The Lost Garden (The Purchas Family Series Book 5)

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  ‘He saved my life.’ Caroline was surprised how much she disliked the idea of Giles discussing her affairs with her mother. She picked up a sheaf of paper from the table beside her and changed the subject. ‘I have got halfway through copying out Nelson’s elegy by the Spirit of History. But the Duchess reminded me the other day that at the beginning of the poem, Mr Tremadoc used the Spirits of Good and Evil for his chorus. He must have forgotten in the heat of composition. I think we should change it. It means correcting the last few pages I gave you, I am afraid.’

  ‘Expensive.’ His brow darkened. ‘And hardly necessary. We’ll leave it, I think.’

  ‘No, Giles, we will change it, if you please.’ And then, seeing him look mulish. ‘I am sure I do not need to remind you that you undertook, in the agreement we signed, to make any changes I thought absolutely necessary. This is such a one.’

  ‘Have a little sense, Carrie, do! I am publisher and printer of this poem, you merely the copyist. I must be judge of what is important. Spirit of Good, Spirit of History, it is all one.’

  ‘If you felt like that,’ she said, ‘you should not have let me put that proviso into our agreement. I am afraid that I must insist. There are another ten or fifteen pages, I think, to be copied. I shall not start until I know the change has been made.’

  He rose to his feet with a forced laugh. ‘Determined little puss, ain’t you? Very well then, I’ll make the change just as soon as the holiday is over. The expense will come out of your share of the profits, of course, not that it makes much difference.’

  ‘If you wish.’ She felt suddenly tired. Did any of it matter?

  She had been right in sensing a change for the worse in Mrs Tremadoc’s condition. Next day the old lady was visibly weaker, and the doctor arriving at last late in the morning, took one look at her and shook his head. ‘Not long now.’

  ‘Is there any chance that she may regain consciousness before she dies?’

  ‘It’s possible, I suppose. In a case like this, anything can happen. But if you are thinking of alterations to her will, Mrs Tremadoc, there is no need to be troubling yourself. Neither I nor the lawyer would consider her in a fit state.’

  ‘That was not at all what I had in mind.’ She was glad to see him go. He and Mr James must have put their heads together and decided she was looking after Mrs Tremadoc merely to ensure she made no change in her will. Disgusting. But it made up her mind for her. She must stay by Mrs Tremadoc in case she should come to herself and say what she wanted done with her property. A will might not be valid, but no one could stop her from making the appropriate arrangements after the old lady’s death.

  She wrote a quick note of explanation and apology to the Duchess and went up to relieve Mrs Jones in the sickroom.

  ‘Not long now, I fancy.’ Mrs Jones echoed the doctor. ‘She’s been restless for a while, almost as if she were coming back. It does happen, sometimes. You ring at once, dearie, if you want me. Promise.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She had brought her notes for the last canto and sat down to work by candlelight in the shuttered room. On the bed the old lady breathed heavily, her head moving restlessly on the pillow. Caroline had never seen death, but now felt it very near. Suddenly, she knew what the Spirit of History should say about Nelson’s death. ‘Death be not proud.’ It was a quotation, she knew, but it gave her the theme she needed. She wrote away hard for a timeless while, then stopped, aware of a change in the room.

  ‘Bitch,’ said Mrs Tremadoc.

  ‘You’re awake!’ Caroline picked up the candle and moved over to the bed. ‘Mrs Tremadoc, can you hear me?’

  ‘Murderess,’ she said. ‘My son. Me. My grandchild.’

  ‘There was no grandchild, Mrs Tremadoc.’

  ‘Liar! You’re not killing me either, I suppose.’ She spoke with increasing difficulty. ‘Brandy, give me some brandy!’

  ‘Here.’ Caroline poured a liberal glass and managed to help the old lady take a little.

  ‘Not poisoned?’ she said. ‘Done my business already, ain’t you? But, murderess or no, you’re not to let that nephew of mine touch a penny. I’d rather you had it than he. For the child!’

  ‘There is no child, Mrs Tremadoc.’

  ‘There will be. Geraint. Little Geraint. So beautiful. So good. And you killed him! Bitch. Lying, scheming, murdering bitch!’

  Caroline’s hand went out to the bell pull. Stopped. Let Mrs Jones hear the old woman’s malignant ramblings? Much better not, for everyone’s sake. She gave her a little more brandy and sat down by the bed to listen to a stream of increasingly foul language. Mrs Tremadoc was back in the far past now, a slum child growing up in the sordid back streets of Manchester. Hatred was her theme, and a longing to escape. She seemed to have hated everyone, but her brother most of all. Over and over again, she came back to him and his son. ‘Not a penny; he’s not to touch a penny. All for the child. All for Geraint. My little Geraint. You’ll see to it! You! Caroline! Bitch, you. You’ll see to it.’ The words were slurring now, the eyes blinking shut.

  Caroline turned at a scratching on the door. ‘Come in, Mrs Jones.’

  ‘Mr Comfrey’s below, ma’am. Come to fetch you to Chevenham House, he says. Oh, dear God, look!’

  There was no mistaking it. This was death.

  So much to do. So much to arrange. So much to think of. She had refused to see Giles, who wanted to do everything for her. Mr James would arrange the funeral. She saw him next day.

  ‘Mrs Tremadoc came to herself for a few moments before she died,’ she told him. ‘She talked about her money. And her nephew. I don’t quite know what to do. She doesn’t want him to touch a penny.’

  ‘Good,’ said the lawyer. ‘Just as I hoped. So you inherit, as is entirely right and proper.’

  ‘Not what she wanted. She thought there was a child…was to be a child. A new Geraint.’ She felt her colour rise. ‘There is not, of course.’

  ‘Pity. What did she say precisely?’

  ‘“All for Geraint. For little Geraint.”’ She felt her colour higher than ever. ‘And other things.’

  ‘Best forgotten? I’ve had the rough side of her tongue, too, Mrs Tremadoc. No need to tell me. In fact much better not. As I see it, your position as heiress is unassailable, but if it makes you feel happier about it, you could always consider it as a trust for your first child. Call him Geraint.’

  ‘But I have no intention of marrying.’

  He rose to his feet. ‘Life is full of surprises, Mrs Tremadoc. Now you should rest. Leave all to me.’

  ‘Thank you.’ If she had thought herself tired before, what was she now?

  And the poem still not finished. Tremadoc’s memorial. That was far more important than the pittance his mother had left. A whisper of remembered puzzlement ruffled the surface of her mind. ‘Your position as heiress,’ the lawyer had said. A grand lawyer’s word for what was left of Mrs Tremadoc’s jointure. It was only because her business was with words that it had struck her. She rang for working candles and got a scolding from Mrs Jones instead.

  ‘You should be resting, not working,’ she concluded.

  ‘Dear Mrs Jones, I must finish this. Only a little more now. When I have done, I shall be able to rest. Please, Mrs Jones? I’ll feel better when it is done. Just leave me alone?’

  It was very quiet in the house. Upstairs, Mrs Tremadoc lay still in her big bed. Outside, the watchman called the hour, ‘and a fine night’. Caroline’s hand was stiff when she put down the pen at last. It would do. She thought it would do. Her eyes were blurring strangely. She picked up the pen again to write ‘Finis’ at the bottom of the page. Finish? Her hand seemed to be shaking. She put it to her head. Murderess, the old woman had called her. True? She had often thought so herself.

  So tired. She reached out for the bell pull; could not find it; felt the world go black.

  ‘A proper fright.’ Mrs Jones’ voice. ‘Lying there by the hearth. Dead as a doornail we thought her at first. She would finis
h copying that poem, sir, there was no way we could stop her.’

  ‘A very determined young lady.’ The doctor’s voice now. His hand on her wrist. ‘No fault of yours, Mrs Jones. Just exhaustion, I think, and no wonder. Best let her sleep it off.’

  ‘I’m awake.’ An effort to open her eyes, but she made it.

  ‘Good. You gave poor Mrs Jones the fright of her life, Mrs Tremadoc. Now you will do exactly as I tell you. Rest, and nourishing food, and no disturbances whatsoever. No visitors, Mrs Jones, until I give the word.’

  ‘But my…but the poem. What happened to it? I had just finished. I remember writing “finis”.’

  ‘And nearly finished yourself falling into the fire,’ said Mrs Jones. ‘But don’t you go worriting, love. I gave what you’d written to Mr Comfrey when he came next day.’

  ‘Next day? How long?’

  ‘Only two days,’ said the doctor. ‘And I’m sure you needed it. When you have had something to eat you will find yourself the better for the rest. But absolute quiet, Mrs Jones. No word from the outside world. I’ll not have her troubling herself with that poem of her husband’s or anything else for the matter of that. I’ll come again tomorrow.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Caroline was drifting off to sleep again.

  She was waked by Mrs Jones with a cup of hot broth, and lay listlessly letting the housekeeper feed it to her a spoonful at a time.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said at last. ‘I could sleep for ever. But, Mrs Jones, the funeral?’

  ‘Don’t fret, love,’ said Mrs Jones. ‘Everything’s taken care of.’

  She slept and waked, and ate what was given her, and slept again. The doctor’s visits gave her a framework of days, but she let them drift past, uncounted.

  His tone was beginning to change. Instead of ‘Absolute rest,’ he now urged, ‘A little effort, Mrs Tremadoc.’

  ‘Why?’ She fell asleep again.

  ‘Don’t let him fret you.’ Mrs Jones was feeding her savoury mince. ‘I reckon you need all the rest you can get.’

  ‘Must make an effort.’ The doctor’s voice was impatient. ‘Mr Comfrey is anxious to see you. I told him you would be up and about any day now. You wouldn’t want to make a liar of me, Mrs Tremadoc.’

  ‘No?’ Talking was too hard work.

  Mrs Jones, looking anxious. ‘That Mr Comfrey has called again. He’s very urgent to see you. Do you think, just for a moment?’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘He is very pressing, very pressing indeed. Says he feels responsible. Remember he’s your brother, he says. And surely you want to hear the news about the poem?’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ Strange that it seemed so unimportant.

  ‘It’s a great success, you know. Everyone’s talking about it.’

  ‘It’s out?’

  ‘Lord, yes. It came out the day of Lord Nelson’s funeral. More than a week ago. It’s been a long time, Mrs Tremadoc. We’re all worried. If you could just make the effort?’

  ‘Oh, very well.’ What did anything matter? ‘If you’d get me a wrap, and my hairbrush…’

  ‘I’ll do it for you.’ Mrs Jones was shocked at Caroline’s lack of interest in her appearance. ‘You don’t even want to see the hand glass?’ she asked at last.

  ‘For a brother? You may bring him up, Mrs Jones, and you will stay, of course.’

  ‘Very good, ma’am.’

  Giles, too, looked anxious. ‘We’ve all been fretted to death about you, Carrie. It’s not like you to give way. And it’s deuced inconvenient, too. The last canto’s hailed as the cream of all. You’re the talk of the town, Carrie. The world wants to meet the poet’s widow.’

  ‘Even though I am still in full mourning for him?’

  ‘There is a time and a fitness for all things, and this is the time when we should be pushing The Downfall of Bonaparte for all it is worth. Everyone wants to know about that amazing husband of yours, and who better to tell about him than you? I have promised several people that you will see them.’

  ‘Without my permission?’

  ‘Well, Carrie, you were hardly in a state to give it, were you?’ He had been looking her over with a considering eye. ‘You are pale, and no wonder, lying here doing nothing all day. The doctor says there is nothing wrong with you that fresh air and exercise will not cure. I will come again tomorrow with my curricle and take you for a turn in the Park.’

  ‘I’m too tired…’ But was it more effort to resist than to give in to his friendly bullying?

  ‘Nonsense. I’m surprised at you. What has become of your sense of duty? If you will not pull yourself together for my sake, and the poem’s, perhaps you will for your mother.’

  ‘My mother?’

  ‘The Duchess is very ill. Dying, Sir Walter Farquahar thinks. Mrs Winterton badly needs your support at Chevenham House. Imagine what her position will be if the Duchess should actually die, though I personally think it merely another of her bouts of nervous illness.’

  ‘The Duchess? Dying? Why didn’t you tell me? I must go to her. Will you wait downstairs and drive me there?’

  ‘At once? Today? Now you are being over-hasty.’

  ‘Sir Walter knows the Duchess’ constitution. If he says she is dying…Mrs Jones, will you order the carriage and then come back and help me dress? On second thoughts, it is too cold for your curricle, Giles. I’ll not trouble you.’

  ‘No trouble.’ But he sounded relieved, and she thought he must have another engagement. ‘It is true, you will be better in the carriage for your first outing. I am delighted to see you pulling yourself together at last. I knew you could do it once you decided to try. I will call again tomorrow to arrange when you can see my friends from the press.’

  ‘The press?’

  ‘Well, of course. Who else would want to know about Tremadoc?’

  Her eighteen-inch waist had shrunk to nearer sixteen and Mrs Jones had to pull her dress together with a black ribbon. Dressing was harder work than she had expected and she had to sit down for a few moments after she had finished, the world suddenly remote, as if she were viewing it through heavy glass.

  ‘A little of the master’s cordial, perhaps?’ suggested Mrs Jones, anxious at her suddenly increased pallor.

  ‘No!’ She put her hand to her whirling head. ‘But…something? A glass of port, I think.’

  The sweet wine was comforting, but she still needed Mrs Jones’ supporting arm on the stairs, and was glad to yield to her urging that she come too.

  The cold winter air had its inevitable tang of London fog but breathing it steadied the world around her. She felt it become just slightly more real in the course of the short drive across the Park to Chevenham House. There was straw in the street outside, muffling sound.

  ‘She is dying.’ Caroline leaned heavily on Mrs Jones’ arm as they climbed the shelving steps. ‘I do pray I’m not too late.’

  The big house was in a state of quiet, desperate bustle. They had to wait for a moment for the groom of the chambers and Caroline saw that here and there a servant’s face showed signs of tears. ‘Everybody loves the Duchess,’ she told Mrs Jones, who was looking about her with awe at the huge house and its ranks of footmen.

  ‘Mrs Tremadoc!’ The groom of the chambers was an old friend. ‘I am glad you are come. Her Grace has been asking for you. If you will go up to the private apartments and wait in the small saloon, I will let her attendants know that you are here.’

  She should have expected to find Blakeney and Charlotte in the small saloon.

  ‘Charlotte…Blakeney…’ She had not met Blakeney since that disastrous day in Richmond Park. ‘I am so sorry.’

  Blakeney was in uniform, looked older, looked wretched, but that was no wonder.

  Charlotte, offering a cold cheek to be kissed, said she was glad Caroline had come at last. ‘Mamma has been asking for you ever since she got ill. She can’t understand why you do not read to her as you used to.’

  ‘I am so sorry,’ Caroline said again.

>   ‘I can see you’ve been ill.’ Blakeney had taken her hand. How strange to feel nothing when he did so. It was not his hand now that made her tremble. ‘You have had a hard time of it, I am afraid.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She looked up eagerly as the door opened and the Duchess’ maid looked in.

  ‘Miss Caroline, she will see you now. Be prepared for a shock, and not to show it. It’s not long now, I’m afraid, my lord.’

  ‘Thank God for that,’ said Blakeney.

  Caroline understood why when she saw the Duchess. Worn out with pain, she lay inert in Frances Winterton’s arms, only her eyes alive. But they lit up at sight of her.

  ‘Dear child, you are come at last!’ Caroline just made out the words as she bent to kiss the Duchess’ raddled cheek and smell the too familiar smell of death. ‘God bless you,’ managed the Duchess. ‘Read to me? Read your husband’s poem!’

  ‘Should I?’ Caroline looked the question at her mother.

  ‘Why not?’ Frances Winterton handed her the volume and she opened it with a little shock of surprise. It was the first time she had seen the complete poem. Giles had been as good as his word and had a set bound up for her mother. She opened at the last canto and began to read, forgetting everything else in the effort to make the best of her poem for this good friend.

  And slowly, slowly ebbed his life away

  Lord Nelson’s life on that victorious day.

  She paused at the end of the stanza about Nelson’s death and looked a question at her mother.

  ‘It’s good.’ The Duchess’ voice was a mere thread now. ‘My clever little Caroline. Bless you, child.’ The red-rimmed eyes fell shut and Frances Winterton rose and silently led Caroline out of the room.

  ‘You’ll come to me when it is all over,’ she said. ‘You must, Caroline. Charlotte means to leave me, I know it. I cannot remain here alone with the Duke. It’s what the Duchess would wish.’