by May Burnett
Once the doctor had left, he tried to give the tincture and some water to the unconscious man, but only a small part of the liquid was absorbed, the rest trickled on the pillow. Next he began to look for papers which might contain details about Durwent’s family and friends.
He found a handwritten note of invitation by Lady Amberley, to a house party. Durwent must move in higher circles than Paul had supposed from his sober dress and demeanour.
A sheaf of business notes made Paul raise his brows in surprise at the figures involved. It would appear that the price of Lobbock Manor was small change to the man breathing so heavily on the bed. Was he getting enough air? Paul opened the window, reasoning that the risk was small, since it was warmer outside than indoors.
He returned to the scrutiny of Durwent’s papers. There was a letter from a Mrs. Emily Collins, in Lancashire, that was signed “your sister Emily”. Paul scrupulously refrained from reading it; correspondence among family members should remain private. He carefully noted the return address on the outside of the unfolded sheet, however. In the unhappy case that Durwent died of this fever, his sister must be informed. A silver-chased card case yielded Durwent’s London address – a business address, he guessed. About half the cards only gave the name, Jonathan Durwent. Those were clearly meant for more social purposes.
There was a purse with a surprising number of gold guineas in Durwent’s bag. He saw several more papers, but Paul did not touch them, judging two addresses sufficient for his purposes.
Paul dipped one of Durwent’s expensive neck cloths into a ewer full of water provided by the landlord, in place of the pungent punch that had been removed, and rubbed the cooling cloth over the patient’s hot face and neck.
“Sophia,” Durwent muttered without opening his eyes. “Must not get away.”
“She’s not getting away,” Paul said soothingly, wondering who Sophia could be. “She will come to see you when you get better.”
A smile fleetingly passed over the sick man’s face at this comforting lie. Paul sighed and dipped the cloth into water again. He had better send word to his sisters, that the sale of their estate was only postponed, for the duration of Durwent’s illness, and that he would be busy for the rest of the day. He needed to inform his own household and Patience as well. It was Patience who would be looking after him like this, if he ever lay on a bed in such helplessness as Durwent, who only yesterday had seemed so fit and strong. If she was not there, Paul would call for her as this man was calling for his Sophia.
This sudden sickness proved yet again how uncertain life was. He had been a fool to wait so long before proposing to Patience. They might have two or three children already. But those would yet come, with God’s favour … what names should they have? What would they look like? Tall and blond like both parents, most likely, and stubborn like Patience. That might easily lead to battles of will, but maybe some of their offspring would inherit Paul’s more pliable temperament.
From that thought it was but a small mental step to the wedding and the wedding night, his very favourite subject. Best of all, it was drawing closer by the day now.
And Durwent’s money would make his marriage more secure. Durwent absolutely had to survive.
Paul wrung out the cloth and dipped it into the ewer again.
Chapter 17
Cherry donned her black widows’ weeds, but left the veil and hat off indoors; they lay ready to be added at a moments’ notice. There was little enough to pack. Prune and Patch were right. She should not linger here in this damp old house any longer. With her three hundred pounds she would settle in some other place – a larger town, perhaps – and there she would sell the rest of her jewels as necessary. She would look out for some respectable man needing a wife, perhaps a widower with children. Looking after her new family, she would surely be able to forget about this brief flirtation with Jonathan – no, Mr. Durwent. Attraction was a farthing a dozen. It was character that counted.
She missed her lady’s maid, who could pack so much more efficiently than she. All their servants had been dismissed within days after Max’s suicide, when the catastrophic financial situation had become clear. She had barely been able to pay the wages owed, when most of them deserved a hefty bonus after several years’ service. Generosity was one luxury she hated to give up.
Wherever she would settle, she needed to arrive with at least one respectable maid. Would one from Spalding Hall be willing to come with her? But that meant another tie to Bellington, another person whose gossip could endanger her. She might find a maid elsewhere easily enough, in a workhouse if nowhere else. Such a maid would be cheap enough, but would need to be taught every detail of her job. Well, there should be time enough for that.
Before changing into her widow’s garb Cherry had replaced the key in its hiding place near the door to the Lobbock estate. Even were she not leaving, she could never use that door again, after that argument in the folly. It was a good thing that Durwent had not guessed her identity, which would have been all too obvious to any local person.
She had confused him, but it was no wonder, when she herself was so confused. How should she go on, where should she go, with three hundred pounds and a few jewels to her name? And even that name she had to give up, and choose a new one.
It was hard to be uprooted again, though she had never been completely at home either at Spalding Hall, or in Max’s London house. There was always something missing. Why did she feel, illogically, that if only she knew her origins, no matter how humble, she might find it easier to make plans and decisions?
Prune had felt similarly, at least in her youth, before marrying Matt and having his children. You could hardly put down more permanent roots than that. Patch on the other hand had never betrayed more than mild irritation at the uncertainty about her pedigree, but then she was not one to wear her innermost feelings on her sleeve.
Little as she possessed, the modest bag that she’d bought used after her successful escape was already bulging. Cherry held the red wig in her hand, wondering if she should leave it here, among the debris and bric-a-brac of this long-abandoned home. It was surprisingly becoming, but would always remind her of those illicit kisses from Jonathan Durwent.
She had been a fool to part with him as she had. If he bought the Lobbock estate, as everyone told her was already decided, she could never come back here to visit her sisters without the risk of running into Durwent and having her foolish disguise exposed. What had she been thinking? It had not mattered as long as she had taken him for a stranger merely passing through. Who could have expected the man to become a local fixture?
Her sister’s advice to tell the man the truth was not helpful after the way they had parted. Durwent would hate to learn he had been fooled. Would he even find her attractive with her own dark brown hair? That many other men had done so was no guarantee. And why should she care, anyway? She was leaving, and in all probability would never see him again.
If she did encounter Durwent years in the future, with his wife and family, she would simply brazen it out and claim that she had never met him before, that a chance resemblance had misled him. He might know it was untrue – after those kisses he’d likely recognize her again in the dark – but as a gentleman, and a married one to boot, he’d realize that it was in his best interest not to upset the applecart, and pretend to believe her.
Besides, by then she might have a new husband at her side, which would make it even more difficult for Durwent to challenge her story. She was worrying about nothing.
***
Patch came by shortly after, excited and almost glowing, as Cherry had not seen her since their early childhood. She did not even remark on Cherry’s return to her widow’s weeds as she deposited a basket with food and drink on the floor.
“Oh Cherry, I cannot wait to tell you – many things have been happening!”
“What?” Events in Bellington were not her concern any more, but Cherry could not keep herself from asking.
> “The Selbingtons waited for Mr. Durwent at their solicitor’s office, and the man never showed up. Paul went to the inn to see if he had absconded, only to find him deathly sick, of a sudden high fever.”
Cherry paled. “A fever?”
“Yes, there were wet clothes and shoes in the room, so it is supposed that he caught a chill.”
“Good God – what have I done?”
Patch regarded her with a frown. “You? What can the man’s fever have to do with you?”
“Never mind. How bad is it? Has the physician been sent for?”
“Yes, Paul sent for Dr Wentworth right away, of course. Now it is just a question of waiting if the man’s constitution is strong enough to defeat the fever. From what I saw of him at the Vicarage, he did not seem particularly frail, so I am sanguine. Of course, I have a personal interest in his recovery.”
“You?” It was Cherry’s turn to frown. “Did Durwent make up to you?”
“No, goose, of course not. But I am going to marry Paul, and he wants the proceeds from his share of the manor, to settle on me.”
So this was the reason for the joyful air and excitement! Cherry had thought Paul and Patch were merely good friends, but then she had not been here to observe the young couple together.
“Oh! I wish you happy!” Cherry hugged her sister and kissed her cheek. “When did this happen?”
“Yesterday morning, when I went to decorate the church.” Was that an actual blush on Patch’s face?
“You love him?”
“Yes - I have loved Paul for years, and he has loved me even longer, he vows. So, remembering our last talk, I may yet be facing the risk of a death in childbed.”
“Don’t joke about it, please!”
Patch bit her lips. “I am sorry. I forgot that you are sensitive about the subject. But as you see, wishes can turn to reality, no matter how long it takes. I will pray that yours also will.”
“Take your time about it, Patch; it would be unseemly for my wishes to turn to reality while I’m supposed to be in mourning.”
Patch’s expression dimmed a little as she regarded Cherry. “I have been meaning to ask you about that. You do not act like a freshly bereaved widow. Was your marriage so unhappy? If so, your letters did not contain any clues.”
Cherry opted for an expurgated version of the truth. “During the first years Max and I got on well enough. But in the end, especially this last year, there was an estrangement. We no longer discussed subjects we had talked about, and did not ask after each other’s activities, or care about them as we used to in earlier years. I made a few attempts to bridge the growing distance, but Max refused to meet me halfway. This is why I do not feel as heart-broken as I would have at an earlier stage of our marriage. I mourn the loss of stability and the closeness that might have been, more than the reality.”
“That must have been a great disappointment.”
Cherry hated to see compassion on Patch’s face. She did not require pity, even now. “Well, it definitely is not something I ought to discuss with a newly engaged woman. Your Paul is the loyal kind and you have much more in common than Max and I; I don’t see any danger of such an estrangement for you two. I wish you both all the best.”
“Thank you.” Patch finally noticed the bag standing ready in the hall. “What is this? Have you come to your senses at last, and decided to come and stay at the Hall with us, where you belong?”
“No – no, I was leaving for parts unknown. I will need a carriage, at least for the first stage, to Norwich. But now I feel guilty about Durwent being so ill. I cannot go away without knowing that he is going to recover.”
“Cherry, have you met this man? Where and how?”
Cherry shrugged, trying to make the matter sound unimportant. “I suspected him of being here to find me, so I spied on him, in my red wig disguise. But he turned back on the lane and began to talk to me, and one thing led to another … I gave the name of Mrs. Sophia Jones, because I’d just been reading Fielding’s Tom Jones.
“Sophia?” Patch repeated in a hollow voice. “Oh.”
“What is it?”
“Paul told me that in his delirium, Durwent called for a Sophia - not to let her get away. Paul soothed him by promising that Sophia would come to see him. Now it turns out this mysterious woman is you?”
“I’m afraid so,” Cherry said miserably. “It was foolish, but since I was planning to leave soon, and had no idea the man was going to settle here, it seemed harmless at the time.”
“You caused a very strong impression in such a short period,” Patch commented. “Ten years seem to have made no change in your effect on men.”
“Not all men. Paul never looked at me.”
“By the time he fell in love with me, you were long gone.” Patch took the basket up from the floor, and carried it into the dingy parlour, Cherry trailing behind, to place it on the table. “Whatever you do, Cherry, don’t go away now. Consider my wedding in a few weeks’ time.”
“So soon?”
“We waited long enough, don’t you think?”
“I would like to be there, if it were safe. You were at my wedding, after all.”
“Yes, as a bridesmaid, and later again for Prune’s wedding. It is high time I was the bride myself. I want you there, Cherry.”
“My black clothes will cast a pall on such a joyful occasion,” Cherry mumbled. “Several weeks? I will think about it.”
“That’s not good enough. Promise me that you won’t run off.”
“I promise not to run off for three more days,” Cherry offered, “that will give me time to think of my options. Unless Buckley should turn up, of course.”
“If he does, we’ll simply get him arrested. Here he would be in our bailiwick. Lord Minton is back, I hear. He would surely send his bailiff to incarcerate the man, if you denounce him.”
“Hmm.” Cherry was sceptical of this scenario, considering Max’s debts that Buckley held over her head, but in any case, none of this mattered now. She had to make sure that she had not killed poor Jonathan by sending him out into the rain so cruelly. Of course she had been perfectly ready to brave the rain herself, and had not expected to get a life-threatening fever from it. Much less had she expected a strong, healthy-looking man to be so susceptible to a chill.
To her annoyance the thought of Jonathan ill and in danger did not wipe away the unwelcome attraction; she felt concern and worry, far more strongly than reasonable under the circumstances.
However improper, she had to see for herself how sick he was.
Chapter 18
“Here, drink this. It will make you feel better.” Jonathan reached for consciousness with a great effort, as though swimming upwards against a dark maelstrom. But that familiar voice was irresistible. “Jonathan, wake up.”
He opened his eyes, and saw Mrs. Jones – Sophia – standing next to his bed with a glass and a small spoon in her hand. For some reason her red hair was not visible. She wore an ugly black dress – if more ladylike than her previous attire – but he would still have known her anywhere, even with this violent headache.
Surely she did not belong in this inn room. He had pictured her there in the night, but not like this, when he just lay there like a fool. In his dreams he had played an altogether more active role.
“What are you doing here?” Jonathan tried to ask, but it came out slurred. Was he drunk? What was the matter with him? He tried to sit up, but found himself too exhausted to do so.
“Don’t try to talk.” She put her surprisingly strong hand at the nape of his neck, and raised his head enough to let him drink water through a straw. It had a slightly bitter taste.
“This is the medicine the physician ordered, but it does not seem to be doing you much good. I’ve brought some willow bark and will give you a tisane presently.”
“Don’t leave,” he said urgently. It came out more clearly this time; the liquid had wet his raspy throat. “Why – “
“You foolish
man caught a chill when we argued, and you left in the middle of that rain shower. I am sorry I provoked you to do it, but I had no idea you would fall so ill.”
“But I’m never ill,” he said, frowning in puzzlement.
“Then I suppose it was your turn. Nobody is completely immune, you know.”
“Are we alone here? It’s not seemly,” he said, vaguely worried. “Your good name …
“Now you are concerned for it? You have more important things to worry about. With the high fever I expected you to be delirious, but you aren’t, are you?”
“Not unless I’m imagining you here, all alone in my room, at night.”
“I sent the maid who was watching over you to bed. The poor girl was glad enough to go, when I said I was your cousin, here to look after you.”
“Why was she here?”
“Paul – you remember Paul Selbington? He discovered you sick when you didn’t keep the appointment at his solicitor’s in Norwich. He called the physician, who prescribed this remedy,” she showed him a small brown glass bottle, “and kept watch over you until late in the evening, when he went home to get some sleep, after arranging for the maid to take his place.”
“Missed appointment?” That shook him, even in his weak state. “I never miss business appointments.”
“Well, now that they know the reason, nobody is holding it against you,” Cherry said soothingly. “Everyone in town is hoping you will recover quickly, so the sale can be completed.”
“Later …” he said, slurred again. “Don’t go away. I need you here.”
“Before you fall asleep again, drink some more barley water.” She served him the glass and positioned the straw, but he fell into an unquiet sleep before he had finished half. Cherry dipped a cloth into water and tried to cool his brow, alarmed that instead it was turning hotter under her hand.