Scarlet Shadows

by Elizabeth Darrell

  “Is there anything I can do?” he asked desperately, easing the reins. “Tell me what I must do.”

  “Take me home. Just take me home as fast as you can. I feel sure it is the child. Hurry, Hugo.”

  Dear God, he thought. It will be almost three-quarters of an hour before we reach Wychbourne, whether I go on or turn back. Why did I bring her up here? God Almighty, why?

  “Hugo!” Her hand gripped his arm as another spasm shook her. “Help me. Please get me home.”

  The cry brought him an instant idea hatched from desperation and confronted him with a decision he had not time to consider. He stopped the gig, took off his coat to spread on the floor of the small carriage and made Victoria lie on it while he padded her around with two rugs. Then, the decision taken, rightly or wrongly, he told her gently what he intended doing.

  “It will take almost an hour if I use the road we’re on — and then only if we go at the gallop. I mean to cut across country. It will be difficult and I shall have to take it slowly, but it can be done and will get us to Wychbourne in twenty minutes. You will feel that I am not going with all speed, but this way you will reach help as swiftly as it is possible to do so. Trust me, Victoria.”

  “Do you think I would not?” she said faintly.

  He reflected wildly that his own trust must be put in the horse, for if the beast shied from the task, not all the skill in the world would be of any use. Standing on the seat and pulling gently on the reins, he coaxed the animal to leave the road and set off down the grassy slope. The horse did not take kindly to the idea of a wide-open hillside after the clear-cut road he had been following. Hugo longed for one of his own horses instead of a plodding old gelding who was past adapting to new ways but did not allow his anxiety to pass to the horse. Talking in quiet encouragement, he eased the animal downward in a steady pace, knowing the first onset of panic could cause it to bolt and throw them all down the hill.

  Now he had taken the decision, Hugo wasted no time wondering whether he had been right, but it occurred to him they might be facing the wrath of God Victoria had mentioned a short while ago. Deep inside him, was the conviction that something terrible was about to happen. He felt it in the accelerating wheels of the gig; in the white stones that jolted them whenever he could not avoid passing over them; in the tenseness of his legs as they braced against the wooden seat and in the rhythmic pumping of blood through his brain. He heard it in the panting of the horse as his nostrils flared nervously; he heard it in every gasp from the girl on the floor; in his own tightly controlled instructions to the horse; and in the stillness of the deserted hillside.

  Ahead was a wide swath of trees which must be crossed before they reached the lower slopes. He knew of a path that skirted a quarry but had ridden on it only once before. Would it be wide enough for the gig? Dandy, the horse, took exception to the solid block of tree trunks ahead and tried to veer away from them. The carriage began to slip sideways, and it took a strong arm to pull the horse around to face what he dreaded with rolling eyes and high-stepping hooves.

  Hugo glanced quickly at Victoria and met large eyes that asked questions he could not answer. He smiled a reassurance he did not feel. There was no time to soothe her fears; at this moment it was more important to soothe Dandy.

  “Come on, boy. It is only a few trees. You’ve seen trees before,” he said softly and drove him into the dark shadow of the copse where the sun created pools of gilded haze as it broke through the thinning autumn foliage. It was hushed and still in there, so still that their quiet progress through the deep spread of crackling leaves sounded like a brace of Roman chariots.

  He spotted the path almost immediately. It was the only way they could traverse the copse, but it was damnably narrow and a bare three feet from the edge of the quarry. For a split second he hesitated, then guided his horse onto it as Victoria moved convulsively at his feet. He had been blessed with the eye and judgment of a natural horseman; he must put them to the test now.

  During the next six minutes he coaxed Dandy along that path, inching past sections where the edge had been washed into the quarry by earlier heavy rains. Sweat damped his armpits and shoulders, and stood out on his brow. At every shuddering breath from Victoria he redoubled his efforts. Faster. They must go faster. The beauties of the copse went unseen. Variegated leaves against blue heavens; hoary crab apples, sweet chestnuts scattered on the ground and bursting from their green cases; rambling blackberries, blood-red in the sunshine; leaping squirrels; birds scavenging in the damp bracken; and the sweet smell of moist, rich earth were lost on Hugo as he made his painstaking race against time, fighting the urge for speed with the iron hand of caution.

  Then they were out onto the green slopes that led down into the farmlands. But the lower they traveled the damper it became and the more difficult it was to keep going. The wheels sank into the mud, dragging back on the shafts as Dandy tried to plod his way through the sticky patches. Another glance at Victoria showed Hugo the time for caution had passed. Her face was pinched with fear and as pale as a cameo. The time he had saved by coming down the hill was not nearly enough.

  Driving Dandy was no use now. Leaping from the gig, Hugo squelched through the lush grass to take the horse’s head. Foot by foot, he urged the beast forward, never once losing his temper with an animal that was doing his best and scrambling to the back whenever the wheels stuck to put his shoulder to the carriage. There was a driving urgency on him. He knew nothing of childbirth, but Victoria looked extremely ill and something told him it would be too late if he did not hurry.

  At last they were beside the river where a narrow tow path provided firm footing again. The horse had caught some of the excitement and sensed that a great effort was demanded of him, for he responded to the light touch of the whip and his master’s hoarse command, “Go like hell, boy!” The gig fairly raced over the path toward a farmyard through which it had to pass before reaching the road.

  The farmer looked up in amazement to see the Blythes’ gig hurtling along beside the stream. Where in perdition had it come from? The tow path went up only to the mill and ended in its yard. Captain Esterly looked like a wild banshee standing on the seat in his shirt sleeves yelling at him to open the gates. The gig was almost upon him before it dawned on him that if he didn’t open the gates, the captain would drive right through them.

  Hugo was about to pull Dandy to a halt when he saw the gates being unfastened. Thank God, he breathed, and flashed past the farmer calling, “Get Dr. Anson up to Wychbourne immediately. Hurry, man, hurry.” He repeated the message to the farmhand, who held open the other gate and swung out of the farm approach onto the road. Here he gave Dandy his head until they curved into the drive of Wychbourne House and thundered up the graceful approach.

  The horse was flecked with lather when they pulled up in a spray of gravel. Hugo leaped down and began lifting Victoria gently into his arms, wrapping the rugs around her as he did so. Her paleness terrified him, and so did her burning body. They exchanged looks that said everything they need not put into words. It was all there — the regrets, the apologies, the fears — and as he strode into the house shouting for a servant to gallop for the doctor, Hugo knew his intuition had been right. Something terrible was about to happen.

  Servants were told to go and prepare Mrs. Stanford’s maid and inform Lord and Lady Blythe that she had been taken ill. In a voice cracked with tension and shouting, he put the fear of God into everyone within range. They could only imagine there had been an accident, since Captain Esterly was coatless, sweating and covered in mud.

  Hugo carried Victoria into her room and laid her on the bed, instructing Rosie to keep her mistress warm and to give her only water until the doctor arrived. He could do no more than squeeze Victoria’s hand and assure her everything would be all right before tearing himself away, haunted by her pallor.

  Desperation sent him running down the stairs, yelling for his horse to be saddled. Charles must be informed at once. Snatch
ing up his coat from where it lay in the gig, he leaped into the saddle and set off like the wind for the telegraph office in Aylesbury. A servant could have gone, but he himself would get there quicker by galloping over the property of neighboring families who knew him. There was an anger inside him that had to find expression in violent physical action. When he got back, the doctor’s gig was outside the front entrance. It was there all night.

  It was impossible to go to bed. Lady Blythe retired in real distress, for once, but Hugo and Lord Blythe remained in the study before a log fire with a bottle of brandy to fortify them. All the afternoon and evening had been spent in the greatest anxiety. There was no doubt about a premature birth; it was simply a case of keeping mother and child alive. The doctor had confirmed to Hugo that time had been all-important in getting the patient to Wychbourne and clapped the young man on the back as he assured him he had done everything possible, under the circumstances, although he could not imagine how anyone could drive a gig down from Mexford Heights without overturning and crashing to the bottom.

  Even so, Hugo tormented himself with blame. He should never have taken Victoria out in a gig in her condition. He should have listened to Charity Verewood the day before when she insisted that females in that condition should remain quietly in a room to retain a serene attitude of mind. Time after time he referred to the railway timetable that told him Charles could not possibly arrive until midmorning, and he strode up and down the study carpet until Lord Blythe said wearily, “When you have seen a little more of life you will learn to sit still when nothing can be gained by exhausting one’s nervous energy, Hugo.”

  The young man turned a strained face toward his father. “No, sir. I think I shall never be like you and Charles. My temperament is too restless for that. How could I sit still when there is so much weighing on my conscience?”

  “Nonsense, boy. You cannot be held responsible for the ways of nature — that is the job of the Almighty.”

  “But Victoria has done nothing to…why her?”

  Lord Blythe stood up and went to warm his back at the fire. “That is a question you should never ask, for you will never stop. Why my brother? Why my infant daughter? Why your father? Why Victoria’s young parents? The list is endless. The Lord has an overall plan and we cannot expect it to fit our especial requirements.” He studied the young man he had chosen to rear. “He has been very good to you, Hugo. You have a fine manly body, a good deal of intelligence and considerable skill in your chosen field. You have wealth and breeding, and when I die my estate in Bedfordshire will be yours. There has to be a discount side.”

  “I will allow that,” Hugo cried, “but why should Victoria pay it on my account?”

  “I have a feeling it will be Charles who pays,” said Lord Blythe quietly.

  Hugo put his head in his hands, then looked up over the top of his fingers with bloodshot eyes. “Of all the people to cause it, it should be me!”

  Lord Blythe walked across to the small table and picked up a decanter. “Have another glass of brandy, my boy, and try to relax.”

  The grandfather clock ticked loudly all through that long night, and Hugo found himself regulating his paces to the slow tick as he counted the minutes away. He had never before noticed how many inexplicable noises filled Wychbourne at the dead of night, nor how the wind whistled as-it became trapped in a corner of the projecting wings.

  Lord Blythe’s eyelids drooped, and he slept while the oil lamps burned low, but Hugo relived the previous day in a hundred ways, each different from the actuality. He tried making bargains with God, then abandoned that for straight prayer. He vowed to put Victoria out of his mind; he swore to transfer to a regiment in India; he even wildly contemplated marriage with Charity Verewood as the only solution to his unhappy life. The night wore on minute by minute with no word from upstairs, and his torment continued.

  At 4:30 A.M. a servant entered and said in a low voice that the doctor wished someone to go up. It did not occur to Hugo to wake his father. Taking the stairs three at a time, he arrived in Victoria’s sitting room before the doctor was ready for him, and a tearful Rosie went into the bedroom to fetch him.

  Dr. Anson was stout and bucolic, but one thing he did know about was midwifery. He had plenty of practice in his village, and there were few who could handle the situation better than he. His manners were rough, but a newborn child was safer in his hands than those of some specialists. Even so, he had a grave expression on his face as he came out to Hugo.

  “I did my best, Captain Esterly. The child was a boy.”

  “Was?”

  The doctor wagged his head. “Never had a chance. Much too soon, you know.”

  Hugo reeled. “And Mrs. Stanford?”

  He shook his head again. “It’s touch and go.”

  “Dear God!”

  “Major Stanford has not yet arrived, I suppose?”

  “No.”

  “Then I should like you to remain here in case you are needed. She is very weak. It is not likely she would know you were not her husband in her last moments. I will call if she asks for someone.”

  “Is there no chance, man?” asked Hugo desperately.

  Bushy eyebrows went up. “Dear me, yes. There is always a chance until the last one has gone.”

  Half an hour passed in dazed shock until Hugo was jolted out of it by the opening of the outer door to admit his brother. Charles was in uniform, his cloak thrown over his shoulders. He carried a riding whip, and his face was red from the night chill. He pulled up at the sight of the younger man.

  “What in blazes are you doing here?”

  “Anson asked me to wait nearby. No, Charles, I should not go in.”

  “Why?” The question was terse and hostile.

  “He said he would call if someone was needed. Thank God you are here. I thought you could not arrive before eleven.”

  “I took the train to London the minute your message arrived, then hired a phaeton and drove through the night. Damn Anson! I have not galloped up here to be told he will call if I am needed. My wife and child are in there.” He pushed past his brother and went into the bedroom.

  Hugo felt suddenly beaten. He did not belong here. That bedroom door closed in his face told him the truth more cruelly than before. The corridors could easily be sinister at this hour, dimly lit and stretching forever, full of the ghosts of those who had walked along them. The Mirror Room was a small version of purgatory, with his own face accusing him from every direction like the demons of hell rising up in the faint light of one guttering lamp. He reached his sitting room and dismissed Dawkins, who had been waiting up for him.

  “But, Captain Esterly, you have had no sleep,” he protested.

  “Get out, man,” he said savagely. “Get out!”

  “Yes, sir.” The valet feared the worst had happened and, at once, relayed the news of Mrs. Stanford’s death to those below stairs, whereupon the women burst into tears, and a faint glisten was to be seen on many a male cheek.

  Dawn came up without shame. It proclaimed the joys of living as if nothing had happened. The brown-haired man standing so silently watching it from his window found it incredible that a morning of such pure gilded beauty could follow last night. The growing light revealed the deer that had been there all the time — shy, gentle and innocent. The birds of the air burst into simultaneous song that told all those who heard it to rejoice in the sound. The gray walls of Wychbourne emerged out of the darkness for one more day; solid and impregnable, indifferent to the dramas played out within them. Life went on.

  The door of his room opened and he turned quickly. Charles was standing there with a wild look in his bloodshot eyes. His face was white, jaw working with an enormous emotion as he faced his brother across the width of the room.

  “I want you out of here by midday. If you were any other man I would kill you.”

  Hugo felt the world close in on him. Dear God, forgive me. He gripped the back of a chair as Charles went on. “You dest
royed my son. From the moment you took Victoria off on one of your wild jaunts they stood no chance.”

  “I did all I could, I swear,” said Hugo brokenly.

  “All you could to ensure he would not survive.”

  “No…believe me. Charles, you are overwrought. You do not know what you are saying.”

  “I know the facts. My dead son lies out there to condemn you.” He was fighting to control himself. “We are no longer brothers. You have betrayed every principle of brotherhood. I forbid you to have any further contact with my wife. There are to be no more dishonorable assignations behind my back.”

  Something inside Hugo flamed up like a rocket to burst inside his head. He had thought Victoria dead. Charles had flayed him with a tirade about the infant without giving him the news that delivered him from hell. Snatching up his riding crop, he took three strides across the room.

  “I take that from no one, you damned…” He broke off abruptly as the bursting rocket fizzled out, realizing how far they had come in anger. He had been about to strike this man who had grown up with him in a bond closer than blood. He drew in his breath in a painful gasp as he lowered his arm.

  “My God, Charles, where are we traveling?” he asked at last.

  “You may travel where you please so long as you are out of this house by midday and never return to it.”

  Charles left his brother standing in the middle of the room as he strode out.

  *

  Victoria had slept for most of the day and would have gone on doing so if Dr. Anson had not arrived shortly before eight, still a very worried man. When his rumbling voice penetrated her slumbers it took an effort to open her eyes. The beautiful cessation of all feeling that had overtaken her was a state she was loath to give up, but he wished to probe her yet again and there was nothing to do but submit.

  She knew the child was lost, but the knowledge left her indifferent. He had been created violently and had died the same way. Charles had done his duty by planting the seed; she had been expected to do hers by producing the finished product. The boy would then have become a symbol of a name and birthright, taken out of her hands so that he could, in his turn, fulfill his duty. How could there have been any love within her? How would there be for the next one, who would be created under similar violent conditions and even more anxiously snatched from her arms?