Fear for Frances

by Veronica Heley

  ‘Is Richard ill?’ asked Lord Broome, when they were alone. ‘I wish you’d tell me what’s keeping him. He may be irresponsible and selfish, but he’d not let me down like this if he could help it.’

  ‘Your brother is well enough where he is,’ said Frances, crossing her fingers within the folds of her gown. ‘And he would not thank you for working yourself into a fever on his account.’

  ‘I don’t know what’s the matter with everyone this morning. Benson behaves as if I can’t be trusted to be left on my own for more than a minute, nurses come and go without a word of explanation, the house is as quiet as the grave, and you look as if you’ve been crying. Why?’

  ‘A personal matter,’ said Frances, and to avoid further conversation went through into the dressing-room and sat on Benson’s cot. She could see Lord Broome in the mirror from there. He could see her, too. He lay watching her. He did not ask her to return. He looked better now that he’d been shaved, but very white and drawn. Presently he slid down on the pillows and dozed off. Frances bowed her head over her knees. She knew what ailed her: jealousy. Jealousy of Maud. She had thought once that she had loved Walter Donne; she knew now that she had never loved him, for she had never felt like this about him.

  After some time she raised her head. She had come to a decision and would stick to it. If Gavin Broome loved his cousin Maud, and if Maud’s presence might help him through the operation, then by hook or by crook Miss Chard was going to see to it that Maud presented herself in the sick-room without delay.

  Benson returned, causing the sick man to waken. The batman shook his head at Frances. ‘The nurse is being sick all over the place. Eaten something to disagree with her, she says. Dr Green hasn’t appeared yet. Arling went to the station to meet the train, but there’s been no word from London from the surgeon to say he’s coming.’

  ‘Theo’s going to scratch,’ said Lord Broome. ‘Remember what you promised, Colonel.’

  Frances remembered. ‘Benson, go and fetch Dr Green. Don’t come back without him.’

  Benson went. Frances pulled the bed-covers straight. She could not look her patient in the eye, but she could still command her voice. ‘Would you like to see some member of your family while we are waiting?’

  ‘My aunt, you mean? She’d be more likely to tell me about her own symptoms than ask about mine.’

  ‘There’s Lady Amelia ...?’

  ‘My poor godmother! This cold weather won’t do her rheumatism any good. They always give her the Blue Bedroom and the chimney smokes.’

  ‘Miss Seld?’

  ‘You ought to know better than to ask. I’m sure that you do know better. I had a lucky escape there, didn’t I?’

  ‘Well, what about Miss Broome?’

  ‘Agnes?’ He smiled. ‘She’s a darling, but too energetic for me at the moment. Later.’

  ‘I mean Miss Maud Broome.’

  There was a pause. ‘You mean she and my brother did not marry, after all?’

  ‘No, the marriage never took place. Would you like to see her?’

  ‘Good grief, no. We’ve never got on, you know. So Richard got out of it, did he? No wonder he’s fled the place. About the wisest thing he could do. She must be in a temper to end all tempers.’

  ‘Oh!’ cried Miss Chard. ‘You don’t care for her, then? Nor Miss Seld?’

  ‘Maud is a shrew, and Isabella a fool. Don’t tell me you haven’t come to the same conclusion, for I wouldn’t believe you.’

  ‘It is not my place to go round forming opinions of either of your cousins.’

  His lordship gave a shout of laughter. ‘Oh, Frances — what a mixture of discretion and imprudence! Does your heart always lead your head? Now tell me. Why were you crying? Was it for Theo?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Are you going to have him?’

  ‘Marry him, you mean? No, I am not.’

  ‘Why not? He’s young, able-bodied, ambitious, and he loves you.’

  ‘Does he? Oh, I am sure he doesn’t. No, I’m not going to marry him. He’s not man enough for me. No, I didn’t mean that, exactly.’

  ‘Yes, you did.’ Lord Broome was grinning, and somehow had managed to catch hold of a fold of her dress. ‘Well, will you have me, if I get through the operation in one piece?’

  She had not been expecting it. The room went dark around her. She grasped the bed curtain to steady herself. She took two slow breaths, in and out. ‘What nonsense!’ she said. Her voice broke. She took out her handkerchief and blew her nose. She went over to the mirror and started to push pins in and out of her hair. She made herself laugh. ‘A joke is a joke, but you must not let your family hear you say such things!’

  ‘They’d probably applaud. They’ve been trying to get me married off for years. To save Richard the trouble, you know. I should warn you, before you accept, that I’m no great catch. I’ve a sharp tongue and a short temper. As a soldier’s wife you’d be living in married quarters, wherever I may be posted.

  ‘You may have heard that I’ve money of my own; well, I have, and it takes time to look after it properly. Then I’ve no house to take you to. I inherited a small estate belonging to my mother’s uncle, but the house there was burned down some twenty years ago and never rebuilt. When I finally leave the Army, I’ll have to rent a place until I can build a house of my own. You mention my family; you know what I think of Richard, and the rest of them, with the exception of Agnes, are either disagreeable or foolish. I see as little of them as I can. My Uncle Manning who lives in Town; he’s well enough, and so are all his family. I think you’d like them.’

  It was a long speech for a sick man. His voice failed. Frances closed her eyes. If only ... Walter ... false references. Richard ... Gavin did not know ... Her throat pained her. She put both her hands to it. She thought: “If only I could say ‘yes’! If only he’d still been a younger son; if Walter had not ruined my chances of making a good marriage! I’d have made him a good wife, if things had been different!”

  A door shut softly, nearby. Was it the door on to the Gallery? She had not been looking. She realised that if someone had peeped into the room, they would have thought his lordship asleep. He had not spoken for some time, and neither had she. He was lying still, watching her. She smoothed her hair and observed, in a commonplace voice, that Benson was taking his time.

  ‘Benson approves,’ said his lordship. ‘“There’s a lady as would suit you to a T.” That’s what he said. Not that I needed him to point out the obvious to me. I have thought of very little except marrying you, from the moment I came to myself.’

  Frances could not think of anything which she might safely say to that, so she busied herself around the room. When next Lord Broome opened his mouth to speak, she stopped him, saying that he must conserve his energy, and try to sleep. He said he was not sleepy, but she noticed that he was lying almost flat on the bed, and that he looked exhausted. Within five minutes he was fast asleep.

  Frances went out on to the Gallery and sent one of the maids for Polly. She was filled with nervous excitement. It was impossible for her to sit still, watching him, or she would begin to repeat the words of his proposal to herself, and build on them, and that would never do! Polly arrived to sit in the sick-room and Frances went upstairs to see the agency nurse. The woman had been very ill. She was lying in bed, shivering, her hair hanging around her face, and her skin pallid. She tried to get up when Frances came in, but her limbs would not support her. Frances felt sorry for her and asked if there were anything she might require. No, said the nurse; only something to calm her stomach. Perhaps the doctor would give her something when he arrived. Frances asked if the nurse knew what had made her ill. She did not. Perhaps her late-night cocoa, which had tasted strange. Perhaps it was just a chill.

  Frances went downstairs to enquire if Dr Green had arrived yet, and was told that he’d come some time ago, and was closeted with Mr Broome and Mr Manning in the gun-room. This information was imparted by Spilkins, who s
eemed anxious to stand and gossip. He had heard, he said, that his lordship had developed a fever. A slight one, said Miss Chard. It was a pity, Spilkins said, that his lordship had ever been taken off the quinine, for that would have prevented the fever.

  ‘Quinine?’ said Frances.

  ‘The yellow stuff. Nurse Moon said she swore by it. It didn’t taste too good, she said, but it worked a treat. A pity the bottle went astray when she left, for it might have saved his lordship’s life.’

  ‘Tasted nasty?’ said Frances, beginning to suspect the truth.

  ‘It certainly did. One of the footmen tried something his lordship had refused to eat, and he said it was enough to turn him off food for good. Young Abel, it was. A lad from a very low family. Serve him right, tasting food prepared for his betters. Well, I must get on. There’s Mrs Broome fussing about her bracelet and it seems there’s some money missing from the gun-room, too. I don’t know what the world’s coming to.’ He held up a telegram form. ‘I have to take this into the gun-room. Shall I tell the doctor you were enquiring for him?’

  ‘The reply from the surgeon in London? At last!’

  ‘From Bath. Not London. There hasn’t been anything come from London, and it doesn’t look as if the surgeon’s coming, for it’s long past time the train was due in.’

  Bath. A telegram from Bath. But none from London? It was a puzzle Frances could not solve. What did it mean? And why should there have been a telegram from Bath? Her aunt lived near Bath. Did it mean ... could it mean that someone had telegraphed from the Court to her aunt? And if so, why? It could only be about Frances’ references. Or was she reading too much into the situation? What ought she to do?

  Unconsciously she wrung her hands. Theo ... Lord Broome ... the surgeon from London ... the operation! She had given her promise to Lord Broome to see him through the operation, and she would do so, come what might.

  Theo ... what was he thinking of to delay like this? She started after Spilkins, only to be stopped by a cry from Polly, who came flying down the corridor after her.

  ‘Oh, Miss — come quickly! It’s the Reverend again, and he’s brought the curate and candles and wants to set up an altar in the State Bedroom.’

  ‘Whatever next!’ cried Frances. She cast one longing glance down the corridor to the gun-room, and then hurried back along the Gallery, formulating plans to meet this unexpected attack.

  *

  To give him his due, Theo was suffering. He knew that he was neglecting his patient, and he knew why, and he was beginning to feel that though no one else would blame him for causing Gavin’s death by negligence, he himself would do so for the rest of his life. He forgot to puff at the cigar Hugo had given him, and his glass remained full at his side.

  ‘A sad thing,’ sighed Hugo. ‘But of course his days were numbered, anyway. You say he would never have regained the use of the thumb and first finger on his left hand, whatever happened?’

  ‘That’s so,’ said Theo. ‘Of course, the damage was not done by the bullet which is causing all the trouble now. It was done way back in January, when his horse lashed out at him, breaking his arm and cutting through the tendons. A horse’s hoof, slashing across an arm like that ...’ He shook his head. ‘Very bad. He has not yet realised the truth. He thought power would return to the injured fingers when the splints were removed, and now he blames the bullet.’ He lapsed into silence.

  Mr Manning, sitting on the far side of the fireplace, was also miserable. He felt his presence at the Court was superfluous, because Hugo had so firmly taken over the reins of the household. He would every much have liked to return to his wife and children in London, but he could not in all decency leave while Gavin was dying.

  ‘A hopeless case from the start,’ said Hugo. ‘You have handled it well, Doctor. If your uncle is no longer able to continue practising medicine, then be sure that the family will remember how well you have served them.’

  Instead of pleasing Theo, this statement increased his feeling of guilt. ‘Ought we not to telegraph again to London? It is strange that we have not even had an acknowledgment. What time was the telegram sent?’

  ‘Arling took it to the telegraph office yesterday evening. My copy is here.’ He held up a sheet of paper. ‘It was sent at six yesterday.’

  Theo had good sight, and moreover at that moment he had leaned forward to relight his cigar, so that the paper was well within his range. He started up, his cigar forgotten. ‘It has been sent to the wrong man! I said Sir Stanley Ellis, not “Mr Trellis”! Oh, my God what are we to do now?’

  ‘The wrong ...?’ Hugo seemed as shaken as Theo. ‘Are you sure? How could I have come to make such a mistake? I was sure ... Uncle, do you remember exactly what it was that Doctor Green said?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’ Mr Manning looked from one agitated young man to the other. ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘Such a mistake! I am mortified!’ said Hugo.

  ‘So many hours lost!’ said Theo, throwing away his cigar. ‘That is what it means. It reduces the chances of a successful operation to nil.’

  ‘But you said there was no hope, anyway,’ said Hugo. ‘Be reasonable, Doctor. A tragic mistake has occurred, and whether I misheard you, or whether you gave me the wrong name in the heat of the moment is neither here nor there. What is done cannot be undone. Of course we wanted the best man to attend my cousin, but ... let me fill your glass again ... from what you have said the operation could only have hastened my cousin’s end.’

  While Theo stood irresolute, there came a knock on the door. The girl he loved and hoped to marry stood there. They were waiting for him, she said. He noticed that she was not looking as composed as usual, that her hair was not as smoothly arranged, and that her nostrils were flattened as if she were suppressing anger. He heard Hugo saying that they could not hope for a surgeon to arrive that day, and he heard her reply that she knew they had not yet received an answer from London.

  ‘The telegram went to the wrong man,’ said Theo. ‘It was a mistake. I hardly know how it happened.’

  She inclined her head, and he realised that she had noted his plea of not guilty, and refused to accept it. She stood aside from the door to allow him to pass before her, and sooner than lose her good opinion, he picked up his bag and went with her. She walked rapidly beside him along the corridor, her head bent and her fingers busy at the nape of her neck, smoothing her hair up into its coil. He touched her on the arm.

  ‘I must speak to you.’

  ‘What ... now?’ They were at the corner, by the turret stairs. She glanced round into the Gallery. ‘You realise you must operate yourself, immediately?’

  ‘I always meant to do so, if the surgeon did not arrive in time. You knew that?’

  ‘I know that Lord Broome trusted you to do so.’

  ‘And you? You know I would not have let him down?’

  She preferred not to answer, but turned her head away from him.

  ‘Miss Chard. Frances. I know that this is not the place, or the time to speak of marriage, but I have been half out of my mind since ...’

  ‘Marriage? You talk to me of marriage?’ She spoke in a rapid monotone, unlike her usual manner of speech, and her eyes went now up the stairs, and now over his shoulder into the Gallery. ‘I do not think of marriage. I do not think I shall ever marry. Come, they are waiting for us. I suggested that the vicar set up a chapel in Mrs Broome’s ante-room. Benson is arranging everything in the Gallery. Lord Broome is — or was — asleep, but he keeps moving his arm about. He has a slight fever, I think.’

  ‘Why should you not marry me?’

  ‘Hush, someone is coming.’ Meakins, the ladies’ maid, came down the turret stairs and passed them with eyes down, discretion written into every line of her body. No doubt she had heard what they had been saying, Theo thought. And no doubt Mrs Broome and Maud would hear of it within the hour. Frances was impatient.

  ‘This is neither the time nor the place for such a discussion,’ she said. />
  ‘But you promise me that you will think of it? You like me well enough, don’t you?’

  She looked him full in the eye. ‘I liked you very well indeed,’ she said, emphasising her use of the past tense.

  ‘It was not I who made the mistake over the telegram.’

  ‘Prove it by operating at once.’

  Benson had improvised an operating table on one of the big chests in the Gallery, directly in the light of the windows. There were more servants in the Gallery than there should have been at that time of day. Housemaids were still busy making beds and turning out bedrooms, and there were no less than four footmen busying themselves with jobs which Frances had never seen done at that hour of the day before.

  She went into the sick-room, leaving Theo to lay out the tools of his trade. Lord Broome was restless, but asleep. She touched him on the hand and he woke, but not to full consciousness.

  ‘I couldn’t find her,’ he said, looking straight up at her, but not seeing her. He was breathing with difficulty, as if he had been running. ‘The weeds nearly got me, that time.’ He frowned, blinked and turned his head to look round the room. ‘Where ...? Ah, I remember.’ He looked at her, and this time he saw her. ‘Did I say something stupid? I was having another of my nightmares. Is the surgeon here already?’

  ‘We are going to carry you out into the Gallery, where the light is better. Theo will get the bullet out, and you will feel better then.’

  ‘So soon?’ Yes, he was afraid, and fighting for control. ‘Give me something to hold on to. Something hard.’

  She put the glass stopper into his hand. He grasped it firmly, and nodded to her to carry on. Two footmen carried the patient into the Gallery. Frances walked beside them, her eyes on Lord Broome’s face. The removal from one place to another must have caused him pain, but he gave no sign of it.