It was the first afternoon Ada had had to herself since she became Nurse Russell of Burbridge Hall. Rain lashed the sash windows of her room as she sat at her proud cherry wood writing desk. She stared out into the sodden deer park, watching the wind hurtle through the trees. She loaded her pen with ink, and sat and wrote four separate letters.
Dear Miss Luckes,
I hope that this letter finds you well.
I have settled into life at Burbridge Hall most satisfactorily. I am enjoying the change of scene, the fresh air of Oxfordshire, the different pace of life, and Lady Constance's most pleasant company. She has been very good to me.
My child and I are under the care of the midwives at the Cottage Hospital, who are most satisfied with my health and progress, and we are preparing for my confinement and delivery at Burbridge Hall. My time is now some 12 weeks away, I hope and pray that the child remains healthy and that when I am recovered, you may permit me to visit.
I will be, forever yours,
Ada Russell.
Dear Mr Holland,
I hope that this letter finds you well.
I write to offer you the most sincerest of thanks for the goodness you have shown to me and my child. Your charity in finding me a home and employment at Burbridge Hall, rather than casting me out as many a man would have done, is something for which I will always be in your debt. I hope that more men in this world are able to show the same respect that you have shown me.
Lady Constance remains in good spirits, though by her own admission, "could be better." She sends her regards to yourself, Mary, and the girls.
My child and I are well, and I know that neither of us will want for nothing while we are here.
With my deepest gratitude, and the kindest of regards,
Miss A. Russell.
The first two she had rattled off reasonably quickly. The next two would need some further thought.
My dear Father and Mother,
I apologise for the lack of correspondence in recent months. I'm afraid I have some rather distressing news which I have been reluctant to share with you, for reasons that will become more apparent the further down this page you read. I recommend that you are seated, as this will come as a shock to you.
I do not know how to say this in any way other than this, I am with child. I have lost my position as Sister of The London Hospital as a result, but I am in the employment as a private nurse to Lady Constance of Burbridge Hall, Oxfordshire. The child was not conceived in love, and certainly not in wedlock, but as a result of a vicious attack upon my person, by a man unknown, who still roams the streets of London. I am now in the seventh month of my pregnancy, and I and the child are well. I cannot ask for better in the circumstances.
I appreciate that this will have come as a great shock to you, and I understand the shame, and anger that you will feel. But I ask you both for your love, your forgiveness, and your understanding in this matter. I already love this child more than I have loved another soul. I cannot bear the thought of ever being parted from them, and I will do my best to raise them, even if I shall surely be doing so alone. I hope that you will learn to love them too. I ask your permission to visit after my confinement, so that you can meet your grandchild.
Please write to me, I love and miss you both,
I will ever be, your most devoted daughter,
Ada.
My dearest Ethel,
I apologise greatly that it has taken me so many weeks to write to you. I hope that you are well.
My tardiness in writing is, in part, due to the immense amount of attention that Lady Burbridge and her unfortunately series of ailments require. The poor woman gives the impression that she wants so much more from life, and so much for the future, but I think she knows that she will never have either of these things. She is sympathetic to the suffrage movement, and hopes to one day win the vote.
She suffers most dreadfully from gout, requiring high doses of salicylates for the pain. Her heart is weak, she is prone to oedema and requires her swollen limbs massaging regularly and her blood pressure monitoring hourly. She requires injections of pancreatic extract, a new treatment for diabetes developed by a Dr Zuelzer in Germany apparently, and fresh air and breathing exercises for her asthma. As I write my dear friend, I am 28 weeks and 3 days gestation and I feel as exhausted as if I had just finished a day in the Receiving Room. My own ankles need a massage and my back and hips are being put under ever increasing strain from my rapidly growing child.
I have been placed under the care of the midwives of the Cottage Hospital. I have been prodded and poked, and measured, and had my quarters inspected so that I can give birth here. I wish you could see this house Ethel, it's so beautiful, but so very empty. Lady Constance is a widow, who couldn't have children of her own. So for the vast majority of the time, it is just her, me and the rest of the servants. I miss the bustle of The London, the nurses' home. I miss the giggle of the Probationers when they think I don't know they've smuggled in a bottle of sherry, I miss Dr Culpin teasing Dr Ingrams, I miss the diagnostic clip of Matron's heels as she she approaches, I miss the patients, the thrill of not knowing who will come through the Receiving Room door. Here my day is defined by monotony and routine. This will all change I'm sure in 12 weeks time, but until then, I must be patient and wait, living out my sentence. I know I should be grateful for what I have been given, but what I wish for most is to have the best of both worlds. I know this is selfish of course, but I cannot help but think that I am being punished for something I did not do.
And above all else Ethel, I miss you. I miss your company, your smile, a hug at the end of a long day. No-one holds me here. No-one even reaches out a hand. Sometimes all I want is to scream that I am here, that I am a person, that I just want to be loved. But here, life as I suppose it should, revolves around her. I am not treated badly, of course not, I am well fed, well paid, and sleep each night under the warmest eiderdown I have ever known, but I was Sister Russell. Here I am neither a nurse, nor mother, yet my greatest wish is to be both. I remember saying to you, so long ago, while I had my arms elbow-deep in porridge trying to find my engagement ring that I had no idea who I was supposed to be anymore. That, my dearest Ethel, is how I feel now. Then I had a choice, to be a Sister or a wife. Now I feel as if I have no choice, like my path in life is being dictated by others and not me. What I would do for a guiding light in this darkness I am feeling.
I wish you were here with me Ethel, I miss you with every fabric of my being. Please write soon!
With all the love in the world,
Ada
Ada sealed her four letters. The rain had eased off somewhat so she decided to walk to the village to the post office. Enveloped by the scent of the rain, the coolness of the breeze, the swish of her skirts, the splash of her shoes through the puddles, Ada felt freer, and more liberated than she had done in many months. As she returned from the village, she stared up at Burbridge Hall, around at the expanse of deer park, and down towards her abdomen.
"Is this it little one?" she sighed, "is this what is to become of us?"
