“Even so. You’re overworked and worried about Catherine. We’ll work something out. I need to start thinking about my own future in any event.” He paused, then added, “And what about Elizabeth?”
Donald shrugged. “It’s still too risky for her to return to Scotland—we’re sure Kinnell’s had Chalmers’s house watched. Ours too, probably.” He rubbed a weary hand over his eyes. “The fact is, she’ll never see her father again, and that’s difficult for everyone. Catherine’s been especially upset by it, particularly when her mother uses it as an excuse to malign Lizzie.”
David could just imagine. Elizabeth’s mother would have detested the scandal Elizabeth had caused.
After a pause, David asked, “Do you know why Chalmers wants to see me?”
“Well, Lord knows he’s fond of you—boasts about your achievements like you’re his own flesh and blood.” Donald paused. “It’s possible he wishes only to say good-bye, but I can’t help thinking there’s more to it. I know he’s worried about Elizabeth too. I’ve tried to get him to talk to me, but...” He trailed away helplessly.
“I’ll go to him first thing tomorrow.”
Donald lifted his glass and said, “Let’s pray he lasts another night.”
Chapter Six
David was just about to leave the townhouse the next morning when Murdo entered the hallway behind him.
“You forgot something.”
David turned his head to be confronted by the ebony-and-silver cane and an expression on Murdo’s face that dared David to defy him.
“Chalmers’s house is less than ten minutes away,” David protested, but Murdo just kept holding out the cane.
“You should take it with you whenever you go out.” His expression softened at whatever look he saw on David’s face, and he added more gently, “For now.”
David sighed, but he took the cane, though somewhat ungraciously.
“Fine,” he huffed and turned to the door again.
“Make sure you’re back for dinner,” Murdo said in an imperious tone he sometimes used that got on David’s nerves.
David turned back to look at him, irritated. “Must you order me around like that?” he demanded. “I’m not one of your footmen, and anyway, dinner’s eight hours away.”
Murdo’s jaw was set and belligerent. “I’m not ordering you around, merely asking you to ensure you are back sooner rather than later. After all, I’m setting off for London first thing tomorrow morning.”
And in that moment, David saw what this was really about.
“I promise I’ll be back,” he said. “We’ll have tonight, Murdo.”
Murdo’s gaze slid away, his cheeks pinkening slightly as he turned aside. “All right, I’ll see you later then.”
David was still half smiling over their exchange as he left the townhouse, despite the fact that he hated the cane and that he was dreading what he would find when he reached Chalmers’s house.
He wasn’t long out the door, though, before he wished he’d argued his point about the cane a bit harder. He preferred not to use it when he didn’t need to, and for such a short walk it seemed ridiculous. He hated the tapping noise the silver tip made when it struck the cobbles under his feet, a constant reminder of his disability, as if the ache in his hip and knee wasn’t enough.
When he arrived at Chalmers’s house, though, all thoughts of his own troubles and petty concerns fled. It hadn’t occurred to him that there would be any outward sign of the man who lay dying inside, but of course there was. The pavement and road in front of his friend’s house was strewn with a thick layer of straw to muffle the sounds of passing carriages and horses and the footsteps of pedestrians. It was an outward sign of terrible sickness. Of imminent death. And for the first time, David felt the truth of it—Chalmers really was dying.
He approached the front door slowly, staring at its glossy exterior for a moment before raising his hand to knock. The maidservant who answered was quiet and subdued, keeping her gaze downcast as she stood aside to let David pass.
Inside, the house was as silent as the muffled cobbles outside. David was shown into the drawing room, where he took a seat on a stiff horsehair sofa, balancing his cane beside him.
After a while, the door opened and a woman entered. David’s first thought was how relieved he was it wasn’t Mrs. Chalmers, with whom he’d dreaded making stilted conversation. The woman who came in was younger than Mrs. Chalmers, and she was dressed in a sober grey gown, with a white apron and a white lace cap that covered her hair so thoroughly David couldn’t have said what colour it was.
“Mr. Lauriston,” she said, approaching him. Her voice was low and pleasant.
He stood up quickly, making the cane clatter to the floor. The woman had reached him now, and she bent to pick it up at the same moment David did, causing them to bump heads.
“Oh, that was clumsy of me. I do beg your pardon,” David said.
“Not at all.” She laughed, handing the cane over. “My fault entirely. It’s second nature to me to pick things up after people, I’m afraid. I’m Mrs. Jessop, Mr. Chalmers’s nurse.”
David bowed. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, ma’am.”
“Mr. Chalmers will be pleased to see you, sir. He’s been asking after you for the last few days. Since Mr. Ferguson said he’d written to ask you to come.”
“How is he?”
Mrs. Jessop’s expression remained serene, but her pale gaze softened with sad sympathy. “Not well, sir. I’m afraid it will not be long now.”
“How long do you think?”
She shook her head. “Impossible to say for certain, but no more than a few days, I would think. Every morning he wakes is a blessing now.”
The solid lump of grief in David’s throat felt like it was choking him. Mrs. Jessop spared his pride by turning away.
“Come,” she said. “I’ll take you to him.”
Somehow, David shambled himself back together again and followed her out into the hall. They ascended the broad, winding staircase together, David’s eyes fixed on the nurse’s dove-grey skirts.
She led him to one of the bedchambers and knocked softly at the door before opening it a crack. “Mr. Chalmers, I have someone to see you.”
“Come in,” said a weak, listless voice, barely recognisable to David. Mrs. Jessop opened the door all the way, stepping to one side to allow David to precede her.
The man who lay against the white pillows in Chalmers’s bed was a stranger. The last time David had seen his friend, he’d looked unwell—thinner and frailer—but this was something else altogether. Now he was shrunk to skin and bones, and his face was gaunt. In the morning light, his sallow skin had a papery look, and his once twinkling eyes were dull and sunken.
When his gaze alighted on David, though, that terrible death mask somehow cracked for a moment and David saw a glimpse of his old friend.
“David—”
Chalmers began struggling—and failing—to raise himself up on one elbow. David stepped forward to help, wondering how to do so, but before he could formulate a plan, Mrs. Jessop was at Chalmers’s side, doing something discreet and easy looking with a pile of pillows. Half a minute later, Chalmers was sitting up, in a fashion, reclining against a great snowy bolster the nurse had made for him.
“There now,” she said. “I’ll leave you, but I’ll bring some tea up in a little while, shall I?” She didn’t wait for an answer but smoothly glided away, closing the door behind her with a tiny click.
“My friend,” David said softly, walking forward. “It’s good to see you.”
“And you, lad.” Chalmers’s thin voice was a mere whisper, but somehow he imbued the words he uttered with a rich mix of emotions, relief and pleasure and sorrow all at once.
David sat himself down in the single empty chair beside the bed. Chalmers raised his right hand in a weak greeting, and David took it between both of his own. Shocked by how cold and brittle it felt, he chafed it gently between his fing
ers. When he looked at Chalmers’s face again, he was horrified to feel tears leap into his eyes.
Ducking his head, he muttered, “I’m sorry.”
But Chalmers merely gave a wheezy chuckle. “Don’t be. I’m gratified to—to merit tears.”
David managed a faint chuckle of his own at that typically Chalmers comment, though it was a sad effort, in truth.
“I’m glad you got here in time, lad. Before I—”
“Don’t—”
“—before I die,” Chalmers continued with gentle emphasis, adding with a sad smile, “It won’t be long now, lad.” He fell silent then, for so long that David wondered if he had it in him to talk anymore.
“Do you have something you want to tell me?” David prompted after a while. “Or something to ask of me? You know I will do whatever is in my power.”
“I know,” Chalmers breathed. “You have been a good friend to me. And yes, I have something to—ask.”
“Name it.”
“I’ll come to it. First, have you seen Kitty and Donald?”
David nodded. “Last night, I dined with them.”
“Then you’ll know how”—he seemed to search for words, and perhaps also for breath—“how delicate Kitty is.”
David paused, unsure how much to say. In the end, he settled for, “Kitty’ll be all right. Donald will take care of her. You know that, don’t you?”
Chalmers nodded. “Donald’s a good lad.” He closed his eyes, his brow furrowing as though he was in pain, while his thin chest rose and fell with his shaky breaths.
When he opened his eyes again, he said sadly, “Poor Kitty. She was always—always my sunny girl.”
David gazed at the other man earnestly. “And she will be again. She’s had a hard time of it, but she’ll come round, with Donald’s help. She’s strong, and no woman could want a more attentive husband.”
A faint nod at that and a matching smile, happy and melancholy all at once. “They are happy together. A true love match. That’s—” He broke off, closing his eyes and tensing again. David raised himself from his chair and leaned over the other man, concerned but not knowing what to do.
After a minute, Chalmers opened his eyes and gestured shakily at the jug on his nightstand. David carefully poured him a cup of what looked like plain water and held it to Chalmers’s lips, slipping his arm around the other man’s shoulders to support him while he drank. He could feel Chalmers’s shoulder blades through his nightshirt, sharp and frail, and the weight of him was puny on David’s arm. He was like a husk, dried out and ready to blow away with the winds.
Once Chalmers had drunk his fill and rested for a minute, he began to talk again.
“My Kitty married a man she loves, thank God. It’s the only reason to marry, lad.”
David watched his friend. Chalmers knew better than anyone how often people married for reasons other than love. His own marriage was a cold affair. What was more, Elizabeth, his oldest and favourite daughter, had married Sir Alasdair Kinnell after being disappointed in love by David himself. David, guilty over his clumsy rejection of her, had been relieved to hear of the marriage, glad that she’d married so well. It was only later that he learned how Kinnell was abusing her.
“I did not marry for love,” Chalmers said. “Margaret was the daughter of a senior man at the bar. Four years older than I. Her father let it be known she had a good dowry, and that he’d give my career a leg up.” He closed his eyes. “I was ambitious back then.”
David was not surprised to hear that Chalmers’s marriage had been devoid of any tender feelings, even at the beginning. Chalmers’s wife was a proud, haughty woman. She’d shown no affection and little respect for her husband in all the time David had known Chalmers, and she didn’t bother to hide her contempt for anyone he invited into their home whom she considered to be inferior.
“I would not change anything now,” Chalmers continued. “I have four wonderful girls who I love more than life. But the truth is, our marriage was never a happy one. She was always cold.” He closed his eyes again, breathing against another wave of pain. For a while he was silent, then he added, “And perhaps I was too. We were never more than strangers who lived in the same house.”
David couldn’t help but contrast the bleak picture Chalmers presented with his own parents’ quiet contentment. They had never had the money or position enjoyed by Chalmers and his wife, but they had something else far more valuable, a deep love for one another that had survived a hundred trials—lost babies and bad harvests and severe winters. No matter how bad things had ever been for them, they always had each other to lean on.
“It must have been difficult,” David murmured, “to live like that. Like strangers.”
“I didn’t realise how much, till I met someone I truly cared for,” Chalmers confessed, his voice raw with emotion. He paused before adding, “I did not set out to do it. She was a client—a widow. We became friends first. Then, much later, lovers.”
David was shocked. He’d never even guessed at this. Chalmers had given no hint of it before. “Does she know about this?” he asked. “Your illness, I mean?”
Chalmers shook his head. He closed his eyes, and his throat bobbed as he swallowed. Eventually, he said, “She passed away three years ago.”
“Ah God, Chalmers, I’m sorry.”
“At the time, it was terrible. There was no one I could speak to about her. She was the love of my life, and I had to act as though she had never existed. As though my heart had not been destroyed.”
David’s heart squeezed at that painful confession. “What was her name?”
“Mary. Mary Cunningham.”
“I’m glad that you—that you found some happiness with her.” The words came out rather stiltedly, but they were sincerely meant, and somehow David knew Chalmers understood that.
“And I’m glad I can speak of her to someone. For all this time, it has felt as though I’ve been denying her very existence. Denying that I loved her.” He paused. “Love should not be denied.”
“She’d have understood,” David replied, believing it.
Chalmers didn’t answer that right away, but at last he said quietly, “I don’t know about that. She died alone. After she took ill, I hired a nurse for her, since I couldn’t be with her all the time. It happened after I left her one evening so I could attend a dinner party Margaret had arranged.” He closed his eyes and his voice shook with regret as he continued. “She died in the early hours of the morning. I was not with her, and I should have been. I can never get that chance back again—to be there for her when she passed. I was too busy slinking back here to dine with some bore Margaret wanted me to charm.”
The agony on Chalmers’s face was palpable. This was a soul-deep pain, far worse in its way than the physical pain the man now endured.
“Do you still think she’d have understood, lad?” Chalmers whispered.
David couldn’t deny that Chalmers’s confession altered his view. He found himself imagining Murdo leaving his side to perform an obligation to some hypothetical future wife and was surprised at how painful he found the mere thought. Not that he intended to find himself in such a position. He’d decided long ago that he would break off with Murdo as and when a potential wife appeared on the scene.
“But that is not even my greatest regret,” Chalmers continued in a pained voice.
“What is then?”
“That I did not tell Mary I loved her till she was too ill to understand the words.”
Chalmers’s face was twisted into an expression of self-loathing, and David’s heart ached for his friend. “I’ll wager she knew,” he whispered. But Chalmers just shook his head.
“Words have power,” he said. “I held my confession back to punish myself for my infidelity. But when Mary lay dying, I realised I had punished her too. Saying the words was”—a shaking breath—“it was far more powerful than I realised it would be. But without Mary to hear those words, they were stillborn. Sometimes t
hings must be said.” He closed his eyes. “And they must be heard too.”
Chalmers sank back into his pillows, exhausted after that relatively lengthy exchange, and fell into a light, fitful slumber.
Mrs. Jessop popped her head in again while he dozed. She carried a tea tray, which she set down on the sideboard. She poured some tea for David, dosing his cup with both milk and sugar before passing it to him. It wasn’t at all how he liked it—but he drank it down gratefully while she checked on Chalmers. There was a cup for Chalmers too, though not of tea, in his case. Mrs. Jessop sat it on the nightstand beside his bed, ready for when he woke. Then she tiptoed from the room again.
At length, Chalmers stirred. He grimaced, almost comically, when David pointed out the draught beside his head, though he let David help him sit up straighter, the better to drink it down.
David held the cup to Chalmers’s lips and the older man accepted most of the contents before leaning back against his pillows again.
“So, I have a favour to ask you, David.”
“Name it.”
“It is to do with Elizabeth.”
David didn’t pause. “I guessed as much.”
Another wait while Chalmers gathered his strength again. David was coming to learn his dying friend’s rhythms, and they were heartbreakingly slow.
“I had a letter last week from Charles Carr, my brother-in-law. He is the solicitor administering Elizabeth’s trust.”
“Yes, I remember.” Although David was one of Elizabeth’s trustees, so far he’d had no need to perform any duties since Donald had taken that burden on his shoulders after David’s accident. “Is there a problem?”
“It’s Kinnell. He’s been to Charles’s office. He was asking questions about Elizabeth.”
David stared helplessly at his friend, trying not to betray how profoundly this news, that Elizabeth’s husband was so close to her, scared him. He’d experienced firsthand what Kinnell was capable of when he had his wife in his sights.
“Charles doesn’t think it means Kinnell knows about the trust, or even that she’s in London,” Chalmers continued. “Kinnell may have just gone to see him on the off chance—he knows Charles is family—but equally, he could have been watching Charles’s offices.”
Enlightened Page 6
