Lobelia and Scheele’s Green
The migraine seized Mary’s head with the ferocity of a wild beast. It was going to be a long, long night.
She had the tramp settled in a guest room. At first, she thought of using the one reserved to despised relatives—the one facing north, with the bad bed and the smoking fireplace. But then she changed her mind: Mary didn’t want Dr Herbert think she was an awful mother-in-law who gave a cold hard bed to her pregnant daughter-in-law.
“How could Tom do it with someone like her?”
When he had come back home, Tom had claimed that the tramp had drugged him or something and that he escaped as soon as the effect had worn off. However, Mary was certain that no drug effect lasted six bloody months. Did the tramp slip it into his meals, until the day she missed a dose? What drug would push a man to do someone else’s bidding? What other uses—
No, she shouldn’t think about that.
The tramp’s baby was probably someone else’s bastard.
It must be so.
Mary had let the tramp in only because she couldn’t think straight on that moment.
Mary had let the tramp in only because, for a fleeting moment, she did want to believe that the baby was Tom’s.
But now Dr Herbert was visiting the tramp and would discover that the timing was wrong, that the pregnancy was not even close to term.
Why, as far as Mary knew, it could be just an enlarged cyst, ready to burst.
“Come in,” Mary replied at the knock, without straightening herself in the armchair.
The migraine was killing her.
“Madam, I came to report as you asked,” said Dr Herbert.
Mary gestured him to have a seat. “So?”
The doctor cleared his throat, hesitating. “The… er… mother entered active labour as I visited her. She admitted of slipping on ice on her way here—”
“Then this is a premature birth, isn’t it?”
Mary was certain that the tramp was using her bastard to get Uncle Charles’ inheritance.
“Not exactly, Madam. As far as my prognosis goes, she may be at term.”
Mary straightened her body, eyes wide in shock. “I beg your pardon?”
“It is possible to calculate the gestational age based on the fundal height—”
“Could you please speak plain English?” Mary snapped. “I do not need my migraine to worsen.”
Dr Herbert blinked slowly, like some stupid ox. “The hight of the womb is about fifteen inches, which means that she is between seven months and a half and nine months pregnant.”
Mary slumped back into her armchair. Damn migraine that didn’t let her think straight… “Then the baby was conceived… when?”
“Any time between the end of March and mid-May.”
Mid-May. That was about six weeks before Tom’s return.
Mary wanted to boil of rage, but a part of her was too excited, too relieved for anger. There was a possibility that the baby was Tom’s. there was a tiny hope that her bloodline wouldn’t end with her son—that the Riddles and Mortons legacies would live on.
But the mother was still that tramp, the daughter and sister of deranged men—what if their blood was thicker that the Riddle one? What if the baby was as twisted, deformed and deranged as his maternal side?
“Will it be healthy?”
“I can’t tell until the child is born. But the mother looks malnourished, so do not expect a large baby. Or an easy birth.”
The doctor’s answer made Mary realise that she had thought aloud. The slip of the tongue was still useful. A difficult birth could mean that a choice could be necessary.
Mary held back a sneer. There was no need to put much thought into the matter. If she got a chance to make Tom a widower and get the heir she needed, she would grasp it.
No, she shouldn’t think too much ahead.
The baby could be unhealthy.
The baby could be a girl.
It was better to solve one problem at the time. So, there was one thing that she could do.
“Is she in any condition to have a talk with me?” Mary said. “Everything happened so fast that I had no opportunity to ask any question.”
She had been too incensed to ask any question, but now with a colder and clearer mind, Mary had a better grip on her wits. She would do without the migraine, thought.
Dr Herbert nodded, walking with her while advising to keep the conversation short and not to upset too much the labouring mother.
The tramp had been placed in the Lobelia Room, thus named after the pattern of its wallpaper. It was a too nice room for the tramp, with a featherbed and a nice view of the valley.
The tramp lying in bed stood out like a sore thumb. Her face was sickly pale and swollen, her hair matted, her slip was old fashioned, ill-fitted and tattered—at least it didn’t look too dirty. Her eyes, pointing at two different directions, reminded Mary of a stray cat that a few winters ago took residence in the stables—one pupil normal, the other deformed and eccentric, against green irises. Not the same shade, though. Whereas the cat’s eyes were a normal green, the tramp’s ones were the same shade as the insecticide the farmers used for their potatoes—the same blackening green as the wallpaper in Uncle Charles’ study.
The comparison sent a shiver down her spine.
“M-madam—”
“I already have a migraine and the doctor said to keep this short. So, listen to what I have to say,” Mary interrupted her.
The tramp lowered her head, nodding and sobbing and sniffing—dear God how she grated her nerves.
Mary puffed her chest out, looking as intimidating as possible despite her small stature.
“What you did to my son is unforgivable. Now it is not the best time to list your sins, so they will be discussed—” She wanted to say ‘once the baby is born’, but it would make Mary look bad— “once you have recovered.”
“Please—”
“I’ve just said we’ll discuss it later!” Mary snapped, enjoying the sight of the tramp squirm and grovel under her stare. She sighed, mellowing her tone. “However, Tom is not as faultless either. He did abandon his child and that is just as bad as what you did to him. In a way, the two of you are even, so you both must do what is best for this baby.”
Mary clicked her tongue, picturing herself playing the loving grandmother, spoiling her grandchild and garnering praise for such a lovely, obedient child. She savoured the picture of herself, adjusting a boy’s Eton uniform—of Mrs Collins’ sour face as Mary read a letter praising her accomplished and bright grandson. She savoured the praises she would receive for shaping such a fine young man. A boy who was the spitting image of her—the young man that she had failed to turn Tom into.
“I only want to be with Tom…” the tramp sobbed.
Mary was genuinely outraged. “Are you dim-witted or something? How could Tom ever forgive you, least alone take you back despite what you did?”
“E-Everything! I’ll do everything, Madam!”
Ah, that was music for her ears! Mary arched an eyebrow, hiding her satisfaction.
“Everything? Do I have your word?”
“Yes! Yes!”
Mary smirked. She could ask the tramp to give up the baby and leave—she could ask her to give up the baby and kill herself. With that, all Mary’s problems would be solved. Tom would be free from this unholy marriage and he would get the son that Uncle Charles’ required. If that tramp’s spew was a boy.
“Very well, I’ll think about it.” Mary needed to consider every possibility, prepare for any possible scenario—even the worst one. For a start, she should add some honey to the poisoned chalice she was offering. “And if you are a good girl and do exactly as I say, I may drop a favourable word at Tom.”
“Thank you, madam! I won’t—”
The rest of the sentence is drowned by a scream. The tramp clutched her swollen stomach. The maid entered at once, giving a hasty curtsey to Mary before assisting the tramp—there is no longer disgust on her face, probably because her attention is all upon her young master’s baby.
As Mary return to her drawing room, she leant at Dr Herbert, her voice barely audible over the tramp’s scream.
“If you need to choose, pick the child.”
Indeed, if the child was a boy and the tramp died in childbirth, Mary Riddle would consider all her prayers answered.