The Hemingford Scandal

by Mary Nichols

  She was joined by a little man carrying a small black bag and three others. Harry, holding Jane’s hand, watched them scrambling down the slope to reach them and was surprised to find his cheeks were wet.

  Chapter Eight

  The doctor, a tubby little man, with a round cheerful face, decided not to undo the strapping on Jane’s leg. ‘You’ve made a good hand of it,’ he told Harry, before moving on to feel around the bruise on her head, making her wince. ‘No sense in making the poor child more uncomfortable. I’ll take a look at it when we have her safely back in an infirmary bed.’ He looked up at the road from which he had just come. ‘Your man said it would be a good climb, so we have come prepared with a stout door and some strong rope.’ He opened his bag and produced a bottle of brownish liquid from which he measured a good spoonful. ‘This will dull the pain, my dear, so take it down.’

  Jane obeyed and soon her head lolled. ‘Now, while she’s out, let us move quickly.’

  She did not remember anything of the struggle to haul the makeshift stretcher up to the cart, and very little of the journey afterwards. It all went by in a haze of pain and drug-induced sleep. But every now and again she woke to find herself lying on straw in the bottom of a flat cart, her head in Harry’s lap, where he was carefully cushioning it against the jolting of the cart. He was stroking her forehead and murmuring endearments and encouragement. ‘Not long now, my darling.’

  When had he started to call her darling? Since this terrible pain had started or before? She could not remember, could remember nothing of what had happened, not where they had been, nor where they had been going, nor for that matter, why. Her mind was a fog that lifted every now and then to a brighter image: sunlight on water, and laughter, hers and Anne’s and Harry’s. They were running through the woods, Harry had seized her overskirt and was flying along waving it like a banner and she was running after him, shrieking at him to give it back. But Harry was only a boy and she was small, very small, and very angry.

  And then she was standing in her father’s library and Harry was facing her. He was in the blue and gold uniform of the Prince of Wales’s Own Regiment, stiff and silent, his hat beneath his arm. She was the one doing the talking, but she could not hear herself, could not understand what she was saying. When she stopped, he bowed formally, put his hat on and left. And then she was weeping.

  ‘Jane, please do not cry.’ It was Harry’s voice in the present and he was gently wiping the tears from her cheeks with his handkerchief. ‘I know it hurts…’

  ‘Can’t feel anything,’ she murmured. ‘Tired, so very tired. Did we quarrel?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I don’t know. Can’t remember. Can’t remember anything.’

  He was momentarily shocked, then smiled. ‘You do remember me, though?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Harry, of course I do.’

  ‘And me?’ Anne’s anxious face appeared above her.

  ‘Anne, are you here too?’

  ‘Yes. We have all three been to the Lakes to visit my Aunt Bartrum, you remember that, don’t you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ Anne said, looking towards her brother with a worried frown.

  ‘The memory will almost certainly return,’ the doctor put in. He was perched on a pile of sacks on the other side of the cart. ‘Do not fret about it.’ He gave her another dose of laudanum and she fell asleep again, with her hand in Harry’s.

  When she came to her senses she was in a bed and the doctor and a nurse were standing over her. ‘Good,’ the doctor was saying. ‘She is back in the land of the living.’

  ‘Where am I?’

  ‘In Leeds infirmary, a private room. You have been here a week, hovering between life and death, but now I think we can safely say you will live.’

  ‘I have been ill?’ Her leg felt stiff and heavy and her head ached.

  ‘You were injured in an accident when the coach you were travelling in rolled down a bank. Severe bruising to the brain and a broken leg, which I have strapped to a splint to immobilise it. You have some cuts and bruises too, but they will heal.’ And, as she struggled to sit up, he put out a hand to restrain her. ‘No, do not move, you are still very weak and likely to feel faint.’

  ‘Papa. My friends…’

  ‘Captain Hemingford has kept your father informed.’ He paused to smile at her. ‘The Captain has been here the whole time, pacing up and down and sitting with you night and day. He did a grand job on your leg and it will mend, though you might be left with a slight limp.’ He smiled. ‘Better than losing the limb, eh? Or your life, and it might have come to that if he had not kept his head.’

  ‘Where is the Captain now?’

  ‘Waiting outside the door. Shall I call him in?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  He and the nurse disappeared from her line of vision, and though she tried to turn her head it sent waves of dizziness over her and she decided not to attempt it again. A moment later Harry was standing over her. He was unshaven and looking grey and drawn, but he was smiling. ‘So, you have decided to wake up, have you?’ His cheerful tone belied the strained look in his eyes.

  ‘Yes. I have been a terrible trouble to you, haven’t I?’

  ‘Terrible,’ he agreed.

  ‘The doctor says I owe you my life.’

  He sat on the edge of her bed. ‘The good doctor exaggerates. Your own courage brought about a miracle. And the prayers of your friends.’

  ‘Then I thank them. And you. Where is Anne? Was she hurt too?’

  ‘She is resting at our hotel. She had a few bruises, which are healing well, nothing broken, thank the Lord. Giles had a badly twisted knee, but he is also recovering.’

  ‘Giles?’

  ‘Our coachman. He was thrown off the box when the coach went over. Do you still not remember?’

  ‘No. Though I think it was dark and we were talking…’

  ‘Do you remember what we were talking about?’

  She frowned, tried to bring it back and failed. ‘No. But I have no doubt it was some nonsense. You always had an aptitude for that.’

  ‘Yes, it was nonsense,’ he said.

  ‘Tell me about it, tell me everything—where we had been and where we were going, how the coach came to turn over.’

  And so he did, beginning with Anne being ill, of the Regent’s banquet, of Jane’s own illness and her need to recuperate, their happy time at Ambleside, the walking and boating and the storm. ‘It was the day before we left to come home,’ he said. ‘We had hired ponies to go for a ride and it came upon us suddenly. We were soaked. Do you not remember it?’

  ‘No.’

  She had not remembered him kissing her, had not remembered her own anger. He did not know whether to be relieved or sorry. ‘Do you remember the workers marching in the middle of road and holding us up when we were coming home?’

  She tried, she tried very hard, but nothing came to her. ‘No.’

  ‘We were advised there might be trouble and changed our route to avoid them, but the rain had washed part of the road away. Giles did not see it until the horses stumbled and then it was too late… Oh, Jane, we thought we had lost you. And it was my fault. I should have known better than suggest taking a road we none of us knew.’ And because part of his decision had been the opportunity to visit a gun manufacturer made it worse.

  ‘I am sure you are being too hard on yourself.’ She paused. ‘There is such a blankness in my mind, like a black hole, but there is something there, clouding everything, something I ought to remember, something important, but I can’t grasp it.’

  ‘It will come back to you in time,’ he said. He had deliberately not mentioned Allworthy, but he supposed she would remember him in due course, perhaps when the man himself appeared, if not before. He ought to say something like, ‘By the way, you are in the way of being engaged to a worthy gentleman from Norfolk and Anne and I have been doing our best to persuade you against it.’ But he didn’t want to spoil her
recovery by introducing a jarring note. Allworthy was definitely a jarring note. He would be pleased if she never remembered the man at all.

  ‘I hope you are right. It is dreadful having this awful blank, not knowing what you have done, what you have said. I might have done something very silly, for which I should be sorry.’

  She reached out a hand and he grasped it and sank on his knees beside the bed, putting the tips of her fingers to his lips. ‘If you have, and I beg leave to doubt it, it is best forgotten.’

  ‘Thank you for taking such good care of me,’ she said, looking at his dear face. He looked exhausted and no wonder if he had been keeping vigil by her bed.

  ‘It was my privilege. I will not say pleasure because seeing you so white and still and in such pain was dreadful. I should never have put you in jeopardy at all. Can you ever forgive me?’

  Was she right in thinking that he had asked her that before, quite recently? Why? What had he done to need that reassurance? Why could she not remember? He was keeping something from her, she was sure. Was it so bad it could not be spoken of? ‘There is nothing to forgive. You could not have known about the hole in the road.’ She paused. ‘Does Papa know what happened?’

  ‘I sent word as soon as we arrived in Leeds and you had been made comfortable and he has written back. Now you are awake you can read it yourself.’ He reached out to the table beside her bed and handed her a letter in her father’s untidy hand.

  Her vision was blurred and she found reading a strain, so she let it drop. ‘Tell me what it says.’

  ‘He trusts me to take good care of you and asks me to keep him fully informed of your progress. He says his work is going very well and you are not to worry about the copying.’ He wondered at the insensitivity of the man who could write about his work when his daughter was injured, miles from home. If she had been a child of his, he would have arrived post haste at her bedside. ‘He hopes you will recover quickly and looks forward to hearing from you as soon as you are able to write, and seeing you safely home again as soon as the doctor says you are fit to travel.’

  He decided to skip the paragraph asking what he was doing, taking his daughter on roads that were evidently unsafe, also the mention of Donald Allworthy and the fact that he had informed him of what had happened. He hoped the man would not take it into his head to rush up to Leeds to see her. It reminded him he had not yet seen Franz Stoller.

  The nurse returned and straightened the covers over Jane. ‘Time you went, Captain. We must not tire our patient. She needs to rest.’

  Reluctantly he rose, bent to kiss Jane’s cheek and left. He was dog-tired and his thigh was giving him hell, the bruises round the area of his wound seemed reluctant to subside and he knew he was limping more than usual. He went back to the hotel, a modest one because he had very little left of the money he had brought with him. Most of it had gone on a private room at the infirmary, doctor’s fees, day and night nurses, treatment for Anne and Giles and paying the men who had brought the cart. The expense was increasing day by day, but he would pay it gladly to have Jane well again.

  Anne was sitting in a chair by the window of their sitting room, endeavouring to read, when he joined her. She looked up anxiously. ‘How is she?’

  ‘Awake at last. The doctor is very hopeful, but he says she might always limp.’ He sprawled in a chair opposite her, exhausted and worried. ‘I cannot bear it, Anne. I did this to her. If she is left permanently lame, how will she ever forgive me? I cannot forgive myself.’

  ‘How can you say so? It was an accident and accidents happen. Mother and Father…’ She did not need to go on. Their parents had been killed when a coach lost a wheel and overturned, their mother immediately; their father had lingered a few weeks before succumbing to his injuries.

  ‘I know. I have been thinking of that ever since it happened. I thank God you were not badly hurt, but Jane…’

  ‘She is recovering. Hopeful, you said, didn’t you?’

  ‘But not to be able to walk properly again…’

  ‘It might not come to that. We should be thankful she is alive and recovering.’ She paused. ‘She doesn’t blame you, does she?’

  ‘No, but then she still does not remember what happened. Not a thing. I had to tell her why we were in Westmorland and why we were going home over the Pennines. She could remember nothing of our stay at Aunt Georgie’s.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Nothing. I do not think she can remember Allworthy either. She did not mention him and neither did I.’

  Anne smiled. ‘That’s good, isn’t it?’

  ‘The memory will return and then she will ask us why we did not tell her.’

  ‘We’ll worry about that when it happens. How soon will it be before she can be moved?’

  ‘I do not know.’ He paused. ‘It is a long journey to London and it will exhaust her if we attempt it all at once. Sutton Park is about halfway. I thought of writing to Grandfather to ask him if we might bring her to stay there until she is fully recovered.’

  ‘What a good idea! She has not been there for years. The happy memories will surely help her recovery.’

  ‘Grandfather might be more amenable if you were to ask him. She is your friend.’

  She laughed. ‘Not yours?’

  ‘You know it is more than that, always will be, but I can say nothing of that now, not until she is well again and then there are other impediments.’

  ‘Mr Donald Allworthy.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Forget him. She has.’

  ‘Not for long, I’ll be bound.’

  ‘She will take weeks, perhaps months, to recover and by that time he will have grown impatient and found someone else.’

  He brightened. ‘Do you think so?’ Then he became morose again. ‘No man with any sense or any tenacity would forget Jane, and, say what you like, Donald Allworthy is not lacking in either.’

  ‘Then the sooner we can get her to Sutton Park, the better.’

  Although her memory remained obstinately blank Jane’s physical improvement continued and Harry took the opportunity while Anne was sitting with her to visit Stoller’s manufactory. The man was stiff and unwelcoming and Harry had to act the part of the resentful inventor for all he was worth in order to be shown round the premises ‘Are they all being bought by the War Department?’ he asked, looking at the racks of weapons. He was sure he was only being shown a small part of the operation, the legal side of it.

  ‘Of course.’ Stoller spoke excellent English with a strong Germanic accent ‘Who else would purchase dem?’

  ‘Are you interested in making a superior gun, one that can be loaded from the breech?’

  ‘De French are ahead of you. Have you seen any of Jean Pauly’s weapons?’

  ‘Yes, when I was in France last year, I saw an early model.’ No need to tell the man he had been on an intelligence mission at the time. ‘It gave me the idea.’

  ‘And you t’ink you can improve on de Pauly model?’

  ‘Yes. All I need to make a start is a small workshop and enough blunt to buy tools and equipment. Unfortunately, the War Department is too short-sighted to see the potential.’ He paused, then added, ‘My grandfather has cut me off, disinherited me, my regiment has dispensed with my services and I am deep in dun territory. I need to make money and I am not particular as to who pays me.’

  The man looked thoughtful, but he was also wary. ‘I need to make some enquiries before deciding. Leave everyt’ing wid me and I will contact you again.’

  Harry told him where he could reach him and left. He knew there was more to be seen. He decided not to wait until Stoller accepted him as a fellow conspirator, but to return after dark and look round on his own. What he saw, after feeding the watchdogs with meat and picking the lock of a small door at the rear of the building, convinced him he was on the right track. He went back to the hotel and wrote to Jerry Thoms.

  A letter arrived for Jane from Donald Allworthy later that week. She read it w
ith a puzzled frown. Its style was a mixture of correctness and familiarity, but she evidently knew the writer well. He was sorry to hear of her accident and hoped she would make a full recovery. As soon as she was well enough to travel, he would come himself to fetch her home. He had known the expedition was not a good idea, especially after she had been so ill, and wished now he had objected to it. He signed himself ‘Your devoted Donald Allworthy’.

  Who was he? Try as she might, she could not remember him. Was he the dark memory she had been groping for? But why had she forgotten him? What did he look like? Did she like him? Had he the right to object to anything she wanted to do, expecting her compliance? Or sign himself in that way? She decided to ask Anne when she came to visit her. She was allowed visitors now the headaches had gone and it was only her broken leg that was keeping her immobile.

  ‘I have had a strange letter from someone called Donald Allworthy,’ she told her friend. ‘Who is he? He writes…’ she paused ‘…like someone with whom I am familiar, but though I have racked my brain, I cannot recall him at all.’

  ‘You are sure you cannot remember him?’

  ‘Yes. I have repeated the name over and over in my mind but, though it seems familiar, I do not remember its owner. Here, you had better read the letter yourself.’

  ‘But it is a private letter. He would not be pleased to have it read by others.’

  ‘Oh, so you do know him.’

  ‘Not well. All I can tell you is that he proposed marriage to you.’

  ‘Proposed!’ She was taken aback. How could she forget a thing like that? ‘And did I agree?’

  ‘No, he is waiting for your answer.’

  ‘While I went on holiday with you and Harry?’

  ‘Yes. He lives in the country and was busy with the harvest. You and your Aunt Lane visited him there before you fell ill.’

  ‘Did we?’ Visiting him surely meant she intended to accept? ‘Why can’t I remember?’

  Anne shrugged. ‘I do not know. The bump on your head affected your memory.’

  ‘But I can remember you and Harry and Papa and Aunt Lane.’ She stopped. ‘Did Mr Allworthy ask Papa if he could propose to me?’