Читать книгу Charles Augustus Fenton - Alana Whiting - Страница 10

Every morning at the crack of dawn Meg would come to my bed, remove all the soiled nightclothes and bedding and bathe me in an oatmeal soak that Magda had supplied my parents. I lay there in a trance-like state, my raw skin soothed by the tepid water Meg was drizzling over me. As she washed me she sang little ditties that her own mother had sung to her as a child. She felt genuinely distraught at my ill health and desired nothing more than a return of my usually ebullient state. She couldn’t recall her last full night’s sleep. Since I had become unwell she had been a dedicated night nanny on top of her daytime duties. Every three hours she wearily traipsed into my room to offer some fluid and change my frequently soiled diaper. Instead of gratefully smiling at her for all this love and attention, I would squeal and fuss, clamping my lips together tightly and throwing my head from side to side.

Both she and my parents surveyed my debilitated frame with dismay. My cheeks had sunken in and my petite ribs stuck out against the grotesque stomach. My eyes were dull, my skin pale and no matter what delicious delights they offered me, I would not take them. I had developed a chesty cough, bringing up plugs of green phlegm and gasping for air with even the slightest exertion. Jack made repeated trips to the doctor’s surgery for more medicinal tonics and powders but it was to no avail. I was dying.

Elizabeth was also losing weight at an alarming rate. She refused any visitors and the only trip she would make from the home was to the local church to pray. Charles insisted she have an afternoon nap in an effort to regain her strength. As she lay holding his hand, she spoke.

‘Charles, I can’t stand this anymore. We have to get Magda to come and visit again. She can make him better. I’m sure of it.’

‘You know my stand on this. People are starting to talk and the words they are saying are ‘witchcraft’ and ‘devil’s work’. Why she thought it would be okay to publicly ridicule Mr Weston, I simply do not know. Since that very public disagreement, he has had no end of bad luck and he blames her. We simply can’t have any further connection with that woman. It would be extremely detrimental to my business,’ he said.

‘Well, he shouldn’t have sold her the spoilt grains. She found weevils in them! It’s his own damned fault for trying to cheat her,’ she retorted.

‘Elizabeth! Mind your language. You sound more and more like her each day.’

‘Good. I like her and I want her to come and see our son. It’s been ten weeks now, Charles, and he is getting worse. Ten weeks. How can I believe anything that doctor says?’

Charles looked into the pale face of his tormented wife. She stared back with a silent pleading in her eyes. She squeezed his hand and placed it on her heart before kissing it softly. He couldn’t stand to see the pain lying there before him. He was suffering too. His only son was fading before his eyes and he was powerless to stop it. He had heard many mutterings about his wife’s friend Magda whenever he went to town and it dismayed him to be even slightly connected to her. He always felt a sense of uneasiness when she came to visit and made excuses to leave the room as soon as was politely possible. But Elizabeth had complete faith in her and he had to admit, the oatmeal soaks he grudgingly allowed her to provide were a godsend. Perhaps if they could sneak her in at nightfall she might not be seen by as many people. With that idea in mind, he agreed to send Magda a note requesting her presence that evening. Elizabeth smiled and drew him close to her, kissing him passionately.