The Summer Fields

  Mordiford catches Elen’s eye but says, ‘I shall see Miss Griffiths righted. I give you my word, but until that day, can you give her sanctuary, Argyll?’

  ‘Unequivocally, yes, but unfortunately I cannot for long. I leave within the next few days. There is much to prepare before I depart for Europe.’

  ‘Damn it!’ Mordiford says. ‘I envy you your freedom. I would be riding east with you to join my regiment, were it not for this wretched pox.’

  ‘Then it seems I must take care of myself as best I can,’ Elen says. The beginning of a plan comes to her: she will leave Wales, travel across England to Great Yarmouth and stay with her father’s cousin until it is safe for her to return.

  ‘Oh, what a hellish juggle this is,’ says the doctor.

  ‘No. Wait. Let me think…’ Mordiford says. He hauls himself off the stook and approaches the doctor, taking him by the arm. ‘This is surely ideal.’

  ‘It is not ideal. As I have said, I must leave tomorrow or the next day at the latest.’

  ‘Take Miss Griffiths with you.’

  ‘I have relatives in Great Yarmouth, sir,’ she says, stepping from the shadows. Mordiford stares at her, frowning and begins to shake his head.

  ‘Great Yarmouth?’ he says. ‘Do you think you will be safe there? No, you must leave the country. You must sail for The Hague.’

  ‘The Hague?’ she says. ‘Sir, I cannot. This is madness.’

  ‘You are not safe here, not until I can deal with my father, track down and stifle every one of his cursed band. Something I am not free to do until I am clear of infection. No, the doctor’s plans offer the perfect solution to our plight.’

  ‘I could not ask a woman to accompany me to the Continent,’ Dr Argyll says.

  ‘Why ever not?’ Mordiford says. ‘You have just this minute said how capable a nurse she has become.’

  ‘A nurse?’ she says, realisation dawning on her. ‘You expect me to travel with the army?’

  ‘When the English march,’ Mordiford says, ‘they take their wives and children with them. You can travel with the doctor as his nurse. You will be safe for the whole campaign season. If you try to hide yourself in England, you will be discovered.’ He turns to the doctor. ‘Think about it, man. It is perfect.’

  ‘It is not appropriate for an unmarried woman to travel with me. She is not my wife.’

  ‘She is your employee. It is not without precedent. Doctors had nurses helping them at reception stations during the Dutch War, did they not?’

  ‘Gentlemen, I beg you,’ Elen says. ‘You talk as if I were not here and yet I am the subject of the discussion.’ She remembers her initial disgust at nursing Mordiford, how she heaved and retched while carrying out certain tasks, how afraid she was to have another’s life dependent on her care. And all this with but one patient. ‘If I may speak, sirs,’ she says.

  ‘Of course, Miss Griffiths,’ Mordiford says. ‘Please let us have your thoughts.’

  ‘Caring for soldiers on campaign will be very different from nursing you, sir.’

  ‘I agree,’ Dr Argyll interjects. ‘The march alone will be arduous and you would be forced to witness unspeakable horrors. The bloody flux is not a pleasant disease to care for…’

  ‘Less pleasant than this?’ Mordiford sweeps both hands across his torso. He turns back to Elen and says, ‘You have bathed me and administered to me, you never once flinched as my body crusted over.’

  ‘That’s not true, sir. You are either being kind, which is not like you, or your sickness has robbed you of your senses.’

  ‘Oh, neither, my dear Miss Griffiths. You shall not provoke me this time. Perhaps you did flinch, and perhaps I have ignored that, but in my eagerness to persuade you, I have no compunction in flattering you. You are the braver woman for so admitting. Even when the work appalled you, still you did not withdraw. You dipped into a well of sympathy that was so deep, I cannot imagine you would shy away from anything you saw on the campaign trail.’

  She feels a wave of pride at his endorsement, but the doctor remains unconvinced.

  ‘What about injuries on the battlefield?’ he says. ‘The consequences of modern warfare are enough to turn any man’s bowels to water. It is not something a woman should have to face.’

  ‘The barber surgeons on the battlefield take care of that,’ Mordiford says. ‘You are a physician, man, you are not involved in that sort of butchery.’

  ‘It is hard to avoid.’

  ‘And besides, Marlborough has been trying to engage the French for two seasons now. Who is to say he will succeed this year? This whole campaign has been one of tactic and bluff.’

  ‘It is a risk I cannot take,’ the doctor says.

  ‘It is a risk you are already taking, Argyll. Why do you not ask Miss Griffiths if she is willing to gamble on it with you?’

  * * *

  Both men turn to Elen, awaiting her response. The doctor’s face expresses anxiety but Mordiford’s has a look of desperation to it. ‘You would be safer in Europe than you are here,’ he reminds her.

  A thousand thoughts tumble and stress her. If she stays, she will be a fugitive in her own country. Would she ever feel safe living on the estate after all that has happened, even if she could convince herself that Mordiford had quashed his father’s vendetta?

  Less than a month ago, she was a milkmaid whose intellectual aspirations were unachievable. Her future was mapped out for her – helping her father until she caught the eye of a country boy. Married, she would exchange the drudgery of the dairy for a lifetime of running a home. She had reached a crossroads. She could follow the path of tradition or she could embrace the opportunity unfolding before her. Mordiford’s championship of her surprised and elated her. The thrill of the possible adventure that lay ahead felt seductive.

  ‘It is a big decision to take in so short a time,’ she says eventually. Both men nod, waiting for her to continue. ‘It would mean abandoning my father and family.’

  ‘Your father has managed perfectly well these past few weeks without you,’ Mordiford says.

  ‘I cannot just disappear without a word of farewell.’

  ‘The doctor will bring your father here. You could do that before you leave, could you not, Argyll?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I suppose that would be possible.’

  ‘And we still have to consider what to do with you, sir,’ she says. ‘You are right to say there will be no one to take care of you at the hall. What do you propose to do?’

  Something in Mordiford’s smile tells Elen he knows he is winning the argument, with her at least. He turns back to the doctor and says, ‘Let me stay here.’

  ‘Oh no, that will not do,’ Dr Argyll bursts out. ‘I have my family to think of. You are still infectious.’

  ‘I can care for myself, here, in these stables. Ask your wife to leave food outside for me to collect. I promise I will not approach them or your dwelling. I will lie low until I am quite healed. How long do you think that will be?’

  ‘Well…’ the doctor puzzles for a few moments, then fetches the lamp from the hook. By its light he studies Mordiford’s face, turning his chin with his hand, tugging down the collar to inspect his neck. ‘There are very few pustules here. Most have crusted over. How is the rest of your body healing?’

  ‘Exceedingly well. Here, let me show you,’ and Mordiford flings aside his cape and begins to undress.

  ‘Stop, sir. You will freeze,’ Elen says.

  ‘I care not if I have the opportunity to convince the good doctor here.’

  The doctor sighs and lets him continue. When he finishes the inspection he says, ‘Dress yourself with all haste, sir. I do not want you contracting pneumonia on top of everything else you have suffered.’

  ‘Well?’ Mordiford says, tying up his clothes again.

  ‘You are healing well, I admit, but until every scab has fallen away, you will still be infectious.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Medicine is an art not an
exact science. I cannot give you an accurate timescale.’

  ‘A guess then. Give me a qualified guess.’

  ‘Six days, a week perhaps,’ Dr Argyll says reluctantly.

  ‘Hardly any time at all. I will have Miss Griffiths and yourself here for a day or two. That leaves but four days for me to call on the good nature of your wife. I give you my oath that I will not put your family in danger. How could I, when you have agreed to do me this great service?’

  ‘I was not aware I had agreed,’ the doctor says.

  Part II

  The Scarlet Caterpillar

  Chapter 1

  April 1704

  The North Sea off The Netherlands

  Elen watches the horizon tilt as another huge swell pushes beneath the vessel. They have been wallowing within sight of The Hague all day, waiting for the tide to be high enough for them to dock.

  Dr Argyll is curled up in a ball of misery on the bench beside her. After days of discreet vomiting over the side of the boat throughout the voyage, he is quiet and she is free to let her mind wander. She can hear the boom of the surf against the shore, the cry of the seagulls wheeling overhead before they drop and skim the surface of the grey, heaving water; noises unfamiliar to her barely two months ago. Yet now, as she turns her face towards the stiff breeze laden with the smell of salt and seaweed, they are just another in a battery of new sensations.

  She looks out across the vast ocean. In her mind’s eye, she retraces her journey back through East Anglia, where she and the doctor spent several weeks organising reception stations for the wounded, and west across the country to the borders of Wales and Duntisbourne.

  At this time of day her father will be calling to the cows for the afternoon milking. The countryside will be filled with the blush of early spring, the hawthorn hedges fresh green, the sycamore trees around the dairy still bleak and bony from winter. She longs to be back in the milking sheds, her cheek resting against the warm flank of a cow as the milk hisses into the pail. But her desire to return has a profoundly deeper reason.

  As she leaves the leagues behind, she feels as if there is a thread connecting her to Mordiford. At first she feared it would break, now she knows it cannot. It is lashed around her heart, tightening like a poacher’s knot as the distance between them increases and the pain of separation becomes unbearable.

  Her farewell was hard because behind her father’s stalwart words of resignation and encouragement, he struggled to keep his emotions in check. His courage upset her more than if he had wept like a child. If only she could have read the other parting as well.

  No amount of distraction or new experiences can override her crushing sense of shame. How could she have been so attracted to Ned? Why did she let his looks and flattery blind her to any traits of character that did not shine a good light on his personality? His casual cruelty to Joan, his swagger and vanity. She shudders at her own gullibility and the feelings he excited in her. What were they? Forerunners of the new emotions that now overwhelm her?

  Compared to Ned, she sees Mordiford as the other face of Janus. His sickness robbed him of any physical beauty, leaving him at the mercy of her most penetrating observations. She arrived at the hall prejudiced against him because of the gossip she had heard. In his eagerness to drive her back to the safety of her home, he confirmed all her preconceptions. At the time, she thought it was his helplessness that made her care for him, but throughout their weeks of verbal sparring, a certain honesty struggled up through the guile he affected in order to protect his father. He was at least authentic about his own shortcomings.

  As the day of her departure drew near, his frustration of not being able to rejoin his regiment maddened him. However, his frustration seemed to focus more on her leaving than his staying, the irony being that within forty-eight hours of accepting her own feelings for him, she was forced to leave suspecting, but not knowing if he shared similar sympathies for her. Could she be making the same mistake again? Ignoring everything that whispers, ‘He cares nothing for you,’ and focusing instead on the smallest hint that he feels the same? Surely, her heart says with a lift, he would not have rescued you if he cared nothing for you? But the other voice reminds her that he was righting the wrongs of his father to save the family honour.

  ‘What am I going to do with myself if I haven’t got you to take care of?’ she risked saying the night before her departure. They were sitting together in the stable, having finished their supper. She was in the habit of taking her meals with her patient, instead of staying in the comfort of the doctor’s homely kitchen.

  The doctor applauded her dedication. In reality, she did not like the thought of Mordiford eating a lonely meal on his own.

  ‘I am sure you will find more than enough industry during your travels to occupy you,’ he replied. He then laid down his spoon and looked at her for a few moments longer than was appropriate and added, ‘although I have to tell you, I have enjoyed your company immeasurably.’

  ‘Enjoyed it?’ she said with a laugh. ‘Most of the time you were hell bent on baiting me, sir.’

  The ardour in his eyes subtly changed to amusement and he replied, ‘What greater joy can there be in life for a man such as me?’

  When the time came for her and the doctor to depart, Mrs Argyll and three of the children gathered on the threshold of the cottage to wave farewell to their father.

  On the other side of the yard, Mordiford came out of the barn, lingering in the doorway so as not to pose a threat to the family. He had wrapped the carriage blanket around his shoulders and when Elen turned to wave her own farewell to him, he lifted a weary arm in response before leaning his head against the doorway.

  As the trap set off, she longed to turn to see if Mordiford was watching until she was out of sight. ‘If he is still there,’ she said to herself, ‘I will know he cares for me.’

  The pony trotted towards the crest of the hill. When they were on the point of disappearing from view, she could resist the urge no longer. She spun round in her seat.

  He was there. When he saw her turn, he stepped out into the yard and placed his finger to his lips and his other hand on his heart. Then the trap dropped down the other side of the incline and his figure was lost from view.

  ‘Miss Griffiths,’ a voice says. Turning, she sees one of the other passengers by her side, a pleasant-faced merchant who is travelling with his wife. ‘The captain has asked if we wish to disembark on a beach a few leagues up the coast. He is not confident that the tide will be high enough this afternoon to make it into port.’

  ‘Oh, that is unfortunate,’ she says, glancing across at the crumpled figure of the doctor. ‘When is the next high tide?’

  ‘Not until the small hours of tomorrow morning. But the captain says he has contacts with local boatmen who will transport us and our luggage to shore by row boat, should we wish.’

  ‘That is kind of him.’

  ‘I am afraid no kindness is involved,’ the merchant says. ‘It appears the charge for this service is more than the crossing itself.’

  ‘Oh, dear. I think I must wake the doctor and ask him for a decision.’

  She rocks Dr Argyll gently by the shoulder. He stirs with a groan and mutters, ‘Are we in port?’

  ‘No, sir. We have an offer to leave the ship by row boat but it is very costly.’

  The doctor struggles up until he is in a sitting position, his shoulders hunched with misery. ‘I will pay whatever they want, just get me off this infernal, heaving ocean.’

  He turns, clutches the gunwale, his knuckles whitening as he grips. He swallows rapidly several times before standing and leaning out over the water.

  Elen and her fellow passenger turn away, but the poor doctor has nothing left to bring up. After a few minutes of retching, he sinks back on the bench, grey and exhausted, his wig crooked on his head. He pushes one of his bags towards her.

  ‘My money is inside there, Miss Griffiths. Take whatever you need, but please, I beg you, let me
die in peace.’ He topples sideways again across the rest of the luggage.

  * * *

  Elen follows the handcart as it rattles across the cobbles. The doctor left her as soon as they crossed the city moat, determined to find the quartermaster despite his fatigue and sickness. She has been sent with a porter to take their luggage and secure lodgings for the night. They left the broad sweep of the canal some time ago and now the porter fights his way through the market crowd. She sees paintings stacked on the ground, baskets of fruit and bread and live chickens and linen and furniture and a hundred other familiar and unfamiliar things.

  Dogs bark and sniff, children run and tumble and cry. A fish runner sashays around her, glistening bodies stacked in the basket on her head. The porter plunges into a street off the square, a narrow artery of the city clogged with people and foul smells.

  The steep red roofs tower above her, blocking out the sky. She passes bone boilers and glue makers, blacksmiths and dye works. She pushes the edge of her cape up against her nose to block out the stink. Between a gap in the houses she sees a putrid canal blocked with the sweepings from the butcher’s stalls – guts and dung, blood and stinking sprats all drenched with mud.

  The porter stops. He heaves the trunks off the cart, tips his hat and disappears into the crowd. She stares up at the building, at the sign swinging like a gibbet from the jetted floor above. She dare not leave the trunks outside but she cannot drag them in herself. Passers-by stare. A group of men sitting round a table, pressed up against the wall of the hostelry, call out to her. She cannot understand the words but she understands the invitation and looks away.

  Then she hears an English voice, a woman shouting somewhere out in the crowd, ‘Out of the way, you fiends.’ A large woman, red hair tumbling out from beneath her bonnet, splits the crowd apart and strides towards the door.

  As she passes, Elen reaches out, clutches at her wrist. She turns, her face full of effrontery but when she sees it is a girl who grasps her, her expression softens.