Heritage of Shame Read online

  ‘He were fractious after her left.’ Unity poured the milk into the bottle, securing a thick rubber teat at each end.

  ‘Her?’

  ‘Oh, I forgot to mention, Clara Mather called not an hour after you were gone, said her wanted to talk with you but it were my guess she’d got word of that babby being born and come to see for herself.’

  Her aunt had been to this house! Anne’s arms tightened convulsively about the whimpering bundle in her arms.

  ‘But her got short shrift!’ Unity sprinkled a few drops of the milk on the inside of one wrist before handing the bottle to Anne. ‘I told her, there were no welcome for her in Unity Hurley’s house.’

  ‘The baby—’ her eyes wide with anxiety Anne forced the question past lips stiff with fear ‘—did she touch him?’

  Unity’s grey streaked head swung with definite rhythm. ‘Not as I saw and I took my eyes from her no longer than it took to lift the kettle from the fire and set it on the hob.’

  No longer than it took to lift the kettle from the fire and set it on the hob! The anxiety in her eyes shivered an icy frisson along Anne’s every nerve. Ten seconds… twenty? She remembered the rapid darting movements of those hands, the speed with which they could deliver a slap or snatch from a child; those seconds could prove enough to a determined Clara Mather. But what might she have done, in what way might she have harmed, was she in some way responsible for the fractiousness Unity spoke of?

  ‘The woman were here no more than a few minutes; left with her tail atwixt her legs, you need have no worries of her coming again, for Clara Mather be smart enough to know not to try the patience of Unity Hurley.’

  No, her aunt would not come to this house again but that did not mean she would not strike at the child should the opportunity present itself. Anne watched the tiny mouth suck hungrily at the teat. It had seemed, when Unity offered a home, that heaven had offered a gift, only to snatch it away at the moment she reached for it… just as her aunt had so often done to a child years before, grabbing away the proffered sweet or treat and always with that cold viper smile Anne had not forgotten.

  Bending to the small head nestled in her arms she rested her lips against it, smelling the sweet warmth of him. It would not be fair to him, having him here where her aunt was a constant threat, nor was the worry of that a way to repay the kindness of the Hurleys.

  ‘Is it any fairer to take him on the road, lay him open to Lord knows what hazards?’ Unity snapped on hearing the same. ‘You no longer have just yourself to think of, my wench, you have a child and though it ain’t always easy his needs must be put afore your own. The child needs food and he needs warm shelter and if you won’t let it be found in Laban Hurley’s home then it needs be one for foundlings.’

  ‘No!’ Anne’s quick cry startled the baby feeding in her arms and he rejected the thick, dark coloured teat, his blue eyes opening as he cried his own fear.

  Crooning with soft hushing sounds she soothed him, the whole of her swelling with love as a tiny hand fastened onto her finger. She had not asked for this child, had to prayed heaven on her knees to take it from her body before it could be born, had worked herself ’til she dropped from fatigue on that long slow journey back to England yet still the child had clung to her womb; and now he was in her arms and she knew nothing would ever break the bond of her love for this tiny scrap of humanity.

  Watching closely Unity felt a sympathy her sharp words had hidden. It was a miracle only the Lord Himself had understanding of, the love that sprang so quickly in a mother’s heart, a tender yet soul tearing emotion which increased with every day she held her child in her arms, growing as she watched with anxious eyes while it grew to take its own path in the world.

  When they be young they makes your arms ache but when they be growed they makes your heart ache. The saying which had been her mother’s echoed softly in her mind whilst inner vision showed two young men smile and wave as they left to join the army.

  ‘You leave that child at the foundling hospital and I’ll offer a home to him. I’ll rear him as my own and God help Clara Mather if she so much as looks in his direction; so whatever you decides… go or stay… that little lad will live in Laban Hurley’s house.’

  Maybe… if she signed papers… gave Glebe Metalworks legally to her aunt then her son would no longer be any threat, and they could… The thought broke off as the infant turned away from the bottle once more, his legs drawing to his stomach and a wail of pain screwing his tiny face.

  Almost feeling his pain as her own Anne looked with worry dark eyes at the child writhing in her arms. Was this how he had been earlier, this afternoon… in pain? Guilt at having left him rose in brilliant tears hovering at the line of her lashes.

  ‘Seems he has a bit of wind.’ Unity reached for the kettle, poured a little warm water into a shallow dish then fished a cinder from the ashes of the fire and added it to the water. ‘A drop of glede water will soon bring that up. Give him here to me… we’ll soon have him right as ninepence.’

  Taking the baby she sat with him cradled in one arm then, first testing the temperature of the contents of the dish against her own lips, fed him several teaspoonfuls of the water.

  ‘There,’ she crooned, lifting him to lie across her shoulder, ‘old Unity knows how to make that nasty old pain go away.’

  How could it? Anne glanced at the dish, a film of fine grey ash covering its cooled surface, and felt her insides quicken. She had seen the results of dirty water in so many places…

  ‘There, me little man, that be better… all that wind be gone.’

  Unity’s lined face creased in a smile as the child burped noisily. One hand marking light circles across the tiny back she nursed him a little longer before laying him in the drawer.

  ‘You can push them fears from your mind.’ Straightening, she turned to Anne. ‘’Twere nothing more than a touch of wind, babbies fed on a bottle are often subject to it; it gives ’em bellyache but don’t be serious, a drop of glede water cures that more often than not.’

  If this was one of the times it did not? Anxiety still strong in her chest Anne dropped to her knees beside the drawer, taking a tiny closed fist between her fingers… what if the cause of her son’s stomach pain proved not to be that of wind? Her aunt had been to this house and Clara Mather was not a woman given to social visits… Her glance following Unity’s gathering of feeding bottle and dish she felt her anxiety close like an iron band cutting off the breath to her lungs. There could be only one reason for her father’s sister to call here: to harm the child she saw as a threat to her own lifestyle and to that of her son. Had she already done that? Had Clara Mather already struck?

  11

  The fear of that thought weighing like stone Anne rose from her knees as Unity returned with bottle, dish and spoon carefully washed, placing them on the dresser ready for further use.

  ‘There be time to do a bit o’ stitchin’ yet.’ Unity glanced at the clock, its tick loud in the quiet kitchen. Laban would not be home before nine, she thought, selecting a piece from the several articles he had brought for her to work. Like herself he used labour as a means of forgetting but, as with her, it proved no palliative, no lasting balm which eased the pain, no cure for the grief she knew gnawed deep in his heart, the sorrow which brought the stifled sobs that even now she sometimes heard in her own sleepless hours of night. Laban crying for his dead sons.

  The pain of her thoughts sharp as a surgeon’s knife she picked up a bridle carrying it together with a lamp to her chosen work spot, a table drawn close beneath the window. Seeing the sudden droop of her shoulders Anne pushed her own thoughts away, but they were not gone for ever, they were merely hidden in the pockets of her mind, waiting their chance to emerge as hurting and worrying as before. Glancing now at Unity she asked, ‘Can I help? I’m no stranger to a needle.’

  It would do no hurt to include the wench in more than the cooking and preparing of meals. Unity nodded, refusing to admit to herself this
was a ruse, a way of getting Anne Corby to see this house as more her home.

  ‘There be a saddle cloth to be stitched,’ she answered, pointing to a piece of fawn coloured cloth laid to one side, ‘it be felt cloth so the needle will pass through easy enough, t’ain’t tough like leather.’

  It was cut in the same shape as a saddle but slightly larger, and Unity placed together two matching pieces of the soft material. ‘They needs be joined with a whip stitch first then a binding strip stitched along the joint, once that be done the edges then needs be bound with a strip of yonder red cloth, Sir Corbett Foley still has a preference for the red for that were the colour of his regiment of Guards.’

  ‘He looked so different in uniform as I remember, very different from the way he looked today—’ Handing her needle and thread Unity did not look up as Anne broke off, but returned to her own stitching of a bridle.

  ‘I – I did not tell you this before because of the vow I made to Mikhail and Andrei Yusupov, a vow never to speak of that which had been entrusted to me to deliver to Sir Corbett at Bentley Grange, but now my promise has been kept and the amulet safe in his keeping I would like you to hear everything.’ Catching the older woman’s nod she spoke on softly, her fingers plying the needle skilfully as her story was told.

  ‘… then the ship foundered and one of the crew bundled me into a lifeboat. I remember looking back at people left behind because of too few boats, of others calling out from the water all around us. I don’t think I will ever forget those cries.’

  Unity kept to her stitching, holding her own silence as Anne paused then went on.

  ‘I thought to be placed aboard another boat, several put out of Istanbul bound for England that first week but none would give passage without being paid and I had no money, what had been given to me by the Yusupovs had been left behind in the tumult of being shipwrecked. I was at my wit’s end when a woman I met near the Grand Bazaar said she would help me. She called a carriage, telling the driver to take us to Üksüdar, which proved to be a very old district of the city with a warren of narrow streets and four storey, ancient looking timber houses all crowded together and backed by slopes covered with tall cypress trees. We entered one of the houses, it was so different on the inside. The floor was covered with thick, beautifully woven carpets and cushions were scattered like brilliant flowers, each one catching beams of light which danced through the carved lattice screens. It was all so peaceful and lovely. She said that first I must be allowed to wash and then perhaps some tea followed by a long rest. I was so very grateful.

  ‘It was later, in a room whose walls were inlaid with marquetry depicting beautiful gardens, and which had in the centre a large cushion strewn divan, that I heard voices coming from another room. They were just loud enough for me to hear. I suppose that conversing in English with the woman she thought that to be the only language I understood, but the years of travelling had afforded me a smattering of many others. I recognised the words “hashish”, and “cariye” then a name, Mehmet Pasha, followed by “seraglio”. I had no time to dwell on what I had heard for a young girl entered the room bringing a large brass bowl of warm scented water, rose petals floating on the surface. She returned moments later with an exquisitely embroidered robe indicating she would take my own clothes, probably to wash them; but I refused, I could not risk what I carried being found. It was a temptation to bathe the whole of my body but somehow I felt I had to remain not only clothed but alert.

  ‘Then the woman I had met earlier came back. The man who would help me was unable to come to the house tomorrow for not only was it Friday, the day of rest and worship, but also the feast day of the local saint. He sent his apologies and asked that I stay and rest until we could meet. Then she excused herself saying she had an engagement; she would not return until the next day but in the meantime I was to make myself comfortable.

  ‘I had been alone for some while when the younger woman brought a tray of mint tea. Placing it on an ornately carved table she touched a finger to her lips then closed the door. My frown must have told her I could not understand her babbled whispers so she executed a series of slow movements. Pointing to the steaming silver pot she shook her head vehemently, in what obviously seemed a warning, then supplemented it by pretending to fall asleep, lifting her eyelids with her fingers and letting them close, her head lolling on her chest. Then, whispering one word, “serare”, she left.’

  ‘So what were all that about?’ Unity asked, her eyes not leaving her stitching.

  ‘I wondered that myself.’ Anne paused in her own sewing, her glance fixed on a room visible only in her mind. ‘The girl’s eyes had been so full of – of pity. She had tried to tell me something which was for my own good, then the words I had heard from beyond the thin wooden walls returned and I realised what she had tried to indicate was that I was in danger; hashish was a drug and it must be in the tea, Pasha was the title given to a high official, seraglio meant harem and cariye a concubine. The whole thing fitted together like a jigsaw puzzle. I was a stranger to Istanbul, I had no family and therefore no one to wonder what had happened to me. The woman had taken me to that house not as an act of charity, not to help me get to England, but to pass me to some man as an addition to his harem.’

  ‘And the other word… the one the young woman whispered… what were the meaning of that?’

  ‘I could not fathom that… not until I followed each of her actions precisely.’ Anne’s eyes moved, following some phantom. ‘She was already at the door, she looked at me with that intense look and pointed at the handle then shook her head with two or three jerky movements before whispering “serare”. The word had to mean lock, and the shake of her head meant no… the two together must surely be she would not lock the door. I waited for what seemed an eternity then opened the lattice screen covering the window. The room was several feet from the level of an empty street, but injury was better than what was in store if I stayed in that house and it could be someone other than the girl who came to my room, so I jumped. The breath was knocked out of me but my limbs were sound and knowing I could not risk making my way through the streets I ran up the slopes and into the cypress woods. I had no idea of which way to go but I had to get to the dock, try to get passage home to England. I waited until almost sunset before venturing to the edge of the tree line.

  ‘Stretched out along the shoreline the city looked like the enchanted land of fairytales. Bathed in the lowering sun numerous cupolas gleamed like great golden balls resting on white marble, the minarets rising beside the domed mosques were graceful and slender as gold needles and the chant of the muezzins calling the people to prayer gave the whole a feeling of peace, a sense that nothing so evil as abduction could ever take place there; but I knew the fear inside me was not groundless, that what the young girl had tried to warn me of was only too real, and to avoid it I had to get away before my escape was discovered. I could not tell what lay the other side of the forest but that was the only way open to me. It was so dark among the trees, I – I kept remembering the wolves attacking the horse… snatching my mother…’

  It took all Unity’s strength of will to prevent herself going to the girl, telling her there were no need to say more; for there was every need, if the nightmare was ever to fade it needed bringing out into the open. Closing her lips against words still fighting to be said she stitched on, leaving space for the runner loop needed where the rein crossed the cheek of the horse.

  ‘Then I heard a call.’ No more than a whisper now, Anne’s account of what had happened so many months before went on. ‘It was just a sound on the breeze, almost a rustling of the leaves but I knew it was a call, the sound of one human to another. My escape must have been discovered. I panicked then, running blindly, stumbling against the trunks of trees, I felt branches clawing at my face and then I was being thrown to the ground.’

  Dear God, no! Unity’s swift horror checked the rhythm of her needle. Not raped twice… surely heaven would not allow a woman to s
uffer that!

  ‘It was a man.’ Anne continued with her own stitching of the saddle cloth. ‘I could only just make out the shape of him in the darkness, he pulled me to my feet then passed me to his companion, a girl who signalled me to stay quiet. They obviously knew the woods well for they moved quickly, the girl holding my hand, urging me to keep up with them. They turned out to be members of a band of gypsies and next morning when they broke camp they took me with them. In the days that followed I was given a share of their food and at night the men constructed a bender tent, a half circle of rods, hazel or willow, covered with a canvas and a blanket to cover me. Sometimes I had a mattress of bracken but most often it was bare earth; I could not be taken into a wagon for I was a gaujo… a non gypsy. Their words were not all strange to me, it seems they speak a universal language for my parents and I had often heard it among the different groups we met. From the start I was kept an outsider; the juvals, the women, turned their heads from me and the chavvies did not treat me as other children had but ran from me whenever I tried to speak to them. Often from the edge of the campfire I would catch the words “kalo”, and “mullo”, they meant black ghost, and people would cross themselves as they looked at me, while even the jukels, the dogs, slunk away when I went near. People were afraid… but of what? They did not say but when their path led in a different direction and I was given into the care of another lovari, as gypsy groups term themselves, they would talk quietly and I would again be treated as before, fairly yet always with that same sense of fear. With the passing weeks my pregnancy became pronounced and firewood began to be left near my tent but still no one entered it. I was fearful of the child being born before we got to England, of there being no woman willing to help. Then, when I joined yet another group travelling through France an old woman came one night to sit at my fire. She stared at me for a long time, her eyes sharp and brittle as coals.