New serial: Bluebell by Leonora Francis

Sometimes, dear heart, I wonder if I am just a ghost. But I must write every little thing down

1849

Oscar must not know I am writing to you at such an hour. But he started me off on this path. He claimed writing down how I felt would help me heal. He was quite content allowing me to scratch at my writings after supper, but not once we retired to bed.

Today Grace exposed me.

She told Oscar that while she was on her way to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water – for she was feeling thirsty during the night – she saw that my room was still lit. Thinking I was asleep, she entered to extinguish my candle and found me asleep at my writing table, slumped over, with my pen still between my ink-stained fingers. How dare she enter my room without my permission?!

Of course, Oscar confronted me about the matter. I admitted it was so. What else could I do?

“You are exhausting yourself, Phoebe,” he scolded. “You will not get well if you continue as you do. It’s not Grace’s responsibility to look after you as she does. You are lucky she is devoted to you. The poor girl is already run off her feet. Promise me you will refrain from this nightly obsession.”

He did not wait for an answer, such was his frustration with me, but, dear heart, I could not have made that promise to my brother. I confess my writings are of little things: of meals that I cannot eat, about the colour of the sky outside my window, the coldness of last winter, the books I am trying to read and about my dreams. There is so little to say about my current situation. Without you, I live in a cloud, a fog. Sometimes I wonder if I am just a ghost. But I must write every little thing down.

As I pen this, I am crouched on my knees by the fire. The embers are enough to give me some light but they fade fast, so I must hurry. My love, putting pen to paper has become a habit that I cannot break. How else can I let you know what is happening in my life? There are things that we did not get a chance to tell each other. Secrets that we held. Memories from our childhoods and so forth.

I can no longer see well enough, so I shall say goodnight and shall write again.

I am glad I did not make that promise to Oscar, for something strange and terrible has occurred and I must tell you. Last night there was a storm so violent, the cottage shook with the sound of thunder and lightning plagued the sky. Nevertheless, the storm was a blessing. It washed the winter dreariness from the air and the sun has emerged.

Grace woke early as usual. By the time I got out of bed, she had made breakfast.

“Good morning, Miss Phoebe,” she said cheerfully. “Isn’t it a beautiful day?”

“Indeed it is,” I said, while positioning myself at the table.

The sun was streaming through the window and had taken the chill from the room. Today, instead of porridge, she had made eggs and kidneys. I helped myself to eggs. I could not stomach the kidneys.

“Has Oscar already left?” I asked.

“Poor Oscar hardly had time to eat. Looks like Lady Highmore’s baby is ready to be born. I have no idea why they should bother Oscar. They could just as easily have called Dr Wax at Bishopston. He’s much closer to them.”

“Perhaps they thought Dr Wax too old,” I said.

“Maybe,” said Grace, “but there is no fairness in that.

Poor Oscar is not only looking after his own parish, which is big enough, but he has to look after Bishopston, too. Mark my words, it cannot be good for him.”

I admit, my dear, that I felt a twinge of guilt at Grace’s words. I must be a terrible burden, too.

Grace sat down, ate her eggs and kidneys while watching me from the corner of her eye, so I deemed it necessary to eat every morsel on my plate, otherwise she would be cross.

Satisfied, she said, “Why, you have not left the cottage in weeks, Miss Phoebe. It’s a fine spring day and who knows how long this sun will last.”

“It will be far too wet and muddy after the storm,” I reminded her.

“Not if we keep to the paths and the road. We are on high ground and we won’t go far. Perhaps we can see if the bluebells are in flower.”

I cannot remember if I ever told you, but when Grace and I were children, we would meet by the bubbling brook to play. That was before her parents died of the influenza. When the bluebells were in bloom, we’d pick them and place them between the pages of Mother’s books. When they were dried out and delicate, we decorated our writings with them.

Mother never complained, though I know now we should

have put them between pieces of paper so as not to deface her books. Here is another snippet from my past that

I did not get a chance to tell you about, my love.

Grace put away the plates, then left and returned with my coat and bonnet. “Are you ready?” she asked.

I stared up at her from my chair. We are the same age, Grace and I. She still has a youthful glow about her. And yet, when I look in the mirror, I see that I have aged. If you saw me now, you would not recognise me, my love. My cheeks have grown hollow, my skin grey. My long, dark hair is lank and has lost its shine. And for that reason, I stood up and resisted no longer. Grace was right. It was a beautiful day and we should take advantage of it. You should have seen the smile that crossed her face.

She hooked her arm through mine as we walked. We walked past the gate, over the bridge at the bubbling brook, and towards the woods where the bluebells grew. She talked of insignificant things as we went and I was glad. “The pickles are getting low,” she said. “And we are in dire need of some jam. The hens have been temperamental since the fox almost burrowed its way into the hen house. The silly little things are laying far fewer eggs.”

Her constant chatter alleviated some of my fears. I confess my heart was beating wildly. Had I become fearful of open spaces? I felt dizzy and yet not dizzy. It was a very strange feeling indeed, but I pressed on and resisted the urge to turn back.

“And little Tom from the big house, who came to fetch Oscar, said the household at Highacre are all in a lather, waiting for the baby to be born, and that Sir Reginald is taking no chances with this one. Lady Highmore has had two stillbirths already.”

“She is young,” I remarked. “Barely 19 and he is, what, 40?”

“I’ve heard she’s happy, for Sir Highmore treats her like a queen.”

I felt a pang of regret that I would never have children. But such thoughts were unworthy. Lady Highmore’s situation was far worse than mine.

Soon we came to the woods and stepped into dappled shade. The ground was damp but not so we sank into it. We picked our way to where the bluebells grew. The sight of them from a distance lifted my spirits, reminding me of happy days gone by.

“They are beautiful,” I said. “See,” said Grace. “I knew they would be in full flower, and so we can –”

She stopped abruptly and so did I, for we came upon a woman slumped against a tree trunk ahead of us. My love, I have never seen a sight like it. Her face was bruised. Her dress was muddy and her hair tangled. Her feet were bare. The skin broken, sore and bloody. The blue dress she wore was drenched and covered in mud. She was surely dead; she did not move when we shrieked.

Grace and I turned away from the gruesome sight. We could not bear to look at her.

Grace spoke first. “We must be brave, Miss Phoebe. We must see if she is truly dead and not sleeping.”

Although my heart thumped in my chest, and my hands were shaking, I nodded in agreement.

“I’ll go,” she said.

I clutched at her. “No. We must go together.”

Bluebells flattened under our feet as we walked to where she sat. Death is a terrible thing to look upon, but I am sure you are aware of that, my love. I have only looked upon death once and that was when Mother passed away. And so I found it harrowing to look upon it again.

Grace bent down to the body. She poked at the woman’s bare arm. At this point, I thought I would faint. But then Grace placed her hand on the woman’s forehead.

“Praise be,” she said.

“She lives!”

I knelt down, too, and placed my hand where Grace’s had just been. The woman’s forehead was clammy and feverish. Thank God! I quickly removed my coat and lay it upon her.

“Miss Phoebe!” said Grace. “You will catch your death. Here, take mine.”

“No,” I said firmly. “Run to Preston Dosett’s farm.

Tell him what has happened and ask him to bring his horse and cart.” Grace’s eyes widened with surprise at my sudden strength of purpose. “Now hurry, Grace, for I fear that if she is exposed much longer, she will die.”

The sight of bluebells lifted my spirits, reminding me of happy days gone by

It was difficult to tell her age with her face being so bruised and bloated. Her hair was long and black; tangled, with bits of fallen twigs in it. I took the hem of my black skirt and wiped at her brow. I removed the twigs from her hair and spoke to her gently.

“You are safe now,” I said. “You must live.”

There was hardly a flicker of life in her. While I waited for Preston Dosett to arrive, I prayed and prayed she would not die.

I cannot remember introducing you to Preston Dosett. No.

I am sure I did not. He is an unmarried farmer with a kind nature. Younger than Oscar. And though he is rough and without the same manners of you and I, there is much good to be said about him.

With his father, the elder Preston Dosett, he rears excellent pigs and sheep that he sells to Highacre and at market. Once in a while, he passes by our cottage – never empty-handed – to smoke cigars and drink a tot of brandy with Oscar. They have become unlikely friends and Oscar enjoys his company, but I digress. After all this time, I am still unable to keep to one topic. Forgive me.

Mr Dosett, with his big, strong arms and unruly, dark hair, soon arrived, with Grace running at his side. He tipped his hat at me.

“She is still alive, Mr Dosett, but we must hurry.”

He wore short breeches and a mud-splattered horsehair shirt. No coat or jacket, despite the chill in the spring air.

He looked down at the prone woman, as perplexed as Grace and I had been.

“If I had set eyes on this poor waif as you did, I would have thought her dead, too,” he said.

He lifted her easily and, when he did, we saw that she had been sitting on a man’s red kerchief. Grace picked it up. Folded within the muddy kerchief was a small Bible of a quality rarely seen. About the size of my hand’s width and breadth and edged with gold leaf, it remained dry, despite the storm from last night.

“How very strange,” said Grace.

My love, last night I was so exhausted that I fell into bed, closed my eyes and was asleep before I could count to 10. I wish now that I had been more interested in Oscar’s work, for then I would have been more confident in my care of the half-dead woman.

Mr Dosett carried the woman up to Mother’s old room and lay her on the bed. He left; he was still lambing and could not stay away from the farm too long. Grace placed the Bible in the drawer of the bedside table and tucked the red kerchief into her apron pocket.

“Grace,” I said. “Heat some water and bring a warm nightdress from my room.”

I was giving orders when ordinarily of late it is the other way around.

Between us, we removed her clothes and washed her as best we could. The frail skin beneath her dress was bruised, yellow and blackened in places.

Her hands were rough and calloused, as if she were used to hard labour. We washed her feet and wrapped them in strips of cloth. Grace and I decided that she could not be more than one score year.

When we had got most of the filth off her, she woke and let out a cry that made us start. It was a cry full of pain and misery. In this same room, Mother had given out such a cry, one that I did not wish to remember.

“She’s in terrible pain,” said Grace.

“Perhaps we should give her a few drops of laudanum,” I suggested.

I reached for the keys that were usually pinned to my dress. They were missing. Grace caught my eye and held my gaze. “I keep the keys now,” she said. “Had you forgotten?”

I nodded. In truth, I could not remember when the keys had transferred from me, the mistress of the house, to her, the maid. I did not question it, not wanting to admit to something I could not remember.

Grace unhooked the key to Oscar’s locked cabinet. “Fetch one vial of laudanum and a pipette.”

With the key in my hand, I went to Oscar’s study and removed a vial and pipette. I resisted the urge to slip a few drops of the viscous fluid in my mouth. My dearest love, I remember you saying that laudanum should be used only in dire circumstances, but I confess I once pressed Oscar for a small vial when I could not sleep. For the life of me, I cannot remember when I last took a dose or where that vial has gone to. The pull of the drug was difficult to resist.

And it was only the sound of the young woman’s screams that deterred me from my folly. I quickly locked the cabinet and took the vial upstairs.

When I returned to the room, the woman proved she still had use of her limbs, for she was tossing and turning and thrashing about.

“Hurry, Miss Phoebe,” said Grace, as she took firm hold of her arms.

With great difficulty, I managed to put a few drops in the young lady’s mouth.

How much she swallowed, I could not tell; perhaps too much. She fought for a little longer, then quietened.

Grace took the vial, the pipette and key from me and put them in her apron pocket. I wiped the woman’s brow with cool water while Grace looked on. I remembered I had done this for my mother and I hoped this time such tender care would have a better outcome.

When I was satisfied that the young woman was deeply asleep, I told Grace to get on with her chores.

Grace looked at me, at first worriedly, and then brightened. “All right, but you must call if there is any change. I will make us a cup of tea and I shall bring your book from the parlour.”

I lit the fire with old wood shavings and the dusty coal

He looked down at the prone woman, perplexed as Grace and I had been

from the coal bucket. The fire spluttered to life quickly and sent sparks up the chimney. I sat in the chair by the window and looked about me. I had not visited the room for some time, nor, it seemed, had Grace. Dust lay on every surface.

“She has settled well,” said Grace on her return.

She placed the tray of tea and my book on the chest of drawers by the door.

“Yes. The laudanum has done her good.”

“I wonder where she came from,” said Grace. “She had certainly been in an accident or been beaten. Her poor body is black and blue.” Grace shivered at the thought of it. “She’s not from around these parts. How strange that her dress is silk and yet she wears no shoes or petticoats.”

“When Oscar arrives, we will ask if she is from this parish. If anyone should know, he should.”

Oscar arrived home in good spirits after safely delivering a healthy son to the young Lady Highmore. Not only had he been paid handsomely but he had also been given a side of beef and several bottles of good brandy in thanks. Both Grace and I went out to greet him.

“A young girl?” he said.

“In the woods?”

“I gave her a few drops of laudanum and now she appears to be sleeping.” He climbed down from his horse and rushed to Mother’s room. When he looked upon her face, he admitted he did not know her – or of her.

Grace and I watched in awe as he took her pulse. He listened to her heart. He felt her brow. He removed our bandages and looked at her feet. He took her hands and touched the callouses on her palms. He felt beneath the thick, black hair on her head.

“She has had a blow to the head and is feverish,” he said. “How did she come to be here?”

“Preston Dosett carried her in his cart,” I told him.

“From the wounds on her feet, I would say she has walked a long way. You found her in the woods, you say?”

“Yes,” I said. “Slumped against a tree.”

“She had nothing with her? No papers? No luggage?”

“She did have one thing,” said Grace.

She handed Oscar the

Bible. He opened it, which is what Grace and I had not thought to do.

“It’s inscribed,” he said. “What does it say?” I asked. “It says: ‘My child. Remember, I will love you

‘I wonder where she came from. Her poor body is black and blue’

forever and always. Papa.’ My only thought is that she might be a runaway from the asy–” Oscar stopped abruptly. I did not miss the sharp look Grace gave him. Why wouldn’t he complete that word, for I knew what he meant? I did not believe her to be a runaway from that place. Her dress was made of silk. Would she have not been worse dressed? No. I could not believe it.

Just then, she opened her eyes and they were full of terror. She raised her arm against something unseen. A slap. A blow, perhaps? I reached over, stopped her hand and lay it back at her side. Did she think we would hurt her?

“Shh,” I said. “You are safe now. What is your name?”

Her lips moved but she barely made a sound.

“What is your name?” I repeated.

She frowned. Then she spoke so softly that I had to place my ear against her lips.

“Can’t remember me name,” she said.

My love, the fear in her eyes was one of the most frightening things I have ever seen. CONTINUES NEXT WEEK

© Leonora Francis, 2017