“I am afraid there is very little to be done, Miss,” the doctor said gently as he examined his patient. “Her ladyship has suffered an apoplexy but, since there are signs that she has regained her senses to some extent, I am hopeful that she may, after a night’s rest, wake up properly. I will return early in the morning to let a little blood in the hope that that may relieve some of the pressure on her brain; we are all in the hands of the Almighty.”
“She looks so frail and pale, Doctor. Is it really wise to take a portion of that small amount of blood which she retains? Will it not make her weaker?”
“In the short term, yes, but she must lie in bed to recover. It is most likely a build-up of pressure in the brain that has caused the apoplexy and, if we can relieve that a little, she may regain some of her former vigour although I would be failing in my duty if I did not warn you that she is unlikely to get back her former strength.”
“Could the apoplexy,” she asked, as she accompanied the doctor down the stairs, “have been caused by over-stimulation or excessive fatigue?”
“It might have been,” he acknowledged, “but we cannot be sure. Her ladyship is much advanced in years and something is bound to carry her off sooner or later. Unfortunately, Miss Best, even the most beloved persons cannot live for ever.”
“I – I think I caused her anxiety this evening. Just before she collapsed we were arguing – not angrily but nevertheless passionately – could it have been that?”
“From everything I know of her ladyship,” the doctor said, “that is something she particularly enjoys. You must not blame yourself.”
“It is hard not to do so. She gave a card party this evening – really for my sake – and I believe that was a cause of anxiety: what and when we should eat and so forth; and then she wished certain things for me with which I am afraid I refused to comply and with which I argued. I am certain it is largely, if not entirely, my fault, that she has collapsed. Her poor, frail health could no longer withstand the burdens with which I loaded her.”
“You are almost bound to feel that way,” the doctor said, “because you are her constant companion; she is very much attached to you; I know that she finds your company stimulating and enjoyable; if she gave a party for you, you may be sure that was what she wished to do. It is of no use to blame yourself for something which, when all is said and done, is but an Act of God. Now I think you should allow her to sleep but in the morning I would suggest that you talk, sing perhaps or read to her. Any or all of those would be a deal more useful than heaping coals of fire upon your own head.”
“Yes; I will do that; thank you. Should I be sending for her relatives, do you think?”
“Yes; yes, I think you should.”
And so during that long night after the doctor had gone, Mary sat beside her beloved employer and wrote a number of letters to her ladyship’s relatives, including the much derided Lady Benstead, explaining what had happened and advising them to visit as soon as possible if they wished to see her alive. Writing these awful words caused Mary to shed a good many tears, some of which dripped on to the old lady’s thin hand.
As dawn began to break and the letters were finished, she remembered the rest of the doctor’s instructions. The old lady had slept through the night, her breath light but regular and Mary longed for her to show some more positive sign that she was still alive.
“It is morning, my lady, and I wish that you would wake up,” Mary said softly; she did not speak loudly because she knew that it was only her own impatience which prompted her plea. Receiving no response, she settled herself to wait with as much patience as she could command until the old lady woke.
It was as the first fingers of sunlight began to creep around the curtains that her ladyship stirred, sighed – it was most definitely a sigh rather than a groan – and Mary saw that her eyes were open. And then she tried what the doctor had suggested.
She could not play because there was no instrument in my lady’s chamber so, for the first time in ten years, she attempted to sing. The sound which emerged was at first little more than a trembling breath, almost a groan and not so very different from those the old lady had made the previous evening.
“You see, my lady,” Mary pointed out with a sort of grim satisfaction, “you were constantly exhorting me to sing and I cannot, even when the doctor has told me to, even when I do believe that, if only I could, it would rouse you. There is nothing in that sound which is not ugly to hear but I will try again – for you, for you, my dearest lady, I will try again.
“I seem to remember you liked this one, although I daresay I shall mangle it quite horribly.”
She took a deep breath and, fixing her eyes on the growing light beyond the curtains, began again although she was forced to stop almost immediately because she had begun on the wrong note.
“You will have to come to your senses if only to beg me to desist,” she said and started again. “I will have the spinet brought in later so that I can play to you, which I am sure you will agree will be a deal pleasanter.”
This time, although she could not remember all the words, the melody returned and her voice, at first squeaky from lack of use, found the notes almost without her volition; it seemed to spread its wings and soar, shakily at first, but with increasing strength and confidence, like a bird that has been trapped and finds one day, to its utter surprise, that the door has been opened and the heavens are awaiting its flight.
“Oh, my lady,” she murmured when she had somehow, with a good many gaps, reached the end. “I believe it may have come back, as you always said it would. It is sadly out of practice but that can surely be put right in time. What do you think? It was not so very bad in the end, was it? I will try again.”
“He’en,” said a somewhat indistinct voice from amongst the blankets. For a moment Mary was not certain whether the old lady thought she had arrived in Heaven or whether she was offering praise for the performance.
“Something of an exaggeration, dear lady, but I thank you for the compliment; I take it you are feeling better?”
“Mmn,” her ladyship replied, her voice also gaining strength. “Sing it again.”
“Yes, of course I will try again.”
And Mary did. As a girl, she had possessed a voice so exquisite than even those persons generally unmoved by music had found themselves wiping their eyes; when she sang, the angry, sullen girl became a creature transformed, joy pouring from her throat like a bird in spring. It was as though she were a person with two distinct sides: one dark and tormented, the other bright and joyful.
Unfortunately, her mother’s had been one heart left entirely unmoved by Mary’s gift; indeed, hearing her second daughter sing had had the lamentable effect of causing her to shudder with something approaching shame; she said she sang too loud and begged that she would play instead. Girls were expected to sing sweetly but demurely; they were not expected to move hearts. Mary’s ability in this direction had caused her mother quite as much irritation as had her sharp tongue. Eventually, driven to distraction by her inability to manage the girl, she had sent her to a seminary in Bath to be rid of her. She was fifteen. It was not long after this that she had committed the ‘misdemeanour’ which had resulted in Lady Leland coming to her rescue but, sadly, it was already too late to save the girl’s voice, which had mysteriously disappeared almost overnight.
When the doctor returned he found Mary still in her evening dress and his patient far from moribund.
“I am glad to see that your ladyship is doing well enough for me to let some blood this morning,” he said at the end of his examination.
“I wish you would not,” her ladyship complained sulkily but she did not forbid him to perform the procedure.
“You will feel all the better for it, my lady, and it will help to ensure that you do not suffer another apoplexy,” he replied reassuringly, not expecting her to be precisely enthusiastic and beginning to unpack his bag and lay out a rather unpleasant set of instruments.
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“Now, Miss Best,” he said to Mary, who was hovering on the other side of the bed, “while I am seeing to her ladyship’s treatment, it might be best if you send for her maid, who can assist me if necessary. You have clearly not been to bed,” he continued, looking her up and down in her periwinkle blue dress quite as though he were assessing another patient. “I suggest that you do so now so that, when her ladyship is feeling a little stronger, you will be in a better position to amuse her.”
“Does that meet with your ladyship’s approval?” she asked her employer, whose eyes were moving apprehensively between the instruments and Mary’s face.
“Yes, of course; be off with you; if I need you I shall not hesitate to ask someone to wake you. Pray send Brill along in the meantime.”
Mary nodded, rang the bell for Brill and drew the doctor out of the room to say, “Last night I think both you and I feared the worst and I have written, as you suggested, to her ladyship’s relatives to inform them of her bad turn; I left the letters in the hall to be posted. But, now that she seems so much better, I am wondering if I did the right thing.”
“Yes, of course you did.”
“Well, I am not so sure,” Mary contradicted. “Her ladyship finds some of her relatives excessively irritating – in particular her youngest daughter, whose presence is likely to be so taxing that there is a real danger of a setback in her ladyship’s health. What do you suggest I do? I am afraid the letters will already have been taken to the post and, as Lady Benstead is bound to set off as soon as she receives hers, there is no purpose in sending another.”
“Make it plain to the servants that nobody but you and her personal maid are to enter her room unless you have first given permission. Then you must decide for yourself - and perhaps discuss it with her ladyship. She is not up to talking a great deal at present but, within another day, she should be well on the mend. I cannot emphasise too much, however, that you will be of no use if you too fall by the wayside; you must repair to your bed at once. I will return later this afternoon to have another look at her but pray do not hesitate to send for me at once if she should take a turn for the worse in the meantime.”
Mary, having discovered with a sinking heart that the letters had indeed already been despatched, instructed both Clarkson and Brill regarding Lady Benstead, impressing upon them that they must not on any account allow her to enter her mother’s room without first seeking her, Mary’s, permission. She was afraid that Lady Leland would be exceedingly displeased to hear about the letters and dreaded the moment when she must confess to having carried out the doctor’s suggestion a little too expeditiously.
With rare obedience, she undressed and took herself to her bed. But sleep did not come. The events of the previous evening, culminating in Lady Leland’s collapse and the vigil she had kept by her bed, played and replayed through her mind. She recalled with shame the awful flirtatiousness of her conduct in relation to Mr Armitage, the cold looks of Lord Marklye and the shocked and disapproving glances cast at her by the tall young woman and her dumpy mother.
If she had dazzled all the men, with the notable exception of Lord Marklye, who, she was convinced, had now taken her in strong dislike, she had equally clearly infuriated the women.
Lady Armitage had looked nervous, occasional flashes of hope passing across her countenance – presumably when she wondered if at last some other woman could be persuaded to take her son off her hands; Mrs Porter had looked disgusted – doubtless insulted by a humble companion having been so inappropriately elevated by an old woman whose understanding was very likely deficient; and the girl had looked miserable, probably seeing in Mary a rival for Sir Adrian’s attention.
And then, if that were not enough to chase away any hope of sleep, there was the truly terrible prospect of being obliged to deal with Lady Benstead, who was absolutely certain to arrive within the next day or so and who would not hesitate to make the most frightful scene when faced with a Miss Best who was clearly in charge and being deferred to by the servants.
When she rose later in the afternoon and dressed, Mary chose one of her new gowns in the hope that Lady Leland would appreciate the sight of her companion in figured muslin.
“She is asleep at the minute, Miss, but looks so much better than she did last night,” Brill whispered as Mary approached the bed.
“Thank you; I will take over now and will call you later.”
When Brill had left the room, Mary sat down beside the old lady but did not speak until she heard her ladyship say, “Pretty dress.”
“Is it not?” Mary agreed smiling.
“Will you sing to me again?” Lady Leland begged. “I have been dreaming of you singing.”
“Goodness! I hope the reality will not disappoint. Shall I have them move the spinet in here so that I can accompany myself?”
“Yes, pray do so.”
Mary rose, rang the bell and issued instructions.
She was sitting at the instrument and had begun to play and sing, beginning with the song she had sung unaccompanied earlier, when there was a faint scratching at the door.
On opening it, she was informed that Lord Marklye was below.
“Marklye? Has he come to inquire after her ladyship?”
“Yes, Miss.”
“How in the world did he know?”
Since no explanation was forthcoming, Mary told the servant that she would be down directly and went back to the patient.
“Lord Marklye has come to inquire after your health, my lady.”
“Better he than Lady Benstead. Go and speak to him, my dear, and invite him to come up, if he will. Send Brill in first to make sure that I am decent and that the room is properly aired; we do not want to give him a disgust of our household.”
Chapter 30
Lord Marklye, who had set out the previous evening with high hopes of being reconciled to Mary during the course of the card party, had returned to his own house in a fit of the most profound depression. In spite of their disagreement the last time they had met and her insistence that she would never change her mind, he had had no presentiment that she would flirt so outrageously with the man from whose clutches he had rescued her.
He had no doubt that Mr Armitage was a rake; indeed, he reminded the Viscount unpleasantly of himself a few years ago. The young man certainly bore a disagreeable resemblance to the previous Lord Marklye, who had ruined many an innocent girl; yet it seemed that, in spite of Mary’s loss of reputation some years ago – presumably at the hands of a scoundrel of a similar type – she was by no means indifferent to the charms of such a man. His lordship even found himself wondering if he should have behaved with a trifle less restraint himself; he had gained the impression that she saw herself as tainted and suspected that she considered herself unworthy to be the wife of a respectable man. His mouth twisted as he thought of this for, if she had had the least inkling of his conduct when young, she would surely realise that the boot was on the other leg. He guessed that, by taking her in as a companion, Lady Leland had saved her from being forced into the life of a woman of easy virtue and he wondered why she had done so.
The sight of Mary flirting with Mr Armitage, positively encouraging him in his outrageous behaviour, had been distressing because, although he had once believed that she liked him, he was not by any means convinced that she found him attractive; unfortunately, in his experience, most people chose kisses in preference to security; the fact that many in the past had chosen his was of no comfort whatsoever for he had never wished so passionately for anyone’s until he met Mary Best. She clearly found Mr Armitage irresistible which made it only too likely that she would eventually accept his loudly proclaimed offer of marriage.
His lordship, breakfasting unusually early the morning after the card party in the hope that he would thus avoid the company of his guests, was informed by his butler that there was talk of the doctor having been called to the Dower House late the previous evening.
“Where did you hear this
?” Marklye asked sharply.
“Joe saw him when he was shutting up for the night, my lord.”
“I see. If you hear anything more I should like to be informed immediately; you will find me in the rose garden if you learn anything further.”
The Viscount’s appetite having vanished, he pushed his plate away, swallowed his coffee and rose from the table.
The roses were coming to the end of their glorious explosion of colour and scent but his lordship, armed with a pair of scissors, managed to find enough to make a bunch, which he intended to take to the Dower House where he hoped to find Lady Leland – assuming it was her whom the doctor had been visiting - still in a position to receive and value flowers.
When Mary came into the room where Marklye had been asked to wait, she looked pale and fatigued. The bright look which had so animated her the previous evening was conspicuous by its absence.
“I heard that Lady Leland was taken ill last night,” he began, rising.
“Who told you that?”
“My butler. One of the servants saw the doctor ride past last night. I am sorry if it makes you angry that word has already reached me – and no doubt others – of her illness. I came to inquire how she did and have brought a fresh bunch of roses – which she seemed to like before. This time I have performed the necessary surgery myself so that you need not be troubled by it or run the risk of injuring yourself.”
He held out the bunch of flowers, tied with a pink ribbon to match the blooms.
Mary Or The Perils 0f Imprudence Page 26
