Mortal Fire

by C F Dunn

  “He was in the Army, didn’t you say? What regiment?”

  “He was a colonel in the Royal Engineers; then he did a spell in Intelligence. He retired years ago but he’ll always be a soldier, he can’t help it – it’s in his blood; his father was Army too.”

  “And did you miss him when you were growing up?”

  I ate another piece of croissant, chewing and thinking.

  “I think I probably did, but then my grandparents came to live with us and I don’t remember missing him then. He was never around except for odd times in between postings.”

  Matthew lifted the glass for me. “Why didn’t you live with him on the Army bases? Couldn’t you have done that – it’s the usual thing to do, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, we did, or at least my mother and my sister did before I was born; I think my mother hated life as an Army wife – the endless social stuff, coffee mornings and all that – and she wanted more stability for me as well, especially when it came to education. My sister went to three different schools before she reached ten and it didn’t help her one little bit.”

  “So you stayed in Stamford – in your house of memories?”

  “Mmm.” I finished the last piece. “It’s my father’s family home, so it suited us, and it meant that my sister and I didn’t have to change schools.” I tilted my head, surveying him. “Enough information to be going on with?”

  “Almost. What about your mother? You said that you get on with her.”

  I raised my eyebrows; I hadn’t said that I didn’t get on particularly well with my father, or at least, I didn’t think I had.

  “My mother and I are close, yes. She always… how can I put it…” I stared at the crack crossing the ceiling above my head, “she always stood up for me, even when it was difficult for her.” I shifted my left arm into a more supported position where the stitches didn’t pull as much.

  “Uncomfortable?”

  “Getting that way; it’s OK at the moment, though.”

  “I’ll need to take a look at it soon anyway; have you finished?” He indicated the tray.

  “Yes, thanks.”

  He lifted it off me and took it through to the other room. He called back.

  “What did you mean when you said she stood up for you? Why did she need to?”

  I lay back against the pillows. “Oh, nothing much really, but my father made it quite clear that he didn’t approve of my career choice.”

  He re-entered the bedroom. “Why not?”

  “He said it wasn’t a proper job. It’s not so bad now that I’ve a doctorate and a steady income; I suppose it makes it more respectable.”

  The mattress gave way under his weight as he sat next to me and I rolled slightly towards him. I didn’t make any attempt to move away and he shifted so he could put his arm around me – an artless movement that set my blood racing again.

  “Perhaps he felt jealous,” he suggested.

  “Of what?” I demanded.

  “Well, of your relationship with your grandfather, for one thing. He saw you growing up, you obviously adored him and then, just to rub it in, you wanted to follow in his footsteps. That must have been hard for your father, don’t you think?” He squeezed my shoulder so that I knew he didn’t mean it as a criticism. I leaned against him, thinking about what he said.

  “I’ve never thought about it like that.”

  I brought up images of my father during one of his ranting sessions, his face twisted, his thick eyebrows pulled in an angry “V”, and I realized that what I had always considered to be fury might instead have been bitter jealousy.

  “You don’t happen to have a degree in psychology, do you?” I asked, half-joking.

  “Yes, I do, as a matter of fact, but this stands to reason; I don’t need a degree for it.”

  “I’ve never seen it ’til now, so what does that make me?”

  “Too close to see it – and a biased observer – so it’s not surprising. Anyway, I could be wrong.”

  “Yes, you could, but you’re not – it makes sense. How many degrees do you have, by the way?”

  He smiled but didn’t answer, so obviously more than would be considered “normal”, but then he hardly fitted into that category anyway. I toyed with the idea of taking up the uncomfortable conversation I had been forced to abandon the night before, questions piling up like queuing traffic. But my parents would be arriving soon, and this time was so precious – these moments of discovery and wonder at a fledgling relationship, a new-born tenderness – that my questions would wait. For the time being, I felt content to love. He leaned forwards and took the pale-blue blanket from the end of the bed and pulled it over me. I snuggled under it, feeling safe and warm, and tried to ignore the flutter of nerves.

  “What about us – what are we – what do I tell them?” He looked puzzled. “I mean, are we friends, doctor/patient… what?”

  “You tell me.” He tipped my chin with his finger and kissed me lightly.

  “That’s not fair, I asked first.”

  “Well, ‘boyfriend’ sounds…”

  I pulled a face. “Asinine.”

  He smiled. “Quite. I could be… an admirer, date, devotee, partner…” I looked askance, “gallant, sweetheart, lover?” he suggested.

  “You sound like a thesaurus. How about we keep it simple until we know how my parents react? Doctor/patient – friendly doctor/patient?”

  “As you wish,” he said, gratifyingly reluctant. He reached into his pocket as his mobile rang, He spoke briefly. “They’re here.”

  He withdrew his arm from around me and rose from the bed, leaving the space empty. I felt suddenly abandoned. Encumbered I might be, but I managed to get my feet onto the floor without needing to pause to let the inevitable stabbing subside. I felt pretty smug and was about to inch to my feet when Matthew stood in front of me, blocking my way.

  “Whoa – and where are you going?”

  I objected. “I don’t want to meet them stuck in bed like an invalid!”

  “No? Well, that’s tough, because it’s precisely what you are. You’ve had enough exercise for one day; give yourself another twenty-four hours and I’ll let you run a marathon – until then, give your body a chance to heal and stay there.”

  “I hate being told what to do,” I muttered. “And I can’t even read with these… wretched things.” I waved my arms as far as I could, which they didn’t appreciate one little bit, and I tried not to wince. He raised an eyebrow at me, saying nothing. I relented. “Oh, all right, if you insist.”

  He helped me get my legs back on the bed and I lay down more gratefully than I thought I would. He went over to the fireplace and piled more fuel on the burning embers.

  “Matthew?”

  He looked around.

  “I just wanted to say… to let you know…” I shook my head, the words stuck. “No, it doesn’t matter. That colour really suits you, by the way,” I finished feebly. He replied by scooping the soft, high collar around my throat, and kissing me gently.

  “Me too,” he said, replying to my unspoken thoughts, and smiled into my eyes, which wasn’t the wisest thing to do just before my parents arrived. He straightened the duvet, blanket and pillows, brushing my hair from my face. “Ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be, I suppose. Aren’t you nervous about meeting them?”

  He laughed. “As your doctor? No.” He took the scarf from around his neck and left it on the end of my bed, already part-way across the room as a sharp knock on the door told me my father stood behind it.

  Chapter 20

  Balancing Act

  HE LOOKED EVERY INCH THE PROFESSIONAL AS he answered it.

  I heard a muffled exchange of voices, and then my mother threw her bag on the chair by the bed as she ran to embrace me. Stepping back, she searched my face, taking in the pallor. “Darling, you’re all right!” she breathed in relief, the customary deep lines between her eyes lessening a little. “We’ve been so worried about you. We couldn’t
get here any sooner – we didn’t know what to expect…” She pressed her lips together as her mouth wobbled with unspent emotion. “Well, we’re here at last and everything’s fine,” she said bravely. I couldn’t bear the thought of what they must have endured over the last five days. She wore her favourite navy-blue winter coat with the pewter buttons we bought together on a shopping trip last autumn, and I felt my throat constrict in response to the memory. I swallowed the tightness away and smiled brightly.

  “I’m fine, really. Did you have a good flight? How’s Nanna?”

  My father walked quietly to the other side of my bed, where his stocky form partially blocked the light from the windows.

  “Nanna is fine, darling – she’s even a bit better, and yes, the flight was no problem too, so you don’t have that to worry about either.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, Matthew raised an eyebrow and Harry grinned. My father’s deep, precise voice resonated next to me.

  “Emma.”

  I turned to face him, immaculate as always in shirt and tie and the fine, herringbone-tweed jacket he favoured; he didn’t look as if he’d been on a plane for hours.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  He inspected me, his eyes lingering on my throat and I brought my hand up to it automatically, pulling the soft collar closer around it with awkward fingers; he noted my defensive movement.

  “I’m glad you are safe.”

  He leaned over and kissed the top of my head, the scent of his aftershave an instant reminder of all the greetings and partings of my childhood. I knew the questions would start at any moment and I wanted to forestall them for as long as possible, but first, the matter of introductions.

  “Mum, Dad, you’ve met Harry already but this is Dr Lynes; he saved my life – twice.”

  My parents turned around to meet him, my mother’s jaw dropping slightly as she took in his assured, refined elegance properly for the first time.

  “How do you do, Mrs D’Eresby, Colonel D’Eresby. I trust you had a pleasant journey?”

  My father stepped forward, shaking Matthew’s offered hand.

  “Hugh D’Eresby. How do you do, Dr Lynes; we can’t thank you enough for what you have done for our daughter.”

  My mother meanwhile composed herself and took his hand between both of hers. “Thank you so much; I can’t begin to tell you how much Emma means to us; we’ll always be grateful to you. And thank you for arranging to have us collected from the airport by Harry,” she added, looking towards the boy. “He was most helpful and it was so very thoughtful.”

  She visibly relaxed under Matthew’s attentive smile.

  “Not at all; I’m glad we are able to help.” I caught Harry’s eye and it was my turn to raise eyebrows at the massive understatement. “I’ll leave you to catch up; I’m afraid that I’ll have to change the dressing on Emma’s arm later on; and she must stay where she is and rest, so I’d be grateful if you wouldn’t let her tell you otherwise.”

  He inclined his head briefly, darting a look towards me and then he smiled and followed Harry as he left us to our reunion.

  “Golly, Emma,” Mum said, staring at the door as it shut behind him. I stared with her, wondering how long it would be before he returned.

  “Is he old enough to be a doctor?” my father asked dubiously. “Perhaps we’d better get a second medical opinion from somebody more experienced; we can’t take any chances.”

  Here we go, I thought. “Dad, for goodness’ sake!”

  “He’s rather gorgeous,” Mum still mused. “And so is his… Harry – what is he? Are they related?”

  Dad had removed his gloves and he now flapped them intermittently against his hand as he spoke. “No matter how many pieces of paper this Dr Lynes might have” – flap – “and the Dean seems to think very highly of him” – flap, flap – “there is no substitute for experience. I think it best if we talk to Mike Taylor about this and see if he can recommend a British surgeon.” Flap, thwack. I sucked my cheeks in annoyance and counted to ten.

  “Hugh, darling, I have his number with me; perhaps you could give him a call when Emma’s having a rest. It’s in here somewhere.” She rustled in her bag. “Look, here it is!” She produced her little blue address book. All-too-familiar exasperation took hold, boiling out of me before I could contain it.

  “Have you crossed the Atlantic to see me or to question Dr Lynes’ medical opinion? Yes, Dad, he is old enough to be a doctor – several times over, judging by the number of degrees he has, and yes, Mum, they are related – Harry is his nephew. Do you have any more questions, or is that it for now?”

  I might be tired, but it was no excuse, I shouldn’t have been short with them. Regaining control, I hung my head, not able to meet their reproving eyes.

  “I’m sorry, it’s not fair after everything you’ve been through; I didn’t mean it to come out like that.” My mother sat next to me, her endless patience rubbing in the fact that mine lacked at the moment. She carefully patted my left shoulder reassuringly.

  “Darling, you’re convalescent – we understand. Did we tell you about our rooms? Rooms – it’s a suite and very splendid too. Did you arrange it? No, you couldn’t have done – the Dean, perhaps?”

  Now that was an irritating thought.

  “No, Dr Lynes did.”

  “Oh! Well… that is unusually kind of him.”

  “Yes, he is.”

  I didn’t miss the implication inherent in her tone, but she knew better than to say anything further, not at this juncture anyway.

  Dad sat on the chair next to my bed. “You must be highly thought of here too; the Dean spoke in glowing terms about you… and all these flowers; I haven’t seen this type of peony outside of the Chelsea Flower Show.” He waved a hand at them. “To go to so much trouble…”

  I wondered if I still had a place on the wall of Shotter’s study after bringing college security into question so visibly. I really didn’t want to contemplate the Dean at the minute.

  “Look, please – both of you – at least have a cup of tea and a rest – we can catch up later.”

  Mum gave me one of her motherly we-know-best smiles.

  “No, we came to see you, darling, not a suite – no matter how wonderful.”

  She leaned over the bed and hugged me again. I caught my breath as my chest protested at the embrace, and her blue eyes widened with dismay.

  “What is it? Did I hurt you?”

  I didn’t know how much the Dean had told them about my injuries and I hoped to play them down. I let the stabbing subside before speaking.

  “I’m just a bit sore, that’s all; nothing to worry about.”

  “Let me get the doctor back for you, darling,” she said anxiously. I shook my head, tempted though I was. “Then how about that cup of tea? You have a kitchen, don’t you?”

  I nodded. Gingerly she patted my plastered hand and went in search of tea as the quickest form of resuscitation and a cure for all ills.

  My father pulled the chair close to the bed, sandy-grey eyebrows – stolen from a hamster – locked in their normal glowering position. “Mr Fluffy”, Beth and I used to call him as children, because he was anything but. I never thought of him as ever being a young man, just old and gruff and grey. My shoulders tensed in anticipation. He lowered his voice.

  “You’ve been in the wars a bit, haven’t you? The Dean didn’t tell me much; I had the impression he wasn’t too happy with the attack taking place on his turf. Do you want to fill me in before your mother gets back?”

  I found myself telling him an abbreviated version, emphasizing Matthew’s part in it, but I didn’t tell him about what Staahl had said, or the insinuations the detectives made.

  Quiet when I finished, he regarded me thoughtfully. In the kitchen my mother poured boiling water into the only mugs I possessed.

  “Do you know what’s going to happen to this… Staahl? Is he going to trial?”

  “I don’t know – I don’t know how the system works
out here, but his mental state’s being assessed at the moment and I suppose they have to wait for the results first.”

  “I doubt they have the death penalty in this state – more’s the pity – but from what you’ve described, it should be a cut-and-dried case.”

  I remembered the detectives’ questions and Sam’s jealous meddling, and certainly hoped so.

  Rattling mugs on a tray warned us that my mother approached hearing range. She waited until Dad cleared a space before setting them down on my bedside table.

  “Have you told your father everything you don’t want me to know?” she asked cheerfully. I should have known better than to underestimate her.

  He humphed. “Yes, she has. Would you like Emma’s version or mine?”

  So long had it been since I’d heard his droll sense of humour, I forgot he possessed one.

  “Emma’s, I think – I can always tell when she’s not telling the truth – and don’t edit too much, darling, or I won’t believe you.”

  I left in enough detail to make it believable while she listened intently. My father remained quiet throughout my rendition, although he would recognize the bits I left out. Neither knew how close I had come to death – I could barely believe it myself – although I think Dad probably guessed.

  “Well,” she said when I finished, “all I can say is that it’s a good thing Dr Lynes was there.”

  Her face impassive, she rose and went into the kitchen. I heard the tap running, then the clink of a glass on metal as she filled it, and then she came back a few moments later, a wan smile in place. She changed the subject.

  “Beth sends her love, by the way, and the children. They’re all fine, but Archie’s teething, poor little man. You should see how he’s changed, darling, but I expect you’ll see for yourself soon enough.”

  I threw her a look but she picked up her mug of tea, oblivious to my sudden pang of guilt as I acknowledged to myself that I would rather stay in the States near Matthew than see my baby nephew over Christmas. I hadn’t seen much of my sister recently, and her three children must have grown since I last saw them. The twins would be getting excited about Christmas around now, making lists and dropping hints like confetti.