‘No sir,’ was the rueful reply. ‘Books don’t sell these days. All sent back, books is.’
‘Dear me,’ Edward said. ‘That can’t be good for trade.’
‘No sir, it ain’t. Trade’s bad an’ that’s a fact. All on account of some court case or other, so they do say.’
And that is all on account of me, Edward thought miserably as he took his paper back to the train. There was no way he could avoid the knowledge.
In Bedford Square, Nan and Caroline and Euphemia were taking tea in the garden with Mirabelle. It was a warm afternoon early in September and the garden was lush with sunshine, the lawn speckled with pink-edged daisies and the shrubbery banked high with the great yellow and white blooms of the chrysanthemums. The four women were sitting on the terrace in the shade of the magnolia tree and Euphemia was nursing Harry on her lap and feeding him with sponge cake. Consequently they were both spattered with crumbs and had gathered a chirruping chorus of sparrows and finches to peck and flutter beside their feet.
In such a peaceful place it was hard to imagine that the Easter case was a mere three weeks away. And yet Mr Brougham was out that very afternoon, visiting the Society for the Suppression of Vice to hear what they had decided to do about the two Easter prosecutions now that Mr Snipe was under arrest and awaiting trial. And Mr Rawson had gone with him, just in case they needed his evidence to bring Mr Snipe to court.
‘I do admire Mr Rawson,’ Euphemia said. ‘Any man who is prepared to stand up in court and name an evil demands our total respect, wouldn’t you say so? Put your little cakey on the plate, Harry my darling.’
‘He’s a curious man,’ Caroline said, ‘but I think he’s brave. He don’t seem to worry at all about appearing at a trial.’ She couldn’t even think about it without feeling sick with worry.
‘Perhaps the Easter case won’t come to court now,’ Mirabelle said.
‘Oh, I do hope not,’ Euphemia said, setting down her cup and saucer and smoothing Harry’s crumbs from her skirt. ‘Well now, my lovey, have you eaten that nice cake all up? I shall have to get you another one, shan’t I?’
‘If he eats any more he’ll go off bang,’ Nan said.
The butler arrived with two letters on a tray.
One was addressed to Nan in Mr Brougham’s beautiful copperplate and had been sent by hand, the other had come through the post, and was addressed to Euphemia.
‘Is it about the case?’ Caroline asked, as her grandmother opened the envelope and set her glasses on her nose ready to read.
‘Aye, I daresay,’ Nan said distantly, reading as she spoke.
‘What does it say?’
Mirabelle got up and removed Harry from Euphemia’s lap so that she could cpen her letter too. It was so quiet in the garden that they could hear the traffic passing on the other side of the house. She covered her skirts with a table napkin and sat the baby firmly in the middle of it before she gave him back his sponge cake. And he waited patiently, holding out his fat hands. ‘There now, my dear,’ she said quietly. ‘Ain’t you the best boy to be so good when your mama is so worried.’
Nan rustled the paper to her lap and took off her glasses. ‘We’ve only one count to face now, my dear,’ she said to Caroline. ‘They mean to drop the charges against you and merely sue the firm.’
‘Thank heavens for that!’ Mirabelle said with feeling.
But Caroline’s face was still taut. ‘Then I shall appear for the firm,’ she said.
‘That en’t necessary,’ Nan said. ‘Not now. Thanks to Mr Rawson.’
‘Somebody will have to appear.’
‘Yes, I daresay.’
‘Then who is it to be?’
‘We can think of that later,’ Nan said vaguely.
‘No, Nan dear, we can’t. If we think of it later it will be you, and I can’t allow that. I was responsible for selling the books on the stalls, so I must be answerable in court.’
‘But …’ Nan said.
‘No buts,’ Caroline said lovingly. ‘I’m prepared for it now, so I shall do it. I can’t have you standing up in court to answer for my sins. Fair’s fair.’
I must intervene, Mirabelle thought, so as to give Nan a chance to accept. If they go on talking she will fight on to no purpose. ‘Do you have good news too, Euphemia?’ she said.
‘I think it rather depends on how you look at it,’ Euphemia said, setting her own letter down on the table.
‘What is it, Pheemy?’ Caroline asked.
‘Well,’ Euphemia said, smiling round at them all. ‘Actually, it’s from Miss Nightingale. She has offered me a job.’
Caroline felt her heart sink. It was a sensation that was much too familiar these days. But she smiled at Euphemia and gave her an encouraging answer, for she had to try to be unselfish, indeed she did, after all the trouble she’d caused. ‘But how splendid,’ she said. ‘What sort of job?’
‘It appears that she has been offered a hospital of her own at last,’ Euphemia said. ‘It is in Harley Street, a hospital for governesses. She has offered me a position there.’
Caroline’s heart sank even further. ‘You will take it, of course,’ she said, trying hard to be cheerful. ‘When do you start?’
‘In two weeks’ time, I fear,’ Euphemia said anxiously.
‘In two weeks?’ Now that was alarming. It would mean standing the trial without Pheemy to comfort her.
‘I would live here, of course,’ Euphemia said. ‘We could talk about – everything, every evening.’ Her lovely brown eyes were lustrous with distress. ‘But if you …’
‘You must take it,’ Caroline said quickly. ‘Of course you must, after waiting for it all this time. Why, you mustn’t even think of refusing. Now tell us all about it.’
But if there was any more to tell none of them ever heard it, because at that moment one of the parlour maids came hurtling out into the garden with her cap askew and her face red with alarm. ‘If you please, ma’am,’ she said to Nan, ‘Mr Will’s come home ma’am, an’ he’s in the hall, bein’ ever so ill, and could somebody come please.’
All four women were on their feet in an instant, Caroline and Euphemia running full-tilt into the house, their crinolines swinging violently, Mirabelle, held back by the weight of the baby, following more sedately with Nan.
To Caroline’s anxious eyes the hall was littered with luggage and full of people, the butler actually wringing his hands, which was a thing she’d never seen before, housemaids watching with their mouths open, cousin Edward – what was he doing there? – looking anxious and dishevelled with his expensive blue jacket covered in filth, Tom Thistlethwaite kneeling on the tiled floor with one arm under Will’s back, and Will himself, dear, dear Will, slumped against the banisters at the foot of the stairs, pale as putty, with his eyes closed and two red fever spots as round as pennies on his cheeks, groaning.
‘What have you done to him?’ she said fiercely to Edward.
‘He’s had dysentery, Miss Caroline,’ Tom answered. ‘He’s been bad fer weeks. We thought he was better.’
‘The doctor said he was well enough to travel,’ Edward said, trying to defend himself.
‘You could have killed him,’ Caroline blazed at them. ‘What were you thinking of to make him travel in such a state?’
‘He took bad on the journey, miss,’ Tom said.
And Will opened his eyes and looked up at them. ‘Carrie?’ he said. ‘Pheemy?’
Then everything else was forgotten, the trial, Caleb’s assistance, Mr Brougham’s letter, Miss Nightingale’s offer, Edward’s treachery, Tom’s folly in bringing him home so ill, everything. There was only Will, lying on the floor groaning in pain, only Will and her great affection for him.
She dropped to her knees in a swish of sinking cotton and took her brother’s poor damp head into her lap. But Euphemia was more practical.
‘Go to the kitchen,’ she said to the nearest housemaid, ‘and tell them to prepare as much hot water as they can. They’re to fill
the stone hot-water bottles and bring them up to Mr Will’s bed first, and after that all the jugs and ewers they can find. I shall need fresh towels, but I will get them myself on the way upstairs. Send Totty up to us at once and Mary-Anne and Bessie if you can find her, but don’t wake her if she’s sleeping. Harry must be kept right out of the way,’ she explained to Caroline. ‘We don’t want him to take the infection. Now perhaps,’ she said to Edward, ‘you and Tom could help him upstairs to bed. The sooner he’s lying down and in the warm the better.’
By the time Nan and Mirabelle arrived in the hall she had everything under control.
So quiet and efficient, Nan thought, watching her. Why, she’s a splendid nurse. No wonder that Miss Nightingale has offered her a job.
But Mirabelle only had eyes for Edward, struggling up the stairs with his cousin’s limp arm draped about his neck.
‘Mirry,’ he said. ‘I …’ And then he saw Nan, standing small and straight with those white hands gnarled across the head of her walking stick, looking at him with those sharp eyes of hers. ‘Nan. I must tell you …’
‘There en’t time for any of that now,’ she said sharply. ‘You do as Euphemia says and get your cousin up to bed. I’ll deal with you later.’
Chapter 32
Once Will had been put to bed, Edward went straight home with Mirabelle, partly because he couldn’t think of anything else to do and partly because he couldn’t bring himself to face Nan’s wrath, not then, not just then, not until he’d had a rest and a chance to wash. It was an uncomfortable journey, because she didn’t say a word to him all the way and only looked at him once, and then with her bad eye, so that he couldn’t guess what she was thinking. But he’d come home to face the music and if her disapproval was part of it, so be it.
To his surprise the moment they were home and the front door closed behind them, she was full of the most practical concern, fussing over him in exactly the same way as Caroline and Euphemia had fussed over Will. His valet was sent for, hot water was provided for him, clean clothes laid out on their bed, and while he washed and shaved, she went down to the kitchen to ensure that cook provided what she called ‘the best possible meal’.
‘You must be hungry after all your travels,’ she said. And although he was afraid he wouldn’t have the stomach for any dinner, he surprised himself by the strength of his appetite.
When the meal was over she escorted him to her private parlour and poured him some of her best brandy. It was almost as if he were an honoured guest instead of a returning delinquent.
‘Now,’ she said, when he was settled, ‘you must tell me everything that has been happening to you since you left here.’
It took until eleven o’clock, because the story of the slaughter on the Paris barricades led backwards by inevitable degrees to his attempt to force Caroline from the firm.
‘It seems so ugly now,’ he confessed, standing beside the empty fireplace and gazing intently at the embroidered flowers on the firescreen because he couldn’t bear to look anywhere else. ‘Cruel and petty. You cannot know how much I wish it undone.’
‘Yes,’ she said seriously, ‘I do know. It is clear on your face, my dear.’
‘Has the case come to court yet?’ he asked, still concentrating on the flowers.
‘It is to be in October,’ she said. She told him all she knew, including the fact that Caroline had left her home in Richmond and gone to live with Nan in Bedford Square.
‘Because of the scandal,’ he said, and the words were more statement than question.
‘The scandal is partly the cause,’ Mirabelle said, diplomatically. ‘She suffers grievously on account of it, for she means to face it out and take responsibility for it in court.’
‘I intended her to take responsibility for ordering the book,’ he said. ‘That was my plan, I admit, but I never meant it to end up in court. Oh Mirry, what am I to do?’
She got up and stood beside him, slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow. ‘I would advise you to tell your parents everything you’ve just told me,’ she said.
He knew it had to be done, but the thought of it made him wince.
‘And Nan of course. You must tell Nan.’
That was even worse, but he agreed to do it. Somehow it was possible to agree, standing here with her hand soft in the crook of his arm and her face grown warm and handsome with affection, and the remembered smell of her flesh rousing the most unexpected and curious tenderness.
‘Time for bed, I think,’ she said. ‘We will go up together.’
He could hardly believe his ears. ‘Am I to sleep with you?’ he asked.
‘Why ever not, my dear?’
‘Because of what I have done,’ he said. ‘Because of…’
‘Let us concern ourselves with the positive side from now on,’ she said, looking at him sideways with her good eye, a very straight look, and, if he hadn’t known such a thing was quite impossible, a loving one. ‘You have witnessed a revolution and nursed your cousin through a fever and brought him home to his family, safe if not entirely sound. Now it is time for bed.’
‘You speak as though you would welcome me there.’ Did he want to be welcomed there? Yes, he did. Surprising though it seemed, he did.
‘Of course.’ And again that loving look.
‘As though you might love me,’ he said, greatly daring. Would she answer that too?
‘I have always loved you,’ she said. ‘Always.’ Ever since that first moment when she’d seen him standing beside the fireplace at the Merry weather ball, so young and handsome. ‘And I still do. More than ever now. Because I am the only one who will love you through the months that lie ahead of us.’
‘You never told me so before,’ he said, amazed and flattered and realizing how very much this woman meant to him, and how much he wanted to be loved by her.
‘I could not have told you before,’ she said. ‘It would not have been fitting. You might have been annoyed to hear it, or you might have mocked me for weakness, and think how badly we should have fared then.’
The old arrogant Edward would have been affronted to hear such things said, the new Edward, changed by suffering and the terror of battle, accepted it as the truth. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I might well have done such a thing. I would not do it now, Mirabelle.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I know that.’
It was the most tender homecoming. Afterwards he lay beside her in their moonlit room, amazed and satisfied. ‘I love you, Mirry,’ he said. It was a drowsy statement of fact.
She touched his cheek with her finger tips. ‘Did I not tell ‘ee we should grow to love one another?’ she said.
‘Yes,’ he said, closing his eyes. ‘And so we do.’
The next morning he went to visit his mother and father.
Despite his misgivings, his second confession was shamefully easy, partly because he’d accepted his culpability now that he’d spoken to Mirry, and partly because his parents both went out of their way to make excuses for him, his father in anguished confusion, and his mother with a doting tenderness that increased his guilt most painfully.
‘You will go back to the warehouse, won’t ‘ee my dear?’ Matilda asked when his confession was over. ‘There is such a lot of work.’
‘If Nan will have me, Mama.’
‘Of course she’ll have you,’ Matilda assured. ‘With your father in no fit state to carry the burdens, who else would she turn to?’
‘Are you worse, Papa?’ Edward asked with concern.
‘It’s the heat, dear boy,’ Billy said, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. ‘Deuced hot today. Always feel worse in the heat.’
‘Then you must stay at home and leave the work to me,’ Edward said.
‘Did I not tell ‘ee the boy would see us right?’ Matilda said triumphantly. ‘You’ll go straight there this minute, won’t you Edward?’
Edward had been dreading this return and hoping to delay it, but he could hardly refuse when they’d been so fo
rgiving. There was nothing for it but to take the carriage to the Strand, which he did, feeling horribly uncomfortable, and wondering what on earth he would say when he met up with Nan or Caroline. How could he possibly face up to Caroline?
But the Fates were on his side. The men in the warehouse accepted his return without comment, as if his ‘holiday’ had been prearranged and expected. And according to Mr Jolliffe, Nan and Henry were both expected to be out of the building all day, and Caroline never came into it, ‘on account of that awful court case hanging over her head, poor lady’.
So it was an ordinary working day after all and by the end of it he felt as if he’d never been away.
In Bedford Square, Euphemia had spent the last twenty-four hours attending to Will. She’d put him to bed with hot water bottles on either side of him ‘to ease the pain in his poor stomach’ and a draw-sheet under him ‘just in case’, and while they were waiting for the doctor to arrive, she’d washed him limb by limb in the way Miss Nightingale advised for bedridden patients, but with Tom to clean his private parts, for although she would have cleaned him all over willingly and seen no shame in it at all, it was necessary to avoid any embarrassment he might feel when he recovered. And then, when the doctor had visited and prescribed tincture of opium and laudanum, and administered a particularly horrible saline aperient, she’d sat by her patient’s bed until he fell into a sticky sleep at a little after midnight.
Then and only then, she crept from the room to write a letter to Miss Nightingale. Honoured though she was to receive her kind invitation, she wrote, she was unfortunately not in a position to accept it. Her cousin had returned home from France seriously ill with the dysentery and so her nursing skills were needed at home.
Whatever her decision might have been before his return there was no question where her duty lay now. Her darling was home and ill and needed her. That was enough.
She sat up with him all night, because by three o’clock he was running a fever and so delirious he didn’t know who she was. And in the early morning when his temperature dropped, as she was hoping and expecting, the griping pains returned, and needed two doses of laudanum and the application of towels wrung out in boiling water before they would ease at all.
Sixpenny Stalls Page 44
