by Issy Brooke
“Oh, travel!” Freda said, her head rolling from side to side. “How wonderful it would be to travel! Don’t you think?”
“Yes, absolutely. And I am fascinated by the variation we see. When I was in town yesterday, I saw a man frying eels and they jumped and skipped in the pan as if they were alive still, and I thought–”
“Oh, goodness, eels!” Freda curled her lip and narrowed her eyes, letting her pale hand flutter to her throat in affection. “How dreadful.”
Cordelia saw that she was not going to get anywhere. She glanced towards the door but there was no sign of the housekeeper with any refreshments. “Freda, my dear, might you ring for Mrs Vale…”
“Oh! Oh! She is such a slattern, that one. Of course! Of course!” But that necessitated rising, and she only managed to sit on the edge of the sofa before falling back once more. Cordelia herself went to the bells and rang, choosing both the kitchen and the housekeeper’s room.
Cordelia stayed standing, and looked around the overdone room. In other circumstances she would have suggested they walk in the gardens but Freda could barely sit up. The house was deathly quiet. She said, “I believe you have children?”
Freda swept her hand from her throat, and waved it vaguely in the air before letting it drop. “Oh, yes, a few,” she said as if unsure of the exact amount.
In Cordelia’s experience, most women loved to talk of their offspring. It was something she had been trained to ask about, with the corresponding instruction to not talk at wearisome length about her own, if she were ever to have them. But Freda’s extreme reticence was unusual. “How wonderful to be so blessed,” she said, watching Freda’s reaction.
Freda showed no response at all. “Yes,” she said dully. “Ah! Here you are, Mrs Vale, at last. Thank you.”
Mrs Vale brought in a tray of tea, and some small cakes arranged on a plate. She also glanced at Freda, who nodded. She disappeared, and Cordelia offered to pour the tea, but just as she did so, Mrs Vale came back with a small bottle and two glasses.
“Tea is a wonderful drink,” Freda said, “but on hot days like these, one needs a little extra to struggle through the oppression, don’t you find?”
The worst of the oppression would be cured by simply opening a window, not a bottle, but Cordelia merely nodded. She continued to pour the tea but Freda drank only the bright spirit that she poured into her glass. She poured some for Cordelia as well, but Cordelia made a show of politely sipping the burning liquor before setting it to one side.
“How many children do you have?” Cordelia asked, curious about Freda’s lack of maternal instinct.
“Four at the moment,” she said. “But one might die at any time.” She said it flatly.
“Oh. Oh, how dreadful. I am sorry to hear that.” Now Cordelia could forgive her dulled senses; who would not seek solace in opium? It was a dreadful statement.
Freda shrugged slightly, as if she was talking about the price of cotton. “She is young. Not yet five years old. And anyway, all my babies die young. It becomes a habit. Oh, except the ones that have lived, obviously.”
It was almost as if she expected it. Cordelia’s belly clenched. “And what does the doctor say?”
“There is little point sending for a man who demands money yet cannot promise results,” she said. “What a funny business is medicine, don’t you think?”
“It is not a business…”
“We pay them, though, do we not? So – business, nothing more. How strange it is. Come, you will have another glass?”
Cordelia shook her head, but Freda poured herself a fresh drink and knocked it back as if it had been spring water. The alcohol was lending her a fire, and she was growing more animated. She sat up straight, her face flushing more red as she began to point at the objects in the room, randomly narrating their particular histories.
“Now, you see, this tea set, isn’t it fine? I have a cousin who is in India, you know, and he sends back the most amazing things. And there, that sculpture, the bronze bull; Ewatt was in Spain and brought it home.”
“Do you not travel with him?”
Freda pouted and now her husky voice was rising and taking on a whining tone. “No, he never takes me anywhere. Why, not even to London! I do so miss London. Oh, the balls, the parties. The shops! I love to shop. Instead I am forced to live here, where nothing ever happens and no one ever comes. No one interesting, anyway.”
Cordelia tipped her chin up and stared steadily at Freda.
Freda was oblivious to her insult. “I am positive I shall simply fade away here, unknown and unremarked, while he dances in the cities of Europe. It is just not fair.”
Frankly, Cordelia thought, I should not wish to take a drunken, opium-addled complainer such as yourself anywhere either. I can almost forgive Ewatt his indiscretions. “There are some people of note here,” she said mildly. “Do you not see the doctor’s wife?”
“Oh, what, that goody-two-shoes? Miss Perfect and her perfect husband. Ah, Cordelia, when I see either of them, I feel so … so … small. Judged. Judged, and found wanting, as if they have the answers to anything! What good is outdoor activity and open air and vegetables? We will all die, Lady Cornbrook. We shall all die, no matter how many peaches one eats.”
“How true.” Cordelia nodded sympathetically and rose to her feet. She reached for her bonnet and gloves and plastered a polite smile on her face as she dressed for the outside once more. “Thank you so much for your hospitality.”
Freda’s attention seemed to sharpen. She pursed her coral-pink mouth. “Oh! Do not say you are leaving so soon!” She reached out, almost clawing like a reptile towards Cordelia.
“I must begin my research. My project, you know, as I said…”
“Oh! Yes, yes! Why, sit down, tell me more about it. It sounded marvellous. Um. Eels, was it not?”
“Not quite,” Cordelia said. “Perhaps I will tell you another time.”
Freda managed to get to her feet at last, and stood there, swaying. She looked ready to cry. “You have only just arrived.” The loneliness was cascading off her, now. “I have completed an embroidery. Come, come and see it. It’s in the garden room. You simply must. You will love it!”
“I should be delighted. Perhaps I might return at another date…” Cordelia inched her way backwards towards the door that led to the hallway. “However, I regret to say that I have some other engagements to attend to.”
“It will take but a moment!” Freda pressed the bells by the fireplace, mashing a few at random, determined to stall Cordelia. Cordelia had backed into the door and felt the handle at her back.
She smiled as kindly as she could. She had the handle in her hand behind her, and Freda before her, looking quite wild. She took one step forward to open the door as she moved. Freda looked ready to pounce upon her and drag her towards the fireplace, and suddenly Cordelia felt a prickling sense of danger, of something not quite right. She nodded and gabbled one more pleasantry, and turned, launching herself without looking into the hallway.
Whereupon she collided with Ewatt Carter-Hall, who was bending to take off his riding boots, and sent him sprawling to the tiles in a messy heap of tweed and curses.
Chapter Fourteen
As soon as Ewatt sat up and saw who had cannoned into him, he reined back his profanities, and instead he began to laugh. His legs were splayed out straight in front of him and he rested back on his hands, looking like a child playing on the beach.
“Lady Cornbrook, you make a magnificent entrance!” he boomed.
“I am so sorry,” she said. She stepped forward and held out her hand.
His eyebrows shot up in surprise at her offer, but he accepted, and she helped to haul him to his feet. “Goodness. There is some uncommon power in you,” he said, slowly.
She knew she ought to be embarrassed about it, and apologise for her woeful lack of femininity. But she could not be bothered with all that.
“Thank you,” she said, as if it were a fine co
mpliment. “Are you injured?”
“Oh no,” he said, brushing his trouser legs down with exaggerated care. “The floor broke my fall.”
She laughed, and he smiled, and their moment was immediately shattered by Freda appearing hard at Cordelia’s elbow. She grabbed Cordelia’s upper arm and leaned in for support. The sour smell of alcohol and something else, some tinge of sweat, was heavy upon her.
“Ewwwatt,” she whined out, like a petulant schoolgirl. “Do tell Lady Cornbrook that she is to stop for dinner!”
Cordelia widened her eyes and shot Ewatt a startled look. Dinner would be a few hours away. She could not cope with much more of Freda’s company. “Oh, I am honoured, but as I said, I have matters which need my attention and I am late already–”
Freda stamped her foot, which was rather ineffectual as a dramatic gesture, her soft slipper making but a dull thud. Cordelia pulled away from her grasp, leaving Freda to rest her weight on the doorframe instead.
Ewatt was not looking pleased at his wife’s state. “You look tired, dear,” he said, and Cordelia recognised a couple’s code in his words. “I shall ring for Kitty and have you taken to bed to rest.”
“I shall not go!”
Cordelia began to move towards the main door and Ewatt accompanied her. In lieu of any butler or steward present, he took on the duties to show her out himself. Freda remained by the receiving room, and had begun to cry, her sobs increasing in volume as no one took any notice of her.
He opened the door and as he ushered her through it, he bent his head towards hers. “I can only apologise for my wife’s current indisposition. I thank you for your company but I wonder if, perhaps, she would be better served with a period of rest and calming solitude…”
“I am sorry that I have inconvenienced her,” she replied smoothly. “It is a trying situation but temporary, I am sure. Things must be very difficult for her at the moment, and if I can render any assistance, please do let me know.”
Ewatt paused, and looked confused. “Why would things be … never mind. Lady Cornbrook, how did you get here?”
“I walked. And I shall walk back. Thank you, and once again, my apologies.”
“I see. Right. No, no, you shall not walk back alone. I will not hear of it. Let me organise my footwear; one moment.”
She looked down and realised that he was in his stockinged feet. He had been removing his boots when she had fallen into him, and they had been thrown clean across the hallway. She was too busy laughing to voice her protests, and he slithered away across the tiles like a skater, retrieving his boots and returning to her swiftly.
“Ewatt, Ewatt!”
But he ignored his wife, and closed the door behind him.
Well, so she was not to shake him off. She walked down the steps and he fell alongside her, offering his arm. She hitched her bag around on her elbow and refused. “I find I keep my balance better unencumbered.”
“Ah, so a man is a mere encumbrance. That reveals much about you, Lady Cornbrook.”
“That you seek to read meanings into everyday things reveals much about yourself,” she shot back.
“Well played. Now, what did you mean, back there? You said that my poor, ailing wife was finding things difficult. That the situation was temporary. Has she unburdened herself to you? Sometimes she is prone to fancies. Not all that she says has meaning.”
“Indeed. You may rest assured that no confidences have been broken, I am sure of it. No. I merely alluded to the sad illness of one of your children.”
“Oh, that.” And Ewatt spoke as dully as Freda had done, staring off into the distance, with a set and passive face.
“Your youngest, I believe?”
“Yes. She is frail, like her mother. Alas, there is nothing to be done. We all struggle on, do we not, with our secret hardships.”
“And the doctor has no hope to offer?” she probed.
“Oh, we have seen this pattern of sickening and decline before, and it hardly seems worth troubling the good doctor when he has so much to do. He has so much very important work. He is quite the model of diligence, do you not find? Tell me, what is your opinion of our esteemed doctor?”
“He does, as you say, seem the very model of all a doctor should be,” she replied cautiously. Was that an undercurrent of sarcasm in Ewatt’s words? She was not entirely sure. “However, I have had little cause to converse with him.”
“Well, no, you wouldn’t have,” he said. “Unless you believe in the bracing properties of cold air and the healing miasmas to be found under trees.”
“You make him sound almost pagan.”
“Oh, he calls it science, but science, as we all know, is a thing of sparks and glass flasks and liquids that change colour. But he goes into sickrooms and opens the windows.” He said it as if it was the most absurd thing he had ever heard.
“How interesting,” she said, thinking that it was rather sensible in many cases. “But that is the advice in most circles, you know. Ventilation is considered very sanitary. We must guard against the build-up of carbonic acid, so I have heard. Anyway, how does the town take to him?”
“Carbonic acid? Pfft. As for the town, well, he’s a doctor, so he’s a gentleman. They fear him and admire him and don’t understand him. And anyway, most of them cannot afford him and if they could, they would rather choose to visit an old fenland mother and get a cure of snail oil or some such. And keep their windows closed.”
“That would be the common people, yes,” she said. “But what of the better class?”
“Here? My dear lady, there is very little better class. There is me, and your Hugo, and the handful of worthies that you have already met. Why, the better class has doubled with the arrival of the coroner and the sheriff!”
She overlooked the reference to “her” Hugo. To maintain conversation about Doctor Arnall, who was intriguing her more and more, she said, “Do you know, I heard the strangest thing today. I was in the Post Office and the clerk there said that the doctor had been sending letters.”
“The clerk is a notorious gossip,” Ewatt said. His pace quickened, and she remembered that Ewatt himself had been in there. No doubt he would know that if the clerk had spoken of another, then it was as likely that Ewatt would have been spoken of, too.
Not wishing to cause him any embarrassment, she did not speak further. They walked on and soon they could see the stone pillars of Hugo’s estate.
Then Ewatt said, “And what was so interesting about the doctor’s letters?”
“That they were all to Liverpool, but not to family or friends. Unless…” Now she was as bad as the clerk for spreading rumours. She stopped herself.
But she had said too much to hide anything from Ewatt now. “Go on.”
“Well, he had written to a number of hospitals and prisons there! What do you make of that?”
“Oh.” Ewatt’s speed slackened. “So, to whom was he writing?”
“I know not. But he comes from Liverpool. Perhaps he was writing to old colleagues?”
“In hospitals, maybe. But prisons? Well, now. That is very interesting. And did any other information reveal itself to the clerk?”
She knew he was asking if the clerk had gossiped about Ewatt himself. Discretely, she said, “No, not at all. Though he was a garrulous old chap.”
“Indeed he is. And I would offer you counsel, if I may.” They had reached the bottom of the steps to the entrance of Hugo’s house, and halted. Ewatt reached out to take her hands. “There are people in this town who seek only to further their own ends. As a visitor, you do not know of their histories and their individual grievances. I would, at all times, exercise the greatest caution in your dealings with them.”
“How will I know which ones to be cautious about?”
“Oh,” he said, with a sudden hearty guffaw. “Mistrust the whole seething lot of them! Tis the easiest way. No one here is what they seem.”
“Excepting you,” she said.
“Oh, as for
myself, I lack the wit and energy to be anything other than what you now see. A dreadful old fool, but a sincere one. Now, inside with you, and next time you wish to come visiting, do send word ahead. My poor Freda … well, you understand, I am sure.”
“I do,” she responded, thinking, no, I do not. But I want to find out. For I trust you about as much as I trust anyone else. Which it to say, very little.
“Good day, Lady Cornbrook.”
She nodded and the door to the house had opened before she was halfway up the stairs. Hugo Hawke kept a far tighter rein on his staff than Ewatt Carter-Hall. She glanced back as she slipped inside, but the banker had already departed from view.
