The Poor Relation

by Susanna Bavin

  ‘I’m sure I will, because if I don’t, it won’t be you who pays the price this time.’

  His insides turned to ice. Around him, all sound whooshed away. There was no one else present. Just the two of them, looking at one another.

  Mr Jonas allowed his eyes to stray to the ballroom. ‘She has a look of you about her.’

  The ice churned. ‘We’re cousins.’

  ‘Not the mother. The daughter. She has a look of you.’

  ‘Her mother was born a Rawley.’

  Mr Jonas looked at him. ‘And her father? Was he also born a Rawley?’

  The ice was so cold, it became red-hot. He had threatened Eleanor. This slimy, silver-tongued reptile had threatened Eleanor. Eleanor. His beautiful daughter. She was his daughter, wasn’t she?

  ‘You bastard.’ His voice was soft, light, conversational.

  ‘It’s a matter of business, my dear Mr Rawley.’

  ‘Then let me show you how I do business.’

  Grasping the table, he heaved it over sideways. Crystal and china crashed. He grabbed the loathsome money-shark by his expensive lapels and dragged him to his feet before backhanding him across the face, the crunch of Jonas’s neck bones reverberating up his arm. Jonas kicked and struggled, but he held tighter, his grip turning to iron as resolve pumped through his bloodstream, pouring down his arms into his hands. How had he ever believed himself to be in this scum’s power?

  He felt something sharp in his side, as if he had a stitch. Then the sensation was gone. He yanked Jonas so hard that he left the floor, plonking him on his feet hard enough that his ankles would be pulverised if there was any justice. Hauling Jonas closer to get good purchase, he delivered a sharp uppercut that had the blackguard spitting teeth and blood and saliva.

  But something in the face of Mr sodding Jonas cut through his triumph. Looking down, he saw the blade in Jonas’s fingers. The bastard had a flick knife.

  He stabbed me.

  That was what the sensation had been, the keen pain of a knife sliding in and out, slick as you like. He pressed his hand to his side and it came away red. There was a roaring in his ears. Shock? Blood? No – other people – bloody do-gooders trying to break up the commotion. Well, he wasn’t going to hang about for that. He bent Jonas backwards over the balcony.

  How do you like that, you piece of shit?

  The moneylender’s arms flailed, his eyes huge and rolling. Someone grabbed at Greg from behind. He felt another of those smooth dark sensations, this time in the back of his waist – Varney? He gasped, his grip slackening, and that was all Jonas needed. He grabbed at the balcony rail, but that wasn’t going to stop Greg. Nothing was going to stop him. Jonas clung like a bulldog, but Greg mashed the hands on the rail, forcing the fingers to let go. Then, with a final up-and-over shove, he cast the viper to his doom.

  There was a shrill scream. It might have been Jonas, it might have been a female about to collapse with the vapours.

  There were strong arms behind him, pulling him – no, pushing him, bloody hell, pushing him, trying to push him after Jonas. Varney, it had to be. Greg jammed his hands against the rail, pushing back with all his might. Then – come one, come all and join the party – there was another set of hands. Two against one, he thought, before realising that he wasn’t the one who was outnumbered.

  Varney was heaved away from him so violently that Greg staggered backwards after him. Half turning as he stumbled, he saw Robert’s bloody mouthpiece and another bloke tangled up with Varney. A blade flashed. Even as he braced himself for its bite, he saw Varney’s target wasn’t himself but Robert’s lackey. There was a spurt of blood.

  For a moment, or possibly for a long time, Greg stood there, then, to his surprise, he crumpled. His knees gave way, simple as that. Down he went. Robert’s poodle had gone down too. There was a flurry and then the companion-help female sank down beside the good doctor.

  Was he really wasting his time on those insignificant buggers? With chill pouring through him, he made a massive effort and flipped over to press his face between the balusters on the balcony rail so that his final sight would be—

  Chapter Thirty

  There was some sort of kerfuffle. A frown flickered across Mary’s brow, but she banished it. Nothing could spoil today. Nothing. She leant forward, involving herself in the conversation.

  An almighty crash – china, crystal. As her head swung round, she was aware of other heads, other bodies, doing the same.

  ‘Greg!’ Helen exclaimed. ‘What’s he doing?’

  There was a shout. Mary’s heart bumped. She didn’t have a clear line of sight.

  ‘He’s going to tip him over,’ someone said.

  Nathaniel was on his feet. Tearing her eyes from what she couldn’t see properly, Mary darted out a hand to grasp his.

  He detached himself. ‘Stay here.’

  And he was gone. He had no business having such a reassuring voice when he was about to plough into a disturbance. As Alistair followed, Mary lurched to her feet. Helen’s hand appeared on her arm, but she kept moving.

  Others were on their feet now, some rooted to the spot, hesitating, vacillating, others scurrying for safety, men with protective arms around their womenfolk. She pushed her way through, fighting against the current to reach the centre of the chaos. Greg Rawley – another man – Nathaniel – Alistair. The stranger had Mr Rawley clamped against the rail. People in her way – she couldn’t see – the way cleared. Nathaniel and Alistair heaved the man away and all three staggered backwards, locked together. Alistair and the stranger righted themselves, but not Nathaniel. He kept stumbling backwards, then stopped. And then – and then he fell, just dropped where he stood. Mary’s bones turned to wax.

  She plunged forward, sinking beside him, her skirts ballooning around her. Blood glistened on his fingers. Lifting his hand away, she pulled at jacket buttons, revealing a darkened patch that chilled her to her core. More buttons to fumble with. His shirt front – don’t faint, don’t faint – red and soggy to one side beneath his ribs. On her knees, flailing around, she grabbed at a linen napkin – two, three, that was all she could reach – and pressed them down hard against the wound. Was the flesh supposed to give like that on such a lean man?

  Her insides creased as she shared his pain. Then a dark shudder and a gasp made her realise the pain was her own. She fought to ride it out, perspiration blooming over her flesh. She held her breath, head swimming, until the air burst from her in a groan and the pain subsided.

  Alistair hunkered beside her. ‘Let me see. Here! You, fellow! Lend a hand. Bunch up a tablecloth and take over from this lady. Waiter! Fetch towels from the housekeeper, and quick about it.’ He shot Mary a brief look. ‘Well done. You did the right thing. Oh, you’re back in the land of the living, are you, Brewer?’

  Mary had been squeezed out of the way by Alistair and the man he had press-ganged into helping and she had felt light-headed enough from the tail-end of her pain to let it happen, but now she thrust her way between them. Nathaniel’s eyes opened; he managed a grim smile. His hand moved and she clasped it.

  ‘Not the best way to celebrate a wedding,’ he whispered.

  ‘Stay put,’ ordered Alistair. ‘There’s an ambulance on its way. I must see to the fellow who took a header over the rail.’

  He rose, issued a few instructions to staff and disappeared.

  ‘Keep still,’ said Mary. ‘Don’t try—’ Her words cut off as the pain returned. ‘It’s all right. I’m all right.’ She locked a bright smile in place, trying to look natural.

  ‘Are you having pains?’

  ‘No, I’m just worried about you.’

  Alistair reappeared, crouching beside Nathaniel, capturing his wrist. Mary leant away, squeezing every muscle she possessed to try to contain the pain. Perspiration sprouted on her forehead.

  ‘Good job you got injured,’ said Alistair, ‘or the ambulance men would have nothing to do. That other man is dead.’

  ‘Mary
’s having pains.’ Nathaniel’s voice hitched and his face went grey. ‘Get her home.’

  ‘I’m staying with you.’

  But she was surrounded by voices telling her otherwise – Alistair, Helen. She tried to refuse. She couldn’t bear to be separated from Nathaniel.

  He caught her hand. ‘Even if you never listen to me again, listen now. You need to be at home. Knowing you’re there, being properly cared for, will help me.’

  All she could do was agree.

  ‘False start,’ the midwife proclaimed. ‘It was the excitement that sparked it off.’

  Excitement? Mary pictured Nathaniel lying there with blood pouring out of him. ‘When can I get up?’

  ‘Tomorrow. It’s evening now. Sleep would be the best thing.’

  The moment Mrs Salisbury left, Helen, Edith and Mrs Burley came swarming in, clamouring to fuss and soothe her. Her chest was tight with anxiety.

  The doorbell rang.

  ‘That’ll be Alistair,’ Helen said. ‘I told him to come any time, day or night.’

  ‘Bring him up,’ said Mary. ‘If you don’t, I’ll come down.’

  Edith scuttled away, returning a minute later with Alistair.

  ‘I hear the baby changed its mind. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Never mind me. How’s Nathaniel?’

  ‘They’ve patched him up. He’ll be home in a few days, though he’ll need to take things easy.’

  ‘He’ll come here, of course,’ said Helen. ‘We’ll take care of him.’

  ‘When can I see him?’ Mary asked.

  ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means it’s time for you to rest.’

  After a long night, she rose early. Helen tried to shoo her back to bed, but she was determined.

  ‘You can’t visit now,’ said Helen. ‘They won’t let you in.’

  ‘Then I’ll wait outside. I have to be there.’

  ‘Now you’re being silly – Alistair, tell her she’s being silly,’ Helen said as Edith showed Alistair in, looking splendid in his frock coat.

  ‘I’ve come from the hospital, hence the togs. Doesn’t do any harm to look the part. He’s not awake yet, but he’s had a good night.’

  ‘I’m going,’ Mary declared.

  ‘Steady on. I had to pull strings to get in.’

  ‘Then you can pull them for me too.’

  ‘Let’s see what we can do, shall we? Don’t give me the evil eye, Miss Rawley. I’ll take care of her. In fact, you can come along and do that job yourself.’

  ‘Do you think your doctor friends will bend the rules for me?’ asked Mary.

  Alistair laughed. ‘It’s Matron we’ve got to get past.’

  Matron turned out to be a no-nonsense-looking woman. Drawing her aside, Alistair spoke in confidential tones. She glanced at Mary and Helen, but it was impossible to tell what she was thinking. Mary squeezed Helen’s fingers, then let her breath out in a rush as Matron led them to Nathaniel’s bedside.

  He was lying still, with not so much as a wrinkle in the pristine bedding. His skin was colourless, which made his hair look darker. Alistair positioned a wooden chair for her and Mary moved it closer to the bed. She wanted to hold Nathaniel’s hand, but his arms were trapped beneath sheets that were crisply tucked in.

  ‘You must leave before Doctor comes on his rounds in an hour,’ said Matron. ‘I’ll send a porter to escort you.’

  She walked away and Alistair went too.

  Mary touched Nathaniel’s cheek, willing strength and love to pour through her fingertips.

  ‘He looks peaceful,’ said Helen.

  ‘Aunt Helen! That’s what everyone says about dead people.’

  He appeared to be sleeping well. They sat quietly, exchanging the occasional remark. Mary’s back began to ache. She rolled her shoulders, failing to ease the discomfort. Rising, she took a few steps, but, aware of glances from the sister at the table at the end of the ward, she sat again lest she be told to leave.

  Nathaniel murmured and stirred. Mary leant forward, saying his name.

  He was smiling as he opened his eyes. ‘You’re here.’

  ‘Couldn’t keep her away,’ said Helen. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Sore, but mainly happy to see my wife.’ He frowned. ‘What about …?’

  ‘False alarm,’ Mary whispered.

  ‘Then I’ll have to wait a little longer to be a father.’

  It was raining as Helen stepped from the carriage at Southern Cemetery. It had rained the day of Robert’s funeral, too, though that rain had been relentless and miserable. Greg was going to be buried in summer drizzle. The grass would smell wonderful afterwards.

  What a mess he had made of his life. He had been in and out of debt for years, living on his wits, getting money from gambling – and his family had had no idea. They thought he had made wise investments. A gurgle of laughter escaped her. She cleared her throat, trying to cover the gaffe. Not that there were many people to witness it. This was a private funeral.

  That man Jonas sounded a nasty piece of work. Evidently Greg had been in hock to him to the tune of a thousand guineas. Just thinking of it made Helen’s heart beat faster. Greg had never deserved Jackson’s House.

  A wretched fear sliced deeper with each thought. Greg had left a colossal debt and it must be repaid – but how? His major asset was Jackson’s House. Could it be sold from under her, in spite of Robert’s will?

  She had tried questioning Mr Porter to no avail.

  ‘I cannot reveal the contents of Mr Greg Rawley’s will.’

  ‘He made a will?’

  ‘Not long before he died. Does that surprise you?’

  ‘Considering he died with more debt than you could shake a stick at, I suppose it does.’

  ‘Ah, but considering what we now know of his way of life, he might just as easily have died as rich as Crœsus.’

  Mr Porter was here at the graveside. Sir Edward was present, representing the Rawleys. He had offered to represent her too. The mighty Sir Edward Kimber had called at Jackson’s House and delicately suggested she needn’t attend the funeral.

  ‘I’ll represent my wife and her parents,’ he explained. ‘I’ll be glad to represent you also.’

  ‘I’ll represent myself, thank you.’

  So here she was, though she wasn’t entirely sure why she had come. Certainly not to pay her respects. Greg had long been her least favourite person. In acknowledgement of family? All said and done, he was Arthur’s son, her nephew. But not a nephew to be proud of.

  ‘Is it wrong to be glad he’s dead?’ she had asked Mary. ‘Just think what would have happened had he lived. The trial, the publicity. They’d have hanged him. He killed that man before dozens of witnesses.’

  As it was, there was just one man left to face justice and he would hang for Greg’s murder. He had stabbed Nathaniel too. Helen closed her eyes. Nathaniel had been spared. Losing him would have been unendurable.

  ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to come with you?’ Mary had offered.

  ‘Bless you, there’s no need. It’s not as though it’s going to be a big occasion.’

  She wasn’t even sure it was right to call it a funeral, with no hymns, no service, just a burial. What a way to go. At least he was having a few prayers at the graveside. They had been granted permission to hold the sparse ceremony at the early hour of eight o’clock, so as to evade prying eyes and reporters.

  Eight o’clock – that was when they hanged people, wasn’t it?

  Never had it been more important to be Lady Kimber. Never had it been more important to hold herself erect, to be cool and dignified and beautifully turned-out, not merely in her dress but in her demeanour, her complexion, the delicate telltale skin around her eyes. The carriage halted. The door was opened, the step pulled down. Sir Edward got out, turning to offer a hand to steady her descent, her husband bringing her to visit her cousin’s final resting place. What could be more respectab
le?

  She had brought flowers. Not a sombre wreath, but a glorious bouquet, roses and African daisies, golden and apricot and burnt orange, all in a frothy cloud of gypsophila, and at the centre a single crimson-tasselled stem of love-lies-bleeding. The coachman would have carried the flowers, but she gathered them within the circle of her arm, giving her other hand to her husband, laying her fingers within the safety of his elbow.

  She felt distanced from the situation as they approached the mound of earth covering the fresh grave. She placed her flowers on top, then stood beside her husband.

  She didn’t ask for a moment alone.

  ‘A waste of a life,’ Sir Edward observed, though whether he meant a life frittered or a life cut short wasn’t clear. ‘Are you ready, my dear?’

  ‘Certainly. What time is the solicitor due?’

  ‘Half past three.’

  Greg’s solicitor had applied to Sir Edward for an appointment. Her heart delivered a thump. Had Greg made her his heir? Not that there would be anything to leave once the debt had been settled, but had he named her? It wouldn’t arouse comment if he had. With no wife and children, no brothers or sisters in the picture, no one would think twice at his naming his cousin.

  Except Helen.

  Lady Kimber was in the library with Sir Edward when Mr Porter was shown in. Looking up to acknowledge him, she drew a sharp breath as Aunt Helen preceded him into the room.

  ‘Forgive me if I appear surprised, Mr Porter, but I wasn’t aware you were bringing anyone with you.’

  ‘I beg your pardon if I failed to make myself clear, but since this is the reading of the will, it is desirable that all interested parties are present.’

  Her husband ushered Helen to a seat. She looked a scarecrow in a mauve dress daubed with black velvet bows and an unfortunate black ruffle circling the hem.

  ‘Will Miss Kimber be joining us?’ asked Mr Porter.

  ‘Eleanor is spending the day with friends.’ And a good thing, too, with Helen rolling up.

  ‘No matter. She is, I believe, under twenty-one and therefore under paternal jurisdiction.’ Mr Porter opened his leather document case and removed some sheets that had been folded lengthwise. ‘I have here the last will and testament of Gregory Arthur Rawley. It’s a simple document. Mr Rawley left everything when he died to Eleanor Kimber, née Davenport.’