Mr Manning signed for the servants to leave the room. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘that we should have a family conference on the matter. I do not think any of us would wish to go to law about it. Perhaps some adjustment within the framework of Gavin’s known intentions ...?’
‘You mean that I have to give Isabella a portion of the money, to keep her quiet? Well, I won’t, and that’s flat.’
‘Maud, dear,’ said Mrs Broome nervously. ‘Perhaps I could have a word with you in private ...’
‘That money is rightfully mine,’ said Isabella. ‘If Maud had been nice to me about it, I might have considered giving her some few hundred pounds, but considering the way she has treated me ...’
‘Isabella,’ said Lady Amelia. ‘There is much in what your uncle says. You could easily spare two hundred a year, say ...’
‘Two hundred!’
Everyone began to talk at once.
*
Frances woke in the early twilight. She had only one other day dress, also grey, also home-made. As she put it on she suppressed a sigh. Isabella and Maud both talked of poverty, but Frances would have given a great deal for one of their cast-off dresses at that moment. To have been able to appear before Lord Broome in one of Maud’s trousseau dresses, for instance; there was one of pale yellow velvet with a pleated underskirt which would have suited Frances better than it suited the person for whom it had been made.
The house seemed unearthly quiet as she made her way down to the sick-room. She was not to know that at that very minute practically all the servants in the house were watching as Benson was hauled into a closed cab by two large policemen sent out from Lewes to arrest him for attempted murder and robbery. Abel, the footman, was sitting outside the sick-room door; he sprang to his feet when he saw her. He did not realise that she knew nothing of Benson’s arrest. He told her that he was taking the afternoon watch for Benson, but that his lordship had told him to wait outside the door. She accepted his explanation without thinking anything of it.
Lord Broome was sitting upright, away from the pillows. He had taken his left arm from the sling which Theo had contrived for him, and his crippled hand lay hidden under the bedclothes. He looked very much alive, and as if he were in pain.
‘Your arm is hurting you?’ she asked, aware of the dangers of infection.
‘I’m done for,’ he said.
She did not understand. She touched his forehead and judged the fever to have left him.
‘Did you know all along?’ he asked. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? No, that’s not fair. I knew, myself. Right from the beginning. But I didn’t want to admit it.’
‘You’re not to talk like that. You’re not going to die. You are the type who lives to be eighty and damns the younger generation and tells everyone the world is going to the dogs.’
He smiled, briefly. ‘Just like my grandfather. No, I wasn’t talking about dying, but about my hand. It’s no good, is it? Taking the bullet out hasn’t made any difference to my thumb and forefinger. I’m crippled.’ He repeated the words to himself, silently, as if trying to get used to the idea. ‘I made you an offer of marriage on the understanding that I’d come through the operation all right. Well, I release you from that. You won’t want a one-handed man. Who would? The Army won’t, either. I’ve been trying to think what the devil I’m going to do with the rest of my life. I’ve never thought of being anything but a soldier since I was twelve, and now ... Politics are out, at least until people have forgotten what happened last year. I’ve done for myself there. I didn’t realise at the time ... Perhaps I’ll go on a world tour. I’ve always wanted to go to Greece. But what would I do when I got there? I’ve no taste for an idle life.’
Frances stopped trying to pretend that she was a disinterested nurse. She took his injured hand out from under the bedclothes and tried to rub life into the thumb and forefinger. They remained limp and unresponsive.
‘You see?’ He smiled, without mirth. ‘Dead as my career.
‘I told myself that when the splints were removed ... when the bullet was taken out ... but I knew all along. I’ve seen injuries like this before.’
‘I don’t see that it matters that much. It’s only your left hand.’
‘Theo didn’t tell you? I’m left-handed. I can’t write, or do anything properly with my right hand. I know, because I tried as a child.’
She cried out, and put the maimed hand to her cheek.
‘Some women have no sense at all,’ said his lordship. ‘Didn’t you hear me say that my offer of marriage is withdrawn?’
‘I couldn’t accept it, anyway.’
‘Why not?’
She tried to make a joke of it. She took herself over to the window and looked out. ‘Oh, because you’d always want the last word in an argument. What woman would stand for that?’
He laughed, this time genuinely amused. ‘There’s that,’ he admitted. ‘But then, I don’t want a woman who is incapable of forming an opinion of her own. I want someone who is prepared to stand up to me, and tell me if she thinks I’m overstepping the mark. A companion, as well as a wife.’
She thought: This is dreadful; he really cares for me. I must stop him, before he goes any further. If only ...
‘Is it because of what happened last summer?’ he asked. ‘I give you my word that I did not drown that girl.’
‘Oh, I believe you.’
‘You do? No one else does.’
‘The more fools they.’
‘Agreed. Then, if it is not that ...? Ah, I’ve got it. You want me to make you long flowery speeches on my knees, about how beautiful you are, and how I’d go to the ends of the earth to fetch you a rare flower and all that rot. Well, it, may be the accepted method of proposing for a young, romantic idiot, but I’m neither young nor romantic and I’m hanged if I’ll go down on my knees to any woman, even you. Even if I could manage it without falling flat on my face.’
She had to laugh. ‘It isn’t that. But you can’t really expect me to take you seriously. Miss Seld treated you badly, you are temporarily at a standstill, perhaps you feel some gratitude towards me for nursing you. In a few days’ time, when you are feeling better, you will be ashamed of what you have said to me. So let us say no more about it. Think instead of what you can do on the estate when the weather improves; it is a beautiful place, but much neglected, as you must know. The tenants complain that repairs are never done, and the Court itself needs modernising. Could you not concern yourself with these matters in the immediate future?’
‘And live in my brother’s shadow? No, thank you. Granted, he would be delighted if I did. While I’m around, he doesn’t have to trouble his head with business or money matters. Don’t misunderstand me, I’m very fond of Richard, as he is of me, but I’ll not live here as his agent. No, I think I’ll go abroad. Doesn’t the idea of a cruise in the Grecian Islands appeal to you?’
For a moment she was tempted. Why shouldn’t she accept him? She would make him a good wife. She could be the sort of wife he wanted. And as for what the world might think ...? She drew back.
‘You know nothing about me, or you wouldn’t make me a proposal of marriage. I was dismissed from my last place without a character, and heaven only knows how long Mrs Broome will keep me on, once she realises ... Let us talk of something else. Shall I fetch a newspaper and read it to you?’
‘So your last employer’s husband tried to kiss you?’
‘Much worse than that,’ she said, with grim gaiety. ‘I was accused of stealing, or rather, of putting a young man up to steal from his aunt, and of trying to trap him into marriage. The police were called in. I assure you that I am the wickedest creature alive; depraved, corrupt, unworthy to cross the threshold of a decent household. You see what I mean?’
‘That’s almost as bad as what they said about me,’ said his lordship. He seemed to be amused, rather than alarmed, by her disclosures. He patted the bed beside him, and leaned back on his pillows. ‘Sit down and tell me all about it.’
&
nbsp; ‘Will you, in turn, tell me all about Lilien Jervis?’
‘Not at the moment. But I promise that one day I will tell you everything. Now, talk!’
‘Well, about a year ago I went as governess to a Mrs Palfrey, of Gloucestershire. She had two small children; darlings, both of them. She treated me well, and encouraged me to join her in the drawing-room when there was company. Her husband was in India, and she had no relatives near, but about a mile away an old friend of hers lived, who was not strong and rarely left her own house. This lady — Mrs Donne — was very rich, and quite alone in the world except for her nephew, Walter. Mrs Palfrey was very fond of Mrs Donne, and we often took the children to Mrs Donne’s for afternoon tea, or Mrs Palfrey would send me over with a book or a basket of fruit to Mrs Donne’s. Walter was not always there. He was employed as a clerk by a distant relative in the City, but he did not like the work. He used to visit his aunt at weekends. Then, in June last year, he suggested to Mrs Donne that she make him an allowance so that he could give up his job and devote all his time to her. She agreed. I was flattered. I knew ... he told me ... that he had done this thing so that he could see more of me. He was young and good company, and at the time I thought him everything a gentleman should be. I admired him for his devotion to his aunt. I believed him when he said that he wished, one day, when his aunt could be brought round to the idea, that he wished, in short, to marry me. It was very foolish of me to listen to him, but he was the first person from my father’s world ... from the world in which I thought I had a right to move ... to wish to marry me. I did encourage him to hope. I thought I loved him enough to wait for him, but ... then he wanted me to run away with him. I was terribly upset. I could not understand why he wanted to be so precipitate. He had only to wait. Mrs Donne was very fond of me at that time, and my family background was not at all despicable. My father was a Colonel in the Army, and his family have lived on their estate near Taunton for six generations. It would not have been too unequal a match. Besides, I could not run away and leave Mrs Palfrey and my two darling little boys without notice.
‘He apologised for upsetting me. He said a great many things about my having driven him to distraction and ... well, you know the sort of things men say. He gave me a piece of jewellery and asked me to wear it, as a token that I forgave him his foolishness. I wore it, without attempting to conceal it. Why should I? I had no idea ... But one day Mrs Donne came with Walter to call on us. It was the first time she had been out of her house for months. She saw the pendant and claimed it as hers. She had been missing pieces of jewellery over a period of some months. A maid had fallen under suspicion and been dismissed, but it was he — Walter — who had been taking her things all along. He had been gambling and got into debt. He’d stolen something of hers, and the theft had gone undetected, and he’d gone on stealing and grown careless enough to give me something he’d stolen.
‘I couldn’t believe it at first. I kept saying that there must be some mistake. The police came. Mrs Donne could not believe that Walter would have stolen from her on his own initiative. I told her everything, of course. I had notes from him to prove that he wanted to marry me. She was furious; she said she had plans to marry him to a god-daughter of hers who had a large fortune. She said some very hard things to me; that I had seduced Walter, and trapped him into ... Oh, it was dreadful. At first I was indignant. But Walter, when he came face to face with me, he acted in such a weak manner, he could not look me in the eye ... I could not believe that this was the same man who all summer had been urging me to …
‘His aunt said that I had been to blame for everything. She forgave Walter, and said she would not bring charges against him provided I left the district at once and did not attempt to communicate with him ever again. I did not wish to see him again after that, but I did not want to be thrown out of the house like that. The two little boys cried when they heard I was to go. Mrs Palfrey cried, too. She believed my story, but nevertheless she refused me a reference because Mrs Donne was such a very old friend of hers and influential, and, after all, I was only a governess, a nobody. So I went back to my aunt’s school in Bath, and started writing around for another job. I lied to Mrs Broome and to your brother, saying that I had been at my aunt’s all last summer and autumn. They will find out some day, of course.’
*
‘Undoubtedly. You must get in first with your side of the tale. Benson and Polly tell me you are highly regarded by my aunt, and are considered to have worked wonders with that brat Agnes. My aunt won’t want to lose you. I believe she even boasts to guests that you are of gentle birth. Are you related to the Chards of Somerset? I know a Rupert Chard slightly.’
‘My cousin. He has six sisters, one about my age and the rest younger. They all have to be married off somehow. My father’s family quarrelled with him when he married my mother because she was only a teacher and had no dowry. My mother’s sister brought me up after my father and mother died. My aunt wrote to my Uncle Chard when I was eighteen, hoping that he would do something for me. He and my aunt Chard visited us in Bath. They brought two of their daughters, my cousins, with them. I quite understood, after that, why they could do nothing for me.’
His lordship frowned. ‘Bella and Ruth Chard? I think I’ve met them, too, at dances in Town. Both as plain as flat biscuits. No wonder your uncle and aunt didn’t want you in the house, with that lot to marry off.’
She thought how marvellous it would have been to have had a Season in Town herself, and to have danced with Lord Broome on equal terms.
He had hidden his maimed hand under the coverlet again. She thought that he ought not to hide it away, or it would become an obsession with him.
‘You mustn’t let them get you down,’ said his lordship. ‘Hold your head high and tell them to go to blazes if they criticise you. I’ll tell Richard for you, if you like. He won’t hold it against you, if I put it to him the right way. And my aunt won’t be able to say anything after that, because it’s Richard who pays your salary. Right?’
She pulled his left hand from under the coverlet and warmed it between her hands. ‘Your aunt will not understand. I hoped she would. I thought that when I’d been here a little while, and had established myself, I could tell her. But she is too ...’
‘Narrow-minded? I agree. I’ll tell Richard first, and then you can “confess” to my aunt, and that way you’ll be all right. I wish you’d leave my hand alone. Doesn’t it revolt you?’
‘Of course not.’ She reached for the nail scissors and started to cut his nails. ‘Don’t hide it away. It only draws attention to it. If you ignore it, so will everyone else. Wear a glove on it, if you must, but don’t allow a small thing like this to ruin your life.’
*
Theo heard the story of Benson’s guilt while he was out on his rounds; like everyone else, he was at first surprised, and then chided himself for not having seen the obvious before. He visited Mrs Broome and the nurse before he went to the State Bedroom. Both had been confined to their rooms that afternoon. Mrs Broome wept as she told the doctor she was sure that Benson had sold her bracelet to cover his gambling debts, and that she would never see it again. Theo left her a soothing draught, and because he had made what was for him an enormous effort to appear interested in her palpitations, she was kind enough to say that in time he might become as good a doctor as his uncle.
This was pleasing to Theo. Moreover, when he reached the sick-room he found Lord Broome not only conscious, but happily engaged in teasing his nurse. He was bright-eyed, but he had no fever, and the remains of his supper tray showed that he had dined well. The fire burned brightly, the lamp cast a mellow light, and altogether it was a scene which ought to have delighted a doctor. But Theo, after one professional glance which assured him that all was well with his patient, had eyes for no one but Frances, and it was plain that she had eyes for no one but Lord Broome. Perhaps she did not mean her hands to caress him as she tucked him in for the night; nevertheless Theo noted that they
did in fact do so. He also noted that Lord Broome was making free of Miss Chard’s first name, and that she did not appear to object.
‘Tomorrow I shall sit in the chair for a while,’ said Lord Broome. ‘Frances doesn’t think I shall be well enough, but then, she doesn’t know anything about nursing. And I am to teach her how to play chess. I am quite shocked to learn that she does not know how to play. How is she to teach Agnes, if she can’t play herself?’
‘I would have been very willing to teach her myself, if I had known,’ said Theo, acid in his voice.
‘And I am to have a newspaper to read. I remember they signed a truce after I left South Africa, but ...’ He frowned, uncertain of his memory. ‘Benson got me a paper on Lewes station, and I was reading it when ... What happened? You say two men attacked me?’
‘Your memory is gradually returning. Don’t try to force it.’
His lordship put his hand to his head. ‘Where’s Benson? Sloped off to the village?’
Theo looked at Frances, who returned his glance with one of enquiry. So she did not know about Benson, either? ‘He’s not well,’ said the doctor.
‘Has he been sick, too?’ cried Frances. ‘It’s quite an epidemic. First the nurse, and now …’
‘Sick?’ repeated his lordship. ‘Now what do I remember about that? A nurse. Not this present one, but another one. A bigger woman, who smelled of ... The devil! My head aches.’
The doctor repeated his injunction against forcing things, measured out a sleeping draught and saw that Lord Broome drank it. Polly came in to remove the supper tray, and the agency nurse appeared. She looked pale but said she would be able to manage the night watch. Frances half drew the bed curtain so that the lamp should not shine on the sick man’s face, and followed the doctor out into the Gallery.
Theo caught Frances by the arm, and drew her away from the sick-room door. The Gallery was deserted; the family were all in the music-room, and the servants shunned this part of the house at night. Rain beat against the windows. In a few words, Theo told Frances about Benson. At first she could not believe that he was serious. Even when she was convinced that Benson had been arrested, she still refused to believe in his guilt.
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