by Janet Woods
Livia could see by his grave manner that he didn’t expect his patient to survive, and she could barely keep her tears at bay. ‘The housekeeper probably has his address.’
‘I imagine she does,’ Dr Elliot said, not quite able to keep his distaste at bay.
‘No . . . not . . . Henry.’ The words issued from Margaret Sangster’s mouth in a slurred fashion, but were quite firm. ‘Die . . . own . . . bed.’
They were Mrs Sangster’s final words before she was gripped by a seizure. When it subsided her lips were blue-tinged and her breath came in rattling gasps. Ten minutes later she relaxed completely.
Livia smiled through her tears at the doctor, who was already busy with his stethoscope. Hopefully, she asked, ‘Has she gone to sleep?’
‘I’m afraid not, my dear. Mrs Sangster has died.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘She’d never have lasted long enough to get to hospital. I’ll issue a death certificate, then I’ll ring her husband and inform him.’
‘Is there anything I can do?’
He nodded. ‘Perhaps you’d like to lay her out.’
‘I’ve never done that before.’
‘Wash the body, tidy her hair and dress her in a clean nightgown so she looks clean and cared for. She will need fresh bedding, I imagine. You’ll require someone to help you.’
Livia felt relief at the thought. ‘Florence will help, I expect.’
‘Good, because despite her lack of refinement, Florence is a sensible young woman who has done it before.’
‘I’ll go down and tell her what’s happened,’ Livia said.
‘Good girl. Would you send in the housekeeper? I’ll get that phone number from her and make out the death certificate.’
‘Mrs Sangster was a nice woman. I liked her a lot. She looks so relaxed now, and younger.’
‘It’s because she’s no longer in pain. She liked you too, young lady.’
There was a knock at the door and Rosemary Mortimer came in. Her glance went to the bed and her hand fluttered to her heart. ‘Oh . . . my goodness. I didn’t realize she was quite so ill. Is she . . . is she . . .?’
It was apparent she’d been listening through the keyhole, and the doctor and Livia exchanged a glance. Dr Elliot told her ‘Mrs Sangster has passed away. I understand you have Major Sangster’s telephone number.’
‘I’ve already contacted him, Doctor. The major will soon be on his way down.’
The physician looked displeased. ‘I’m surprised you took it upon yourself to do that, considering you were unaware of her condition.’
‘The major asked me to keep him informed of any developments.’
‘And now must be contacted again to be told his wife has passed away. The protocol in such situations is for the attending physician to inform the next of kin.’
She nodded. ‘I was only trying to help, and you should have told me earlier. Did Mrs Sangster say anything?’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Specifically?’
She became vague. ‘Oh nothing. Sometimes people tend to offer little confidences to their doctors when they die.’
‘Do they . . . do they indeed? I must admit I’ve never met a doctor who was unprofessional enough to pass any little confidences on to the housekeeper. I would suggest you keep your curiosity under control, Mrs Mortimer. Now, would you be good enough to give me the major’s telephone number.’
‘He’ll already be on his way, I expect.’
‘The number?’
‘In the index next to the telephone in the hall,’ she said sulkily.
‘Are you staying to help Miss Carr lay out Mrs Sangster’s body?’
Mrs Mortimer shuddered. ‘Me . . . good gracious . . . the very idea turns my stomach. Besides, I heard you say that Florence can do that.’
‘Then your presence isn’t needed. Perhaps you could ask Florence to come up and help Miss Carr. It will save her having to go down.’
Thus dismissed, Mrs Mortimer said, ‘Report to me when you’ve finished, Carr.’ She gave the doctor a haughty look and walked off.
The doctor turned to Livia. ‘I’m going downstairs to use the telephone, then I’ll finish my rounds. I’ll be back as soon as I can. By that time Major Sangster should be home, and he can make arrangements for the funeral.’
When she nodded, he gazed at her for a moment. ‘Will you be all right, left alone here for a while? There might be the occasional noise and movement from Mrs Sangster until her body settles down. That’s normal, and nothing to be afraid of.’
‘Yes, I’ll be all right. I’m not afraid of Mrs Sangster. She was a lovely lady who wouldn’t hurt a fly. I’m going to miss her.’
‘Good girl.’
After the doctor had gone, Livia fetched the woman’s best nightgown and some clean bed linen.
Soon, she and Florence had their mistress clean and tidy. There was a gold cross on the dressing table. Livia placed it on her arthritic hands, which were in an attitude of prayer. Between them, they cleaned and tidied the room.
‘She looks ever so peaceful, like she’s an angel in heaven already,’ Florence said reverently.
Livia couldn’t stop the flow of her tears.
They reported that they’d finished to Mrs Mortimer. She came upstairs to gaze at the still figure in the bed, and didn’t bother to hide the faint smile as she taunted, ‘Goodbye, Mrs Sangster.’
The stomach of her former mistress rattled.
Mrs Mortimer took a hasty step backwards and Livia became the recipient of a satisfyingly alarmed look when the woman said hastily, ‘She made a noise . . . are you sure she’s dead?’
‘Doctor said she were dead. I’ve never seen a corpse get up and walk away yet, though I’ve seen them act a bit lively on occasion . . . of course, there’s always a first time,’ Florence said. ‘Happen she might leap right off that bed and dance a jig after being confined to it for all that time. She might even find the strength to strangle you.’
‘You’ve only been employed here for a short time, Hutchins. Be very careful if you want to keep your job.’
‘I can’t say I do want to keep it,’ Florence said cheerfully. ‘I was doing the doctor a favour when I came here, I reckon, not looking for a permanent position. He said young Livia here needed a bit of a hand.’
Livia gave a watery grin when Mrs Mortimer turned on her heel and stalked off, her mouth pulled tight.
Four
It was the kind of day when the sky would have vanished into a pale sheet of nothingness, had the land not been marked by a scribble of haggard winter trees.
The funeral was over. The service had yielded its last mournful note and Margaret Sangster’s coffin accepted into the dark maw of the grave.
Livia paid her respects, standing behind the invited mourners with the cook and shedding her last few tears for her former mistress. Both of them wore black armbands provided by the major.
Nobody’s grief was more than her own, Livia thought, for she’d genuinely liked Mrs Sangster, and had been saddened by her demise.
Major Henry was tall and distinguished in his uniform. He greeted his guests with a firm handshake and short, gruff, dog-like barks of words.
‘Mr Phillips . . . gratified . . . Margaret would have been pleased. Ah yes, Peabody . . . so glad. A sad day . . . your presence most appreciated.’
He was socially elegant. ‘Anthea Jennings, isn’t it?’ His glance wandered over the woman he was addressing and his tongue flicked out to touch his neatly trimmed grey moustache. ‘You look well, m’dear. How’s young Walter?’
‘Gone, two years since. May 1916. He was one of the crew on the Invincible.’
‘Jutland, was it? Lord, I hadn’t heard. Sorry.’ His hand closed over the woman’s. ‘So many of our boys . . . heroes, all.’
‘Richard . . . is he here?’
‘I sent word . . . the boy can’t be spared, of course. A pity. He’ll be sorry he missed his mother’s funeral. They were very close. You don’t look a day older, Anthea. We m
ust get together before I go back to London . . . talk over old times, perhaps. Is Willie still abroad?’
When the woman nodded and gave a faint blush, Livia exchanged a glance with Connie.
Mrs Mortimer gave a rather conspicuous sob and swayed on her feet. She was elegant in a black, fur-trimmed coat, ankle-length skirt and deep-crowned hat. She wore a brooch of glittering red and white stones in the shape of a butterfly. There was no denying that she was lovely.
The major dropped the woman’s hand and moved to Mrs Mortimer’s side. ‘Brace up, Rosemary, old thing. I’m relying on you to get me through the day.’
And Rosemary Mortimer, although already fully braced by the major’s arm sliding around her waist, fluttered her sweeping black eyelashes over her large grey eyes and simpered bravely up at him. ‘I feel so sad for you, Major. Margaret and I were such good friends. She always seemed like an older sister to me.’
‘Lying hypocrite; I hope Mrs Sangster comes back to haunt her,’ Connie whispered, and Livia, who felt exactly the same, wanted to jump up and down on the spot and shout the lie out loud at the disgust she experienced.
Then Dr Elliot – standing with his wife, a small, neat woman – caught her eye. He raised his eyebrow in a manner that said it all, and Livia gave a faint shrug. Getting indignant wouldn’t change things.
Connie took her arm. ‘Come on, let’s get back. The wind is blowing up the legs of my drawers and my bottom is beginning to freeze.’
Livia tried not to giggle as they hurried back to the house. It didn’t seem the right thing to do after a funeral.
‘I’ll wager that Florence is having her fill of the food I prepared for the guests, too. She’ll be at the brandy bottle as well. I’ve smelled it on her breath once or twice.’
Livia told her, ‘I like Florence. She does more than her share of the work, and she’s not frightened to cheek off Mrs Mortimer. I hope she’s allowed to stay on.’
‘Not if Mrs Mortimer has her way. The only reason Florence is still here is because Doctor Elliot recommended her, and he’s acquainted with the major.’
‘So it’s up to the major.’
‘Mrs Mortimer has already got her claws into him. It’s not decent . . . what with his wife hardly cold in her grave.’
Livia only half-listened to Connie’s gossip, since it was really none of her business what people got up to, besides, she had troubles enough of her own. Despite the cold wind there was a restless feeling of spring in the air, though it was only halfway through March, and just a couple of weeks since a thin layer of snow had covered the ground.
But the sap was rising. The buds on the hawthorn exposed a tender and secretive tracery of green, while the periwinkle embroidered a twisting curtain of blue and white through the hedgerows to hide the nests of song thrushes and their young. An occasional early daffodil spread its yellow bonnet to the wind.
‘With a bit of luck she’ll go back to London with him.’
Livia jerked back to the present. ‘What if the major decides to close the house up?’
‘He won’t do that, not until Master Richard comes back from the war. The house belongs to the son under the Sinclair legacy, don’t forget, and he’ll need staff.’
‘But what will happen if he doesn’t come back?’
‘He will,’ Connie said fiercely. ‘He told me that army food was terrible, and the first thing he’d want when he got back was a good dinner. Nothing fancy mind, Connie, says he. I’ll have good old roast beef and potatoes, with Yorkshire pudding, peas and carrots and lashings of gravy.’ She gave a bit of a smile. ‘He wants apple pie and custard afterwards. He always liked his apple pie and custard, did young Richard.’
They slipped in the back door, surprising Florence with her feet up in front of the fire sipping a glass of brandy.
‘I knew I’d catch you at it one day,’ Connie said, the satisfaction she felt at the thought spreading over her face like a dollop of melting lard. ‘Mrs Mortimer will dismiss you for sure if she catches you with that,’ Connie told her.
‘She’ll dismiss you and all if I tell her I got it from your pantry disguised as a bottle of Phillips’ Milk of Magnesia.’
‘I keep it there for medicinal purposes,’ Connie said hotly.
‘Of course you do, and thankful I am for it too, since I felt quite ill a moment or two ago.’ Tipping the glass up, Florence downed the liquid in one long swallow, sighed, and said, ‘I had a backache caused by Mrs Mortimer sticking her knife between my shoulder blades. The brandy has relieved the pain no end.’
This time Livia began to laugh.
Connie couldn’t hide her grin. ‘Have you set the table out like I asked you to, Florence? They’ll be home before too long.’
‘Don’t you fret, it’s all ready, and I’ve stoked up the fire so the drawing room is good and warm. Oh yes . . . and while you were all out a gentleman from London rang. Couldn’t hear him very well because he whistled, as though he had false teeth that were a bit loose in his head. But he spoke really posh, and said his name was Sturgeon. He wants the major to telephone him as soon as he comes in.’
‘Livia can pass the message on to the major while she’s supervising the table. Better go and get your apron on, love. I want to inspect the table, because the major can be very particular. Florence, you go up to the landing on the stairs and keep a look out for them. Let me know as soon as you see them come down the driveway. I’ll make the tea in the big teapot then, and carry it through, so it doesn’t get stewed. You can bring the hot water jug.’
It wasn’t long before the drawing room was thronged with people, all dressed soberly and talking in hushed tones. Most of them had come from the church and had traipsed dirt across the hall from their boots. Livia had a glimpse of Florence with dustpan and brush rushing to-and-fro so it didn’t get trodden in.
When the major approached to get something to eat, his blue eyes gazed into hers. He smiled. ‘It’s Livia, isn’t it? I’ve been given to understand that my late wife thought very highly of you.’
‘She was a nice woman; a real lady. We got on well together, and I’m going to miss her.’
‘Quite. You’ve grown into a beautiful young woman since the last time I saw you. ’
A faint blush rose to her face and she didn’t know what to say. She remembered the message with some relief. ‘There was a telephone call for you when you were out, Major. It was from a Mr Sturgeon in London. He wanted you to call him as soon as you were able.’
‘Sturgeon . . .?’ He shrugged. ‘I can’t recall anybody by that name.’
Livia hoped she didn’t give offence when she told him, ‘Florence said the gentleman had a distinctive voice . . . an impediment. He lisped.’
His brow cleared and he gave a low chuckle. ‘I imagine Florence meant Sir John. Thank you, young lady. I’ll go to my study and ring him from there.’
He left, threading his way through the crowd and stopping for just a moment to speak to Mrs Mortimer.
She crossed to where Livia stood, frowning. ‘You should have given me the message to pass on to the major. Do you know what it was about?’
‘No, I don’t, Mrs Mortimer. Perhaps the major will tell you if you go and ask him.’
She was the recipient of a hard look.
Dr Elliot edged Mrs Mortimer out and filled his plate with sandwiches, giving her an apologetic look. ‘I’m sorry if I appear to be greedy. I’ve been flat out all morning and didn’t have time to eat. Everyone who is suffering from spring fever imagines that they’ve caught the Spanish flu. How are you, young lady?’
‘How do I look?’
‘As lively as a flea on a dog. I heard from Denton yesterday. He asked me to say hello on his behalf if I happened to run into you, and he said that he hopes you found your sister and brother in good health.’
‘You can tell him you nearly ran into me with your car.’
He chuckled at that.
Mrs Mortimer hovered nearby, clearly eavesdropping. Wi
thout the major by her side, nobody approached her.
Livia lowered her voice. ‘As for my sister and brother, I’d wish for better than an overcrowded orphanage, but there are so many homeless children in London I should be grateful they have a roof over their heads. It was kind of Denton to enquire.’
‘He also said to tell you that the pheasant’s feather is his constant companion.’ A dark eyebrow lifted in a query.
She laughed. ‘He stole a pheasant’s feather from my hat to take with him. He thought it would bring him luck.’
Dr Elliot grinned, and said over the muted conversation of the other guests, ‘You’re blushing, Miss Carr. Did my son flirt so very much with you? He has an over-abundance of charm on occasion.’
Like father, like son, she thought, and said, ‘I am not blushing.’ But nevertheless, her hands went to her cheeks and she lowered her voice. ‘Actually, he did flirt a little . . . but I didn’t take any notice. I’m a housemaid with two orphaned siblings to support, so I can’t allow myself to harbour romantic notions about any man, especially someone of his standing.’
‘That’s very sensible of you, my dear, but war is a great leveller, and you can never tell what’s around the corner. Is that some of cook’s apple cake over there? A large slice please, Livia, since I can’t resist it . . .’
His wife joined him. ‘Behave yourself, Andrew. Give him a small piece of cake, dear; he’s of an age where he must watch his waistline.’
‘This is Livia Carr, Helen. I was just passing on Denton’s message.’
A smile lit up her face. ‘Andrew has told me a lot about you, so I’m pleased we’ve finally met. I understand that you’re George and Eloise Carr’s daughter.’
‘Yes, Mrs Elliot.’
‘Such a coincidence; I attended the same school as your mother, though we were in different boarding houses. Eloise James, she was then. I attended her wedding to George Carr. And met them again at a party in London. It was a long time ago, about fifteen years. They were a very popular couple, I recall . . . always entertaining.’