The Chilbury Ladies' Choir(53)

I went to the door and looked back, feeling such warmth and concern from her. “I’ll let you know how it goes.”

“You know I’ll always worry about you, Venetia,” she said, and I suddenly felt like crying. So I quickly turned and paced determinedly across the green, the ducks waddling fast to avoid my feet. I took a deep breath of the warm summer air, and prayed I’d come out of this alive.

I’ll write as soon as I can and tell you how it all goes, fingers crossed.

Venetia





Monday, 29th July, 1940

What an odd thought occurred to me today. I’m still trying to think it all through. The morning was quite usual, as I popped over to the surgery to help deal with everyone’s aches and pains. Since the war started, people come to see me when they’re out of sorts, even if there isn’t much wrong with them. Mrs. Turner, whose husband was killed in one of the air raids on Dover, has developed an ongoing cough with no apparent cause. She comes in most days to see me. I try to offer kind words, but she edges back as if unable to bear it, her face gray like a ghost’s. All we can do is make more tea and give her some aspirin. Mrs. Quail got her to join the choir, and although she remained silent for a full half hour, she finally managed a few lines of “Praise My Soul.” It was an oddly moving moment for all of us, as if we were trying to bring a crushed bird back to life with nothing but song.

After luncheon I had to pop over to Hattie’s, where she tried to convince me that little Rose is the image of Victor, and I couldn’t help thinking it odd that she doesn’t look like either of them. In fact, baby Lawrence with his sprouts of dark hair looks more like Hattie, and then I remembered noticing at the christening that Rose had the same coloring as her godmother, Venetia. And that started me thinking about it all: the nasty medicine, the fact that both births happened on the same afternoon—the afternoon that I was in Litchfield. Then they both had the same breathing problem, both requiring resuscitation at Miss Paltry’s house.

And when I’d met Miss Paltry in the square that day, I’d imagined—ridiculously, I thought at the time!—that there was a noise coming from her bag. Could it have been a child? Could she have swapped the babies? I shuddered at the horror of the idea. I think I must have looked a little dazed as Hattie touched my elbow and said, “Are you all right, Mrs. Tilling?”

I pulled myself together sharply. I can’t have anyone suspecting anything until I have more time to think it all through. Until I have proof.

“It’s fine, dear,” I said, smiling. “I just remembered I need to hurry a little today because I need to check on Mrs. Winthrop’s little one, too.” I pondered a moment, then asked, “Do you remember when poor Rose had that breathing problem after she was born?”

“How could I forget it? It was the worst moment of my life.”

“Did you see little Rose at all before Miss Paltry took her away?”

Her eyes looked doubtful, questioning my question, and I had to quickly put her at ease.

“I mean, you should have at least been able to hold her before she was whisked away from you?”

Hattie’s thin face crumpled into tears. “No, I hardly saw her pretty little face before she was rushed out.” She looked down at the baby in her arms, and her shoulders relaxed. “She was gone a whole five minutes. I was beside myself. I pulled myself out of bed and hauled myself down to the front door, and Miss Paltry was back, with my precious little baby.”

She gave Rose a little kiss, their faces together and opposite, hers slim and delicate, the baby’s heart-shaped and blond, and I suddenly questioned the value of revealing any ideas I had. After all, wasn’t Mrs. Winthrop delighted with her boy, too? Didn’t they need a boy to keep the inheritance?

That’s when it dawned on me. Perhaps this wasn’t simply the whim of an unscrupulous midwife. Perhaps there was more to it than met the eye.

I took my leave and made haste to Chilbury Manor, where Mrs. Winthrop was at home. We sat in the drawing room, and she asked Elsie to bring some tea, and it felt almost as if the war had never happened. She looked tired and harassed, which must mean the Brigadier’s being unbearable again.

“I’m doing some studies on babies born with breathing problems, so I wondered if I could ask you a few more questions about Lawrence’s birth,” I began carefully. I didn’t want her to suspect anything fishy.

“I thought I’d gone through it all with you.” She sighed. “It was so distressing. I’m not sure I’m quite up for going through it again.”

“Just a few questions. Did Miss Paltry take the baby away straightaway, or did she let you see or hold him first?”

“No, she had to leave immediately. He was in great distress.”

Her story collaborated with my theory. I quickly pressed on.

“Was she carrying baby Lawrence in her black bag when she returned with him?”

“Of course not!” Mrs. Winthrop exclaimed, and I realized I’d gone too far. In any case, even Miss Paltry would have the intelligence to take the baby out of the bag beforehand.

Elsie had come in with the tea, and I wondered if she’d overheard. She smiled a little. “Would you like sugar?”

I had to stay and talk about normal things for a while before I could get away, and then I rushed back home to sit and think it all through. It seems such a ridiculous notion, such a dramatic act for a person to do.