Page 38 of The Affairs of Ashmore Castle

‘It was diphtheria. There was an outbreak in the village. Lot of kids got it. There was nothing anyone could have done. He died, Deena. He’s dead. I’m sorry.’

‘No,’ said Mrs Oxlea again. But the truth was in her eyes, the truth that she had always known she would never see him again. Yet the heart lives on hope, its constant food and strongest drink. Rose understood, and her pity hurt her. You consume that hope, no matter how much you know it’s false, no matter how much more it will make things hurt in the long run. Because without it, what is there?

‘When?’ Mrs Oxlea asked, in a dead voice.

‘A week ago.’

‘A week?’ It was a cry of pain.

‘Miss Eddowes only heard yesterday. She thought about sending you a note straight away, but she thought it was better told than written. She sends you her – her deepest condolences.’ Rose stumbled slightly on the remembered words.

There was a long silence. Mrs Oxlea’s head was down, so Rose couldn’t see her face. Her shoulders were hunched, her hands, clasped in her lap, twisted together.

‘I’m sorry, Dee,’ Rose said again. ‘I know you must be upset. But it’s over now. You can make a new start for yourself. Maybe you should get away from this place—’

‘I got a photo, did you know that?’ Mrs Oxlea said, as if Rose hadn’t spoken. ‘Miss Eddowes, she always told the people that took the babies, one photo when it’s five. She made it a rule. One photo, then that’s it, you won’t get bothered any more.’ She picked up the book in which she had been writing, and drew out from inside the cover the photograph, which she offered to Rose.

A small boy, seated in a very large photographer’s chair, velvet-upholstered like a throne, with potted palms behind him and a glimpse of a backcloth of parkland and trees. A small boy in nankeen knickers, short jacket and long stockings, his small boots dangling above the floor. His solemn face stared expressionlessly at the camera – he had been told he mustn’t move. The hair was straight and very dark, the round, fixed eyes seemed light – blue, probably. He did look – well, Rose was looking for the likeness – but he did look a bit like his late lordship. Poor little chap! Well, it was all over now. Lives blighted and a life lost, and the only one who hadn’t paid was the one to blame for it all.

Rose sighed and handed back the photograph. ‘Burn it, that’s my advice to you. No sense in brooding over the past any more. Get rid of it, and start afresh.’

‘You don’t understand,’ Mrs Oxlea said in a low, desperate voice.

‘No, I don’t,’ Rose said. ‘You had rotten luck, I don’t deny it, but if it was me, I wouldn’t’ve let it rule my whole life. I’d’ve made an effort. And I wouldn’t have hid inside a bottle, that’s for sure.’

‘I loved him,’ Mrs Oxlea said. It wasn’t the child she was referring to.

‘Well, he didn’t love you,’ Rose said briskly. ‘And now it’s finally over.’

‘It’ll never be over for me,’ Mrs Oxlea said. ‘Go away, please, Rose.’ She said it not angrily, which Rose could have lived with, but with a complete lack of emphasis, which worried her.

She got up. ‘I’ve things to do,’ she said. ‘And shouldn’t you be in the kitchen by now? Time’s getting on. Pull yourself together, Deena – and if you have got a bottle under the mattress, don’t even think about getting it out now. No need to make bad worse.’

Mrs Oxlea gave her no response at all, and Rose left her, sitting on her bed, staring at the photograph.

Her ladyship, she learned, had gone riding. She had insisted on having her horse brought up from grass the day before, and Giddins, the head man, with whom alone she dealt, had naturally not made any objections, as Josh had to Alice. What her ladyship wanted, her ladyship had.

For riding, the dowager Lady Stainton dressed anonymously in a plain black habit and a small tricorn with a veil, which from a distance nicely disguised her. But, Rose thought, watching her approach at a canter up the hill, with Giddins following a length behind her, everybody in the area must know Queen Bee. Though she was bay, and bays were pretty common, she had that distinctive white ring round her coronet. And, besides, she was a fine-paced beauty, much coveted by local lady riders. Rose, however, just recognised her, as one recognises any person one knows well.

When she was sure her ladyship had seen her, Rose stepped back into the edge of the trees, and Lady Stainton pulled down to a walk, rode a little past, and halted. There was a brief exchange with Giddins, then he rode on, and her ladyship came back to where Rose was standing. Bee blew out percussively through her nostrils, arched her neck and pawed at the ground a moment in frustration at being stopped. Her ladyship’s gloved hand checked her easily. The voice came from behind the veil with icy brevity.

‘What do you want?’

Rose took a step closer. She had never ridden herself, but she wasn’t afraid of horses. Bee eyed her, then decided she was good for an itchy nose, and tried to rub her muzzle up and down Rose’s shoulder. Rose pushed her away with one hand. ‘There’s news. From Miss Eddowes,’ she said to the veil.

Maud drew a breath of annoyance at the very sound of that name, but a listening silence ensued as she contemplated what news the woman would send to her. It could only be one thing – couldn’t it?

‘What news?’ she asked at length.

‘The child’s dead,’ Rose said. There was no response from behind the veil. ‘Diphtheria,’ she added, for the avoidance of doubt.

She thought Lady Stainton whispered, ‘Thank God,’ but the wind was stirring the trees and it was hard to tell. She waited.

‘Very well,’ was all her ladyship said at length. ‘You may go.’

Rose stirred. ‘You think it’s all over,’ she said, ‘but what do you think will happen now? You had a hold over Mrs Oxlea, but now she’s got nothing to lose.’

The veiled head came round sharply. ‘You told her?’