“No—” She would not believe her ears.
“Children.” He, too, must have been aware of the gulf that suddenly yawned between them, for his tone, as he explained about his family was more and more hesitant, apologetic, unlike him. The plantation was a lonely one, he had said, too far, in the old days, from Charleston for easy communication. All very well in the high days of Southern prosperity, before the Civil War, but afterwards, another story. The result had been generations of inbreeding.
“But that’s ancient history,” she had protested, still trying not to believe him serious.
“If only it were. Our grandfather and grandmother were first cousins. Their children seemed right enough, but” he took it in a rush—”all our cousins are in mental homes. Father and Uncle Paul were the youngest by a long way,” he explained.
“Uncle Paul?”
“Father’s twin. Younger than him. He’s still alive—the only one of his generation, but crippled with arthritis, poor man. He never married. Wouldn’t risk children. He lives at La Rivière, of course. It was he who put it to us, when Cousin Charles went off his head. About not having children. We agreed, then, the four of us, to be grateful for small mercies and let the Rivers line die out with us.”
“But you’re all normal?”
“Oh, God, what’s normal?” It had not been an answer, and they had both known it.
The room door was being pushed quietly open. A hand came round to release the loop that held it in place. With a frantic effort, Julia turned in bed, reached out her own, shaking hand, caught the dangling bell, and pressed it for all she was worth.
“Dear, I am so sorry.” Fan, carrying roses. Fan, carefully closing the white door behind her. Absurd to have panicked over gentle, delicate Fan, who was standing, now, roses forgotten, crying in silent sympathy with Julia’s own tears. And yet—she remembered that cry of Breckon’s: “What’s normal?” Not Fan—not really. The youngest of the four, always an invalid, she lived in the shadow of her brothers and sisters, and most particularly in that of Raoul, a year older than herself. If Raoul were to tell her to come to the hospital, take a pillow, and…Convulsively, Julia pressed the bell again, grateful that she had had the wits not to let it go.
“What’s the matter?” Fan put the roses down on the bed and moved forward. “Something I can do?” Whatever had made Julia think of her as delicate? She looked huge—dark in her habitual black against the whiteness of the room. Threatening.
“I don’t feel well.” It was horribly true. Dizziness swept through her in waves, leading downwards toward unconsciousness. “If you could call a nurse?” she managed.
“I’ll help you. Whatever it is.” Another step forward. “I always nurse Raoul through his bouts. I’m good. He says so.” She was very near now, reaching out to take the bell from Julia’s limp hand. And at that moment, miraculously, a metallic voice sounded from a speaker beside the bed. “Yes, Mrs. Rivers,” it said. “What can I do for you?”
“Nothing,” said Fan, and, “Come,” croaked Julia.
“Silly.” Fan took the bell, oh, so gently, and hung it out of reach again at the far end of the night table. “I’m family. Anything they can do I can do better.” But, surely, her eyes were on the door, speculative?
It swung open and a tiny red-haired nurse bounced into the room. “Well, Mrs. Rivers, am I ever glad to hear from you.” And then, to Fan. “We said, ‘No visitors.’“
“But I’m family.”
“Never mind. Mrs. Rivers has had a bad time. Right now, ‘no visitors’ means ‘no visitors.’ Lovely roses.” She picked them up, shepherded Fan gently but firmly from the room, and returned to stand by the bed, her eyes kind. “How do you feel, Mrs. Rivers?”
“Wretched,” said Julia. “I’ve lost it, haven’t I?”
Something clouded the clear blue eyes. Then, “Yes, I’m afraid so,” said the nurse, whose lapel pin proclaimed that she was Miss James. “But no harm done. Better luck next time.” Her voice somehow failed to carry conviction. How could it? Everyone in Charleston knew about the Rivers family. “Now try and get some sleep, Mrs. Rivers,” she went on, “while I rustle you up something to eat. Your husband will be here this evening. You’ll want to see him, won’t you?” Once again there was something in her tone that Julia’s tired mind could not quite analyse.
“Yes, of course.” Supplying the expected response, she wondered if it were true. Might it not be wise to wait until she was stronger?
“Only if you feel up to it.” Nurse James had read her thoughts. “We’ll wait and see, shall we?”
“Let’s,” said Julia gratefully, and drifted off to sleep.
She woke in tears, her whole body aching with shock and disappointment. She felt void, useless. “Don’t mind it.” Nurse James was beside her, with a tray. “It’s always like this. It passes. Now, eat your soup, honey. The doctor’s coming around soon.” She gave the room a quick, professional glance that passed it as fit for a doctor’s inspection.
“Doctor?”
“McCartland. You must know him. He’s been the Rivers’ doctor for ever.”
“Oh, yes.” Once again, Julia’s mind registered something a little strange about the nurse’s tone, but this time her own quick sense of disappointment explained it. She did indeed know Dr. McCartland, who drove out across the new bridge to La Rivière regularly every Monday afternoon, to sit on the screened porch gossiping with Uncle Paul until the family assembled for evening drinks. Then he would stay, rather silent, over his one long scotch and water, small shrewd eyes moving from one member of the family to another, watching…waiting? If Fan was ailing, or Raoul had one of his unexplained “bouts,” the visit with Uncle Paul was inevitably curtailed, but the drinks session was always the same, and Julia had hated it, particularly in the last few weeks, when she felt her secret must shout itself aloud to him.
And now, inevitably, he was to look after her in hospital. Helpless tears began to flow again, and she looked with distaste at the tray Nurse James had swung across the bed.
“Come on, honey. Try it while it’s hot. I heated it myself, in the nurses’ kitchen. If matron catches me, I’m a gone goose. So eat up, quick, before the doctor comes. It’s the only way to get strong, and out of here.”
“Thank you.” Julia managed a watery smile, tasted the soup, and found it delicious. She was famished. When had she last eaten? “How long have I been here?”
It was the question Nurse James had been waiting for. “A day and a half. You came in yesterday morning, and, my, you were in a state. How come you fell in the river?”
Julia opened her mouth to say, “I was pushed,” then thought again. “I don’t remember,” she said instead.
“Shock,” said Nurse James. “Don’t worry. I expect it will come back to you.”
“And I’ve been unconscious all this time?”
“Yes.” Nurse James spoke with her back half turned, moving towards the door to listen. “Eat up, honey. I can hear the doctor on his way, and I want that tray out of here.”
Dutifully, Julia finished the soup and leaned back, exhausted again, her eyes closing as Nurse James picked up the tray. “I’ll come by to see you before I go off duty,” she promised. “Be good now.”
Left alone, Julia lay between sleep and waking and listened to the slow progress of Dr. McCartland and his train down what must have been a long corridor. His voice, with its residual Scottish burr, was unmistakable, booming out from time to time, as, no doubt, he emerged into the corridor between rooms. Other male voices acted as respectful accompaniment and Julia thought, with a pang, that this must be a teaching hospital. There was pack of tissues by her bed. She reached for one, blew her nose, and resolved that she would not let herself cry in front of the students.
But when the procession reached the door, she heard Dr. McCartland halt it. “I’ll see this one alone today. Just you, Matron.”
In her gratitude, Julia managed to greet him with a warmth she had never a
chieved before.
“That’s better.” He loomed over the bed, smiling down at her with that codfish smile of his. “That’s very much better. That’s what we wanted to see, isn’t it, Matron?”
“Yes, indeed.” Miss Andrews, the matron, was a tight-faced, gray-haired woman, and Julia, submitting to the inevitable examination, could understand Nurse James’ dread of her.
When it was over, “Not too bad,” Dr. McCartland summed it up. “Not bad at all. We’ll have you back on the old plantation in no time, Mrs. Rivers. Just what you need. Rest and quiet, good food, and no more walks by the river. You shook them up properly, young woman, I can tell you that. If young Breckon hadn’t had the sense to bring you straight here, I don’t know what it might not have done to them, the state you were in. It was sedatives all round last night, and I’m still not too happy about Fan.”
“She came to see me.” Irritation at his preoccupation with the family pulled her up among the pillows. “There didn’t seem much wrong with her. I’d rather not have visitors anyway. Except Breckon.”
“They’ll mind,” said Dr. McCartland. Then, at sight of something in her face: “Just as you say, of course.” His tone was indulgent, as to a child. “For a day or so, till you’re stronger.”
“Until I say so.” Julia surprised herself by saying this, and got an equally surprised glance from Miss Andrews. This was not, evidently, the way one spoke to Dr. McCartland. “Which hospital is this?” she asked now, amazed that she had not done so before.
“Not a hospital.” Miss Andrews stiffened that ramrod back a little more. “St. Helen’s Nursing Home. You’re lucky to be here, Mrs. Rivers. If it had been anyone else…”
“Oh, I see,” said Julia weakly and watched them turn and leave the room. It made sense, of course. St. Helen’s was Dr. McCartland’s latest project, an enormously expensive nursing home for private patients just across the new bridge from La Rivière. The patients paid vast sums, and so did a handful of students. And now, too, she understood an odd phrase that the doctor had used. Breckon had brought her straight here. For her own sake, she found herself wondering grimly, or the family’s? How horrible to think like this. And yet, how could she help it? And he must have loaded her, cold, soaked, and unconscious, into the back of his huge Cadillac for the half-hour drive. It hardly seemed the ideal treatment for someone in her condition.
In what had been her condition. At the thought, the tears began to flow again, and it was thus that Nurse James found her. “Oh, honey,” she began reproachfully, then stopped at Julia’s question. “Yes, I was here when you came in,” she confirmed. “You remember—I told you. I never saw anything like it.”
“Was I wrapped in a blanket?”
“No.” The girl’s hand went to her mouth, and Julia realised for the first time how young she was. She made a quick recovery. “Poor Mr. Rivers was almost out of his mind with worry. He said he hadn’t known what to do for the best.”
“No,” said Julia. “I imagine not.” She pulled herself up a little further on the pillows. “Has anyone brought in my things? I’d like to comb my hair before he comes.”
“Yes, indeed. Miss Amanda brought them just after you came up from the theatre last night. She wanted to come in—just for a tiny minute—and see you, but I didn’t let her. She wasn’t best pleased with me. Make my peace for me, honey, when she visits you? The Rivers are bad ones to cross.” And then, colouring. “Sorry, I forgot you were one.”
“That’s all right.” Something had upset Nurse James…Something she herself had said? She was making rather a business of fetching Julia’s alligator overnight case out of the closet and unpacking it for her.
“Beautiful.” She paused to stroke the rich brown leather. “A present from the family?”
“No, actually it was a wedding present from my boss.”
“My goodness.” Awestruck. “How he must have hated to lose you.”
“He did.” Memory of Sir Charles and his fury was curiously steadying. In all the years she had worked for him, he had never once failed to believe what she told him. If she had said she had been attacked, he would have accepted it without question. As, in the end, he had accepted her marriage. “It’s your affair,” he had said, giving her the extravagant present. “And I hope to God it works out better than I think it will. And, Julia, if you ever want to come back, there’s a job here for you, and no ‘I told you so.’ Assistants like you don’t grow on every tree. I just hope young Rivers knows how lucky he is.”
Did he? Julia was glad to let Nurse James comb her hair, but jumped when she began on the back. “Ouch!”
“You’ve got quite a bump there.” The girl’s fingers were gentle. “You must have hit something, falling.” And then, holding a pocket mirror for Julia, “A touch of colour, maybe?”
“No, thanks.” Julia managed a laugh. “I never use it. Haven’t got any.” But, with a critical look at the haggard face in the glass. “I do see what you mean.”
“I could borrow you some,” said the girl eagerly. “Mrs. Frankson down the hall has a makeup case like the Ark. Two of everything. She’d be tickled to death…”
“No thanks.” Somehow, she felt that Breckon must see her as she was. But at least: “Somebody washed my hair,” she said gratefully.
“Yes. Matron said to do it while you were under the anaesthetic. It stank. We gave you typhoid shots too. And anti-tetanus. I bet your arm’s stiff.”
The girl was babbling. Why? “Anaesthetic?” asked Julia, then turned as the door was pushed open to reveal Breckon, his arms full of white roses. “Thank goodness, darling, you’re better.” He handed the flowers to Nurse James and advanced to kiss her, lightly, on the cheek. “How do you feel?”
“Terrible,” said Julia, as Nurse James muttered something about a vase and withdrew.
“My poor darling.” Now his arm was round her, as he gave her a real kiss, warm and demanding. It should have been comforting, and was not.
“You brought me straight here,” she said.
“I should think so! The most terrifying drive of my life. I did it in twenty minutes. It would have taken hours if I’d gone in and called an ambulance. I didn’t even know whether I had minutes.”
“Well, I survived,” said Julia dryly. What was the use of discussing it? “But—”
“I know, darling. Terribly bad luck. I am so sorry.” He turned, angrily, as Nurse James reappeared with the roses in a vase. “Put a ‘Don’t disturb’ sign on the door, like a good girl.”
“Certainly, Mr. Rivers.” If Nurse James was annoyed, she concealed it admirably. “I just came to say goodnight to Mrs. Rivers. I’m off now,” she spoke to Julia. “Be good, honey, and I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Thanks for everything,” said Julia warmly. “I’ll look forward to seeing you.”
“Goodnight.” Miss James beamed back. And then, more formally, “Goodnight, sir. I’ll put up the notice.”
The door closed behind her. “Very chummy with the help, aren’t you?” said Breckon.
“She’s a honey. Breckon, why did I have to have an anaesthetic?”
“I don’t know.” Impatiently. “Ask Dr. McCartland. He’ll tell you, when he thinks you’re strong enough.”
“Oh.” She thought it over. “There were—complications?”
“Let’s not talk about it tonight, darling. Let’s just be grateful that we have each other.” He pulled up a chair, sat down as close as he could get to the bed, and took her hand in his cold one. “God, what a couple of days you’ve given us! You’d have been pleased, love, I think, if you’d seen how they all cared, back home. They all want to come and see you, just as soon as you’re up to it.”
“Fan came today.”
“Yes. Stupid of her, poor love, but you know what she’s like. Those her roses?”
“Yes.” Privately, she thought the crimson ones Fan had brought more cheering in a sickroom than Breckon’s funeral white. But then, it was a funeral. Poor chi
ld. Poor three months’ child.
“Don’t cry, darling. It’s all over now. You’ll be better in no time. Dr. McCartland says so. He thinks we can have you home in a few days for a good rest. Now, when did you last have that, I wonder?”
“God knows.” The whole conversation had been leading up to this point. “And, Breckon, I’m not having it now. Not at La Rivière. I want to stay alive.”
His long, fair, intelligent Rivers face flushed as if she had slapped it. “Julia, you’re not still imagining things?”
“Imagining?”
“Well, darling, what else can we call it? I…” He hesitated and the flush deepened along his cheekbones. “I hope you don’t mind. I told Dr. McCartland about those nightmares of yours.” And then quickly, seeing how much she did mind. “I had to, honey, after the way you treated poor Fan. Practically having her thrown out…She was in a real state about it, until Dr. McCartland explained…”
“That I was imagining things?”
“Well—yes. Dr. McCartland thinks it’s the cumulative strain of that high pressure job of yours. Lots of rest, he says, and no more excitement.”
“Like being pushed into the Cooper River? You aren’t suggesting I imagined that too?”
“Of course not, love, but—you could have slipped. And I can tell you one thing. I checked on that, too. I’m not an undercover man like your Sir Charles, but when it’s my wife, I do my best. They were all together, the family, at breakfast. When it happened. Every one of them.”
“Even Uncle Paul?” She regretted the question the moment it was spoken.
“My poor darling.” He took it beautifully, his hand kind on hers. “What horrors you have been giving yourself. No. Uncle Paul didn’t follow you down to the Cooper in his wheelchair and contrive to push you in. Yesterday was his birthday—maybe you had forgotten?—and he celebrated it at breakfast with the family.”
“Oh, my goodness.” She had forgotten. “And your father’s.”
“Never mind, love. They won’t hold it against you. Why should you remember?”
“But, Breckon—” Exhaustion was washing through her, its waves higher and higher. She must explain, beg, insist…
One Way to Venice Page 4