A Better Man
Chapter Twelve
Jack
Eliza vaguely recalled a fuzzy image of a small newborn, red faced and dark haired, before she lost consciousness. The pain had been great, and the room was sweltering, despite the cold cloth that Clara had dabbed over her face during the ordeal. She hovered peacefully in repose, heedless of the panic her fainting was causing.
"Open a window, quickly!" Dr. Hardwicke commanded. Clara jumped into action, throwing open the largest window in the room, nearest to Eliza's bed. Eleanor took over with the cloth, dipping it in fresh water, and placing it on Eliza's forehead, pleading with the girl to get her to wake up.
The room breathed a sigh of relief when her eyes fluttered open.
"Freddy?" As soon as she said it, Eliza realized the futility of the request. Her eyes dulled, and she looked away from Eleanor's concerned gaze.
"You have a son, Eliza. He's healthy, and perfect." Eleanor smiled sadly at the girl, hoping that the news would bring a light to her eyes. Eliza weakly attempted to push the cloth from her forehead, seemingly deaf to the announcement.
Dr. Hardwicke, having finished cleaning off the boy, carried him to his mother. Eliza reluctantly lifted her eyes to the doctor, and allowed him to set the swaddled babe in her arms. She looked down and a head full of dark hair with the promise of a slight curl, his eyes screwed shut, making it impossible to discern the shape, and a round, red face. The babe had her mouth, and her nose, and that was all she could tell for the time being.
"His name is Frederick John," she recited dully. It had never occured to her to pick out a name, and as he was a boy, it only seemed fitting to name him after his father. She touched the child's tiny fists with her forefinger, and stared in wonder as he grasped at the slender digit, his grip a tiny pulse that promised greater strength in the future. Little Frederick opened his eyes, and Eliza felt a curious tug at her heart when she realized that they were the exact shape of his father's; keen, intelligent eyes that would most likely turn smoke-colored in a matter of months.
"I will go downstairs and make an announcement to Henry and Colonel Pickering." Eleanor kissed Eliza cool, damp forehead. "He's such a handsome little thing, Eliza. Be proud."
Dr. Hardwicke excused himself to wash up, and Eliza was left in the room with Clara. A sob in near her bedside caused Eliza to give a start. She looked up at her sister-in-law, who was fairly trembling with emotion at the sight of Little Frederick.
"Would you like to hold him?" Eliza inquired. The weeping girl nodded through her tears, and carefully took her nephew into her arms.
"Hello, little man," Clara cooed, once she regained control of her voice. "My beautiful, handsome, wonderful boy."
"I see you've wasted no time puffing him up and spoiling him," Eliza teased in a voice no stronger than the mewl of a kitten.
"Why shouldn't I? He's the only nephew I will ever have." Clara's own words reduced her to tears once again, and she handed the child back to Eliza while she attempted to compose herself. Eliza watched her sister-in-law, sinking in to her usual detachment. She wished that she could emerge from her cold and empty cell, and scream at the injustice that the universe had thrown at her. She wanted more than anything to cry, and carry on until her voice grew hoarse; to rail at God and beg for her life back, but something overpowering and stifling held her in check. The pain of childbirth had forced an inevitable outburst, true, but that had been an expression of physical pain, which seemed paltry compared to the agony she suffered internally.
Clara left the room when the doctor returned to examine Eliza. He could not discern any physical ailment, other than the need for her to rest and recover. He did not believe it prudent to inform her that she would be able to have many more children in the future, seeing as she was so very recently widowed. He felt pity for the girl, but knew that she was one of many in these times - not that he would be so tactless as to tell her so. Human beings, for some reason, liked to think that their grief was unique, and that they were the only ones who could feel it keenly. Dr. Hardwicke to not have to heart nor the courage to disabuse them of such a notion.
It was later in the afternoon before Clara brought Little Freddy downstairs to be introduced to the other men of the house. Eliza would be excused from present company until she recovered.
Pickering seemed absolutely enthralled by the newborn, comfortable fitting into the role of doting old grandfather.
"Now, here's a fine little chap! Intelligent too, no doubt - and feel that grip! - good lord, this one is going to be the finest rower in London when he grows up!"
Eleanor nodded in agreement, as Clara beamed proudly. "I declare I've not seen a more handsome baby-" She caught her son's hurt looks. -"Since my Henry," she added, hastily.
Henry did not have much (any) experience with newborns. It was true that some of his fellow academics gave in to the temptation of a proper family, and some of them were now fathers, but Henry had always found excuses not to pay call after children had entered their lives. He imagined that he would not care much for children. They were always underfoot when he found himself on the town, dirty little ruffians.
This was Eliza's boy, however.
Henry supposed his mother and Pickering were right. Once you looked past the squashed tomato appearance of the babe's face, he was quite pleasant to look at. The amount of dark hair on his little head was most impressive, and when he opened his tiny eyes to stare at Henry, the older man was struck by the wisdom that lie therein. However, the effect was quite spoiled by the tiny bubble of spit that arose from the child's cherubic mouth.
"Yes, I suppose he is a handsome devil, but that is no surprise; both his parents - his mother in particular- are attractive sort of people." He felt as though he should have worked the word 'were' into that sentence somehow, for mentioning Freddy in the present tense caused a bit of awkward silence in the room, broken only by a thin cry from Little Freddy.
"My poor little angel; I will take him back to Eliza - undoubtedly he's hungry." Clara left with the child.
"Eliza is well, then?" Henry inquired of his mother, who had been giving her son a curious sort of look ever since he gave credit to Eliza for bearing a handsome child, admitting that he found the woman to be attractive.
"She is quite healthy, yes. The labor was long, but it did not do any sort of -... she is quite healthy." Eleanor had begun to go into detail, but realized to whom she was speaking to, and thought better of it.
"Is she happy? Women get so silly over babies, and I thought for sure this would cheer her up a bit."
Eleanor frowned. "I cannot read the girl for the life of me; she is so quiet, and unemotional. I do not think she's had a proper cry over Freddy, and she has not so much as smiled at the babe."
Henry recalled the night of the Embassy Ball, when Eliza had unleashed her fury at him, and knew she was capable of emotion. She was passionate, loud, and strong; far removed from this quiet, dead-leaf echo that haunted his mother's home. There had to be a way to reach that person, because Henry did not know how much longer his heart could take this pretty, empty shell that had been put in her place.
He did not have to wait very long for the axe to fall.
It was about mid-October; Little Freddy had just turned a month old, and was turning into a thriving, fat little thing. Eliza was doing her expected duty towards the child; feeding him, clothing him, rocking him to sleep, but she was performing her tasks without the heart and the tenderness that everyone expected of her. It did not seem to matter to the boy; what he lacked in affection from his mother, he received ten-fold from Eleanor, Pickering, and his aunt Clara - who was now a permanent fixture in the household.
Eliza was sitting at the breakfast table across from Henry, and they were both engaged in reading the newspaper. Henry thought she looked rather tired that morning. Little Freddy was going through a bit of a cold, and as a result had not been keeping very regular hours.
"The coffee is a bit strong this morning," Henry remarked with a grimace.
"I requested it. I needed something-" Eliza gave a great yawn. "-to keep me going. The baby was fussing all night, and I simply could not get a moment's peace." Eliza never referred to Little Freddy by his name, even though she was the one who had given it to him. He was always The Baby or The Boy; never Freddy. The household had picked up on the unspoken taboo, and followed suit. It seemed strange, though, that the child not have a proper name.
"I am sure Mother would not mind if his aunt stayed in one of the guest rooms tonight and saw to his welfare."
Eliza shook her head. "No, that would not do at all - I am his mother."
Henry thought it unwise to make a retort, so he did not. They resumed reading in companionable silence - that is until the most curious noise filled the room. Henry's ears were assailed by what very much sounded like a female sobbing. He looked up from his paper and across the table to Eliza. It was a female sobbing. It was her.
"Eliza?" She was seemingly deaf to anything but her powerful, pent-up grief. Eliza gasped, trembled, and nearly choked from the brute force of it, covering her face with her hands, her body slightly bent over in the chair. Henry sprang from his seat, and rushed to her side, fearing some sort of invisible injury had befallen her. "Eliza, are you hurt?"
Colonel Pickering and Eleanor Higgins entered the room, bewildered looks upon their faces. Immediately they came to Eliza's aid, pressing her with concerned questions. The girl continued to weep, ignoring them all entirely. Suddenly - in the midst of it all - Eliza abruptly stood up, and fled the room.
"What on earth happened? Henry - did you say something to her?"
"Not at all, Mother; we were both reading silently, when this tempest broke." Eliza's discarded newspaper caught Henry's eye, and he picked it up, hoping that perhaps it held a clue.
"Ah." Henry was at a definite loss for words. He handed the page to his mother and Pickering, to allow them to be the judge. Tears appeared in Eleanor's eyes as she read, and Pickering nodded, fully understanding, and quite touched by the piece. It was no wonder it had an effect on Eliza:
"Have you news of my boy Jack?"
Not this tide.
"When d'you think that he'll come back?"
Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.
"Has any one else had word of him?"
Not this tide.
For what is sunk will hardly swim,
Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.
"Oh, dear, what comfort can I find?"
None this tide,
Nor any tide,
Except he did not shame his kind —
Not even with that wind blowing, and that tide.
Then hold your head up all the more,
This tide,
And every tide;
Because he was the son you bore,
And gave to that wind blowing and that tide!
Eliza stumbled into her bedroom, and her eyes fell upon her son, sleeping peacefully in his bassinet, a touch of color in his slightly fevered cheeks, and his little mouth slack. It was the most beautiful sight she had ever seen in her life. She gently took him into her arms, careful to not awaken him, and pressed a tender kiss on the top of his curly dark head. Eliza was able to surpress her sobs, but the tears continued to flow, dropping here and there on her son's blanket.
"Forgive me, sweetheart," she whispered.
Eliza tried to form the name 'Freddy' on her lips, but her throat still tightened with the effort. "Jack," she whispered instead. There it was; merely a pet version of his middle name, but it would serve.
End Notes: Credit for the poem "My Boy Jack", and the plot bunny in general, goes to Rudyard Kipling. First published simultaneously in The Times, The Daily Telegraph, and The New York Times nineteenth of October 1916, many believe it to be written about his son, John Kipling who perished in The Battle of Loos, but there have been some claims to the contrary.