‘She taught at our little village school after her marriage,’ the earl says.
‘She did, my lord.’
The earl takes a step towards her and, unable to move without appearing rude, she leans back to increase the space between them.
‘I hope that your father has not missed you too greatly,’ the earl says, dropping his voice. His nostrils flare imperceptibly as if he is scenting the air around her, like a wolf.
‘I would not know, my lord as I have neither seen nor spoken to him since my arrival. He is a capable man. I am sure he has found a way to manage.’
There is a pause. Elen looks away, aware that the earl is running his eyes down her body. When she looks up again, his gaze has returned to her face and he watches her with a lazy blink of the eyes before turning and making his way over to the fireplace where a lively fire is burning. He looks down at the flames, his back turned towards them, and says, ‘I have been thinking through our last communication, Argyll. I am of course delighted to hear that Crispin is, in your opinion, over the worst of the illness.’
The doctor throws a warning glance towards Elen and replies, ‘As are we, my lord.’
‘My concerns now are the after-effects of the disease.’ The earl turns and speaks directly to Elen. ‘Do you think my son a handsome man, Miss Griffiths?’
She doesn’t know how to answer. She has only known him swollen with the pox.
‘I cannot say, my lord.’
‘Oh, come now, you must have an opinion. Is he not fine featured, does he not have a head full of youthful hair and the body of an athlete? Why, you have had an opportunity to judge my son’s physical attributes better than any woman in this county.’ For the second time in as many minutes, she feels herself beginning to blush under the intense and amused gaze of the earl.
The doctor intervenes. ‘It is hard to tell at present if the viscount will carry the scars of his affliction or not.’
‘Hmm.’ The earl is thoughtful for a moment, then says, ‘The difficulty is that Lady Ludlow is eager to know how her daughter’s intended is recovering. What am I supposed to tell her?’
‘That the viscount will recover and shall bear any scars that remain with fortitude, my lord,’ the doctor says.
‘Do you believe that?’
The doctor doesn’t reply.
‘I see you do not.’
The earl leaves the hearth and paces around the carpet. ‘This is all very tiresome. That boy has caused me no end of trouble in his short life. If he must join the army and get himself killed, the least he could do, before departing, is make a good marriage.’
‘And I am sure he will.’
‘I do not share your confidence. His cousin Arabella is a sophisticated and cultured girl and her mother, Lady Ludlow, puts great value on appearance. I cannot imagine either will look kindly on Crispin if this disease leaves him disfigured.’ The earl turns to the doctor and adds with surprising cruelty. ‘As disfigured as you, for example.’
Elen can bear it no longer. ‘If the viscount recovers sufficiently to own a countenance as noble as the doctor’s, he will be a lucky man,’ she says.
The earl swings round. ‘What’s that you say, girl?’
She is saved from defending herself by a knock on the door.
‘Your visitors have arrived, my lord,’ Mr Antrobus says.
‘Good. I am quite finished here,’ the earl says, making an impatient gesture for the doctor to take his leave.
Dr Argyll glares at Elen and nods his head towards the door to encourage her to move. They pass Mr Antrobus and as they round the corner into the corridor, two men and a woman are waiting to be announced. The men are deep in conversation with the woman whose dress and presentation surprise Elen. Unlike the gentlemen, who are clearly well bred, she seems over-dressed, her face coloured and bright, her wig fanciful. The men watch Elen with a crafty gaze as she passes. Had they been younger she may have been flattered for they are clearly men of culture, but their seniority makes their interest unpleasant.
She hears one of them speak to the other although she cannot catch what he says. The laugh his remark produces in his audience leaves her in little doubt that they are talking about her and that their observations are not polite.
The moment they reach the stairs, Dr Argyll turns on her and says, ‘What on earth possessed you to say such a thing to the earl?’ His voice is tight with exasperation.
‘I could not stand there and let him insult you so.’
‘As you insulted me but ten minutes earlier?’ He glares at her but she doesn’t respond. Presently the doctor continues, ‘It is up to me to deal with any perceived insult from the earl. The man has every right to be distressed about his son.’
‘He would be exceedingly distressed if you told him the severity of the viscount’s condition.’
‘Be very careful, Miss Griffiths. You have too sharp a tongue. I cannot seem to convince you that the earl will not take a sanguine view of failure in the matter of his son’s health.’
‘He did not seem overly sympathetic to his plight.’
‘That is not for us to say. I am sure he is concerned.’
‘He was more concerned with how his son would look than how he would recover.’
‘Miss Griffiths, that is enough. That spirit of yours will land you in all sorts of trouble if you cannot learn to hold your tongue. Now come along, I had better get you back to the sick room before you do any more damage.’
She is sorry she has made him angry – it was not her intention. However, once they reach the door into the gallery he turns and says, ‘Perhaps you were attempting to make amends for your earlier remarks. It was valiant of you to come to my defence, but you must understand the earl has become extremely changeable of late. It is dangerous to speak out to such a man. Our situation here is precarious in the extreme.’ She opens her mouth to justify herself but the doctor raises a hand to quiet her. ‘No, I do not want to hear any more about it. Now, come along, I need to assess the patient.’
Chapter 16
‘How do you feel, sir?’ Dr Argyll says, seating himself on a chair beside the bed where Mordiford lies. He stirs and his lids flutter as he tries to open them, but a yellow rheum has built up, fusing his eyelashes together.
‘Let me bathe his eyes,’ Elen says. ‘I think he battles to open them.’
‘Very well.’
She goes over to the iron pot that stands on the hearth and scoops warmed water into a bowl. She dissolves a pinch of salt in the water; tears are salty, she thinks, this will be more comfortable than plain water.
When she returns to the bed, the doctor has taken hold of Mordiford’s arm and is studying the pocks. Even the palms of his hand are now thick with scabs. She moistens a piece of cotton, squeezes it out and rests it on Mordiford’s lids. His cracked lips move. She is certain he mouths the words, ‘Thank you.’ His lids open and she sees that the whites of his eyes are as red as a coot’s.
‘How do you feel, sir?’ the doctor repeats.
‘My life,’ he whispers, ‘is being pulled from me like a tooth.’
The doctor rises slowly to his feet. He stares down at Mordiford then beckons Elen away from the bed. She follows him over to the shadows on the far side of the room where they cannot be heard. A single candle gutters and dips in the stone alcove, throwing a sickly light onto the doctor’s face. He is very pale.
‘He has taken a severe turn for the worse,’ he says, his voice almost a stammer. ‘The fever has a putrid quality.’ He moves nearer to her and whispers, ‘I cannot see how he will survive the night.’ Elen looks back at the poor wretch lying prone on the bed and does not believe him. His heart still beats, his lips still move, his eyes still open. The possibility of such a catastrophe has been with her all the time but still she is not prepared.
‘Surely there is something we can do?’ she says.
The doctor blinks rapidly, his eyes darting around the room. With a sense of rising alarm, she sees h
is panic. His breathing quickens. Beads of sweat ooze from his forehead. His hand goes up to his mouth and he brushes his fingers firmly across his lips. Elen grips him by the sleeve and gives his arm a shake to get his attention.
‘We must soak him. Doctor, listen to me. You told me the story of the salted lake. Those men were close to death and yet by morning they were well.’
‘It is impossible,’ he says, his eyes staring past her, watching first the candle, then jumping across the room to the body of Mordiford. ‘The steward says it is impossible. We cannot. Cannot.’
‘Cannot what?’
‘Do it. We cannot take him out of here. We would risk the lives of everyone in the house, in the county. We are incarcerated up here – and up here, we cannot submerge him. Mr Antrobus has said. It is impossible to get any kind of receptacle up that wretched spiral of a staircase. The earl will find out I have lied, think me a quack and a charlatan. We are trapped. Trapped up here and all we can do is watch him die. Watch him die, do you hear me?’
‘We shall not watch him die. We must find a way to submerge him.’
‘We cannot. All is lost.’
‘Hush!’ she says, looking over towards Mordiford. ‘He will hear you.’
The doctor tucks his chin in and scowls at her, but she carries on. ‘Doctor, listen to me. We must think of a way. It is his only hope.’ She pulls the doctor over towards the fire and pushes him into the chair beside it. She pours a glass of beer, presses it into his hands and kneels in front of him.
When he stares at the flames, she rouses him by lifting the base of the glass towards his mouth until he takes a sip and then a draught. Finally, he gives a great sigh that shakes his whole frame. ‘Yes, I am calmer. Thank you, Miss Griffiths. I am calmer now.’
All the while she watches his struggle, her mind is planning, skimming through ideas and solutions. One idea flashes brighter than the others and she grips him by the knee. ‘We need canvas,’ she says, ‘a waterproofed canvas.’
‘What? What for?’
‘Canvas holds water.’
‘I know canvas holds water,’ the doctor says impatiently, puckering his forehead.
‘We can bring a sheet of canvas up the stairs quite easily and sling it between the ceiling joists like a hammock in the bowels of a ship.’
‘Why? What are you babbling on about?’ and he claps a hand to his ear as if he wants to block out her voice.
‘It is this that we will fill with brine. It is this in which we will soak him.’
The doctor’s face creases, then the muscles relax with understanding. He looks fixedly at her. Another thought seems to strike him and he frowns again, shakes his head. ‘You and I will never be able to lift him,’ he says. ‘And I will not ask that scullion wench to help. She will not hold her tongue. The earl will know I am failing even before the viscount slips off this mortal coil.’
‘You are not failing. We shall not fail. We can lay him on it before we raise it. We will fill it after it is raised.’ The doctor shakes his head more emphatically, flaps his hand at her. He may wish she would leave him in peace, but she perseveres. ‘We can do this, you and I. My father and I have raised the weight of a whole cow using nothing but a block.’
‘A block?’
‘Yes. A block. There is bound to be one here at the hall. For hauling grain or feed. We secure one end of the hammock to a beam and raise the other end from the floor with pulleys.’
‘The weight of the water alone will bring the whole thing down.’
‘Then we shall make it strong.’
‘The water will chill him. The man will die of exposure.’
She nearly pinches him in exasperation. She presses her lips together to compose herself, and says, ‘His fever is so high he will heat the water himself.’ The doctor looks at her with some surprise. ‘And we shall sling the hammock close to the fire,’ she says. ‘I shall keep the water topped up from the hot pot throughout the night and if, by morning, all has failed, at least we would have tried.’
‘But it is madness to try…’
‘It is madness not to, sir.’
Chapter 17
The last light of the afternoon is bleeding away when Elen reaches the minstrels’ gallery. She peers into the great hall below. All was quiet. She takes the service stairs to the undercroft. She can hear the servants moving around in the common parlour and stands for a few moments listening out for Ned’s voice.
Just then a pot boy comes out and she says, ‘I have a message for the valet. Do you know where I can find him?’
‘He’s up in the steward’s pantry, miss,’ the lad says.
She finds Ned quite alone, cleaning boots. He glances up with an expression of indifference when she opens the door. Then his eyes widen and a huge smile spreads and opens his face.
He flings the cloth aside and jumps to his feet. ‘Why, Miss Griffiths,’ he says, his face tinged with a faint glow as if caught out by his own lack of guile. ‘What a welcome sight you are on a dreary afternoon filled with drudgery.’
The pantry has a cheerful fire burning in the grate and is filled with the heady scent of beeswax and tallow. Closing the door as much as she dares without raising the suspicions of the rest of the staff, she goes and sits down next to him at the table.
‘I’m afraid I have more work for you, if you will help me with a task.’
‘Help you? Of course. How mysterious you are. What can it be?’
‘Can you keep a secret? Oh, I know you can.’
‘You have promised to keep my secret. How can I deny you the same privilege?’ he says, drawing his chair closer to hers so that their knees almost touch. He wears a canvas apron over his shirt, the sleeves of which are rolled up to his elbows. She glances down at his forearms, at the silken hairs lying close and flat to his skin. She longs to reach out and lay her hand on his arm, to touch someone healthy and strong. Instead she leans a little nearer to him and says, ‘You remember the doctor’s request for a bath?’
‘I do – and Mr Antrobus’s opinion of the notion.’
‘I have thought of a way to achieve it.’
Ned frowns. ‘Why?’
She drops her voice and says, ‘The viscount has taken a very bad turn for the worse.’
‘Oh, I am sorry to hear that.’
‘You do not sound it.’
‘Do I not? You must let me have my little jest.’ He lifts her hand and clasps it between both of his. She knows she should withdraw it but the dry warmth of his palms is comforting. ‘So, how is this bath going to help the viscount?’
‘The doctor believes that soaking him in brine will alleviate his symptoms.’
Ned drops her hand, throws his head back and gives a great bellow of laughter. ‘These quacks. They have the most preposterous ideas.’
‘Dr Argyll is no quack. He is well read and knows accounts of this treatment working.’
Ned shrugs. ‘Very well. Who am I to disagree?’
‘Will you help?’
‘Of course. Haven’t I said I shall?’ He smiles at her with such warmth she cannot be cross with him for long. ‘Tell me what you need,’ he says.
‘I believe that we can achieve everything the doctor requires by suspending a hammock between the beams of the chamber upstairs and filling it with water.’
Ned pulls a face of agreement and says, ‘Yes. That would work, I am sure. There is a quantity of oilcloth down in the undercroft, rope too.’
‘And a block and tackle?’
‘A block and tackle? Great heavens, what is that man building up there? Noah’s Ark?’
She pinches Ned on the thigh. ‘Stop your teasing.’
Ned shrugs his shoulders and raises his palms in mock bafflement. ‘A perfectly understandable observation,’ he says.
‘We shall need to lift the hammock, the water and the viscount. The doctor and I cannot do it alone.’
‘Then let me assist. I can haul like a Black Horse.’
‘I’m sure you
can, but you know you cannot enter the sickroom. The doctor will not allow it.’ She gives an impatient sigh and says with as much gravity as she can muster, ‘You can help by finding me the things I need.’
‘How serious you are.’
She nods. Ned watches her for a moment longer, still smiling. When she doesn’t respond, he slaps his hands on his knees and pushes his chair away from her. ‘For speed,’ he says, ‘I suggest we attack a different task each.’
He gets to his feet and unties his apron. ‘I will take you down to the storeroom in the undercroft. While you hunt through the oilcloths to find one that is sound and of the right size, I shall hurry over to the stables and acquire a handful of stout pulleys.’
She gets to her feet and this time she reaches out and takes him by the arm. ‘Oh, Ned,’ she says, ‘thank you so, so much. I don’t know how I can repay you.’
‘I will think of something,’ he says, giving her a broad grin and a wink.
* * *
By the time Elen has scavenged all that is required, activities are increasing in the servants’ quarters. The time of the evening dinner is drawing close. Despite this, Ned continues tirelessly to help. First he carries buckets of water up the spiral staircase and leaves them on the landing for Elen to take in and place in front of the fire. Next he hauls baskets of wood up so that the fire could be kept high throughout the night. He goes over to the kitchen yard and begs a tub of salt so heavy, Elen and the doctor have to drag it across the floor.
‘Load the water with salt now, Miss Griffiths,’ the doctor says. ‘It can dissolve as we work.’
‘How much should I add, sir?’
‘We must make it stronger than sea water. Keep adding and stirring. When crystals sit in the base of the bucket and no longer dissolve, then the solution will take no more.’
Between charging and stirring the buckets, she works with the doctor, securing one end of the oilcloth to a low beam near the fire. Ned calls through the door that he is going over to the stables. He returns half an hour later with two stout pulleys and a length of chain. Elen hears the clatter of metal as he drops them on the landing outside.
The Summer Fields Page 9