Chapter Three - Black Gloves for White
A snowy, wet winter greeted December, and January of 1826 was much the same. Temperatures fell as low as seven degrees, and roads were snow-covered for days. Chimney smoke lingered heavily in the air, and construction of the new town hall was delayed. Amid such a frozen month came the sad news of the death of Charlotte's older brother, Alexander Vaughn. Just a year before, they had celebrated his marriage to Eleanor Morgan, the widow of Francis Stephens. Now, suddenly, Charlotte was donning mourning clothes and draping her bonnet with the darkest silks. Five months pregnant with her third child, her "condition" would be labelled delicate by some, yet there would be no keeping her from gathering with family now.
Alexander's marriage to Eleanor had brought an array of gossip to eager ears. Not only did he have the uncommon fortune of going from labourer to farmer, but Eleanor was fifty-nine and Alexander thirty-three. Such a union was not entirely unheard of; unfortunately, theirs was a marriage much too short for conjuring ideas of what may have been. But clearly, if roles had been reversed, hardly an eyebrow would be lifted. They lived just inside the English border at Woodside, the farm of her first husband, in the little village of Knill, two miles from Presteigne. There is a lengthy web of family connections I have yet to untangle. Perhaps by the end of this book, strands of it will unravel. However, there seems to be an earlier connection between the Morgans, Henry P. Pyefinch's maternal line, the Stephens, and perhaps even the Vaughns. For now, questions collect like the frozen mist along the marshland waiting to be lifted.
The trip to Woodside was a short one, but Charlotte would be long in thought. Where might be the flowers to set upon his grave now? She would settle for sprigs of frozen yew, for even the hardy primroses were hiding from winter's grasp. Staring out on frozen hedgerows, Charlotte dwelled on old curiosities, stories that Alexander knew as well. Funny what comes to your mind. "Beware of the corpse candle," they would say, "don't follow it. Keep away! It will bring you straight to your grave." If it hadn't been so ladened with ice and cold, she might have been inclined to walk. But most likely, she rode in with a sibling, such as her brother Richard and his wife Margaret, joined by her mother and sister Ann, as they were all living on St. David's Street and seemingly together. Just last summer, Richard and Margaret named their second child Alexander, a heartfelt gesture, especially at this time.
In addition to family and friends paying their condolences, Henry P. Pyefinch would be there. He was acquainted with Edward Morgan, Eleanor's father, and may even have been Alexander's physician. It is rare to find a cause of death in parish records or newspapers for this time, so Alexander's death at age thirty-five comes shrouded in mystery.
After such a bleak winter, April brought the contrast of hope. Celandines replaced the snowdrops, and the wild splendour of daffodils greeted the golden rays through the alder. Wood anemones stretched alongside the river Lugg, and bluebells suddenly filled the woodlands. Charlotte remained an atrate, dressed in black and grey, making do with what she had, staying close to home now, biding her time. Within Spring's promise, she gave birth to a son, Henry Pateshall Pyefinch Vaughan. They set him up finely with such a well-seasoned name, but there was little time to show the world. Baby Henry was christened on May 6, 1826, and died three days later. When much of Presteigne was out celebrating at the annual May Fair, the silent babe was laid to rest in the parish churchyard.
Burial Record for infant Henry Pateshall Pyefinch Vaughan, d 1826, Presteigne
Infant mortality was a heartache that went hand in hand with motherhood, painful for all those involved, yet a common occurrence. A private baptism at home would follow the birth of a newborn too weak to survive. But in this case, it seems baby Henry was brought to church, which raises the question of whether he died suddenly, was premature, or ill. Mourning clothes were typically black, although wearing white was not unusual for the loss of a child. The infant, often donned in a white gown and cap, was wrapped in a blanket of pure wool, all a token of eternal innocence. Baby Henry may have been buried in the grave of a family member, flowers strewn, salt tossed to keep away the spirits, and white silk tied around the father's sleeve. Left helpless as both a doctor and parent, Henry P. Pyefinch would take the baby's death to heart. With more tears held inside than could be imagined, Charlotte would trade her black gloves for white, clutching the tender blossoms she wished so badly for this past winter. As far apart as their relationship may have been at this time, whether they stood together or apart, whether Charlotte could even attend the burial so soon after giving birth, the funeral knell resonated through the both of them. It may have been then she decided to close this chapter of her life.