Free Home by Larissa Behrendt

her letter to emphasise her displeasure at being interrupted.
    â€œI need to speak with you on a matter of some importance … and delicacy.”
    Mrs Howard looked up, her expression already communicating deep disapproval.
    Miss Grainger continued: “I think the little darkie is … indisposed.”
    â€œThe little kitchen girl?”
    Miss Grainger nodded, wondering what other ’little darkie’ there could be.
    â€œHow did this happen?” asked Mrs Howard sharply.
    Miss Grainger started to blush but was relieved when she realised that Mrs Howard (who was, after all, a married woman) hadn’t really meant for her to answer.
    Mrs Howard sighed. “Send for Dr Gilcrest.”
    Dr Gilcrest examined Elizabeth in the privacy of her room. He ordered her to remove her clothes and lie on the bed. She had shivered at first but reluctantly did as he asked, obeying Mrs Howard’s stern instructions that she was to do as she was told. He squeezed her tender breasts, pinched her nipples and inserted cold fingers into her. Then he left the room, making a tart ’tut-tut’ sound. Elizabeth felt shamed by the way he touched her, telling herself over and over that he was a doctor, and that the things he had just done to her were what doctors must do, even if they felt too much like the things Mr Howard did to her. She reminded herself that it was her fault, that she must have done something very wrong. She scratched at her arms, her torn nails leaving white marks that slowly rose in pink lines on her skin.
    As she buttoned her dress, she could hear voices through the door. She leant against the splintering wood to hear Dr Gilcrest and Mrs Howard talking.
    â€œIt is as we suspected,” the doctor pronounced.
    â€œI have no idea how this could have happened,” puzzled Mrs Howard. After a pause she added, “I wonder who the father could be?”
    That was how Elizabeth realised that she was going to have a baby.
    When her husband returned, Mrs Howard sat down with Edward and told him about the kitchen girl’s pregnancy.
    â€œI was very surprised. I can’t think who could have fathered it. So few men come to the house,” she had chattered, more to herself than to Edward who was sorting through his mail. “Even deliveries are supervised by Miss Grainger, and rarely is that girl away from her duties.”
    Lydia had grown accustomed to her husband’s indifference to the concerns of her household. Had she looked at Edward, who was looking more intently at his paper than usual, she may have noticed a constriction of his throat and a discemable widening of his eyes.
    There was a change in Mr Howard’s attitude towards his wife. He was suddenly more attentive to her, as though she were fragile, more easily broken. Lydia initially enjoyed Edward’s refocused attention, the sidelong glances when he thought she couldn’t see him. But slowly the truth became apparent to her. Lydia Howard could not explain how she pieced it together other than by intuition, which she seldom had; she operated more by calculation than feeling. This time, however, she brought the threads of her suspicions together and they created a tapestry so vivid and clear she could not deny the image it formed. One night, in the privacy of their bedroom, in that intimate interval before sleep, she found the words that had been suffocating her daily thoughts.
    â€œWhat do you know about the girl’s condition?” she asked.
    He noticeably coloured as he spluttered, “I do not know what you mean. What would I know of it? I didn’t have anything to do with it! Is that what you think of me?”
    In the weak glow of the bed-lamp, Edward turned his reddening face away from her, unable to meet her gaze, “Really, Lydia, haven’t you got more to fill your day with than coming up with such fanciful ideas?”
    He turned his back to her. Lydia felt the white-hot surge of anger