By seven o’clock, when a murky half-light was struggling to bring in a new day, Christopher was already on his way, Jet thrilled to be out on an early-morning jaunt. The narrow road of smashed stone and pebbles which had taken months to complete was buried under its white blanket, but still made for far easier riding than had been the case before it was laid.
In spite of the excitement and fear and a whole host of other emotions which were making his insides churn, the white landscape gave Christopher pleasure. The vivid scarlet of wayside rosehips gave him just as much satisfaction as ever the best of his father’s paintings had done, and so it was with the glinting sparkle of spiderwebs as a reluctant sun rose like a feeble lantern over the scene.
When he was a child, Nathaniel had frightened him with stories about the month of November marking the Celtic ‘Samhain’, associated with the cult of the dead. In pagan times, Nathaniel had murmured so their nanny hadn’t heard him, massive bonfires were lit to ensure the sun’s safe return. The natives believed that as the flames licked into the winter sky, the Sun God grew stronger. November was the ‘silent’ month, full of days so stark and bare that it suspended natural laws and left spirits, ghosts and demons free to roam the earth. The little boy he’d been then had had nightmares for weeks.
Oh, Nat, Nat. Christopher lifted his head and stared into the fleeting wisps of silver tingeing the sky where the sun touched it. What would you think of me now, chasing a ghost all of my own in the vain hope that maybe – just maybe – there’s been some mistake? Has death mellowed you to the point where you would say, ‘Try, little brother,’ or would you be filled with pity or condemnation for my foolishness?
He would like to think the former, but he rather suspected it would be the latter. His mouth curved in a wry smile. Whatever, it didn’t matter. Foolishness or not, he had to make sure. The old crone at the gypsy camp might have dealt with him falsely for reasons of her own, even though he had held his hand with the man who had done him so much damage. Pearl had always said the Romanies were a law unto themselves.
Her name brought the familiar ache to his chest and for a moment he wondered on the wisdom of what he was doing, recognising how he would feel when he had to return home – as he surely would – disappointed and alone. Well, he’d put a face on things. That’s what people did. All the women, young and old, who had lost loved ones, the men who’d lost sons and fathers and brothers, they faced the choice of wallowing in their own misery or going on. Only children thought life was fair.
He’d just passed through the hamlet of Ditchburn when Christopher’s eyes narrowed as he peered ahead. Could that be Parker in the approaching trap? Yes, it was the Armstrongs’ butler. What now?
By the time he was abreast with the trap he knew something serious was afoot.
‘Oh, Mr Christopher.’ Parker was red-faced and agitated. Twice the trap had got stuck in thick snow since he’d left the house in pitch black in the early hours. Only fools and those with a death wish would attempt to travel in such conditions, but the mistress had been adamant. When he had suggested he wait until first light before leaving the estate she had been quite unlike herself. Of course it was her worry about the master, he understood that, but for the mistress to speak to him in such a fashion . . .
‘What’s wrong, man?’
‘It’s the master, sir. He collapsed two days ago and we understand he’s poorly. Very poorly, sir. The mistress said he’s been asking for you.’
‘Collapsed?’ If it wasn’t impossible, he would think his parents had done this on purpose. ‘What do you mean, collapsed? What have the doctors said? Is it his heart?’
‘Not his heart, sir, no. It appears the master has had some trouble with his stomach for months – an ulcer possibly. The mistress has called for a physician from London to come and look at him, but the master seems to be getting worse by the hour. He—’ Parker swallowed hard – ‘he’s sinking, sir.’
Christopher stared at the servant, not his father; Oswald Armstrong was the very quiddity of life at its rawest: loud, crude, objectionable but always vital.
‘Will you come, sir?’
‘Of course.’ What else could he do? Perhaps his father wasn’t as ill as Parker imagined. He had told his men he would possibly be home tomorrow rather than today, so he could still fit in a visit to Sunderland to seek out this woman who bore such a remarkable resemblance to his Pearl.
Everything in Christopher longed to let Jet have free rein and make short work of the journey to the estate, but apart from the obvious danger of the horse breaking a leg if he acted in such a foolhardy manner, he couldn’t leave Parker, who was clearly terrified of becoming stranded. Curbing his extreme frustration, he said to the butler, ‘Let us proceed as swiftly as we can. I have business in Sunderland to attend to once I have seen my father.’
Oswald Armstrong was dying and he wasn’t dying easy. Apart from the pain, which seemed to be tearing him apart, he wasn’t ready to leave the trappings of the existence he’d spent his whole life acquiring. He turned his head on the pillow and glanced towards the window where Clarissa was standing looking out. The last few days were the first time in thirty years she had set foot in his suite of rooms, and he hadn’t been allowed in hers in all that time. She was a cold, calculating shrew of a woman, without natural warmth and affection, and yet he knew there was still a small part of him that was in awe of his wife. He had been amazed when she had agreed to marry him. Oh, he’d known it was for the Armstrong wealth, no one had made any bones about that, but he’d still been surprised that a woman of her breeding and class had consented to take him. And she knew, she’d always known that at bottom she had the upper hand. And now she was waiting for Christopher to come so she could play on what she saw as his weakness and soft heart, and draw him into her web again.
Oswald shut his eyes tightly for a moment as the pain became unbearable. When the spasm passed and settled down into mere agony he opened them to see her surveying him dispassionately. ‘I’ll leave you to rest,’ she said, then nodded at the nurse sitting in a corner of the room and swept out. She could always sweep in and out, could Clarissa. Damn her.
Would Christopher hold out against her? Oswald asked himself silently. He knew at heart that he himself had never been able to. Oh, she let him have his little victories now and again if they didn’t impinge on her too much, but that was all. Nathaniel had been the same, she’d been able to play their elder son like a violin. But Christopher had surprised her that time they had gone to see him; she’d been beside herself for weeks after that. Christopher had surprised him too. The namby-pamby child and ineffectual youth had grown into someone he didn’t recognise, not that he had ever understood him.
The last lot of medicine the nurse had given him a few minutes ago was beginning to take effect at last, he could feel it taking the edge off the pain. He wouldn’t have believed pain like this could exist, he’d have thought the heart would give out before it. He prayed the London physician would be able to do something, but he knew it was a lost cause. Once he’d started bleeding heavily from the rectum he’d been sure of it.
He must have dozed a little because when he next opened his eyes it was to see Christopher sitting by the bed with Clarissa at the side of him.
‘Hello, Father.’
Oswald focused his eyes on his son’s face. Weakly, he said, ‘You came then.’
‘Of course I came when Parker said you wanted to see me.’
Oswald began to cough and the nurse came swiftly to the bed, holding a linen square to his lips. The square was stained red with blood when she dropped it into the bowl she was holding and then resumed her seat in the corner of the room. With difficulty, Oswald muttered, ‘It – was your mother’s idea.’
‘Because I know how your father feels,’ Clarissa put in smoothly, ‘and because I felt it only right for you to have the chance to say goodbye.’
Seeing the look that passed over his son’s face, Oswald said thickly, ‘It’s a
ll right. I – I know I’m on my way out.’
‘But this London doctor? He might be able to do something.’
‘Maybe, if I’d had the sense to – to go to him – months ago.’
‘How long have you been feeling ill?’
‘Months, probably twelve months or more.’ The pillows had slipped but when he tried to move, the pain was so intense it brought an involuntary groan.
‘Wait. Let me.’ Christopher bent over his father, adjusting the pillows and gently easing Oswald against them. He could feel his father’s bones through his pyjamas and realised the weight had fallen off him.
‘Th-thanks.’ It was the first time in his life Oswald had thanked his younger son for anything, but neither of them noticed. ‘You – you were able to leave the farm for a bit?’
Christopher waved his hand, signalling that the farm was of no consequence in this situation.
A knock at the door was followed by Parker entering. Looking at Clarissa, he said, ‘The London physician, Mr Grimmett, has arrived, ma’am.’
Clarissa rose to her feet. ‘Thank you, Parker.’ Looking at Oswald, she said, ‘I’ll bring him up shortly. Come along, Christopher.’ With that she left the room.
‘W-wait.’ Oswald made a feeble movement with his hand as his son stood up. ‘I want to t-talk to you. Privately. You’re not leaving yet?’
Christopher’s voice was quiet when he said, ‘Not yet, no.’
‘Good, good. Once this quack’s gone then. All – all right?’
‘Of course.’
Christopher had a tea tray in the drawing room while the doctor and his mother were upstairs. They were gone for some time. When Mr Grimmett came downstairs he left immediately in the very shiny and large car he’d arrived in, and the housemaid came to fetch Christopher. When he entered his father’s bedroom his mother said immediately, ‘Your father is very ill, Christopher, very ill. Do you understand?’
He wanted to say of course he understood, he wasn’t dimwitted. ‘Yes, I understand, Mother.’
‘I’ll leave you two to talk for a while.’ Clarissa looked directly at her husband. ‘I’ll return once I’ve instructed Mrs Peterson about lunch. You’ll stay for lunch, Christopher?’
‘Thank you, yes.’
The nurse was still seated in her spot in the corner when Christopher sat down close to the bed. His father looked worse, if anything, after the doctor’s visit. ‘What did Mr Grimmett say?’
His father had shut his eyes as his wife had left, now he seemed to open them with some difficulty and his voice was weak when he said, ‘Grim by name and grim by nature. Poked and prodded and told me what I already knew. A growth, likely as not. Several of them. Nothing – nothing he can do. Look, lad, your mother . . .’
As a spasm of pain cut Oswald’s voice off and his face contorted, Christopher said quickly, ‘Don’t try to talk, Father. Rest now.’
‘I’ll – be doing all the resting I – I want shortly. Listen to me.’ He gasped in air and after a few moments, went on, ‘Your mother wants me to make you promise you’ll pick up the reins when I’m gone. A – a deathbed promise. But I’m not going to.’ He reached out a hand and as Christopher took it, he continued, ‘We’ve never got on, you an’ me. Chalk an’ cheese. Nathaniel – Nat was more like me. Thought a bit of him, both of us, didn’t we?’ He didn’t wait for a reply. ‘But in all the – the time I was with him, I never once – told him I loved him.’
‘Don’t distress yourself, Father.’
‘Woke me up to a lot of things, him going like that. You – you need to go your own road, lad. You hear me? Your mother – don’t – don’t let her – squeeze the life out of you. Be – be strong.’
As Oswald began to retch, the nurse hurried over with the bowl. There was a lot of blood. When she had wiped his mouth and he was lying back on his pillows, his face ashen, she murmured to Christopher, ‘He’s fading fast. Perhaps you should fetch Mrs Armstrong, sir?’
‘What? Oh yes, yes.’ But he didn’t move. He couldn’t take in that his father was dying.
Oswald forced his lids open. ‘Chris-to-pher.’
‘I’m here, Father.’
‘Stay with me – till – till it’s over.’
‘I promise.’ Turning to the nurse, he said, ‘I’m not leaving him. Please will you get my mother,’ even as he wondered whether Clarissa would get there in time.
In the event it was another twenty-four hours before Oswald breathed his last, although he didn’t open his eyes again or speak. Nevertheless, his grip on his son’s hand did not falter and Christopher remained at the bedside all of that time.
‘So? What did your father say to you when you were alone?’
Christopher had had a bath and something to eat, and was sitting with his mother in the drawing room. It hadn’t snowed while he had been sitting with his father but now the sky looked heavy with it. He finished the cup of tea he was drinking before he looked at his mother. ‘We talked about Nathaniel.’
‘And?’
‘Other things.’
‘Don’t be obtuse, Christopher.’
‘Like I said, we talked about Nathaniel. Father missed him.’
Clarissa’s eyes had become icy. ‘Did your father ask you to take over the estate?’
He had wondered if she would come right out and say it. ‘No.’
‘No? I don’t believe you.’
‘Be that as it may, it’s the truth. In fact, Father advised me to steer my own course with regard to the future and not to be persuaded to do anything I don’t wish to do.’
Clarissa had stiffened. ‘He wouldn’t say that.’
‘I’m sorry, Mother, but that’s exactly what he said.’
Outside the window, the first desultory snowflakes were beginning to drift in the wind. He’d been away from the farm for over twenty-four hours and the weather was set to turn nasty, he knew the signs. If he didn’t make it back quickly he could find himself in trouble, as well as being unable to reach the farm for weeks. There was no chance of travelling on to Sunderland now. Standing to his feet, he said, ‘There’s nothing more to be done here and I need to get home. I’ll try to make the funeral, weather permitting.’
‘What do you mean, you’ll try to attend the funeral?’ Clarissa’s voice was whip-sharp. ‘And stay where you are, boy. I haven’t finished with you yet.’
Christopher walked across the room pausing once his hand was on the doorknob. Staring at his mother’s imperious face he was suddenly overcome with a wave of pity for the man lying upstairs. He’d been eight years old when Nathaniel had explained why their parents had separate suites. How Nat had come by the knowledge, he didn’t know, but his brother had had a penchant for listening at keyholes. At the time he had felt more in sympathy with his mother than his father. His father had been a terrifying figure in those days, and nothing he’d done had pleased him. Keeping his voice level and low, he said, ‘I am not a boy. I am a man with a farm to see to and responsibilities. Like I said, I’ll try to come back for the funeral.’
‘If you walk out of that door now you needn’t bother to attend the funeral.’ Then her manner undergoing a lightning change, Clarissa held out her hand. ‘Christopher, please, come and sit down for a few moments. You know it was your father’s dearest wish and mine too, for you to take your place here. When I die all this can be yours – yours and your children’s.’
‘I have no children, Mother.’
‘But you will one day.’
‘I think not. Any hopes I had in that direction were dashed years ago, as you’re well aware.’
‘You mean the gypsy wench?’ Her hand fell to her side.
‘I mean Pearl, yes.’
‘I thought you were over that unfortunate episode.’
There was no softening in her, not an ounce of compassion. Her husband had just died in dreadful pain and yet it hadn’t touched her. Wishing only to be gone, he opened the door. ‘Goodbye, Mother.’
‘I forbid you
to leave.’
He closed the door quietly behind him and made his way across the hall. Parker appeared like the well-trained servant he was and Christopher was touched to see the man’s eyes were red. He’d rarely heard his father say a kind word to him, but the man’s grief was genuine. ‘You’re not leaving so soon, sir?’ the butler said quietly.
‘Afraid so.’ Christopher knew Parker would form his own opinion as to why. He was a wily old bird. ‘Is my horse stabled?’
‘I’ll send someone to fetch him round, sir.’
‘No matter, I’ll go there myself. Goodbye, Parker.’
‘Goodbye, sir.’
He saddled Jet himself, much to the consternation of the stable boy, and once he was cantering down the drive he didn’t look back. After the lodgekeeper had opened the gates and he was in the lane, Christopher paused for a moment. What had he been thinking of, travelling all the way to Sunderland following pipe dreams? People didn’t come back from the dead. In the flesh, that girl in the newspaper probably wouldn’t resemble Pearl at all. Photographs did that sometimes. Distorted things. It was time to let go. He’d never really done that, let go of Pearl.
The snow was falling more thickly and although it was only two in the afternoon, the heavy grey sky promised an early twilight.
He was a fool. Sighing heavily, he turned Jet back in the direction of Hill Farm. But no more fanciful notions. He had just said goodbye to his father and cut all ties with his mother. That was real life.
Chapter 26
December was a month of deep snow, unrelenting winds and bitter cold. The appalling weather wasn’t made any more tolerable by the flu pandemic, nor the announcement that the demobilisation of Britain’s vast army was going to be a slow process. For Pearl, secure in the knowledge that her beloved James and Patrick had survived the war and were coming home, and witness daily to Seth and Nessie’s happiness, it was a good month.
Nessie wasn’t strong enough yet to resume work behind the counter of the shop, but Pearl and Seth put in long hours and their staff rose to the occasion and went the extra mile. By Christmas week, everyone was tired and ready for a break. Christmas Day falling on a Wednesday, Pearl closed the shop until the following Monday and they had a restful Christmas, eating and sleeping most of the holiday away.
Born to Trouble Page 31
