Saddle the Wind

by Jess Foley

  ‘How is he?’ Harold asked. ‘I noticed a – a faint smell when I was in his room. Coming from his leg.’

  Soames’s expression was grave. ‘The trouble is,’ he said, ‘the break was not a clean one – which is surprising in a man his age. With a fracture like that, though, where the bone is virtually splintered …’ His voice trailed off, and he shook his head. ‘I’m afraid the healing process is not so efficient as one grows older. And you must understand that the flesh was badly lacerated by the broken bone, and –’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  The doctor looked at him for a moment then said:

  ‘I’m afraid the wound has begun to mortify.’

  When the doctor had gone Harold went into the bedroom where his brother lay in bed, propped up against the pillows. A nurse had been brought in, a woman from the village, and on Harold’s entrance she excused herself and left the room. Standing near the bed Harold could detect again the faint smell coming from the bed. Savill’s voice came to him.

  ‘Don’t stand there. Come on in.’

  Harold moved to the bed, Savill gazing at him as he approached.

  ‘Has Soames gone?’ Savill asked.

  ‘Yes, a minute ago.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  Harold said nothing. Savill looked up at him for a moment then shook his head on the pillow and gave a deep sigh. ‘Oh, Christ,’ he breathed.

  ‘It’ll be all right,’ Harold said. ‘Give it a little time …’

  ‘Time.’ Savill shook his head. ‘Time will do for me. I knew what he was about there. Prodding at my leg like that. In some places I couldn’t feel a thing. I can smell it too. The flesh is dying on me.’

  ‘He’s going to bring a surgeon in – a Mr Tindal. He’s one of the best surgeons around.’

  ‘What’s he going to do that Soames can’t? It’s too late.’

  ‘Maybe they can stop it.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Anyway – Tindal will know what to do for the best.’

  The surgeon, George Tindal, completed his examination of Savill’s leg, and then, his expression grave, told Savill that the gangrene had gone too far to be halted. The only thing to do was to amputate the leg.

  ‘I suppose there’s not much choice,’ Savill said after a few moments.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s no choice,’ said Tindal.

  ‘– When will you do it?’

  ‘This afternoon. It must be done as soon as possible if it’s to be effective.’

  ‘Where will you do it?’

  ‘I can do it here – if there’s a room downstairs I can have prepared.’ He laid his hand on Savill’s shoulder. ‘You’ll have the best possible treatment, I promise you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  There was a little silence, then Tindal said: ‘I understand you have a daughter …’

  ‘Yes. She’s in Sicily right now. She’s due home very soon.’

  ‘When? When is she due back?’

  ‘Well, not until –’ Savill’s words halted, and he gave a brief nod and an ironic smile. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I suppose it’s as well to be prepared for all contingencies.’

  When Soames and Tindal had gone away to make their preparations Harold went into the room. The smell was so much stronger now, and he swallowed against the sickening odour. Savill said as he drew near:

  ‘You’d better send a wire to Marianne. Nothing to alarm her, but ask her to come home.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Harold paused. ‘Did the doctors suggest it?’

  ‘Tindal did.’

  ‘Oh, but, John – don’t you –’

  ‘Tindal’s a realist. And I must be too. Or try to be. I know that modern medicine is a wonderful thing. And I won’t feel anything, I know that. But I also know that I’m not a young man, and that it’s possible that my body won’t survive such an assault. I’m seventy, Harold – not seventeen.’ He paused. ‘Send a wire to Marianne, like a good fellow, will you? Not that it would do much good in the long run, I’m afraid, it – if something went wrong. She couldn’t get back in time.’

  Harold left the room and returned a little later to say that he had written a wire and that James was riding into Trowbridge with it. Savill thanked him, then, gesturing, said:

  ‘Close the door and sit down. I have to talk to you.’

  Harold did as he was bidden. When he was sitting at Savill’s bedside, Savill said to him:

  ‘If anything should happen to me I shall expect you to take care of Marianne’s interests until she marries or comes of age – whichever is first. Her marriage, almost certainly.’

  ‘Whatever you wish.’

  ‘It’s all set out in my will, anyway.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Savill paused. ‘And there’s also the matter of Blanche …’

  Harold waited. Savill went on:

  ‘As you know, when I fell I was on my way to keep an appointment with Mr Baron, my solicitor. I wanted to make sure that Blanche is provided for.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘It’s got to be taken care of. As I said to you, I should have done it a long, long time ago, so it’s imperative that it’s done now – before it’s too late.’

  ‘Of course. What do you want me to do?’

  ‘There’s no time to send for Baron from Trowbridge now. So if you could get some paper and a pen – I must make a codicil to my will.’

  Harold fetched paper, pen and ink and then at his brother’s dictation, wrote down a codicil to his last will and testament. In it provision was made for Blanche, to the effect that upon Savill’s death the sum of £10,000 was to be placed in trust for her until she came of age. In the meantime the interest on the sum would bring her an income which would make her life considerably easier. When the document had been completed, and John Savill’s signature on it witnessed by the cook and Mrs Callow, he handed it to his brother asking him to put it safely with his other papers.

  ‘You’ll probably find that I’ll outlive you all,’ he said; then, with a sigh of relief and satisfaction, he added, ‘I should have done that years ago. Still, it’s done now, and now I can feel easy in my mind.’ Later on Savill sent for Blanche. She knocked, entered the room and moved quietly to his side. The smell of mortifying flesh was stronger than ever, in spite of the disinfectant with which it had been treated.

  ‘You know they’re going to operate on my leg,’ he said as she stood beside him.

  She nodded. ‘Mr Harold told me.’ She had to fight back the tears. Seeing them shining in her eyes, Savill raised a hand. She took it between her own two hands.

  ‘I’ve had a wire sent to Marianne,’ he said. ‘Though I shall be all right.’ He gazed up at her. ‘You’ve been like a daughter to me, Blanche. And like a sister to Marianne. I won’t forget it.’

  ‘Uncle John …’ Blanche swallowed over the lump in her throat.

  ‘Don’t worry about me. I told you – I shall be all right – and I’m in very good hands.’

  Savill was operated upon late that evening, in the wash-house which had been temporarily adapted to an operating room. Afterwards, still unconscious, he was taken back to his room and put to bed. Blanche, going quietly to his bedside at the suggestion of the surgeon and Harold, looked down at him as he lay there, an old man, pale and shrunken, a shadow of his former self.

  Soon afterwards, with precise instructions to the nurse as to Savill’s care, Tindal, accompanied by his assistant, left the house. After seeing the surgeon off the premises Harold Savill sent the servants to bed and went into the hall where Blanche sat alone.

  ‘Everything depends on the next few hours,’ he said.

  Blanche nodded. ‘He will be all right, will he not?’

  ‘We can only hope and pray.’ Harold looked at her, seeing the concern and sorrow in her eyes. ‘Go to bed,’ he said. ‘It’s almost midnight. You can’t do any good sitting up worrying. Go and sleep.’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t think I could.’ She sa
t staring ahead of her. If Uncle John died … The changes in her life were occurring so fast. Her mother’s death, Ernest’s going away … and now, John Savill …

  ‘What are you thinking?’

  Harold’s voice broke into her thoughts and she raised her head to find him gazing down at her, a strange, rapt look in his eyes. She shook her head. ‘I think I’ll make myself some tea,’ she said, ‘and then perhaps try to get some sleep.’

  Getting up, she went to the kitchen where she boiled a kettle and made a pot of tea. She was sitting on a chair waiting for the tea to brew when suddenly the door opened and Harold entered. She gave a little smile of relief.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I startled you.’

  ‘It’s all right. It’s just that the house is so quiet.’

  ‘I thought I might join you – as you were making tea.’

  ‘Of course.’ She set out another cup and saucer, poured the milk. Harold, watching her actions, said quietly:

  ‘My brother’s always much concerned about you, Blanche.’

  She shrugged. ‘Oh – he has no need to be. I manage all right.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure of it.’ His eyes had not left her face. ‘What do you plan to do?’

  She shrugged. ‘I’m not sure that I have any plans.’

  ‘Perhaps you’ll marry …’

  She smiled. ‘Oh, I should think that’s most unlikely.’

  He moved towards her as she spoke and she found herself a little disconcerted at his proximity.

  ‘You haven’t got anyone in mind?’ he said.

  ‘No.’ Avoiding his eyes she picked up the teapot. ‘I should think this must be ready now.’ She poured the tea, aware all the while of his eyes upon her. ‘Will you have sugar?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ He gave a melancholy grin. ‘We must have taken tea many times together over the years, and you haven’t noticed even that about me.’

  She said nothing. After a moment he said:

  ‘If anything should happen to my brother I –’

  Blanche broke in, saying: ‘Oh, don’t say that. He’ll be all right.’

  ‘Well, I hope so. But if he’s not … Blanche, you’re going to need someone to look after you, aren’t you?’

  She gave an awkward little laugh. ‘I told you, I shall be all right. I can look after myself.’

  ‘So you say. I’m not sure that you can, though. And a pretty girl like you …’

  His hand came out and lightly brushed her hair. She flinched, but, sitting on the chair, could not escape.

  ‘Don’t be afraid,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’

  ‘No, no, it’s just …’ She shrugged, at a loss. She pushed one of the teacups nearer to him, but too quickly so that the tea slopped over into the saucer. He took no notice of the action, his hand moved to touch her hair again. ‘You’re a very beautiful young woman, Blanche – do you know that?’

  She shrank back in the chair, and his hand left her hair, gently touched her cheek, lingering, caressing. She brushed his hand away and got to her feet. ‘Please …’

  ‘You’re afraid of me,’ he said. ‘Don’t be, please. I wouldn’t hurt you, you must know that.’ His hands came out towards her and she backed away. ‘On the contrary – I’d take care of you. Would you let me do that? Take care of you?’

  And suddenly he was right there beside her, his arms enveloping her, drawing her to him. As he bent his head to her she could smell on his breath the scent of brandy. Then his mouth was opening and his lips were pressing down on hers. She struggled in his grasp, twisting her body to escape, but he held on. With his face only an inch from her own, she was dimly aware of the mesh of broken veins on his nose and over his cheeks. ‘Let me go,’ she said, ‘– please.’ He ignored her plea and held her closer, bending his head to kiss her again. Twisting her head to avoid his mouth, she said sharply, her anger erupting:

  ‘Get away from me! Let me go!’

  ‘Blanche …’ His mouth was there again, wet and repellent. With difficulty she lifted her hand, placed it as a shield over her mouth. ‘Let me go.’ She put into her voice all the loathing she could muster. ‘You disgust me.’

  His movements ceased. He held her for a few moments quite still, then, his hands moving to grasp her upper arms he held her from him, fingers digging into her flesh.

  ‘Who do you think you are?’ he said, his mouth twisting with his words. ‘Who are you to act like some fine lady? I disgust you? Who are you?’

  Blanche, seeing his hatred of her, was suddenly afraid. He went on:

  ‘You’re brought here, out of squalor – taught how to use a knife and fork, given an education, given fine clothes to wear and the society of your betters, and you think it entitles you to put on airs.’ He shook his head. ‘You’re nothing. You’ve always been nothing, you always will be nothing, and you’ll always have nothing. There’s only one thing you’re good for.’

  With his last words he yanked her roughly towards him and pressed his mouth on hers once more, at the same time roughly fondling her breasts. For a moment Blanche was forced to suffer his kiss and his touch, but then, managing to pull back her head, she drew the saliva into her mouth and spat full in his face.

  He froze and then drew back from her. As the spittle ran down his cheek he put up his hand and wiped his face.

  ‘You’re going to be sorry you did that,’ he said.

  As she watched him he turned and strode towards the door. Only then did they see the figure of the nurse as she hovered in the doorway. Harold came to an abrupt stop before her.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he said sharply. ‘How long have you been standing there?’ Blanche could see his face turning scarlet with embarrassment.

  ‘Oh, sir,’ the nurse said breathlessly, ‘I – I’ve been looking for you. It’s Mr Savill …’

  ‘Yes – what is it?’

  She gave a shake of her head. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but I’m afraid – he’s gone.’

  *

  Later, in his room, Harold Savill took from his pocket the codicil to John Savill’s will. He read through its contents and then carefully tore it into shreds.

  Chapter Thirty

  ‘There is something I have to ask you,’ Harold Savill said. And then: ‘Would you mind telling me what you plan to do?’

  It was the morning of the day following Savill’s death. Blanche, her eyes reddened from weeping, was going downstairs when she had come face to face with Harold who was on his way up. Coming to a halt before her, blocking her way, he had asked her the question, speaking very quietly, keeping the sound of his voice from the ears of any servant who chanced to be near.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Blanche replied coldly, at the same time backing slightly away from him towards the landing window.

  ‘You don’t need to be afraid,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to touch you again. I just need to know what you intend to do.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘– Do you intend leaving?’

  ‘Leaving here? The house?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you wish me to leave?’

  He was silent for a moment, then he said, avoiding her eyes, ‘It would be awkward – when Marianne arrives. If you moved out suddenly just before her arrival she would wonder why.’

  Blanche nodded. ‘Indeed she would.’

  ‘So?’ He was looking at her now. ‘Unless you intend to tell her what happened …?’

  Facing him, hating and despising him as she did, she wanted to say yes, she would tell Marianne, she would tell everyone – but she knew she could not. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Marianne is my friend, and she’ll have enough to concern herself with without adding to her grief.’

  ‘How noble!’ Harold said. ‘But even if you told her d’you think she would believe you?’

  Making no attempt to disguise the contempt that coloured her voice, she said, ‘Oh, yes, she would believe me. You need be in no doubt of that. Marianne might be inexperienced
, and naive, but even she has not escaped hearing some of the stories about you that have circulated over the years.’ She paused. ‘Also, she is very capable of forming her own opinions. Rest assured, she knows you better than you are aware.’

  At her words his face paled and he made a sudden half-step towards her. She flinched, fearing for a moment that he might strike her. For a few moments they stood there in silence, then Blanche said:

  ‘Don’t worry – Marianne will not learn of it from me, you can be sure of that. For her sake I shall say nothing about it. Also, I shall remain here until she arrives, and then for as long as she needs me.’

  Harold nodded while Blanche continued to gaze at him coldly. ‘When she’s here,’ she said, ‘we can put up the pretence for her sake. But make no mistake; don’t be under any misapprehension as to my feelings for you. I loathe you, and the less I have to see you the happier I shall be.’ Then after a pause she added, her voice very low, ‘And if you ever come near me again I shall really make you regret it.’

  His mouth moved in the cold semblance of a smile. ‘Regret?’ He shook his head. ‘It’s not I who’s going to have regrets.’

  ‘What else can you do to me?’

  ‘It’s not what I can do, but what I have done.’

  ‘What do you mean? What have you done?’

  ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘and that is where my true regret comes in – in that I can never tell you, and that you’ll never know.’

  With his words he turned from her and continued on up the stairs.

  Marianne, accompanied by Gentry and his father, arrived in Hallowford to be greeted with the devastating news of her father’s death. The wire informing her of his accident had intimated the gravity of the situation, but she had left Sicily before the wire relating the news of his death had arrived and had come to Hallowford in the desperate hope that he was still alive.

  That night, not wishing to be alone, she shared Blanche’s room, and in the silence she wept on Blanche’s shoulder.

  The wedding, of course – there was no question – would have to be postponed until some later time, and instead of shopping for her trousseau, Marianne and Blanche were driven into Bath to buy mourning.