Chapter Ninety-Six: Buried Grief

  
It was October 1st, 1858. The dawn of a new life awaited me this day, surely. I had suffered long enough.

It had been a decade since I had last stepped foot off of a train onto the cobbled streets of Edinburgh and yet the place still smelled and looked the same: damp, gloomy, mysterious, and medieval. 

The wheels of the carriage jolted as they hit each pothole along the way. I could feel each one in my bones.  

There were untold secrets, magic lurking in every wynd, every alleyway…

“Here ye go, lassie. The New Calton Cemetery…” The driver paused as he handed me out of the carriage. The dim light of the moments just before sunrise made the concern on his face barely discernible. I handed him a few extra coins. “It is still dark and the ground is drookit. Ain’t ye feart?” 

The gate appeared closed but I could see the light, low fog beyond mingling with the dark stones. The graveyard stood on a hill overlooking the city. The watch tower lay just beyond the entrance.

“I will be fine, sir. I am visiting my husband’s grave, I know my way.” Lying had become second nature to me now. I smiled at him.

“Shall I wait fer ye?” 

“Yes, please.” 

I walked to the gate, pushing gently against the cold metal. I could feel the chill of the ironwork through my gloves. It gave way easily, opening with a slight groan of displeasure. I slipped inside and pulled it closed behind me.

I walked quickly. 

There was not much time.

The stones grew older as I went, skeletons, angels of death, skulls…

Northwest corner….

Soon I could see the dark figure of a woman, also in full mourning dress. Black ghosts in the mist. She lifted her veil as I approached.

“Mrs. Brierly,” I murmured, warily. I was still unsure if I could trust her.

She nodded to me, coldly, a half smile playing upon her lips. The arched stone rose up behind her. It was newer than the other stones around us, just large enough for someone to walk through.

“You are ready?” she asked.

“Yes.” I took a deep breath and drew myself up taller.

She pulled a slip of paper and a small, pointed knife with a gilt handle out of the reticule at her wrist. “Here is the address.” 

I glanced at it, then tucked it into my sleeve.

1203 Lauriston Street

“Come here.” She commanded. I stepped closer until I was standing next to the arch itself. “Let me have your right hand.”

I held out my hand to her. She pulled off the glove.

“This will hurt.”

She pricked my ring finger. I winced, resisting the urge to pull away. A drop of dark red blood rose up. Still holding firmly to my wrist, she wiped the blood across a name carved into the stone. 

The breath caught in my chest. 

It was her name. 

Died, October 1st, 1858 aged thirty-one years.

Before I could ask, she released my hand. She pulled the glove off of her own hand and removed her wedding band, handing it to me. She pricked her own finger, wiping it also across the stone letters, murmuring a few unintelligible words. 

She pulled a gun from her belt and laid it on the ground. “That is in case this does not work.” 

“Why?” I was confused.

Her gaze was distant, far away. “My daughters died in the typhus outbreak seven months ago. Watching your children die one after the other, burning with fever and out of their minds, knowing there is nothing you can do to save them….” Her voice trailed off. She looked at me again, suddenly, fixing me with her determined eyes. “There is nothing left for me here. I would rather die than continue in this hell.”

I felt pity for her.

A few bright rays of sunshine were piercing through the gray of the morning, falling into the archway itself.

“I am running away. Far away,” she said, smiling.

She pulled off the mourning veil and slipped out of the black dress. Beneath she wore clothing that curiously resembled a man’s work clothes. Brown pants. A homespun shirt that buttoned down the front. She pulled her hair out of the braids and mussed the curls. Using the knife, she cut her hair short, jagged, letting the discarded locks fall into a haphazard pile on the ground. A hat then covered the mess. She wore work boots on her feet, thick and crude and had fashioned a pouch around her neck. It appeared heavy and I could hear coins rattling against each other inside.

And then?

She stepped into the archway without even speaking another word and was gone. 

Gone? 

I circled the stone. Indeed. She had disappeared into thin air.

How?

I touched her blood stained name and a force knocked me backwards to the ground. For a few moments it felt as though I could not breathe. 

Slowly the air returned to my lungs and I stood up, looking around. Not a soul was present. At least not of the living kind.

I picked up the gun from the ground. It felt heavy in my hand. I debated taking it but instead put it back down. 

I would not be needing it. 

I looked closely at the ring in my hand and then slipped it on over my still throbbing finger. It should have been mine in the first place. I replaced the glove.

Dressed in mourning with the long veil, I would be able to slip into the house undetected, even in the bright light of full morning.

My heart sang as I walked back to the waiting carriage. 

Chapter Ninety-Four: Running Away

  
We drove hard through the night, never stopping. 

My heart pounded all the while as I cradled my little sleeping Anne. I held her injured hand, the stiff, frozen fingers curled tightly around mine as if they were made of stone.

I did not have much time with her and each second that ticked by softened my resolve. 

How could I do this?

“Whoa!”

The carriage rumbled to a stop. I could hear the crunch of boots as he hopped down and strode around to the side. His black hat shadowed along the fogged window glass was the only visible part of him until he opened the door and stepped inside, rocking the carriage as it shifted with his weight.

A chill entered with him.

The sun was creeping up over the horizon. A train whistle caused Anne to startle and wake. She smiled up at me. I made a face at her and she giggled back before snuggling up against my chest.

“We have arrived.” He stared at me grimly. “Are you ready?”

“No.”

He nodded solemnly. “Remember it is the only way to keep her. You wanted me to remind you of this when the time came…”

“So I did.”

“They will be looking for a woman with a child, a baby girl…”

“Yes.”

“They will not be looking for me…”

I had not told him the whole truth, though. I was leaving from here to go to Edinburgh to the arms of another man, the man who haunted me even still after all of these years and miles. Why was I drawn to him? What made him special? Had we known each other somehow in another life?

The Reverend held out his arms in order to take Anne.

“She will be well cared for until we can meet again.” 

“I know.”

Leaning over to him, I gave him a peck on a scarred cheek. He reached over and pulled me in closer, kissing me full on the mouth, deeply. My stomach turned. 

His breath… 

I pulled away quickly and smiled at him, whispering, “I love you.” I must maintain the illusion. I still needed him.

He smiled back, his eyes full of hope.

I had not fully planned the lies I would tell to get her back while severing my ties with the Reverend but I knew he was the only person I could trust right now with her well being. I would think of something when the time came.

Resisting the urge to tell him yet again how to properly care for her, I gave her one last kiss on the velvety cheek and whispered softly into her ear of my love for her, how I would see her again soon…

His arms opened again, ready to receive Anne. I handed my daughter to him reluctantly and stepped out of the carriage with my small valise in hand.

I could hear her muffled screams and sobs behind me as I moved away. They pierced my heart. I knew I left some part of my humanity behind that day as I kept walking to the train station, leaving my daughter behind.

Somehow I knew it would all be worth it. It must.

Chapter Ninety-Three: Moonlight

  
I grasped the rusted latch and pushed gently. The door did not give. I pushed harder but it still did not budge. Finally, I drove my shoulder into the door and shoved hard, wincing as the warped wood scraped across the rough hewn floor. 

Oh, God!

I froze, heart pounding. Standing still in the dark, I did not dare to even breath. I listened carefully for any movement from inside.

No stirring, only the faint sound of snoring, punctuated now and then by a snort.

My courage returned. 

I must be fast. In and out.

The door was cracked open just enough now to allow me to slip inside and so I did.

Red coals burned in the fire grate, illuminating a shadowy path across the room. Mr. Greer’s thinning hair was visible combed over a balding head as it peeked up over the back of his worn chair. He was the source of the snoring. There was no sign of his wife.

I had practiced walking soundlessly in my shoes for hours. Step. Feel for loose floorboards. Step. Feel again. I made my way carefully across the room behind him.

There were two doors off of this room. I picked the one on the right, the one Anne had been carried off through when I had visited before.

There were six infants in boxes lining the floor and there were four more toddlers sleeping fitfully on mats. 

Now it was clear what was not said before. This was a baby farm. The bare room smelled sour, of vomit and feces. I shuddered.

Quickly, I located Anne in one of the boxes and picked her up, threadbare blankets and all. She felt lighter, even after all this time. She opened her eyes for a moment when she saw me, smiled faintly, then drifted back to sleep. Another child whimpered in the corner, stirring. I slipped out of the room, making my way quickly out of the door. 

As I left, pulling the door shut, I could hear a wailing cry start up. I turned and ran as hard as I could across the yard.

Maybe she would not be missed?

I knew that was impossible. I ran harder, through the gate. My fleeing steps jolted Anne awake but she kept silent. I could see in the moonlight that her eyes were sunken and glazed over. She was listless and malnourished. No wonder she was so quiet. 

Feed them as little food as possible, pocket the money you save…

Those other children were starving, too. A sob caught in my chest. 

You cannot save them all.

I knew there was a carriage waiting for me at the end of the lane. The night was chill but sweat still stung my eyes as I ran toward the soft sound of nickering horses. Their black outline took shape as the moon moved out from behind a cloud again. A dark, shadowy form rose up as I neared, opening the door, strong hands helped me inside. 

I held Anne close against my chest as the carriage lurched forward. 

Safe.

For now.

Chapter Eighty-Six: Out

 

My eyelids felt weighted with lead, heavy. I willed them to open but they would not. I decided to focus on my other senses. 

There was an odor. That smell. I knew it from somewhere…

From where?

The Crimea! I was back in the Crimea.

Footsteps faded away to the left, echoing off of hard, antiseptic surfaces. 

I tried again on the eyelids, this time they opened a bit, revealing a long crack in the stained plaster overhead. It was a rusty red, like blood. My heart shot out of my chest, racing into my throat. This was not the Crimea.

Panic dragged me awake and I bolted upright.

Where was I?

Pain slammed through me, suddenly, and I cried out, falling back onto the bed.

Pain? From where?

I moved a hand down to my abdomen and pelvis. There was a large bandage there.

Oh, God! What did they do?

The walls of the long room were an odd greenish gray. I could not tell if that was because of the fading light filtering through the dirty windows or from some terrifying paint job. I looked around. There were other beds, other women.

A hospital ward.

“Psst!”

The woman to my right stared unseeingly at the ceiling, unresponsive. She was almost translucent. Her gray hair was thin and carefully arranged about her head, combed out over the pillow.

Was she dead?

I wanted to touch her waxen skin but that was impossible from where I lay.

“Hello?” I ventured, a bit louder. No movement. Not even a blink. I gave up on her and turned to my other side.

“Pssst!”

The woman to my right had bright orange hair. She stirred, looking over at me, but her eyes were glassy and vacant. 

This was not going well. 

A moan escaped from somewhere. It echoed off of the bare walls and floor. I went back to examining the crack in the plaster overhead. Surely someone would be through soon?

Anne! Where was she?!?!!?

I swung one leg and then the other over the side of the bed, doing my best to ignore the pain that seared through my pelvis. Standing, my legs felt unsteady. I took a tentative step forward only to have the knees buckle and I tumbled to the floor. 

Think!

Try as I might, I could not pull myself back up. I felt warmth gushing from between my legs as redness soaked through my white shift and pooled around me on the cold floor. Short shallow breaths were all that I could manage. Colorful bursts of light flashed into my line of sight then closed off into a lengthening tunnel of dark gray.

Get up, damn it!

Thoughts grew fuzzy then faded away. 

Blackness overtook me again.

Chapter Eighty-Four: Shadowed

Make love to me first with words.

He had done that, and then some. I had stacks of his letters in my dresser drawer, written since I had asked him to give me words. I would take them out and reread them each night by lamplight. 

Sometimes certain phrases or even the simple curve of a letter would send my fingertips tingling. 

I looked down at the hand holding mine, the fingers that had written those powerful words of apology and devotion. There was a charge there that raced from his hand to my fingerstips to my lower spine. I had almost forgotten how intoxicating that sensation was.

He leaned forward tentatively. 

I closed my eyes in anticipation, awaiting the feel of his rough beard against my face. I could smell his soap.

Just as his lips touched mine for the first time, there was a cry from Anne in the other room. Not her sleepy whimpering wake up cry. It was a full on, angry sob as if she knew that I was betraying her father’s memory at that very instant. He kissed in earnest until it was clear that she would not settle down.

He moved away, amusement playing on his lips. A half smile hung suspended there.

“I will get her,” I sighed. 

“No, I will go.” He applied gentle pressure to my shoulder indicating I was to sit down and wait for his return. 

I eased myself down onto the sofa and folded my hands onto my lap to wait.

He knew nothing of changing diapers or feeding or soothing a child. It would not be long.

As expected. Anne would have nothing of it, of this man. The wailing creacendoed as she refused to calm down. 

Two minutes later he returned with a red faced, tear stained Anne who turned silent as soon as she saw me. 

He placed her on my lap, apologetically.

“It’s alright. Shhhhh,” I murmured.

I held her close. She rested her warm, damp head on my shoulder, fuzzy hair tickling my chin. A quiet hiccup, then a contented sigh as she drifted off to sleep again.

“I will go,” he whispered. He bent down and kissed my forehead, then the top of Anne’s head. “Until next week…”

I watched him grab his hat and let himself out.

Tonight I would not need his words. My lips felt raw from his earlier kiss. Love lingered there.

Chapter Seventy-Two: Severed

At first everything seemed fine. I peeked under the dressing on Anne’s arm periodically while she was sleeping and it appeared to be healing well. She smiled and played and ate, giggling at my silly faces.

After a few days, redness developed.

I tried not to worry too much. After all, I had been told that she would develop a sore. This must be it.

The following day it did not go away.

The next day the redness and swelling was worse.

The day after that she started with fever and would wail if anyone touched her.

Should I be worried? I did not want to seem like a fool.

Midday I could take it no longer. I sent a message to the doctor, telling him what was occurring. I sealed the note on stationary and sent it by way of the maid.

The message back was brief and barely legible. I squinted at it, turning in the light to make it out:

Dear Madame,
Please understand that these reactions are normal and merely a part of the process.

I could not read the signature scrawled across the bottom.

I tried to calm myself down. We were expected at his office the day after next to have the pox measured and a certificate of immunity completed. Surely we could wait.

I made and applied warm compresses, afraid to do much more than that.

Still, the next day it worsened further. Anne refused to take the breast. She was a hot coal in my arms, listless and disengaged.

I called for a carriage and carried her, whimpering, to the man’s clinic insisting that he examine the arm.

I was made to wait as several other people came and went: A laborer with a hand wound, bleeding. An old, stooped woman who walked with a cane and a limp who led a small, disheveled girl of about four. I could not tell which of the two was the patient.

Finally, he beckoned. I followed.

He was exasperated but could see that I would not be turned away. I unwrapped the blankets and pulled back the sleeve of the gown. Anne stirred slightly, eyes fluttering but not opening.

The redness was streaking, extending now almost to her shoulder.

His face blanched as he rushed to cover the swollen, bloated arm again.

“What?” I asked. Admittedly, I was somewhat relieved that I was not simply histrionic, that I was correct to believe something was not right.

“That is bad. Very bad.” He took a step back.

“Well?” I waited. “Bad, how?”

He ran a hand through his hair and shifted uncomfortably. My heart began pounding.

Had I waited too long, then?

“She is very ill. I am sorry.” He sighed. “This happened to the young boy vaccinated before her.”

“What do you mean? Which boy? He is fine now, isn’t he?” I could feel my voice rising.

He shook his head and took another step back.

“She might be saved but I doubt you want to do what it would require.” He paused. “There are some things worse than death.”

“She is going to die? You did this to her, you bastard!” I stepped toward him, speaking through my clenched teeth. “You did this to her, now fix her…” My voice caught and turned into a sob.

He winced and took a deep breath.

“We need to amputate her arm.”

At that moment I was suddenly back in the Crimea, holding down soldiers’ arms and legs feeling the vibrations from the saw as it chewed through bone, the weight of the severed limb.

I looked down at Anne’s feverish face and saw her almost grown up, lovely in a ball gown. I could hear the music start as she turned gracefully, exposing the fact that she had only one arm.

And I knew.

Chapter Sixty-Six: Our Father

“Your papa would be so proud of you, sweet one,” I whispered in her perfect little ear as she dozed on my chest.

I was so proud of her, this beautiful record of love. I ached with the desire to show her off to her father and felt profoundly sad that she would likely never know him.

Somehow, surely, he knows?

Her remaining dark hair had all fallen out and was now replaced by a soft golden halo about her head.

Her screaming spells had left as mysteriously as they had come.

“Ma’am?” The maid whispered from the doorway. When I looked up and motioned her closer, she snuck in on tiptoe, clearly not wishing to wake the baby. “Rev. Drummond is here, probably asking about the christening.” I grimaced. “Shall I send him away, miss?”

I took a moment to weigh the options. I had put this off for too long. It had been over eight weeks now, much longer than was considered acceptable. Surely there was talk for him to take it upon himself to show up uninvited.

But a name? I have no name!

Earnest, my original pick, would not do for her for obvious reasons. Yet, I could not for the life of me come up with a name that felt right.

“Fine, show him in,” I whispered back. “Probably best to take care of this now.” She grinned back at me, relieved. They had all been after me in their own ways to settle on a name, throwing out all manner of possibilities. Agnes. Diademia. Elizabeth. Sara. On and on…. I shuddered.

Not for you, sweet one.

As the maid hurried off, I stood and placed the still sleeping baby girl gently in her cradle, then straightened my dress and my hair.

The Reverend Drummond was a middle aged man in his late forties. He was a bit shorter than average with a head that was much larger than one would expect to see attached to a body of his size. If you focused only on his face, he was quite handsome but taken as a whole, the incongruous mishmash left one feeling a bit confused.

I had met him on two prior occasions, once when I had first arrived as a courtesy welcoming visit and then by chance at the local mercantile. His eyes had bored through me, as if he could see past the lies I carried as thick protective layers straight through to the fifteen year old version of me cowering frightened in the darkened corner of my soul.

I was not sure how I felt about the man.

He was ushered into the drawing room with his hat in his hand, refusing to let the made take it from him.

“Mrs. Aspern. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance again.” He bowed low over my offered hand.

“Do please sit down, Reverend.” I motioned to the chair by the fire that I had just vacated.

He sat, reclining into the seat with an air of not quite familiarity. His eyes met mine after he had crossed his legs and rested his hat upon his upward knee.

I sat down across from him, sitting properly upright on the edge of the seat. I felt wary.

He cleared his throat but did not speak.

I waited.

Silence continued.

“Would you like some tea?” I finally offered to break the quiet.

The man nodded. I rang for it.

His eyes took me in. Not in a salacious manner, but rather as if he had a question to be answered that did not require words. It was an uncomfortable gaze, one that I could not hold. I found myself staring at the fire instead.

“Well. I expect you are here about the christening?”

“Actually, no. I mean… yes…” He rushed out the ‘yes’ a bit as if he had surprised himself.

I tilted my head and raised a single eyebrow inquisitively. The fire popped liked a gunshot in the grate, giving us both a start. It served to ease the tension a bit.

“I have not settled on a name,” I said matter-of-factly.

He glanced over at her. Her tiny fists were raised about her head and a dreamy half smile played on her lips.

He looked back at me, a gentle smile on his own face.

“Anne.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Name her Anne. It means grace.”

It was simple. It was beautiful. And yet, who was this man advising me on what to name my own daughter?

“I will consider it, to be sure.”

The tea things arrived and I busied myself with the serving.

Our discussion meandered through such meaningless topics as the weather and the parish business until at last we alighted on the subject of christening again.

Eventually he excused himself, taking his hat with him, but only after I had agreed to a small, private christening the following week to be held at the parish church. His work was done.

I had one week to decide on a name.

Chapter Sixty-Five: All Through The Night

Her screams were muffled by the bits of cotton jammed into my ear canals. She bellowed out her displeasure at everything I tried to do to sooth her. I felt guilty that I had to resort to this, but I had no choice. All of those elderly women who were deaf…they must have had a child like this…

Face red and scrunched up. The screams pierced like tiny knives and inflicted real pain, physical and emotional, that bored itself into my heart.

How to love you, my baby girl?

Every evening it was like this. Screaming, crying for hours. Food, clean diapers, cuddling…nothing calmed the raging beast.

It was not at all how I dreamed motherhood would be…

The midwife was called. She made an elixir of oil of dill and sugar. I rubbed her bowels with warm olive oil at the suggestion of the cook. Caraway tea. Even rhubarb and magnesia. Nothing helped. Between the hours of 8 and 11 at night, she kept us all awake.

“Give her time,” the old women said. “Eventually it will stop.”

She fed like a greedy monkey during those times. I began to think that I should have hired a wet nurse… but no. I wanted to do this myself. She was my only connection to him. It was my duty, my privilege, my penance.

So each evening I plugged my ears with the bits of cotton and paced the floor with her, whispering and singing.

Sleep my child and peace attend thee,
All through the night
Guardian angels God will send thee,
All through the night
Soft the drowsy hours are creeping
Hill and vale in slumber sleeping,
I my loving vigil keeping
All through the night.

While the moon her watch is keeping
All through the night
While the weary world is sleeping
All through the night
O’er they spirit gently stealing
Visions of delight revealing
Breathes a pure and holy feeling
All through the night.

Love, to thee my thoughts are turning
All through the night
All for thee my heart is yearning,
All through the night.
Though sad fate our lives may sever
Parting will not last forever,
There’s a hope that leaves me never,
All through the night.

Her creamy smooth complexion was now marred with tiny red pustules. The hair, that foreign brown hair, was falling out at the crown, leaving a ragged fringe about the periphery of her scalp that gave her an appearance more like a miniaturized wizened old man than the sweet, beautiful baby girl she had once been. I kept her head covered perpetually with a tiny white bonnet to avoid seeing the hair, or rather lack of it.

My heart ached with sadness for her secret and for myself that I could not take away her pain.

But sometimes, sometimes she looked at me with understanding eyes, piercing the depth of my soul. Then she would give a light, sweet laugh and drift off to sleep. Those moments kept me a slave to her.