Unexpected Danger

by Lisa E. Pugh

  She managed, through force of will, to write a few articles for a familiar journal. The weather even tainted her writing, resulting in depressing works on life and politics. She mailed the items at the small post office on her way out of the village, happy to be rid of them.

  She was glad to be out of her small bungalow. It grew claustrophobic over the long hours. The flooding of the fords made it impossible to meet Lara in town, so she was pretty much stuck at home for the duration. Luckily, the dry winter caused the floodwaters to drop swiftly once the rain stopped. The roads were muddy but passable by the afternoon.

  As time passed on leaden feet, she found herself wanting to see Christopher again. His wit, his charm, and his laugh were sorely missed during the cold wet days. She felt that, with him to talk to, such weather would not have been so awful.

  As usual, Brenlaw opened the door for her when she arrived at the house. He looked tired and drained, his skin pale and tight over his face. Yet, he still maintained an erect and professional poise as he led her to the back door.

  “Are you all right, Brenlaw?”

  “Very well, miss. The past few days have been… a little wearing on all of us here.”

  “Is his lordship doing well also?”

  Brenlaw did not answer immediately. When she repeated her question, he replied, “He is well. Better than he has been these last few days. Being confined to the house is not compatible with his temperament. You will find him in the sculpture garden. I suggested he may wish to wait there in the sunshine.”

  “I understand.” She sensed there was more. “Anything else I should know?”

  Brenlaw stopped in his tracks, thinking and frowning as if wrestling with some deep internal conflict. After a long hesitation, he turned to her. “The unrelenting storms have upset his composure. He hasn't slept well. Insomnia disturbed his rest every night, sometimes keeping him up all night. I believe, though he would never say so, that he’s been having dreams about his accident.”

  “Oh my!”

  “You will also find that he is using a cane. The accident all those years ago jarred and bruised his spine. The damage left him in a wheelchair for some months. He still requires occasional support when he’s tired. Especially after his… rougher nights.”

  “Thank you, Brenlaw.”

  With eyes reflecting his discomfort, the butler began, “You will…”

  “I’ll keep your confidences as you keep everyone’s—as silently as the grave. He won’t know you told me anything.”

  “Thank you, miss.” He led her outside and then withdrew.

  She knew what sort of “rough night” his lordship had suffered. While volunteering at Craiglockhart during the war, she saw what happened to wounded and shell-shocked soldiers when noises reminded them of their experiences at the front—they ran away, dove under tables, or just curled up and rocked back and forth while staring into space. It was frightening to watch.

  If the tempest was similar to the one in which the earl had his accident, it might have created a similar effect on him. In that case, similarities would breed nightmares. Having witnessed so many patients’ night terrors, she did not want to imagine what horrors Christopher may have lived through again and again in his dreams.

  She entered the eighteenth-century garden with both trepidation and a deep desire to see her friend. He needed some bright, laughing company. She wanted to help him, distract him, and cheer him up if she could.

  She must take care, however. She gave her word to Brenlaw. If his lordship didn't wish to mention it, she couldn't act as if she knew anything about his troubles over the last few days.

  The earl lounged on a wrought iron chair with his face to the sun. His hood was up, but the angle of his head was apparent from the way the fabric draped. His long legs stretched out before him. A mahogany cane with an ivory handle rested against the chair’s arm.

  She approached slowly, watching him carefully. His breathing was slow and even. He hummed quietly. His fingers tapped a rhythm on the arm of his chair. He looked so relaxed that part of her did not wish to disturb him in such a peaceful pose.

  Suddenly, he spoke, “Is that you, Brenlaw? Any sign of Miss Taylor yet?”

  His voice wavered, sounding rough and weak. It pained her to hear how frail he sounded. Bracing herself, she replied, “A very good sign, Christopher.”

  He leaped up and spun around. Instantly, he swayed and grasped the arm of the chair. His free hand fumbled for his cane. It slipped, sliding away from him. With a muttered curse, he caught it just before it fell.

  Pushing himself upright on the stick, he paused to regain his equilibrium. He shook for a moment, panting, recovering his poise with an effort. Then he turned to face her again.

  He straightened his jacket. “Maggie, dash it, you startled me.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.” Her gaze drifted to his finely polished support and returned to him with a questioning look. She had never seen him with a cane. Anyone would wonder what it meant.

  “This?” He raised his stick slightly. “It’s a remnant from my life shortly after my accident. I still need it occasionally—restless nights, exhausted muscles, and all that.”

  “Have you had restless nights?” She asked, feigning ignorance.

  “Yes. These storms… they don’t do my nerves any favors.” He attempted a laugh. When that failed, he paused and added soberly, “Too much like that night, I suppose.”

  “I understand.”

  “Do you? Can’t say I do. I could have sworn I was past the point of having nightmares.”

  “Reactions from that sort of experience don’t go away easily.”

  “Yes, but fifteen years later? Disgraceful!”

  Margaret stepped up to him and laid a hand on his shoulder. “It’s not. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about, no matter what some people may say. It happens more often than you think.”

  “How do you know that?” he asked, his voice upset and, no doubt unintentionally, begging for reassurance.

  “I worked as a nurse's aide during the War. I saw plenty of soldiers and officers, strong men, who were reduced to screaming wrecks during such attacks. And they always seemed wobbly the next morning.”

  Suddenly intrigued, he inquired, “Where did you work?”

  She hesitated, not sure what his reaction to the hospital’s name would be. “Craiglockhart.”

  “Isn’t that the loony bin Sassoon was sent to?”

  She winced. “It wasn’t a loony bin. It was a hospital dedicated to the treatment of shell shock. But yes, Mr. Sassoon was a patient there.”

  He was quiet a moment, seemingly aware that he had made a faux pas. When he spoke again, his tone was curious. “What was it like?”

  “It had its good and bad moments, like any other place.” She shrugged, not wishing to elaborate. “One of the reasons I came to this village was to get close to the war records released to Balliol College. I was curious to see what the records would show of Doctor W. H. R. Rivers’ work. I was there and saw first-hand the miracles he achieved. And I witnessed the ham-fisted idiots who periodically knocked down his beautiful work with their casual disregard for the real needs of their patients.”

  “There was a war on. They couldn’t take a personal interest in every patient.”

  “Doctor Rivers did, or at least he tried to. He worried about the soldiers' psyches, their whole person, not just their ability to hold a gun and fire it at the right target. He worked hard to get them back to some semblance of normal.”

  She scowled. “That wasn't what the Army wanted. They wanted their men functional enough to go back on the front line, and that’s all. Dr. Yealland’s quick successes were more their preference. The military probably saw River’s method as a mollycoddling waste of time and resources. If so, I’ll track down some of his patients to prove them wrong.”

  “That will take some doing. Aren’t patient files confidential?”

  “Yes, but I can advertise for p
eople to come forward. Rivers didn't get the soldiers back on the battlefield as quickly as his colleague in London, but I saw his effect on his patients. He made them feel like men—like they mattered. He didn't use electric shocks to loosen their paralyzed tongues or bully them into acting like they were better through so-called ‘autosuggestion.’

  “They might never be whole again, but I believe River’s patients sometimes survived in ways other shell-shocked soldiers didn't. Some of his patients developed a will to survive they wouldn’t have otherwise. Sassoon said Rivers ‘revived’ his dead soul and made him feel life was worth living. I believe such work deserves to be lauded, not sneered at.”

  “That’s a serious little crusade you’re planning.”

  She bristled at his patronizing tone. She'd heard such attitudes before when she spoke of her plans. Her voice turned brittle. “I intend to follow it through if I can.”

  “I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m genuinely impressed with the determination and zeal you have for this cause.” He hesitated. “Would he have been able to help me, do you think?”

  She opened her mouth to reply with an emphatic “yes,” but she paused. Dr. Rivers dealt with war neuroses, not trauma from car crashes. He believed that prolonged exposure to the stress of war caused shell shock. Could the same techniques be used for other events? Were the same psychological issues at play?

  “I don’t know,” she admitted at last. “I think he would have liked to help, but he was working with war-ravaged patients. I’m not certain how much convergence there is between the long exposure of war and the sudden shock of an automobile accident. I can certainly say he would have given it his best shot. Unfortunately he died in 1922.”

  He stared off across the lawn. As he spoke, he punctuated his words by stabbing his cane into the ground. “I hate it. I hate being so weak. I hate that you saw me like this. I tried to prepare myself so that I could act as if the cane was an affectation, a theatrical prop. Not something I needed to prop up myself. I certainly had no plans to tip over in front of you.”

  “No, that wouldn’t have been a very graceful thing,” she agreed, with a slight smile.

  He dropped his head. “I wanted to be strong. I wished to be a man when you arrived. Not the sorry invalid these blasted storms made me.”

  She sighed, a bit exasperated. “Christopher, if I had come out and found you in a wheelchair with barely enough energy to hold a cup, I’d still want to stay here and have tea with you.”

  “That’s very kind of you to say,” he replied with a sigh.

  “I mean it. Honestly.”

  “Thank you.” He raised his head and looked at her. There was another moment of hidden perusal, and then he relaxed. “I’m sorry I’m in such a bloody rotten mood today. I promise I'll try not to let my humor spoil our time together.”

  “Come on then,” Margaret said, taking his arm. “Let’s walk a bit. If it is all right with you, I’d like to see your mother’s roses again. I thought about them throughout the storm.”

  “What a simply splendid idea. We can sit amongst the flowers and think better thoughts.” The pair headed off into the garden.

  As they walked, Christopher seemed to gain strength. The first steps were slow and unsteady. As they reached the flowers beyond the lawn, his limp faded and his back straightened. By the time they reached the arched doorway that led to his mother’s garden, he was swinging the stick with a jauntiness that belied its previous use. Margaret smiled secretly to herself. He was feeling better at last.

  Chapter 13

  The roses glowed in the sunshine. The lush dark greenery provided a perfect background for the blooms. The colors were almost blindingly bright. Margaret thought she had never seen a more cheerful place. Aware of how tired he must be, she led her companion to a white marble seat that ran along one wall.

  Christopher lowered himself onto the bench with a sigh and painfully straightened his legs. She sat next to him and spread her loose skirt. They sat there for a long moment, drinking in the colors and birdsong. It was quietly pleasant and quite wonderful.

  As he gazed around, he suddenly started talking in a low voice. Whether he was speaking to her or just reliving memories which the past few days had unearthed, she did not know. She continued to look at the flowers, but she listened to his every word.

  “My mother brought me here as soon as I was well enough to leave my bed and the weather permitted it. She saw it as part of my recovery. The first day, I was too sick and exhausted to protest, though I honestly had no interest in an excursion. I was in so much pain, my mind spinning like a Dervish. I wanted to stay in bed. I wanted to remain there forever.”

  Affection tinged his voice. “She would hear none of it, of course. On her orders, Brenlaw wheeled me out here in a chair. As my mother worked, I dozed. The sun was warm, and the breeze blew gentle and cool.”

  “Sounds lovely,” Margaret commented idly.

  “It was,” he replied. “After that, any day with fine weather was an outing for me. She insisted on it. As I grew stronger, my mother would ask me to help her prune the bushes. She gave me an occupation so I wouldn't go mad. She hoped to draw me out of myself and away from thoughts of what my life had become. It often worked. When it didn’t, the results were… impressive.”

  Glancing at him, Margaret asked, “What do you mean ‘impressive’?”

  “Once, frustrated and raging over the whole situation, I destroyed an entire row of my mother’s prized Merlot-red roses.” Christopher pointed to a row of beautiful deep-red roses. “Those over there. I pruned them into the ugliest shapes I could design. I barely left a leaf on them. Cutting the buds off gave me a perverse pleasure and a twisted sense of accomplishment. In my mind, such beautiful things shouldn’t live in a world that had shattered my life so completely.”

  Margaret recognized the destructive desires only too well. She had seen similar behavior in maimed soldiers. Not wishing to criticize his understandable behavior, she merely replied, “Oh dear.”

  “When my father found out what I'd done, he threatened to skin me alive. He demanded to know how I could do that when I knew how important my mother's roses were to her. She was working so hard to help me get better, and I wrecked her special place in a fit of pique.”

  “He was angry?”

  “No, I’d seen him upset before. I’d often been the cause. This was something else entirely. He was furious, almost raving. Said I didn’t deserve an iota of what I had; he'd never known such an ungrateful brat.”

  “What happened?”

  “I was so angry and bolshie that day, I told him to go ahead and finish what the crash had started. It didn't matter. I didn’t care. It wasn't like I had any sort of life to live anyway. I sneered and said I didn’t understand why they hadn’t just let me die in the first place and saved everyone a lot of trouble and pain.” The sneer he used back then was obvious in his voice.

  He hesitated and continued with a much different tone. “My father was thunderstruck. He stopped shouting and just stared at me in horror. I had never seen him struck dumb like that. I actually felt proud, if you can believe it. I had won an argument at last.”

  Margaret turned to him, shocked. “Tell me your mother wasn’t in the room.”

  “Oh God, my poor mother!” Christopher put his hands to his face and paused, shuddering. As he recovered his composure, his arms slid farther into his hood. Margaret supposed he was running his fingers through his hair.

  “She was there, then,” she muttered.

  His hands dropped into his lap. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to sound phlegmatic. By the occasional cracks in his voice, it was obviously a difficult fight. “Yes. She sat weeping on the sofa. She was struggling to understand why her son would do any of this, why he would destroy what he knew she loved. She dearly wished her husband had listened to her and not gotten involved. She knew she could handle the situation better without his inflammatory presence.”

  He inhaled
deeply, trying to maintain his failing calm. He was not doing well at it. Margaret sat and waited with a sympathetic, if stunned, ear.

  When he spoke again, his voice was low and his breathing uneven. “When I said I would rather have died, her shriek was like nothing I had heard from human lips before or since. It was a heart-shattering wail, the last cry of a soul falling into Hell. It was horrible.”

  He fell silent once more, lowering his head. His frame shook. A tear splashed onto his hands.

  “Oh, Christopher!” Maggie exclaimed softly, putting a hand on his shoulder.

  His voice returned, bitter with self-loathing. “At that moment, staring at my dear wretched mamma, I felt that flaying alive would be too good a death for me. My mother, who had been so strong, caring, and gentle during my illness, who did everything within her power to help me recover in every way, had just heard her only child declare that he preferred it if she hadn’t bothered. My target was my father, with whom I’d clashed since adolescence. My final victim however was her, the one person who had never been anything but loving and kind to me.”

  She touched his hand gently and said nothing. Lashing out was part of the anger and frustration many maimed soldiers displayed when they realized their lives would never be the same. Though he still had all his arms and legs, the crash changed his life dramatically as well.

  He sighed. “The fury left me instantly. I felt sick, sorry, and disgusted with myself. I rolled my chair to her, grasped her hand, and begged for her forgiveness. I said I didn’t really mean any of it. I apologized for ruining her beloved flowers and for being an ungrateful son. I told her I would never say such things, nor contemplate such things, ever again. I assured her that I loved her and papa. I appreciated all they did for me, and I wanted to make them proud of me.”

  “What did she do?”

  “What any angel would do.” He looked up and stared off into the garden as if watching the memories unfold before him. “She embraced me and kissed the top of my head as she'd done since I was an infant. The benediction of that kiss moved me like nothing else, and I held onto her with the tenacity and need of a young child. And I swore to myself then and there that I’d never again forget how much she loved me.”