Rose Tremain - Restoration

On the evening of that day, Margaret was lifted out of her crib by the midwife and wrapped in shawls and blankets and taken to the house of the wet-nurse. I accompanied them, because I wanted to see the woman, to make sure she was not diseased nor her house dirty.

It was the house of a money-lender. It was tall and narrow and overhung the river. In one room of it the broker did his transactions and wrote out his accounts; the rest of it seemed filled with children – eight or nine of them – from all the ages of two to twelve, and when the wet-nurse greeted us she held in her arms a tenth child, a fat baby of six months or so.

She showed us into a parlour. I saw a good fire burning and smelt the familiar smell of herbs being burnt upon it to keep away the plague germs. She laid her own baby on a little rug before the fire and took Margaret into her arms. She was a woman of perhaps thirty-five with a gentle smile that reminded me of Eleanor and Hannah. She put a finger to Margaret's mouth and she began at once to suck on it. Then one of her children, a little boy dressed poorly but with a healthy colour in his cheeks, came into the room and stood by his mother and peered at Margaret's round face.

"She looks like a flat little button," he said.

"Hush," said the wet-nurse. "See her eyes? Colour of cornflowers."

We did not stay long, for the impression I formed of the woman was good. She told me that her milk was plentiful "and not sour, for I shall never eat any soft fruit nor drink cider" and that she was "a very wakeful person, attentive to all my little ones." When I gave her some money, I wondered if she would be allowed to keep it for herself or whether she would have to surrender it to her husband, who would lend it out at interest.

We walked back along the wharves. "It is strange," I said to the midwife as I looked at the water, "we did not really have any winter and now here is the spring already."

That night, I lay on the floor beside Katharine's bed. The midwife had been called away and the other women had gone back to their families, so the household returned to what it had been before the birth, except that Katharine's voice was no longer heard within it; only her snoring and her sighs.

When I dressed her wound in the early hours of the morning, I saw that blood was seeping constantly from it and that blood flowed very freely out of her vagina into the linen under her, and I did not know how this haemorrhaging could be stopped or why the wound was not beginning to clot and knit together. Then I remembered that at St Thomas 's we once performed a cephalic phlebotomy on a man bleeding from his anus and that this making of an external cut staunched the flow of blood inside the bowel.

So I took up her arm. It was cold, with a damp sheen to the skin. I found the vein and cut and let a little blood drip into a basin. And at this moment, Katharine opened her eyes. She stared at me, into my face and into my mind. The stare did not falter. It remained. It saw all that I had done and all that I had tried to feel and could not. I turned away from it, looking round at the empty crib. I thought that when I looked again the stare would have softened and become forgiving. But it had not.

So I put my hand out. That is all I did. I did not whisper any last blessing or say any prayer or utter any words at all. I only put out my hand and closed the staring eyes.

Frances Elizabeth wept for the death of her only child and Finn, who has the heart of a gazelle, wept for Frances Elizabeth, remembering her kindness in saving him from destitution with a knuckle stew and a canvas cot in the letter-room. But I did not weep at all.

I walked out of the house and went and sat in a coffee house and drank bowl after bowl of sweet coffee. And the talk and smoke and laughter of the place, though I was not a part of them, I loved exceedingly for they had the smell of life returning.

Then I had a great mind to shit and found a place and did it, and even this I found pleasurable and after it felt very cleansed, as if I had been given a new body.

I passed all the day walking about the city considering what I might do with the next bit of my life and by the time the dusk started to gather around me, I had decided what it was.

Then I returned to Cheapside. On my way I bought some white violets from a flower-seller. I bought them for Katharine – to put into her hands or to lay upon her wound – but then both the flowers and the gesture of putting them on the body seemed to me to be dishonest things, and so I threw them into the gutter.

Katharine was put into the ground in the churchyard of St Alphage.

I wrote to the Keepers of Whittlesea and in this letter I said: "She is at rest now, in the sleep of eternity," but I repented afterwards for putting down so sentimental a thing.

I made a vow. I vowed I would never again be moved by pity. For I see now that in my "helping" of Katharine I was not acting unselfishly (as I believed) but only trying to do some good to my own little soul.

The night of the burial, two seamen from the Royal James knocked at the door. They asked Frances Elizabeth to write on their behalf to the Duke of York, to beg that the wages owed to them be paid. I told them she could not do it "having today buried her daughter", but that I would write it for them. They thanked me and asked me to tell the Duke all their miseries and hunger, but to "set them down in no more than six lines, Sir, for this is all we can pay for."

I went to the letter-room to begin on the thing and there I found Finn stretching onto some wooden slats a piece of canvas he had stolen from the Playhouse. It had been painted upon already. It appeared to be a small part of a building -a castle or a tower.

"What is this, Robin?" I said. "The foundation stone of your new mansion?"

"Yes, it is," he replied. "For I am going to paint your portrait over it and your portrait – as you have suggested – is going to begin for me a new life."

When he had finished stretching the canvas, he propped it up against some books on the very table where I worked on my letter for the seamen, thus casting an irritating square shadow onto my paper. I said nothing. I watched him take up a brush and palette and put onto it some white pigment. He then began to cover the entire canvas with this white, obliterating the piece of castle. And seeing all this white go on as a prelude to the painting of my face, I remembered a thing to which I had given no thought for a long while and that was the white "waft of death" that Katharine had seen in me in the time of her madness. It sent into my belly a little worm of unease, so I put it at once from my mind and concentrated upon my letter. I wrote it in the stylish, neat hand with which I used to write my epistles to the King. I said, "If England does not cherish and care for those who have fought in her wars, what is to become of them and what is to become of England? Surely, Sir, they will both sicken?"

Then, being in the mood for letter-writing, I took up the quill again and wrote to Will Gates, telling him all that had happened to me and requesting that one of the grooms ride my horse to London. And when I thought about Danseuse, I marvelled at the notion that so swift and fine a creature could still belong to me.

Some weeks passed, during which Finn's portrait of me began to emerge (like a face coming out of a Norfolk mist) from the white canvas. In it, I appear somewhat grave – as if I were a reeve or a librarian – yet my eyes are filled with light. Finn wishes to title the picture A Physician , thus rendering me anonymous, but I do not mind. The only nuisance was that I had to sit still for several hours at a time with my hand uncomfortably poised in the act of taking up the scalpel from my box of surgical instruments.