Birds wheeled screaming overhead as she made her way through the wrought-iron gates and up the winding drive. She kept her head down, her face averted from the tall, narrow windows, afraid that if she looked up she might see eyes watching her.
Her nerve almost failed her as she forced herself up the wide stone steps to the front door. She hesitated, her hand on the bell pull. This was it, she realised. Once she rang that bell, there was no going back.
She took a deep breath, and pulled on the chain. The dull sonorous clang that echoed within the house sounded like a death knell.
It was some moments before she heard the slow, stately tread in the hall. Then Mrs Sherman opened the door.
Violet saw the look of shock on her face, and instantly knew Miss Hanley was right. She certainly had caught her off guard.
The housekeeper stared at her speechless for a moment. ‘You!’
‘Hello, Mrs Sherman.’ Violet forced herself to stay calm, just as she’d practised. ‘May I come in?’
Nothing had changed. The house seemed to close in on her, with its oppressive dark walls and heavy aged furniture. She found herself tiptoeing across the black-and-white-tiled floor out of habit, her whole body tense lest she accidentally say or do something to incur Victor’s wrath.
She was aware of Mrs Sherman following her into the drawing room, keys jingling on her belt like a gaoler. Barely a night went by when Violet didn’t wake up, bathed in sweat, after hearing those jingling keys in her nightmares.
‘What do you want?’ the housekeeper demanded.
Violet forced herself to stand straight, to stay calm. She knew Mrs Sherman could smell fear, that she thrived on it. She was determined not to give her the satisfaction. Not any more.
‘I’m hardly going to tell you, am I?’ She pulled off her gloves with studied casualness and gazed around the room. Her eye went to the ornate black marble fireplace. Once, when Victor had thrown her across the room in a fit of rage, she had cracked her skull against it and bled so profusely that even he was concerned. Mrs Sherman had covered the dark stains on the polished wooden floor with a Chinese rug. It was still there to this day.
Violet suppressed the tremor that went through her and turned to face the other woman with a forced smile. ‘Aren’t you going to offer me any tea? That’s what servants do isn’t it?’
The older woman’s mouth curled in contempt. ‘I wouldn’t serve the likes of you!’
Violet sighed. ‘That’s probably for the best, since I couldn’t trust you not to poison me.’
An angry muscle worked in Mrs Sherman’s rigid jaw. ‘You have a nerve, coming here like this!’
Violet raised her eyebrows. ‘But I understand you have been looking for me?’
‘Not you. The boy. Where is he?’
‘You don’t really think I’d bring him here, do you?’ Violet smiled pityingly. ‘He’s quite safe, back in London. Being well looked after.’
‘By those old maids at that hospital?’ Mrs Sherman’s face was scornful. ‘That’s no place to bring up a child.’
‘Really, Mrs Sherman!’ Violet forced herself to smile. ‘You’re an old maid too, don’t forget.’ The title ‘Mrs’ was a courtesy one, conferred on all high-ranking female household staff. ‘Unless my husband has committed bigamy and married you?’ she added. ‘Oh, don’t look so mortified, Mrs Sherman. I’m well aware that you’ve loved Victor from afar for years. What a pity he couldn’t bring himself to marry so far beneath him. It might have saved us all a lot of heartache, don’t you think?’
Mrs Sherman gasped with outrage. ‘You’re the one that was beneath him!’ she shot back. ‘Nasty, ill-bred little creature, trying to claw your way up the social ladder like that revolting mother of yours. I wonder what he ever saw in you—’
Violet stood and stared as the other woman’s rage and spite rained down on her like a shower of sparks. She had never seen Mrs Sherman lose her icy control before. For the first time she felt as if she had the upper hand.
‘Your jealousy does you no credit, Mrs Sherman,’ she said, silencing her. ‘Now, I haven’t come here to waste my time arguing with you. I wish to see my husband.’
‘You can’t. He doesn’t want to see you.’
‘We both know that isn’t true, don’t we? Or why would he spend so much time and effort putting advertisements in the newspapers and sending you to look for me?’
‘I told you, it wasn’t you he was looking for. It was the boy. He wanted to see his son.’ Mrs Sherman recovered some of her old froideur, her back straightening. ‘You were nothing to him. You never were. Only a means to an end,’ she said coldly.
Violet ignored the insult. ‘Nevertheless, I intend to see him.’ She sat down on the polished leather Chesterfield and arranged the folds of her coat around her.
Mrs Sherman’s chin lifted. ‘He won’t take you back, if that’s what you’ve come for.’
Violet laughed. ‘Oh, Mrs Sherman, can you really be so deluded?’ She shook her head. ‘I haven’t come to beg for a reconciliation. That is the furthest thing from my mind. I’ve come to tell him to leave me alone.’
‘And I’m sure he will be only too happy to do so – if you hand over the boy.’
‘So he can be brought up by you? In this prison?’ Violet looked around in disdain. Victor Dangerfield’s ancestors glared frostily from the walls. While she’d lived here their constant disapproval had cowed her almost as much as her husband’s violent outbursts.
‘This is Oliver’s home,’ Mrs Sherman said stiffly. ‘He belongs here, with his father.’
Violet shook her head. ‘He belongs with me. What kind of life would he have here? With a father who knows only how to hate, to bully, to be cruel?’
‘He loves the boy.’
‘He doesn’t know the first thing about love, and neither do you!’ Violet reined in her temper, determined to stay calm. ‘If I have anything to do with it, Oliver will never even know this place exists,’ she said levelly.
‘We’ll see about that, won’t we?’ The housekeeper’s voice was heavy with meaning.
Violet looked up at her. ‘Is that a threat, Mrs Sherman? Because I’m afraid you don’t frighten me any more. And neither does my husband.’
It was true, she realised. For five years, Curlew House, Mrs Sherman and Victor had been the stuff of her nightmares, taking on monstrous, almost supernatural qualities of fear and terror.
But now, coming here again, she realised that it was just an old, decaying house. And Mrs Sherman was just an old, very ordinary woman.
She glanced at her watch. ‘I don’t have much time before my taxi returns. Now, may I see my husband?’
‘He is not at home,’ Mrs Sherman said shortly.
‘Where is he?’ For a panicky moment she worried he might have gone to London. Perhaps he was at the Nightingale even now.
‘I can’t tell you that.’ Mrs Sherman’s eyes slid away from hers. ‘I will arrange for you to speak to his lawyers—’
‘I want to know where he is!’ Violet cut across her.
‘He is – abroad. He no longer lives here for most of the year. He prefers the climate in the South of France.’ She started to usher Violet back towards the door. ‘Perhaps if you’d contacted the solicitors as he requested in the advertisement, it would have saved you a wasted journey. As it is—’
Footsteps creaked overhead.
Violet looked at the ceiling. ‘Who is that?’
‘No one. We are . . . having the chimneys swept.’
‘At this time of year?’ She was through the door and into the hall before Mrs Sherman could stop her.
‘You can’t go up there.’ The housekeeper rushed after her, blocking the way at the foot of the sweeping staircase.
Violet glanced at her, saw the stricken look in her pale eyes. ‘Why not? What are you hiding?’
‘Me,’ said a voice above them. ‘She is hiding me.’
The voice stopped Violet in her tracks. She swung round
as Victor emerged from the shadows at the top of the staircase.
‘Hello, Violet,’ he said. ‘Welcome home.’
Chapter Forty-Five
HER FIRST REACTION was one of shock.
He came down the stairs, leaning heavily on the banisters. He was much thinner than she remembered him, his sharply drawn face softened only by a small pointed beard.
But the effect he had on her was still the same. She gripped the carved newel post to stop herself from running.
‘Hello, Victor,’ she said.
‘Violet, how unexpected,’ he greeted her genially. ‘You really should have told us you were coming. You know how Mrs Sherman loathes surprises.’
He reached the foot of the stairs and Mrs Sherman darted forward to help him, but he shook her off with a flash of impatience that reminded Violet of the man she’d once known.
‘I can manage, Mrs Sherman, thank you.’ He smiled tensely at Violet. ‘She does like to fuss, after my recent illness.’
He picked up a walking cane from the foot of the stairs, and limped towards the drawing room. Violet could see his teeth clenched with effort. Just for a second, her heart went out to him.
‘You’ll have some tea.’ It was more of a statement than a question.
‘No, thank you.’ In spite of her weariness after her journey, she had quickly made up her mind to take nothing from Victor.
He looked at her sharply, but didn’t argue. ‘Then perhaps, Mrs Sherman, you would be good enough to bring me some?’ he requested.
He sat down in one of the armchairs, breathing hard from the effort. Violet chose the seat farthest away from him.
He looked at her for a long time. His skin had the yellowing translucence of wax, she noticed. ‘It’s good to see you again, Violet,’ he said.
‘I wish I could say the same about you,’ she replied.
She saw a flash of irritation in his dark eyes, quickly masked. ‘How is my son?’ he asked.
‘Very well.’
‘Mrs Sherman tells me he has grown into a fine boy. You seem shocked?’ He looked amused. ‘Did you think she would have left London without getting at least a glimpse of Oliver. She has been watching both of you,’ he said. ‘She is my eyes and ears.’
‘She always was.’ Violet fought to keep her voice neutral, but inside she felt angry and violated.
‘Not that you made it very easy for her to find you,’ he went on. ‘You’ve been very clever, Violet, covering your tracks.’ He sounded almost admiring. ‘I didn’t think you capable of such deceit.’
‘Then you underestimated me, didn’t you?’
‘Obviously.’ His eyes held hers, dark and compelling in his thin, drawn face.
Mrs Sherman came in, bringing the tea on a tray. She set it down on the table and was about to pour it when Victor dismissed her with a wave of his hand.
‘You can leave that, Mrs Sherman. I’m sure my wife will see to it.’ He didn’t look at her as he said it. Violet felt a twinge of pity for the other woman as she stood awkwardly for a moment before hurrying out of the door. Violet had been a victim of Victor’s casual cruelty too often not to notice its effect on someone else.
‘We still have your belongings upstairs,’ he said. ‘Mrs Sherman packed them up and stored them in the attic.’
‘You should have burnt them.’
‘Mrs Sherman wanted to, but I refused. I always knew you would be back – eventually.’ He smiled thinly, pleased with himself.
‘Why should I ever come back here?’
‘Because this is your home.’
She stared at him in disbelief. ‘You can’t really think that!’
‘Why not? Surely this house still holds memories for you. It was where I brought you as a bride, after all . . .’
‘You want to talk about memories, Victor.’ She pointed to the fireplace. ‘Remember how badly I bled the night you threw me against that? Even you were afraid, as I recall.’
He winced. ‘It was an unfortunate accident. You stumbled—’
‘Yes, I stumbled. Just like I stumbled in the bedroom, and cracked all my ribs. And in the dining room, and ended up with this.’ She yanked up her sleeve to show the puckered line of pale skin where the wound had never healed cleanly. ‘Or what about the bruises your fingertips left around my neck, time after time?’ She saw his averted face and realised that he would never be able to confront the reality of what he had done.
But that didn’t matter any more. She no longer cared.
‘What do you want, Victor?’ she asked.
‘I want Oliver.’
‘Never.’ She shook her head.
‘But he’s my son. He must ask about me?’
‘I’ve told him you’re dead.’
Victor flinched. ‘You told him that? That was very cruel of you.’
‘You would know all about cruelty, wouldn’t you?’
He paused for a moment. Reaching across, he picked up the teapot. It took both his hands to hold it, Violet noticed.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I will instruct my lawyers to begin proceedings against you. And I’m warning you, there is not a court in the land that will grant custody to a woman who runs away from her husband.’
‘And there isn’t a court in the land that will grant custody to a dying man, either.’
His cup rattled briefly in its saucer. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Victor, please. I’ve been a nurse long enough to spot the signs of advanced cancer.’
When he finally looked up at her, the look in his eyes was grudgingly impressed.
‘You’re very observant.’
‘How much time do you have left?’
‘Weeks, possibly months. It’s spreading so fast now it’s difficult to tell.’ She could see him stiffening against the pain, refusing to give in to it.
‘You must be suffering a great deal?’
His mouth tightened. ‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’
‘Actually, no.’ Impossibly, she felt a surge of pity. She no longer had a shred of love left in her for him, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t feel some kind of human compassion. Even if he’d never shown any for her.
He must have seen the expression on her face because he pounced on it. ‘That’s why I want you to come home,’ he said. ‘You and Oliver. I want us to be a family again. Just for the time I have left.’
‘No!’
‘It would only be for a short while. A few weeks at most.’ His voice faltered. ‘I don’t want to die alone.’
‘You won’t be alone. You have Mrs Sherman.’
‘Ah, yes. Mrs Sherman.’ His mouth twisted bitterly. ‘Perhaps we get the companions we deserve in life.’ He regarded her steadily. ‘If you won’t come back to live with me, at least allow me to see my son one more time. I want to say goodbye to him.’
She hesitated for a moment, then shook her head. ‘It would only confuse him.’
‘Please.’
It was the first time he’d said the word to her without it being edged with sarcasm or malice. Even then she regarded him warily, expecting the wounding remark, the physical blow, that would follow.
Victor stared at the Chinese rug in front of the fire. Violet wondered if the dark stain would still be there on the floorboards underneath. ‘I realise I probably have no right to ask a favour of you,’ he said. ‘But nonetheless I am appealing to you, as a human being. And as someone who once loved me,’ he added.
Violet looked at him, seeing the thin face, waxy skin stretched over prominent bones. He seemed such a pathetic figure, so frail, his bony hands grasping his stick. Hard to imagine that those hands had once dragged her from this room by the hair, yanking her head back so hard she thought her neck was going to snap.
But now the power had shifted. Now he was the one who was scared and isolated.
‘I’ll think about it,’ she said shortly.
Chapter Forty-Six
‘NOW EXPEL THE air . . . that’s it. Ke
ep the point of the needle upwards while pushing the piston . . . oh, do stop shaking, Nurse Benedict. You’re hardly inspiring confidence, are you?’
‘Sorry, Sister.’ Millie’s hands were slick with sweat as she turned the screw on the piston, checking the dose on the rod. Aware of Sister Hyde’s beady eyes on her, she checked the dosage on the patient’s notes, rechecked the fluid in the syringe, then showed it to the Sister for her to check again.
Mrs Isles, the elderly victim who had been selected for Millie to practise on, eyed her apprehensively. ‘You do know what you’re doing, love, don’t you?’ she whispered.
‘Oh, yes,’ Millie assured her, smiling shakily. ‘I’ve practised on lots of oranges in PTS.’
Sister Hyde shook her head. ‘Swab the needle with alcohol,’ she sighed. ‘Now you’re ready to proceed with the injection.’
That was easier said than done. The poor old dear didn’t have a lot on her bones to start with, so finding a suitable area wasn’t easy. But finally Millie pinched a portion of wrinkled flesh and poised the needle.
‘Well? What are you waiting for? Do it, girl!’
Millie caught Mrs Isles’ terrified eyes a second before she plunged the point of the needle in, releasing the skin as she did so. She was already picturing the patient howling in pain, blood everywhere, Sister Hyde yelling at her, telling her she was an idiot. So the silence that followed was almost deafening.
Unable to believe what she’d done, she withdrew the needle and held the swab over the pinprick of blood. Swallowing hard, she looked expectantly at Sister Hyde, awaiting her fate.
She gave a curt nod. ‘Very good, Nurse,’ she said. ‘Bring your training record to me and I will sign it before you go off duty.’
It was as if the sun had come out and angelic choirs had filled the skies. But before she could enjoy the moment, Sister Hyde added, ‘Don’t stand there gawping like a fish, girl. Get this lot cleared up. And mind you do it properly.’
Millie stared after her as she strode back down the ward, her stout shoes squeaking on the polished floor. Mrs Isles grinned toothlessly at her.
The Nightingale Sisters Page 34
