No Wings to Fly Page 19

  Suddenly, into the quiet came the distant sound of the baby crying in Lily’s room on the floor above. Immediately she turned and started away. ‘I must get his feed,’ she said. ‘I was on my way to the kitchen to prepare his bottle.’

  ‘Leave it. I’ll get Mary to do it,’ Miss Elsie said at once. ‘You don’t let her do enough. She’s a very capable girl.’ As she spoke she moved across the room and disappeared into the hallway. From up above the sound of the baby’s crying drifted down.

  Miss Elsie was back in a couple of minutes. ‘Mary will see to him,’ she said. She raised the paper that she still held in her hand, and Lily saw that it was a letter. ‘I just today heard from the Society,’ Miss Elsie said.

  ‘The Society? Oh. Oh, yes.’

  ‘St Paul’s Society of Friends. I wrote to them a few days ago – and told them the baby is now strong and thriving.’ Her tone was quite matter-of-fact, and she did not meet Lily’s eyes. ‘So – I’m glad to say that it’s all now arranged. They’re coming tomorrow. The Reverend Iliffe and his assistant, Miss Cannon.’

  Lily frowned. ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘In the afternoon, some time after two.’

  ‘To – to see the baby . . .’

  ‘Well – yes . . . They’re coming to – to take him away.’

  Lily’s mind was spinning. She had known it was inevitable, but it was hard to take in the words. They were coming tomorrow. ‘But – it’s so soon,’ she said. ‘Surely – it’s too soon. Isn’t it?’

  ‘No, my dear, the time is good.’ Miss Elsie’s tone was soft. ‘It’s the right time.’

  Lily stood in silence, dimly aware that the baby’s crying had ceased.

  ‘He’s fine, Lily, believe me,’ Miss Elsie said. ‘You heard what Dr Hanbury said when he came to see him the other day. He’s very pleased with his progress. He says he’s strong now and doing really well.’ She smiled. ‘And all due to you, of course. The wonderful care you’ve given him.’

  Lily gave a worried little shake of her head. ‘He – he’s not used to strangers,’ she said.

  ‘Lily – he’ll be all right, I assure you. He’s going to be loved and well cared for. You know that. My dear, we only want the best for him.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I know.’

  ‘Of course you do, and the Society will find him a good home. He’ll have loving parents, and he’ll have a good life. Isn’t that the best thing for him?’

  Lily nodded. Earlier, sitting in the sunshine with the baby, she had felt for a few moments something like a real sense of peace, a feeling that she had not known in a long time, but hardly had the feeling touched her than there had come that swift realisation that it could not last. And of course it could not.

  Miss Elsie said, breaking into her thoughts, ‘I know what you’re going through. But you knew it would happen, Lily. Sooner or later it had to happen.’

  ‘Yes.’

  There was silence in the room, and then came the renewed sound of the baby’s crying. Lily turned. ‘I must go to him.’

  ‘Mary’s getting his milk,’ Miss Elsie said. ‘He’ll be all right.’

  ‘I know – but I must go to him.’ With her words, Lily started to the door.

  *

  That night she lay awake in her room. The sky was not yet dark, and in the faint light that crept in she looked into the baby’s cradle just two feet away. He was sleeping. For a few moments she held her own breath in an effort to hear the sound of his breathing, something she did so many times in the night. And in the quiet the thought came to her, again, like a new realisation, shocking her, that she would lie like this no more. Tomorrow night when she lay down to sleep, she would be alone.

  The Reverend Iliffe and Miss Cannon arrived just after two-thirty the following day. Lily, watching from a window in the drawing room, saw the carriage come to a stop and observed the pair as they got out. She saw the clergyman exchange some words with the fly-driver who at once relaxed in his seat and took out his pipe. Obviously, Lily thought, he had been asked to wait while their business was conducted, so clearly the visitors saw no protracted business ahead of them.

  Miss Elsie herself answered the door to the reverend’s knock, took his hat and ushered them into the room where Lily still stood near the window. Lily was introduced to the couple, and they shook her hand and smiled at her benevolently. Reverend Iliffe, in his late fifties, was a man of medium height with fine bones that had not a lot of flesh on them. He had smooth, pink skin that looked as if it had rarely seen strong sunlight, and a small, thin-lipped mouth. His pale, watery eyes looked at Lily through the thick lenses of steel-rimmed spectacles. He was carrying a black leather briefcase, wore a dark grey suit, and his scrawny neck disappeared into his cleric’s collar. He had a kind air about him, however, and when he smiled the severity of his expression was transformed.

  Miss Cannon, standing at his side, was a short, stout woman in her forties, and wore a grey cape and a dark brown bombazine dress. The hat on her grey hair was a no-nonsense affair of black straw. When she smiled at Lily she showed small teeth with an expanse of pink gum.

  Following the introductions, Miss Elsie asked the visitors if they would care for some tea. Reverend Iliffe gave a shake of his head, and said no, thank you; it was a kind offer, but they would have to start back again before too long.

  He turned then to Lily. ‘And this young lady . . . is the mother?’ he enquired, putting the question both to Lily and Miss Elsie.

  ‘Yes,’ Lily said, ‘I’m the baby’s mother.’

  The clergyman nodded and smiled, Miss Cannon nodding and smiling along with him. ‘And is everything ready?’ he asked.

  Lily, who had been ready for hours, flicked a glance at Miss Elsie and picked up a coarse, straw basket. ‘These are his things,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t have very much. His clothes, his bottle, his rattle – a few other bits and pieces . . .’

  ‘Good, that’s splendid,’ the reverend said. ‘Is the baby here?’

  Lily put the basket down. ‘I’ll go and get him,’ she said.

  Upstairs in her room she stooped low over the crib, looking into the little face. He was awake and, seeing her, at once connected his gaze with her own, his solemn eyes fixing intently, like a magnet, on hers. As he did so she felt her heart lurch in her breast, and briefly she closed her eyes in pain. In spite of the fact that all through the day she had tried to ready herself for this moment, she knew that she was as unprepared as she had ever been.

  Bending her face lower, she smiled at him. ‘Hello, my darling,’ she whispered. He smiled back at her, and as he briefly turned his face on the pillow she saw the tiny crescent moon on his cheek beside his ear. She bent closer, and kissed the spot, kissed the little moon. He smiled more broadly, as if amused, and her own mouth moved in a tender, sad little smile. Adjusting her skirt, she lowered herself to her knees on the rug. She knew that downstairs the clergyman and the lady would be waiting, anxious to get back into the fly and return to the station, but these were precious moments and they would not come again.

  Reaching into the cradle she drew back the light covers and lifted him out. Gently she wrapped him in his shawl then sat back on her heels, holding him in her arms. Putting her mouth to his tiny ear, she said, ‘You’re going on a journey. I don’t know where, but you’re going somewhere – maybe to some thrilling, exciting place far away from here.’ She held him as close as she dared, drinking in the look and smell of him. ‘You’ll have a new mother,’ she said, ‘and you’ll have a father too,’ making the discoveries as she spoke, little revelations that took her by surprise and all but stopped her in her tracks. ‘You’ll have a whole new family. Perhaps brothers and sisters.’ She paused for a moment as her breath caught in her throat. ‘You won’t remember me,’ she said, ‘but that’s the way it should be. You’ll have a new life, a better life than I could ever give you.’

  She wanted to say so much more; there would never be time enough for all the things she wished to say. Outs
ide the window in the rowan tree a thrush began to sing. Hearing the sweet song, Lily said, ‘Listen. The thrush is singing. He’s singing for you.’ The baby looked up at her from the nest of her arms. ‘Come,’ she said, choking back the tears that filled her eyes. ‘Come, my darling. The nice people – they’re waiting.’

  The clergyman and Miss Cannon turned at Lily’s entrance and observed her as she came in.

  ‘Ah,’ said the reverend, his smile expanding across his pink face, ‘here comes the little mite,’ and Miss Cannon, her smile as embracing as the vicar’s, said, ‘Is he ready to go?’

  Lily nodded. ‘Yes, he’s ready.’

  Miss Cannon went to Lily, held out her arms, and Lily laid the baby in them. ‘Be careful with him,’ she said, as she released the tiny bundle into the woman’s grasp.

  Miss Cannon gave a little nod. ‘Don’t worry, Miss Clair, we have much experience of looking after such precious little creatures.’

  The reverend spoke up. ‘Oh, yes, indeed, you have absolutely no reason for anxiety.’ He pressed his hands together. ‘So – everything seems to be going along very well. We just need to complete the paperwork and the matter will be settled and we can be on our way again.’ He bent then and took up his briefcase, opened it and took out some papers. As he did so, Miss Elsie gestured towards a small writing table on which lay a blotter and ink-stand.

  ‘Ah, yes, thank you.’ The reverend nodded, then moved to the table and sat down. As Lily watched, he laid out the papers before him, glanced over them, then turned to her. ‘If you please, Miss Clair . . .’

  Lily moved to stand by the table. As she did so he uncapped the inkwell, took up a pen and dipped it in.

  ‘Your full name is Lily Mary Clair, is that correct?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He wrote on the paper. ‘And you were born in Compton Wells, Wiltshire on the second of July 1848.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Thank you. And you’re resident here at Rowanleigh, in the village of Sherrell.’

  ‘Yes.’

  He nodded, wrote again, then held out the pen to her. ‘If you wouldn’t mind – we need your signature.’

  She took the pen from him, and he pointed to a place on the paper. ‘Just there, if you please . . .’

  Lily became aware of her heart beating. She stood with the pen in her fingers, hand poised above the paper.

  ‘Just there,’ Reverend Iliffe said again, pointing.

  As Lily hesitated, the ghost of a nervous little laugh broke in her throat. It was hardly more than a breath, but it rang in the quiet room. The clergyman turned his smile upon her. ‘It’s quite straightforward, my dear. It’s the usual procedure. It’s just to say that you willingly give up the infant for adoption.’

  Lily did not move. The Reverend Iliffe looked at her and then after a moment switched his glance to Miss Elsie.

  ‘Lily . . .’ Miss Elsie said.

  Lily nodded, eyes fixed on the paper where the reverend’s fingertip was set. He prompted her. ‘Just here, Miss Clair . . .’

  Lily stood for another second, unmoving, then bent and put down her signature.

  Reverend Iliffe smiled and let out a little breath of satisfaction. ‘Well done, that’s splendid. And now here on this one . . .’ He moved the top paper aside to reveal the one below. He pointed, indicating where Lily was to sign. She did so, then straightened and handed him back the pen. As she took a step back, the man turned his head to Miss Elsie. ‘If you please, Miss Balfour . . . Your witness signature, please, if you wouldn’t mind . . .’

  As Miss Elsie moved to the desk to sign the papers, Lily looked across at Miss Cannon holding the baby. ‘Oh,’ she said, before she could stop herself, ‘he doesn’t like to be held that low down. He likes his head higher.’ Miss Cannon adjusted the position of the baby in her arms and said with a smile, ‘I’ve handled many babies, miss. I’m very experienced, really.’

  While the reverend packed the papers away in his case, Miss Elsie set a ledger on the table, an old-looking thing with a brown binding and a loosening spine. She opened it up and wrote in it, and then asked the vicar and Lily to add their signatures. And it was done. The reverend picked up the straw basket holding the baby’s belongings and turned an enquiring eye to his companion. ‘Miss Cannon?’

  Miss Cannon said at once, ‘Yes, we’re ready to go, Reverend.’

  The man and the woman turned to Lily. ‘Thank you, Miss Clair,’ the reverend said, ‘and don’t worry about the baby – he’ll have a good life – and he’ll be well provided for.’

  Then they turned, heading for the door.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The warm days lengthened into high summer, and the first scarlet poppies were seen in the rising corn. At Rowanleigh, Miss Elsie spent hours, day after day, working with Lily at her studies, instructing her in everything she thought might be required in her future work as a governess. In what spare time she had, she turned to her painting, working with her watercolours and brushes. On a few occasions, when the weather was exceptionally fine, she would take her small easel out into the nearby fields. Lily, left alone, tried to concentrate on the projects that Miss Elsie set for her. While the baby had been there, so demanding of her time, she had had no opportunity for such work, nor, indeed, any inclination for it. Now, though, her time was free, and she must make use of it.

  It was not easy. Everything had changed. Just a short time ago her child had been there in the house, his very presence demanding her attention, her constant thought, so that she had never been without awareness of his being, his nearness.

  And now he was gone. For two days after his departure the cradle had remained in her bedroom, empty and haunting, but then Mr Shad had come and taken it away. Lily had stood and watched as he had carried it through the door, and she had wanted to cry out, to stop him, but she had made no sound. Any protest was useless: her son was gone, and the cradle would remain empty.

  She found herself weeping, the tears coming upon her at the most unexpected times, when she would be totally unprepared. She would see his little body, his face. She could see him in all his detail; his soft hair, his tiny, perfect hands, every feature was there. Sometimes when the pictures came, she would stand stock still and catch at her breath.

  Miss Elsie was well aware of it. Emerging from her studio to join Lily for dinner in the dining room, she saw the shadows behind her eyes.

  ‘It will pass, Lily,’ she said. ‘Believe me, it will.’

  Lily had written and told her father and stepmother of the baby’s departure. However, she said, she would be staying on at Rowanleigh, where Miss Balfour was preparing her for a position as a governess. Her father had responded saying that she was fortunate to have been given such a chance, but that he could no longer afford the allowance that had previously been sent to Miss Balfour. Lily wrote back to say it would not be necessary, that she would be earning her keep while she was there, but received no reply.

  So, the sewing work came again from the Corster draper, and Lily divided her time between the needlework and her studies. The summer days fled by and the nights drew in. She watched as the leaves turned to gold and brown, and there was no further word from her father in answer to her letters. She kept her mind occupied with her work, and always with feelings of gratitude to her benefactress. Any expressions of such gratitude, though, were quickly dismissed. ‘You cared for me when I needed it, and when there was no one else,’ Miss Elsie said one day when Lily brought up the subject. ‘There’s nothing more to say.’

  Working on the various projects set for her, Lily continued to make good progress, aware herself of the strides she was making as her learning increased by the day. She was glad too, for anything that distracted her from her preoccupations concerning the child, Joel, and Tom.

  She had learnt nothing of Tom since the third of May when she had visited him at Wentworth gaol, so when she saw his familiar handwriting on the envelope after the postman’s call one morning in N
ovember, her heart gave a surge of joy. With eager fingers she took out the single page letter. He had written:

  Fellowes Farm

  Halls Haven, Nr Corster

  3rd November 1867

  Dear Lil,

  I know you will have wondered about me, but you have had your own problems to deal with. A few things have happened, but I’m glad to say that life is a bit better now, which is why I’m writing. You’ll be glad to know I’ve got a job, and I’m working and living at Fellowes Farm, so not wandering the streets and getting into trouble. I’ve wrote to Mother and Father twice but got no reply, and so much time has gone by now that I don’t expect to hear.

  I wonder about you, Lil, and I think about how you are. And your baby too. I don’t even know if you’re still staying at Sherrell, or when or if you’ll get this letter.

  Do you think you could come and see me? I don’t get much time off, and I haven’t got much money for fares, but I can get to the Woolpack Inn here in Halls Haven next Saturday, the ninth, if you can manage it. I know you won’t want to sit in any of the bars, but they got a little room at the back where the old ladies sits and drinks their coffee and tea, and we can go there. I can get away for an hour or so, say from three o’clock, if that’s all right.

  Your loving brother

  Tom

  As soon as Lily had finished reading the letter she sat down to pen a reply. She would be there on Saturday, she wrote to him, and would meet him soon after three in the tea room of the Woolpack Inn.

  Mr Shad drove her to the railway station on Saturday, for which she was very grateful, for the way was treacherous underfoot. It had rained during the night and the road was muddy and in parts thickly carpeted with fallen leaves. At the station she caught a train for Corster, and on arrival there hired a fly to take her the rest of the way to Halls Haven, and the Woolpack Inn.

  It came on to rain as the carriage reached the inn, and she hurried inside. Enquiring of the landlord, she was directed to a room at the end of a short passage. On entering, she found its only patrons were an elderly couple sitting at one of the tables. There was no sign of Tom. The old clock over the mantelpiece showed the time at two-fifty-five.