‘Tell that boy to get back downstairs,’ the doctor says. ‘He will be missed if he goes on helping. Questions will be asked.’
Elen slips out of the room. She can hear Ned making his way back down the spiral stairs and calls his name.
‘I’m here,’ he answers.
She finds him waiting a turn below, next to the alcove window where she placed a candle earlier in the evening. He looks tired and his shirt sleeves are grubby.
‘You must be exhausted,’ she says.
He pushes his hair off his face and laughs softly. ‘Not as tired as you shall be by the end of the night. Are you sure the doctor won’t let me into the chamber to help haul the hammock up?’
‘He will not let you risk it. You have done more than enough for the viscount this evening.’
The flame of the candle beside them flares momentarily, throwing a warm light across his face. He leans a little nearer to her and says, ‘You must know, I have done it all for you.’
‘I know and I thank you, Ned.’
The air between them thrums with promise. Her nostrils detect the honeysuckle scent of cloves rising from his skin, mixed with the leathery musk of fresh exercise. She thinks for a moment that he means to kiss her and knows she will not be sorry if he does.
A latch clunks below. The door into the minstrels’ gallery has opened. Joan’s nasal voice calls, ‘Ned? Are you up there, sir? The steward shouts for you.’
Ned rolls his eyes and sighs. ‘Shall I return later?’ he whispers.
‘No,’ she says. ‘That would not be wise. I shall see you in the morning.’
‘By which time we shall know.’
‘One way or the other.’
‘Good luck.’ He touches his finger to his lips and is gone.
With a weary tread, she retraces her steps back up to the chamber. She feels utterly exhausted but knows there will be no rest for her tonight. When she opens the door, the heat of the room pushes out around her. Thick and foetid, it is heavy with the resinous smoke from the fire and tainted with the smell of sweat and sickness.
The doctor, who has discarded his wig and stripped down to his waistcoat and shirt sleeves, is standing on a bench, securing the pulleys to a beam on the other side of the fire. ‘You are a country girl, Miss Griffiths,’ he says. ‘Tell me, have I understood the principle here?’
‘No, sir. You have not.’
The doctor looks down on her in surprise. ‘I have not?’
‘No, sir. We must secure one of the pulleys to the hammock, fix a rope to the beam, bring it down to the hammock, round the first pulley and back up to the second one suspended on the beam. That way, we should be able to lift both hammock and the viscount off the floor.’
‘Well, I can only be guided by your experience,’ Dr Argyll says, untying his handiwork with an ill-concealed air of irritation.
Throughout their hours of preparation, Mordiford lies inert on the other side of the room, his eyes closed, his breathing coming in shallow pants. Periodically, Elen goes over to him and lifts a draught to his lips. Obediently he sips at the rim of the cup before letting his head drop to one side as if the effort exhausts him. She wishes they could let him lie undisturbed but she knows they cannot. His breathing is more laboured by the hour, his disorientation more pronounced. He may not live to see the dawn.
* * *
Eventually all is ready. The doctor checks his timepiece.
‘It is ten minutes past six. We must complete the task before the earl dines in the hall below or the noise may alert him to the severity of the viscount’s condition.’
‘He will know that soon enough, sir.’
‘Not if this treatment works.’ The doctor hesitates, pulling on his earlobe as if he were milking a tiny udder. ‘You are sure none but the valet knows of our intention.’
‘None, sir.’
‘Then let that remain the case. We must proceed with as much stealth as possible.’
She follows the doctor as he makes his way across to Mordiford’s bed. She looks down on him and says, ‘He is almost too sick to move.’
‘Then we must get him to his feet and lay him on the hammock before he sinks deeper.’
Resentful of the disturbance, Mordiford makes a feeble effort to push them aside.
‘Come along, my lord,’ Dr Argyll says with sympathetic heartiness. ‘Time to get you into the healing water.’
‘Leave me, I beg you. You will kill me.’
‘Quite the reverse. Up you come.’
Elen pulls his shoulders away from the pillows as the doctor takes his arms. They haul him into a sitting position. The doctor grasps him by the knees and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. Elen supports his back with the flat of her hand.
‘A moment,’ the doctor says. ‘We must remove the bed shirt. It is easier to strip him here. Avert your gaze, Miss Griffiths.’
She puffs her irritation. ‘You scold me one minute then try to protect my sensibilities the next, sir.’
‘Oh, very well,’ the doctor says.
Mordiford rouses himself. ‘No. I beg you,’ he says, flailing at the shirt as the doctor tries to draw it up and over his head.
Eventually Elen says, ‘Tie the shirt around his waist at least, Dr Argyll. Save his modesty.’
‘Nothing must lessen the strength of the salt on the skin,’ the doctor replies irritably.
‘Leave me be, you quack. You villain,’ Mordiford bleats, although he’s too sick to defend himself.
‘Work the shirt down,’ she says. ‘You can slide it off when he’s submerged.’
The doctor gives a nod of tacit agreement and helps her to lower the shirt over Mordiford’s shoulders to his waist where she ties the sleeves to keep it in place.
Taking a side each, they prepare to heave him up. ‘On my count of three,’ the doctor says. ‘One, two, three…’ They haul him to his feet.
Mordiford’s arm clenches involuntarily at her, his fevered skin is hot against her side where she is forced to press against him. Her back aches as she pulls. As his body rises beside her, she wraps her arm around his waist, feeling the flutter of his muscles as he tries to keep his balance.
Mordiford takes a faltering step forward. Then he stops and sways. Elen senses his weight rocking backwards, feels her own muscles hurt from the effort of keeping him upright. She thinks for a few seconds that he will swoon, taking them both down with him. His head lolls forward. The change of weight propels him onwards.
With the next step, he pinions the trailing bed shirt with his foot. The arms unravel and it flutters to the ground. Groaning feebly, he tries to bring a hand forward to cover himself but he is too weak to lift his arm from her shoulders.
She does, however, look away as she pulls him forward but in truth, she is certain that his skin is so stiffened and deformed by the pocks, any feature that may have intrigued or shocked her would be rendered quite neutral. She hears the doctor cursing under his breath as he kicks the shirt to one side.
Step by agonising step they make their way across the room. The fire is stoked so high that the heat in the room is unbearable, weakening her as she struggles. Her shoulder is drenched with Mordiford’s sweat where his arm lies heavily across her.
Eventually they reach the oilcloth, spread across the boards in readiness. Carefully she helps to lower him. The doctor puffs and groans on the other side, bracing himself against the dead weight. Finally, they get him on the ground. Exhausted, she presses her hands on her knees to push herself up.
She can hardly bear to look down at the poor creature, twisting and squirming on the hard floor. She must remember that this is Mordiford, the man who squeezed her heart when he wept, the man she comforted when he was afraid. She must not allow the disease to make him less than human and steal away her compassion. The tall man she used to see cantering across the estate is still within that writhing body and no man deserves humiliation such as this.
She collects the bed shirt from the floor and
drapes it across his hips, reaching out for the thickened hands that paw the air. He kicks weakly with his legs, threatening to rock himself onto the floorboards before they have a chance to haul him from the ground.
‘Hurry,’ the doctor says, waiting by the rope.
She rolls Mordiford back onto the oilcloth and steadies his shoulders. She dashes across to join the doctor, whipping the rope through the pulleys to take up the slack.
The end of the hammock leaves the floor. The ropes begin to creak under the strain. Together they pull, the chains above their heads swinging and clanking. She feels a sudden resistance – they are hauling the weight of the patient. A cry goes up from the hammock. A crusted hand grasps at the edge of the oilcloth as it folds around him like the pod of a pea.
‘How far up shall we raise him, sir?’ she says, panting now. She can feel the heat of the fire on her face. Rivulets of sweat tickle their way down between her shoulder blades and breasts.
A voice wails from inside the hammock, ‘Help me! The world spins so. What’s happening? Save me. I beg you.’
‘A little further, I think,’ the doctor says, his breathing laboured. ‘The weight of the water will pull the hammock lower. We must counteract that. Oh, I wish he would stop that confounded noise.’
The pulleys squeak and complain, her hands burn with the effort. The doctor wheezes beside her, groaning with each pull on the rope. The voice from inside the oilcloth is now little more than a faint mewling. As the hammock swings before the fire, great shadows dance along the walls, distorting as they run over the rough stonework.
‘Is that enough, sir?’ she says, her voice straining.
‘I think so,’ the doctor pants. ‘Can you hold it steady while I lash the rope to a beam?’
‘I can for a minute, sir. Let me make it fast around my body.’ Without releasing her grip, she holds the rope close to her waist. Slowly she turns until it is secured around her middle. ‘I have it safe, sir.’
She takes the full weight. She feels the rope bite into her waist, her feet skitter on the floor boards. She watches until the doctor has the rope lashed to an upright and then spins herself free.
‘Well done, Miss Griffiths,’ the doctor says, bending forward with his hands on his knees to get his breath. ‘I must say, you have a most surprising strength.’
The hammock swings gently to and fro before them, the base bowed by the weight of Mordiford. They can hear his mournful whimpers coming from within. The hammock has folded around him like a chrysalis. Elen hauls the bench over, climbs up and prises the edges open. She reaches inside and pulls Mordiford’s elbow up and over the lip of the hammock.
‘There, my lord,’ she says. ‘You can see the light again.’
‘I am suffocating. The room is pitching. Help me.’
‘That will not do, Miss Griffiths,’ the doctor says. ‘We must have his arms submerged when we fill the hammock.’
‘He is afraid, sir. If he cannot see the room around him, he will panic.’
‘That cannot be helped.’
‘Unless he is calm, he will thrash around.’ She looks about for a way to solve the problem. ‘Let me brace the head end of the hammock with the bolster,’ she says. ‘It is packed with straw. It will not fold.’ The doctor nods his agreement.
She hops down, fetches the bolster from the bed and, climbing back onto the bench, battles it into position while the doctor reaches in from the other side and supports Mordiford’s head. Eventually, she manages to wedge it in place.
‘There, my lord,’ she says, placing a hand on the swinging hammock to still it. ‘You look as comfortable as a cat.’
‘Not for long,’ the doctor mutters. ‘Cats and water seldom make good bedfellows.’
Chapter 18
The doctor goes over to the fire, dips his finger into the warmed saline, tastes it and pulls a face. ‘As salty as a cod’s kidney, Miss Griffiths. Very well done indeed. Now, let’s get this fellow submerged.’
Elen is about to get down from the bench when a hand shoots out with surprising vigour and clutches at her wrist. Mordiford looks up at her. His eyes are like strange jewels, blue sapphires set in lozenges of bright red coral.
‘Do not be afraid, sir,’ she says. ‘You are quite safe. We are going to start filling the hammock with water.’
‘No, I beg you,’ he says. He grasps the edge of the hammock, trying to raise his head but his ordeal has exhausted him. She presses him back.
A chunk of hair has stuck in the serum on the edge of his lip. He blows at it, pawing his face and grimacing. She reaches inside and eases it free as he winces and groans.
‘The water will cure you. We are sure of it,’ she says. She may not believe it herself, but she cannot stand the thought of the poor man’s final hours being full of fear. ‘I will be here, with you, all night. And in the morning, when we bring you down, you will be well again.’
‘You promise me? Elen, do you promise me?’
‘I promise you,’ she says, forgiving herself the lie. In her mind all she has promised is to stay with him through the night. For the rest, she cannot say. She is touched that he used her first name and wonders how he knows it.
When the first bucket of saline goes in, Mordiford begins a strange, high-pitched lament like the haunting cry of a curlew. Elen stops pouring, sees the doctor cocking his head towards the door in case the sound has travelled down the spiral staircase and into the great hall below.
She pours more slowly and Mordiford falls silent. The ropes creak and complain but hold. She hears a steady tap tapping on the floorboards. They have a leak. She climbs down, snatches up a knife and a candle. She dips the knife into the molten wax at the foot of the flame and holds it against the leak. It is surprisingly effective.
‘You are an exceptionally resourceful young woman, Miss Griffiths,’ the doctor says.
She leans her hand on the purlin and gives him a weary smile, glad of his recognition. By now every part of her body complains – her shoulders from lifting the buckets, her arms from hauling the ropes and her thighs from stepping repeatedly up onto the bench to pour in the brine. The palms of her hands throb, her feet throb. Her back aches. And yet, she must return to the task of filling the hammock, for the doctor tired long ago and has adopted the less strenuous labours of fuelling the fire and checking the water levels.
Eventually, when the water inside the hammock reaches Mordiford’s chest, the doctor calls a halt. ‘That is enough submersion, Miss Griffiths,’ he says wearily. ‘The greater part of his flesh is now under the saline.’
From her perch on the bench, she looks down into the hammock. Mordiford lies like a dead man, his head flopped to one side on the straw bolster, now sodden with brine. His naked body floats beneath the water, pale as a corpse, the ghost of the bed shirt shifting and reshaping on the surface of the water like a huge clump of frogspawn.
Elen pushes her hair from her face, her hands gritty with salt. She has a raging thirst from sweating so profusely and ingesting the salt on her lips and on her hands. She climbs down and lets the bucket drop with a rattle at her feet.
‘Miss Griffiths,’ the doctor hisses. ‘Quiet, I beg you. If we are discovered now, we shall be accused of ending this man’s life, not saving it.’
Elen takes a step back, looking stricken, but the doctor does not notice. So much for his earlier praise, she thinks. He disappears into the vestibule and comes out with his wig reinstated and his jacket on. He draws his watch from his waistcoat. Then she sees the outdoor cloak draped across his arm.
‘Am I to stay with him alone?’ she says nervously.
‘Of course,’ the doctor says, frowning at her. ‘There is nothing more for me to do until the morning. It has gone midnight. Take the bed, Miss Griffiths and get some rest.’
‘I cannot rest with that poor soul hanging there, sir.’
‘You would be advised to try.’ The doctor looks at her, his face loose with fatigue, waiting for her to voice a new problem. S
o many tumble into her head that she cannot speak. The doctor ‘harrumphs’ as if satisfied she has no further objections and says, ‘We must pray with all our might that God sees fit to bring that poor wretch through and deliver him up tomorrow.’
‘What time will you return, sir?’
‘I shall be here at dawn, do not fear. We will lower him together.’
‘And if he should die in the night?’
The doctor gives another puff, almost a laugh. ‘Then we shall drain the water and leave him in his shroud. You will not have to do that task without me, I promise you.’ He places his hand on her shoulder and gives it a squeeze. ‘You have performed admirably tonight, Miss Griffiths. I could not have achieved this without you.’
Elen listens as he descends the spiral stairs. The door at the bottom slams shut. As the echoes fade, other sounds come to her: a crack and rustle from the fire, the somnolent creak of the ropes swinging imperceptibly.
She feels intensely lonely, more so than if she had been alone.
* * *
Elen gazes at the hammock, its massive shape unearthly in the guttering light. Steam rises gently from the surface nearest the fire, sweetening the foul air with the scent of linseed oil. It is strange to think her vigil tonight will be like an act of devotion, sitting with a loved one who has already passed from this life to another. She is gripped by a feeling of fear and melancholy that she doesn’t altogether understand.
Cautiously she squeezes between the hammock and the hearth to put more wood on the fire. She checks for leaks, pressing her hands carefully on the taut fabric. It feels sweaty and warm, like the flank of a leathery animal. Manoeuvring her way back around the hammock, she climbs up onto the bench. Mordiford’s head rests to one side on the bolster but his nostrils are clear of the water. She cannot tell if he is unconscious or asleep but she knows he is alive for his rib cage rises and falls, causing the surface of the brine to ripple.
The Summer Fields Page 10