The Runaway
Page 27
When she entered the room Oliver had his back to her and he spun round at the sound of the door. She would be startled at the sight of his eye, which was even more obviously bruised than it had been the day before, when he had seen Sir Philip.
‘Oliver! Your eye! How did that happen?’ Florence was solicitous, fluttery and worried.
‘Close the door, sit down and I’ll tell you all about it,’ Oliver said. He took her hand and led her to the sofa. ‘I want to talk to you about my family.’
She sat close to him, holding onto his hand. ‘My stepmother, who was a cook at your grandfather’s house, has two children. Their father . . .’ it was not a very big lie, Oliver thought, ‘. . . is a violent creature and she’s afraid of him. I’ve bought her a house in Southport and it’s there that I go when I’m away at weekends.’
‘You’ve bought a house for her? Oh, Oliver, how good you are.’ Her eyes were shining with admiration and relief. Had she imagined that he had another woman?
He had made up his mind to tell her something of his responsibilities. He could not tell all, would not tell all, but Florence would surely agree with what he was able to tell her. He watched her face carefully as he spoke. If she showed anything other than understanding then he would not continue to court her. He would not have her dismiss his family as unworthy or come to think of them as a shameful secret.
‘My stepmother and the children’s father never married,’ he said, his eyes intent on her face. ‘My stepmother still holds the name of Wainwright. So the children … Leach’s children … were registered in my stepmother’s name. They are Wainwrights and are not to know anything of their father.’
‘They are illegitimate, Oliver. That is what you are telling me, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
There was no scorn or pity on her sweet face so Oliver continued, ‘My stepmother and I have broken the law, Florence. We have registered those children as if they were legitimate. Their birth certificates carry the name of my own father who died many years before they were born.’
‘Oh, what a lovely thing to do.’ Florence’s eyes held nothing but clear understanding and love as she held on to his hand. ‘I am sure your own father would have been proud of them, Oliver. He would have agreed to so small a deceit, wouldn’t he?’
‘I know he would,’ Oliver said, relief flooding through him at her acceptance of his story. He was suddenly filled with love for her, for this adorable, generous girl whose heart had gone out to the plight of the children and Dolly.
‘My stepmother and I have decided that the children must never be told about Wilf Leach. But he discovered her whereabouts. He had me followed, threatened her and the children and I had to go to Southport.’ He went on, fingering the bruise wryly. ‘I had to tell him to leave my house and to leave my stepmother alone.’
‘Have you reported it to the police?’ Florence asked. ‘I’ve never in my life come across a man as thoughtful, as protective and as kind as you are, Oliver. I’m so proud of you. When I imagine the vile creature who injured you I could weep,’ she added.
‘I’ve given him an even worse set of bruises. He’ll not trouble them again,’ Oliver boasted.
‘Can you be sure he won’t return and terrify your poor stepmother?’ Florence asked. ‘What’s his name? Was he a worker at Suttonford?’
‘His name’s Leach – Wilf Leach. He used to work for your grandfather but I believe he left the estate some time ago.’ That was enough. He wanted no more questions. He wanted her in his arms. ‘Now, Florence. Let’s talk about us – about you and me – and not dwell on unpleasant matters.’
‘Oh, what a marvellous person you are! To think you support the woman who brought you up, though she’s not your mother! To think that you protect her and her children!’ Florence’s eyes were brimming. ‘I do so admire you for your compassion.’
He was beginning to enjoy her praise and believe he merited it. Then he asked himself how it would be if she knew the whole truth and insisted that they talk no more on the matter.
He was here to court Florence. He wanted to waste no time in bringing about their betrothal … but how was he to go about it? Girls like Florence were different from those a man could meet every day. It was so long since he had been inexperienced that he found it hard to know what he could do without upsetting her. Rosie and he had fallen into one another’s arms like starving tigers and, in the falling, only increased their hunger. Florence was an innocent.
She would have to be wooed and coaxed. She wanted him, he knew that, but on her terms and he had no means of telling if he was making the right approaches. She’d set out her stall. She’d invited him to look, to touch but not to take, though he was impatient with delay. He wanted her now yet he was afraid that his true appetites would repel her. He had known grand passion, his needs had been met and surpassed by his old love and now he was bewildered by Florence’s shyness.
He thought of the art of courtship as mere billing and cooing and he was tired of it. She excited him. He put his arm around her waist, letting his hand slide upwards against the swelling of her breast, pressing the side of his thumb into the soft flesh with its covering of scarlet satin. She pulled his head down to hers and wrapped her arms around his neck as he kissed her and he heard again the quick, nervous sound she always made, catching her breath as if she were not quite ready for him; as if passionate response was not natural to her.
Oliver stayed another hour. When Laura left them alone, and she did so often, returning a little more under the influence of drink each time, they took their chances and fell into each other’s arms eagerly. These lengthy embraces pleased Florence but frustrated Oliver with delay.
At ten o’clock he took his leave. Florence took him to the door and closed it demurely behind him. Then she flew like the wind, up the wide staircase, along the landing to her room where she could watch him enter the alleyway opposite and wait for him to reappear at the corner of Rivergate. Tonight she was fast enough to catch him closing the iron gate behind him and she sighed with pleasure at the sight of his agile figure crossing the road, swinging easily into the alleyway.
She never closed her eyes when she watched Oliver leaving. It was usually dark and she might miss him. Instead, they were fixed on the spot where he entered Rivergate.
But where was he tonight? He ought to be out by now. It wasn’t likely that he’d stopped to talk to someone. It was late for small talk.
Three men ran from the alleyway Oliver, had entered only seconds before … They looked up and down the street nervously before they entered Churchgate. Two of them passed below her window and Florence saw that one was the drunken market sweeper, notorious for his dirty clothes and loud-mouthed behaviour when he was not cooling off inside the jail on his frequent spells in custody. The third man ran towards Wallgate and disappeared from sight. And still there was no sign of Oliver and suddenly, with a terrible cold fear clutching her, Florence screamed.
‘Mama! Mama!’ She flew down the stairs and found Laura in the hall. ‘Get the maids, the cook, everybody. Something has happened to Oliver.’
Florence lifted the bell and ran towards the servants’ quarters. ‘Quickly everybody! Come with me. Oliver’s been attacked!’
They all obeyed. She would for ever be grateful to them for following her out into the night. She ran across the road, carrying the lamp she had picked up in the hall, crying softly, fearing for him, hoping that her premonition was wrong; that he had reached home safely.
She had only gone twenty yards into the alley when she found him, crumpled, lying on his side in a pool of blood, the handle of a knife protruding from his chest and his fingers locked around it. His moans were terrible to hear but they told her that he lived. ‘Oh, thank God you’re alive,’ Florence sobbed as she dropped to her knees in the mud and filth of the alley. ‘Run, Jess. Run to the police office. Bring all the men you can find to carry Oliver home. Mama! You must run too. Bring the doctor. Quickly! All of you!’
It seemed an eternity since they had gone for help and now a little crowd had gathered round Florence and the man she was holding in her arms.
‘Is he dead, miss?’ an old woman asked. ‘How can a man live after losing all that blood?’
‘He’s not dead! Oliver! Oliver, do you hear me? Oh, please say you’re not dead.’ Florence held him closer, placing her cheek gently against her poor darling’s, making her warmth flow into him.
Jess had four police officers with her when she returned. They carried a stretcher and lifted Oliver on to it, leaving the knife in position. ‘Let the doctor get that out, Miss Mawdesley,’ they advised. ‘Hold on to his hands. Don’t let him pull it out.’
Florence gripped Oliver’s hands, pinning them together, running alongside the stretcher. Her tears had gone; now fear replaced them. ‘Carefully!’ she ordered as they laid him on the bed in the room next to hers. The doctor was waiting. ‘Leave him, Miss Mawdesley, while I remove the knife,’ he said.
‘No, indeed. I’ll stay. I must stay with him,’ she said. ‘I am not going to lose my head, doctor.’
She stayed with Oliver when they cut off his clothes, leaving the knife protruding through the ragged layers of cloth. She held his hands and forced herself to look and not to flinch while the doctor and his assistant removed the knife and tried to staunch the blood, which oozed relentlessly around the wound. She felt his hands alternately grip and grow weak from the pain and she willed him, silently, not to give up.
And all the time, Oliver groaned. He was awake the whole time, looking at her with pleading eyes. He needed her comfort and strength. The doctors had removed the knife. The blade had missed Oliver’s heart by half an inch but the attacker had ripped the blade downwards as it plunged into him, leaving a ragged, six-inch gash to be cleaned and repaired.
‘I have to give him chloroform, Miss Mawdesley,’ the doctor said. ‘Perhaps you’d rather leave us.’
Florence shook her head. ‘Not until you have finished. Not yet,’ she told him firmly.
The doctor dripped the chloroform on to a gauze pad, which was held, in a little wire cradle, over Oliver’s nose and mouth.
The doctor and his assistant worked methodically, dousing with iodine, stitching and bandaging, taking note of Oliver’s feeble pulse, his pallor and shallow breathing.
‘Go, now,’ the doctor said when he had bandaged Oliver’s chest. ‘He’s asleep. The police want to see you.’
Florence went to her room, tore off the scarlet dress and washed at the little washstand. She was calm at last. Now she would dress, go downstairs, and tell the waiting police inspector all she had seen. Oliver’s words were coming back to her. The bruise. The man’s name was Leach – Wilf Leach. Let the police inspector find him. They’d know where to find the market sweeper. He’d lead them to the attacker, to the man who had meant to kill Oliver.
When she had told the police all she knew she returned to Oliver’s bedside.
‘If he comes through the night, Miss Mawdesley, then, unless sepsis takes hold, his chances are good,’ the old doctor told her. ‘He’s lost a lot of blood and he’ll need to be kept warm but he’s young and has a fine constitution. Someone will have to sit with him through the night. I’ve sent for a nurse and I’ll return at eight o’clock in the morning.’
‘I shall sit with him myself, doctor,’ Florence said. ‘I cannot allow anyone else to come near him.’
She called for every restorative the house held. In the event that he should have difficulty in breathing she ordered a bowl of camphorated water to be set at the bedhead and she found comfort in its pungency. She brought rosewater for the linen pad she used to wipe his forehead. Woollen socks had to be found and pulled gently over his cold feet and stone hot-water bottles were wrapped in flannel and placed around his still body.
She ordered beef tea to be prepared and she sent for ale and porter, which she knew would strengthen his blood. Fresh milk was to be available at all times and beaten egg and brandy to hand.
Florence never took her eyes from Oliver’s face throughout the night. Had she been an ordinary girl she believed she would have been a nurse. She demanded a white apron from the kitchen maids and she sat, holding his hand, wiping away the flecks of brown that crept to the corners of his mouth, reaching over the fearful bandage that stained her apron red from his blood.
She turned the lamp low and watched him, holding her breath when his own was inaudible; her heart leaping when the sound of it returned. His every movement had her attention. She dared not take her eyes from his face. She prayed, ‘Dear Lord, let him live. Dear Lord, let him live,’ whispering the words over and over.
As the night wore on his sleep was more fitful. He murmured and Florence stroked his unresponsive hand. He groaned and she bit her lip in terror that he would die. She stayed close so that he would know she was there. As Oliver returned to consciousness his pain increased and he held her hand in a grip that all but crushed her fingers when his pain was at its height.
The morning came and he was alive still. Florence allowed the nurse to have charge of him for a few minutes at a time when she attended to herself, returning to sit beside him, to watch and pray. On the second day he was in high fever and Florence and the nurses sponged his face and chest, pressing cold flannels to the pulses at his wrists, trying to cool him. He was delirious in his fever, sometimes sitting bolt upright and shouting, Florence thought for roses.
‘Rosie! Rosie!’ he yelled before he sank back on to the soft pillows, sweat in great droplets on his face and neck.
He was growing thinner. Florence saw him grow pale between the bouts of fever. His face was ashen but he could not speak and she held him between times on the bed, letting him rest against her bosom, stroking his head to soothe him as the bouts of fever subsided.
Then suddenly on the fifth day the crisis passed. His pulse became strong. He did not grip her hand and normal colour came into his cheeks leaving him cool, his breathing clear and untroubled. At last he slept a deep, refreshing sleep and Florence, exhausted, slept on the bed beside him.
When she opened her eyes, Oliver was lying on his side stroking her hair. He was well. His eyes were clear. The suffocating heat had gone out of him and he gazed tenderly at her.
‘You have compromised yourself, fair miss,’ he said tenderly. ‘Now I shall have to marry you. Who else would take a girl who’d spent so many nights in bed with a stranger?’
Oliver could not attend the trial. Albert watched from the public gallery as Wilf Leach was sentenced to life imprisonment for attempted murder. He was led away, bitterly reviling the judge and jury for their conviction of a man who had been so cruelly wronged by the stepson he had loved, he said, like a brother.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Dolly put the finishing touches to the tree, clipping the enamelled candle-holders to its prickly branches, testing them with the twisted candles in place. It wouldn’t do if they were too heavy. She couldn’t wait to see the faces of the children when they came down in the morning. Edward was not quite a year old but he was walking and beginning to string a few words together. He had clutched his empty stocking with as much eagerness as Lizzie, handing it over to Dolly to tie to the bed knob. He was like his father had been; a clever little fellow, learning to do things much faster than other children.
The clock over the fireplace chimed seven. Oliver would be here soon. Everything was ready. The walls were festooned in red and green swags of artificial stuff, like cats’ tails, Dolly thought, looped together every yard or so and held with great bunches of silver bells. They had caught her eye in the shop and she had not been able to resist th
eir glittering cheerfulness. She stepped down from the wooden ladder-stool to admire the room. The scent of pine needles filled the air, increasing her pleasure, giving the room a festive feel.
She had added a mirror since Oliver’s last visit; a wide heavy oval of dark mahogany with thin bands of inlaid mother-of-pearl and ebony around the bevelled glass. It made the spacious room appear to double in size, with a glittering tree at each end.
Dolly knew how to celebrate Christmas. She had served the Oldfields all these years; seen their lavish entertaining and never in her wildest dreams had she expected to have a fine house to preside over. She thought with satisfaction of the way the floor manager at Boothroyd and Rimmer greeted her at the shop; of the way a messenger followed her as she carefully, with much frowning and inspecting for quality, made her selections.
She liked to delay her homecoming, so that her purchases would arrive before she did. She liked to think of several vans drawn up outside the house, the drivers hiding their impatience, holding the horses back until it was their turn to unload her parcels.
She had invited the couple who kept the wine shop to have Christmas dinner with them and the ringmaster and trapeze artiste from the circus. It would be good fun, better than spending the whole day watching Oliver play at ‘silly-asses’ with the children. She had them all day, every day, she reminded herself. A mother needs a change now and again.
She helped herself to ‘a nice glass of sherry’. Just a drop to put her in the mood for Christmas. She’d have it drunk in a trice. Oliver was a stick-in-the-mud about a little drop of anything. She had only just put the glass away when she heard a banging on the front door.
It was Oliver, his arms full of parcels.
‘You’ve been spending your money, haven’t you?’ she said as she helped him off with his heavy overcoat and told Iris to hang it in the kitchen to ‘air’. ‘There’s plenty for the children. I’ve spent the last two weeks shopping for toys.’