should have started with that. The remains are those of a woman, probably quite a young one. The osteologist – that’s the bone specialist – said he can’t be sure of anything more, but it was definitely female.’

I poured him a cup of tea, and placed it on the table in front of him. ‘Any ideas as to cause of death?’

‘None at all. As you know the skeleton was too much disturbed by the tree roots to be able to get any further clues.’

I regarded him carefully. ‘Do you think, was it –’

‘Murder?’ he asked, raising an eyebrow. ‘Impossible to say. And professionally, I can’t say. But, off the record, the fact she was buried in a back garden and a sapling planted above, which would stop the area being dug over – yes, personally speaking, I’d say she was most likely murdered. Or at least, unlawfully killed. Possibly suicide. Otherwise she’d have been buried in the churchyard, you’d assume.’

I sipped my tea. Who was she? She’d been buried in the garden during the time my ancestors owned the house. So she was presumably someone known to Bartholomew and Georgia. The chances of finding out who it actually was would be remote, but worth a try and I knew I’d enjoy the research. And Dad had said he’d like to get involved as well.

But something worried me. ‘1842, that’s, um, 170 years ago. I’m amazed the bones lasted that long,’ I said. ‘I’d have thought they would rot completely, or be so broken up by the roots they’d be unrecognisable.’

DI Bradley nodded. ‘I thought that too, but our tree experts told me beech tree roots tend to be shallow and wide, unlike say an oak which puts down a deep tap root. It’s one reason why beech trees are particularly susceptible to blowing over in storms. So if the bones were deep enough under the tree, the tree’s roots would not penetrate them as much as you’d think.’