‘Now, what’s all this, what’s all this?’ he demanded. ‘Mrs Quentin needs her rest, not a lot of chit-chat from you, my girl. If you are determined to nurse her, then you must do it under my instruction.’
‘Yes, Sir,’ Eliza said demurely and very deliberately using the eye that was out of Mr Fildes’s view, winked at Tilly, and Tilly’s own eyes filled with tears of gratitude and she fell asleep again, as suddenly as if she were a baby herself.
The next time she woke it was dark and there was a fire burning brightly in her grate and oil lamps to warm the ceiling above her to an amber glow. There was also the smell of something savoury and she turned her head almost eagerly, aware of being very hungry.
Eliza was beside the bed and reached for her the moment she moved. That’s it, Mum! Let’s see if we can’t make you feel a bit more comfy, like.’
She lifted Tilly up the bed as easily as if she had been a child and plumped her pillows behind her and pulled her bedsheet smooth beneath her. Then she fetched a wet cloth and a towel and cleaned her face and hands so that Tilly felt a great deal more alert and, finally, placed a white cloth over the sheet in front of her.
‘I hotted up for you some of this here soup sent from next door, Missus,’ she said. ‘It’s safe enough – Mrs Compton’s cook is a bad-tempered piece and no friend o’ mine, but she makes good enough chicken broth, I’ll grant ’er that. You try this, Mum.’
Tilly let Eliza feed her, swallowing the soup gratefully. The sharp saltiness of it honed her appetite for more and she emptied the bowl before leaning back on her pillow, almost exhausted by her efforts at swallowing.
‘There,’ said Eliza, highly gratified. ‘Don’t you feel better, Mum?’
Tilly had closed her eyes, and she did not open them to speak. ‘Tell me what happened, Eliza,’ she said. Her voice was stronger now, lubricated by the heat of the soup. ‘I think – have I been dreaming? Bad things –’
There was a silence and now Tilly did open her eyes. Eliza was still sitting on the stool she had brought to the bedside to enable her to feed Tilly her supper, and her face was a study of confusion, distress and excitement at having portentous news to impart.
‘It all depends on what you dreamed, Mum,’ Eliza said cautiously and flushed when Tilly made a derisive sound deep in her throat. ‘You tell me what it was, Mum, and I’ll see if I can –’
‘Frank,’ Tilly said after a long moment. ‘Frank …’
There was a long silence broken only by the cheerful crackle of the fire and then Eliza said gently, ‘Yes, Mum. It was what you thought.’
‘I didn’t dream it then. Outside. The steps and the noise –’
‘No, Mum,’ Eliza said shortly and after a moment Tilly stirred.
‘Well, thank you for that,’ she said. ‘For not lying to me.’
Fatigue was creeping into her again. She had to fight the urgent desire to sleep, because there was more to know. ‘How – when – how long have I been ill?’
Eliza became expansive now. ‘It’s been nine days, Mum! We was in despair over you, we really was. You was in such a taking over it all that night, and then your fever started and the Master had to send for Mr Fildes, though he didn’t want to, but Mr Freddy made him.’
‘Freddy?’ Tilly said, opening her eyes which had closed in spite of her struggle to remain alert.
‘Oh, he’s been wonderful, Mum, him and Mrs Compton. In and out of here like – well, family, you might say. It was Mr Freddy as made the Master see he had to have someone to you, on account he didn’t want no one here. And it was Mr Freddy sorted it all with the Crowner and all that.’
‘Coroner –’ Tilly shuddered and closed her eyes deliberately this time. ‘Of course. There had to be –’
‘That’s right, Mum. An inquest.’ Eliza said it with huge relish, her excitement about all that had happened no longer controllable. ‘We ’ad the police ’ere an ’all! A sergeant it was and a constable. Oh, it was a real carry on, Mum, and no error. The Master goin’ mad and you not fit for nothin’, you was in such a takin’, and where we’d ha’ been without Mr Freddy I just don’t know.’
‘What did the inquest –’ Tilly managed and got no further. But she need not have said that much. Eliza was well on her way now.
‘The Crowner said as ’ow it was accidental death and regretted it for the family, and the police said there was no mysterious circumstances and gentlemen will be gentlemen and there was no ‘old on the funeral so the Master got it all arranged.’
Tilly dragged herself out of the depths of her weariness and managed to focus on Eliza’s face.
‘It’s over then?’
‘Oh, yes, Mum. The day before yesterday. At Old Trinity.’
‘Oh –’ Tilly said and sighed deeply and let the sleep engulf her. There seemed no need to keep herself awake now.
Three days later she felt a good deal stronger and had managed to eat most of Alice Compton’s cook’s soup, together with some of Eliza’s own culinary efforts (which consisted mainly of eggs beaten up in hot milk with sugar and brandy, a concoction Tilly found rather sickly but which did fill her up with a minimum of eating effort). Mr Fildes even allowed her to get out of bed.
‘In a chair by the window is all I will permit, Mrs Quentin,’ he said importantly. ‘It is vital that we do not drain away your strength with unnecessary activity, you see.’
‘I will feel better, I am sure, if I might get up and stay up,’ Tilly said a little peevishly. ‘It is very dispiriting to lie in bed when you are not ill.’
‘Ah, but you have been ill. Very ill,’ Mr Fildes said as though that settled it. ‘You had pneumonia, you know! The left lung was quite consolidated. The crisis was a severe one and lysis has only just completed.’
‘I’m all right now, though,’ Tilly snapped. ‘Aren’t I? Just a little weak for want of exercise.’
‘Later you may enjoy a little carriage exercise,’ Mr Fildes said firmly. ‘When I permit it and not before. Now, you may stay in your chair for an hour and Eliza will then put you back to bed. Eliza – remember, I am quite adamant about this.’
‘Oh, yes, Sir, Mr Fildes.’ Eliza bobbed a curtsey, and Tilly could have smacked her for being so co-operative with him. Altogether she was feeling very bad tempered indeed. And suddenly, from nowhere, a memory seeped into her head. Herself very small, crying out, and her mother’s voice saying, ‘It is not her fault, Austen. Do not be angry please! It is now she is recovering that she is fretful.’
She turned her head suddenly to Mr Fildes. ‘Sir, since you are here, would it be possible for you to examine my mother?’
He had been at the door, fussing with his watch to show how busy a man he was, and now he looked at her sharply.
‘Your mother, Mrs Quentin?’
‘Yes. She has been – bedridden for some time now. I – er – I know that there are things – well, not to make too fine a point of it, she does take too much daffy.’
He shook his head and came back to her chair, his eyes bright and somehow avid. ‘I did not know that your mother was – well, that – I thought that, I mean to say, the lady I met – Mrs Leander –’
‘A friend of my father,’ Tilly said shortly. ‘My mother is confined to her room, I am afraid.’
He looked even more eager, his eyes taking on an almost salacious glint. ‘I see! Well, these matters are – they are not my concern, of course.’
‘Indeed,’ Tilly said a little frostily. ‘I ask you only to look at my mother and see if there is more that could be done for her. It would be foolish to deny the root cause of her trouble, but all the same –’
‘I quite understand,’ Mr Fildes said smoothly. ‘So I have your authority to visit Mrs – ah – Kingsley?’ He put a slight emphasis on the ‘your’ but not so slight that she did not fully understand what he was saying.
‘Eliza,’ she said. ‘Fetch me my reticule, if you please.’
Eliza did and Tilly opened it and hunted around inside. �
�I imagine your charge would be –’
‘Two shillings and sixpence,’ Mr Fildes said promptly.
‘But since you are here at the house anyway for me, and my father of course will pay that bill, it is not so much, I suppose, to see another person?’
Mr Fildes hesitated, clearly torn between curiosity and cupidity. Curiosity won.
‘One shilling will be the fee to attend on Mrs Kingsley,’ he said with all the dignity he could muster and held out his hand. But Tilly returned the money to her reticule.
‘I shall pay when you return and tell me of her health, Mr Fildes,’ she said. ‘Eliza, will you see that my mother is – ah – ready to be seen?’ And she fixed Eliza with a sharp eye and knew that the girl understood as she nodded and went away. It would never do for the man to find Henrietta in a bed that was wet or worse.
Eliza came back in five minutes, by which time Tilly was heartily sick of Mr Fildes’s rather too bright small talk, and took him away, and Tilly waited with some anxiety for his return. Quite why she had asked him to see Henrietta she did not really know: Eliza had assured her, when asked, that her mother remained much the same. Perhaps, she thought, it is because I am ashamed that no medical man has examined her in all these years. She cannot be well, in her state. We have allowed her her daffy because it is so much easier than dealing with her when she does not have it, but perhaps it is different care she needs.
Mr Fildes returned in half an hour with Eliza at his heels.
‘Well?’ Tilly demanded and stared at him closely. She had the light behind her and his face was well lit by the afternoon sun, bright and invasive on this April day, and she could see that he looked grave.
‘Well, Mrs Quentin, she is not a well lady –’
‘That,’ said Tilly with some acerbity, ‘is something we have known for some time.’
‘ – and it is a matter of regret that she should have been – ahem – permitted to develop a dipsomaniac habit.’
‘That is a very harsh term,’ Tilly protested but he shook his head.
‘I have questioned your maid here, Mrs Quentin, and it is clear that it is a just term. She has a steady intake of gin and becomes very agitated without it. There are other signs that her intemperance has caused permanent damage. But that is not the only thing.’ He shook his head again lugubriously.
‘Then tell me what is,’ Tilly said sharply and blinked back sudden tears, hating the weakness of her illness that made her so vulnerable and so childishly prone to weeping.
‘She has had a stroke, Madam. An apoplectic stroke. This is why her face is misshapen and why she has lost the use of her right hand. There is weakness and lack of movement in the right leg and foot also. Her – um – absence of spirit is not due entirely to the gin. It is due as much to the effects of this cataclysmic event.’
‘Oh?’ was all Tilly could say, and he lifted his brows at her.
‘This surprises you?’
‘I – I cannot say. I mean, I was not aware of any particular –’
‘That fall she ’ad, Mum.’ Eliza pushed forward eagerly. ‘Do you remember? Not long after I came ’ere it was, when you was first wed. I remember, she fell down in ’er room and couldn’t walk proper. That there Dorcas used to push ’er out in a Bath chair.’
‘Yes,’ Tilly said, and felt guilt fill her in a sickening wave. She did indeed remember. It had happened just the week after she and Frank returned from their wedding trip to Brighton. Tilly had been so anxious about their disastrous honeymoon that she had no eyes for anyone; she had dismissed her mother’s fall as just another manifestation of daffy, and been quite unconcerned. To discover now that it had been due to an apoplectic stroke rather than gin was shaming indeed.
Mr Fildes nodded at her in some sympathy. ‘It is understandable, Ma’am, that you and your esteemed father were not aware of the reality of her situation. It takes considerable diagnostic skill, after all.’ He preened. ‘Now, I am afraid that I must give you more bad news. I have to tell you that she can never be other than she is.’
‘I did not think otherwise,’ Tilly managed and bent her head, unable to hide her tears any longer and Mr Fildes patted her hand kindly, clearly approving strongly of such daughterly piety.
‘It is no one’s fault, Madam. I venture to say that this would have happened had she been a model of sobriety. In some ways it will have helped her to be – er – as she is. At least she has no awareness of her condition. It is a dreadful thing when a hale and active person is struck down by such a disease. For them the loss of mobility or their senses is a case for much grieving. For your mother, well, I do not hesitate to aver that she probably had no awareness at all of what happened to her. She has been entirely sheltered from any distress.’
Tilly nodded, still tearful and then reached for her handkerchief and blew her nose, struggling to find her composure again. She succeeded tolerably well.
‘Is there anything we can do for her?’ she asked.
He shook his head. ‘I would continue as you are, Mrs Quentin. Seeing she is fed as much as possible and kept reasonably sweet about her person and allowed her gin. If it were withdrawn now it would cause her misery and would be of small value. She cannot be restored to normal life, so sobriety would be of no advantage to her.’
Suddenly Tilly liked this fussy man; he was greedy, possibly, self-important certainly, and deeply inquisitive undoubtedly, but he had a genuine concern for sick people, and a real awareness of what life might be like for such a person as her mother. She lifted her chin and smiled at him warmly and he looked quite confused and then pleased.
‘You are most kind, Mr Fildes. I thank you for your efforts.’ She reached into her reticule and took out her money. ‘One shilling and sixpence, I think we agreed.’
He opened his mouth, looked at the money she had put into his palm and then closed it again, beaming widely.
‘And I would appreciate it if this matter were not – um – discussed with my father. It is between ourselves.’
‘Indeed,’ Mr Fildes said fervently. ‘I can fully understand the painful business it would be for Mr Kingsley to have to discuss the health of his beloved wife. It is a good thing he has so dutiful and caring a daughter.’
‘Exactly so,’ she said and smiled again. He was trying so very hard. ‘You are a kindly man, are you not, Mr Fildes. I appreciate it, indeed I do.’
He went a little pink and bobbed his head. ‘Well, I try to prosecute the welfare of my patients as best I can. It is the task of the apothecary, you understand.’
‘Completely,’ Tilly said.
He became very brisk then. ‘And you are also under my care, Ma’am, and I am concerned that you are agitating yourself too much. You are still weak and I have had to be the bearer of unhappy tidings. It is time, I think, that you returned to bed. Eliza –’
Tilly didn’t argue. She had been a longer time in the chair than she had imagined, and her back was aching and so were her legs. To lie in bed again would be agreeable, and she let Eliza almost carry her there and set her against the pillows.
‘I am sure I shall recover swiftly now,’ she said as she relaxed gratefully. ‘Each day must surely get easier. Unlike those of my mother. For her, each day must be a deterioration.’
‘I fear so,’ Mr Fildes said. ‘But she can remain with us for many years yet if she is well cared for. Good food, you know – beef juice and eggs and milk if she will take no solid food. And ensure she has plenty of bland liquids in addition to her – to her other fluids. She will be at some risk of dyspepsia and that can make her fretful and may indeed lead to a haemorrhage which would be very worrying.’
Despite his concern for his weary patient he seemed inclined to linger, and Tilly closed her eyes and settled herself more deeply into her pillows as though she were about to sleep. ‘Yes, indeed, Mr Fildes,’ she murmured drowsily. ‘Thank you so much.’ She listened as Eliza took him away and closed the door behind them. And then opened her eyes and stared at th
e ceiling, thinking of her mother as tears slid down her thin cheeks.
Chapter Fourteen
‘NO MONEY AT ALL?’ Tilly said, and stared at him. The solicitor said nothing, just looking back at her with his bland expression. ‘There must surely be some.’
‘All there is, Mrs Quentin, is the – um – promised settlement on the occasion of your marriage. That has not been paid into Mr Quentin’s account by your father yet. However, I have no doubt that – um –’
‘Yes,’ Tilly said dully and looked down at her hands on her lap. They were frail, like a bag of bird’s bones, and very white against the black merino of her gown. It felt strange to be wearing such deep mourning and yet not to be grief-stricken. She wasn’t. She was numb, as far as Frank was concerned. Sometimes she felt she had never been married at all, really; and then she remembered the baby and moved her hands so that they were clasped across her front, wanting to hold the secret safe, wanting no one to know, least of all this smooth watchful man who sat facing her across his desk.
She had decided to visit him, arduous though a journey into the City was in her still weak state, rather than ask him to wait upon her at home, because she needed to know all there was to know about her situation and she felt, for reasons she could not have explained, that he was more likely to be truthful here than in Brompton Grove. Also, although he had been her husband’s solicitor, he was the partner of Mr Cobbold, her father’s man of law, and that should make it easier, she had thought, to ask questions. In the event it was not.
‘Ah – Mr Conroy,’ she began, and looked at that smooth face again and lost her nerve. He was so guarded, so very unapproachable, that coming out bluntly with her question was almost impossible. Involuntarily she tightened her hands across her belly and that made her able to try again. She was not, after all, asking only for herself.
‘I take it, Mr Conroy, that you would be willing to continue as my man of business, even though my husband has died?’
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