David’s face was near that of the child’s. Its eyes were closed, and when he gripped the top of its coat, meaning to drag it from the plank, the child slipped easily from it as if it had not been gripping the plank, merely lying over it.
Now David was striking out with one arm, and with his other was aiming to hold the child’s head above the water. He could see they were within yards of the archway, the water had turned into deep churning frothy waves. He saw the structure ahead. It was some kind of a coop; he could just make out the wire netting, and because of its height and the rise of the river it had become caught in the arch of the bridge.
It was looming over him now, like a house. He gasped and spluttered as the water entered his gullet, and he and the child would have been swept round the structure and through the archway, but with one great effort he brought his arm over his head and his fingers clutched the wire netting, but even as they did so the force of the water swept his body towards the gap. If he could have used his other arm he could have clawed his way quite easily to safety, but within its grasp he held the child.
His face now was pressed against the netting, but when he felt the hands on him he forced his head back and looked into the eyes of his mother. She too was clinging to the wire netting, and with her free hand she was aiming to pull him and his burden backwards, but without success.
Then another face appeared close to his. For a second he stared into its eyes; then the weight of the child was suddenly taken from his grip. His arm was stiff, but he lifted it and dug his fingers into the wire netting. Then, as one body, they were all moving slowly backwards. He could now feel the ground beneath his feet, but the water was still swirling strongly round him.
He didn’t remember reaching the bank, for quite suddenly he felt sick and everything went black. When he came to, he was on his face and spewing out water. And when he turned his head to the side he saw that the child, too, was lying on its face and its father was pressing its back while his wife was holding its head up from the ground.
His mother was kneeling by him. She looked strange: her hair was hanging down her shoulders in flat strips and there were some bits of twigs sticking out of the side of it. In a cracked voice, she asked, ‘You…you all right?’
He didn’t answer but pulled himself upwards to hear the man bawling, ‘Fetch a doctor!’ and the voice of one of the three men standing near him answering, ‘Yes, sir. Yes, sir,’ before turning on his heel and running to do the bidding.
‘Lift him up and bend him over.’ Nancy Ann’s voice was just a whisper, but Dennison obeyed it. He lifted the limp figure of his son and bent him forward from the waist, but when no water came from his mouth and the head and shoulders just drooped forward, he almost thrust him on to the ground again, face downwards, and began to pound his back.
After a few minutes, when the child showed no signs of reviving, Nancy Ann’s voice, still small, said, ‘Hot water. Get him into a bath of hot water.’ She now turned her face up to one of the men: ‘Tell them in the kitchen to get ready a bath of hot water,’ she said.
The man scampered away, and Dennison raised his head and looked at Nancy Ann who was shivering, and he went to say something but, swiftly changing his mind and bouncing to his feet, he bent again and picked up the child in his arms. And now he was running with Nancy Ann by his side, her hand on the small dangling legs sticking out from the wet dress.
The third gardener too was running; only Jennie and David walked, he supporting his mother now, for she was in a paroxysm of coughing.
The party was met in the middle of the wood by most of the male staff from the yard, but they said nothing, they just followed the master and mistress through the gardens to the kitchens.
The bemused kitchen staff, obeying orders, had a tin bath before the fire, and Florrie Kilpatrick was in the process of scooping hot water from the boiler to the side of the fireplace into it while Mary Carter added scoop for scoop of cold water from a bucket.
There were some rough towels lying to the side of the bath and Dennison laid the boy on these. And Mary, her face twisted with anxiety, thrust Nancy Ann unceremoniously aside, tore off the child’s clothes, then lifted him into the bath. But it was Dennison’s hands that rubbed him while the steam rose, not only from the bath, but from his and Nancy Ann’s drenched bodies.
Mary was now supporting the lolling head and her own head was deeply bowed over the child’s as she watched her master’s hands massaging the child’s heart, but to no avail.
Time passed. Once Dennison cried for more hot water, and some time passed again before, of a sudden, he sat back on his heels and, his teeth clenched and his lips wide apart, he made a sound like the distant cry of an animal in pain. It was echoed by a moan that ran through all those present in the kitchen.
Mary lifted the child from the water and laid it on a towel and gently folded the ends over it. Then she turned to where Nancy Ann, who was still on her knees, looked as if she was going to topple sideways. She helped her upwards. Dennison too rose, but with the child in his arms now. And those in the room parted and made way for him as, with his son hugged to him and head bowed over him, he stumbled from the room, with Mary supporting Nancy Ann following him …
Outside the kitchen door a crowd had gathered: the yard men, the workers from the farm, the four gardeners, and the lodge people. Standing on the outskirts of them was David. He had changed from his wet long trousers into a pair of breeches, and he was now also wearing a striped shirt. He looked no different from the rest of the men, but that he was different was made apparent when one of them said quietly, ‘It’s like a curse. His brother, and now his son, both in the same river. Both male heirs. Like a curse on him.’
When David turned slowly away and walked from the yard, the men’s eyes followed him and the man who had been speaking ended, ‘Aye, like a curse.’
It was at this moment that the doctor rode into the yard. But he had come too late. It had even been too late when the child’s father had grabbed him from the boy who was his nephew, legal or not.
The child was laid out on Dennison’s bed in the dressing room, and for nine hours after he sat beside him, without eating or drinking or saying a word.
To Nancy Ann, during this time, the loss of her child was becoming unbearable. And her own inward screams of protest were almost audibly added to those of Rebecca who had become quite hysterical, so much so, that the doctor had to be called again to put her to sleep with a dose of laudanum. But as the hours of the day wore into night, her concern for her daughter and her sorrow for her dead son were diverted to an anxiety over Dennison, an anxiety which at one stage became threaded with resentment and anger. And she wanted to cry at him, ‘I have lost a son too. Put your arms around me. Comfort me. I can’t bear this.’ But she found no response in him…
At what time of the night she fell asleep on the couch in the bedroom, she didn’t know, but when she woke and went to straighten herself, her whole body was cramped because of the way she had slumped into the end of the couch.
She stumbled into the dressing room, but to her surprise she found that Dennison was no longer there. She looked at the clock. It was quarter to six. She stood for a time staring down on her son who looked peacefully asleep, and as she cupped his face with her hands she asked herself why her body wasn’t being rent asunder with tears. But there seemed to be nothing in her but a great lonely void, a dry lonely void, no sap of life anywhere in it.
On the landing she met Jennie, and for the first time she thought of the boy and she put her hand out to her, but found herself unable to express any words of gratitude for what David had done.
Slowly she went down the stairs and into the library. Dennison wasn’t there; nor did she find him in any other part of the house downstairs. But meeting Robertson, she asked, ‘Have you seen the master?’ and he answered, ‘Not since he went out first thing, ma’am, just on light. I…I think he took his horse.’
When she returned upstairs she k
nelt by her bed and drooped her head onto it. But she did not pray, she couldn’t. He hadn’t shared his despair, not by seeking comfort from her or comforting her, nor had he spoken one word to her or touched her hand. It was as if, in some strange way, he was holding her responsible for their son’s death.
And Dennison did not speak to anyone during the following three days. There was a constant coming and going in the house but he would see no-one, not even Pat and George. Pat consoled Nancy Ann by saying, ‘It is understandable. He has lost his only son, and he was quite crazy about the child. Yes, it is understandable. But don’t worry, this phase will pass. You will be all he wants or needs during this time.’
She did not enlighten Pat that her husband didn’t seem to need her as she needed him; that, in fact, he needed no-one.
When Rebecca had run to him, crying, ‘Papa! Papa!’ he had thrust her aside, turned his back on her and walked away, leaving the child to have another of her screaming fits. It was strange, but the only person who seemed to have any control over these was the boy. He did not cosset her or pet her, but, to her amazement, she witnessed his tactics of harshness. And she was for preventing him when he shook her daughter by the shoulders, saying, ‘No more of that now, or else I walk out of here and you won’t see me again, ever. And I mean it this time.’ At this her daughter’s screams had subsided to sobs and sniffles and she had laid her head against the boy’s shoulder as the boy had once laid his head against hers. It was strange, strange. But she was thankful that at least someone could quieten her daughter’s spasms of hysteria.
Peter came, and, of course, Eva came with him. That was another strange thing: Peter never visited without his wife. He seemed to need her by him all the time. And, in a way, she envied their relationship. Eva, she had to admit, was a nice person and seemed to have grown younger since her marriage. This must be what happiness did for one. Yes, she envied her.
Her grandmama came and took charge of the house. She seemed to be able to rise to any occasion. Lady Beatrice arrived only a few hours before the funeral, having come as soon as she heard the tragic news. Then there were those who left their cards of sympathy; and of these, those who came in were received by Jessica or Beatrice. Graham had come on the day of the disaster, but had not been since.
The funeral was to take place at eleven o’clock on this Friday morning. She was already dressed in deep black. She was sitting looking out of the window, her coat, hat, and long veil laid out on the couch ready for her to don. She stared into the distance, not thinking so much about the burial of her son at this moment as of the effect his death had had on her husband. At times she felt he must have lost his mind, for he had not spoken half a dozen words to her since the tragedy. In fact, he had avoided her. And if his manner continued like this she dreaded to look into the future. She wanted to cry, how she wanted to cry, but it seemed as if a wall of sand had built up between her heart and her eyes.
When she heard the dressing-room door open she turned her head. Dennison walked slowly up the room towards her. He did not look at her as he drew a chair up at the other side of the window, but just as she had been doing only a moment before so he now looked out into the grey day. She waited for him to speak, stilling her tongue and forbidding her hand to go out towards him. His neglect of her over the past few days had created in her a feeling of humiliation and deep hurt to add to the grief of her loss.
He was still looking out of the window when he said, ‘Try to understand the reason for what I am about to say.’
She waited, while he still kept his gaze concentrated on the window. But when his voice came low, the words that it spoke chilled her with foreboding, for he said, ‘I…I have made arrangements to go away for a time.’ What he said next was blotted out by the scream in her head almost as loud as any made by her daughter over the past few days, and through it she was yelling, You can’t! You won’t! You can’t be so callous. Oh no. No. What am I to do? I can suffer your silence, but not your absence. Don’t do this to me, please.
She had lost some of his words, but when she heard him say, ‘The Fergusons have been kind enough to invite me,’ her mind yelled again: The Fergusons, at the lodge in Scotland. He sold it to the Fergusons. He’s never been there since. He…he must have been in correspondence with them right…right from the…She could not even let her thoughts go on and say, The day my darling boy died.
‘This house,’ he was saying now, ‘and everything around, will…will drive me mad. You…you can’t understand. I see him everywhere, running…running, jumping, always running and jumping.’
He had said, ‘You can’t understand.’ He was now looking at her: his grey eyes appeared colourless, his skin seemed as if it had been drawn tight over the bones of his face and looked like dull parchment. She could see that he was suffering, but so was she. Oh, so was she. She heard her voice, sounding to her own ears like that of a little girl, saying, ‘Don’t leave me. Please, please, Denny, don’t go. Not right away. Later perhaps, we…we could all go.’
When he shook his head vigorously and got to his feet, she stared up at him, then watched him walk from her halfway down the room before he stopped, saying, ‘Try to understand, Nancy Ann. I’m on the verge of despair. I’m at breaking point. Don’t you understand I have lost my son, my only son? I will never have another.’
When she heard the scream she couldn’t believe it was from her own throat, and the words just spewed out of her as she cried, ‘What you seem to forget is that he was my son too. I bore him and, as I understand, at peril of my own life. You are so made you imagine that you are the only one that’s suffering. There is your daughter upstairs, the shock could affect her for the rest of her life. Your son. Your son. Always your son. He was my son too. And there were days, yes, even weeks when you never saw him; you were too busy at your gaming table and other pursuits.’ And she closed her mouth on the last words: the thought that always strove to the surface of her mind concerning his London visits and which she would not give place to was aired now.
He had turned and was looking at her, but he did not say, ‘What are you suggesting?’ he said, ‘Please lower your voice; the household will hear you.’
‘Does that matter? They all know that you have hardly spoken to me and that when you haven’t been sitting in vigil, you have slept alone. These are things that do not escape the household which you seem so anxious should not hear me raise my voice in protest at your treatment, and this treatment from one who is supposed to love me. “I shall love you till the day I die,” you once said; no, not once, but many times.’
She watched him draw in a deep breath: his waistcoat expanded, his cravat was pressed out; then they slowly sank back into place and, as if on a sigh, he said, ‘I do love you, Nancy Ann. But that is from another part of me. It is no use trying to explain the conflict of emotions that is tearing me at the moment, I only know that I must get away from these surroundings.’
‘And me?’
He bowed his head, shaking it slowly now. ‘Try to understand, Nancy Ann, try to understand the turmoil I am in. You, most of all, are connected with what I have lost. At the moment, I haven’t the power or the words to explain, or even to sort out my feelings.’ He now looked at her fully for the first time, saying, ‘Talk to your grandmama. She’s a wise woman. She will no doubt help you to understand my motive. Anyway—’ He looked downwards now, pulled out from his waistcoat pocket a gold watch that was attached to a gold chain lying across his chest, then, his voice a mere mutter, he ended, ‘The time is almost on us. I…will see you downstairs.’ And with that he turned from her, and she clasped her hands, one on top of the other, tightly over her mouth. She had been unable to take in the tragedy of the loss of her child for days, it still wasn’t believable. But this scene just enacted was certainly unbelievable. This man, who had been so full of love for her five days ago, this man who the night previous to the awful day had knelt in this very room, his arms about her, his head buried in her breast, and in betwe
en repeating and repeating her name had told her she was the most beautiful thing that had ever happened to him in his life, and that she was now more desirable than on the day he first married her, this was the same man who was leaving her to bear her loss alone. The loss that should have brought them even closer together had opened a great chasm between them, and she was falling into it, down, down, down…Oh my God, no. She said it as a prayer, joined her hands, looked upwards now and appealed, Help me through this day.
Mary watched the cortège from the nursery window. The black-plumed prancing horses, the black carriages, the black-clothed people were all smudged together because her face was aflood with tears. He had been her baby too. She had been the first to handle him, to wash him. And although, during these last two years since she had been made housekeeper, she hadn’t spent as much time up here, nevertheless, she considered this her domain rather than the housekeeper’s comfortable apartments.
The cry of, ‘I want my mama,’ turned her head to where Agnes was cradling Rebecca in her arms, and Agnes said, ‘It’s starting again. She’s trembling like a leaf. Has he gone…David, this mornin’?’
‘I don’t know; Jennie’s still in bed. She was feverish last night. That river nearly did for her an’ all. Anyway, I’ll go and see if he’s still around and bring him up.’ Then turning from the window, she said. ‘Oh dear God. Dear God. What a day! And how she’s going to survive this, an’ the master the way he is, I don’t know.’ …
It was ten minutes later when she returned, the boy with her. He was dressed in a navy-blue suit. The tight trousers came down to the well-polished boots. His coat was double-breasted. It had no revers, but the starched white linen collar he wore stood up stiffly beyond the rim of the jacket, almost giving the appearance of a parson’s insignia. Although he appeared older than his years, he still looked a schoolboy, except when he spoke; then his voice sounded that of a man.
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