The Dictionary of Lost Words(63)

With every breaking dawn, I recreated the detail of Her. I would start with the translucent nails on Her tiny toes and work my way up through chubby limbs and creamy skin to golden lashes, barely there. But then I would struggle to recall some little thing, and I understood that as the days and months and years went on my memory of Her would fade.

Lie-child. That’s what the midwife had called her. But it wasn’t in ‘Leisureness to Lief’. I searched the pigeon-holes: five slips, pinned to a top-slip. It had been defined. A child born out of wedlock; a bastard. It had been excluded. A note had been written on the top-slip: Same as love-child – excise.

But was it? Did I love Bill? Did I miss him?

No. I’d just lain with him.

But I loved Her. I missed Her.

She couldn’t be defined by any of the words I found, and eventually I stopped looking.

I worked. I sat at my desk in the Scriptorium and filled the spaces of my mind with other words.

September 20th, 1907

Dear Harry,

Tucked into your many pages of news about the Dictionary and life in the Scrippy were a few words that have been worrying me. You are not one to exaggerate, and in my opinion you are prone to optimism when none is warranted, so I can only assume your concern for Esme is appropriate.

I have heard of such moods in women who have been through what she has, and we must consider the possibility that she is grieving. Her situation is not uncommon. (The past year has been quite an education in these matters, and you would be surprised at how many young women find themselves in trouble. Some of the stories I’ve heard are chilling, and I will not repeat them. Suffice to say, our dear Esme is lucky to have such a loving father.) And so, let us continue to care for her until she returns to herself.

We are quite lost without her. As Beth says, her constant enquiring kept us honest. One might have expected her to grow out of it, and there were times, I must confess, when I wished she would just accept the wisdom of others. But she requires convincing, and I am sure my History will be the better for it.

But now you tell me she has fallen quiet, so I have taken the liberty of making a few enquiries.

I have a friend with a small cottage in Shropshire. It is nestled into the hills and has views across to Wales (on a good day, of course). The tenant has recently passed on, and so the cottage is empty. Beth and I spent a week there not so long ago. Beth will vouch for the walking: it is superb, with many steep paths to test the heart and distract the mind. It is just what Esme needs. I can vouch for the comfort: it would not suit some young ladies, but Esme is not fussy.

I have secured the cottage for the month of October. I have also written to James and Ada Murray, and they have agreed that Lizzie should accompany Esme on the trip. Before you protest, Harry, I was very discreet, though I did need a ruse. I said that I’d heard Esme was having trouble recovering from a cold she contracted while staying in Bath. James immediately agreed she should build her strength. He is firmly of the belief that a good walk can cure anything and was keen to point out that he doesn’t agree with wrapping people up and sitting them in lounge chairs by the sea the moment they start to cough. I thought he might object to Lizzie being gone for so long, but he admitted she’d had no more than a few days off in years and deserved a holiday. I sent my agreement in the afternoon post of the same day (along with a few words he wasn’t expecting for another week, just to ensure he wouldn’t change his mind).

My dear Harry, I hope these arrangements suit you, and of course I hope they suit Esme. I’m sure we shall have no problem convincing her. The train journey from Oxford to Shrewsbury is straightforward, and my friend assures me of the cooperation of their neighbour Mr Lloyd. He is paid a small retainer to keep the cottage in good order. He will collect the girls and settle them in.

Yours, etc.

Edith



We arrived at Cobblers Dingle as the sun was setting and the mild day was giving way to a chill. Mr Lloyd insisted he get the fire started in the stove before leaving. As he bent to the job, he informed us he would pop in or send his lad to check the stove and set the fire in the bedroom each afternoon, though the shed was full of cut wood and kindling if the need arose earlier.

Lizzie stood when he bid us farewell. His slight bow was offered to her, and although it was my place, she was forced to respond.

‘Thank you, Mr Lloyd,’ she said. ‘We’re most grateful.’

‘Anything you need, Miss Lester, I’m but ten minutes up the lane.’

When he’d gone, Lizzie became industrious. As I stood in the doorway, watching Mr Lloyd’s buggy recede down the long carriageway into the lane, I heard her opening drawers and cupboards, taking a mental inventory of supplies and kitchen utensils. She found the kettle full and put it on the stove, then she prepared a pot for tea.

‘We can be grateful for a well-stocked pantry,’ she said, replacing the lid on a tin of tea leaves and pouring the boiled water into the pot before turning towards me. I was still standing in the doorway.

‘Come and sit, Essymay.’ Lizzie took my arm and led me to a chair at the small kitchen table. After she put the steaming cup in front of me, she touched my arm and sought my gaze. ‘It’s hot, mind,’ she said, as if I were five years old. She had cause for such caution.

Lizzie seemed taller, straighter. It wasn’t just that Cobblers Dingle was small. Without the authority of Mrs Murray and the instruction of Mrs Ballard, she took on an air of assurance I’d rarely seen in her. She explored every nook and cranny of the cottage and sought to understand its many idiosyncrasies. She is mistress of this place, I thought on our second morning, the idea breaking through the fog of my mind like a shaft of light, but quickly retreating from the effort of further contemplation.