The doctor goes over to the tray of beer. She sits back on her heels and continues her study. She has never been this close to the viscount before. His hair is blue-black in the candlelight. He has a broad brow and straight nose but none of the refinement she expected. His lips are well defined but already beginning to blister along the margins. Sometimes she caught sight of him riding on the estate but her imagination must have embellished the impression he made, cantering past in the distance. Now she thinks him a rather ordinary young man.
At that moment his lids spring open and she starts back, surprised not so much by his abrupt return to consciousness as by the colour of his eyes. They are an extraordinary blue and shine with the lustre of sapphires, the pupils as wide as an opium user. He stares at her with unblinking ferocity until she edges away and drops to the floor. Yet still they gaze upon each other.
The doctor hurries back to the bed with a tankard of small beer and slips an arm behind the young man’s head, raising the tankard to his lips. The patient drinks with difficulty, flinching as he swallows – the pox is in his mouth and throat already.
The fierce, tremendous eyes alight again on Elen. ‘What’s that draggle tail?’ he says, his voice weak but disdainful.
‘This is Miss Griffiths, my lord. She will be here to serve you through your sickness.’
The viscount grasps the doctor by the edge of his coat and pulls him close. ‘I do not want her, damn you,’ he hisses. ‘This is men’s business.’
The doctor sighs. ‘If I could spend every hour at your side, my lord, you know I would.’
‘Send me Harley,’ he says. ‘He can be my valet.’
‘I cannot. He has never had the pox.’
‘The pox? I cannot have the pox. I must take up my commission. The army leaves for the Continent within weeks.’
‘I know they do, my lord. But you are far too sick at present to join your regiment.’
‘I have measles, nothing more than measles.’
‘You had that as a child. I attended you myself. It is impossible for it to visit you again.’
‘Get me my steward. Send for Antrobus.’
‘I cannot. You have the red plague, my lord.’
‘I do not,’ he says vehemently, setting off a fit of coughing.
Elen backs away, afraid of the spittle flying from his lips. The doctor gestures to the bowl at the side of the bed and she shoves it at him, shielding her mouth and swallowing hard as the viscount hacks and spits into it. He lies back, exhausted and says, ‘Damn you, Argyll. Bring a man to attend me.’
‘There is no one else,’ the doctor says. ‘Miss Griffiths is a very capable country girl who nursed her mother during the same affliction. Here, Miss Griffiths, take this.’ Dr Argyll holds the bowl towards her.
Elen recoils. The doctor gives her a sharp look, snatches up a napkin from the table and throws it across the top of the bowl. ‘Are you able to take it now?’ he says.
Viscount Mordiford grasps at the doctor, pulling him close and hissing in his ear, ‘She cannot even stand the sight of spit. What use is she to me? Send her away, I tell you.’
‘I can assure you,’ the doctor says, ‘that for the time being, I alone will attend to any…’ the doctor clears his throat, adding in a quieter tone, ‘…intimate duties.’
‘Fates preserve me,’ Viscount Mordiford says, closing his eyes. The doctor watches for a moment then gets to his feet.
‘He will sleep now,’ he says to Elen. ‘Hurry along. Empty that bowl and clean it up.’
She scurries behind the screen where she finds a washstand and a table on which stands piles of napkins and a jar of glowing lavender stalks. The resinous smoke rising from them does not counteract the smell coming from a large bucket, standing in one corner and covered by a wooden lid.
Elen slips the toe of her boot underneath the handle to lift it and, looking away, kicks it aside. A sharp smell of ammonia and excrement rises into her nostrils. She tries to breathe through her mouth but the tang is sufficiently strong for her to taste it. Staring at the wall above the bucket, she tips the bowl.
The doctor appears, arms folded. ‘You are going to have to modify your sensibilities young woman if you are going to be any help at all.’
‘I don’t like pus.’ She gulps several times to quell her nausea.
‘You had better get used to it. You will be dealing with quantities of laudable pus before the week’s out. Imagine what that poor young man is suffering.’
Elen doesn’t want to.
‘Anyway,’ the doctor says, ‘I must leave you now.’
‘Surely not,’ she says. She drops the bowl onto the washstand with a clang. ‘You cannot leave me here alone. My father would not allow it. This is not decent, sir.’
‘What a nonsense,’ the doctor says. ‘You must be able to see with your own eyes that you are quite safe. Look at that poor wretch. He can do you no harm.’
‘It is not proper for me to spend a night here alone with the viscount.’
‘Proper? Oh, put your foolish scruples aside. Do you think the servants tittle tattle about what goes on at the hall?’
‘I know they do, sir.’
‘In this situation I assure you they will not.’ The doctor checks his watch. He snaps it closed again. ‘Anyway, you will have to get used to it. You heard the viscount mention just now his desire to leave with the army. He must delay but I cannot.’
‘You intend leaving?’
‘I must travel to The Hague in the next few weeks, by which time, if the viscount is not fully recovered, you will be in sole charge of his care. You must see, the situation cannot be helped.’
She stares back at him with mute defiance.
‘Come now,’ the doctor says, indicating a chaise longue in the corner of the room beside the fire. ‘There is a comfortable and warm spot where you can sleep and keep an ear and eye on your patient. A servant will rap on the lower door when the wood arrives and you can go down and collect it.’
‘And later on in the night, I am expected to avail myself of that earth bucket, am I sir?’
‘Miss Griffiths. I do not care for your tone. At the risk of repeating myself, you have no choice. Accept it, for I shall not retract. If you need to carry out any personal ablutions you will find a selection of handy and practical notions here, in the vestibule.’
Elen maintains her sullen expression even though she knows the battle is lost. Presently she sighs and says, ‘What should I do if he wakes again and discovers you are not here?’
‘You must give him beer, as much as he can drink.’ As he turns to leave he hesitates and touches her on the arm. ‘Your selfless aid, my dear, will not go unnoticed nor unrewarded, of that I am sure.’ The doctor guides Elen back into the sickroom and says quietly, ‘Make sure the covers are placed no higher on his body than the waist. Now that the rash has started to appear, his fever should abate. I will visit the apothecary in the morning and collect some tansy to bring out the sweats.’
‘And if he complains a deal about the itching? I remember my mother’s agony as the spots began to fill.’
‘Yes, indeed. I may encourage him to take some yarrow or pennyroyal. Tomorrow we must begin to sponge the skin regularly with burdock root. Whatever we do, we must not stop the evil humours breaking from the body. This is nature’s way of dispelling the distemper.’ The doctor gives her arm a hearty pat of comradeship, swirls his cloak onto his shoulders and is gone.
Elen is about to close the upper door when she hears a discreet tapping from below. Glancing over her shoulder to make sure that her patient is still asleep, she makes her way down several turns of the staircase and calls out in a loud whisper, ‘Who is it?’
‘Ned Harley,’ the reply floats up. ‘I have wood for your fire.’
She looks down at the steps receding into the darkness. She needs her lantern. ‘Leave it there,’ she calls out quietly. ‘I will fetch it shortly,’ and she makes her way back up the stairs to the chamber. Gra
sping the lantern from the table, she holds it above the viscount for a few moments before setting off down the spiral stairs. She rests the lantern on the final step and opens the gallery door.
A wall of blackness greets her, as dense as a velvet curtain, hung across her face. The lamp lights the edge of a basket of wood and, as she reaches forward to take some logs, she sees the glint of an eye in the darkness. She jumps back, her hand stifling a cry.
Chapter 5
‘Why, Miss Griffiths, I never meant to startle you,’ Ned Harley says, stepping from the shadows.
‘Oh, my goodness,’ Elen says, catching her breath. ‘I’m glad to see a familiar face.’
And she certainly is. The valet stands before her with an expression of polite concern, which makes his face boyish and pleasant.
‘Did you think me some kind of phantom?’ he says. ‘It can be strange out in the main house at night in winter. I sometimes fancy these portraits watch me as I move along the gallery.’ The wind moans and Ned lifts a finger to his ear and smiles. ‘But wait until the spring when the earl begins to entertain again. Then you will find us merrier company, I’m sure.’
‘My duties will be despatched long before the spring comes,’ she says.
‘That’ll be a pity – not for his lordship, of course, because I wish him a speedy recovery, but certainly for me.’
She looks away. ‘Does the earl not entertain during the winter?’ she says.
‘Hardly ever. It’s a hopeless task to heat this great mausoleum. Most of the time it’s just us servants here. Since the coronation of dear Queen Anne, the earl spends most of his winters at Court where he can keep warm for next to nothing, no doubt generating a deal of hot air with his compliments to Her Majesty.’ He gives her a warm smile and says, ‘Now, let me help you with this wood.’ He lifts the basket from the ground and stands, awaiting her instruction.
‘I cannot allow it,’ she says. ‘It’s not safe for you to come up unless you’ve had the pox.’
‘I’ve been saved that misfortune, I’m happy to say, but if that’s your concern, I need not enter the room. I will merely carry the basket to the top for you.’
‘Are you not worried the miasmas may funnel down the stairs from the room above?’
‘Not particularly,’ he says.
‘You are either very brave or very foolish.’
‘I am neither.’ He smiles with a roguish vigour and leans forward as far as the basket of wood allows. The willow handles creak as he bends. ‘I am protected from a great many afflictions by an accident of birth.’
Elen frowns, certain he is teasing her. ‘Whatever can you mean?’
‘Well, Miss Griffiths, as this is the first evening I’ve made your acquaintance and the accident of which I speak is of a – how shall I phrase it? – a mildly personal nature, I think I may maintain an air of mystery for a little longer, at least until we’re more familiar with one another.’
She feels a blush of heat rising. Did she pry? No, Ned volunteered the confidence. ‘But suffice it to say,’ he continues, ‘I have no concerns whatsoever about the pox, whether I enter the room or not. My only worry is that you may well be razed by fear should you have to journey into this cold and dark place to fetch more wood later on tonight.’ He gives her a warm and encompassing smile. ‘Imagine my horror were I to find you tomorrow morning, ice cold in death with your face twisted into a mask of stark and staring terror.’
‘Now I know you’re teasing me,’ she says, but she smiles despite herself.
‘I sincerely hope so. Now come, hold the door open for me and I will take the logs to the highest step you will allow.’
Up they climb, Ned striding in front with a lithe motion, carrying the heavy load as if it were a nothing. When he reaches the top landing, again Elen is forced to squeeze around to reach the door. This time, the experience is not at all unpleasant and he gives her a jaunty smile as she brushes past. For the few moments that they share the air within this confined space, she catches a clean smell coming off his body that reminds her of fresh laundry and crushed cloves. How she wishes the man on the other side of the door smelt as clean and healthy as the valet.
‘Thank you,’ she whispers, her hand on the latch of the door.
‘Are you sure there’s nothing else I can help you with?’ he says. ‘Have you eaten? I could fetch something from the kitchens if you wished.’
‘Please don’t trouble yourself. I have little appetite at this time of night.’
‘Well then…’ he hesitates and she wishes he would linger. ‘I’m sure I’ll see you tomorrow, Miss Griffiths, and remember, if there’s anything, anything at all, you only have to come down to the undercroft and find me.’
‘I will, sir.’
‘Please call me Ned. Goodnight, Miss Griffiths,’ he says, setting off down the stairs. Just before he disappears around the first turn, he looks back at her, nods and drops out of sight into the darkness.
She waits until she hears the door into the gallery close, then sighs and gathers up an armful of logs before letting herself into the sick chamber. The air is stuffy and she wrinkles her nose at the tang of sweat.
Viscount Mordiford lies in the same position as when she left. She goes over to the hearth, kneels down in front of the fire and takes up the poker. She likes building fires. She bares the embers and breaks up some of the twigs, gently blowing into the ash until they catch. Once they are burning merrily, she makes a tripod of smaller logs, sitting back on her haunches and watching the flames dance higher. The warmth and light lift her spirits, and she gets to her feet, brushing the smuts off her hands.
When she turns, she starts back. Viscount Mordiford is staring at her from the bed, his eyes burning with fever. ‘Who’s there?’ he says.
‘It’s Miss Griffiths, your lordship.’ He doesn’t respond. ‘My name is Elen,’ she adds, taking a few steps towards him.
His gaze remains focused on the spot where she has been. He is not looking at her at all but at the shadows thrown up by the fire. As she watches, he begins rocking his head on the pillows as if trying to tear his eyes away from what he sees. ‘Not us,’ he shouts out. ‘Forgive ourselves. Everyone forgive ourselves…’ His expression melts into despair and a sigh catches in his throat.
Elen hurries to the vestibule and fills a basin with water. Grasping up a napkin, she soaks it and returns to the sickbed. She squeezes the cloth and places it across his forehead. Immediately his hand comes up to strike it away but weakness prevails and he lets it be.
And so the long night continues. Between stoking the fire, cooling her patient and feeding him hourly with beer, she wonders if she will ever find a moment to sleep. Then she wonders if she should sleep at all. Perhaps the doctor expects her to stay awake. She cannot seem to keep the room warm enough, however much she banks the fire. She sits close to the flames, her face burning hot, the back of her arms chilled from a draught that has found its way under the eaves. She watches Viscount Mordiford as she used to keep watch when a cow was labouring.
At times he thrashes around, flinging the covers away and tearing at his clothing. Then he lies so still and white she thinks him dead and creeps across the room, peering down at him, watching for the rise and fall of his chest.
She has a terrible feeling that her presence here will not be enough to save her family. The viscount must live. His death could bring greater hardship to her than even the death of her poor, dear mother. The novelty of her arrival at the hall has lost all its gloss. The night is cold, uncomfortable and interminable.
Eventually she notices a patch of grey, low in the wall near the bed. It is a window, small and leaded, perhaps the one she saw, burning high above the portico, when she first arrived.
The discovery makes her ridiculously happy. She crosses the room and presses her nose against the panes. The courtyard is a patchwork of greys and black shadows, the lake white beyond where the mist rises. Dawn is here. At last, morning has broken.
T
he fresh supply of candles has almost burned away and, eager to be ready for the doctor’s arrival, she goes into the vestibule to see if she can find more. She notices another weak glow, this time at the foot of the wall some feet away. In the half-light she realises it is not a wall at all but a hanging made of heavy fabric.
It is threadbare and worn, but she can make out the faint shapes of huntsmen and hounds, a white hart, his mouth open in terror, rearing up on a carpet of delicate fronds and flowers. Three of the hounds have him by the flanks, their teeth sinking into his flesh. The hanging moves gently in a draught, lifting and sinking back like the side of a giant creature. She presses her hands against it, feels a wall a few feet behind it and, curious to know why it moves, she feels for the edge of the tapestry and slips behind.
She finds herself between the back of the heavy tapestry and a rough stone wall. Up ahead she sees light spilling out from an alcove. She begins to inch her way towards it, dipping her head beneath the sheets of cobweb, heavy with dust, which hang from the ceiling. She presses them aside and hears the patter of loosened dust fall to the floor. She comes to a door of blackened pine, light spilling out around the frame. The simple latch is made of iron but beneath it a beam of light shines out through a large keyhole.
‘It will be locked,’ she says to herself as she reaches for the latch. It lifts easily.
Chapter 6
‘Miss Griffiths!’ Dr Argyll says from the other side of the tapestry. He sounds angry. Elen eases the latch down and hurries back behind the hanging. ‘Miss Griffiths?’ The doctor’s voice is close, just the other side. She reaches the corner and tumbles out.
The doctor is staring at the hanging, frowning, trying to follow her progress. He makes a little noise when he sees her, then draws himself up and expands his chest. ‘What on earth are doing behind there?’ he says. ‘You are meant to be with the patient.’
‘I am sorry sir. I saw a light and went to see what it was.’
The Summer Fields Page 3