‘If you think you can persuade the old man to agree, well enough. It will undoubtedly be the easiest way. But I recall him that day in the casualty ward at the hospital, when I was so ill. He was not very agreeable then, was he?’
‘No,’ Amy agreed. ‘I remember that too. But that was different. It was a time of great anxiety, and it was in his hospital, and anyway all this is different. I go to him not as the sister of a patient he is looking after but as the granddaughter of his old friend — even though Martha says he came to hate her afterwards — it is a very romantic thought, that, is it not? He cannot, surely, fail still to have some feeling for his love of so long ago, and to see the justice of giving us her money!’
Her spirits were now nearly as high as his. The idea, now it was in her, seemed to her to be flawless. The old man did not need or want the money. They did. Nothing could be simpler or clearer than the plan she now had, and it seemed to her a matter only of explanation. She would but have to tell Abel Lackland the situation, and they would at last have their own money. Fenton would have most of it, of course; she expected that, for he was Fenton and anyway, his need was greater. She had her Felix and clearly he was not a poor man even though he was not as rich as some of his adopted relations. Not that riches seemed to matter so much any more, not with Felix. He was Felix and living with him would be exciting and safe enough, she was sure, without great quantities of money.
‘I am sure he must agree,’ she said. ‘There can be no simpler way.’
‘Well, even if he doesn’t, there are ways to make sure he parts,’ Fenton said cryptically and stood up as the company came trooping back into the theatre.
They were red of face and voluble, and Amy sighed. She had not infrequently suffered the discomfort of afternoon rehearsal with a company who were a trifle bosky after their luncheons; within an hour, during which they would be silly and noisy and make many mistakes, they would become sleepy and surly and it was all too likely the day would end with quarrels.
Thinking of that depressed her and thrust out of her mind her moment of doubt about Fenton’s words: ‘There are ways to make sure he parts.’ What did that mean? She had no time to think of that now, and deliberately pushed her anxiety away. Wyndham came to stand beside her as the next scene was put into rehearsal. They were both off stage now for some ten minutes or so, and he asked her softly what she had discovered at Grosvenor Square.
She thought for a moment and then whispered back, ‘I found that indeed she was my grandmother. Is that not interesting? But there are no other connections of hers in England — an aunt now gone to America — but that is all,’ and then turned the subject to talk about the sort of costumes the play demanded and which she hoped to get; and Wyndham subsided. He knew when he was defeated and anyway his curiosity was only a little piqued. Suffice it that he had helped her to find her grandmother. Now the time had come to concentrate on the play, and above all to ingratiate himself well with her.
They had several scenes together and he had very quickly recognized the magic she could weave over an audience. If she were to remain his friend, then he had no fears; he could persuade her not to hog the scenes and to allow him sufficient leeway to impose his own considerable personality and talents. But if they were to be at loggerheads he had no doubt she could charm the audience right out of his hands, if she so wanted. So she was not to be allowed to want to.
He spent the afternoon, therefore, paying a great deal of attention to her, seeing to her comfort, sending out especially for a pot of hot chocolate for her because he was concerned to discover she had had no luncheon, and altogether behaving like a most affectionate uncle. And she relaxed and basked in his care of her and gave no more thought to the promise she had made her brother to beard the alarming Abel Lackland in his own den. She would worry about that when the time came.
It came that very evening. She had returned to Long Acre agreeably tired but not so tired that she could not look forward with lifting excitement to meeting Felix. They had so much to talk about, so many plans to make, and she felt a deep hunger for the comfort of his presence, a need for him that far from being irksome seemed to fill her with a sort of contentment.
But her happy anticipation rapidly dispersed. There was a letter awaiting her at the house when she reached it (alone because Fenton had gone off on some business of his own on the way home) and Mrs Miller put it breathlessly into her hands as soon as she opened the front door to her knock.
‘Come from the Middlesex ’ospital it did and when I saw the carriage outside and saw this ’ere porter a’wearin’ of a uniform with the words Middlesex ’ospital writ right across the pocket, my heart turned over in my chest, it did, turned right over. Thought I was going to be took bad with one of my attacks, that I did, and so I said to Emma, but she said don’t be so silly, she said, because she does like to tease of me, don’t be so silly, Ma, it’s just one o’ they social messages, I’ll be bound, seein’ as they didn’t say we was to send the letter on to wherever you are, Miss Amy, and I said, well, I daresay you’re right, Emma, my duck, an’ the man did say, takin’ off his uniform hat as nice an’ polite as you like, he did say as it was important you was to get it as soon as you got to the ’ouse but it wasn’t a matter of such urgency as to alarm anyone an’ so I said to him, I did —’
Amy managed to escape at last, clutching the letter close to her bosom, and ran up the stairs to collapse on to her bed and slit the envelope. And was filled with a sudden delight as she did it, for this was the first time, in all the months they had known each other, that he had written her even the briefest of notes.
‘My dear one,’ he had begun in his neat square handwriting, quite free of any of the fashionable flourishes so many young men used in their private correspondence. ‘I have not been able to think of anything or anyone but you all day. When I talk to one of my patients, it is your face I see superimposed upon his. When I set my stethoscope to a chest, it is your voice I hear above the sound of a thumping heart. When I touch a patient’s hand it is you I feel under my fingertips. In other words, my dear, you are set fair to ruining my career as a physician! After I have written this letter to you I must return to the wards and with a great effort of will make sure it is my patients and their ills I think of. Miss Lucas may not, will not, shall not, set foot inside my head from now until I take myself home to my bed. And then I shall dream of you. That will be my reward.
‘These must seem strange words from me. But do not be too surprised at them. I may not have said much to you of my feelings; but they are there for all that. I have felt them growing in me and tried to give them some sort of voice but could not, until you unlocked the door to speech between us. And now you have, I find it easier to write my feelings for you than to speak them.
‘Dearest Amy, I love you, I love you, I love you. I can think of no sweeter words, no greater offering to put at your feet. I love you. Even when I am criticizing you — and I know I do so with some frequency — never doubt that, will you? It is because I love you that I speak to you as I do, seeking to change aspects of you not to please myself, but because I truly believe that they will show you to the world as the wholly lovable and delightful person you are. Remember that always, will you? There will, I know, be hurdles for us to leap across in the coming months, not least that you wish to go on acting and I cannot imagine a life with you as my wife that does not see you safe in the home I will provide for you. But as I say, that is one of the hurdles that lies before us. Now, I want to say only — I love you, I love you, I love you.
‘And now I must come to the dismal part of this letter, and the reason why it had to be sent round to you in such a hugger-mugger fashion. I could not await the postal services, speedy though they are. My love, because I came to you yesterday afternoon, and abandoned my duties here, I must remain this evening on duty and so pay for my dereliction. I am sure you will understand this — though I hope you will miss me as much as I shall miss you. Although I have already promi
sed, have I not, that from now on I must think of my patients, and only my patients. It will be very difficult, my dear one. Tomorrow, I shall contrive to come to see you in the evening. We have so much to talk about!
‘My love goes with you always. Felix Laurence.’
She folded the letter carefully and tucked it deep into the front of her gown, feeling the paper scratch against her soft skin, and glorying in it. To be loved so dearly by one she loved herself was a revelation to her, and for a moment she felt a stab of compunction for the many men who, over the years, she had encouraged to love her and then laughed at and left behind with never a second thought. She had been very unkind, and had so much to feel ashamed about. And she sat there for a long time, luxuriating in her sense of guilt, allowing tears to trickle down her face, and enjoying it all immensely. So many feelings, so mixed up, and all so exciting and interesting. For Amy the experience of feeling was what mattered most; even disagreeable sensation was better than none at all.
She was restless and abstracted throughout dinner and so was Fenton and even Mrs Miller realized that her chatter was not welcome and served them silently, only shaking her head and tutting softly over their half-eaten meals. And then left them alone beside the fire in her warm red room, hoping they would become less melancholy as the evening progressed.
It was Fenton who stirred first. ‘When will you see him?’ he said abruptly.
‘See who?’ Amy stared at him. She had been lost in a dream involving Felix watching her play Juliet and being so moved by the experience that he vowed he would never stand in the way of her lifelong career on the stage. ‘Felix?’
‘No, you fool,’ Fenton kicked the fender irritably, making the fire flare suddenly and lift his face to a ruddy glow which belied the sulky expression on it. ‘Him! Lackland! About that damned legacy —’
‘I am not sure,’ Amy said doubtfully. ‘I will talk to him, of course. I said I would. Should I write him a letter, do you think, asking him when I should come to speak to him?’
‘And have him tell you smartly to be about your business and never come near him? God, Amy but you’re a fool! The only way is to catch him unawares, obviously.’
‘I suppose so,’ Amy said and looked at him with her eyes filled with worry. It had been her own idea and she had promised she would do it but now suddenly she remembered just how disagreeable the old man had been and her spirits sank beneath the weight of that memory.
‘So, why not now?’ Fenton looked up at the clock on the cluttered mantelpiece over the fire. ‘It is but eight o’clock. You could be there in — oh, half an hour, no more.’
‘Where? I am not altogether certain where he lives.’
‘Gower Street — I have a note of it — ’ He scrabbled in his pocket and pulled out a notebook and began to riffle the leaves. ‘Here you are — I have the full direction.’
She frowned sharply. ‘How can that be? Why do you have it?’
He grinned then, a sharp, knowing little grin. ‘I made it my business to find out,’ he said. ‘I went to Nellie’s tonight, on the way home. Told ’em I had a friend who wanted to consult the old man in his own home, not at the hospital. So they give me the directions. Will you go now?’
‘Now?’ she said heavily and wanted to sink deeper into her chair. The idea of actually facing the old man was assuming terrifying proportions. But Fenton was looking at her with his eyes glittering with eagerness, and she had promised, and putting it off would not make it easier, and Felix was not here and could not be seen tonight and —
‘Now,’ she said firmly and got to her feet.
The house felt very strange, sombre and watchful and full of long-forgotten emotion which had left behind a brooding silence which rang in her ears. She had been given entry by a soft-footed, elderly butler who had peered at her above the oil lamp he held in one hand and muttered dubiously, ‘Well, I’ll see if the master is available,’ and then gone padding away into the dark fastnesses of the house, leaving her in the dim hallway, feeling her courage oozing out of every pore.
It was absurd to be here, absurd to think that this man would be as sensible as any other man, she must have been crazy to even suggest it to Fenton —
The butler came back and wordlessly led her to a small room to one side of the hallway and went round lighting candles from a taper held in one gnarled old hand, and the room lifted into tremulous light. She stood and looked about her as he went padding away again, and marvelled, for it seemed to her that it had not been changed in fifty years. The furniture was sparse and light in soft polished woods which seemed to be frail and spindly compared with the solid heaviness of the drawing-rooms she was used to. Martha’s in Bedford Row was far from rich, but well enough furnished and seemed to Amy to offer a comfort that this room could never aspire to, with its delicately legged chairs and curly backed little sofas. And compared with Phoebe Caspar’s exceedingly elegant drawing-room with its rich colours and heavy velvet drapes and padded stools and sofas, this pale-walled room with its touches of gilt seemed positively anaemic.
The door opened behind her and she whirled and stood staring. And saw there the old man she had last seen at the hospital, and felt all her fear return.
He was standing with his head thrust forwards and his jaw jutting out, but his back was as straight as that of a man half his age, and the muscles beneath his coat could be clearly seen as their contours shaped the cloth. This was no weedy desiccated tired old man. He was strong and still vigorous and it showed. Amy looked up into his narrow green eyes and quailed.
‘Well?’ the old man barked. ‘My man said you had a matter of importance to discuss with me. What is it? If it is illness, then you would be better advised to seek one of the younger surgeons from Nellie’s. I prefer not to go out to patients at night now — unless it is of some special import. What is the case, then, hey? Is it of special import?’
She swallowed and said carefully, ‘No sir. It is not a case of illness at all.’
He frowned at that and came further into the room, peering at her more closely. And then stopped short and stared, his eyes narrowing even more.
He saw a girl in a yellow gown, with pretty shoulders rising from it seductively and with her bonnet fallen back from her head and caught across her slender throat by its ribbons. She had dark curly hair, coarse and springing, which lay on her forehead in tendrils that were very charming. She had wide grey eyes and a pointed face and there was about her expression a sparkling quality, a vivacity, that seemed to him to be infinitely familiar and infinitely lovely and yet full of threat —
He shivered suddenly, the way an elderly dog does, and said harshly, ‘Not a case? Then what is it? I have better things to do with my time than waste it here with some chit of a girl! What is it you want? Tell me at once, or be about your business.’
There was a rustle at the door, and Amy looked up and beyond the old man, grateful for the interruption. He had alarmed her quite dreadfully, so much so that she had nearly taken to her heels and run past him to the safety of the dark street beyond the front door.
There was a small woman standing there, neat in a brown merino gown which was quite unadorned and with her hair set severely on each side of her head in a very outmoded fashion. Yet for all her dowdiness and apparent age she had dark lively eyes and a smooth round face and was looking at Amy with some concern.
‘Abel, my dear, what is the matter? Jefferson told me there was someone to see you — but you know I cannot agree to your going out to a patient at this time of night. Someone from the hospital must go — ’
‘It is not a patient, ma’am,’ Amy said breathlessly, and bobbed her head politely. ‘You are Mrs Lackland, ma’am? I have heard of you from Miss Martha Lackland, though we never met before. I am Amy Lucas of Boston —’
‘What do you say?’ The old man’s voice came thinly and very sharply and Amy looked up at him, alarmed again. She should not have come. Martha had said that this man had hated her grandmother an
d now she was here the thought of telling him her errand made her feel very sick, filling her with a physical fear that was very hard to control.
She swallowed and managed to say huskily, ‘Amy Lucas, sir. You — we have met before. My brother was at the hospital. He broke his leg and Freddy — Mr Caspar operated upon it with the Lister method and —’
The old man’s face seemed to clear. ‘That is where I have seen you before, then. At Nellie’s. I thought I knew your face —’ He nodded again, and moved further into the room and sat down on one of the sofas, and thrust his legs out before him, staring at her sharply from beneath bushy eyebrows.
‘Well? What is it you want of me now? You need not stand and stare at me like that — you were free enough of speech when last we met, as I recall. Maria, do go away and drink your tea! There is not need to fear I am going out to a patient, as you can see. And this young woman is clearly put off her speech by your presence. I shall be with your shortly, I daresay —’
Amy looked over her shoulder at the little woman by the door who smiled and nodded her head. ‘Well, my dear, if I can be sure you will not venture out, I will gladly go away. Goodnight, Miss Lucas. I daresay we shall meet again, if you have become a friend of some of our young people —’ and she went rustling away, closing the door softly behind her, and Amy wanted to run after her, to cling to her and make her stay and help her talk to this terrifying old man.
But she stood her ground and turned back to Abel Lackland and looked at him. She was here, and would have to manage as best she might. She was a heroine of a tragedy, she told herself. A heroine set on seeking mercy for her Dear Brother from a Harsh and Cruel Villain who somehow had to be softened by the sight of a Piteous Maiden in all her innocence.
Long Acre Page 23
