The Miracle by Wendy Staples
“His Lordship will be most displeased if he discovers that I didn’t convey you to the door and left you to walk these streets alone,” grumbled the coachman, looking genuinely concerned as he handed Lady Harriet Woodward from the carriage and prepared to drive away.
The two bay mares fidgeted at their traces, as if they too were discomfited by the shabby surroundings.
“Nonsense, Jenkins. His Lordship is not about to learn of this little expedition and I have no reason to believe that I shall come to harm. Now, spend the next hour at your leisure and return here at noon.”
Much against his inner convictions, Jenkins obediently clicked his tongue at the horses, who, not needing a second bidding, pulled away at a trot, leaving Lady Harriet, a conspicuously well attired figure in such a poverty stricken district of the city, to draw her cloak about her shoulders and, adjusting the hood to shadow her face, to set off down a dingy side street.
The buildings on either side leaned haphazardly against one another, whispering in curiosity as to the purpose of so elegant a visitor. Grubby windows peered in disapproval and half open doorways menaced silently. Harriet felt an icy shiver crawling up to the back of her neck and would dearly have loved to turn around and hurry away, but her desperate need for help was all consuming and she forced herself to continue, skirting around puddles of foul smelling water and past shadowy alleyways strewn with decaying rubbish.
About half way along the street, she paused before a closed doorway and, pulling a slip of paper from her glove, compared the name written upon it with that neatly marked on the tired woodwork. Then placing a hand delicately on her breast, where the beat of her heart was racing anxiously, she reached up and pulled at the rust covered bell beside the door. Immediately the door was pulled open by a female figure; barely above three feet tall, perfectly proportioned, but with the wrinkled features and grey hair of a woman of at least sixty years, and peeping out between the locks of her hair, an unnaturally large pair of ears.
“Please enter, Lady Woodward. Mr Josiah is expecting you.” The voice was that of a child; reedy and innocent. Closing the door carefully, she led the way along a narrow passageway to another door at the rear of the house and knocked importantly.
“One moment!” came a muffled answer from within and the sound of feet shuffling across the wooden floor could be heard, before the door was opened and bright sunlight threw into silhouette Mr Josiah himself. “Welcome, My Lady.” he intoned, extending a claw like hand towards Harriet and ushering her into the chamber.
Harriet took in her surroundings with some surprise, considering the inauspicious introduction she had so far received. The room was well proportioned, with French windows leading out to an Italianate courtyard, complete with fountains and a white dovecote, and illuminated by the rays of the sun streaming between the roofs of the dwellings behind. The furnishings were of a quality she had not expected to see, with gilded chairs, velvet covered sofas and heavy damask drapes.
A hand gently took her elbow, startling her for a brief moment, and guided her to sit on one of the sofas. “Please settle yourself and I shall send my daughter to bring some tea.” Mr Josiah nodded at the small figure still in the doorway and then drew up a chair and seated himself close to Harriet, peering over the top of a pair of wire framed spectacles with his head tilted to one side.
Harriet was torn between not wishing to appear discourteous by staring at Mr Josiah and seeming to be inattentive by gazing around the room, but she was quite mesmerised by his looks, for he was of a distinctly swarthy complexion with eyes of darkest brown and black lashes that curved upwards like a Spanish courtesan. His lips were full and sensual and his nose straight and narrow, but his hair was totally grey and it was his ears that drew her attention. They were the biggest she had ever seen.
“Now, My Lady. I understand that you fear you may be barren, for you have so far been unable to conceive a child.”
“That is true.” Harriet whispered with some embarrassment, for her husband had been convinced that the problem lay with her, and unless she could produce an heir, she feared he might set her aside and take a mistress.
“Things are never as bad as they seem. I have a wonder potion here.” Mr Josiah assured her, patting her hand with his gnarled fingers. “ Simply drink the draught with your tea and return home. Invite your husband to your chamber tonight and then all you need to do is wait.”
At that, the door opened and the child woman re-entered bearing a silver tray with a fine bone china tea pot and enamelled cups and saucers, which she placed on a rosewood drum table at Mr Josiah’s elbow and then withdrew. He poured the tea and from an inlaid wooden box took a small phial of colourless liquid, which he dripped slowly into one of the cups. “This will not spoil the taste of the tea.” he assured Harriet, as he rose and passed her the cup and watched her drink, before crossing to the door and turning the key quietly in the lock.
Harriet watched him, a little bemused, but she was starting to feel extremely sleepy and couldn’t order her jumbled thoughts properly. She became aware that Mr Josiah had moved towards the French windows; she could hear his slippered feet scuffing along the oaken boards. Then the sunlight was obscured as he deftly pulled at the cords which restrained the drapes and the room was plunged into darkness. He returned to her side and Harriet allowed him to lower her gently until she was prone upon the sofa. She seemed to have no strength to resist.
“Sleep, my dear. The potion is beginning to work. When you are rested you can return home and what follows will be up to you.” The voice in her ear was a soothing lullaby; a warm cocoon of comfort and hope.
Nine months later, Lady Harriet Woodward was brought to bed with a child; a son. The family surgeon, having safely delivered the infant and placed him, wrapped in a shawl, in the mother’s arms, withdrew to appraise His Lordship of the arrival of an heir. Harriet gazed down at the child, taking in the tiny features. True, his colouring was darker than she had expected, but with his eyes closed she could not determine their hue, although the lashes were definitely black. She gently pushed the delicate cotton shawl away from his head to reveal a tuft of hair that was already streaked with grey and, at the same time, out popped a pair of enormous ears.
