Nothing on Earth & Nothing in Heaven

by Susan Fanetti

  “There’s a wire from Chris for you as well,” his mother said and handed him an envelope. Keeping hold of Nora’s paper, he tore open the other message and read it.

  PLEASE BRING HER HOME PLEASE – STOP – YOUR FRIEND C

  “Looks like you’ve got some personal business to attend to before we start campaigning,” his father said, reading over his shoulder.

  Bring her home. To England. Across the ocean. William’s stomach rolled dangerously at the thought.

  Clutching the telegrams in his hand, he went in the direction his wife had gone.

  She stood among his mother’s roses, fingering the petals of a bloom. A white bloom, of course, like a Kensington Rose. She’d discarded her hat; it lay on the seat of a wooden lawn chair at the edge of the garden. The sun shone over her gleaming golden hair, and the wind played at the strands that had loosened when she’d removed her hat. She wore her hair long again, but rarely made an elaborate style. Just a pretty twist of braids at the back of her head.

  He went up behind her and pulled her into his arms. She relaxed at once into his hold, and he kissed her temple. “Talk to me.”

  “I don’t know what words to say. My mind is a tempest.”

  Not wishing to press her, William didn’t ask another question or make a statement of his own. His mind, too, was a tempest. So they stood as they were, the kiss of breeze fluttering tendrils of her hair over his nose, while the warm, late-spring day went on around them.

  “I think I want to go back,” she whispered after a long while. “I think I need to. Not to stay. Only to say goodbye. But I think I need it.”

  Go back. To England. Across the ocean. He could hardly make it across the San Francisco Bay. How in God’s name was he going to spend a week on an ocean liner again—and another week back?

  She turned in his arms and looked up at him. Her eyes shone with nascent tears. “You don’t have to come with me. I understand.”

  Of course he had to go with her. And of course he would go. He’d have to manage it. “I’m with you, Nora. I’m always with you.”

  They booked the Cunard ship RMS Lusitania, avoiding the White Star Line, and William made it all the way to the gangway at New York Harbor without losing a step. He was wildly nauseated and his heart had wrapped itself around his throat, but he’d kept going forward, all the way until he had to lift his foot from the pier and put it on the gangway. He couldn’t do it.

  Nora clenched his hand. “I’m afraid, too. I don’t want to be on the ocean.”

  But there was no other way to get to England.

  “Excuse me, please.” A dapper gentleman and his stylish lady stood behind them, stymied by William and Nora’s reluctance. William stepped back, drawing Nora with him, and cleared the way for other first-class passengers.

  “What do we do? Do we go home?”

  Nora looked up at the hull of the big ship. “We can’t go backward. We have to go forward.”

  “Isn’t this trip going backward? Back to England, back to your past?”

  “It’s not. It’s not going back, it’s looking back. Like sorting out the attic. Making room for something new. I need it.”

  William took a long, deep breath and turned to the harbor and all that water. He stared at it until he could breathe normally and his heart had eased its grip on his throat. “I’m going to need you with me to get through this. I don’t know how strong I can be.”

  “I’ll be with you.”

  A clenched laugh broke through his chest as those words echoed painfully through him. “All right. Let’s board.”

  He got through it the same way he managed to get over the Bay—he stayed away from the open-air decks and avoided windows that showed the water, and he tried as hard as he could to forget where he was.

  Luckily, the voyage was uneventful and the weather fair for the whole week. It helped, too, that Nora’s nerves had flared a little as well. William felt a bit less pathetic when he could hold Nora and offer her comfort rather than simply cling to her for his own.

  Even so, it was a long week, full of nightmares and nausea, and William nearly fell over himself in his hurry to be on solid ground again in Liverpool.

  But he’d made it. Without an obvious breakdown.

  “Damn, old bean, you look awful,” was Chris’s greeting to him after he’d released his sister from a welcoming hug. Truth be told, Chris looked a bit rough himself. He had circles around his eyes, and new creases between his eyebrows.

  They clutched arms. “After last year, I don’t enjoy ocean travel like I once did.”

  “Ah, of course. I didn’t think of that. I’m sorry.”

  William shrugged. There was nothing Chris could have done.

  “How is he?” Nora asked. “What happened?”

  “He’s … he doesn’t have long. But he’s hung in, I think in the hopes to see you. As for what happened, it was a stroke. He’s had several in the past year or so, but this last was much worse. I’ll explain on the train. Auntie is at Tarrindale, waiting.”

  The first class car had nothing on the Cruise Line, but it was certainly comfortable enough for the few hours of travel between Liverpool and Dover. William thought about his trip to England three years earlier, when he’d come on his father’s behalf, seeking partners to bring the Cruise Line to England. He’d failed utterly—but he’d been made to see that the idea could never have succeeded. Of course they didn’t need the same level of accommodation on their trains here. As long as England was cut off from the European continent, few train trips would take more than several hours. It took several days to cross America.

  That thought led him to remember his idea for a tunnel under the English Channel, which led him to think of Dover, their destination of the day. The last time he’d been in Dover had been one of the best and worst days of his life—not the best, or worst, anymore, but second in line. His first night with Nora. And the night that had set her life on a careening downhill course.

  He picked up Nora’s hand and kissed it. She smiled and leaned against his shoulder.

  Across from them, Chris settled into his seat and sighed. “All right. As I tell you the story of Father’s health, please know I don’t wish you to feel guilt. There’s no blame here. What happened to Father, he brought largely on himself, I think.”

  “What do you mean?” Nora asked.

  Chris cleared his throat. William didn’t think he’d ever seen his friend look quite so nervous before.

  “His first stroke happened when we got word that the Titanic had gone down.”

  Nora flinched, and her hand clenched in William’s. He shifted and put his arm around her shoulders.

  “He was ill and out of sorts after we left Southampton, and I stayed in Tarrindale with him. I meant to stay only for a few days, until he was stronger, but I haven’t left. He’d started drinking heavily after you told your story in the papers here, and I don’t think he was healthy again after that. But when you left, he took it badly. And then we thought you were lost, and he …” Chris stopped, and turned to stare out the window. “He collapsed right in front of me.” He brought his eyes back to Nora. “That was the first one.”

  Nora blew out a shaky breath. William felt her turmoil; her body trembled in his embrace. “The first one,” she murmured.

  “Yes. He had three between that and this last. Five in all.”

  “Five strokes,” William mused. “In just more than a year.”

  Chris nodded. “As I said, he’s not been well. But they were small, fugues he’d slip into for a few minutes, and then he’d come back and be a bit confused. After a good rest, he was himself again.”

  “What happened this time?”

  The porter came by and opened their cabin door after a brisk knock. “May I bring you anything from the bar car, my lord?” He addressed Chris only.

  “No, thank you. Leave us undisturbed, please, unless I ring.”

  “Of course, my lord. My apologies.” He slid to door closed an
d disappeared.

  Chris focused again on his sister. “I don’t know. Nothing different that I know of. We got no news of any import and hadn’t had any for some time. He was in the garden—he’d taken to sitting for hours in the warm afternoons, reading. Gaines went out to fetch him for luncheon, and found him face down on the path. That was two days before I telegrammed.”

  More than two weeks had passed since then. When Nora said nothing, William asked, “How’s he been since?”

  “Badly altered. Dr. Davies believes he’s in his last days, and it’s not difficult to agree. He’s conscious a bit of every day, but every day, there’s less of him inside his eyes. Yesterday, he didn’t know who I was.” He leaned close and set his hands on Nora’s knees. “But he asks for you every day. Every time the door opens, he asks if you’ve come. He can barely speak at all, but he manages to ask for you. Thank you for coming home, Nono. I think he’ll be able to die in peace once he sees you again.”

  “You’ve written. Aunt Martha has written. Why did no one tell me before now?”

  Her brother looked sadly into her eyes. “What would telling you have changed, Nora? It would only have added you to the list of people in distress over this and helpless to make it better.”

  Nora dropped her head into her hands and sobbed. All William could do was hold her.

  If this boarding of the Lusitania had been one of the most difficult things William had done in his life, entering Tarrindale Hall seemed to be one of the most difficult things Nora had done. The footmen had carried their bags in, but William and Nora stood on the gravel drive before the house, holding hands. Nora’s head was tipped back as she studied the ancient edifice. Her hand quivered in his.

  Chris stood at the door, waiting. “Nora?”

  She turned to William. Her complexion had paled so dramatically, her fair freckles seemed painted on. “I don’t … I don’t know if I can go in there. My feet won’t move.”

  “I’m with you. I’ll stand here as long as you need. Or I’ll turn you around and take you away. Or I’ll carry you in. Whatever you need.”

  “Nora,” Chris tried again. “It’s just a house.”

  William scoffed quietly. Even he knew Chris didn’t believe that.

  “Full of ghosts,” Nora whispered.

  William squeezed her hand. “I’m with you. Anywhere.”

  She nodded and took her first step.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Forcing each step forward, Nora made it into the house. She managed to assure William that she was all right and convince him to stay down with Christopher, and then she convinced her legs to carry her alone up the stairs, and along the corridors to her father’s room, even as the thick walls pressed in on her, their modern plaster failing to lighten the crushing weight of the ancient stone behind it.

  She passed the corridor that led to her own room, which had become her prison, and didn’t turn her head. Aimed directly at her target, she achieved it and stood before the heavy double doors of her father’s room. The bedchamber of the Earl of Tarrin.

  Her hand wouldn’t reach for the doorknob. All her memories of her last year at home wound around her like venomous vines, binding her arms to her sides and her feet to the floor.

  It had been barely more than a year that her father’s love for her had turned to poison, and her love for him had turned to … what? Not hate. She’d always loved him; she loved him still. Her love had become a ghost of itself, dark and haunting.

  This house was full of ghosts.

  But she was not one of them.

  With that thought, she grasped the knob and opened her father’s door.

  Aunt Martha was seated in a heavy armchair near the window, reading. When Nora stepped into the room, she set her book aside and stood.

  “Oh, Nora! Oh, my dove, I’m so glad you’re here!” She held out her arms, and Nora went into them, sighing. Her heart eased a bit; her aunt was a safe corner in a frightening place.

  With her head resting on Aunt Martha’s shoulder, Nora saw her father. He lay on crisp white linens and, like a ghost, his complexion was nearly the same shade as the pillows he lay upon. His hair had gone completely white as well. He seemed thirty years older than he was.

  “Oh, Father,” she breathed, stunned.

  He slept, but even in sleep, his countenance was a twisted caricature. The left side of his face drooped as if his head were made of wax and had been left too long near the fireplace. His mouth sagged open on that side, and a rivulet of saliva ran from it, to a cloth laid on his chest, clearly for the purpose of catching that stream.

  Aunt Martha set her back and went to her brother. She used the cloth to dab at his cheek and chin, and then laid it neatly out again. “I’m sorry you have to see him like this, dove. But I’m so glad you’ve come in time. It’s all he wants in the world, to see you again.”

  “This can’t be me.” Nora swallowed back fresh tears. “I can’t have done this.”

  Her aunt grabbed her hand and clutched it hard. “It’s not you, Nora. You haven’t done this. If anything more than simply the failing of his body can be said to be the cause, it’s Oliver’s torment for what he did.”

  “But he wasn’t sorry. When I left. He said he wasn’t sorry.”

  “If he did, then it was a lie—one he told himself as well.” Aunt Martha sighed and drew Nora away from the bed. She made her sit in the other armchair and took her place again. “You know how important duty and honour are to your father. He can see only one way to do his duty, to show his honour—the way it’s always been done. His love for his family, and his duty to his title, he never understood how to show both, or which was more important. For him, honour is love. He turned from me when I had my troubles, too. Not because he didn’t love me, but because he thought he hurt me more to ‘encourage’ me. It took me a long time to forgive him for that. If your mother had lived, perhaps I never would have. But after she died, he needed me. You and Christopher needed me.” She turned and considered the frail figure on the bed. “Your father’s torments are not your fault, Nora. They’re his own. And they’re of this strangling world we live in that demands that every flower bloom alike but ignores the rot at the roots. You were right to leave it.”

  Nora turned to her father. With the sag of his face, he seemed distressed even in sleep. “May I sit with him alone?”

  “Of course, dove. Is William here as well?”

  “Yes. In the library, with Christopher.”

  “I’ll go and say hello. If you need the nurse, simply ring.”

  She nodded, and Aunt Martha patted her shoulder and left the room.

  For several minutes, Nora sat where she was, watching her father sleep, sorting her thoughts, reckoning with her feelings. Then he made a gurgling, groaning gasp, and his right hand twitched. His eyes opened.

  Nora stood and went to the bed. Without thinking, she caught that spasming hand—it was cold and dry as a dead leaf—and she held it. “Father.”

  His right eye focused, but his left eye didn’t join it. That one, bedded in a drooping socket, looked off to the left somewhere.

  But the right eye saw her, and Nora saw him recognise her and understand that she was here. His right side tensed, and his hand clasped hers so hard her knuckles cracked. “Nnnnnn. Nnnnnnn. Nnnnnrrrr!”

  She sat on the bed at his side and wrapped both hands around his, ignoring the pain of his clench around her fingers. “I’m here, Father.”

  “Nnnnnrrrr. Nnnnnrrr. Ssssss.” As he tried for the last word, spittle sprayed around his mouth. Nora let go with one hand and wiped his lips with that cloth on his chest. Increasingly agitated, he tried to turn his head away, and she stopped trying to clean him up and let him try to speak.

  “Sssssrrr. Ssssrrrrreeee. Nnnnrrr. Ssssrrrreeee.”

  He was sorry; he was telling her he was sorry. Nora bent over his hand and kissed his knuckles. Tears fell over his cracking skin. “Thank you. I forgive you.” She looked deep into his eye. “My life i
s good, Papa. I’m so very happy now.”

  “Llllllvvvv. Mmmmmkeeeee.”

  “And I love you. I never stopped.” She laid her head on her father’s chest.

  He died a few hours later, quietly in his sleep. Nora never left his side. Perhaps Christopher had been right, and he’d been holding on just long enough to make things right between them.

  After it was over, she left Christopher alone with him. She stepped out of the room for the first time since she’d gone into it, and found William there in the corridor, sitting on an uncomfortable chair against the wall. He stood at once and simply held out his arms, catching her as she fell into them, holding her as she wept.

  Always with her. Always what she needed.

  The next days passed quickly and, strangely, unremarkably. Few features stood out in her memory as they planned the Earl of Tarrin’s funeral and Christopher grappled with the reality that now the title was his, and the responsibilities that came with it.

  The day before the funeral, Christopher came into the library, where Nora and Aunt Martha had been sorting through condolence cards, and dropped the day’s edition of the Evening Telegraph on the desk. “Do you know this woman?”

  Nora turned her head to read the headline: ‘SUFFRAGETTE OUTRAGE AT THE DERBY.’ It ran above a large photograph of the track at Epsom Downs. The day before had been Derby Day, and the stands were full of spectators. On the track were horses and jockeys obviously mid-race. In the foreground of the photograph, a horse was down, and two bodies lay prostrate on the track.

  As Aunt Martha gasped, Nora snatched the paper and brought it round the desk so they could both read the article together.

  “Oh, dear Lord, it’s Emily,” Aunt Martha moaned. “What has she done?”

  “So you do know her.” Christopher was angry. “She very nearly killed the jockey.”

  Nora knew Emily Davison a bit, certainly by reputation. She was among the bravest and most militant of the suffragettes, so much so that the WPSU had disavowed her. Nora had met her once, in the tiny sitting room of Maude’s flat.