by Anna Jacobs
During the past week, he’d gone downhill very rapidly, for he couldn’t hold anything solid down now. He was, quite literally, starving to death.
As the room grew darker, Helen sat on beside the bed, still lost in thought. She had no fear of death, for she’d grown used to deathbeds from a very early age. She wanted very much to be with him at the end.
‘What are you thinkin' of?’ The whisper startled her out of her reverie.
‘Charles! I didn't know you were awake. Let me make you more comfortable! Would you like something to drink?’
He submitted to her ministrations with a faint smile. ‘Avoidin' my question, Helen?’ he asked as she sat down again.
She took his hand and smiled at him. ‘Not at all! I was remembering the first time you invited Harry and me to share a meal with you. Such a lovely day!’
‘You were wearin' a black dress. Darned, too. Black don't suit you. You should always wear rich colours, with your complexion. Don't wear mourning for me! Promise!’
This time she couldn't keep the tears back. ‘Don't talk about that, Charles! It won't matter what I wear if you're not there to see it.’
He grinned. ‘Waterin' pot!’ he said provocatively. ‘Think it'll make it all go away if we don't mention it?’
She shook her head mutely.
His cheerfulness faltered for a minute. ‘Ah, lovely girl of mine, if it wasn't for leavin' you, I'd not mind half as much. I've had a good life. And there are worse ways to die than bein' nursed by a beautiful woman, with a view like that outside my window.’ He returned obstinately to the question of mourning. ‘Promise me!’ he repeated. ‘No damned widow’s weeds! No drab clothes!’
He was getting excited, sweat pearling his brow. What could she do but promise what he asked?
‘Very well. I won't wear black more than I have to. But there are times when people would be s-scandalised,’ she had to pause for a moment to swallow back a sob, ‘if I wore colours. For both our sakes, Charles, I must wear black then.’
‘Very well. I don’t want ’em thinkin’ badly of you. But at other times, no black. No grey, either.
Or lilac. Or any of those damned faded colours. I won't have you droopin' around. You've had enough of that in your life! More than enough.’
‘I promise.’ She saw with relief that he was relaxing again.
He squeezed her hand and settled back with a sigh. ‘Thank you, love.’ A little later, he said,
‘We've had fun together, haven't we?’
‘A lot of fun. More than in my whole life before.’
‘Not sorry you married me, then?’
‘Not for a minute!’
He nodded in satisfaction and presently he drifted off into sleep again. He rarely stayed fully awake for long now, because of the laudanum he was taking for the pain.
Later that evening Harry, now nearly nine years old, came to sit with his step-father, as he always did, to chat about his day's doings. This time he had a cut on his lip to display with pride. He sometimes had difficulty with the boys of the village. ‘So I hit him, sir, just like you showed me, and he fell over. And when he got up and tried to hit me back, I thumped him harder. He won't dare to call me un maledetto inglese again!’
‘Good lad! Good lad! Always stand up for yourself - and for your mother. I shall count on you to do that when I'm gone. I'll tell Briggs to teach you how to box, eh? Give him something to do. In fact, he can be your groom and your mother’s general factotum then. Can't have him idlin' around, can we? And he can teach you to ride better, too, once you're in England. You'll need to learn to jump, so that you can hunt.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Harry's lips might be trembling, but he knew better than to cry in front of his stepfather, who had explained his illness to him, and how important it was, for his mother's sake, to stay cheerful. And as he still remembered another invalid, one who hadn’t stayed cheerful and who had made his mother cry, he tried very hard to do as Charles wanted. His step-father was a very wonderful person.
The next day, the small household was thrown into confusion by the arrival of Charles’s English lawyer. Mr Samuel Napperby drove up to the door in a cab just after mid-day, asking in a loud, slow voice for Mr Carnforth - Carnforth.
Mrs Carnforth was summoned.
‘You wished to see my husband?’
Samuel Napperby turned to greet his employer's wife. He hadn’t liked the sound of this marriage, nor the generous arrangements Charles Carnforth had made for his young wife in the new will. He had heard echoes of the rumours spread by Celia Carnforth and felt there must be some truth in them. Young women rarely married older men for love. And as Charles was his friend, as well as employer, he very much resented that.
However, he blinked in confusion at the pale beauty who greeted him quietly, and who looked so tired and drawn. Dark circles under her eyes bore mute testimony to sleepless nights, but she was magnificent. No, he corrected the thought , not magnificent, for she wasn’t flamboyant enough for that. Her pure beauty reminded him of a little medieval statue of the Virgin Mary he had seen in a church once.
‘I'm Mrs Carnforth,’ she said quietly. ‘How may I help you?’
Her voice removed another of the misconceptions Samuel had built up. His friend had previously favoured blowsy, buxom women, actresses usually, who could share a joke, a romp in bed and a bottle of wine with him. In fact, Samuel had been required to pay one or two of them off, for Charles had ever been generous. But this one - why she was a lady through and through! You could see that just by looking at her.
He bowed over her hand then introduced himself. ‘Mr Carnforth's lawyer - indeed, the family lawyer, for my family have served his for three generations now.’
‘Oh dear! I hope nothing is wrong. My husband is in no state to – to…’ Her voice faltered for a moment and her eyes filled with tears. ‘I'm afraid that Charles is very close to death, Mr Napperby. I can't allow him to be worried about anything. He’s very weak and in a great deal of pain.’
He bowed again. She obviously cared deeply for her husband. She looked done-up, too. She'd probably collapse when it was all over. He'd seen it happen many times. People kept up a brave front till their loved one was dead, then - bang! It hit them. Well, Charles had done the right thing in sending for him. He would know how to look after the poor young widow, who seemed to be about the same age as Samuel’s older daughter.
‘There's no bad news to trouble his lordship with,’ he said soothingly, ‘but I think it would be better if you let me see him. You see, it was he who sent for me. Urgent, he said it was.’
‘Oh.’ There was a pause. ‘I think it would be best if you saw him after sunset, then. He loves to watch the sun go down over the bay and he's always very calm afterwards. You see, any exertion makes him cough and splutter - and that isn’t good for him. He's so weak now that anything may -
may precipitate a crisis.’
‘You may trust me to do nothing to disturb him.’
‘Yes, I'm sure I may. In the meantime, I'll have a room prepared for you.’
‘I couldn't trouble you at such a time. There must be an inn where I can . . . ’
She gave him a singularly sweet smile. ‘It's no trouble. And if Charles - if you are needed suddenly, it will be more convenient for us all if you are here.’ She rang a little bell and a plump Italian woman surged into the room. ‘Per favore, Giuliana, una camera per il signor Napperby. E
l'avvocato di Mr Carnforth. E forse, una tazza di tè.’
She turned back to Mr Napperby. ‘Giuliana will prepare you a room, and I've asked her to bring you a cup of tea.’ Again that sweet smile. ‘I've taught her how to make it to the English taste.’
Mr Napperby's expression lightened. He had no head for the rough red wine the innkeeper had pressed upon him the previous night, and he wasn’t overly fond of the coffee they seemed to serve everywhere abroad. ‘That would be splendid, Mrs Carnforth! I must admit to a longing for a cup of good English tea.’
She inclined her head. ‘Good. And now, if you'll excuse me, I’ll go and sit with Charles. I don't like to leave him for too long.’
She left the room before he had time to reply. What a quiet, restful person she was! And how beautiful! No wonder Charles had remarried!
Samuel had cordially disliked his client’s first wife, who had treated him and all other employees of her husband as if they were ignorant scullions. He was sure already that Charles had found some happiness with this young woman, and glad of it, too. They’d played together as lads. And even when his old playmate had come into the inheritance, he hadn’t ceased to treat Sam as an equal and a friend.
A week later, Charles Carnforth died. Typically of him, he died laughing.
The housekeeper, a clumsy woman at best, though well-meaning, had come into the bedroom chasing a kitten which had somehow strayed into the house. Apologising profusely and incomprehensibly in Italian, she had attempted to catch the creature, then, when it scratched her, had become a veritable Diana in its pursuit.
Since Giuliana's generous body wasn’t built for a rapid chase, the affair had degenerated into a farce, the sort Charles had once loved to watch at the theatre. He began to chuckle. Then, when Giuliana tumbled head over heels, exposing her fat pink arse to his amused gaze, he had burst into roars of laughter.
A moment later, the laughter stopped.
It all happened so suddenly that he could have felt no pain and Helen, smiling by his side, took a moment or two to realise why the room had become so quiet. And when she did realise, she could not but be glad that it had happened in such a way. He had died as he would have wanted to, enjoying life.
Contrary to Samuel’s expectations, her ladyship didn’t immediately give way to her grief. In fact, he never saw her lose control of herself or her household, and only once did she weep in front of him. Her eyes were indeed reddened, but she did her grieving in private.
As Samuel spoke not a word of Italian, it was she and Briggs who had to organise the necessary preservation of the body, for Mr Carnforth had expressed a desire to be buried among his ancestors in the family vault - if that was not too much trouble - and had summoned his old friend and lawyer to see to that and one or two other matters as well.
Except for the public occasions, when they escorted the casket to the docks, or when they disembarked at Southampton, Mrs Carnforth didn’t wear black. She told Samuel of her promise to her husband, and admitted to a feeling of guilt about it.
‘Only,’ she said, with her gentle air of dignity, ‘I promised Charles and I shouldn’t like to break that promise, for he never broke a promise to me. And there’s one more thing. I don’t want to be called her ladyship, just Mrs Carnforth.’
‘It’s irregular.’
‘It’s what I want. It was Charles I married not his title.’
The sole occasion on which Helen did become agitated before they left was when Samuel gave her the main facts about Mr Carnforth's will. Her husband had left her everything which was not entailed, every single thing he could, and she had as well a lifelong tenancy of the Dower House at Ashdown Park in Dorset.
‘Oh, no, no!’ Helen exclaimed in distress. ‘I could not! I had never realised . . . Charles didn’t tell me it would be so much! I can't take all that money, Mr Napperby. How can I? I didn't marry him for his money. Truly I didn't!’
Harry rushed to put his arms around his mother and scowled at the lawyer. ‘Cara mammina, please don't cry!’
But it was several minutes before she was composed enough to continue listening
‘Ahem!’ Samuel looked at her guardedly. ‘There is - one more thing you need to know about.’
‘Yes?’
‘Your son - Harry.’
Harry began to scowl again. He was jealous of this fat old Englishman who was taking up so much of his mother's time.
‘Charles was much concerned for the boy's future. As you know, he adopted Harry formally, so he has made a father’s provisions for your son. He has left some money in trust for the boy, for when he is twenty-one, and he has appointed his heir, Daniel Carnforth, and myself to be joint guardians to him.’
‘But - Harry can need no guardian! He has me! I'm his mother!’ Helen drew her son possessively towards her and he wriggled uncomfortably in her arms.
‘Ahem. You can be assured that I shall not interfere in his upbringing. But Charles was more concerned that Master Harry should have a - a gentleman to sponsor him into society. Later on, you know. He felt that the legal obligation would ensure that Daniel Carnforth did this. He said that even Celia's son would not neglect the sacred trust imposed on him by a dying man, er, especially Celia's son. The lady is rather addicted to death and its ceremonies, you see.’
‘How could Charles do it?’ she repeated, not at all Interested in Celia Carnforth's peculiarities.
‘He was very fond of the boy. Said he regarded him as a true son. Wished he could leave him the whole estate,’ Samuel offered as a palliative.
‘But he need not have saddled him with a guardian whom we've never even met!’ she said bitterly. ‘What if he - this Daniel person - tries to take my son away from me?’
‘There was no turning Charles from this point,’ Mr Napperby said unhappily, for that had occurred to him, too. ‘I did try, believe me. But he began to grow agitated - and I didn't dare press the point.’
Helen sighed. ‘Yes. I know. Charles was a dear, but he could be very stubborn at times.’
‘Yes, Mrs Carnforth. But - I did manage to persuade him to set up a joint guardianship, as a safeguard. In that way, if Daniel Carnforth neglects his duty, I can look after the boy. I believe I’m quite well respected in the county. And, with the permission of both of us needed to do anything against your wishes, he won’t be able to take the boy away from you.’ He blinked at her earnestly from his round grey-blue eyes, his plump jowls quivering sympathetically.
She took a deep breath. What couldn't be cured must be endured - and with dignity. Charles had taught her that. After a moment, she even managed a half smile. ‘Well, if there is no help for it, I suppose I had better just accept it. Is there anything else I should know, Mr Napperby?’
‘No, my dear lady. The other details can wait.’
‘Then I'll go and attend to my packing. I shall be happy to settle into my new home.’
She hoped the new owner of Ashdown would be pleasant to deal with. Mr Napperby had hinted that the family hadn’t been best pleased by the marriage, but it was no use worrying about that now.
She had dear Charles's last wishes to fulfil.
Chapter 13
Daniel Carnforth paced up and down the drawing room at Bellborough and cursed his own stupidity. What mental aberration had made him send word to Bath when he heard from Mr Napperby, to inform his mother that Charles Carnforth was dying and had asked the family lawyer to go to see him in Italy? She had come hotfoot to join him in the country and had been with him ever since, driving him mad with her complaints and affectations.
‘Daniel, dearest one, are you listening to me?’
‘Yes, Mama. I mean, no. I'm sorry. I was thinking about the old water meadows.’
‘Farming? At a time like this? When you may hear at any moment that you are the new owner of Ashdown? An ancient manor house, a family which can trace its line of descent from a Norman baron.’ She sighed ecstatically, for her family had no nobility among its ancestors.
As if Daniel cared about that! It was the land that mattered to him. ‘I shall need to put in some new drainage,’ he said, thinking aloud. ‘Sorry.’ Then he grew angry with himself. Why did she always make him want to apologise?
She shook her head sadly. ‘You will become quite unbearably bucolic, if you don’t take care, my dear boy.’
He resumed his pacing.
But she could never bear silence for long. ‘If only we knew!’ she sighed for the twentieth time that day. Her pale eyes were fixed hungrily upon her son’s face, as if she ex
pected to see a change in it signalling his ownership of Ashdown. In her hands she was clasping a volume of sermons, which he knew she’d never read, because he’d seen the uncut pages, but which she always displayed prominently upon any sad occasion - or when she was particularly displeased with her only child.
‘Well, we don't know and we can't know, Mama, so there is no use fretting, is there? Why don't you let me take you out for a drive? It's a beautiful day and the fresh air would do you good.’
Celia smiled bravely and dabbed at her eyes with a lacy handkerchief. ‘Ah, if I only had your stamina, my son! But you know how sad news oversets me. I cannot go out driving when, for all I know, my poor dear cousin Charles may be lying on his death bed! At this very moment! And I not in mourning! How shocking that would be!’
Her voice throbbed with emotion and the handkerchief was wielded again, though it remained dry, Daniel was sure.
Silence reigned for a few moments, broken only by the loud ticking of a very large and ugly gilt clock, which Daniel had always hated. He’d banished it to the attics once, but his mother had unearthed it on her next visit and given him a lecture on respecting family heirlooms. Rather than endure prolonged homilies upon the subject, he’d allowed her to place it upon the mantelpiece again. When she’d gone this time he would, he vowed, take the damned thing outside and break it into tiny pieces. It was driving him mad.
When it came to his home comforts, he must learn to be as stubborn as she was - but in a quieter way. A man needed a bit of peace after a hard day's work. Heaven preserve him from the upsets his mother seemed to thrive on!
Feeling that her son's attention was not upon her, Celia sighed and fluttered one hand at her brow.
Daniel's scowl deepened. This theatrical gesture never failed to irritate him. He suspected, no, he knew that the headaches to which she was prone were pure fabrications, for they only seemed to come upon her when her will was crossed, never when she had something pleasant in prospect.