The Shadowcutter

by Harriet Smart

  “Should you not go, sir?” Felix said. “I have all in hand here. Mrs Vernon will be wondering where you are.”

  The Major consulted his watch.

  “Yes, I am late. She will be anxious, and we are supposed to be driving up to the Bower Well – it’s a pretty spot, although I think the water there is the worst tasting of them all. But there is a sort of loggia with a wonderful view over the country. Laura wanted you to see it – I think she thought you might wish to go sketching with her again. It is certainly a wonderful day for it.”

  “I might manage to get up there later,” Felix said, his conscience queasy now. Mrs Vernon would feel it keenly to have such a plan spoiled, and it would not do to upset her fragile equilibrium. If he were careful, and as Major Vernon would be with them, any potential awkwardness might be contained. Avoidance never much solved anything, he reflected. “If Mr Bryce’s neighbour is as good a nurse as he says, then –”

  “I will make a few enquiries on my way back,” said Major Vernon. “There is a Roman Catholic chapel tucked away somewhere here. If I can find one of their clerics, they may be able to to help him.”

  Chapter Two

  “You’ll come with us?” Giles asked Sukey Connolly, meeting her in the passageway.

  “Are you sure, sir?”

  “It’s a glorious day – you’ve been indoors too much. You look pale.”

  “I do?” she said. “I don’t think so.”

  “Come and drink the foul waters with us,” he said. “Then you will have something to write to you sister about.”

  He glanced into the drawing room. Laura was standing in front of the glass, making minute adjustments to her hat – a broad straw leghorn, with long lilac ribbons. It was good to see her taking such trouble with her appearance. “And you are always of use to my wife,” he added as he went into the room. “Is that the new hat?” he ventured. “Very handsome.”

  “A wide-awake,” said Laura. “Like Mr Carswell’s.”

  “So it is,” he said.

  “Mr Carswell’s is not so pretty, ma’am,” said Sukey, from the doorway. “Which shawl would you like?”

  “Where is Mr Carswell?” asked Laura.

  “We stumbled across a mystery,” said Giles. “A rather tragic one. A poor Spanish gentleman with consumption. Mr Carswell is with him now.”

  “So he is not coming to the Bower Well?”

  “He will try to if he can,” said Giles. “Sukey, do you know where the Roman Catholic chapel is? There is one here, I think?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t been to Mass here,” she said. “I suppose I should have.”

  “You came to church with us.”

  “That doesn’t count, sir,” she said. “Well, you know what I mean.” She went up to Laura with the shawls she was carrying. “Which of these, Mrs Vernon? The blue is best with that dress, I would say, but it is very warm; perhaps just your lace?”

  It was on the tip of his tongue to ask her why she had not gone, for he was curious about this deviation from her usual habits. However he did not. He felt he might sound like a domineering master, anxious to make sure she did as she should, and he had no wish for her to think of him like that. He owed her too much, for one thing.

  The drive to the Bower Well passed without incident. Laura was quiet, but not uncomfortably so. It was another of those many changes in her. It still astonished him that they had come so far. Over the last few months she had emerged from her profound withdrawal, like some shy animal coming out from its lair.

  Day by day her confidence had grown, in large part due to Carswell’s diligence with her. At first it had been a matter of getting her to eat properly and play simple games. Carswell had arrived one day with a box of coloured building blocks and had begun to build a tower of red bricks. She had sat watching him for some time, and then at last she had begun to sort the blocks and built a blue tower next to his red one.

  Carswell would not claim much credit for it. He had said he had read dozens of papers suggesting that puerperal insanity in many cases resolved itself, like a morning mist rising from the sea, but Giles could not quite believe that. He had seen the careful tutoring that had gone on – first from Carswell, and then from Sukey who had learnt quickly what he was about.

  He had been there when Carswell explained it to her, and his words had stuck with him: “The patterns of our minds – our thoughts – run on accustomed courses, and it is all too easy to fall onto bad roads, which clog our boots with mud and where there are villains lurking at the corners to ambush us. Mrs Vernon had a shocking experience with the birth of her son – the pain and stress threw her mind from its sensible courses into the wilderness, and worse, when the boy died, it only increased her disorientation. We must teach her how not to get lost again.”

  They walked up and down the terrace a few times, and then went to collect their mandatory half-pints of sulphurous water from the well. It was as disgusting as ever, even on a warm day when a drink might have been welcome, and Giles threw most of his away – discreetly he thought, but Sukey noticed and smiled at it. Laura dutifully drank hers down, the first time she had managed to do so.

  “Mr Carswell will be pleased with me when I tell him,” she said. “In fact, I would like another cup,” she said holding out her tin cup.

  “Of course,” said Giles, and went to fetch another for her.

  This time he had to wait a few minutes to fill the cup, as a large family party had arrived at the well head: all very elegantly turned out but somewhat alien to the place, and chattering loudly in a foreign tongue.

  “What language is that?” Giles murmured as he returned to Laura and Sukey. “Spanish?”

  “I think so,” Sukey said. “I wonder if they are anything to do with your consumptive Spanish gentleman.”

  “I was thinking that myself. Should I go and speak to them?”

  He did not have the chance, for Laura had begun to walk away.

  “I don’t like all these people,” Laura said.

  “Let’s go and find a quiet spot in the shade,” said Giles, offering her his arm. “That tree is waiting for us, I should say. And the prospect from there will make a very nice sketch.”

  She did not take his arm, but she did not disagree with the suggestion, which pleased him. Together they walked to the shade of the tree, with Sukey a few steps behind them.

  “We will be able to see Mr Carswell coming from here,” she said.

  “He may not come,” Giles said.

  “Of course he will,” said Laura.

  “Where shall I put this up?” he said, holding up her sketching stool.

  She scanned the view again and chose her spot, and Giles set up the stool. He settled on the ground beside it, waiting for her to sit down, taking a book from his pocket.

  “Another chapter of Nicholas Nickleby?” he said, watching as she hesitated. “While you draw?”

  “We ought to wait for Mr Carswell,” she said. “So he doesn’t miss any.” Giles had begun reading it last night after dinner.

  “He has already read it, I think,” said Giles. He patted the stool, but still she stood there, gazing out, as if she expected him any moment to appear in the distance.

  Giles felt uneasy. He wanted her happily occupied with her pencil. He did not like this state of hers – it was like the uncomfortable period of heavy air pressure that presages a great storm.

  He wished he had said nothing about Carswell joining them. It had been thoughtless on his part. He had thought it would please her, rather than set her on edge with this excitement. It had been the same all the previous day when he was expected from Northminster and he had not liked it then. She was too hungry for his presence.

  “Perhaps you should get on with your sketch, Mrs Vernon,” Sukey said. “So that you will have something to show Mr Carswell when he gets here.” Laura turned and looked at her, with that long cool stare that Giles never knew what to do with. But Sukey, unabashed, said, “And another chapter wi
ll soon pass the time.”

  Another long moment passed and she sat down. Giles held out her bag of sketching equipment but her eyes were still fixed on the landscape before her. He put down the bag and decided that he would start to read, and hope she would find the story distracting enough to stop her thinking about Carswell.

  But as he did, he felt Mr Dickens’ latest would have to be a very good novel to do that. Laura had made Carswell the hero of her own narrative. That was now plain to see. Ever since they had come to Stanegate she had been pining for him, like a forlorn spaniel. It was entirely understandable that it would happen – he had heard of such cases when a doctor became a kind of a saint to a grateful patient. Carswell had transformed her existence. How could she not make an idol of him?

  Giles was sure Carswell himself was as aware of the problem as he was, but he had not yet had a chance to discuss it with him. It would have to be broached sooner or later.

  In the meantime, there was Nicholas Nickleby.

  He had barely read a few pages when they were interrupted. His man Holt was striding up the hill towards them. He had obviously come in some haste, for he had broken into a sweat. He was holding a letter which he held out to Giles.

  “For you, sir,” he said.

  “Where is Mr Carswell, Holt?” said Laura, who had jumped up at the sight of him.

  “No idea, ma’am,” he said, mopping his face with a handkerchief. “This is from Lord Rothborough, sir. He’s sent a carriage for you. Urgent business.”

  Giles opened the letter.

  “Dear Major Vernon,

  An unfortunate situation has developed upon which I would welcome your professional opinion, if it might be managed. I would be profoundly grateful if you might return with the bearer of this message. Your servant, Rothborough.”

  “It seems I have to go to work,” said Giles, getting up. “We had better go home.”

  “Sukey and I will stay here,” said Laura. “If Mr Carswell comes all this way and does not find us, then –”

  “Then he will not be broken-hearted,” Giles said.

  “It will be rude if we do not wait for him,” she said.

  “He will probably have gone back to the house first,” said Giles. “And it is rather warm for you to sit too long out here. I think we should all go home.”

  “You may, of course,” she said, sitting down again. “I will stay here with Sukey.”

  “I think the master is right, ma’am,” said Sukey. “It is very warm. And Mr Carswell probably will not come now.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do!” Laura said. The remark was thrown at Sukey, but Giles felt it was directed at him as much as anything.

  “I cannot leave you two here alone. I have to go to work,” Giles said. “We are going home. Holt, go and find our carriage, will you?”

  Holt departed.

  “Lord Rothborough would not send for me unless something terrible had happened,” Giles said. “You must understand that, Laura? I can’t leave you here.”

  “Why not?” Laura said.

  “Because –” he began.

  “I will not be alone,” she cut in. “Sukey will be here, and that ought to be enough for you.”

  “Yes, but it is not so long since –”

  “I am perfectly well now,” Laura said. “And anyway, Mr Carswell will be here soon enough. I am sure of it.”

  “I would rather you went home,” Giles said. “For my peace of mind, since I have to go to Holbroke.”

  “You would rather I were safely locked up,” she said. “That is it.”

  “I can’t leave you here without protection.”

  “You would lock me up again, if you could. I know you would much prefer that.”

  Of all places to have a scene, this was not the one. Giles bit his tongue. It was always better not to respond.

  “Ah, look, ma’am,” said Sukey. “Here is Mr Carswell!”

  Saved again, by Carswell, thought Giles. It was becoming a debt that would be difficult to settle.

  -0-

  Just as he was about to start for Holbroke, Major Vernon showed Felix the letter from Lord Rothborough.

  “Can you shed any light on that?” he said.

  “All I know is that they are all at Holbroke,” Felix said. “I don’t envy you.”

  “He wouldn’t call on me without some good reason, I think,” Major Vernon said. “How was Martinez?”

  “More comfortable. The nurse is a competent creature, but she was forthright about her charges. Nurses are expensive here, it seems.”

  “I had better give you some money,” said Major Vernon, reaching into his pocket. “Shillings or guineas?”

  “Shillings,” said Felix, “mercifully. Ten will cover it all.”

  “Here’s twenty,” said Vernon. “See if you cannot get that landlady into being more useful with it.”

  He took the money and saw the carriage off, and then went back into the house.

  Mrs Vernon was playing the piano in the upstairs drawing room, playing scales diligently, as he climbed the stairs, but then breaking into a slow melancholy melody, full of yearning. He had encouraged her to take up the piano again as a way of giving her some serious occupation and focusing her passions. Sometimes it felt that the focus was too intense, as a magnifying glass left in sunlight was in danger of starting a fire.

  He hesitated at the drawing room door, wondering if he should go in, or continue upstairs to his room.

  “Will you be wanting luncheon, sir?” It was Sukey Connolly, coming upstairs with a tray. “I have something for Mrs Vernon here.”

  “What did she have for breakfast?”

  “Only a piece of toast. I did try.” She shrugged. It was an old struggle.

  “Then I will eat with her, yes. She will eat properly then.” He was famished himself and wanted nothing more than a pint or two of dark Edinburgh beer and a greasy pie, the fodder of his student days, and to eat it in the casual anonymity of a smoky howff. “Tell her I will be down in a minute,” he said, starting upstairs. The music followed him, inexorably, almost as if she meant him to hear every plangent note.

  He closed the door on it, and pulled off his coat, waistcoat, cravat and shirt. He sponged himself down with cool water, trying to cool his own anxiety.

  As he dried himself, he could not avoid looking at the little posy of flowers in a water glass, which decorated the washstand. They were obviously her handiwork, gathered from the little flower garden behind the house. Usually this would have meant nothing more than the action of a thoughtful hostess seeing to the comfort of a guest. It was exactly the sort of normal behaviour that they had been working to encourage in her, but when he had seen the flowers there last night, he had been sure that they had been chosen and placed with careful significance. He knew women sometimes used flowers to make declarations of their feelings and that every flower and leaf had a meaning to those who knew their language. He did not, and he was glad of it. Their presence alone was enough to disturb him.

  When he had come up the hill towards the Bower Well and she had caught sight of him, she had seemed to surge with joy, as he were the only thing capable of giving him any pleasure. Then in the carriage back to the house, as he sat opposite her and the Major, he had been acutely aware of her gazing at him. Had Major Vernon guessed that she had developed feelings? For a man as observant as the Major, it seemed likely. How could he have not seen the looks she gave him and interpreted them for what they were? Felix wished that they might discuss it. He had been thinking last night that the topic must be broached, sooner rather than later, but this business at Holbroke had carried the Major and the opportunity for that conversation abruptly away. The Major trusted him implicitly, he knew, and he would have walked a hundred leagues in his bare feet rather than betray him, and yet, the feeling remained that he was not a man to be trusted. In short he did not trust himself.

  He put on a clean shirt, retied his cravat, and forced himself back into the formality
of his waistcoat and coat. Despite the heat, it would not do to send such a signal of being at ease with her. He had to be cool and remote, every inch the professional man.

  Yet as he descended the stairs, she broke into a melody of such gorgeous intensity and played with such obvious finesse and feeling, he had to catch his breath. He paused on the bottom step, wondering if he had better go and see Martinez instead rather than go in and be alone with her.

  Sukey came out of the drawing room.

  “Sukey, don’t go just yet,” he said. “Mrs Vernon may want you. Come and sit with us.”

  “I’ll just fetch my sewing,” she said, slipping past him.

  He went in as quietly as he could, attempting not to disturb Mrs Vernon. But she heard him, and stopped at once.

  “No, don’t,” he said, seeing her rise from the piano. “Please, not on my account. I was enjoying it.”

  “You were?” she said, smiling, and he realised that was the wrong thing to say. “I have been working hard at it, just as you suggested.”

  He took care not to respond to that. Instead he pulled out a chair for her at the round table that was used for meals, and waited there for her to come to sit down. It was only good manners to do so, yet he wondered if it might be better to act the boor with her and take the seat for himself, and begin eating as if she were not even there.

  “Shall we have some lunch?” he said.

  She nodded and came and sat down, but used the excuse of his standing there to slip past him, like a cat circling his legs. Her skirts brushed against him, and as she sat, she twisted her head and looked up at him, with a look that was so terrifyingly full of gratitude that he was tempted to walk straight out of the room.