It all came out: the weight of his chubby body in her arms, the scent of his skin, the adoration in his eyes as they fixed on hers as she fed or bathed him, the pleasure of watching him learn to crawl and walk, of encouraging him in achieving these simple milestones. The day she found his sisters feeding him spiders, and the hullabaloo and scolding that ensued before she began to see humour in the situation. His delight in the simplest of things: a sparrow splashing in the water trough, the quacking of ducks – which would have him honking back in return – a battered rattle he got from Laura in exchange for a tin soldier, his hearty appetite for sweetmeats. Most treasured of all, the way his face would light up every time she entered any room in which he was present, his cheeks pinking and his eyes shining, his gurgles of glee, the way he would call ‘Mama!’ as if they had been parted for weeks, not minutes or hours. The way he would run towards her, arms outstretched, the enthusiasm with which he would clamber into her lap.

‘For three and a half years, he gave me nothing but joy. Every moment with him was a shining one. And then he was gone. Just gone. Snatched away by a thief in the night. And I, a clergyman’s wife, had to accept my lot as best I could. The loss of a child is something many families, high and low, have to bear. I could not be seen to repine or rail against fate, no matter how much I might wish to do both.’

She looked again at the ring, remembering the scent of her son’s damaged head as it nestled into her neck, the silkiness of his hair tickling her face. And gave herself over to a fresh bout of weeping. It was only after the long storm of grief had passed that she realised Herr Rosenstein was still holding her hand, his long fingers passing over hers, retuning her own inner strings.

At last Charlotte made use of first her handkerchief, then the musician’s. He turned and rummaged in a pocket of his coat, slung over a chair, extracted a pewter-coloured chased flask, uncapped it, and offered it to her. She accepted, grateful to have something concrete for which to thank him, then took a cautious sip. The liquor was not something she recognised – both fiery and spicy, with a tang of fir. Calmer now, and comforted by the presence of her companion, she found herself remembering Tom’s birth, which, after the relatively easy deliveries of her daughters, had been difficult and prolonged.

1815

CHAPTER XXVIII