Winter Sunlight

by Susan Alexander

  On the telephone the doctor listened carefully and agreed her diagnosis might be correct.

  'I will be with you in fifteen minutes, Fräulein Carter.'

  Sophie had guessed correctly. It was pneumonia. The doctor gave her some medication and was adamant it had to be hospital. Meeting the desperate, pleading eyes of the patient, Sophie took her courage in both hands and argued. Was it possible to treat her at home, with careful nursing? He gestured for them to leave the sick-room.

  'You don't understand, Fräulein Carter,' he explained when they were alone leaving the patient with a chastened Martha. 'I fear complications.'

  Sophie bit her lip. 'I understand, Herr Doctor, and it is not my place to argue with you, but I had rather see a sick woman battle to get better than have her in hospital convinced she's going to die and making no effort to fight the infection.'

  'That is what the Herr Baron said last time.'

  'Last time?' Sophie was shocked. 'She's had pneumonia before?'

  'No. It was bronchitis—two years ago. She was eighty-two. He insisted also she remain here. She had the best of care and survived. But this time I am not so sure.' He paused. 'The heart—there is a weakness there.'

  'Can the decision wait till her grandson returns?' Sophie asked gravely.

  'It is a risk.'

  'Has the patient the right to decide?'

  'My dear young lady, the patient cannot possibly judge the issue,' he said shortly.

  Sophie was walking up and down, agitated and concerned. He was the expert. How could she oppose him? And in any case she had no right to decide anything. She wasn't even family. Seeing her indecision, he planted himself before her, his hands behind his back, his eyes looking up at her through steel-rimmed spectacles.

  'You called me in,' he said, 'and I'm more than happy that you overrode this household to do so. I'm not sure who you are or what rights you have in this house.' He watched the colour rise to her face without changing expression. 'But you must appreciate that the decision has to be mine.' She nodded unhappily. 'We doctors do understand the psychology of our patients, you know. And I know full well how important it is in a case like this. So I will ask you one question, and when you've answered that I'll make the decision. Is that agreed?'

  'Yes.'

  'If I give you one nurse—and that's all I've been able to find so far—can you trust yourself to share the work when she will have to go off duty?

  Sophie didn't hesitate. 'I will take full responsibility for my part.'

  He nodded. 'Good. You've answered as I hoped you would.' Sophie smiled briefly, her eyes anxiously fixed on his face. 'For the moment, then, I'll allow her to stay.'

  She breathed an audible sigh of relief.

  'As it happens we're lucky. Sister Maria is highly qualified and very experienced. I would trust her as I would any of my young doctors at the hospital.'

  Tremulously Sophie smiled, close to tears as he turned and picked up his bag. 'I'll check with my patient and then, Fräulein Carter, you are on your own.' At the door he stopped. 'By the way, please give instructions that the Herr Baron is to be found as quickly as possible.'

  'It is being done,' Sophie said quietly.

  The clock struck again and Sophie roused herself. It was time to relieve Sister Maria.

  Sister Maria. With such a name they'd all expected a saintly nun with a smiling face and an angelic temperament. But her arrival had dashed such hopes. She was enormous, her uniform rustling with every breath she took, and she treated them all as raw recruits in a platoon where she was the drill sergeant. Within an hour of her arrival, the whole household was in fear and trembling. She took one look at Martha and barked orders that had that good lady rushing round to do her bidding. And she had stamina. In the hours that followed, Sophie's admiration rose by leaps and bounds as she watched her take over the sick-room and ensure that the patient had all the care a hospital could provide. At the end of twelve hours Sophie relaxed, knowing someone able was in charge and that she herself had only to follow instructions.

  By the time Sister Maria went off duty for the first time in the early hours, they were on Christian name terms, a quick understanding having grown between them in their concern for the indomitable old lady fighting for her life.

  A quick wash and she was ready, on her way along the corridor to the sick-room.

  'The temperature is up,' Maria whispered. 'She's very restless. If you like I will stay.'

  Sophie shook her head. 'I'll call you if I need you,' she said softly. 'I've ordered your meal. It should be up in a few minutes.'

  And so the night wore on. Sophie took her seat in the half dark, her eyes on the face in the huge bed, knowing the coming hours would be critical.

  She wondered at her own concern for the old lady. She didn't usually become involved with strangers. But she was full of admiration for the fight she could see in Véronique von Hartog. The pain had eased with the medication, and the antibiotics were doing their work. But the cough, when it came, with its pain in the chest, racked the frail body and endangered the heart. Each time it started Sophie was on her feet, easing the patient's position, holding her and murmuring soothingly until the paroxysm was over. Once, after a particularly bad bout, she lay back exhausted as always, but her hand reached out and Sophie took it firmly in her own, holding it till she saw the eyes close.

  The doctor came and went, and night and day merged into one without any meaning as Sophie's own strength began to dim. Maria could catnap, but Sophie found she couldn't sleep. Lying on the camp-bed in Madame's sitting-room, she found her thoughts were with Max. Where was he? Why could no one find him? She had met his secretary briefly when he had come upstairs that first day to reassure her everything was being done to contact the Herr Baron. But there was still no news of him.

  The night in his bedroom she preferred not to think about, but her memories refused to be buried. And her feelings were wildly contradictory. One moment she hated him for what he had done, the way he had humiliated her sexually, but the next minute she remembered his passion and tenderness, his gentleness and the ardour of his lovemaking. In the end it always looked as hopeless as she knew it to be, and there was little point in thinking back over it, making herself miserable. All she longed for was to go home. If only he would come back, she could leave, her responsibility for his grandmother at an end.

  It was the third evening that everything changed. The doctor arrived late and looked exhausted, his eyes red-rimmed with fatigue. He picked up the chart and his face broke into a faint smile.

  'It looks as though she's turned the corner,' he said when they reached the corridor. 'The infection's on the wane.' Sophie stared at him in dazed relief. 'Now we have to monitor the heart. She will have to be kept very quiet. No upsets. And we must hope she will sleep. That's the best medicine of all.'

  The rest of the night passed in a euphoric haze. Both girls were suddenly wide awake, and Maria refused to return to bed. Seeing to the routine with which they were familiar, they smiled broadly at each other, and Sophie felt her spirits lift. The old lady would survive. That was all that mattered.

  As the sky brightened, Maria sent Sophie to sleep. Weakly she protested, but Maria told her she was no use as she was. She had to sleep. And she did. As soon as she lay down on the truckle bed she closed her eyes and slept.

  Véronique von Hartog smiled weakly from the bed.

  'That was lovely. I can't wait for the next chapter.'

  Sophie closed the book. 'I haven't read Dickens since my schooldays, but Nicholas Nickleby was always one of my favourites.'

  'You read beautifully.'

  'I get plenty of practice,' Sophie admitted.

  'You'll enjoy reading to your own children when the time comes,' the other woman said softly.

  Abruptly Sophie got up. 'I'll leave you to rest.'

  'You'll come back later and have tea with me?' the old lady asked affectionately.

  'Of course.' Sophie glanced out of the w
indow. 'I think I'll get some air.' She walked over to the bed. 'Is there anything I can get you before I go?'

  'No, thank you, child. Maria will be in shortly, I expect, with her pills and bits of machinery.'

  Sophie leaned down and kissed the old lady gently on the cheek. 'I'll see you later then.'

  Downstairs, Boy rose from his favourite place by the fire to follow her outside. It was cold and windy. The air was damp and smelt of rain. Soon the snow would melt and the dazzling winter sunlight would be no more.

  Shivering in her suede coat, she walked briskly, the dog trotting at her heels. He had attached himself to her during the past days and now bounded ahead into the woods as if glad to be away from the confines of the castle. He was missing his master, Sophie thought drily. And he wasn't the only one.

  It was five days since Max's abrupt departure and still nothing had been heard of him. And time was passing slowly. Strangely the urge to leave had left Sophie. She was living in limbo, drifting without thought for tomorrow. And there was a strange pleasure in each day, almost a sense of excitement. It had started two nights ago when again she couldn't sleep. A second nurse had arrived and her duties with the patient were less arduous, but restlessness in the early hours had finally driven her to get up.

  Walking through the dimly lit corridors searching for the library to get a book, she had opened a door to find herself in the wrong room. Pressing the light switch, she had been dazzled by the blaze from three gilded chandeliers as the castle ballroom sprang to life.

  It rose three storeys high from the shiny parquet floor, across the centre of the room two large fireplaces faced each other, surrounded by a mosaic of brilliant blue Delft tiles. At one end the minstrels' gallery ran the width of the room, and at the other three tiers of windows rose to the intricately carved wooden ceiling which looked down on the golden cherubs swinging from the chandeliers. It was stunning—a room of startling contrasts and fairytale glamour.

  Among the portraits, Max looked almost casual. Where his ancestors were surrounded by dogs, children and horses against a background of the castle, its woods and gardens, Max stood alone on the canvas, his cool gaze challenging the painter. His face was grave and a good deal younger, the mature man with his powerful good looks not yet evident in the sensitive, boyish lines of the youthful face.

  Afterwards Sophie had no idea how long she sat gazing at the portrait, but when she finally climbed up to her room she fell at once into a dreamless sleep. Waking late, she threw back the covers with a new eagerness. She would explore the castle, imprint on her mind every room of Max's home, storing up memories to take with her when she left.

  And she was amazed at what she found. There was beauty and palatial splendour, but the castle was also very much a home. Max's private apartments she was careful to exclude from her wanderings, but the rest enchanted her. There was the picture gallery with its outrageous ceiling made up of small ornate mirrors, gold framed and heavily scrolled; and the elegant sitting-room belonging by tradition to the mistress of the castle, a place to dream, with its pale blue walls, blue and gold furniture, velvet drapes and an exquisite escritoire where letters would be written and invitations accepted. But best of all she loved the library. Oblong and narrow, it was small, with scrolled mahogany bookcases rising past a gallery to a wooden ceiling. And in the window embrasure she found a knee-hole desk where she could sit and pore over books, pictures, prints and drawings that told the history of the castle.

  Taking her enthusiasms back to Véronique, Sophie found the old lady delighted to regale her with stories of the castle and its owners. Born at the turn of the century, she had lived through two world wars, and Sophie was riveted by the tales she told. It was the second day that she talked for the first time directly about her grandson.

  'Very unpopular, our Max,' she said softly.

  'That's difficult to believe,' said Sophie unthinkingly, and then blushed as Véronique looked at her with an affectionate smile.

  'You're biased, child,' she said softly. 'You're in love with him.' Sophie didn't disclaim. 'Good,' she added after a moment. 'I'm pleased you don't deny it.' They were speaking in French to make communication less of an effort for the invalid, and Sophie was quite content to listen, her only concern that she should not tire herself with too much talk.

  'Unpopular?' she prompted.

  'He's a loner, you see, and they don't like it here— in the club to which we all belong.'

  'Club?'

  'There aren't many aristocrats left in Europe, and those that remain stick together, especially those still in possession of their land. Mostly their estates are run by professional managers while the owners live the life of past centuries that can still be found in Vienna—balls, parties, the opera and all the rituals that belong to our class.' The old lady smiled sardonically. 'And Max does not join in. He doesn't even hunt, and that's a cardinal sin. Add to that that he's in his thirties and still a bachelor, and you have a man out of favour.'

  She looked across at Sophie. 'He prefers his own company or that of a few close friends. That's why I'm so eager for him to marry. He needs a wife who'll be happy to adore him and run his home, bring up his children. A woman who wants to flaunt his wealth and spend most of her time in Vienna wouldn't suit him at all.' She stopped and looked at Sophie who was miles away in her thoughts.

  Did Dorothea fit the picture Véronique had just painted? Did she regret marrying Klaus who did live in Vienna and presumably provided her with the life she lived now? But if he still loved Dorothea, as he appeared to do, why had he proposed marriage to another woman?

  Véronique was lying back with her eyes closed, a curiously tender smile on her face.

  'You're tired,' Sophie said. 'Time I went. It's enough for today.'

  'No,' she said sharply, and opened her eyes wide. 'I don't know what has gone wrong between you and Max, but this may be my last chance to tell you things you should know.'

  'Please, madame, I…'

  'If you won't call me grand'mère,' the soft voice interrupted, 'I wish you'd call me Véronique.' She smiled with sudden brilliance, reminding Sophie so vividly of Max that she felt her throat constrict with emotion.

  'Max's father Johann was my oldest son,' she began, 'and at twenty-two he fell in love. She was young, the daughter of friends, and we were ecstatically happy. They had a wedding dreams are made of and came here to live. But it all turned into a hideous nightmare.' She sighed.

  'Henriette was young and beautiful, but she was also vain and stupid, in love only with herself, interested only in her own body, how it was clothed and where it should be shown off.' She leaned back and looked at Sophie. 'It was hard watching my own son wretchedly unhappy. When Max's sister Eva was born, Henriette decided she would never go through another pregnancy. Since they were both strict Catholics it meant denying her husband his conjugal rights, and Johann couldn't cope with that. Another man would have turned away cynically and found his satisfaction elsewhere, but he was too young to believe she meant it. He courted her, spoiled her, spending lavishly and never leaving her side, neglecting his work. But nothing came of it, and the night Max was conceived I am convinced Johann inflicted violence on his wife. They never talked of it, but they never shared a bedroom again.

  'When Max was born Henriette turned her back on him, handing him over to maids and nannies. And sadly his father also avoided him, because Max reminded him too much of the night when he had finally dashed his hopes of a normal marriage. When Max was two years old his father left home and we never saw him again. Shortly before Max's fourteenth birthday he died.'

  She stopped and lay back.

  'No more,' Sophie said firmly, and got up, leaving the old lady to rest. It was not until the next afternoon that the story continued. They had drunk their tea, and the room was silent except for the hiss of logs in the grate and the ticking of the grandfather clock.

  'No questions, Sophie?' Véronique's voice came quietly.

  'None. Today we
'll just sit quietly and I'll read to you.'

  'I need to tell you, child. Can you not understand that?'

  'Not at the cost of your health,' Sophie said stubbornly.

  'Time is so precious and I've so little left. If you understand about Max, it might help you make the right decision.'

  Sophie didn't answer. The decision, right or wrong, had been made and was irreversible, she thought in sudden desolation.

  'There's not much more,' the voice from the bed insisted. 'Please… I need to unburden myself. You see, much of what happened to Max was my fault.'

  'Your fault?' Sophie didn't believe her.

  'I should have cared for him when his mother rejected him, but I didn't. I thought it wrong to interfere. My own mother-in-law had tried to run me when I first came here as a young bride, and I vowed I'd never try to rule my children.' Véronique paused. 'It was my husband—my wonderful Hugo—who took Max under his wing. Max was only a toddler when Hugo began to show him his inheritance, breeding into him his own love of the forests. Max is very like him,' she said softly, 'loving and gentle, but manly. Only Max has something Hugo never had. Max is ruthless. He wouldn't hesitate to sweep everything before him to get his own way.'

  She sat up and Sophie plumped cushions and helped lift her to make her more comfortable.

  'Did he ever tell you that he left home at sixteen to study abroad? It was entirely his decision, and he was away at university in Canada for four long years, studying the greatest forests in the world. And all that time we never saw him. Where other students returned home in the summers, he stayed labouring in the lumber camps, learning to speak English better than most Englishmen.' The old lady smiled to herself.

  'He went away a rather lonely teenager. When he came back he was a man, virile and mature, his perception of people acute beyond his years. He was able to handle men who worked for him better than others twice his age.' She turned to Sophie and smiled. 'Hugo was astounded. Where was the sensitive boy we'd sent out into the world? We never saw him again, and somewhere in those years his ruthlessness was born. I didn't notice at first, but then one night it stared me in the face.'