by Amy Cross
With that, I step back and watch with a growing sense of shock as the two men begin to maneuver the bed out of the ambulance. There is no doubt now, no possible room for error.
His Lordship, Lord Matthew Fetchford of Garlingham House and Aldburn Park, has arrived early.
Chapter Sixteen
His Lordship's Arrival
“Wait just there,” I say a few minutes later, trying to hide the fact that I am flustered as I hurry into the hallway. “I must think of the best way to get His Lordship upstairs.”
“Upstairs?” one of the men, a most disagreeable fellow by the name of Bamford, says. “You won't be getting him upstairs in this thing, I'm afraid.”
I turn to him, and then I look at His Lordship.
“I mean, come on, be serious,” the man continues. “Those stairs are just impossible.”
Pale and sickly-looking, even more so than when last I saw him in London a few days ago, His Lordship has been sedated for the journey here to Aldburn Park. Evidently Doctor Farrier felt that this was the best condition in which his patient could be transported, although I cannot help but feel that the whole endeavor seems to have been carried out with a rare lack of interest in His Lordship's dignity. At the same time, I confess that I do not see how he can possibly be carried upstairs in his present condition.
“His room is almost ready,” I stammer. “I have been working to make it acceptable and -”
“There must be somewhere he can stay down here,” this Bamford fellow says, interrupting me. “Let me assure you, Sir, that getting him upstairs wouldn't do any good to anyone. He's in no fit state.”
“All the bedrooms are on the upper floor,” I point out.
“That's as may be, but he's not getting up there.”
“You shall simply have to find a way,” I tell him.
“Up there?” He looks past me, toward the stairs. “The bed won't even make the turn.”
“I'm sorry, but this is your job,” I say, struggling to hide my growing sense of irritation. “I am sure that Doctor Farrier told you about His Lordship's needs.”
“He did.”
“And that includes getting proper rest in his own bed,” I continue. “It is simply preposterous that you could come all the way here and then claim that the final part of the journey cannot be completed. Where exactly do you expect a man of His Lordship's caliber to sleep?”
“I'll make him comfortable in his study,” Mrs. Ferguson says, and I turn to see her standing in the doorway, holding some sheets. “It's the best option, Mr. Lawrence,” she continues. “We've cleaned the room already, the fire is going, and he'll be close to his books.”
“His study is a room for work,” I point out, “not -”
“And there's really no other option,” she adds.
I open my mouth to tell her that the idea is impossible to countenance.
“It's what he himself suggested,” Bamford says suddenly.
I turn to him.
“Before the doctor put him under,” he continues, “Lord Fetchford said he'd be fine resting in one of the downstairs rooms. If you don't believe me, you can call Doctor Farrier yourself.”
“I -”
I stop suddenly, as I begin to realize that – although this situation is utterly intolerable – there is some merit to the idea that His Lordship might at least rest in his study to begin with. Later, once he is up and about, he can climb the stairs himself.
“Come through,” Mrs. Ferguson says, stepping aside. “I've moved some of the furniture already, to make it easier. There's a space next to the desk where he can rest.”
“This matter will be reported to your superiors,” I tell the two wretches as they wheel His Lordship past me. “Your dereliction of duty will not go unpunished.”
Bamford mutters something under his breath, but I do not manage to make out the words.
“What was that?” I ask, hurrying after him as he and his associate wheel His Lordship into the study. “You said something and I want to know what.”
“Just let them work,” Mrs. Ferguson says, stepping into my path. “Please, Mr. Lawrence.”
“Why did nobody telephone me about this?” I ask.
“I don't know.”
“Were you aware that His Lordship might come early?”
“No.”
“Was there any talk whatsoever of such a possibility?”
“Not that I was aware of.”
“The journey has obviously taken a toll on him,” I point out. “He should never have been moved without a doctor being present.”
“With all due respect, Mr. Lawrence,” she replies, lowering her voice so as not to be overheard, “I must say that I did caution against him traveling. He was already so dreadfully weak when I departed London yesterday, and it is clear that he has deteriorated still further.” She pauses for a moment, and there are once again tears in her eyes. “But he is here now, and that is a fact, and we must get on with things. I assure you, I can make him perfectly comfortable here in his study. Indeed, it had already occurred to me that this might be the best arrangement.”
“But -”
“Please, Mr. Lawrence, just think of His Lordship's needs. He cannot make the journey up to his bedroom. It might be the straw that breaks the camel's back.”
I want to tell her that she's wrong, but then I watch for a moment as the two ambulance men work to secure His Lordship's bed near the desk. This idea still seems rather foolish, but I am slowly beginning to realize that perhaps it can be made to work after all. Besides, His Lordship will undoubtedly rally once the sedative has worn off, and I am confident that by evening he shall be able to make his way upstairs. Indeed, I am sure that this evening he will be back to his old self, and I very much look forward to his conversation.
“Can you fetch some more wood?” Mrs. Ferguson asks after a moment. “It's a little chilly in here.”
I nod.
“And I'll make some lunch for us.”
“I am not hungry.”
“We must keep our strength up while we wait for His Lordship to wake up,” she points out, not unreasonably. “Please, Mr. Lawrence, it's for the best.”
I pause, and then I nod again. She is, I suppose, correct again.
“I shall go up and fetch some more items from his master's bedroom,” she says, turning and hurrying away. “I shall be back down presently.”
As she heads up the stairs, I feel a momentary sense of helplessness. I had everything worked out, I had a plan and a structure, and now it has all been blown apart. I cannot understand why nobody in London thought to contact me ahead of time and let me know that His Lordship's plans had changed, but I shall have some very severe words for the individuals involved once we return to Mayfair. It is probably for the best that they are not here right now, for in my anger I might well end up saying something I would later regret.
“We're all done,” Bamford says, as he and his colleague come over to join me by the door. “Sorry for turning up unannounced like that. We didn't realize you hadn't been warned.”
“This whole shambles is disgraceful,” I reply, through gritted teeth. “I'll make sure your jobs are forfeit for this abominable level of service.”
He stares at me for a moment, as if he doesn't quite understand why I am so angry, and then he mutters to his accomplice and the pair of them begin to slink off toward the front door.
“I haven't finished with you!” I say firmly, hurrying after them. “Do you think you can just walk away like this? Do you not have any shred of self-worth? Are you content merely to do a terrible job and then go home?” Bamford stops at the ambulance and turns to me, but he seems distinctly unimpressed. “Do you have any idea,” I continue, “that today you were transporting one of the most distinguished gentlemen in the whole of England? An aristocrat? A friend of the royal family? A man who is widely regarded as one of the leading figures in the development of the modern English nation?”
Bamford stares at me for a
moment, before shrugging and climbing into the ambulance.
Utterly speechless, I simply have no idea what to say, and then the ambulance's engine starts and I realize I have lost my chance. The two ignorant fools drive away, and I am left at the top of the steps with the shocking realization that evidently some in this country are losing sight of what makes England great. It is my profound hope that this is an isolated instance, and that such stupidity will not spread throughout our society. For what then?
Turning, I step back into the hallway. I take a moment to regather my thoughts, and then I walk briskly to the study, only to find that Mrs. Ferguson has returned and is gently propping a fresh pillow beneath His Lordship's head.
His Lordship, meanwhile, remains sedated, and his mouth is hanging open in a rather unfortunate manner.
“The pillow he had was so thin,” Mrs. Ferguson says, keeping her voice low as she gets to her feet. “There. I think it will be several hours before he begins to stir.” She looks down at His Lordship for a moment, and it is evident that she cares a great deal for his comfort. “To think,” she continues, “of the strong man he once was. At only fifty years of age, he looks so -”
“Not here,” I say, stepping over and gesturing for her to leave. “He might be able to hear.”
“He's out cold.”
“Not here, Mrs. Ferguson. We must tend to His Lordship's needs, and that is all.”
“You are right, Mr. Lawrence,” she replies. “I shall go to the kitchen. Please, come shortly and I shall have something for you. A sandwich.”
“Thank you,” I say as she turns and hurries away, and then I look down once again at His Lordship.
Mrs. Ferguson was not wrong when she noted the rapid deterioration that my master has suffered. This time one year ago, he was a strong and vibrant man who, though almost fifty years old, looked ten years younger. Now, thanks to his illness, he is so desperately thin, and his skin is a pale whitish-yellow color. His hair, once thick and proud, is now terribly thin, and there is a hollow, haunting quality to his cheeks. Even now, as I observe him, I feel that he looks almost like a corpse, and I confess that I have to look at his chest and wait to see him breathe before I am confident that he is still alive.
His face twitches slightly, and his lips almost part. For a few seconds I wonder whether he is beginning to wake, but then he once again falls still.
“It's okay, Your Lordship,” I say out loud, hoping that perhaps he can hear me. “If there is anything you need, anything at all, you must not hesitate to let me know.”
I wait.
He does not wake.
“I have made sure that everything is as you would wish it to be,” I continue. “I did not open up the entire house, since there was not enough time, but I believe that you shall be pleased once you are back up on your feet.”
Again, I wait.
Again, he says nothing.
I pause for a few seconds, and then I clear my throat.
No reply.
Finally, realizing that perhaps I should let him sleep a while longer, I turn and head to the door. I cannot help but glance back, however, and I watch His Lordship for a few more seconds. He is sedated now, but soon he will most certainly be up and about, and I look forward very much to the sight of him once more walking the halls of this magnificent house. Even if it is only for a short time, I shall feel that all is right with the world again.
There is still time.
Chapter Seventeen
The Fear of Death
Rain is hitting the window as I stand and stare out at the summer house. This morning there was bright sunshine all around; now bad weather has turned the sky gray, and I can see the first signs of night beginning to fall.
“His Lordship is awake.”
Startled, I turn and see that Mrs. Ferguson is standing in the doorway, watching me.
“He asked for you,” she continues.
I pause, before nodding and making my way toward her. As I try to go past, however, she puts a hand on my arm.
“He's not quite... right in the head,” she says cautiously. “I'm sorry, I thought I should warn you.”
“I'm sure His Lordship is more than -”
“It's the illness,” she adds, interrupting me. “Just be prepared. That's all I'm saying.”
I pause again, before starting to check my uniform for any creases or stains. As I do so, Mrs. Ferguson lets go of my arm, but she remains in the doorway. I half-expect her to say something, but she stays quiet and finally – with nothing to say myself – I realize that I should hurry through and speak to His Lordship.
“Mmm,” I say, and then I turn to leave.
***
“It's just how I remember it,” His Lordship says, sounding a little breathless as he eases himself up and looks across the study. His eyes are wide open, as if he's keen to see it all. “Was there much work to do, Lawrence?”
“Very little,” I reply, standing nearby with my hands behind my back, as is the custom.
“I know you,” he says with a faint, though slightly awkward smile. “I bet you've been hard at work over the past few weeks.”
“Weeks, Sir?”
“Since you came here.”
“Well, I...”
My voice trails off for a moment. I do not wish to contradict His Lordship.
“The two other wings of the house, I chose to keep locked,” I explain, “though I can open them if you would like to see them.”
“No, that's fine,” he replies, “I'm not -”
Suddenly he starts coughing. He leans forward and puts his hands to his mouth, and his whole body starts shaking as he splutters.
“Allow me,” I say, taking a handkerchief from my pocket and holding it out for him. “I can -”
Before I'm able to finish, I see that there are spots of blood breaking through between his fingers and hitting the white sheets of his bed. For a moment, I am not quite sure what to do, but then His Lordship falls silent. He keeps his hands against his face, however, and then he starts trying to wipe the blood away. Then, glancing at me, he looks a little guilty for a few seconds.
“Sorry, Lawrence,” he says, sounding even more breathless than before. “You shouldn't have had to see that.”
“No, I'm sorry, Sir,” I reply, worried that my presence might have embarrassed His Lordship.
I should have been more thoughtful. I should have turned away.
“How is it?” he continues, clearly struggling a little with his words. “Being back here, I mean. Have you... have you...”
He looks past me for a moment, toward the door.
“Have you...”
I wait.
He now seems lost in thought.
“Have I what, Sir?” I ask finally.
“Were you alone?”
“For a time,” I reply. “Then Mrs. Ferguson joined me.”
“And did either of you...”
He hesitates, before turning to look at me again.
“Forgive me, Lawrence,” he continues after a few seconds, “but I must ask. Since you arrived, did either of you... see...”
He pauses, and then he swallows hard.
“Or hear...”
I wait.
“Anything?” he adds finally.
“Oh yes, Sir,” I reply with a calm, hopefully comforting nod. “A great deal.”
“Such as?”
“I have been into all the rooms in the main part of the house,” I explain, “and I have seen that everything is in order. I have seen that the grandeur of the house is absolutely intact, and I have seen that there is no -”
“But have you seen her?” he asks suddenly, cutting me off.
“I beg your pardon, Sir?”
He stares at me for a moment with the most frightful expression on his face.
“I'm dying, Lawrence,” he says finally. “Don't even start to tell me it's not true, because I know it is. I've had a good innings, and I've already lasted longer than Farrier and all
those other quacks predicted. But I can feel it now, Lawrence. It's the strangest sensation, but I can feel my body starting to prepare for death. It was my lungs first, then I suppose all my inner bits and bobs like my bowels and... Well, there's no need to go into detail, is there? But then, the strangest thing was that suddenly the fear left me. Quite suddenly, like somebody had flicked a switch.”
I wait for him to continue, but he seems lost in his own mind. I do not know how I could even begin to interrupt him.
“The fear of death, anyway,” he continues after a rather long pause. “There's another fear, though, Lawrence. I'm not exactly an old man, but I'm not young either, and I've built up more than my fair share of guilt. I've done things I shouldn't have done, Lawrence, and for a while I thought I'd got away with them. I don't want that on my conscience at the end, though. I want to submit myself to... what I deserve. That's why...”
He looks up toward the ceiling, then over toward the window.
“Have you been out to the summer house?” he asks.
“I have, Sir.”
“And what did you see?”
“I saw the summer house, Sir,” I reply, rather matter-of-factly. “I went inside, briefly, to fetch something for Mrs. Ferguson.”
“And nothing happened while you were out there?”
I pause, trying to work out exactly what he means.
“I need to tell you something, Lawrence,” he says finally, turning to me slowly. “It might shock you a little, but I need to get it off my chest. I probably should have told a few other people first, but I didn't quite work up the nerve, you know? But you're a good chap, you're honest and decent. I'd rather you heard my confession, than that I had to talk to some man of the church.”
“I'm sure His Lordship has no reason to be concerned,” I reply.
“Oh, Lawrence...”
His voice trails off.
I wait, but – although his lips are trembling – he seems almost too scared to say anything.
I should like to encourage him, but I know from experience that sometimes it is better to let His Lordship find the moment himself.”