‘Mrs Corvill is lying down, miss, and is not to be disturbed. Mr Corvill is out.’
‘Tell Mrs Corvill her sister-in-law is here.’
‘Miss Corvill! Oh, excuse me, please, I didn’t know ‒’
She ushered Jenny in, taking her valise. Then she led the way along a rather dark passage lit by elaborate wall brackets. Through open doors Jenny glimpsed a large sitting-room, furnished in the gilt reproduction Louis Quinze that Lucy admired, with, opposite, a parlour with piano and loo table, then a surprisingly lofty dining-room. There were one or two closed doors, at the last of which the maid tapped before entering.
Jenny heard her voice announcing her arrival, very low. There was a cry of joy from within. The maid reappeared, throwing the door wide open. In the half-light of lowered lamps Lucy lay on a chaise-longue, her hair loose, her face pale. She was wearing an elaborate peignoir of blue satin and cream lace tied with broad ribbons.
She half-raised herself, stretched out a hand to Jenny. Even as she saw the real tears on Lucy’s face, Jenny felt that there was something theatrical about the gesture.
‘Oh, Jenny! Oh, how glad I am to see you! Oh, Jenny, if you knew what I’ve been going through!’
Jenny turned to dismiss the maid, who had been hovering, looking sympathetic yet avid.
‘Yes, go, Maggie,’ Lucy ordered, ‘go and make some tea or coffee ‒ or would you prefer a glass of wine? And something to eat?’
‘Some hot soup with toast would be very welcome,’ said Jenny. ‘And what about you, Lucy ‒ will you share it with me, or is it soon to be dinner?’
‘Oh, I couldn’t swallow a morsel,’ Lucy cried. ‘Not a bite have I eaten all day. I am so sick all the time, Jenny ‒ you can’t imagine.’
‘But I thought, my dear, that morning sickness passed off after a month or so?’
‘That’s what I thought, but it’s not true. Oh, having a baby is terrible, you’ve no idea! Had I known ‒!’ She lay back, waving Jenny to a chair. Jenny took it, brought it to the side of the chaise-longue, and sat down while taking Lucy’s hand.
It was true that Lucy was thinner, except for where the child thickened her. She looked miserable, her forget-me-not eyes large in her white face, her pink mouth down-turned. Jenny was filled with pity.
‘Lucy dear, have you seen a doctor?’
‘Oh, that old fool ‒ he just tells me I must bear the suffering as women have always done.’
‘Then find a better doctor, dear ‒ there must be some way of alleviating the sickness?’
‘Not that I can find.’
‘I’m so sorry, Lucy. And you’ve been like this all the time, and with no one to help you ‒’
‘Oh, I wrote first to Mama, and she came over from Edinburgh, but she was no help, she wanted to go out shopping all the time and she quarrelled with Ned ‒’
‘Where is Ned?’ Jenny asked.
‘God knows! He went out at mid-afternoon, when he had cured himself of the shakes enough to shave his chin and comb his hair ‒’
‘Lucy!’
‘He’s been drinking like a fish. I knew he liked a dram, but I had no idea he ‒’
‘But after Father died, Ned gave up the drink almost completely.’
‘Ha!’ cried Lucy. It was a sound of contempt, almost of hatred. ‘We hadn’t been here a week when he began to invite his new friends ‒ long sessions when they talked and talked, and though I didn’t like the smell of tobacco smoke and stale whisky in my sitting-room, all the same I … well, it wasn’t too bad. But they battened on him, you know ‒ sprawling about, smoking his cigars, drinking the decanters dry.’
‘Who are these people?’ Jenny demanded in indignation.
‘Oh, writers they call themselves, poets, journalists.’ Lucy clasped her hands in emotion. ‘I thought they were very clever at first ‒ one of them is a lecturer at the University, you’d think he’d be respectable!’
‘But if you were hostess, Lucy, you ought to have been able to ‒’
‘I told Ned, I told him, “You don’t bring those men here any more if they’re going to drink till they can hardly find the door to go home.” And he … he … he began to go out without me. I couldn’t go, you see, I was often so sick once my condition began and I would have to rush out of the box at the theatre or leave the party ‒’
‘When will he be home?’
‘After the public houses have closed, I imagine ‒ if he comes home at all! He may stay at his club. He was elected member of one of the gentlemen’s clubs, he’s slept there sometimes when he was too drunk to get home. Many’s the night I’ve been left all alone while he’s off who knows where.’
‘Lucy, this all sounds very bad ‒’
‘You don’t know what I’ve suffered! I thought Glasgow would be such fun; so much to do and so many fashionable people ‒ but they avoid us, Ned is so unpredictable.’
‘What church do you attend? Have you asked the minister ‒’
‘Church! Ned insisted the first two or three Sundays ‒ we went to some poky little hall, worse than that one in Galashiels ‒ and then Ned wouldn’t get out of bed one morning and I certainly wasn’t going to go on my own, kneeling on boards, listening to all that thunder about vanity and show ‒ and the preacher staring straight at my new bonnet.’
‘So, in fact you aren’t in touch with a minister ‒’
‘I asked my doctor to speak to Ned, I told him, “My nerves won’t stand it, you must tell him to behave,” but Dr Laggan just said he never interfered between husband and wife.’
Maggie came to say that the snack Jenny had asked for was ready, and where should she serve it. ‘Bring it here, Maggie,’ Jenny began, but Lucy interrupted.
‘No, no, the smell will make me sick. Eat in the dining-room, Jenny. Come back when you’ve finished.’ She lay back on her pillows, closing her eyes. Though there was still an element of drama in it, she did in fact look poorly.
Jenny took the chance to speak to the maid. ‘Does she manage to eat anything, Maggie?’
‘Oh, aye, she takes beef tea wi’ a drop of sherry in it and dry toast and plain biscuit and the like o’ that, and whiles she’ll have a good day and she’ll eat cold meat and a milk pudding. She’s no entirely starving. But, poor leddy, being in the family way is hard to her.’ She shrugged. ‘Her personal maid could tell you more.’
‘Send her to me, please.’
Lucy’s maid was called Fordyce, once again in a very fancy uniform with braid and a lace collar. ‘I do my best,’ she said, in affected tones and with some hauteur, in response to Jenny’s inquiries. ‘I didn’t know when I took the post that Madam would be enceinte so soon. I know nothing about nursing, miss, it’s not my place to say what I think about Mrs Corvill’s health.’
‘Does she sleep well?’
‘Oh, she has a sleeping potion from the doctor, her nights are fair enough except when Mr Corvill causes a disturbance.’
‘Does she get out for fresh air?’
‘Carriage outings on a fine day, but the weather’s been poor lately and she doesn’t like the cold. I haven’t had time to let out her winter gowns. I must say, if I had known, I might not have been so keen to come here, though it’s a good address. I’ve sat sewing until my eyes are ready to drop out.’
‘I’m sure you do your best, Fordyce. Thank you.’
These conversations weren’t very heartening. Maggie was well disposed but uneducated, the personal maid thought of herself as equivalent to a French maid suited to a lady of fashion. There was no use looking to them for help ‒ and besides, it was not their duty to do anything.
Revived by the food, Jenny returned to her sister-in-law. Lucy was glancing through a fashion magazine, but threw it aside at Jenny’s entrance. ‘Did you have enough to eat? Just tell Maggie whatever you want, Cook can do most things. Maggie is a treasure. She gets Ned to bed sometimes.’
‘Lucy!’
‘Well, who else is there? I’ve no men servants, I didn�
��t think I’d need any with only one set of rooms to run and cabs and messengers at the door as soon as you send for them.’ She glanced about, complacency in her gaze. ‘It’s a smart place, don’t you think, Jenny?’
‘Oh, very.’
‘That’s why,’ Lucy said, her voice gathering complaint as she thought of it, ‘I don’t want to be turned out! But the tenants of the other flats are very respectable ‒ Lady Bligh is in the one below, and there’s a High Court judge and his wife above us.’ She paused. ‘We are respectable too, it’s just that Ned … Oh, if he causes us to be thrown out, I’ll never forgive him!’
‘Lucy, it’s more important to get him back on the track again. His health will suffer ‒’
‘Oh, he’s as strong as an ox! Drink all night, sleep all morning, out again to see a boxing match or a play in the evening and drink all night again.’
‘It’s dreadful! I can’t think how you could let him ‒’
‘Let him? I have no control over him! Why do you think I sent for you? You’re the only one he ever listens to in the family! You must make him behave, Jenny. I can’t have my reputation as a hostess ruined for ever just because while I’m in a delicate state I can’t keep my husband within bounds.’
‘But your reputation as a hostess isn’t the point ‒’
‘It is to me!’ Lucy exclaimed. ‘I didn’t come to Glasgow to be trapped with a baby coming and a drunken husband! I came to take a place in society.’
Seeing that it was no use discussing it at the moment and that her sister-in-law was upsetting herself, Jenny let the matter drop. Instead she inquired about the baby. Lucy had felt movements from the child, who was now four months on the way. Dr Laggan told her this meant the baby was doing well despite her bouts of sickness.
They chatted about this and innocuous matters until bedtime. Jenny’s brother still hadn’t appeared. Lucy took the sedative draught prescribed for her by her doctor and went to bed.
‘I shouldn’t stay up for Ned,’ she told Jenny with some self-righteousness. ‘It may be two or three o’clock before he gets in.’
Jenny stayed up till midnight but there was no sign of him. Maggie, yawning, came in from time to time to look after the fire or to ask if Jenny needed anything. In pity she told the woman to go to bed, and did the same herself.
Somewhere in the early hours she heard stumbling movements outside in the passage. There was a thud as someone fell against her closed door. Then mumbled words, continuing footsteps. A door opened and closed at the end of the corridor.
Presumably Ned had come home and was putting himself to bed.
Jenny rose early. She got herself a makeshift breakfast, then went out for a walk. Glasgow was still only half-awake around her. She found the Exchange, and the great clumsy cathedral looming over the ravine on the other side of which she could see the Necropolis in the mist of early morning. She walked home by way of George Street and the Andersonian building. People were about now, in the pale light from the still-glowing streetlamps. She could see why Lucy wanted to live in Glasgow. The city was rich, full of activity, there were bills advertising theatres and music halls, shop windows with fine goods …
Lucy was up when Jenny came in, but in another peignoir.
‘It’s going to be a fine day,’ Jenny said. ‘Would you like to go out after breakfast?’
‘Breakfast! Don’t speak to me of breakfast! I’ve been so sick!’
‘I’m sorry, dear. I’ve been told that if you sip hot water or eat an apple ‒’
‘What nonsense! What could you possibly know about it?’
Jenny held her tongue. She found that a proper breakfast had been prepared for her so she sat down again in the dining-room, ate porridge and drank tea. Afterwards she passed the time starting a letter to her mother, although she felt she couldn’t say much until she had seen and spoken to Ned.
Ned got up about eleven o’clock. He could be heard moving about, going into the bathroom, groaning to himself. He rang the bell for the maid, who took him some kind of restorative drink. At close to midday he came into the sitting-room.
‘Well, Jenny,’ he said, ‘Maggie told me you’d arrived. Lucy sent for you, I suppose?’
He looked terrible. His skin had a pallor like clay. His eyes were sunken and bleary. Even his hair was lank and dull. His hands trembled as he took out a cigar and attempted to light it with an appearance of nonchalance.
‘Ned, what have you been doing to yourself?’ Jenny said in dismay.
‘Sister dear, don’t preach at me. I didn’t ask you to come. In fact, I wish you hadn’t … You … you … Don’t look at me like that!’
To her horror, he began to cry; deep, racking sobs that shook his body. The unlit cigar tumbled to the floor, the matches were scattered on the carpet. Jenny leapt up and ran to him. She knelt, she put her arms around him.
‘Jenny,’ he wept, ‘Jenny … why is life so awful? Oh, I can’t bear it …’
She hushed him and rocked him. After a little he seemed to grow quieter. She raised her head to look at him. He was staring at a corner of the room with a fixed, terrified gaze.
‘What is it, Ned? What’s the matter?’
‘It’s here again! It’s here ‒ I told Maggie to dust it down. It’s here ‒ Oh, God, don’t let it come near me!’
‘What, Ned? What?’ She was looking about, trying to fix her eye on what he saw. All she could perceive was a corner of the ceiling-moulding, ornate, with roses and acanthus leaves.
‘Coming out of the leaves ‒ it shouldn’t be there ‒ No, no, I can’t ‒ don’t!’ He hid his face against his sister’s shoulder. He was trembling so violently she could hardly hold him.
‘But I don’t see anything, Ned ‒’
He threw himself on the floor, hunched over, covering his head with his folded arms. He rocked to and fro. ‘A spider! A spider! It’s too big to squash, I’ve tried, and there are more if you squash one, they come out of the ceilings ‒ oh, God help me, they glare at me, don’t let them see me, hide me, Jenny!’
She tried to make him rise, to get him to a chair. Maggie came running in, frightened by the noise. ‘Shall I get him a dram, miss? That sometimes quiets him.’
‘No ‒ no more drink,’ Jenny cried, trying to soothe her frantic brother.
But it was no use. Nothing she could say had any effect. He thrashed about on the floor, hitting himself against the legs of the furniture, gashing his head on the edge of the fender.
‘Call a doctor, Maggie,’ she gasped. ‘This is beyond anything I can manage.’
She was still struggling with him when the door opened again and Lucy appeared on the threshold. She was pale and scared. She drew her lace dressing-gown about her as if to preserve herself from some infection.
‘You see?’ she wailed. ‘I told you! He’s impossible to handle.’
Jenny tried to still the awful wails that were coming from her brother’s gaping mouth. She was terribly afraid. It seemed he had gone mad.
Chapter Sixteen
Maggie returned breathless, with the news that Dr Laggan was engaged with a patient but would come as soon as he was free. For the moment Ned was relatively quiet. He simply huddled on the floor, shuddering with terror at who knew what. Jenny had a cut lip from one of his flailing hands.
Lucy had retreated to her boudoir. Fordyce came to say that she was faint and sick. ‘And no wonder,’ she said, with a stare of disapproval at Jenny and her brother.
The bell from downstairs rang. Maggie rushed to let in the doctor, who came hurrying up the staircase with his bag clutched to his chest.
‘What’s amiss?’ he demanded as he came in. ‘The maid said Mr Corvill ‒ she meant Mrs Corvill ‒?’ He broke off on the question, seeing his patient in Jenny’s arms.
‘My God! What’s been going on here? It looks like a battlefield!’
‘My brother has had some sort of fit,’ Jenny explained.
Ned looked up. ‘Who’re you?’ he asked in a fr
ightened voice, peering at Dr Laggan. ‘Can you make the spiders go away?’
‘What spiders?’
‘There, man, there!’ Ned swept out an arm to point to the corner of the ceiling. ‘You can’t miss them ‒ they’re so big, and they have dark red heads.’
Lucy came to the door, having heard the doctor arrive. ‘He’s mad,’ she said. ‘That’s all it is, he’s mad. He keeps seeing things that aren’t there.’
‘Help me get him in a chair,’ the doctor said. With the aid of Jenny and the maid, Ned was hefted up. He threshed out in protest.
‘Don’t, I’m safer on the floor, they can’t get at me there.’
‘You say he keeps seeing things, Mrs Corvill?’ the doctor asked.
‘It’s happened once before.’
‘When was this?’
‘Two days ago.’
‘Lucy,’ Ned said, looking at her where she stood in the safety of the doorway. ‘Lucy, make them dust the room properly. I want the spiders cleared away.’
‘There are no spiders, Ned,’ Jenny soothed. ‘Truly, there’s nothing there.’
‘There are, there are! Why do you pretend you can’t see them?’
Dr Laggan bent. With difficulty, as Ned shrank back from him, he looked in his eyes and tried to take his pulse.
‘Hm. Does he drink much?’
‘Like a fish,’ Lucy said.
‘I see.’
‘But he’s not drunk now, he’s had nothing this morning except some eggnog,’ Maggie put in.
‘You may go now,’ Jenny said to her. ‘Thank you for your help, Maggie.’
‘Should I no stay, miss? In case he gets violent again?’
‘You can go,’ the doctor said. When she had left he beckoned Lucy into the room, then closed the door. ‘I’m afraid, Mrs Corvill,’ he said, ‘that your husband has had an attack of alcoholic dementia.’
She drew back. ‘You mean he really is mad?’
‘No, my dear, not in that sense. He has been poisoned by a long association with alcohol ‒ I take it he has been drinking for a long time?’
A Web of Dreams Page 24