(2011) What Lies Beneath

by Sarah Rayne

  Mr Jex looked round the door just then, asking, was she all right – was she in much pain?

  ‘Only a little,’ said Serena, relieved to hear her voice came out fairly normally.

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Yes. It’s unpleasant but not unduly so. I can bear it.’

  ‘Good,’ he said, and went out, closing the door.

  But if Serena was bearing it, the child was not. It was churning inside her – the word ‘threshing’ occurred to her – its movements sending ripples of pain across her stomach and spiking down between her legs. She moved again, but the pain was building up into a vicious wave, and she cried out and instinctively tried to hunch over but could not because of the cramped space. This was part of the cost she must pay for curing the repulsive disease Julius had given her. But what about the child? Was the child going to be part of the cost she would pay? Serena, sobbing and moaning, was beyond caring. The mist was partly obscuring her vision again and the stench of hot metal was making her feel sick.

  The pain receded and she gasped with relief, sweat running down her face, but now the mercury vapour was soaking into her skin, down and down, as if it was scouring her body, trying to find the core of the disease. Serena moaned, and tried to withstand it, but it reached deeper and deeper, until she had the impression that her very bones were bubbling and seething.

  The child was like a hard, heavy lump at the pit of her stomach. It’s dying, she thought. It’s dying or it’s already dead. She had no idea if it was her own pain or something in the mercury vapour that was causing the child’s distress, and she no longer cared. Because you’ll never love it, said her mind. Remember? You’ll never love it and you’ll never even like it. It was perfectly true. She could scarcely even think of the child as human any more. It was as if the thing in her womb was nothing more than a black twisted lump of disease. She shuddered and pushed this nightmarish image away, and she thought she lost consciousness for a time because when the mist cleared slightly the clock was showing a quarter-past three.

  The clock’s hands had reached quarter to four when a warm viscous fluid began to seep between her legs, and agony tore mercilessly through her lower body. Tears ran down her face, this time not from the burning pain of the mercury on her skin and within her bones, but because of the little lost life that was leaching away. ‘Forgive me,’ she whispered to it. ‘I know you’re dying, and I’m so sorry . . .’

  Sweat streamed down her face and ran stingingly into her eyes. She gasped and clenched her fists. She would not call for help, she would not . . . But there was a dreadful pressure between her legs now. The child was thrusting its blind, fumbling way out of her. Serena tried to lean back, tried to widen her legs to ease the brutal pushing, but the box was too narrow and she could not. Blood trickled down her legs and she sobbed with the agony and, finally, with the loss.

  ‘I don’t want you,’ she said to the child. ‘I never did. But I’m so sorry you’ve got to die before you’re born. I’m so dreadfully sorry . . .’

  The clock had reached half-past four when she began to scream.

  Gillespie Martlet and Josiah Jex agreed later that it had been a narrow thing with Lady Cadence. A very unpleasant business indeed, although, as Mr Jex said, she had been most straitly warned of the risk she ran.

  ‘Certainly she was warned,’ said Dr Martlet, who was rather white around the lips and had discarded his starched high-necked collar halfway through their endeavours to revive their patient and stop the bleeding. Dear God, he had forgotten how much blood a damaged, aborted foetus could bring with it! That was what came of practising medicine from the dignified confines of a Wimpole Street consulting room, of course; you no longer dealt with the voidances and the exudations of the human body. Gillespie Martlet, who for the last two decades had been more accustomed to advising delicate ladies to take care of their fragile constitutions, and to exchanging bluff but deferential pleasantries with corpulent gentlemen about their fondness for rich food, had found the last two hours an appalling experience.

  Lady Cadence – Serena, whom he had loved from afar in a perfectly respectful and entirely chaste fashion for more than fifteen years – had screamed like a trapped hare, and when they dragged open the mercury box’s door, she had been seated in a pool of blood and amniotic fluid, writhing and struggling. And the child, the poor half-formed, half-crushed foetus, half in and half out of her body . . .

  Between them, Dr Martlet and Jex had carried her to the narrow bed in the corner of the room, sending the young assistant for hot water and cloths. He had taken so long that Jex had almost gone huffing down the stairs himself, but he had finally returned with a canister of water and towels, gasping his apologies, but explaining that there appeared to be no servants anywhere in the house.

  ‘No, of course there aren’t,’ said Martlet, remembering. ‘She sent them out for a half-day’s holiday. She didn’t want any of them knowing what was being done to her this afternoon.’

  Jex, his hands busy about his patient, grunted that in his experience servants generally knew more about their masters and mistresses than anyone else, and added it was a pity there was not a sensible woman in the house to help them. But they would manage, he said, eyeing the prone figure on the bed.

  They did manage, but it was, as they later admitted to one another, a very close-run thing indeed. It took their combined knowledge and Jex’s skill to remove the foetus without damaging Serena Cadence’s uterus. As the forceps, hastily snatched out of Jex’s bag, closed around it and he prepared to withdraw it, there was a nightmare moment when it seemed to squirm and resist.

  ‘Oh God,’ said Martlet again, recoiling, one hand over his mouth. ‘Jex, it can’t possibly be alive . . .’

  ‘Five months, didn’t you say?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘I’ve known them survive at five months,’ said Jex grimly. ‘But this little one hasn’t, and from the look of it, that’s God’s mercy.’

  They piled pillows under Serena’s feet to stem the bleeding, but even so, the sheets and the mattress were soaked, and the stench of stale blood quickly filled up the small room. Martlet, feeling slightly sick, reflected that this was something else you lost touch with from a smart consulting room.

  Much later, the servants returned, and the sensible maid, Dora, left to sit with her mistress, the three gentlemen sat in the downstairs drawing room.

  ‘And,’ said Dr Martlet, ‘I think Lady Cadence – and Sir Julius – would permit us a little of their brandy.’ He poured the brandy, his hands still shaking.

  ‘A very good brandy,’ observed Josiah Jex, swilling it round in its balloon glass to release the ethers. Without looking up, he said, ‘She understood what happened, didn’t she?’

  ‘That the child was lost? Yes, of course.’

  Jex paused, then said, ‘Have you told her she was pregnant with twins and she only aborted one of them?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Dr Martlet. ‘But undoubtedly it will be a great comfort to her.’

  Chapter 25

  London, 1912

  ‘Trust madam to choose the most troublesome way of travelling,’ said Flagg crossly, dragging two large wicker hampers from the big larder into the kitchen. ‘No consideration for other folks, as per usual. And why are we jaunting off to the wilds of nowhere all of a sudden? That’s what I’d like to know.’

  Hetty, who had been directed to help him, said most likely madam wanted to shut herself away at Cadence Manor until after the birth.

  ‘More like she’s shutting herself away because she contracted you-know-what from the master, the old rogue,’ said Flagg, straightening up from the hampers, one hand to the small of his back.

  ‘Flagg, I’ll thank you not to refer to such matters while I’m cooking madam’s lunch.’

  ‘I speak as I find,’ said Flagg. ‘We all know what ailed Sir Julius, and why Mr Crispian and Mr Jamie took him off to foreign parts before he could go completely mad and ruin the bank altogethe
r.’

  ‘I don’t know about ruining the bank, I call it tragic what happened to him,’ said Mrs Flagg, stirring the caper sauce, which was to go with the halibut.

  ‘Tragic my foot. He sowed the wind and now he’s reaping the whirlwind,’ said Flagg, who had been making an inventory of the wine cellar and was always inclined to quote the Old Testament when he had taken a nip of Sir Julius’s port.

  ‘Well,’ said Mrs Flagg, who could not be doing with Flagg when he became biblical, ‘I don’t care for Cadence Manor, and I don’t mind who hears me say so. It’s the back of beyond, that place; no shops to hand and never a soul to exchange a bit of gossip with. I’d much rather madam stayed in London, with Dr Martlet scampering round every five minutes to make sure she hasn’t suffered a finger ache. Dora, if you’ve nothing else to do at the moment, you and Hetty had better see there’s plenty of greaseproof paper for packing the provisions. I’m taking as much as we can manage, for if Mr Colm’s kept the larders at the manor properly provisioned it’ll be the first time ever.’

  Serena had not realized she wanted to leave London until she had actually said the words aloud to Dr Martlet. But as soon as they were out, she thought, yes, of course that’s the answer. Away from London, away from the annoying noises and people plying the door knocker, and Flagg and Hetty having to turn them away because she did not want to see anyone, not like this. And perhaps at Cadence she could find a way to think of this child, this lone little survivor of twins, as an ordinary baby.

  Dr Martlet had at first been doubtful about her leaving London, but finally he agreed. ‘Perhaps after all it would be best. It will be quieter and I can make sure you’re looked after by a doctor in Bramley. If you’ve completely made up your mind?’

  ‘I have. My husband’s cousin, Colm Cadence, lives in one wing of the place. He looks after it for us.’

  ‘Yes, Gil’s mentioned him.’

  ‘He’s painfully shy, poor Colm. Very scholarly. He lives for his work and I wouldn’t want to disturb that, but I suppose some arrangement can be reached. Cadence has more than one wing.’ It pleased her to say this, to visualize the manor house behind its high walls. One of Julius’s ancestors had built it and the Italian influence was evident, even though it was slightly battered nowadays – in fact very nearly shabby.

  Dr Martlet was of the opinion that her health was sufficient to withstand the journey, which Serena would make by car, since she could not face a train journey, even with a private railcar. ‘The child’s heartbeat is steady and good,’ he said, having listened to it during one of the rare examinations Serena permitted.

  ‘Mr Jex said that about the heartbeat a few hours before the other child was lost,’ said Serena, rather acidly.

  ‘Yes, but . . .’ Martlet straightened up, folding the stethoscope into his bag. ‘Lady Cadence, the heartbeat Mr Jex would have heard was that of the twin who was still alive. This one you’re still carrying. We can be reasonably sure that there was only the one heartbeat for him to hear that day. The other twin – the lost one – was already dead.’

  Already dead, thought Serena, her mind going back to that day. That lurch of panic and distress I felt when they brought in the mercury apparatus. It happened then, of course. That’s when it died. Of fear? Could unborn babies feel fear?

  ‘And,’ Dr Martlet was saying, ‘we hadn’t realized you were carrying twins, mostly because—’

  He broke off, and Serena said coolly, ‘Because I wasn’t permitting the examinations you wanted to make? Yes, I understand that.’ She would not apologize, but at least this would make acknowledgement of the facts.

  ‘As for the other – ah – problem, the mercury treatment seems to have alleviated a great many of the symptoms,’ said Dr Martlet. ‘Better than I dared hope, in fact, particularly since it was not as long a session as Mr Jex wanted. But perhaps after the birth we can try again.’

  Try again. A second spell of being enclosed in the bad-smelling wooden contraption, the hot stench of tin in her nostrils, the feeling that her entire skin was being scraped raw, the sensation that her bones were blistering. Never, thought Serena. Even if this disgusting disease tears me into tatters, all hell’s furies won’t force me to endure that a second time. In a vague voice she said they would have to see.

  ‘Have you been able to write to Sir Julius or Crispian to tell them what’s happened?’ asked Martlet.

  ‘If you’re referring to the loss of the child, I haven’t told them anything at all,’ said Serena. ‘None of them knows about the pregnancy.’ The thought that Julius might never know, hovered unspoken. Serena said firmly, ‘And in the light of what has just happened I’m inclined to be cautious about telling them even now.’

  ‘Ah. Yes. Perhaps you’re right.’

  ‘But I’ve written to let them know I’ll be at Cadence Manor for the next few months. I’ve sent the letter to the shipping office at Athens. The ship was due to call there in a few weeks’ time, did you know that? They’re going a little way along the western coast of Greece, Crispian says.’ The places Crispian wrote about had an exotic ring; Serena would not have cared to travel so far herself, but she looked forward to Crispian’s letters. He wrote vividly and well.

  ‘As long as they don’t get too close to the Turkish coastline,’ said Dr Martlet, frowning slightly. ‘That area’s been in a state of turmoil for years. The Ottoman Empire has had sovereignty over the Balkan Peninsula for centuries and now the Christian countries are trying to oust them, that’s what it really boils down to.’

  ‘Crispian asked the man from Thomas Cook if the area was safe before they left,’ said Serena, who had not really followed the complicated squabbles of the people in these outlandish places. ‘He told Crispian the trouble – the fighting – had died down.’ She had not been especially concerned, because Thomas Cook could presumably be trusted to know what was happening in most parts of the world.

  She added comfortably, ‘And I dare say Crispian and your son – Jamie, too – are more than a match for any foreign quarrels. And Thomas Cook were quite definite that the – what is it called? – the guerrilla warfare had died down.’

  ‘Yes, the Balkan League was hailed as the solution to all the problems,’ nodded Dr Martlet. ‘It’s a complex business, though, and I wouldn’t trust the present peace, not if a dozen Leagues had been formed. The Turkish people are quite warlike, although they have an interesting culture, I’ve always thought.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Serena vaguely. ‘Anyway, Crispian said as long as they didn’t actually go ashore in Turkey they would be perfectly safe.’

  Edirne, October 1912

  Crispian knew they were very far from safe in Edirne. Even so, he thought they were as comfortable as they could be, given the circumstances. Their rooms in the fort were a bit sparse and facilities were basic but adequate.

  ‘I think we’re lucky to have somewhere to sleep at all,’ Jamie said. ‘I’d been imagining bedding down in a ditch.’

  ‘As far as I’m concerned,’ Gil said later to Crispian, ‘I’m perfectly happy with any bed, providing I have a glass of wine, a loaf of bread, and thou beside me in the wilderness.’

  ‘I think there’s a book in the original poem’s list,’ said Crispian, who had taken a minute to recognize the quotation.

  ‘Oh, bugger the book, as long as I’ve got the bread and wine. And,’ said Gil with a sideways look, ‘I’d quite like thou beside me, as well.’

  ‘I wish you’d stop this,’ said Crispian angrily.

  ‘Stop what?’

  ‘Making these – these stupid mischievous flirting remarks.’

  ‘What makes you think it’s only mischievous flirting?’ said Gil very quietly, and walked away before Crispian could think how to respond.

  Despite the war being waged beyond the city, none of them had any real sense of danger. Various reports of battles fought and won or lost filtered through, but the thick walls of the old fort and the presence of soldiers created a sense
of security.

  ‘It’s false security, though,’ said Jamie. ‘At any minute we could be faced with hordes of marauding Balkan armies.’

  ‘But the war’s nothing to do with us,’ said Crispian. ‘It’s Serbia, Greece, Montenegro and Bulgaria who’re fighting against the Ottoman Empire.’

  ‘Try telling that to the Balkan armies when they erupt into this courtyard,’ said Gil. ‘And before you start any of that damn-it-chaps-we’re-British stuff, let’s remember we’re actually inside the ancient Ottoman capital. Personally, I think we’ve been lucky to escape unscathed this long.’

  But the sprinkling of English civilians in the fort – most of them doctors or journalists, or simply other stranded travellers – did not agree with Gil’s views. They told one another it would soon be over. Mark their words, they said firmly, the troubles would die out, normal life would be restored, and one would be allowed to get on a ship and go home. They talked wistfully of England, and wrote letters intended for their families, which they optimistically took to the shipping office. Gil said the letters would not even get as far as the Aegean Sea, never mind across Europe and into England.

  ‘The Greek navy’s had control of every island in the Aegean for nearly a month. It won’t let so much as a postage stamp out.’

  For nearly three weeks what Jamie called ‘the false security’ continued. They explored the town in their various ways, often not seeing one another until they met for dinner. After dinner, along with some of the other English civilians, they gathered in the largest of the courtyards to drink the thick sweet coffee that was brewed, and eat the tiny honey-and-nut pastries served with it. The fierce glow of the dying sun sent banners of crimson across the skies and bathed the ancient stones with rose and gold. Jamie found this deeply moving, and talked about Kubla Khan’s ancient sacred Alph or the fire-streaked skies of Aegia, and likened himself and the others to the pilgrims who had set foot on the golden road to Samarkand. Told by Gil that Samarkand was at least a thousand miles further east, he said he was talking metaphorically, if not even metaphysically, and Gil had no romance in his soul.