‘Tell Harlston his machines are not wanted here,’ he said. ‘Any attempt to replace this one will result in more of the same.’
With that he jerked his head towards his companions and the whole group made off into the darkness. Eden tried to rise, but the pain scythed through his shoulder. Crimson bombs exploded behind his eyes and then blackness took him.
*
He had no idea how long he lay there; it might have been minutes or hours. For some moments he did not move, aware only of cold air on his face and the dull throbbing ache in his shoulder. Instinctively he lifted his hand to the wound and felt the stickiness of blood. Then the details began to return. As he became more aware of his surroundings the first thing that struck him was the eerie silence, a hush broken only by the wind and the stream. The sky was a lighter shade and the stars fading so dawn could not be far off. Experimentally he tried to rise; pain savaged him and he bit back a cry. With an effort of will he dragged himself to a nearby boulder and used it to support his back while he forced himself to a sitting position. The effort brought beads of cold sweat to his forehead and it was some minutes before he could catch his breath. Then he looked around. In the predawn half light he could make out the dark silent shapes that were the bodies of the slain. Grim-faced, he counted half a dozen. Where were the rest? The wreckers were long gone, but surely some of the wagon escort had lived. He could see no sign of the wagon or the horses. Had the surviving members just abandoned their fellows to their fate and saved their own skins?
Anger forced Eden to his knees and thence to his feet, using the rock to steady himself. Agony seared through the injured shoulder. His legs trembled like reeds. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he drew in a few deep breaths. As he did so he glanced over the edge of the hillside. Among the rocks that lined the stream he saw the smashed remains of the power loom and with it the wagon. At the sight his fists clenched, but he understood now why he had been left behind in this place. The survivors had taken the horses for themselves and the injured. He had been mistaken for one of the dead. The thought occurred that if he didn’t find help soon he might well be among their number. The nearest town was Helmshaw: Harlston’s Mill was located on its edge. It was perhaps two miles distant. Mentally girding himself for the effort and the coming pain, Eden stumbled away down the track.
His progress was pitifully slow because every few minutes he was forced to rest. The sky was much lighter now and the track clear enough, but pain clouded his mind until he could think of nothing else. Moreover, the darkened patch of dried blood on his coat was overlain with a new scarlet wetness that spread past the edges of the original stain. He had tried to stanch the bleeding with a wadded handkerchief, but that too was sodden red. His strength was ebbing fast and only sheer will forced him to put one foot in front of the other. He had gone perhaps half a mile when the level track began to rise at the start of a long steady climb up the next hill. Eden managed another fifty yards before pain and exhaustion overcame his will and he collapsed on the path in a dead faint.
*
Claire was woken just after dawn by heavy pounding on the front door. Her heart thumped painfully hard and for one dreadful moment she wondered if her uncle had discovered her whereabouts and was come to drag her away. Forcing herself to take a deep breath, she slipped from the bed and threw a shawl about her shoulders. Then she crept to the bedroom door and opened it a crack, listening intently. The pounding on the door increased and was followed by Eliza’s indignant tones as she went to answer it. Then a man’s voice was heard demanding the doctor. Claire breathed a sigh of relief. Not her uncle, then.
‘What’s so urgent that the doctor must be dragged from his bed at this hour?’ demanded Eliza.
‘There’s half a dozen injured men at Harlston’s Mill,’ the man replied. ‘Some bad hurt.’
‘Good gracious! Not another accident?’
‘No accident. They were escorting a consignment of new machinery for t’mill. Seems they were attacked on their way over t’moor. There’s been some killed an’ all.’
‘Heaven preserve us from such wickedness! Wait here! I’ll fetch the doctor.’
*
Within a quarter of an hour Dr Greystoke had left the house. Claire heard the sound of horses’ hooves as the men rode away, and in some anxiety digested what she had heard. Her limited knowledge of the machine-breakers’ activities had been gleaned from newspaper accounts: here evidently it was far more than just a story of distant industrial unrest. Here the violence was all too real. Could it be true that men had lost their lives? The thought was chilling. What could make men so desperate that they were prepared to kill?
It was a question she put to Ellen when they met in the breakfast parlour some time later.
‘When the war with France cut off foreign trade it caused a lot of hardship hereabouts,’ her friend replied. ‘Even now that Napoleon is exiled the situation is slow to change. The advent of the power looms is seen as yet another threat to men’s livelihoods.’
‘Then why do mill owners like Harlston antagonise the workforce in that way?’
‘They see it as progress and in a way I suppose it is. The new machines are faster and more efficient by far than the old looms. All the same, it is hard to reconcile that knowledge with the sight of children starving.’
Claire pondered the words, for they suggested a world she had no experience of. In spite of recent events her life had been sheltered and comfortable for the most part and although she had lost her parents she had still been clothed and fed and there had always been a roof over her head. Other children were not as fortunate. For so many orphans the only choice was the workhouse. If they survived that, it usually led to a life of drudgery after. For a young and unprotected girl the world was hazardous indeed. Recalling the scene in Gartside, she shuddered.
‘Are you all right, Claire? You look awfully pale.’
‘Yes, a slight headache is all.’
‘No wonder with all you’ve been through.’
Claire managed a wan smile. She hadn’t told Ellen about the incident with Stone and his cronies. She had felt too ashamed; the memory of it made her feel dirty somehow and she wanted nothing more than to forget about it. Yet now it returned with force and with it the recollection of the man who had saved her.
‘Why don’t you go for a walk this morning?’ Ellen continued. ‘I’m sure the fresh air would do you good.’
‘Yes, perhaps you are right.’
‘There is a gate in the garden wall that leads out onto the moor. It is quite a climb, but the views from the top are worth the effort.’
‘I could take my sketchbook.’
Ellen smiled. ‘You have kept up your drawing, then?’
‘Oh, yes. It is one of my greatest pleasures.’
‘You were always so gifted that way. I shall look forward to seeing your work later.’
‘Will you not come with me?’
‘I wish I could, but this morning I have an engagement in town. Never fear, though, we shall take many walks together in future. The countryside hereabouts is very fine.’
*
Looking out across the sunlit moor an hour later Claire could only agree with her friend’s assessment. From her vantage point she could see the town below, and the mill, and then the wide expanse of rolling heath and the hills beyond. Far above her a skylark poured out its soul in song. Listening to it, Claire felt her spirits lift for the first time and suddenly the future seemed less threatening. Smiling, she walked on, revelling in the fresh air and exercise.
She had followed the track for another mile or so when she saw the figure lying on the path. It was a man and he was lying very still. Claire frowned. What on earth was he doing there? How had he got there? She approached with caution but he did not move. Her gaze took in boots, breeches and coat and the dark stain on the shoulder. It was unmistakably blood. Swallowing hard, she drew nearer and then gasped.
‘Mr Eden!’
In a mo
ment she was beside him, her fingers seeking his wrist for a pulse. For a moment she couldn’t find one and her heart sank. Her fingers moved to his neck and in trembling relief she found it at last, a slow and feeble beat. His face was very pale, the skin waxy where it showed above the stubble of his beard. When she spoke to him again there was no response. Claire gently lifted the edge of his coat and her eyes widened.
‘Dear God,’ she murmured.
Shirt and waistcoat were soaked, as was the wadded handkerchief thrust between. He had been shot. Shocked to the core, she stared a second or two at the scarlet stain. Who could have done such a thing? Unbidden, the memory of their first meeting returned and she heard Stone’s voice: ‘You’ll get yours, Eden, I swear it.’ Feeling sick and guilty, Claire bit her lip. Was this her fault? Had his earlier action brought this on him? There was no time for further reflection; he needed help and soon. She looked around in desperation, her mind retracing her route and the length of time it would take to get back and wondering if she would find Ellen or her brother returned yet. In the midst of these thoughts her eye detected a movement further down the track. Straightening, she shaded her eyes and strained to see, praying it might be a rider. In fact it was several riders and in their midst a cart. Almost sobbing with relief, she waved frantically.
‘Help! Over here!’
It seemed to take an age before they heard her. Then two of the men spurred forwards to investigate. Claire stood on the track and watched them come. They reined in, regarding her with open curiosity. Then they noticed the still form lying at the edge of the path.
‘What’s happened here, lass?’ demanded the first.
‘He’s badly injured. He needs a doctor and soon.’
‘Have no fear. Help is at hand.’
The first rider dismounted and hastened over to the injured man. Then Claire heard a muffled exclamation.
‘Merciful heavens, it’s Mark Eden.’
‘What!’ His companion edged his mount closer. ‘I heard he was missing, believed dead.’
‘He soon will be if we don’t get him to a doctor. Help me get him onto my horse.’
Claire eyed the approaching vehicle. ‘Would it not be better to put him on the cart?’
The men exchanged glances, then shook their heads.
‘Better not, lass.’
‘I don’t understand.’
They gave no further explanation and she could only watch in helpless bewilderment as they lifted Eden and put him on the horse. Then one mounted behind, holding the inert form so it could not fall. They had no sooner done so than the lumbering wagon drew nigh. Seeing what it contained, Claire went very pale.
‘Come away, lass, it’s no sight for a woman’s eyes.’ The man’s voice was gruff but kindly. ‘I’ll take thee up on t’horse behind me.’
‘Those men in the cart, are they…?’
‘Dead? Aye. Killed last night in the attack on Harlston’s machines.’
Claire drew in a deep breath and then glanced at the slumped form on the other horse, praying they had not come too late.
*
When Eden came round it was to the sound of voices and hurrying footsteps. Through a fog of pain he had an impression of walls and floor and ceiling. He didn’t recognise the room. It had a strange and yet familiar smell too, something vaguely chemical that resisted identification and yet one he thought he ought to know. He shifted a little and winced as pain knifed through his shoulder.
‘Don’t try to move.’
He looked up and saw a face bending over his. His mind registered a girl—no, a young woman. Twenty years old or thereabouts. Dark curls framed a face with high cheekbones and beautiful chiselled mouth. But it was the eyes one noticed most: huge hazel eyes deep enough to drown in. They seemed familiar somehow.
‘Where am I?’
‘At the doctor’s house.’
His brows knit, unable to comprehend how this had occurred, but having to trust the evidence of his eyes. Before he could say more he heard another voice.
‘Lift him onto the table. Gently now. That’s it.’
He stifled a groan as hands raised him, felt the hard, flat surface under his back. Then he heard the same voice speak again.
‘Fetch me hot water, Claire, and clean cloths.’
A swish of skirts announced her obedience to the command. Her quiet voice brought the two erstwhile assistants after her. As their footsteps receded a man’s face swam into view, a pleasant clean-shaven face with clear-cut features. It was framed by light brown hair, greying a little at the sides. The eyes were blue and now staring as though they had seen a ghost. The same shock was registered in the grey eyes of the injured man.
‘George,’ he murmured. ‘George Greystoke.’
‘Marcus?’ The doctor looked closer, taking in every detail of the pale face and resting on the scarred cheek. ‘Marcus Edenbridge. By the Lord Harry, it is you. But what in the name of—?’
He broke off as a hand closed over his in silent warning.
‘No, it’s Mark Eden at present.’
For a moment the blue eyes narrowed and then the doctor nodded. Then he took Eden’s hand in a warm grip.
‘Tell me later. Right now I must get that ball out of your shoulder or the wound will fester.’
Before either of them could say more the girl returned. With her was an older woman who seemed to resemble George. They set down the bowl of water and the cloths and then came to stand by the table. George glanced round.
‘Help me get his coat and shirt off, Ellen.’
They were gentle, but nevertheless Eden bit his lip against the pain. Once the task was accomplished George laid out his instruments and, selecting a probe, held it in the flame of a spirit lamp before dousing it in alcohol. He did the same with the forceps. Then he put a thick strip of leather between the patient’s jaws.
‘Bite down on this.’
Eden obeyed. A moment or two later the probe slid into the wound. Sweat started on his skin. Greystoke frowned in concentration and the silence stretched out. The probe went deeper. Eden’s jaw clenched. Then he heard the other speak.
‘Ah, here we are. Hand me the forceps, Ellen.’
Eden’s fists tightened as the pain intensified until it dominated every part of his being. Then the light in the room narrowed to a single point and winked out.
*
Claire watched Greystoke extract a wad of bloody cloth from the wound and drop it into a metal bowl. Then he returned for the ball. It dropped into the receptacle with a metallic clink. After that he swabbed the area liberally with alcohol before covering it with a thick pad of gauze and bandaging it securely in place.
‘Will he be all right?’
‘Time will tell,’ replied Greystoke. ‘He’s lost a lot of blood and is much weakened by it. There is also the chance of fever.’ Then, seeing Claire’s white face he gave her a gentle smile. ‘But he’s young and strong and with God’s grace and good nursing he may recover.’
*
Eden was riding down a dusty road. It was hot, very hot. He could feel the burning sun on his skin and the rhythm of the horse beneath him, could hear the hoof beats and the jingling harness of the mounted column behind. The air smelled of dry earth and dung, spice and horse sweat. Above him the sky was a hard metallic blue. Then he heard shouting and the clash of swords, he saw the mêlée in the road ahead and the litter, its curtains a vivid splash of colour in the midst of all. Women screamed. Then his sword was in his hand and the column swept like a tide onto the dacoit raiders and washed them away or drowned them quite. And then there was silence and the curtains of the litter parted and he saw her: Lakshmi. For a moment he was struck dumb, unable to tear his eyes away. He thought he had never seen anything so beautiful in his life, a living dream and lovelier than a fairy-tale princess, though a princess in all truth. Unable to help himself he smiled and she smiled too, though shyly. And he spoke to her in her language and she to him in his and he offered her his protection
for the remainder of her journey home. Four days and four nights. Nights of velvet starlit skies and air fragrant with jasmine and frangipani, warm nights of firelight and shadow, cushioned with silk, scented with sandalwood and patchouli; nights made for love. Four nights. That was all. He had prayed that the fourth one might last for ever, but the daylight came anyway and brought with it the end of their road. He could see her face and the sadness written there and then the yawning palace gateway that swallowed her up. He thought his heart would break.
‘Lakshmi!’
Later he lay on his hard bed in the sweltering heat of the barracks, too hot even for a sheet, hearing the whine of mosquitoes in the sultry air while the sweat trickled down his skin. When he shut his eyes he saw her face, the wonderful eyes filled with love and longing. Sometimes he dreamed she was there, bending over him, speaking softly and bathing his forehead with cool cloths. But he knew it was a dream because she was lost to him, given in marriage to the rajah of a neighbouring state, a man old enough to be her grandfather.
‘Lakshmi.’
And then his brother was there, shaking his head.
‘Why the devil didn’t you take her away while you had the chance, you fool?’
And he was right. Greville was always right. But the chance was gone now. Why had he not acted? He had broken his promise.
‘I’ll find a way, my love.’
He had believed it too, then. They could have found a place somewhere; they could have carved out a future together. What matter if others looked askance; what matter if there was a scandal? He was no stranger to it. But the thought of what it might mean for her had stayed him for the news would have swept like fire through the length and breadth of the Indian continent. News travelled fast there. And while he hesitated, she was lost.
The Wayward Governess Page 3
