The Echo at Rooke Court

by Harriet Smart

  At this moment a footman came in with a message for Giles.

  “It will be Lazenby repenting,” said Lord Rothborough as Giles read the message.

  “Unfortunately not. This is from Dr Perry in Axworth. Carswell has come down with the fever.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  At around three in the afternoon on Thursday, Felix had vomited for the second time, and finding his shirt damp with sweat, went to sit on a bench in the stifling yard in an attempt to recover himself. He was soon shaking violently and in a moment he was retching again and running for the privy. Bennett, who was clearly fighting the same battle, found him there a few minutes later, and on unsteady legs fetched out his uncle, Mr Lane, the apothecary.

  He unceremoniously examined them both in the yard and then said to Bennett, “Take Mr Carswell home and do not come back, either of you. Your aunts will know what to do.”

  He then bundled them into his carriage.

  Felix sat wrapped in a blanket, his teeth chattering, his limbs on fire and his head feeling as if hot nails were being driven through his skull, as the carriage jolted through the town.

  “It’s not far,” said Bennett, his hand clapped over his mouth. “And my aunts...”

  He got no further and they were obliged to stop the carriage for a moment while he threw up into the gutter.

  Bennett’s aunts, Miss Lane and Miss Catherine, soon proved themselves to be magnificent, sensible women, well-versed in the care of the sick. Felix found himself put to bed in a pleasant little room, on cool sheets that smelt of lavender.

  He did not know for how long he lay there. He was caught in a state of fluctuating delirium, his body intent on purging itself with regular and painful violence, but even at the lowest ebb, he was aware that he was somehow holding the disease in check. He had a vision of himself at one point leaning against a closed door, in order that the enemy behind it should not come in, and he knew that as long as the door remained firmly shut, he would be safe and he would survive.

  Miss Catherine and their loyal maid, Nancy, took turns to keep him washed down and make him drink. They had a repertoire of herbal cordials and teas that were so effective that Felix felt they were surely heirs to some suppressed tradition of white witchcraft. For where science failed, as it so conspicuously had, where could they turn but traditional remedies? And as his fever retreated a little, he found himself eager to know their tricks, knowing that there was much a modern medical man could learn from such wise old women.

  “What day is it, ma’am?” he managed to ask, when Miss Catherine next came in.

  “It is Saturday morning,” she said. He had been there two whole nights and had scarcely known it. She began to help him up onto his pillows. As she did so, he could see that her face was wet with tears.

  “Miss Catherine?” he asked. “Is something wrong –?”

  She looked away, and then hurried from the room, overcome with emotion.

  Felix struggled out of his bed and followed her down the passageway. There, an open door revealed the source of her grief. Young Bennett lay insensible on his bed and Felix, without taking a step further, knew it was the stillness of death. Miss Lane and Mr Lane were sitting with their heads bent, while Miss Catherine knelt, took his hand and wept over it.

  Dr Perry was also there, and he turned and saw Felix. He at once ushered him back to his room.

  “When?” Felix said, when the door was shut.

  “An hour ago. He seemed to have improved yesterday, but then passed a wretched night. His constitution could not withstand it,” Perry said, glancing at Felix. “You must get back to bed, Mr Carswell. At once.”

  Felix did not hesitate to obey. He was shaking. Dr Perry’s implication was clear enough. He too had improved. The utmost caution was necessary now. Dr Perry helped him back into bed.

  “You must stay calm, sir,” he said. “It is always difficult for a medical man to be a patient. I sometimes think we are our own worst enemies,” said Dr Perry, taking his pulse. “You must be calm now, very calm.”

  Felix nodded, breathing hard, attempting to tamp down the anxieties that now seemed to overwhelm him.

  Bennett’s face in death seemed to rise up before him as he closed his eyes, and indeed his ghost seemed to walk into the room. His expression was one of utter bewilderment at finding himself in such a condition. What man of twenty could not be surprised by death?

  “How are things at the hospital?” Felix managed to ask, opening his eyes.

  “In a much better condition, thanks to your efforts,” said Dr Perry. “And Mr Bennett’s, of course.” He sighed. “I shall sound your chest, I think, Mr Carswell, just to see all is well. There can sometimes be a development of congestion in these cases, as I am sure you are aware.”

  “And the mortality rate is down?” Felix forced himself to ask.

  Perry did not answer until he had finished sounding his chest and back.

  “It is somewhat improved. We have more assistance now. Lane and I have taken measures to get the place on a better footing. We have got additional help from Leeds.”

  “And the cholera?”

  “No more than the two cases you observed, thank the Lord,” said Dr Perry. “Now, rest back down, sir, and no more talking. You must concentrate on your own recovery now. The profession cannot afford to lose another good man.”

  Felix did as he was bid. Miss Catherine came in with one of her herbal concoctions, and Dr Perry left for the fever hospital.

  Felix drank his tea and she sat down beside the bed. She took out her Bible and in a quiet voice, began to read through some of the Psalms. Felix lay there and listened without being able to make much sense of what he heard, but he was calmed in some measure by her gentle tones.

  Then he slept and, in his still heated dreams, found himself in a brightly-lit assembly room, with Bennett at his side. A ball was in progress and they were looking at the young ladies who were clustered across the room, wondering who they might dare to ask to dance. Bennett, finding his courage, went straight into the crowd of young ladies and then came back leading Eleanor by the hand. She was, to Felix’s horror, heavily pregnant. She seemed happy to be with Bennett; in fact they were arm in arm, heads bent together, laughing over some secret. He stood and watched them, amazed at the size of his wife’s belly, assessing every possible complication that might come from the birth of such a large child, or perhaps worse still, from twins. Then Bennett and Eleanor began to dance together. He wanted to intervene, to tell her such exercise was unwise, especially that dizzy, endless turning of a waltz. But they were not to be stopped and the music went faster and faster and they went with it, turning and turning until he felt sick from watching. Then at once the scene changed, and they were in the woods where he had first laid eyes on her, the woods between Hawksby and Ardenthwaite. Here Eleanor was lying on the muddy ground in her ball gown, her face contorted with the agony of labour. Bennett appeared, yet it was not the Bennett he had known, but more of a devil now, for as he turned, his countenance seemed to suggest he meant real harm to Eleanor. He meant to take her with him...

  He woke with a cry and found both Miss Lane and Miss Catherine in attendance on him. They were looking concerned, for all their soothing actions, and he wondered if this was the crisis that he could not survive, if this indeed was the end. He felt so weak that he could easily have surrendered at that moment, yet he found that a sense of indignation at fate kept him from it. He struggled to sit up, taking Miss Catherine’s hands in his, and managed to say, “I’m damned if I shall go now. There is too much to be done!”

  This made her smile a little, and then the door opened and he was aware of two familiar figures coming towards him. It was Major Vernon and Lord Rothborough.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  “Have they buried Bennett?” Felix said.

  “Hush,” said Mrs Maitland, bending over him. She was right. It was painful to speak. His throat felt as if it had been scoured with vinegar.

/>   “But?” he attempted.

  “Today,” she said. “Major Vernon has gone.”

  “I must... his parents...”

  He gave up; it was too much.

  “All in good time,” she said. “They will understand. It will not be taken amiss, not at all.”

  Felix managed to nod, trying to imagine what Bennett’s parents might be feeling. Even if they were sincerely religious, as his aunts and uncle had been, that could not protect them from the agony of grief. To bring a child into the world and work carefully to have him learn all he should, to see him begin to find his feet in an honourable profession, and then to find it had all been for nothing: to have the object of such hope and love snatched away, without warning, without reason. He had been so sharp: he had read impressively, and his sense of duty had been equally keen. Felix had told him on several occasions to go and rest, but he had assured him that he was not tired.

  I ought to have tried harder to make him stop, Felix thought, struggling now to find his ease under what felt like an intolerable burden of bedclothes. The great luxurious bed in which he had been installed at Holbroke suddenly felt unendurable. He could only think of a coffin being let down into the earth, and his own limbs, still weak and sore, seemed to beg for the oblivion of death. Why had he not been taken? Why had he been spared?

  “You must try and be still, Mr Carswell,” said Mrs Maitland. “Let me help you.” She placed a cool pillow under his head, and folded the covers back neatly. “There.”

  He submitted, closing his eyes, trying to empty his mind and breathe steadily. Curiously he found it easier to sleep than he had imagined, and after some time he woke again, stirred by a raging thirst.

  Or at least he thought he woke, for he was aware that there was someone lying on the bed beside him, also fast asleep. It was Eleanor, curled up like a cat, in a heap of crushed white muslin, her hair down, just as he preferred it. This was so contrary to what he was certain Dr Perry and Mrs Maitland would have prescribed that he thought for a while that he was dreaming.

  She stirred, sat up and smiled at him, stretching out her hand to him and putting another finger to her lips to silence him.

  “I’m not supposed to be here,” she said softly, and squeezed his hand. “But how could they keep me away?”

  “No,” he said, noticing she was wearing about her neck the ribbon that he had given her that day in Edinburgh. He reached out and touched it, remembering the night he had last seen her, and wondered how it was that his body, despite the weakness he still felt, was stirred by those memories.

  “Here,” she said, taking it from around her neck, and putting it about his own, her cool fingers touching his still burning skin. “You should wear it. To help you get better. I think it may be magic.”

  He managed to smile and shake his head at that, but her hand was pressing the knot of it against his chest, as if she meant to impress on his heart the truth of it. She leant towards him, her forehead almost touching his, her hair brushing his face, and he felt quite powerless, his own desires welling up despite everything. How that instinct remained so strong was a matter of wonder. Perhaps it was because she seemed so full of life and health that he longed for her, as if she could somehow restore him.

  “You will get better soon,” she said, and kissed his cheek. “You will. You must.”

  Felix was now again convinced he was dreaming, but at this moment the door opened and Mrs Maitland came in; Eleanor did not dissolve phantom-like in a flurry of white wisps, but remained, her hand in his.

  “Now, you must not say anything,” Eleanor said to her. “I am going to nurse him now. After all, he is my husband.”

  “Of course,” said Mrs Maitland, a little bemused. “As you wish.”

  ~

  “So you think that Mark Hurrell is telling the truth?” Carswell said to Giles. “That he is not involved?”

  “I find him sincere, but the facts are still against him.”

  He had come in to give him an account of the funeral, but after that the talk had turned to other matters.

  “Very much so,” said Carswell. “How convenient to have burnt her letters! And in front of Maria he would want to distance himself absolutely from Margaret Wytton. My theory is they had conspired together to murder Arthur, and then marry, but when he saw what a good prospect Maria was, he decided to let her take the blame and...”

  At this point his voice gave out and he was obliged to stop.

  “You should not agitate yourself,” Giles said. “I should not be talking to you about this. Here, have something to drink.”

  He passed Carswell a cup of tea which he drank down in gulps.

  “Yes, you should,” Carswell said. “You know what a poor invalid I make. Please occupy me.”

  “It’s certainly a good and thorny problem. Especially as we are denied access to our usual resources.”

  “Lazenby be damned!” said Carswell. “What on earth was he about? If I were not in this state then I should...” After a few moments’ silence, he gestured towards Giles and managed to say, “Who else?”

  “A good question. I will go on,” Giles said, “only if you do not interrupt me.” Carswell signalled that he would not, so Giles continued. “If we put aside Margaret Wytton and Mark Hurrell and a conspiracy between them, who are we left with? Willoughby? He was keen to point me towards dark and nebulous forces. Perhaps it was deliberate misdirection. He was certainly close to Hurrell, unnaturally so, Mr Powell seemed to think. Could there be something there? But the motive?” He got up and began to pace the room. “He loses everything with Arthur’s death – his closest friend and colleague in their particular struggle. He gains very little, except the risk of being discovered. And again we return to the arrow and the smock in the scullery. He might wish to frame Mark Hurrell – I gather there was no love lost between them, especially when Mark deserted the cause – but framing him so clumsily? That is what I keep returning to: the stupidity of that one act. I cannot make any sense of it!”

  Mrs Carswell came in.

  “I’m afraid I must ask you to leave now, Major Vernon,” she said. Carswell frowned at that.

  “Eleanor –” he said.

  “You must rest,” she said.

  “I agree with Mrs Carswell,” Giles said. “You have plenty to think about now, at least.”

  ~

  “It’s a severe trial so early in a marriage,” said Emma. “Poor Mrs Carswell.”

  “He’s a difficult patient,” said Giles.

  “Most men are,” said Emma.

  Giles reached for her hand and kissed it.

  “I hope you don’t include me in that catalogue?”

  “No, you were tolerable. But perhaps as a husband you will be impossible, just to test me.”

  “Like one of those dreadful old tales? Patient Griselda, is that it?”

  “I’m glad to hear you think it’s dreadful,” she said.

  “I’m not sure what shocked me most – the cruelty of the husband, or the submissive virtue of the wife. I longed for her to rebel.”

  “To up and take an axe to him?”

  “Yes, perhaps.”

  “You like murderers too much, Major Vernon,” Emma said.

  “But that is how I find them. Sometimes, at least. Liking is perhaps too strong, but understanding them. The dead person is an obstacle that has to be removed by whatever means. The wrong means, in the case of murder.” He sighed and said, “And to whom was Arthur Hurrell an obstacle?”

  “His brother. There is a strict entail on the estate. He will get every scrap of land and every penny now, when Sir Morten dies.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “Mrs Hurrell told me. That is why she is reduced to living on her brother-in-law’s charity. There was no provision for her husband or his dependants. He was, apparently, an unsuccessful barrister before he died, poor man.”

  “Sir Morten could have given her a house and an independence of her own, though, ev
en with the entail.”

  “Yes, he ought to have done. She would have been happier, certainly. But I suppose she cannot object, because her sons are being educated by Sir Morten.”

  “Suffering at the hands of Arthur Hurrell and Mr Willoughby,” said Giles. “Lady Wytton called Sir Morten a domestic tyrant.”

  “Undoubtedly he is,” said Emma. “It’s not obvious at first, but there are things about him that make one –”

  She broke off. Lord Rothborough had come into the room.

  “I have alarming news from Northminster,” he said. “Wytton’s closed its doors at noon yesterday saying it would not make any more payments. This morning there was a crowd at the door, demanding the bank open. Apparently there was a small riot. I have ordered the carriage for you – I imagine you will want to see for yourself what is going on.”

  “Strictly speaking, that is none of my business,” Giles said.

  “That won’t stop you,” said Lord Rothborough. “Will it?”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  “I am not sure we should be speaking at this juncture, Major Vernon,” said Captain Lazenby, looking up from his desk as Giles came into his office.

  “Perhaps not, but I was wondering, in the light of developments, if you might require my services?”

  “The matter has been dealt with and it is improper for you to be here.”

  “I have been to the Infirmary. There are three of our own in there with serious injuries, not to mention the others involved. As far as I can gather it was a serious disturbance.”

  “It was for a while, but it has been dealt with now,” said Lazenby, getting up from his desk and walking towards the door as if he meant to show Giles out at once.

  “Have you got the ringleaders under arrest?” Giles said. “It is usually the case, no matter what grievance causes the riot, that there is a type of individual who likes to stir up the situation for his own amusement. There are certain people whom I could identify for you if you have not yet got them in your sights. They are an interesting class of criminal offenders, all in all.”