Fell the Angels

by John Kerr

  ‘But I hate him, Father. He’s cruel to me….’

  ‘As I recall you saying about Richard.’

  ‘But it’s true!’ Suffering from morning sickness, she bolted from the alcove to her upstairs bed. Recovered after a brief rest, she rose and found an envelope on the dresser, addressed to her in her husband’s distinctive hand. Tearing it open, she quickly scanned his note, declaring that he missed her dreadfully and imploring her to return home. Tossing it on the dresser with a sigh, she rang for the upstairs maid to assist her in packing her bags.

  ‘She’s coming home,’ said Charles Cranbrook, waving a sheet of paper. ‘Arriving tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘I expect she hadn’t any say in the matter,’ said Mrs Clark, seated in a chair facing Cranbrook’s desk. ‘Poor woman.’

  ‘She’s bearing my child,’ said Cranbrook with out-thrust chin. ‘My son. Charles the Second,’ he added with a smile. ‘I knew she’d come back.’

  ‘Cecilia is acting under duress,’ said Mrs Clark. ‘You must treat her with decency.’

  Cranbrook’s eyes narrowed as he stared across the desk at the petite woman clad in black. ‘It’s not Mrs Cranbrook I desired to discuss with you. I’m sorry to say it, madam, but I’ve made up my mind to dispense with your services.’ She glared back at him, though the news of her dismissal hardly surprised her. ‘However,’ said Cranbrook, steepling his fingers at his chin, ‘you shall have ample time to look for another position, as you’ve served me well, urging my suit with Cecilia.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘I’m aware you have children in school.’ She nodded. ‘Perhaps debts to pay.’ She responded with an expression so cold, so intense, that he was forced to look away. ‘Naturally,’ he continued after a moment, ‘I will provide you with good references. Now, if you will excuse me.’ With a final inscrutable look, Mrs Clark rose from her chair and walked slowly from the room.

  For the first few days after Cecilia’s return from Buscot Park it seemed to her that relations with Charles had improved; he made no mention of household economy nor of Dr Gully and treated her with some consideration, if not warmth, during their times together in the evening. Neither he nor Mrs Clark made any mention of the impending termination of Mrs Clark’s employment. Returning to The Priory on Saturday afternoon, however, after his usual lunch and chess match at Boodle’s, Charles accosted Cecilia in the drawing-room, scolding her for refusing to eat properly and her excessive consumption of wine, as the cook, no admirer of Cecilia, had informed him that she routinely drank several glasses with lunch and a full bottle with dinner. ‘It’s my child you’re carrying,’ he said, pointing his finger. ‘My son.’

  ‘How can you know it’s a boy?’

  ‘I know it is. And by God I don’t intend to see something happen to him because you’re an ill-nourished inebriate—’

  ‘Oh, stop it!’

  ‘—and a conceited fool who cares more about her figure than her unborn child’s health.’

  Bursting into tears, Cecilia hurried up the stairs, locked the door to her room and threw herself on the bed. She must have dozed, because the light in the room had grown dim when she sleepily rubbed her eyes and sat up. Rising from bed, she gasped at the blotches of bright, red blood staining the sheet. Throwing open the door, she called to the upstairs maid, ‘Mary Ann! Send for Mrs Clark at once!’

  Chapter Thirteen

  JANE CLARK STOOD at Cecilia’s bedroom window and watched Dr Harrison, a physician from nearby Streatham carrying a black medical bag, as he walked down the flagstones to his waiting horse and buggy. Turning toward the bed, she studied Cecilia, propped up on pillows under fresh linen with her eyes closed. Silently approaching her bedside, she took Cecilia’s limp hand, cold to the touch, and leaned down to kiss her pale cheek. ‘There, there,’ she murmured as Cecilia stirred. ‘Try to sleep.’

  Opening her eyes, Cecilia said, ‘Did the doctor speak to Charles?’

  Mrs Clark shook her head. ‘I merely advised Charles that you were not feeling well and instructed the doctor not to disturb him.’

  Cecilia nodded and said, ‘Does the doctor know that I—?’

  ‘No,’ said Mrs Clark, ‘I said nothing about it. But of course you understand why you may never be able to bear a child.’

  Brushing a tear from the corner of her eye, Cecilia said, ‘Yes. Under the circumstances, it’s just as well.’ Despite her shock at the loss of the baby, Cecilia’s dominant emotion was relief. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘you must inform Charles.’

  Mrs Clark found Cranbrook in his study, sucking on his pipe and reworking a legal brief at his desk. ‘What is it,’ he said gruffly, giving her a look of frosty annoyance as she stood in the doorway.

  ‘It’s Mrs Cranbrook.’

  ‘Is she ill?’

  ‘No. She’s miscarried.’

  ‘What!’ said Cranbrook, jumping up from his chair. ‘Lost the child?’ Mrs Clark nodded. ‘Damn,’ said Cranbrook under his breath. ‘I knew she wasn’t taking proper care of herself. I warned her! Damn her selfishness and stupidity!’ he said with a shake of his fist.

  ‘It’s important that she rest,’ said Mrs Clark calmly. ‘She’s lost blood and is very weak.’ Cranbrook glared at her. ‘And she requests that I stay with her at night until she’s recovered.’

  ‘Oh, she does?’ said Cranbrook. ‘And where will I sleep?’

  ‘She suggests the spare bedroom at the top of the stairs.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Cranbrook with a malevolent glare. ‘You may go now.’

  Following a light supper of consommé and toast, served to her in bed, Cecilia had the strength to rise and enjoy a long, indolent soak in her claw-foot bathtub. Emerging from her bath enfolded by a large towel, she encountered Mary Ann turning down her bed.

  ‘Do you need anything, ma’am?’ said the maid.

  ‘Yes,’ said Cecilia. ‘A glass of sherry.’ After donning her nightgown and brushing out her hair, seated on the cushion in her boudoir as she drank her wine, Cecilia entered the bedroom, where she found Mrs Clark in a chair at the foot of the bed, wearing a robe with her dark hair down on her shoulders.

  ‘I’ll tuck you in,’ said Mrs Clark, rising from her chair as Cecilia walked to the bed and slipped under the covers. Checking to make sure the door was firmly shut, Mrs Clark pulled the coverlet up to Cecilia’s chin, bent down and gently kissed her. Then, with a tender look, she doused the gaslights and returned to her chair in the darkness.

  After a week had passed, during which Mrs Clark shared Cecilia’s bed at night and Charles Cranbrook had virtually no contact with his wife, Cecilia dressed before nine on a Sunday morning in the hope of encountering him over breakfast. Pausing at the top of the stairs, she glanced through the partly open door into the small guest bedroom, listening to the church bells in the village and observing a water pitcher and glass on a bedside table and Charles’s riding boots at the foot of the neatly made single bed, a room, she reflected, she had never entered. Descending the stairs, she found her husband at the dining-room table.

  ‘Hallo,’ he said, looking up from his newspaper and plate of eggs and kippers. ‘Looking hale and hearty.’

  ‘I’m better,’ she said. ‘Much better.’ She rang a small silver bell to summon the kitchen maid, who appeared after a moment and said, ‘Yes, ma’am?’

  ‘I’ll join Mr Cranbrook for breakfast. An omelette with bacon.’

  Taking a piece of toast from the rack, Cranbrook smeared it with marmalade, took a bite and a sip of tea as he reverted to his newspaper. After a few minutes of silence, the maid reappeared, served Cecilia her eggs and bacon and poured her a cup of tea from the pot. Cecilia stirred in milk and sugar and sampled the omelette. ‘What’s this?’ she asked, picking up a folded sheet at Cranbrook’s elbow.

  ‘A letter from my stepfather,’ said Cranbrook, snatching it away from her. ‘Taking me to task for speculating in the stock market.’

  ‘How much did you lose?’

/>   ‘None of your business, nor his. I intend to send him a shirty reply.’

  ‘Charles,’ said Cecilia after eating a few bites.

  ‘Yes,’ said Cranbrook, continuing to read his paper.

  ‘I’m going on holiday to Worthing.’

  ‘What? To Worthing?’

  ‘Yes. Mrs Clark is there now, looking for suitable lodgings. The doctor says it will do me good.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Cranbrook, tossing his napkin on the table. ‘There’s nothing the matter with you.’

  ‘But why should you object? It’s only with Mrs Clark, for at most a week.’

  ‘Because of the blasted expense.’ He glared at her. ‘We’re piling up debts, and all you can think to do is spend, spend, spend.’

  ‘That’s grossly unfair,’ said Cecilia, pushing back from the table. ‘The doctor says I need rest.’

  ‘You can rest here,’ said Cranbrook, rising from his chair, ‘and spare the expense of a holiday with dear Mrs Clark. And let this serve notice I intend to expel that woman from your bedchamber.’

  ‘You vile creature!’ said Cecilia. ‘I should never have married you!’

  ‘You’ll learn to obey me!’ said Cranbrook. He suddenly lunged and slapped her hard across the face.

  ‘Ooh,’ cried Cecilia as she crumpled to the floor, where she lay cradling her head in her arms, moaning. For a moment Cranbrook stared down at her, his mouth curled into a disdainful frown, before tramping noisily from the room.

  ‘The holiday to Worthing is scotched,’ said Cecilia, reclining on the chaise in her bedroom in an embroidered blue silk robe.

  ‘We’re not going?’ said Mrs Clark, just returned from the Balham station. ‘Why, I’ve arranged a room for us at a seaside hotel.’

  ‘Charles forbids it.’

  Mrs Clark took a step closer, a look of disbelief in her eyes. ‘Cissie – what happened to your face?’

  Running her tongue over her swollen lip, she said, ‘He hit me.’

  ‘My God.’

  ‘Knocked me to the floor.’ Tears welled in her red-rimmed eyes. ‘Oh, Janie, I’ve got to find a way out of this marriage.’

  ‘I don’t see how,’ said Mrs Clark, walking over and stroking Cecilia’s hair. ‘Unless something were to happen to that wicked brute.’

  ‘Well, he’s gone into town to his club. Staying the night.’

  ‘You should dress,’ said Mrs Clark. ‘And then we’ll take the carriage on a nice drive through the common.’

  The following day Charles Cranbrook arrived home unusually early. That morning he had suffered a severe attack of nausea on his way from his room at the club to his office, becoming violently ill on the pavement, but had recovered sufficiently to continue to work and even consume a brandy over lunch at White’s with his law partner Edward Hope, celebrating a minor courtroom victory. Arriving at The Priory, Cranbrook changed into his riding coat and boots and instructed MacDonald, the gardener, who, after Griffiths’ dismissal was also responsible for looking after the stable, to saddle the gelding.

  ‘He’s already been exercised, sir,’ objected MacDonald.

  ‘I’ll be back in twenty minutes,’ said Cranbrook as he swung into the saddle.

  Over an hour had passed, however, when Cranbrook rode unsteadily into the paddock. ‘Are you all right, sir?’ said MacDonald, taking the reins.

  Cranbrook, visibly shaken, slowly climbed from the horse, whose haunches were dark with lather. ‘As we were leaving the common,’ he said, ‘Cremorne bolted. Ran for four miles, all the way to Mitcham, before I could stop him.’ With a wince he began walking painfully toward the house.

  Cecilia found him an hour later, collapsed in a chair in his study, deathly pale with a dazed expression, still wearing his riding boots. ‘Cremorne ran off with me,’ he muttered as Cecilia gave him a concerned look.

  ‘I’ll have Sawyers help you with your boots,’ she said, ‘and then draw you a bath. You look unwell.’

  ‘I was sick this morning,’ he said. ‘But then I felt better and had lunch with Hope at White’s.’ When the time came for his bath, Cranbrook was too weak or too ill to climb the stairs, and so was helped to his feet and half-carried upstairs by the butler, who steered him to the small guest room and laid him on the bed. After an hour’s rest, he’d regained enough strength to make his way downstairs, where he found Cecilia having supper with Mrs Clark in the dining-room, mutton chops with French green beans, accompanied by a decanter of sherry.

  ‘Are you better?’ said Cecilia, reaching for the bell to summon the maid.

  ‘I suppose,’ said Cranbrook, wearily slumping in a chair.

  ‘Bring Mr Cranbrook a plate,’ Cecilia instructed the maid when she appeared after a moment. ‘Wine?’ she asked Cranbrook.

  ‘Yes. I’ll have a glass of claret.’

  Cecilia refilled her glass, briefly exchanged looks with Mrs Clark, and then continued eating in silence. The maid returned with a plate and glass of red wine for her master, who summoned the strength to carve a few bites of mutton and consume a portion of his vegetables. Mrs Clark, having finished her supper, seemed to be watching him, which caused him to avert his eyes. After the lapse of five minutes of awkward silence, Cecilia downed the last of her sherry, rose from the table and said, ‘I’m going upstairs to undress.’ Cranbrook wordlessly looked up at her.

  ‘Good evening,’ said Mrs Clark, as she rose from her chair. ‘Rest well.’

  Cecilia, wearing a robe over her nightgown, stood before the mirror over her dressing-table, brushing out her hair. Seeing Mrs Clark’s reflection in the glass, she turned and said, ‘Janie – send for Mary Ann and ask her to bring me a glass of Madeira.’ Mrs Clark, still fully dressed, walked to the staircase, pausing to glance into the empty guest bedroom before descending. Avoiding the dining-room, she delivered the request to the maid and returned to Cecilia’s bedroom. Mary Ann, locating the bottle of Madeira in the butler’s pantry, poured a glass and walked to the stairs where she encountered Charles Cranbrook with his hand on the banister. ‘Pardon me, sir,’ she said as she hurried past him, aware of his strong disapproval of his wife’s habit of drinking after dinner. Too weak to object, Cranbrook slowly made his way upstairs.

  After delivering the wine, Mary Ann tidied up her mistress’s boudoir, careful to properly hang the dresses and fold the many robes and bed jackets, and then entered the bedroom, where she found Cecilia under the covers, evidently asleep, and Mrs Clark in her chair at the foot of the bed, knitting by the light of a candle. Bidding her goodnight, Mary Ann left the room, gently closed the door, and started down the stairs. Halfway down, she heard footfalls and looked back as the door to the spare bedroom swung open and Cranbrook, clad only in his nightshirt, staggered out. ‘Cecilia!’ he shouted, clutching his throat. ‘Cecilia! Hot water!’ As Cranbrook stumbled back into his room, the maid hurried up the stairs and knocked on Cecilia’s door. Hearing no answer, she turned the knob and peered into the darkened room, lit only by the coals burning on the grate. Cecilia was sleeping, but Mrs Clark, fully dressed, remained in her chair at the foot of the bed. ‘What is it?’ she stage-whispered.

  ‘Come quick!’ said Mary Ann. ‘It’s Mr Cranbrook. He’s ill!’

  Mrs Clark rose and hurried to the spare bedroom with the maid following. The door was ajar and, though the room was dark, Mrs Clark could see and hear Cranbrook leaning out the window with his hands on the sill, violently retching. He turned toward her with a wild look and again shouted, ‘Water!’ Attempting to stand, his knees gave way, and he collapsed on the floor, unconscious. Kneeling beside him, Mrs Clark looked back at the maid, frozen in the doorway, and said, ‘Turn on the lights!’ She turned Cranbrook on his side and placed her hand on his chest, detecting a faint, irregular heartbeat. When the gaslights flickered on she briefly studied his pale face and listened to his laboured breathing. ‘Go downstairs,’ she calmly instructed the maid, ‘and fetch hot water and some dry mustard.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.�
��

  ‘Be quick about it.’

  After some minutes, Mary Ann returned with a water pitcher and small bowl, which she lowered with trembling hands to the carpet beside Cranbrook’s still form. Mrs Clark, kneeling beside him, poured hot water from the pitcher into the bowl, which contained powdered mustard, and stirred the mixture with her finger. Lifting the back of Cranbrook’s head, she managed to pour some of the concoction down his throat, which caused him immediately to vomit. ‘Ooh,’ said Mary Ann, turning away. After trying unsuccessfully to shake him awake, Mrs Clark looked up at Mary Ann and said, ‘Find Sawyers and tell him to send for Dr Harrison in Streatham. Tell him Mr Cranbrook is deathly ill and that the doctor must come at once!’

  Mary Ann started down the stairs, hesitated, and changed her mind, thinking the master’s dying and no one’s awakened his wife to tell her! Bursting into Cecilia’s room, she ran up to the bed and said, ‘Wake up, ma’am! It’s Mr Cranbrook!’

  ‘What!’ exclaimed Cecilia, disoriented from a wine-induced deep slumber. ‘Charles?’ She sprang from the bed and raced to the spare bedroom. ‘What is it?’ she screamed at Mrs Clark, who was still kneeling beside Charles’s prostrate form. His eyes were shut and nightshirt soiled with vomit and the yellow mustard solution.

  ‘He’s alive, but barely,’ said Mrs Clark. ‘He must have swallowed chloroform; I smelt it on his breath. See the bottle there.’ Cecilia glanced at a medicine bottle on the mantel containing a small quantity of green liquid. ‘I’ve sent Sawyers for Dr Harrison,’ added Mrs Clark.

  ‘Dr Harrison?’ said Cecilia. ‘Too far. We must get someone local.’ She ran from the room, shouting ‘Sawyers!’ from the top of the stairs. Hurrying down, she found the front door partly open and a lamp burning in the passage. ‘Sawyers!’ she called.