Chapter Twenty Three

Near Shrewsbury, 1897

W ill you go home to Barnley today?’ Mrs Appleby offers Ellen the toast rack while addressing her question to Hester. Her voice is neutral.

Hester catches her daughter’s hopeful widening of her eyes. The novelty of this visit is wearing off, with Mrs Appleby a more than attentive grandmother.

When questioned last night, Ellen told how yesterday they had been in and out of numerous shops lining the town’s busy High Street. Grandmother had fussed and deliberated over purchases of small gifts – ribbons, stockings, woollen gloves for winter days too far ahead for a seven-year-old to worry about, and a silver chain necklace with a garnet pendant.

‘Anything for Rose?’ Hester had inspected the treasure laid on the white counterpane of the big bed.

‘Yes, yes.’ Ellen set aside the necklace and two of the four ribbons. ‘These are for Rose.’

‘Hmm.’ Bless Ellen and her generous spirit. Was Mrs Appleby waiting to see the foundling child, assess her suitability for gifts?

This morning Hester breakfasts on Mrs Cooper’s excellent porridge and confirms the decision she made last night, hinted at in her letter to Catherine.

‘We will,’ she says in answer to Mrs Appleby’s question. ‘Your hospitality and kindness have been wonderful, especially towards Ellen.’ Hester tips her head at Ellen, who obediently murmurs a thank you. ‘I have another daughter, however, and a garden to nurture, hens to feed.’

‘Goodness,’ Mrs Appleby exclaims. ‘The demands of the rural idyll.’

Hester lifts the starched white linen napkin from her lap, folds it and sets it by her plate. ‘It is, and it’s home.’ She smiles at her mother-in-law, who concedes the point with a tight lifting of her own lips.

‘You will inform us the moment our son returns, won’t you?’ Mrs Appleby says, her brow creased.

‘Of course she will, dear.’ Mr Appleby emerges from his Times to intercede with a humph. ‘Meantime,’ he says to Hester, ‘I’ll ask locally of our older acquaintances if they remember anything about Reverend and Mrs Ward. I’ll write to you with any information gleaned.’ He places the newspaper on the pristine cloth and matches his wife’s furrowed brow. ‘Aaron has been terribly remiss, which comes as no great surprise given what happened in the past.’

Mrs Appleby sighs heavily. ‘We tried our best to be good parents, raise our son in God-fearing ways.’ She steeples her fingers, addresses Ellen. ‘You will be a good girl for your Mama, won’t you, dear?’

Ellen shifts in her seat and Hester silently upbraids Mrs Appleby for her tactlessness in talking this way in front of Aaron’s daughter.

‘She always is.’ Hester restrains the brusqueness in her voice. She owes it to Aaron, and to her daughters, to stay on the good terms with her in-laws which she, and Ellen, have won.

***

A wagon driven by a farmer who has deposited his grain at a mill and is returning with bags of flour carries Hester and Ellen along the road east out of Shrewsbury.

They had ridden the crowded horse-drawn bus from the Appleby home to the train station, where they did not board any train. Neither did they take another bus, instead hiring this wagon to take them along the road towards Coppenhall, stopping at hamlets along the way seeking clues as to Aaron’s journey. This was the idea which formulated in Hester’s mind as she wrote to Catherine.

The farmer will take them as far as the track to Haughton, where, he tells Hester, she will be able to pay for a lift in another to take her further along her road.

Hester did not reveal her plan to Mr and Mrs Appleby. Her mother-in-law would have insisted Ellen remain behind. Mr Appleby would have believed himself obliged to accompany Hester on what is likely a wild goose chase. She must carry her idea out herself, with no pressures from having to return in a hurry for Ellen or be subject to her father-in-law’s well-intentioned suggestions.

The heat is subdued today as if, having squandered its hoard in the over-warm days of early summer, there needs to be an assessment of what can be meted out for the duration of the season. Riders and folk on foot travel the road with eager energy, horses high-stepping as they weave their way forward. High clouds haze the sun, the breeze on Hester’s cheeks refreshes rather than burns. A pleasant day for a wagon ride, if it wasn’t for the anxiety which continues to bubble like a cauldron in her chest.

At each hamlet, Hester asks the wagon driver she hired near Haughton to wait, which he is glad to do to rest and water his horse while she calls at the smithy, the inn, the shop – does anyone recall a tall, dark-haired gentleman stopping here at midsummer? Most look at her with pity, a few peering at her stomach in their assumptions as to why a young woman is brazenly searching for a man. Hester lets them think what they will, forbearing from explaining the man is her husband. Such a confession is also a humiliation.

The sun has passed its highest when they come to the hamlet of Ercall Magna, the furthest this wagon will take them. Hester pays the man, fetches down her daughter, carpetbag and basket, and bids Ellen wait with the luggage while she undertakes her normal rounds.

The baker in his shop where the scent makes Hester’s hungry stomach rumble, tells her no. She buys Ellen a bun.

The post office clerk similarly declares his ignorance and hands over coins in exchange for Hester filling out a form and presenting her depleted savings book.

The blacksmith, distracted from beating the tines of a fork into shape, wrinkles his sweaty forehead and pulls at his wiry beard. The man she seeks is dark-haired, tall, wearing a Derby, mounted on a chestnut horse, Hester explains. The blacksmith has a memory of such a man, passing by, riding a chestnut horse, heat fierce as Hades… the gentleman tipped the Derby in greeting, a courtesy unusual for the blacksmith to see … might it be him?

Hope banishes Hester’s weary pessimism. Typical of Aaron to acknowledge the blacksmith’s heavy labour on a hot day. She thanks the man, offers a few pennies which he refuses.

He wipes the back of his huge hand across his sweaty forehead. ‘You’d best ask at the inn, ma’am,’ he says. ‘If I have it right, your gentleman gave them a helping hand when they most needed it.’ He stares past Hester into the street where a man rides slowly past. ‘Check with them.’ And he takes up his bending fork to shape the long tines before they cool.

Pulse beating, Hester steers Ellen and their luggage into the inn, empty at this time of day. A slim, pretty young woman, about Hester’s own age, is clearing a table. A boy of three, four, stomps around the room dragging a toy cart piled with wooden blocks. The pile is too high, and blocks clatter to the wooden floor, whereupon he stops his march, resets them (too high), and sets off for another round.

Ellen giggles.

The woman looks up from her task. She pats her shiny brown piled hair, pushes a stray tendril behind her ears. ‘Can I help?’

When Hester explains her mission, forcing herself to sound like a person with common sense rather than an over-excited poppet, the woman beams.

‘Mr Appleby!’ she cries.

Hester’s lungs expand to push at her ribs. ‘Yes, yes.’ She exhales the words in a rush. ‘My husband, he’s been here?’

‘He saved my son.’ The woman gestures at the boy, cheerfully piling blocks into his cart. ‘Near death, he was, and your husband, a healer like my own grandmother, he was here and he offered to help and my husband was reluctant …’ Her eyes fill with tears. ‘Until he saw the miracle.’

Ellen pushes into Hester’s skirts, and Hester finds her own eyes are damp. ‘That would be Aaron. He’s skilled in these ways,’ she says. She puts a trembling arm around Ellen’s shoulders. ‘Did he say what his destination was, where he was travelling to?’

The woman frowns, takes in Hester, her bags and her daughter, and reaches a conclusion. ‘He’s not come home?’

‘No.’ Hester twists her fingers together. ‘He’s missing, and I’m desperately worried for him.’

‘Come, sit, let me bring you a drink. Have you eaten today? The little girl, has she eaten?’

‘We breakfasted well,’ Hester says, ‘but not since. I have money –’

The woman waves her hand. ‘No wife or child of Mr Appleby will pay for food in my establishment.’

She walks to a table under a window, pulls out a chair. ‘Sit, sit,’ she says, as if Hester is a disobedient puppy. ‘My husband’s in the cellar dealing with the cider. I won’t disturb him. Let me fetch food and drink and then you must tell me why you are here and how we can help.’

The woman’s name is Edie Butler, her husband is John, the boy is Dickie. After eating, Ellen retrieves blocks for Dickie, giggling at each one he drops, giving him cuddles which are more enthusiastically received than those offered the independent Rose. With her daughter diverted, Hester tells Edie what there is to tell. When she finishes, Edie reaches across the table and clasps Hester’s hand lying beside her empty plate.

‘You fear he’s met with an accident?’

‘I don’t know.’ Hester allows her hand to be stroked, wishing it was Aaron’s hand on hers, soothing the worries of the day. ‘I would sense it, here –’ she presses her free hand to her chest ‘– if he was … no longer with us.’

‘I would feel the same with Dickie,’ Edie says.

‘If he was ill, he would have sent word, yet there is nothing.’

‘He might have sent word which hasn’t reached you.’ Edie lifts both palms into the air. ‘The post is not reliable, and with the disruption caused by the good queen’s celebrations, God bless her, a letter could easily have gone astray.’

Hester is grateful for the crumb of assurance. She tucks it into her soul, alongside her conviction that Aaron is alive and out there somewhere.

‘I recall, clearly,’ Edie says, ‘how quietly thrilled your husband was to help Dickie.’ She presses her hands together. ‘He made light of what he’d done, saying the fever would likely have broken of its own accord, but a mother knows when their child is in mortal danger, don’t they?’

‘Most do, yes.’ Not all. Hester’s bitterness at her own mother’s refusal to help when Hester needed it has been eroded over the years, smoothed by their awkward reconciliation. Like water on stone, however, it will take time to erode the jagged hurt.

‘It seemed to me,’ Edie prattles on, ‘our Mr Appleby took true joy from his work, like it was a release.’ She leans forward, violet eyes knowing. ‘It seemed to me,’ she repeats, ‘how Mr Appleby was … was … fulfilled by his work. Like he needed to do this.’ She tips her head to the side. ‘Am I making sense?’

Hester’s mind captures a glimmer of understanding. ‘I have been idling my time away,’ she murmurs, and stares at the landlady.

‘Pardon?’ Edie says.

‘Aaron’s words.’

More I need to do .

Certainty blooms like the spreading of a wine stain on a white cloth. Hester’s heart races at this abrupt upending of her life. The safe complacency of the cottage by the stream, of Aaron’s presence, bent over his books, writing up notes in his journals, sketching the flowers, the girls, noting receipts – that complacency melts in an instant, a bonfire blaze of truth set alight beneath it. Hester’s head is dizzy, her bones are stone.

‘Are you well, Mrs Appleby?’

‘Mama, what’s wrong?’ Ellen plucks at Hester’s sleeve

The ambiguity in Aaron’s letter somersaults into clarity. Bitterness rises in her throat, dry and hard.

He did not come home to talk this through with her. His own conviction, confirmed by the healing of the child, urged him on his own journey, and Aaron obeyed.

As before, when Hester was desperate for a saviour, when her mother would have thrown her into the bed of the lecherous, stinking fisherman, Aaron has abandoned her.

I need you to be patient, as ever.

He has taken to the road, bestowing his healing gifts of the body and soul, satisfying his fevered hunger to make the world whole as a means of gaining redemption for the one he failed to save. The whole world, except his family.

Hester recalls Mr Appleby’s damning words over breakfast, and how his own mother is unsurprised at Aaron’s actions.

Hester berates her naivety. How foolish she’s been. She should have paid more heed, should have better understood the depth of Aaron’s need and how, at some stage, that need would drive him to this course.

‘Mrs Appleby? You have gone white, what ails you?’

‘Mama, Mama.’

‘Mama is fine, Ellen.’ Hester lifts her leaden arms from the table and wraps them around Ellen’s slim waist, drawing the girl in tight. Both of them tremble.

‘Tomorrow,’ Hester whispers into her daughter’s ear, ‘we will go home. Our search is over.’