Despite my effort, Pigeon would not thrive. I fed him buttermilk with the tiny bottle every hour. And I followed all of Mrs. Hudson’s directives, which led to some messy proceedings. I thought perhaps the kitten was cold in my bed chamber, the second floor of Birmingham Hall being quite drafty with September’s bluster. I held him next to my heart all through the night as I nestled under the quilts of the featherbed. And as soon as the sun peaked under the heavy drapes, I carried him back to the kitchen where I knew Mrs. Hudson would have already started a fire in the large hearth. There I sat in her chair with Pigeon wrapped in a kitchen towel. However, despite the warmth, by midday, little Pigeon’s mouth hung open, and he was breathing rapidly.
“I’m afraid he will not survive the day,” Mrs. Hudson warned me gently. “Let me have one of the maids take him back out to the barn.”
“No. No. I’ll keep him with me until the end.” As she nodded and turned back to her chores, I stroked Pigeon from the tiny white spot above his nose to where the towel met his neck, over and over. “Lord, if You are there, I cannot fathom why you would save a kitten when You saw fit to allow the devastation in Sunderland. But if by chance You hear me, and you see me in my darkness, could You grant me Pigeon?”
Still, the little one continued to pant. As I lay my arm back on the rest of the chair, a finger grazed the remnants of a bowl of the applesauce Mrs. Hudson was still insisting I eat. Without thought, I put my finger in Pigeon’s mouth. His tiny tongue moved against it. I cleaned some more applesauce from the side of the bowl and into his mouth. He swallowed it. As I continued the procedure, his breathing began to slow, and within fifteen minutes, his eyes were peeking at me again.
Later, the same doctor who had been checking on me brought some goat’s milk from a nearby farm. Mrs. Hudson had sent one of the stable boys to ask him for advice about Pigeon. “His sugars must have been low,” he explained. “Kittens this young cannot seem to digest milk from cows. Every three days, send one of the boys for more goat milk. If you can keep him alive for a few more days, he’ll make it.”
Lord Malcolm was not at all put out for having to pay yet another doctor’s bill, and the whole family championed Pigeon. When it came time for me to depart for London weeks later, the small grey hero’s lungs were plenty strong, as proven by his incessant meow, and he had so much vitality, I feared he would scratch his way out of my bustle basket. To this day, I doubt if any other barn cat has been as well loved.
Lady Georgina’s next goal was to get me outdoors. She must have known I wasn’t ready to see the children because every day when it was their time of rest in the nursery, she’d ask me to walk in the gardens. She lent me a warm cloak and a velvet bonnet with a brim as the sun was bright though the days were cold. Each day, we’d venture a bit further. We’d observe the leaves of all autumn shades and shapes as we’d walk, she with her commentary, and me with my silence.
One day I saw an oak leaf still clinging to the branch, and from my vantage point it was curled just the right way that four lobes looked like little legs, the others formed a head, and its stem was a tail. I don’t know why or how such a simple thing tickled my fancy so greatly that I giggled. Lady Georgina raised her eyebrows, for I hadn’t yet even cracked a smile, even at Pigeon’s antics. It took some pointing for her to see the crumpling red leaf, and perhaps she just pretended to see what I pictured it to resemble. “It’s a leaf version of Pigeon,” I chuckled. “He won’t let go though all odds are against him.”
We took note of the birds beginning to arrive for the winter. Lady Georgina likened different species to different types of people she’d known in London. The Bohemian waxwing with its exotic peach tinge, eyes lined with black and debonair crest was Lord Bartron, a pompous dandy who had proposed her first season in London. The redwing reminded her of her sister, Michaeline, whom she said had an understated beauty one had to take the time to notice, just as the beautiful red was hidden by its wings. She said she hoped Michaeline would spread her wings and fly away from their mother so society could see her beauty.
Of the house sparrows, the kind lady said, “I’m glad they are so common, and don’t leave us for the winter, for each time I see one I am reminded of the promise our dear Lord made, ‘Are not two sparrows sold for a cent? And yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from Your Father.’” I didn’t reply.
One afternoon she and I took empty baskets to the orchard and filled them with pears. The load was so heavy that we set them down every so many strides to give our arms a shake. She asked if we should leave our baskets and have the men retrieve them, but I insisted I wanted to persevere. The pull on my muscle, the labored breathing, were a blessed agony. Each footfall reminded me I was alive, and perhaps for a reason. That same day, Mrs. Hudson began instructing me in the culinary arts. In between feeding Pigeon, I made a poached pear tart, and we filled small crocks with pear marmalade.
As I sliced and diced each pear, I breathed in the fresh and sweet scent. “Is there a lovelier smell than that of a pear?” I spoke hesitantly to the housekeeper and cook, for sharing my thoughts was like walking down the crumbling and creaky stairs of my former lodgings. My voice was unused, and I felt as though my train of thought might collapse halfway through. “If there were a way to bottle its fragrance, we could make a fortune in London.”
That began a discussion over how we should try making toilet water and perhaps even a lotion from the juice of pears. Lady Georgina joined the proceedings, bringing a small volume entitled My Lady’s Handbook of Toilet Preparation with her. “This was Malcolm’s mother’s book. Perhaps we can adapt some of the recipes inside.” We tried a variety of concoctions over the next two days, hoping to deliver tiny crocks filled with our potions to the tenants along with the pear marmalade.
However, when Lord Malcolm joined us in the kitchen to investigate our venture, he reluctantly informed us of some valid points. “May I offer some advice though it hasn’t been solicited?”
“Certainly, dear one. Though as all advice that isn’t sought, I shan’t feel obligated to follow it,” Lady Georgina bantered. Then she stood on the top of her toes to kiss his cheek.
He smiled and kissed her forehead, then continued, “I fear both the sweetness and scent would plague the ladies with the creatures that try to make their homes in the tenants’ cottages throughout the cold seasons.”
“You mean mice?” Mrs. Hudson asked.
“And roaches amongst other insects, I’m certain.”
We moved onto other projects soon after we tried the cosmetics ourselves. Though we smelled faintly like spring and sunlight, our stickiness only provided more laundry for the maids and a mild rash on Mrs. Hudson’s face.
The next week, a mysterious crate arrived at Birmingham Hall. The marquess gathered all of the women of the house, including the maids and Lady Georgina’s seamstress friend, in the drawing room, for the unveiling. “Ladies, I realize you were disappointed with your short venture into the realm of cosmetics. Perhaps one day in the future someone will use Miss Ivy’s idea to create a pear fragrance, maybe even during the reign of Queen Victoria. In the meantime, this was the closest I could deliver.” He opened the crate to display dozens of soap tablets wrapped in brown paper with lavender paper seals marked PEARS Transparent Soap Tablets.
“Oh, you darling,” Lady Georgina laughed. “You are far too good to us. Was there ever a more wonderful man?” she asked us.
I doubted there ever was or ever would be as kind and generous a man as the Marquess of Birmingham. I hadn’t known many men by that time. My father and brother had often been exhausted after their days spent underneath the Seaham Colliery. They often groused at the suppers I managed to provide though only a child. They never had the means to be generous with their words or with material things, I suppose. Even when I took it upon myself to join Mrs. Longford’s staff as a maid when I was ten, I don’t recall encouragement or gratitude when I offered coins to our coffer of broken pottery. And then, they perished in the explosion of gas in the New Seaham Pit before life could get easier.
Under the soap tablets, was a rectangular, flat package. Inside were prints of a painting by John Everett Millais, entitled Bubbles. A darling little boy with curly blonde hair held a pipe as he gazed at a large soap bubble floating above his head. The marquis had purchased one of these for each of us. I treasure it to this day. It signifies the beauty I realized could be contained in a generous personality, my next venture into the volumes of art in the hall’s library, and the bridge to me being able to bear being with children again.
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