‘A little, sir.’
‘You understand that you cannot contract it?’ The road on which they travel has improved and the doctor takes the risk of leaning forward in his seat, his elbows on his knees. ‘You remember when your fingers blistered and your father was terrified that you had the pox?’
‘I remember. And you went to see our cows and two of them had blisters on their udders,’ Elen says.
‘The cows gave you a precious gift. Although I know you were not at all well for several weeks, your malady had a weaker distemper.’
‘I still bear some scars on my hands.’
‘Be thankful for them. For some reason known only to God Almighty, if you have the cowpox you will never have the smallpox. If I see a girl out and about in Presteigne market and her skin is as smooth as a baby’s, the chances are she is a milkmaid. You can be sure, the red plague will never scar and twist your face.’
‘I understand that,’ she says.
‘Something else troubles you. Do not be afraid to speak up.’
‘I was too young to remember when it took my brother and sister, but I remember how my mother suffered.’
‘Ah, is it the suffering that frightens you?’ Dr Argyll says.
She nods. She remembers it keenly along with the drudgery of caring for her siblings during a long, hot summer. She remembers the daily grind of milking the herd and her father’s baffled anger at the world. She remembers how the disease bubbled and crusted her mother’s beautiful face. When her mother was too sick to talk, Elen prayed to God to let her mother’s sickness flow into her so that she could fight it instead. When her prayers weren’t answered she cursed the cows for giving her the gift of cowpox. She wanted to be with her mother in Heaven, not stuck here on earth, crushed with sadness.
‘It’s terrible to see another person suffer, sir.’
‘It is difficult, I grant you but it is ignorance that makes us afraid. When you understand the disease, you will focus on being able to help in the most relieving way. You will know that the patient is suffering less because you are there.’
After her mam died, Elen was haunted by the image of her face covered with the pox, but as the months passed, earlier memories of her mother crept back in – the long walks the girls took together with her, up to Mam’s favourite part of the estate, Maes yr Haf, the pretty stone house nestling in a vale of fields. As they walked Mam told her and Libby tales of Greek Gods and stories of Twm Sion Cati (Libby was in love with Twm Sion Cati, never mind he’d been dead for over a century). Now when she closes her eyes at night, Elen remembers her mam with her lovely skin and her naughty laugh, her hair blowing free. She is afraid that nursing the viscount will bring back memories of her mother, sick and dying.
The trap breaks from the copse. The doctor pulls a hand free of his glove and begins scraping at the frost on the inside of the window with a fingernail, until he has cleared the glass sufficiently to assess their progress.
Elen sees the moon riding high above the mist, lightening the sky. The hall’s castellations rise up from the horizon like a conjurer’s castle, the shape as flat as if cut from a single sheet of black paper.
‘We shall make swifter progress now we have entered the park,’ Dr Argyll says, pulling his glove back on, blowing into his cupped hands and vigorously rubbing them together. She feels him watching her again as if he is uncertain he has reassured her. ‘There is something else that worries you still?’ he says.
‘There is, sir. I am afraid that the viscount may die,’ she says. As the words leave her mouth, the cold pinches at her, stealing in around her neck and creeping deep into her chest.
She imagines her father loading their possessions onto the handcart, hitching Judy and Marc up on top because they’re too young to walk, Rhodri and Libby trailing behind. In the summer they could live like the hop pickers, moving from farm to farm, but the summer is half a year away. If the viscount dies, they will have to face a frozen countryside and treacherous roads. They could be mistaken as vagrants, whipped and imprisoned.
‘We must hope that he does not – but you should not fear death itself, Miss Griffiths.’ She looks directly at him, wonders if she should tell him her fears. However, she has learned that one should never look for long at people and slowly she lets her eyes drift away as he warms to his theme. ‘I have seen many men die,’ he says. Elen wishes he would stop. ‘Many women and children too. There is peace for everyone at the end, even for the few who cling to life in terror. I have witnessed enough people die to know that however dreadful the prelude, the point of surrender is the final great moment of life. It is as if, even the ungodly rush to the arms of the Almighty with peace in their hearts.’
The doctor smiles at her then his gaze slides over to the window, the smile melting. He gives a heavy sigh, his breath forming a dense cloud that fogs the glass. ‘Let us not dwell on such a sad conclusion,’ he says. ‘I have every confidence, Miss Griffiths, that you will make the next few weeks pass for that wretched young man with a sweetness that I could certainly never bring. There really is nothing for you to fear.’
Chapter 3
The carriage plunges into the blackness of an arched tunnel, the clatter of hooves echoing around the stone walls, before it thunders across the vast courtyard of Duntisbourne Hall and shudders to a halt.
Elen presses herself back into the seat, turning her head to one side, for the doctor is on his feet, bent double in the confined space. He struggles to loosen the sash, letting the window drop with a crash. A blast of paralysing frost gusts into the carriage.
‘Hurry, man,’ Dr Argyll yells up to the footman. ‘Climb down and release this door.’
Elen follows the doctor out of the carriage and as she steps down onto the frozen gravel, she gazes upwards. The whole building is in darkness apart from the wing to their left, towards which the doctor heads. A small door opens, throwing a patch of light across the mist, hovering ankle deep above the ground. A figure carrying a lantern hurries towards them.
‘God’s blood. What took you so long?’ someone calls out in the darkness.
‘Language, Harley. I have Miss Griffiths with me.’
‘Miss Griffiths be damned, the house is in uproar. The viscount has been bellowing so loud he can be heard from the servants’ quarters.’
‘Come, my dear,’ the doctor says, holding a hand out towards her and flicking his fingers to encourage her to hurry. ‘Leave your bag. Mr Harley will take it.’
She stands away from the carriage door to let the fellow reach inside. ‘Do you mean this sack?’ Mr Harley says, holding it up.
As she tries to snatch it from him, the light of the lamp falls across his face. Elen starts. The valet is not yet thirty and his face is a great deal more pleasant than his manner. He doesn’t wear a periwig. Instead his tough hair, springing from his forehead, is pulled from his face, plaited at the back into a neat queue.
He seems equally surprised. His left eyebrow begins to rise and the corner of his mouth follows as if he struggles to stop himself from grinning. ‘Begging your pardon, miss,’ he says with a mock bow. ‘I imagine you were obliged to pack in haste.’
The doctor comes to a halt and shouts back, ‘And you, Mr Harley, judged in haste. Miss Griffiths, here, is the angel the viscount has prayed for.’
‘If he ever prays,’ Mr Harley says.
‘Indeed,’ the doctor says. ‘Now bring the bag and hurry.’
Elen follows but before she passes into the building, she pauses. She has seen the hall from the estate many times but now it seems as if she stands in a vast outdoor room, all the windows black around her, except for there, high above the front door at the centre of the building, a faint light burning out into the night. Is that where the heir to this enormous estate lies, racked with disease with no one bold enough to help him except Dr Argyll and now herself?
‘Come along, Miss Griffiths,’ the doctor calls. ‘We have taken too long as it is.’
* * *
> The servants’ entrance to the hall takes them down into an undercroft. The air is colder here than outside. Elen’s footsteps echo around the lofty underground tunnel as she hurries to keep up with the guttering flame of the lantern ahead. She tries not to stride. She is too tall to be called delicate, too wiry to feel womanly.
The light jumps in the draughts that swirl around them, throwing the shadows of her companions onto the walls where they seem to dance, distorting into lowering fiends before flitting away as the next gigantic demon rises from the floor. Elen is aware of dark corridors snaking off to her left and right. She hardly dares to look down them as she passes, for fear of seeing something crouching in the shadows.
The valet hurries up a set of stairs, the doctor following, his cloak billowing out behind him. As they reach the top, a heavy door opens and a weak light spills down the steps. She hesitates. Have they reached the sick chamber so soon?
Catching her breath, she enters the room. It is poorly lit but mercifully warmed by a fire beside which several comfortable chairs have been drawn. Elen looks around, now and again lowering her eyes so as not to appear too curious. No, she thinks, this cannot be the sick chamber. The walls are lined with shelves stacked with bowls, flasks, baskets and glasses. A large Welsh dresser dominates another wall. She recognises the earl’s crest on the china.
A thick-set fellow in his late forties, with the pale doughy face of a man who enjoys his food, gets to his feet, buttoning up his waistcoat. She can see from his livery that he is the steward.
‘Ah, Mr Antrobus,’ Dr Argyll says, moving into the room.
Elen stays by the door, unsure where she is meant to stand. Mr Harley, the young valet, beckons her forward to wait beside him. That is kind of him, she thinks. He places her bag at their feet, looking up at her from beneath his brow, then stands to attention, his hands folded behind his back.
Elen wonders what he makes of her. She still expects people to think her tall, as she was as a child. By the age of twelve she towered over her elder brothers. Mr Harley is stocky and almost as tall her, which she finds pleasing.
Mr Antrobus points to a tray on the large table in the middle of the room. ‘I have put out the jugs of small beer and a tankard as you requested,’ he says to the doctor.
Elen frowns. After all this rush and bustle, she is surprised the doctor has time to take refreshment, but instead he studies the tray, nods his approval and says, ‘Thank you, Mr Antrobus. Could you also furnish me with a handful of candles?’
Mr Antrobus retrieves a large bunch of keys from the table by the fire, singles one out and beckons to Mr Harley. The valet dips his head towards Elen to indicate she should stay where she stands, before taking the keys and unlocking a tall cupboard at the back of the room.
‘How many, sir?’ he calls over his shoulder.
‘A dozen should see us through, if you would be so kind. And send up another basket of wood. We must keep the sickroom as warm as possible throughout the night.’
Mr Harley places the candles on the tray, and as he turns to take up his position beside her, Elen sees the corner of one eye momentarily close with the faintest of winks.
The doctor lifts the tray, jangling the jugs against one another.
‘I will carry this, Miss Griffiths. It is too heavy for you to manage.’ She feels a flash of irritation. Her slenderness makes people underestimate her strength. ‘Bring your bag and follow me, please. Bring the lamp also.’
Mr Harley moves across the room to open the door for the doctor. After he has passed through, the valet leans forward and says quietly to her, ‘I will see you shortly I hope, Miss Griffiths.’
She smiles at him and turns to follow the doctor. She is not used to catching a man’s eye. They leave the warmth and comfort of the steward’s pantry behind and start up a second flight of stairs. As they climb into the gloom, the doctor says, ‘It is not safe for the viscount to drink water while the fever has him in its grip. I have told Mr Antrobus he will need at least twelve pints of small beer every twenty-four hours. You must make sure he takes it. As the boils develop in his mouth and throat, the hops will keep his saliva clean.’
They reach the top and the doctor pushes his shoulder against the baize of a door. As they step out onto a gallery, Elen is aware, even in the darkness, that there is a vast drop beside them on the right. She clutches momentarily at a handrail to steady herself.
‘We are above the great hall now,’ the doctor says, his voice hushed.
Elen gazes down into the void. The very edge of the pool of light thrown by her lantern illuminates part of a huge staircase sweeping up towards them, the shadows of banners shifting gently in the icy breeze that moves through the great space.
A muffled cry of fury from above echoes around the hall. The doctor, his hands busy with the tray, cocks his head and widens his eyes to indicate she needs to follow him. She hurries along the gallery until her lantern shines on a small oak door studded in metal where the doctor waits, nodding at the latch for Elen to open it.
Dropping her bag to the ground, she struggles with the handle. It frees with a clunk that echoes and dies away. As she pulls the door open, the shouting increases in intensity. The doctor begins to ascend a narrow spiral staircase. She snatches up her belongings and follows, her bag pinioned to her side to leave a free hand to support herself against the central column of stone as she climbs.
‘Keep close to me,’ the doctor calls back to her. ‘You plunge me into darkness if I am more than a turn ahead.’
Elen has to stoop to fit beneath the fan of steps above her head and by the time they make the first twist, the narrow treads behind her have spiralled out of sight. She has the terrible sense she is trapped in a column of rock.
Up and up they clamber, round and round, the doctor’s breathing becoming heavier with the exertion, the soles of his boots crunching the pieces of grit on the steps. Another bellow of profanity funnels down from above, the sound reverberating around the stone, causing the doctor to pause for a moment. ‘Close your ears, Miss Griffiths, I beg you,’ he says.
Chapter 4
When they eventually reach the top the doctor presses himself against the wall, clutching the tray of beer to enable Elen to struggle by to reach the door handle. The doctor’s laboured breath is hot on her cheek, tainted with the smell of alcohol and tobacco. She opens the door and he hurries in to set the tray on a low table in the centre of the room. Elen hesitates in the doorway. The stifling air within stinks of male sweat – not the pleasant musk of fresh exercise but a sour smell, like fox or tomcat.
The room is large and low ceilinged, several candles gutter in alcoves around the walls. Elen strains her eyes into the gloom. A faint russet glow comes from a fire that has all but burned itself out. A feather of smoke leans into the room and is gathered up into the draught. As the shadows move and clot, she notices a bed on the far side of the room, draped with faded fabric. On top of it, she sees the pale shape of a bed shirt and can just make out the prostrate body of the man who wears it.
The doctor takes the lantern and together they approach the bed. His patient lies face down, his head turned towards them. By the dim light, she sees his eyes are tight closed. She is struck by his youth and exhaustion. Perhaps all the bellowing has worn him out. As the doctor holds the lantern to his face, he stirs but barely has the strength to lift his head.
The doctor puts the lantern on the table and squats at the side of the bed, peering into the young man’s face. Satisfied he is still alive, he stands. ‘Miss Griffiths, I need more light. Fetch the candles from the tray and fill the sconces by the bed.’ The doctor hooks the hangings out of the way. ‘You will find a candelabrum in the vestibule through there. Bring it also.’
Glad of the industry, Elen lights the extra candles until the part of the room around the bed is bright with flame. The doctor reaches for the viscount’s shoulders, struggling to pull him onto his back. ‘Miss Griffiths,’ he calls over his shoulder, ‘a hand,
if you would be so kind. Gather the pillows up in such a fashion as to allow me to place him in a sitting position.’
The doctor struggles to haul him up the bed then turns to her, needing help. She doesn’t want to grasp the viscount, to feel the sweat that stains his shirt. Instead she picks up some pillows, moves them to the top of the bed. The linen is fine and smooth but she can see dark stains blooming across the white.
‘Put those down,’ the doctor says, grunting with effort. ‘Kneel on that side of the bed. Help me. He has quite swooned away.’
Elen hitches her skirts up and wriggles across the wide bed until she reaches the patient. She can feel the heat pouring from his body as she grasps his upper arm. The crescent of sweat under the sleeve isn’t wet. It’s dry and crisp. She splays her knees, braces her body and hauls the viscount up the bed. The doctor looks across at her and says, ‘Well done, Miss Griffiths. You have a deal of strength in those limbs after all.’
She purses her lips and nods. The doctor touches the viscount’s forehead and shakes his head. ‘Too dry. That is not a good sign, not a good sign at all. A wet fever heals, but a dry fever kills.’
He leans forward and lays the back of his hand against the viscount’s chest where his shirt has fallen open. The marks of the pox are clearly visible in the bright candlelight. Elen counts ten spots by the doctor’s hand, a shower across the collarbone, more up the neck and into the face, as if someone has taken a handful of red dust and flung it across him. The blemishes are small and flat, but she knows that within a matter of days, each one of them will bubble and fill.
The Summer Fields Page 2