Edward has promised (or threatened?) to take Francis shooting soon, and so Francis needs to be ready to ‘show some backbone’. I’ve told Francis that shooting is one of those things he needs to learn, but that when he is grown up, he need never touch another gun. He says it hurts to think of the animals in pain and if he were the one to hurt them, he would hate himself forever. He is so sensitive. I used my best spit-spot voice and talked about the need to appease his father, and he looked at me as if I were a traitor. Sometimes I worry I cannot bear so many more years here, waiting until Francis grows up. I feel terrible contemplating leaving him, because I have never felt such love. And now, with the baby coming, how will things change? Will I love this baby too? Cricket is beside herself. I am worried about her. She is an innocent, confused and vulnerable, and Edward treats her like a child. He bullies her into agreeing with him and doing exactly as he wishes. I am far too entrenched in this household; and now Cricket relies on me.
I knew I couldn’t trust Edward, knew something was coming. I let good manners override my intuition when it happened. Cricket is becoming increasingly erratic too. Poor girl, she is always on edge. I spend a great deal of time trying to calm all her worries.
I hear my grandmother’s words clearly: ‘Fate will knock, little one. Listen for it.’ So, I must trust that fate has brought us together—Cricket, me, Edward—and the reason will become clear in time. Perhaps a solution will present itself.
And when I think about my earlier life—in the village, in the bookshop, meeting Adeline—I can see it was all for a purpose and this thought calms me.
And yet, I cannot shake the feeling that something else dreadful is still coming. The man is unhinged. Some days I just wish to be back in the bookshop, a decade ago. I wish I had gotten through my teenage years without the pregnancy that changed everything.
My coffee arrives and I close the diary, stunned and a little sick. Phyllida was pregnant when she was a teenager? This new information is head spinning.
I sip coffee and read more entries, shorter and less informative, about the weather, the food, the way Francis takes to his lessons and about her fears for the coming months, though what those fears are, I’m not sure.
But my mind is on that one, startling revelation. Did she have a baby when she was a teenager? And if so, what on earth happened to it?
44
DOROTHEA
1965, CAMBRIDGESHIRE, ENGLAND
Dorothea straightened the cushion on her armchair and tidied her bookshelf. The cake sat on a floral plate, and she had picked a posy from Mr Thistlethwaite’s garden to decorate the table. She had slept poorly. The invitation to Adeline Fitzhenry had been spontaneous, but as she lay awake after midnight in her narrow bed, a plan had emerged. It was probably futile; a stupid, embarrassing effort to solve two problems in one audacious move, but it was all she had.
This week the nausea had subsided and she had begun to feel human again. The fear had been subsiding too. She had lived with her decision for six weeks now, and it felt as if there was no going back. Not that anyone would be able to discern her condition yet. But the baby was there, and it would not be long before it made its presence known to the world.
What will be will be, she had reminded herself every day since she had tipped out that mug of pennyroyal tea.
She supposed she’d gone looking for a reason not to drink the tea. Her herbal knowledge had been gleaned solely from her grandmother, but she was a modern woman with troves of research at her fingertips, here in the shop and at the university library. She had long owned a copy ofCulpeper’s Complete Herbal—written centuries ago and providing plenty of interesting information on herbs as medicine. But more recent studies showed pennyroyal to be toxic for the liver. What if the dose not only killed the child growing inside her, but damaged her own health too? That information had given her an excuse to listen to her conscience.
Not that she judged others who might choose to drink the tea; each to their own. But there was a small, irritating voice inside her, begging to be heard.Don’t harm the belly pea. It’s a child, Thea. Let it live!Perhaps it was the voice of James, floating across the waves from America. Anyway, here she was, her belly still flat, but soon enough her customers would notice. She had no idea what she would do then. She’d handed the entire thing over to fate. Then Adeline had walked in and confided her problem.
There was a hesitant tapping on the door of her flat, and Dorothea hurried to open it. ‘Come in.’
Adeline kissed her cheek and stepped inside. The paint on the walls of her flat was chipped and the kitchenette was old-fashioned, but Dorothea had worked hard to make it cosy. She had hunted through second-hand shops, finding small, colourful knick-knacks to add to the warmth already provided by her display of books. She’d bought a rag rug froma flea market; upturned crates covered in pretty fabric served as side tables.
‘It’s lovely,’ said Adeline, blinking her big eyes.
‘It’s perfect and I do love living so close to work.’ Dorothea put the kettle on the hob and turned on the gas. She poured milk into the jug. ‘Sit down, please.’
‘Are you working today?’
‘No, I have a lecture this afternoon and Tuesdays are a quiet day, so Mr Thistlethwaite is happy to have the shop to himself.’
Adeline’s smile faltered as Dorothea brought the cake to the table.
‘Are you all right?’ Dorothea asked.
‘It’s strange,’ said Adeline. ‘All these years I have never spoken about wanting a baby to anyone except a doctor, two years ago. A dreadful man on Harley Street. He did some tests but they found nothing wrong, so he told me I was too anxious, and to just relax and it would happen eventually. I’m due to go back.’ She gave Dorothea a wry smile. ‘But after our conversation yesterday, it’s as if Iwantto talk about it. I couldn’t wait to come here. Edward refuses to discuss things. He’s so obstinate.’ Adeline withdrew a cigarette from a silver case and lit it, inhaling deeply and blowing smoke over her shoulder.
Dorothea poured the boiling water into the teapot and brought it to the table. ‘It must be frustrating.’
‘It is. I’ve had dreadful misfortune with pregnancies,’ said Adeline, inhaling on her cigarette. ‘I’ve lost three. It’s hideous but you just get on with it, don’t you? You don’t want to complain.’
‘You poor thing.’
‘I can almost not bear to go through it again. It’s the hope, then the fear, all mixed together.’ Adeline studied the water-colour on the wall depicting a field of wildflowers. ‘It rather takes a toll.’
Dorothea gave her a rueful smile. She crossed to the cupboard to retrieve the sugar pot then stood, staring at Adeline’s fine hands, the elegant way she dangled the cigarette from her fingers. Without thinking, Dorothea’s hand slipped to her stomach.
