Philippa Carr - The Changeling

“Yes,” I agreed. “There is something about it. You think that because I’m jealous of … him … I might be of the baby.”

“I don’t love you any less because I love others.”

“I know.”

“So never think it.”

I shook my head. I was too moved for words.

She took my hand and laid it against her body. “You are young,” she said. “People would say you should not know of such things … but I have never thought of you as young. You are my own … part of me. That is why we have been so close together always … until … well, so you thought. Stop thinking that, Becca. He wants you to care for him as much as I do. He is hurt because he thinks you resent him. Can you feel the movement? That is the child, Becca … our child … yours, mine and his. Promise me that you will always love it … care for it … look after it …”

“Of course I will. It will be my sister … or my brother. Of course I’ll love it. I promise.”

She put my hand to her lips and kissed it.

“Thank you, my darling child. You have made me very happy.”

For a while we sat looking at the pool. Then she rose suddenly and took my hand.

“Let’s go,” she said. “Dearest child, always remember …”

I was with her all the time. It seemed as though a great burden had been lifted from my shoulders. When the child was born and we went back, he would be there. I was going to try to stop hating him. I could see now that I had been to blame.

He wanted me to be part of the family. He did not want to shut me out. I had shut myself out.

I was going to be different when the child was born.

My mother had stopped going out. Mrs. Polhenny came every day. She was ready, she said. “At the first sign, I’ll be here.”

Dr. Wilmingham often came to luncheon. My mother would join us, but she was quickly exhausted.

Pedrek came down for a brief stay at Pencarron Manor. He and I would ride together. It was more like the old days, but I never stayed away from Cador for long for I liked to be as much as possible with my mother.

One afternoon Pedrek and I had been riding together and as we approached Cador he said goodbye before going back to Polcarron and I turned my horse to go home. The day had been overcast. There would be rain before long. On the way I passed Mrs. Polhenny’s cottage. We had always laughed at its prim appearance—the scrubbed doorstep, the gleaming cobbles, the windows shrouded with heavy curtains at the sides and dazzling white net across them to protect the inmates from seeing sin outside the house, we always said.

Mrs. Polhenny was, I guessed, at the Peggotys’ in West Poldorey. I had heard that she had been called there that morning to attend Mrs. Peggoty.

As I glanced up at the windows I saw a shape, so Mrs. Polhenny was at home. That would mean the Peggoty child was born. The shadow was there for a moment and then it had gone.

I hesitated. My grandmother had been a little anxious about Mrs. Peggoty for it was her first child and she was forty years old, which was old to have children. It would be good to know that the child was safely born. So I slipped off my horse and tethered it to a bush. Then I went and knocked at the door.

I stood there smiling to myself, wondering what Mrs. Polhenny would think if I asked if the baby had arrived. I had heard through one of the maids that she thought I was a “forward piece” and that it wasn’t right for children to know what I knew and she could not imagine what them up at Cador was thinking about to allow it.

I must say I felt rather a mischievous delight in shocking her.

I waited. There was no answer. The house seemed silent. Yet I was certain I had seen her at the window … at least it must be her for Leah was away with the aunt in St. Ives.

I waited for ten minutes. Then I mounted my horse and rode away. I was puzzled. I had been sure someone was in the house.

I forgot about the incident until the next morning when my grandmother announced that Mrs. Peggoty had a fine boy.

“He was born at three o’clock this morning, Mrs. Polhenny tells me. She says she was there for all those hours and is really worn out.”

So she had not been there, in the house. How odd! I must have imagined the shape at the window. But I knew I had not. It was rather mysterious.

June came. Mrs. Polhenny was, as she said, “at the ready.” She had become a little preoccupied which worried me a little. I asked myself if she were a little less sure of herself.

One morning she said to my grandmother: “You could have knocked me down with a feather. I’d never have believed it. I just thought there was something about her … the trained eye, you know. Then I said to her, ‘Jenny,’ I said, ‘I’d like to take a look at you.’ She was pleased enough to let me and when I examined her … well, I tell you, I couldn’t believe it …”

I listened to this. I was constantly on the alert. I had a feeling that all was not going as it should with my mother and although they told me a little I guessed there was a great deal which was held back. I was determined to find out. I had to know. So I listened quite shamelessly to everything I could in the hope of finding out the true state, of affairs concerning my mother.

That was how I learned that Jenny Stubbs was in fact expecting a child. It was a nine days’ wonder in the Poldoreys. How could it have come about? Everyone was thinking back to harvest time. September or October … to June. It was remembered that Peggotys had had labor in to help with the harvest. Last time with Jenny people guessed the father had been one of the itinerant workers. And Jenny, of course, half dazed as she was, wanted so much to have a child that it had been one of her fantasies to believe she was to have one. According to wiseacres like Mrs. Polhenny, this sort of dreaming made conception more likely.

The news was about and it reached my alert ears. Jenny Stubbs, who had dreamed for years of having a baby, was about to have one, according to Mrs. Polhenny, whose word could not be doubted in such matters.

She had taken on the task of looking after the girl. She wanted no help, no payment. She had presumably had a private conversation with God who had led her to discover that Jenny was really about to give birth and she knew it was her duty to look after the girl.

My mother was pleased when she heard the news.

“I know how wonderful it is to bring a child into the world,” she said. “It’s the most exciting adventure.”

My grandmother commented that when Jenny had previously had her own child she had been so happy that she had improved in every way. This could be the making of a new life for her. She might be quite normal again.

“Well,” said Mrs. Polhenny, “I shall have my hands full. Two babies about to appear … and at the same time. God will give me strength.”

“How gratifying it must be for Mrs. Polhenny to feel that God is working with her … a sort of auxiliary midwife, on this occasion it seems,” said my grandmother.

My mother laughed. “You are quite irreverent, Mama,” she said.

I treasured those moments with her. I should never forget them.

The day came. There was expectation in the house. Soon the ordeal would be over. My mother would be exultant and there would be a new member of the family.

Mrs. Polhenny had arrived. She said: “I delivered Jenny Stubbs’ baby last night … a lovely little girl. Jenny’s beside herself with glee.”

“Who is looking after her?” asked my grandmother.

“I’ve taken her over to my place … I did just before the birth was about to take place. I thought it best as I had Mrs. Lansdon’s coming. Leah’s home. She’s helping.”

“That’s good of you, Mrs. Polhenny.”

Mrs. Polhenny preened herself and looked more virtuous than ever.

“Well … she’s through. Now it’s Mrs. Lansdon’s turn.”

Later my grandmother said to me: “Her heart’s in the right place in spite of all that self-congratulation. It was good of her to take Jenny in.”

All seemed normal at the time. Jenny’s delivery had been an easy matter. We thought my mother’s would be the same.

Mrs. Polhenny arrived at eleven in the morning and by mid-afternoon we knew that all was not well. Dr. Wilmingham was sent for.

Benedict arrived. No one had met him at the station, but we were not surprised to see him for we guessed he would come to Cador for the birth. He wanted to go to my mother at once, but that was not allowed.

“But she will know that you are here,” said my grandmother, “and that should comfort her.”

Then began one of the most terrible periods of my life. I cannot remember it clearly. I have tried to shut it out of my mind because it brings so much anguish to recall it. I have succeeded to some extent, for now it is just like a blurred memory.

I do recall vividly though how terrible the waiting was, so I sat with my grandparents … and him. He could not sit still and kept pacing about the room, firing questions at us. How had she seemed? Why had he not been sent for earlier? Something ought to have been done.

My grandfather said: “For God’s sake, be calm, Benedict. She’ll be all right. She has the best attention.”

He said angrily: “She should have stayed in London.”

“Who knows?” said my grandmother. “We thought it was for the best.”

“Some petty country doctor! An old woman …”

I felt angry with him. He was blaming my grandparents. But I knew, as they did, that it was his excessive anxiety which made him as he was, and that it was an outlet for his fears and misery to blame someone.

The hours dragged on. I felt the clocks had all stopped. Waiting … waiting … and with every passing moment growing more afraid.

I cannot dwell on it. Cold fear had taken possession of me. And I knew it was an emotion I shared with them all. I was aware of my grandmother beside me. We looked at each other and neither of us attempted to hide what we felt. She took my hand and gripped it hard.

Then the doctor came. Mrs. Polhenny was with him. They did not have to speak. We knew. And the greatest desolation I had ever felt swept over me.

I REMEMBER IN FLASHES—flashes of sheer desperation and the most absolute wretchedness I have ever known. I can see us standing round her bed. How different she had been in life! She looked beautiful; there was a serenity in her face; she looked so white, so young—and so apart from us. I could not grasp the fact that I had lost her forever.

We hardly looked at the baby. I don’t think we could bear to do so. But for it, this would not have happened.

My grandparents were heartbroken. They had loved her so dearly. They were as stunned as I was. As for Benedict, I had rarely seen such misery as I saw in his face. In it there was a baffled anger against the world. I knew in that moment how deeply he had loved her. I think we all felt the need to get away, to be alone with our grief.

The doctor and Mrs. Polhenny concerned themselves with the child. I sensed, however, that they did not expect her to live. Feeding was a problem, but Mrs. Polhenny understood all about that. We were too stunned by our grief to be able to tear ourselves away from it and I do not know what we should have done without Mrs. Polhenny.

My grandmother said afterwards that we should always be grateful to her. She made little fuss but just continued caring for the child while we nursed our sorrow.

Later, arrangements would have to be made. I supposed the child would stay at Cador. I knew that when my grandmother recovered a little from this terrible blow it was what she would want … as I should. But just at first I could not bear to think of her and, miraculously it seemed to us afterwards, Mrs. Polhenny seemed to understand. She ceased to be the Lord’s avenging angel and became a practical nurse, giving herself to the care of the living while the rest of us mourned the dead.

We struggled through the remainder of that day and night, and in the morning, after I rose from my bed in which I had slept little, I realized that I had to go on with my life. My mother was dead and I had to accept that fact. This time I had really lost her.

We all seemed to be walking round in a state of shock—Benedict more than any of us. My grandfather tried to be calm and reasonable; he was trying to look ahead—anything to shut out the misery of the moment. The day for the funeral was decided on. She lay there in her coffin … she, who had been so alive, so merry, the most important person in my life.