Nanny Loman brought in Livia and she and I played on the floor together. Olivia watched us with shining eyes.
“You’re better with her than I am,” she said. “Well, I suppose all the time she’s been growing up I’ve been pregnant.”
“You’ll feel better soon. The Cornish air will work wonders. There’s a little boy … The Landowers’ … I’m rather fond of him. He’ll be a playmate for Livia.”
“I long for it, Caroline.”
“It’s something to look forward to.”
When I was alone with Miss Bell, she said to me: “Olivia has been much better since you came.”
“I’m worried about her,” I replied.
She nodded. “Yes. She is far from well. She was never as strong as you were and she suffered a lot with Livia. This was too soon … too soon.” She pursed her lips and put her head a little on one side. I knew she was expressing disapproval of Jeremy and I wondered what she knew. I resisted the temptation to ask for I was sure she would consider it was disloyal to discuss her employer; and being Miss Bell, with ingrained ideas of the supremacy of the male, she would doubtless consider Jeremy, rather than Olivia, her employer.
A few days later Olivia’s pains started and the household was in a turmoil. Her labour was long and arduous and I was in a state of deep anxiety.
Miss Bell and I sat together waiting for news. I felt very melancholy. I kept thinking of Cousin Mary and how quickly death can take away.
I was trembling with anxiety and the hours of waiting seemed like an eternity.
At last the child was born—stillborn. I felt myself enveloped in terrible depression for Olivia was very seriously ill.
I could not rest. I went to see her. She looked—pale and hardly aware of anything. She did open her eyes and smile at me.
“Caroline.” She did not exactly speak but her lips shaped the words. “Remember.”
I sat beside her for a while until she appeared to be sleeping. I tiptoed out and went to my room because the sight of her so wan, so lost to the world, was hard for me to bear.
I did not undress. I sat there with my door open—for my room was next to hers and I had a feeling that she might wish to see me, and if she did I wanted to know and be there.
It was past midnight and the house was quiet. I could not resist the impulse to go to her. It was almost as though she were calling me.
She was lying on her bed, her eyes open. She looked at me and smiled.
“Caroline …”
I went to the bed, sat down and took her hand.
“You came …” she said.
“Yes, dear sister, I’m here.”
“Stay. Remember …”
“Yes, I’ll stay and I’ll remember. You’re worried about Livia. There’s no need. If it were necessary I would take her. She would be as my own.”
She moved her head slightly and smiled.
We sat there for some time in silence.
Then she said: “I’m dying, Caroline.”
“No … no … You’ll feel better tomorrow.”
She shook her head. “The baby died. He’ll never know anything. He died before he was born.”
“It happens now and then,” I said. “You’ll have more … healthy ones. All will be well.”
“No more … never again. Livia …”
“Livia is all right. If … it happened, I will take her. She’d be mine.”
“I’m happy now. I’m not sorry …”
“Olivia, you’ve got to think of living. There’s so much to live for.”
She shook her head.
“Your child … your husband …”
“You’ll take Livia. Him …”
I put my face close to her lips.
“He … the money …”
I thought, Rosie was right. And Olivia knows.
“Don’t worry about money.”
“Debts,” she whispered. “I hate debts.”
“You haven’t anything to worry about. You’ve got to get well.”
“Flora … Flora Carnaby …”
I felt sick. She knew then. Was this the reason for her apathy? Olivia had discovered the perfidy of men … just as I had. But whereas I had hated fiercely she had given up hope and looked forward to death.
As I looked at my sister I felt the old bitterness well up within me. How dared he use her like this! Take her money and waste it on gaming tables and other women. I felt an overwhelming desire to hurt him as he had hurt her.
My voice was shaking as I bent over her and spoke to her.
“Olivia, there’s nothing to worry about. Don’t think of anything but getting better. You’ve got me and I’ll look after you. You’ll come to Cornwall. You’ll meet the people who interest you so much. We’ll be together … the three of us, you, me and Livia. We’ll shut out the rest of the world. Nobody’s going to hurt you or me any more.”
She was clinging to my hand and a certain peace seemed to come into her face.
I sat there for a long time holding her hand, and I knew that my presence comforted her.
She never spoke to me again.
The doctor was at the house all next day. There was a hushed gloom everywhere. I could not believe it. Death could not strike twice so soon.
But it could. Olivia was dead. She lay white and still, her face surprisingly young, the lines of anxiety and pain wiped from it. She was the Olivia of my childhood, the sister whom I had patronized, looked down on in some ways, although she was older than I. Nevertheless I had loved her dearly.
If only she would come back, I would take her to Cornwall with me. I would make her forget her perfidious husband, her disillusion with life.
I shut myself in my room. I could not speak to anyone. I felt a deep-rooted sadness which I feared would be with me for the rest of my life.
She must have known she was going to die. I remembered the way she had spoken of death; the certainty with which she had faced it. It was why she wanted to see me; why she had been so insistent that I look after her child.
She had not wanted her to be left to the mercy of a father who might remarry someone who would not care for the child. How much did he care? Was he capable of caring for anyone but himself? Had she feared that Aunt Imogen might take the child? Poor Livia, what a life she would have had! She would be left to the care of Nanny Loman and Miss Bell—kind, worthy people—but Olivia had wanted the equivalent of a mother’s love for her daughter, and she knew there was only one place where she could be sure of that. With me.
As I realized the weight of my responsibility, my terrible melancholy lifted a little. I went to the nursery. I played with the child. I built a castle of bricks with her. I helped her totter along; I crawled on the floor with her. There was comfort there.
The funeral hatchment was placed on the outside wall as it had been at the time of Robert Tressidor’s death, and the ordeal through which I had recently passed in Cornwall had to be faced again here. There were the mutes in heavy black, the caparisoned horses, the terrible tolling of the bell and the procession from the church to the grave.
I caught a glimpse of Rosie as I went into the church. She smiled at me and I was pleased that she had come.
I walked beside Jeremy. He looked sad and every bit the inconsolable husband, and I think my contempt for him helped me to bear my own grief. I wondered cynically how deep his sufferings went and whether he was calculating how much of her fortune would be left to him.
I stood at the graveside with him still beside me and Aunt Imogen on the other side with Uncle Harold. Aunt Imogen was wiping her eyes and I asked myself how she managed to produce her tears. I myself shed none.
Back at the house there was food and drink—the funeral meats, I called them—and after that the reading of the will. Olivia’s wish that I should have the custody of her child was explained.