The Wet Nurse's Tale (8 page)

Reader: we are told it was payment for Eve’s sin to suffer so when babies come, and so may it be. Twas torture for me, that’s sure. But when the midwife handed me my Joey, I thought no more of the pain and the muck of it, for I was all over with love for the little mite that I had pushed into her arms. Twas then and will always be a miracle, whether it’s them high ladies or us low girls that do it.

Perhaps overhearing my shrieks had lessened my father’s anger to me. Maybe I yelled a tiny bit louder than what I needed to do, just so the screams would reach him in the cowshed where I hoped he sat. In the end, though, it must have been the baby’s aspect that took the murder out of him. He would not even cast a glance toward the mite for the first week but then, once he laid eyes upon his sweet face, he softened some. “My first grandchild and a bastard,” he said aloud to me as if he hated me, but I didn’t care what he said when I saw him like the look of my Joey.

There hadn’t been a baby in the house for a year. When we were all growing up, there was always one in the cradle, and sometimes two, if my mother had one of her own. She’d nurse hers until they were old enough to eat a little solid food, and at the same time she’d nurse the paying babies til they were old enough to be replaced. There was always a paying baby so she never dried up. It’s just like a cow works, if you want to know. If there’s suckling, there’s milk.

I’d remembered her words when we went home to bury Ellen. “Well, Susan, this one’s a foundling, and they don’t pay much,” she’d said when I asked her about the one in the cradle. “I’m past forty years now and the wrinkles in my face frighten away the clients. I know it: I look as if my milk is sour and perhaps it is. They want someone younger and plumper anyhow.”

She’d looked sad when she said it but then we were all sad.

When my baby, who I’d named Joey, was about four weeks old, we had a visitor.

“How de do,” called a voice from over the door. We had the upper part open and Mother told Ada to see who called, as her hands were all amuck from the kneading and I was just dozing for a minute after having been up at night with the baby. I waked right up when the lady came in though, for the novelty of the new face. Even my father, who was at home, stood and bowed his head when Ada showed the guest in.

“Oh, sorry to bother,” said the lady to my mother. “Are you Mrs. Rose, then? I am Mrs. Potts, niece to Sarah Carter that lives over near church. Can you spare a moment?”

After she was all welcomed in and sat down, we all agreed that old Sarah was a good soul and that the day was cold but fine and that we’d none of us never seen such a winter for turnips. And then she told us why she’d come.

“I work up in Aubrey,” said Mrs. Potts, “as cook for a very nice young family, the Holcombs is what they’re called. Mr. Holcomb works at his father-in-law’s business, which is dye making, and they do a very good deal of trade. Why, half the time, Mr. Holcomb is late for supper but when he’s not, they eat very fancy and often with guests. I’m up at dawn with them, is what I can tell you.”

We all listened politely.

She continued. “Now, Mrs. Holcomb, the dear, just had her first baby, a wee little thing. And that’s why I’m here. He needs a nursey, for she,” and here she lowered her voice, “she can’t provide for him from herself. I heard that a nurse for hire lived here and that’s why I’ve come.”

“Oh, Mrs. Potts,” said my mother, “I’m afraid you’re too late, by a year or more. I’ve all dried up.”

“But what about she?” said Mrs. Potts, pointing straight at me. “She could.”

It so happens that Joey had been sleeping for some time, and I had leaked along my front, as will happen when the vessels are all full and in need of emptying. And it happens also that I’d been thinking just that: that as I seemed to have more than enough for my own baby, it would hurt no one were I to share it with another baby who might need it. I had even said as much to my mother after a week or two of feeding Joey. “Mother,” I’d said, “now that I’ve caught on to it, I could do as you did.” My father had heard me say it and since then his mean words had tamed some, imagining the extra shillings I could draw, I suppose.

“Yes,” he jumped in quick, “couldn’t you, Susan m’dear.”

I threw him a look for the sweet words where there hadn’t been any in so long and came forward. “Yes, ma’am,” said I. “I’m sure I’d have enough.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Potts, “and what would your husband say, though? Would he mind?”

“He died,” I said as quick as I could. I said it too quick, and it made her look at me quite sharp, but she hadn’t said that she wanted a saint for her mistress’s baby, had she.

“Ah,” said she. “A shame. Well, as the baby needs a nurse, and as you seem quite clean and very healthy, well, I think you’ll do. They’ll pay nicely, a pound a month, minus tea and sugar.”

“A pound!” said my father, though I winced at him saying it. “The rates has risen!”

Mrs. Potts nodded at him. “And I’ll see to it myself that she’s fed well.”

My mother and I looked at each other, confused.

My father replied in his gruff manner, “She’ll eat what we eat. I’ve provided well enough for my family these long years: Susan needs nothing more than my wife had and she was nurse for a faggot a years.”

“Yes,” said my mother smiling, “ever so many.”

Now Mrs. Potts looked confused and then suddenly, she understood something that we had not. “Oh, Mrs. Rose,” said she to my mother. “Now I see what’s befuddling us. The girl is to come with me. I’m to take her to Aubrey. The Holcombs wish for a nurse to live in their home. It’s the style now, you know, and there’s no worry for them, as to the cost of the thing.”

“But,” I said right off, “what about Joey? He’ll need me for ever so long, still.”

“You’re going, girl,” said my father. “Don’t try to wriggle out of it.”

Mrs. Potts looked back at me. “How old’s the mite?” she asked, and when I told her she wrinkled her brow. “Well, yes,” she said, “that’s young but he can be hand-fed, can he not?”

“Mother,” I said, turning, “Mother, you know it’s too soon to leave him. You know that.”

“Yes, dear,” she said, “but a whole pound . . . and now that you’re not at the Great House . . .”

“Mother,” I said. “But how will he live?”

And then it was I made my mistake. “Father,” I said, though I oughtn’t to have done it, “you’re soft for Joey. You don’t want to see him without his mother, surely? How will he live?”

At that, his eyes hardened. “He’ll live,” he said. I could tell it: if Mrs. Potts weren’t in the room, I’d already have a black’d eye. “Didn’t you hear your mother? She said she’d feed him by hand.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Potts, standing from her chair, “I’ll be at my aunt’s house for two days more. I leave on the Thursday coach. You can make up your own minds, but, girl,” and here she looked me in the eye, “it’s not often you’ll have the opportunity to help your family as much as this.” Then she added, “Especially . . .” but did not finish her sentence. I wished her dead at that moment, because her words, as she’d meant them to, made my father’s hand tighten on my arm.

Of course I ended up going. My father made my decision for me. He beat me til I shrieked and then, out of his mind, he made for the cradle. When my mother stood in front of it, he smacked her til she bled from her nose. My father had a vicious streak in him, and though I couldn’t believe he’d hurt a baby, twas hard to know what his anger would let him do that a milder man wouldn’t have. In the end, I could do nothing else. I packed my two frocks and my aprons and my caps and then I nursed my baby one last time. He suckled something fierce, staring at me til his eyes drooped and he slumbered. I wept and wept and wiped the tears off his sweet face before I put him in his cradle.

“I’ll see to him, Susan,” said my mother, kissing me gently, as her lips were still puffed from my father’s fists. “Don’t worry your head. He’ll be right as rain, never you mind.”

And so with a last sob into his cradle, I took up my bundle and went to meet Mrs. Potts and go to Aubrey.

MRS. MOORE’S REASON

I am Mrs. Moore, first name of Prudence. My husband is half-owner of Cranford & Moore, which I am sure you have heard of. He owns exactly half of the company, not a bit less, though our name is second, but do not let that fool you. Someday, and I think it will not be very long, my husband’s name may be the only one on the sign.

The shop you see on the street is only a small part of the business. There is a warehouse of some size here in Seagrove which, as you must know, is a town that is growing like a foot grows out of a shoe. Seagrove is not simply a holiday seaside spot, not anymore. It’s shipping that’s made it grow so. That’s how my husband, who started in the navy I am proud to tell you, made his mark. He learned the ins and outs of the shipping business from Mr. Cranford—there’s no denying that the old man knows that part of the trade.

Mr. Moore, my husband, says he cannot do without me. I do not need to boast, I only repeat what he says. He consults with me quite constantly. Just the other day at dinner with Mr. and Mrs. Steele I heard him say this, “I know shipping, but it’s Mrs. Moore, here, who knows the shop. I’ve never seen a head for business like she has. Knows just what to stock, she does, and . . .” then he whispered, “If the baronet’s man has special-ordered a fancy silk, well then, he might have to pay a bit extra for it, not that he’d know it.” And he cast me a naughty look and then didn’t we all laugh.