Tapestry

by Fiona McIntosh

  And so Ellen emptied urine and stoma bags with the same good cheer as she would show when checking a pulse or temperature. And she liked it when her patients looked and felt fresh … even if they were unconscious.

  ‘They don’t know,’ one of the newest trainees remarked during handover after Ellen had asked why Will Maxwell looked so scruffy. At Ellen’s glare, the young nurse shrugged. ‘I’m just saying, it’s not as though they can tell their armpits haven’t been sponged.’

  ‘And how do you know they can’t?’ Ellen demanded. ‘How do you know what Will here is thinking, feeling, experiencing?’

  The girl’s eyelids lowered slightly, making her look even more sullen than the defiantly pinched lips already had. ‘I don’t know,’ she snapped.

  ‘That’s right, Lisa. You don’t know. In fact, you don’t know very much at all, given that you’re a trainee of what, nineteen?’ Lisa stared at her, saying nothing. ‘In the meantime, you’ve forgotten the fundamental reason why we became nurses. What’s more, you’re privileged to work on this ward; most trainees never get the chance. Now, Will here — and his traumatised family — are counting on us to take care of his bodily needs because he can’t. And if that means brushing his teeth or combing his hair, then it’s the very least you can do.’ She knew her eyes were narrowing in anger. ‘And you can get rid of that pout. I presume his notes are up to date?’

  ‘Of course,’ the trainee said, still not cowed.

  Ellen turned away and in doing so dismissed her subordinate with silent disgust.

  There had been rounds and checks, plenty of urgent duties to get to before Ellen finally kept her promise and got around to bathing Will. It was now the early hours of the morning and the ward was at its quietest, on skeleton staff. Tina wandered up from another ward to puncture the silence with a bright voice, otherwise it was just Ellen murmuring to her mute patients.

  ‘There you are,’ Tina said. ‘I thought you were on tonight; why am I not surprised to see you with that particular patient?’

  Ellen smiled. ‘My handsome Will,’ she said gently. ‘He never gives me any lip.’ They both laughed.

  ‘No change?’

  Ellen shook her head as she dangled the razor in the sudsy water, flicked it and continued gliding the blades along Will’s jawline. ‘But I know he’s coming back to us. It’s slow, but there are signs. The problem is his parents have only given us days to prove it. They’ll be taking him to America tomorrow.’ She didn’t add that she might just be going with them. So little time left to decide.

  ‘Take a short break. Free for a cuppa?’ Tina wondered, no longer interested, it seemed.

  ‘I’ll just comb his hair.’

  Jane watched the tall man turn and exclaim, ‘Winifred!’

  But even before she saw his face, something extraordinary happened.

  Winifred’s spirit suddenly seemed to flood Jane’s awareness with her love for this man. It roared through her, and to Jane it felt in that heartbeat that she was witnessing every good thing that could happen to a person: sunlight, warmth, safety, sensual pleasure, emotional delight, and an inexplicable joy that comes with the happiness of knowing you love this person and that you are loved in return.

  And she knew in a blink that she had not felt any of this with Will, other than perhaps the sensual pleasure. Was that all that she had proposed to base her marriage upon? It was true — if she dared let herself think on him — that she had shared more passion with Julius Sackville in a few days than what had passed between her and Will in all their months together.

  Worse, she knew she had felt everything that Winifred felt for William Maxwell in that final heart-wrenching kiss that she and Julius had shared.

  In the couple of heartbeats it took him to cross the chamber and pull her into his arms, she realised it wasn’t just William Maxwell, Fifth Earl of Nithsdale, embracing her but also Will Maxwell, American adventurer and geophysicist. The likeness was astonishing.

  He was kissing her neck, her cheeks, finally her lips. ‘Oh, my darling,’ he said, sounding feverishly happy. ‘You are here.’

  Jane knew she must give herself over wholly to Winifred, keep the promise she’d been making to herself to be Winifred.

  She let go.

  As Ellen combed Will’s damp hair, his body convulsed theatrically. She gasped softly.

  ‘I saw it,’ Tina said, without Ellen having to ask.

  Ellen stared, unmoving, at Will, wondering if he would do it again. She blinked, waited, still holding the comb in his hair. ‘I’ve never seen that before. Patients twitch, sometimes groan, but never anything so completely physical. I hope it’s a good sign. Teen, go get help. Tell Sandra to page Dr Evans, or you do it if Sandra’s not around. We need him immediately. I can’t leave Will.’

  Her colleague nodded and departed quickly. Ellen watched, determined to be there to witness any other changes or movements. She checked the time and reached for his file, quickly making a note of what had occurred and when.

  ‘Come on, Will, come back to me now,’ she murmured, convinced he was on his journey to the surface from wherever he had been drowning and not even realising how possessive she sounded of him.

  William held Winifred at arm’s length to stare at her, as though he couldn’t fully believe she was in his arms. Jane felt deeply self-conscious about the appraisal. Would he guess? ‘My, but you are a sight for sore eyes.’ He hugged her again. ‘How are the children?’

  Jane nodded in his arms. ‘I’ve written to Willie to tell him of your imprisonment. And our little Anne is confused, but she is well, always happy with Mary and her cousins, as you would expect. And you? You look thin.’ She stood back to regard him fully.

  He was devoid of wig or fine jacket, though he kept himself neat and shaven. Although the likeness to her Will was strong, she’d been tricked by shadows and low light into ignoring their differences. They didn’t share the same eye colour and Will’s hair was far lighter. Nevertheless, it was unnerving to see the unquestionable echoes in William’s height and the shape of his head; even the pitch of his voice was dauntingly familiar. The family resemblance ran powerfully through the generations, reaching more than two hundred and sixty years into the future to paint her fiancé with similar brushstrokes to the man Winifred loved.

  ‘Do not fret about my health, dearest. My head, mayhap, but not my health,’ he jested, and grinned lopsidedly as Will might have. But the gallows humour frightened Jane. The reality of what Winifred and William were facing slammed home in her mind. Beheading! Something from horror tales, she thought, and then corrected herself. No, something from the history books! And here it was, all too real for her comfort. She felt sickened, the nausea galloping in on the prevailing fear that she was not equipped to know what to do, how to prevent this …

  ‘William, what is to be done?’ Jane could hear her personal terror reflected in Winifred’s calm voice.

  ‘I’ve begun my appeal by engaging the services of an advocate. You will need to pay him ten guineas.’

  Jane nodded, gathering from Winifred that this was a huge sum. ‘Your brother-in-law will help wherever he can, of course,’ she reminded him.

  He led her over to the window seat, then leaned against the sill and sighed. ‘Yes, we shall surely need his finances.’

  She remembered this room now. It was the actual bedroom that she had used when staying with Emily. She recalled it covered with wallpaper — a pink and green floral. It also had a dressing table where she sat now, a pine Habitat wardrobe to the side of the door and an old, single, iron bed that was painted in fashionable cream. She and Emily would sit on the floor near the fireplace and read magazines, listen to their vinyl LPs while griping about study, or plan their next shopping assault on the West End.

  But right now she was standing on straw rushes and staring at a pail, one-quarter filled with foul-smelling amber liquid, where in the future a small sink would reside.

  Jane turned away, overcome with memorie
s, and looked out of the window, only to realise she was looking down from this vantage point onto Traitors’ Gate. Not the living museum that she knew, but the operational water gate, still in use, bringing condemned prisoners to where they would probably spend their final days. Her gaze widened to take in the vast expanse of the River Thames. ‘Did they bring you through there?’

  He nodded, disgusted.

  She looked to her left, trying to rein in her astonishment at yet another surprise. There was no London Bridge — not as she knew it, anyway. It would be another century before city planners replaced the ramshackle, higgledy-piggledy structure she was looking at with a more modern bridge — which was itself replaced in the early 1970s. Is this what inspired the famous rhyme that London Bridge is falling down? she wondered. Her surprise turned to dismay when she spotted rotting heads on pikes at intervals along the structure … the bridge looked like a revolting pincushion of shame.

  But attending William gave her little time to take in the sights beyond this six paces long, three wide chamber in which he was imprisoned. Its roof curved in a shallow arch of beams and the stone walls were not cheerily wallpapered, but pale and plastered to protect against fire.

  ‘The lawyer has suggested I plead guilty,’ William said, cutting back into her thoughts.

  She frowned. ‘How does that help?’

  A gust of icy air made her realise that he had kept the window open to the full force of Nature. ‘William, for mercy’s sake, you shall catch your death in here — and please do not jest that it might be easier than losing your head. My nerves will not stand any more of such dark comedy.’

  He closed the window. ‘When I feel the wind on my face, when it chills me numb, I seem to feel more alive and have reason to remain optimistic.’

  It was Winifred who reached for his hand and held it against her cheek. Perhaps Jane and Winifred were existing in concert now. Jane’s host definitely felt more solidly present. She wondered if Winifred had access to her thoughts and memories as she had to Winifred’s.

  She knew William was waiting. ‘All is not lost, my dearest. Tell me all that has happened.’

  William began to pace. ‘We were questioned by the Lords of Council the day after our arrival and then impeached in the House of Commons for high treason.’

  ‘So what is your lawyer’s rationale for pleading guilty?’ she asked, her expression filled with confusion.

  ‘He advises — as do the other lords’ counsels — that we should claim to have acted upon our consciences and that we are prepared to face whatever penalty is allotted.’

  She shook her head, alarmed. ‘What madness is this? Why does he not suggest you offer to chop off your own heads and give them to the King on a platter?’ Jane was impressed by Winifred’s sarcasm at this harrowing time.

  ‘Now who makes dark jests, my love?’ He smiled grimly. ‘For what it’s worth, I do not agree with him and have refused to enter such a plea.’

  Jane felt her breath quickening as Winifred’s anxiety escalated. ‘Forgive me.’

  ‘Sentencing is set for the first week of next month.’

  She began to wring her hands, joining Winifred’s fear with her own. How was she going to save him? Her Will seemed closer to death in her mind at this moment than he had at any time since the attack.

  ‘And King James?’

  He gave a fresh grimace. ‘What of him? The rebellion was crushed.’

  She nodded miserably as Winifred’s memories gave her the knowledge of James III, the ‘Old Pretender’, and his recent landing in Scotland. She told him what she knew. ‘The fierce winter in his own kingdom added salt to the misery of failed rebellion and afflicted him with the ague. I left before I could learn more.’

  ‘What else is there to learn, other than that he arrived, caught the fever and sailed back to France within weeks, having achieved nothing more than to commit his loyal peers to almost certain death? King George will want to make an example of us lords.’

  She nodded. There was little point in pretending otherwise.

  ‘I think we must anticipate the worst outcome, Winifred, and discuss what must be done for the children and Terregles, for your safety and the future —’

  ‘William, stop! For the love of all things holy, stop!’ Jane, propelled by Winifred’s needs, fell helplessly toward him. He held her close against his chest and she was glad he didn’t have to see the few pointless tears dampening his shirt. ‘Why can we not appeal directly to King George? I cannot imagine he wants the blood of British peers on his hands.’

  William kissed her forehead tenderly. ‘His reign will be weakened by showing us mercy.’

  ‘I do not believe that,’ she persisted.

  ‘My lawyer will not petition King George,’ he said firmly.

  ‘Then I shall.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Why not? A wife, the mother of the condemned man’s children; who could be more pitiful, more in need of mercy?’

  ‘I doubt you’ll find the new King of England to have much compassion for the wife or family of a Catholic peer, especially one who rose up against him.’

  ‘We shall see. And I shall leave no stone unturned until —’

  ‘Until it is hopeless?’ He already sounded beaten.

  ‘William. For my sake and that of the children, you must stay strong. I am entering a world I do not understand,’ Jane said in Winifred’s voice, believing she had never uttered a truer statement. ‘If you give in, what hope have I of helping you on the outside? You must keep your mind active and engaged and your body the same. Let me worry about your advocacy.’

  He nodded, but she could tell he didn’t hold out much hope of success.

  ‘Have you spoken with Lord Derwentwater or Lord Kenmure?’ she asked. She knew these two men were powerful.

  William shrugged. ‘A few words exchanged early on. Since then I have been confined to this chamber, and they to theirs, presumably. We dine each night with the Constable, who is a gracious host, but we do not discuss politics or strategy at his table for obvious reasons.’ He let out a sad gust of laughter. ‘We discussed poetry during our last meal together.’ William found a brave smile for her. ‘But fear not: I have a priest, Father Scott, who visits and keeps me company, and the warders are kind; we talk often. And at least I look out onto the river and not onto Tower Green.’

  Jane swallowed, though she suspected that if an execution of these so-called traitors took place, the King and his Protestant supporters would want to make it as public as possible. William and his fellow lords would probably be taken to Tower Hill for their punishment.

  Jane felt the bilious, dizzying fear rising again. She had to get out of this cramped room and away from its despondency.

  ‘The warder said I might only stay a short while, but I shall return as soon as I can with news. I’ve left fresh clothes with the warder.’ She dug into her pockets for the tiny sack of coins she’d brought. ‘Here, this will help keep your gaolers sympathetic. I have already made a judicious bribe to Sir George. I do not doubt I shall be allowed to see you again.’

  He took the purse and threw his arms around her again. ‘Thank you for being so strong for me. I have not even enquired about your journey — how you made it through the winter roads, how your lodgings were, or even —’

  Winifred silenced him with a kiss, as Jane yielded to embarrassment and guilt. ‘I am here. Everything else is no longer relevant. Only your safe return to me is what matters,’ she said, guided by her host.

  ‘I love you, Winifred.’

  Jane again felt the rush of emotion her host allowed her to feel and the power of it was as inspiring as it was frightening. Will in his bed, loving her, waiting for her, was in her mind, but she hated the fact that Julius was at the back of her mind also, tarnishing that connection across worlds. Perhaps it was Winifred’s weakening health that was dismantling Jane’s defences.

  The hackney had obediently waited as instructed, and Jane noticed nothing of t
he landscape around her as it rushed her back to Duke Street. By the time she’d paid the man and Cecilia was opening the door, Jane could feel Winifred’s body trembling with fever again.

  She stumbled into Cecilia’s grip, knowing only bed rest would help her now — yet every second mattered.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Robert Evans glanced at Ellen, who betrayed no hurt in her expression.

  ‘I’ll ignore what you just said, Mr Maxwell. I’m sure you don’t believe that one of the most senior staff on the ward would manufacture information.’

  Maxwell blinked. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, taking in both of them with a sweeping glance. ‘I just want Will to have the best shot at beating this thing.’

  ‘Nothing I suggest is for the good of anyone, except Will and your family. And in my professional opinion, Will’s convulsion is a key sign that he’s regaining consciousness.’

  ‘Can he hear us?’ Diane Maxwell wondered.

  ‘I always believe the patients can hear us, Mrs Maxwell,’ Ellen said gently. ‘I talk to Will the whole time I’m working around him. How can it hurt?’

  His mother nodded, smiling sadly. ‘You’re so kind, dear. You’re right, it can’t hurt, I’m sure. So what does this mean, Dr Evans?’

  ‘I’m recommending you leave Will where he is, certainly in the short term.’ They all watched Maxwell shift restlessly with annoyance, but for a rare moment he controlled his expression and his tongue, as Evans continued. ‘We just don’t know what the upheaval will do. Will is off life support, as you know, so this is all about him and his choice of timing. He’ll decide when. We have to keep the faith and stay patient.’

  ‘What about brain damage?’ his mother asked.

  ‘Mrs Maxwell, we can’t even begin to assess that until Will wakes. And he is waking. But it’s a slow process. Every person, every injury, every brain is different and reacts and responds in varying ways. Um … is there any news of Miss Granger?’

  ‘Crazy girl’s gone off on some capricious expedition that she hopes will divinely wake Will from afar,’ Maxwell growled.