by Charles Todd
The older woman looked up in alarm as Francesca burst into the room.
“I need help, Mrs. Lane—Mr. Leighton is in the back garden, bleeding badly and very cold. We must send to Tiverton for Dr. Nealy!”
“We’ll never move him, Miss,” Mrs. Lane answered, hastily drying her wet hands on her apron. “Not between us. Tall as he is!”
“Get your coat, find someone in the village who can help us lift him. He ought to be in his bed at the inn, where he can be kept warm. I’ll have Bill hitch the horse to the cart.”
They were flying down the stairs, the housekeeper breathing heavily, one hand pressed to her chest. “What’s happened to him—?” she gasped.
“I don’t know—I didn’t stay to find out. There are horse blankets in the stables—I’ll wrap him in one of those to start with.”
“Those filthy things? It will never do, Miss! There’s blankets in the chest in the box room—”
“There isn’t time.”
They’d reached the kitchen, and Mrs. Lane clutched a chair’s back for a moment. “I’m not as young as I was—”
“Hurry!” Francesca urged her. “I must find Bill—”
The old coachman was in the barn, mending harness and placidly talking to Tyler, who had taken to wandering out to the stables when there was no other companionship.
“Bill—we must hitch the horse to a cart—and I need blankets. Mr. Leighton has been hurt, he’s lying in the back garden—”
“Miss?” Bill dropped the harness and straightened, staring at her. “What’s he doing there?”
“It doesn’t matter. I’ve sent Mrs. Lane to the village, to find men to lift him into the cart. We can’t do it ourselves, and in the meantime, I must keep him warm—”
She ran to the room where tack was kept and pulled up the heavy lid of a sturdy box set against the wall. Taking out two of the horse blankets folded inside, she let the lid fall shut again. As it did, raised bits of wood in a long trio of scratches on the underside nicked the back of her hand. As raw as if they had been made yesterday, the splinters still sharp; they drew blood, but she took no notice, already on her way out the tack room door. The blankets smelled of camphor used to keep out the moths, and she sneezed twice as she hurried on toward the bottom of the garden.
Richard Leighton lay as she had left him, although it appeared that he had tried to shift his left arm over his eyes. She wrapped him in the horse blankets, lifting him as best she could to shove an edge under one side and then the other.
He grimaced as she did so, and then began to mutter something. Francesca rocked back on her heels, listening to the orders he was snapping out to his men, threatening them with mayhem if they didn’t keep their heads down. And then, as if he’d heard a whistle blown for the attack, he began to struggle, ready to lead his men in the next assault.
“All right, you bastards, let’s go! They’re more afraid of us than we are of them, and—” The rest was garbled, and then he seemed to laugh. “Steady as you go—we’ll make it—another hundred yar—!”
His lashes fluttered and his eyes opened, focused on nothing.
Francesca waited, and after a moment said, “Mr. Leighton?” in a quiet voice.
His head swung toward her, but there was no recognition in his eyes. “What are you doing here, woman—” As if she’d appeared out of nowhere in the chaos of a battlefield. And then the lids shut and opened again. This time there was awareness in his glance. He made an effort to sit up.
Without ceremony, Francesca pressed him down again. “No, lie still, Richard—we’ll have you back in your own bed as soon as may be—”
She could see Bill coming with the cart. He clicked his tongue as he led the horse across the lawns, and came to kneel uneasily before the prostrate man. “Best do as she says, sir—”
Leighton said in bewilderment, “What the hell am I doing here—”
“You must tell me,” Francesca answered equably. “This is where I found you not fifteen minutes ago, pale as death and senseless. There’s blood all over your face. From the color of most of it, it’s been there a while.”
He put up a hand as if in disbelief, then scowled as he looked at the blood on his fingertips, swearing softly.
“Don’t touch your face,” she warned. “It will just start the bleeding again!”
Two burly men rough-clad in brown corduroy trousers and heavy boots came hurrying across the lawns, calling to her. They manhandled the hogsheads and kegs for Jenny Ranson, the innkeeper’s wife.
“Thank you for coming so quickly! This man has been hurt. If you help us lift him into the cart, there, we’ll carry him down to the inn.”
“No, I can manage on my own—” Leighton protested, and then cursed as his sudden movement sent his head spinning.
“Begging pardon, miss, but the doctor was at the inn, having his morning tea, and he’s following in his carriage,” the taller of the pair informed her. “We’re not to touch the man until he has a look at him.”
“Is someone ill?” she asked quickly. Dr. Nealy came to Hurley for only the most serious cases.
“He’s just been to see Miss Trotter, if I heard Jenny aright,” the other man answered.
“Miss Trotter? What’s happened?” She was genuinely fond of the old woman.
“Nothing that I’ve been told of, miss,” the taller man said, eyeing the recumbent Leighton. “She’s just finished that syrup she brews up for coughs. And Doctor has spoken for a good part of it—”
Leighton said, “If you’ll help me to my feet—”
“No, sir, begging pardon, sir, but the doctor has forbade you to move.”
“To hell with the doctor, then, I—”
But they could already hear a carriage clattering into the stable- yard, and within two minutes Dr. Nealy joined them.
He cleaned the blood from Leighton’s face and examined a long wound that was still weeping. It lay along Leighton’s temple and into his hairline, a welt that was ugly and red. Hidden by the heavy bleeding and matted hair, it had been impossible to see.
“Well, now,” the doctor was saying, wiping his hands on a bit of cotton and sitting back on his heels. “You were luckier than Tommy Higby’s cow!” But Leighton, at the end of his strength, fell back amid the horse blankets, his gaunt face slack and senseless.
Dr. Nealy went efficiently about his work, dressing the wound, and then wrapping gauze strips around the patient’s head to hold the dressing in place. “He’s staying at The Spotted Calf, is he not? Well, it won’t do. Too far. Miss Hatton, my dear, you’ll have to provide a bed—”
“Indeed not!” she began indignantly.
But the doctor was already adding, “Mrs. Lane can stay the night here, until he’s well enough to be moved. That will be propriety enough!”
Under Dr. Nealy’s guidance, the men bundled Leighton into the blankets, forming a rough sling, and then lifted him.
“Don’t drop him, men!” the doctor scolded sharply. “Now, in proper cadence, we’ll make our way to the kitchen door. Gently as you go—! Miss Hatton, if you will—”
She had no choice but to walk ahead of the trio, and hold the kitchen door wide. The back stairs were too narrow, and they trundled their burden up the main staircase in the hall. Francesca, ahead of them, flung open the door of a guest room. The sheets were damp, but the doctor said, “Light a fire and bring hot water bottles or even a warming pan if you can find one. Now, if you will, my dear, we need to undress him.”
She left them to it and went to find hot water bottles in the kitchen cupboard. She had filled them often for her grandfather, wrapping them in flannel to set against his feet as he lay immobile after his stroke. It took time to heat the water, and when Francesca had reached the stairs again, Mrs. Lane was hanging onto the newel post, her face still red from the effort of hurrying back from the village.
“I’ve had the inn prepare his bed—” she began, and then saw the hot water bottles in Francesca’s hands. “Oh,
my good Lord, he’s not here, is he? And the guest room sheets not aired this month or more—?”
She went hurrying up the stairs, puffing as she went, and Francesca followed close behind.
Events had happened too fast. Francesca felt violated, her house invaded, a man she disliked ensconced in one of her bedchambers, and the doctor giving instructions as if she were ten and in the way! Had he forgotten that she worked with the Red Cross? Or did he remember only that she had vomited when poor Harry’s leg had been laid open by the collapsing shed roof? At the door of the guest chamber, Mrs. Lane turned to take the water bottles. “And I’ll just be down to fetch the scuttle and start a fire in here,” she was saying.
Behind the housekeeper’s back, Francesca could hear the doctor speaking in a low voice to his patient, soothing words, meant to put him at his ease. She had the feeling Leighton was still arguing stringently to be taken to his own room. But the stalwarts from the inn had been sent away, and as she turned back to the stairs, Dr. Nealy called to her.
“There’s concussion. In addition to the wound, it appears he fell and struck the back of his head on that infernal stone. The last thing he needs is to be rattled about just now. Sometimes he’s coherent, at others he’s back in the war. He’s suffering from double vision and dizziness. You’ll have to sit with him and keep him quiet. And if he begins to vomit or falls into a deep sleep from which you can’t rouse him, send for me at once. There may be a severe headache, as well. I’ll stay the night at the inn if there’s no sign of improvement, or here, if need be.”
“If you could find a nurse—the one who tended my grandfather—”
“Miss Honneycutt has other work to do, or I’d have sent for her. Now then, nothing solid, until we see where his stomach stands. Water he can have, and weak tea with sugar in it. None of that strong brew Francis preferred! No milk. And I’ll see if Mrs. Lane can prepare a broth for the evening—”
“Is Mr. Leighton awake?”
“Yes, I’ve not let him sleep. I’ll leave you to manage his care while I go in search of Mrs. Lane.”
She couldn’t remember the last visitor who had spent the night in this room. Before the war, at any rate, and most likely friends of the cousins down from Oxford or London.
River’s End, unlike many of the houses in the Valley, had never been noted for elaborate entertaining. But the country’s prevailing mood of triumph in 1914 had been replaced by depression and austerity as the news from France grew more sobering in 1915. Shortages of food and shrinking staff had changed the nature of grand dinners or lighthearted weekends in the country. Wings of houses were closed, others were commandeered by the Army for hospitals and officer billets. The Valley was too far from the railway to be included in these lists, but the frugality of the war years had not passed it by. Some parties went on, of course, people doggedly clinging to the past or determined to put a happier face on the war. But the King and Queen had set an example of retrenching, and for the most part the nation had followed. Plays and musical events had become charity benefits, and attendance at churches across England had gone up. It was a changed society. For the better or the worse, Francesca thought, no one could predict.
She stepped quietly into the bedchamber. Leighton was lying on his back, eyes closed.
Francesca couldn’t be certain whether he was asleep or pretending. Without a word, she moved a chair so that she was not close to the bed but could still study his defenseless face.
His eyes were blue, hers hazel. He was fair, and her coloring was darker. More important than coloring, she could see that his face was structured differently, the chin less delicate, the cheekbones less pronounced.
Although—there were the same smudges of sleeplessness under his eyes as beneath hers. Was that what Bill had glimpsed at that late hour in the smoky lamplight of the pub? How often had Bill also seen her grandfather sleepless and troubled?
She noted, too, the tautness of skin that never relaxed, the lines of laughter washed away by long days and longer nights. The stress of burdens silently carried for too many years. The mark of despair. Throughout her childhood, why hadn’t she seen the despair in her grandfather’s face? Or had he been more clever at concealing it?
What was the darkness she had sensed in this man? She wondered if Miss Trotter had put a finger on it: Most of his life, Richard Leighton had loved a memory—not a reality. A woman he’d worshipped and put on a pedestal—whether she deserved it or not. If so, he must have been tormented by the knowledge that she’d deserted him—that she had loved him so little that she could walk away without a second thought, with no regrets. In some ways it must have seemed more comprehensible for Victoria Leighton to have been taken away against her will and murdered.
She was beginning to realize that Francis Hatton’s guilt was in some ways more momentous to Richard Leighton than his innocence was to Francesca.
They were locked in an impasse and neither could retreat.
Francesca went back to scanning Leighton’s face.
What had Bill seen? What had she missed? In either man?
It didn’t matter. It was a far-fetched notion to begin with, and she was too tired to care.
Leighton stirred, murmuring something she couldn’t quite catch.
Against her will, the flask of dandelion wine flitted through her mind. And there was a little of the laudanum left. But of course concussion victims were not allowed spirits. . . .
As if Leighton sensed her presence—and her mood—he said, “I dislike being here as much as you dislike having me in your house. I have told you before, I want nothing from you or yours.”
“I’d heard you were leaving this morning.”
He smiled a little. “This Valley has so many secrets. And yet it still manages to whisper about everything that happens.”
“There’s nothing otherworldly about the fact that I knew your plans. I had stopped in at the Rectory this morning. Mr. Stevens was expecting you to come and say good-bye.” She paused. “What happened in the garden? Do you know?”
“Someone shot at me. That I ducked out of habit may have saved my life. The bullet creased my skull instead of splitting it. Although the way it feels at present, he succeeded in splitting it after all—I’ve the devil of a headache!”
“There was another such accident this morning—only the first victim died. A cow.”
At that, Leighton finally opened his eyes. “A cow?”
“You’re in good company, it would seem. The shot missed Tommy Higby by inches, and hit the cow instead. Tommy is quite the hero. Everyone is talking about him!”
“Who the hell is wandering about with a rifle!” he asked testily, and then put his hand to his aching head. “Don’t you have a policeman in these benighted parts?”
“As a matter of fact we don’t have a local policeman, or a local doctor. That is, there’s one of each in Tiverton. Or Exeter. Take your pick. We borrow one when we must. There’s seldom any need for a constable in the Valley.”
“Well, someone should stop this fool before he does kill.”
“It’s a farmer after foxes or stoats. People have been losing chickens, I suppose. Meat is scarce enough without sharing it with vermin.”
There was a faint hint of humor in his question. “Are you equating me with vermin?”
“As you like,” she replied, repressing a smile. “Indeed, there’ve been times when putting you down to stop your insinuations did cross my mind. If Dr. Nealy hadn’t arrived in the nick of time, I’d have had you removed to the knacker’s yard by now.”
“God knows, I feel as if that’s where I belong. Where are my clothes?”
“Mrs. Lane is cleaning the blood off your shirt and coat. They’ll be returned as soon as they’re dry and pressed. You bled horrifically. Head wounds often do.”
Francesca thought he had drifted into sleep again. She heard him giving orders, trying to call back his men and beginning to thrash about. Afraid that he might be sinking into deeper s
leep than was safe, she went across to the bed to try waking him. Just as she got there he swore violently and opened his eyes.
“Miss Hatton. Will you fetch the doctor, please?”
“I think he’s gone back to the village—”
“Fetch him, please.” There was no doubt that he meant what he said. His face was chalk white.
Francesca did as she was told, calling to Mrs. Lane as she ran out the front door.
When Francesca returned with Dr. Nealy in tow, she found herself barred from the guest room. Leighton had been sick in her absence, and Mrs. Lane had taken it upon herself to clean the bedclothes and the floor. The doctor nodded at the news and disappeared inside.
“Nausea and dizziness. To be expected, but not welcomed,” he reported later, coming into the sitting room where Francesca was waiting, an untouched book in her lap. It was her grandfather’s translation of Juvenal, picked to distract her. “I’ll finish my luncheon at The Spotted Calf, and then come back for an hour or so until the patient is more settled.”
Francesca saw him out, then went in search of Mrs. Lane. She was pouring a can of hot water into the laundry tub; the sour odor of sickness filled the room that had been used for washing as long as Francesca could remember.
“Poor man! Quite sick, he was! And ashamed of it, too.”
“Yes, well, it’s no more than he deserves, prowling about in someone else’s grounds!”
“He explained to me that he was looking for you, to tell you he was leaving,” she said reproachfully. “After all, he’d found you there once before.”
Francesca said nothing.
With the hot water poured up to the lip of the tub and soap added, Mrs. Lane rinsed her hands. “Let that set a bit, and then I’ll finish it up. You should see his back, Miss Francesca! It’s so scarred there’s hardly any flesh that’s whole! A terrible wound and only just healing, angry and red still. No wonder he hasn’t been able to return to France!”
“England is full of men who are terribly wounded. It’s the price of war.”
“Now, Miss Francesca, you mustn’t be bitter!”