As they drove, she realized quite how much London had changed while she’d been down at Kyme. Here and there in the crowd, she saw people wearing white surgical masks as protection against the ’flu, which was worsening day by day, and beginning to be spoken of as an epidemic.
No-one else seemed to find the masks alarming. No-one else even noticed. The cab rattled past a mother and child on the pavement, both wearing masks. Their eyes met hers blankly. They were used to this. But to her it didn’t seem real. She began to feel like a ghost.
‘Oh, people are dropping like flies,’ the cabbie told her with gloomy relish. ‘It’s ten times worse than it was in the summer, and now it’s mostly the young as are falling off. They’re saying it’s the Kaiser’s secret weapon, but I don’t know. I remember the Russian ’flu of ’89, and you’re not telling me that was down to the Kaiser. Still,’ he added, belatedly remembering his tip, ‘you’ll do all right just so long as you smoke enough, and carry a pocketful of salt.’
Belle paid him off and got out. It was a beautiful, soft September day, and although there were no flowers in the flower beds it was a relief to see grass and trees. She almost managed to ignore the two great anti-aircraft guns positioned at Hyde Park Corner. But as she passed a newspaper stand, she noticed that the billboards carried only tidings of the War, and said nothing about the epidemic. So how could people be ‘dropping like flies’?
And yet, there was the public telephone booth at the corner of Grosvenor Street, padlocked shut ‘to prevent infection’. And as she walked down South Audley Street she passed red and yellow flags tied to the railings, with home-made signs tacked to the doors: Influenza; Tradesmen leave provisions on step; Doctor walk in, don’t knock, all in bed.
It was past one by the time she reached the house, but despite Sibella’s invitation to luncheon, Osbourne wasn’t there.
‘He’s gone, miss,’ whispered Jenny, who in the absence of the rest of the staff was acting as housemaid, cook and footman.
‘Gone?’ said Belle. ‘Do you mean he was here, and he—’
‘Left, miss.’ Jenny leaned closer. ‘Slipped out by the basement,’ she hissed. ‘Mistress has a visitor he didn’t wish to see.’
Belle thought of Cornelius Traherne, and her stomach turned over.
‘They’re in the drawing room,’ whispered Jenny, and before Belle could stop her she’d opened the doors and stood aside to let her pass.
‘Ah, Belle,’ said Sibella.
‘Hello,’ said Adam Palairet.
Ignoring his outstretched hand, Isabelle Lawe made her way to the window seat and sat down. ‘You didn’t waste much time,’ she said, with no attempt at courtesy.
‘No,’ replied Adam, ignoring her tone, ‘I didn’t.’ He watched her take off her hat and shake out her sleek black bob, then cross her legs and jiggle her foot slowly up and down. He found that irritating, and resolved to ignore it.
Sibella was watching them with amusement. ‘Well, I gather that you’ve already been introduced; although I must say it’s amazing that your paths didn’t cross years ago. Shall I see about some tea?’
‘Not for me,’ said Isabelle Lawe.
‘Thank you,’ said Adam at the same time.
Biting back a smile, Sibella left the room, shutting the doors behind her.
The silence lengthened. Isabelle Lawe went on jiggling her foot. She wore a tailored coat-frock of forest green, with calf-length buttoned boots of dark blue Russian leather. The strong colours suited her, and her figure was more than good enough to take the severity of the cut, but Adam thought she looked sulky and unappealing; and she’d painted her wide mouth too dark a shade of red.
He reminded himself that she wasn’t yet twenty, and that her animosity was mostly defensive. In fact, he ought to feel sorry for her. None of this was her fault.
It didn’t work.
‘I’ve been meaning to ask,’ she said. ‘Why are you still in uniform? Sibella tells me that you’re some kind of invalid.’
Refusing to be needled, he gave her his blandest smile. ‘I’m in uniform,’ he said, ‘because I’m a soldier. Although I may shortly become an ex-soldier, which is presumably what you mean. It’s up to the doctors to decide.’
‘You don’t look ill.’
‘I got shot in the lung. It’s now quite healed, but it’s still a bit troublesome.’
‘So you’re broken-winded. Like a horse.’
He ignored that. ‘I’m waiting to hear if they’ll let me go back.’
‘Rather a pity if they don’t,’ she said, still jiggling her foot. ‘You’ll miss the end of the War. Everyone’s saying the Germans will throw in the towel any day now. That they’re simply holding out to improve the terms of surrender.’
‘Is that what everyone’s saying?’
She flushed.
He knew what she was doing. She was keeping him talking until Sibella returned. But what did she hope to achieve by that?
Suddenly he felt tired. Why do I bother? he wondered. She doesn’t want to be helped, and I’ve no interest whatsoever in her welfare. I’m only doing this out of some outdated notion of family honour, in which I’ve long since ceased to believe.
‘I suppose,’ she said, ‘being in uniform has the advantage that no-one will give you a white feather. And presumably you enjoy trying to make people like me feel guilty for not doing our bit: for not knitting comforters or dispensing sandwiches to the troops at railway stations.’
‘And do you feel guilty?’
She hesitated a fraction too long. ‘No,’ she said.
‘Then there wouldn’t be much point in my trying to make you, would there?’
She studied him with frank dislike. She had clear olive skin and direct, very dark eyes that some men would have found challenging. Adam didn’t. He said, ‘Miss Lawe, I do appreciate that you’re not—’
‘While you were at Kyme,’ she broke in, ‘did you get to see Celia, after all?’
‘No, I didn’t. After all. Now please, I—’
‘What a pity. People say that we look rather alike, she and I. Do you think that’s true?’
‘There is a resemblance,’ he said, rubbing his temple.
‘Only I’m not nearly such a beauty as Celia.’
‘That’s true,’ said Adam, ‘you’re not.’
Her lip curled mirthlessly.
‘Now can we get to the point? I need to see Osbourne.’
Her chin went up. ‘I know you do.’
‘Do you know where he is?’
‘Yes.’
‘Will you tell me?’
‘No.’ Her hands had moved to her lap, and she’d lost her air of brittle assurance.
He sat forward with his elbows on his knees. ‘Miss Lawe, what you need to understand—’
The doors opened, and Sibella came in. She glanced from one to the other, tasting the atmosphere with relish. ‘Oh dear,’ she said insincerely, ‘did I come back too soon? Ought I to—’
‘No, don’t,’ said Isabelle Lawe. ‘We’ve just finished.’ She got up and walked to the door. ‘Goodbye, Captain Palairet,’ she said. ‘And jolly good luck in the War.’
Adam sat back with a sigh.
Sibella plumped down beside him, her blue eyes agleam with mischief. ‘What was that all about?’
‘How do you stand her?’ said Adam.
‘Belle? Oh, I’m inordinately fond of her. She has such spirit! Why, was she uncivil?’
‘Yes. Very.’
She gave a snort of laughter. ‘You poor darling.’ She paused. ‘You know, you’re looking awfully tired. Why don’t you stay to lunch?’
‘No, thank you, Sib. I don’t think I could take another dose of Miss Lawe.’
She studied him with concern. ‘They’re not going to send you back to the Front, are they?’
‘I don’t know. I had a note from Clive this morning.’
‘Your doctor friend?’
He nodded. ‘It seems the medical board’s so sho
rt-staffed that they’re drafting him in to help. He’s seeing me tomorrow. Then they’ll decide.’
‘If they do send you back, shall you mind terribly?’
He thought about that. ‘I don’t know. In a way it’ll be a relief. Things are simpler over there.’
‘Whatever do you mean?’
He glanced at her, then shook his head. How to explain that he was getting tired of people seeking his help? First there was Drum, sending him a plaintive wire begging him to meet for dinner; then a call from Maud McAllister with some worry about the Home Farm that couldn’t possibly wait; and on top of all that, he still had to track down wretched, bloody Osbourne, and somehow persuade him to . . . ‘I just want to go somewhere very very quiet,’ he told Sibella, ‘and be alone for ever and ever.’
Sibella burst out laughing. ‘Oh, Adam, I don’t think that’s going to happen! You’re far too attractive to be alone!’
Despite himself, he laughed. ‘Now you’re trying to embarrass me.’
‘Heavens no,’ she said, handing him his tea. ‘I gave that up aeons ago.’
There was a companionable silence while they drank their tea. Then Adam said, ‘I really do need to see Osbourne.’
‘About what?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you. Not just yet. But perhaps you can tell me . . . This friendship between him and Miss Lawe. Is it serious?’
Sibella raised her shoulders in a shrug. ‘These days, who can say? I doubt it. Although they do seem fond of one another. Why?’
He sighed. ‘I wish I’d never . . . Why do people keep coming to me for help?’
‘Because you’re so good at giving it, darling.’
‘Well, not any more. As of now, I’m renouncing all that. No more help. Why do you smile?’
‘Because that’s simply not in your nature.’
‘It’s not in yours to be analytical,’ he pointed out, ‘but it’s not stopping you at the moment.’
That made her chuckle. ‘Perhaps I shall become a philosopher in my old age.’
He got to his feet. ‘Well, then you have a great many years in which to decide.’
‘Flatterer,’ she said as she accompanied him to the door.
But as they went out into the hall, she faltered for a moment, and on instinct he put a hand under her elbow to steady her. ‘Are you all right?’ he said sharply.
She gave herself a little shake, and smiled up at him. ‘My dear Adam. My cook is in hospital, my son’s governess will shortly be joining her, and I’ve hardly a shred of respectable clothing to my name. Of course I’m all right. Why shouldn’t I be?’
Chapter Fifteen
Sibella was late for breakfast, and as Belle was finishing hers Jenny came clattering down the stairs, fighting back tears. ‘She’s bad, miss. You’d better come.’
Sibella lay in a storm of bedclothes, her pretty hair tangled, her face flushed and glistening with sweat. Sibella, who was always immaculately turned out; who never even ‘glowed’.
When she saw Belle, she forced a grin that was painful to see. ‘I know,’ she gasped. ‘Frightful nuisance. Could you – call Dr Steele? And don’t – don’t come any closer.’
Belle raced downstairs and telephoned the doctor. No reply. Cursing under her breath, she shouted for Jenny.
The girl appeared at the top of the stairs, twisting her hands.
‘Fetch Dr Steele,’ said Belle. ‘Don’t just stand there, run and fetch him! And don’t come back without him!’
While Jenny got her hat and coat, Belle ran upstairs to the bathroom and ransacked the medicine cupboard. She didn’t know what she was looking for. What did one give someone with influenza? What was influenza, anyway?
Dimly, she remembered her mother dosing her with quinine when she was little. Quinine was her mother’s answer to everything. Perhaps it would work on the ’flu? She grabbed the bottle and an armful of others, and turned to see Jenny in the doorway.
‘My mum swears by garlic tea,’ said the girl as she jammed on her hat. ‘And wrapping them in wet sheets to bring down the fever, and hot toddy for the heads.’
Belle forced a smile. ‘Sibella will like the toddy.’
Jenny’s eyes filled with tears.
‘You’d better go,’ said Belle.
‘Dr Steele,’ muttered Jenny. ‘Right away.’
When she’d gone, the house lapsed into funereal stillness. Clutching an armful of phenacetin, Dover’s powders and tincture of quinine, Belle elbowed open the bedroom door.
Weakly, Sibella waved a hand to warn her back.
‘Dr Steele will be here soon,’ said Belle as cheerfully as she could. ‘In the meantime, I’m afraid you’re stuck with me. So no more nonsense about not coming any closer.’
Jenny did not come back. Perhaps she couldn’t find Dr Steele. Perhaps she’d given up looking for him, and was too frightened to return. Whatever the reason, Belle stopped listening for the latchkey, and rolled up her sleeves and got on with it.
Sibella was running a fever of one hundred and five. Her face was a mottled puce, and she kept taking great hungry gulps of air, but it was never enough. Her breath rasped like a bank note being crisped in someone’s hand.
Belle asked her where it hurt.
‘Everywhere,’ she moaned. ‘When I move – when I’m still . . . Oh, Belle, give me something for the pain . . .’
All Belle could do was wrap her in wet sheets to bring down the temperature, and dose her with quinine and phenacetin. None of it seemed to have the slightest effect.
Around noon, Sibella had a coughing fit. Belle held her shoulders and prayed that it wouldn’t lead to convulsions. Then Sibella started to retch. Belle ran for a basin. To her horror she saw that it wasn’t vomit Sibella was bringing up: the basin was spattered with greenish-yellow pus.
‘Poor – you,’ gasped Sibella between bouts of coughing, while Belle held her head. ‘How – perfectly vile.’
‘Hush, darling,’ murmured Belle. ‘You need every ounce of strength.’
At last the coughing subsided, and Belle laid her back on the pillows, where she fell into an exhausted sleep.
Belle crept out to the bathroom and rinsed the basin, trying not to gag. Then she tiptoed downstairs and rang Osbourne’s club. He wasn’t there, and they didn’t know where he could be reached. At least, that was what they said.
She stood in the middle of the hall, wondering whom she could call. A hospital? The police?
A faint moan from the bedroom settled it for her. No time to telephone. She ran back upstairs.
It was eight in the evening when Dr Steele finally arrived, accompanied by a shamefaced Jenny. ‘I couldn’t find him,’ she whispered. Belle silenced her with a look.
The doctor was red-eyed with exhaustion, but to her astonishment he spent a scant five minutes with Sibella before leading Belle back onto the landing. ‘I’ve seen worse,’ he said brusquely. ‘She may pull through.’
Belle was aghast. ‘But you’re not leaving already?’
‘My dear Miss Lawe. I’ve seen several dozen cases in the past few hours, and by morning I shall have seen several dozen more. I cannot afford to linger.’
‘But—’
‘Keep dosing her with phenacetin at four-hour intervals for the pain,’ he said as he started down the stairs, ‘and here’s morphine to dry the lungs and slow the breathing. You did well with the wet sheets and the quinine.’
Belle clutched his arm. ‘But I don’t know anything! How will I know if she’s getting worse?’
‘You’ll know,’ said the doctor wearily. He turned and gave her an appraising look, as if wondering how much more she could take. ‘To tell you the truth, Miss Lawe, your guess is probably as good as mine. In thirty years I’ve never seen anything like this. There are no rules. Every case is different. Sometimes their lungs fill with pus and they drown within hours. Sometimes the heart gives out. Sometimes there’s delirium. Sometimes they go deaf or blind. Sometimes they have great gushing no
sebleeds – black blood, pints of it. That’s either the turning point to recovery, or aneurism and the end . . .’ He broke off, shaking his head. ‘I’m sorry. Unforgivable to sound off like that. But I’ve never been so powerless. It makes me angry.’
‘What about Sibella?’ said Belle in a small voice. ‘Will she . . .’
‘I don’t know. I really don’t know.’
At the door he turned and handed her a sixpenny booklet. ‘Take this. It’ll tell you more than I’ve got time for.’
‘Will you be coming back?’
‘Some time tomorrow. If I can.’
She swallowed. ‘Thank you, Dr Steele.’
‘You’re a good nurse, Miss Lawe. Common sense. Good nerves. Strong stomach. You’ll muddle through.’
‘Poor Freddie,’ murmured Sibella in one of her lucid periods. ‘He really loved me, you know.’
‘I know he did, darling,’ said Belle as she sponged Sibella’s face and throat, where the skin had broken out in hundreds of tiny purple blood blisters that burned to the touch.
It was past midnight. Belle’s face felt stiff with fatigue, and she’d been clenching her jaw so hard that it ached. Dr Steele’s booklet lay unread on the rug beside the bed. She hadn’t had a moment to look at it.
She and Sibella were alone in the house. Jenny had disappeared hours ago, leaving an ill-spelt note to the effect that her mother had been taken sick, and her brothers and sisters needed her. Belle hardly noticed her absence. She had enough to do fighting her own fears without having to calm Jenny’s as well.
‘You know,’ breathed Sibella, ‘he – proposed to me. Just before I married Clyne. But it – would never have done. I couldn’t have made him happy.’
‘Hush, Sib, please . . .’
‘You see – I never knew how to love. Didn’t have the knack.’ She paused for breath. ‘I’m glad he died before me. Wouldn’t want him – to see me like this.’ Suddenly she frowned. ‘Good heavens, what’s Lyndon doing in my room?’
A couple of hours later, she began to breathe more freely. Hardly daring to hope, Belle gave her another sponge bath – and saw to her alarm that the blisters had spread to her back and arms. What did that mean? A quick skim through the booklet was no help at all. It didn’t even mention blisters.
The Daughters of Eden Trilogy Page 95
