Susan Speers

by My Cousin Jeremy

  “Maybe, only maybe.” Was she pleased or envious?

  “He won’t speak to me or acknowledge me in any way.” She twisted her gloves in her hand. Down the hall, a patient’s sobs could be heard. Another shouted terrible oaths.

  “Clarissa, they want to commit him, to incarcerate him here.” We both jumped as a man in the room opposite Jeremy’s screamed. He subsided after agonizing minutes, then began again.

  “I can’t help Jeremy, I can’t reach him.” Caroline by necessity spoke in strident tones, nearly shouting. “I believe you can. I think you must try.”

  Sergeant Gilbert summoned us from the doorway. “Dr. Sachs is waiting.”

  In Jeremy’s room all was in order as if never touched. His tea sandwiches were uneaten, his bed linen smooth. He sat on a straight backed wooden chair, his eyes focused on an invisible point in the middle distance. If I believed in sorcerers, I would say he was under a spell.

  When I entered the room Jeremy looked at me, then he withdrew again. Caroline gasped. One other person watched Jeremy’s face with keen interest.

  Dr. Sachs stood by a window fitted with iron bars. He held his hands clasped behind his back. His beard was frizzled into tufts. I think he pulled it.

  “Mrs. Marchmont, Mrs. Scard,” he began. “I’ve many men under my care: brave, foolish, accused of cowardice. Their bodies live on, but their minds, their hearts, their souls are damaged. We call it shell shock, but those two words cover many ills.”

  He hesitated, then spoke again. “As you hear, most men communicate their anguish. Some do not. In my opinion these are the hopeless cases.”

  “You think he will not recover,” Caroline said.

  “I fear he must remain in institutional care.”

  “No,” I said. “I’m Major Marchmont’s cousin. We’ve shared a — a close relationship since childhood. He has a special love for his country home. Let him come to Hethering. Give him a chance to recover there. It’s better than this — place.” I could not keep back a shudder.

  Dr. Sachs did not reply at once. His hand strayed toward his beard, then dropped. “He will need intensive, individual attention.”

  “I can do that,” I said. “I’m a widow. I have no children. I live at Hethering. I can help him.”

  “I haven’t made a difference,” Caroline said. “I’ve cosseted him, shouted at him, begged him to speak to me. Our child is an asthmatic. He needs me in London. I’d like Mrs. Scard to encourage my husband. Their relationship — cousins, friends — it endures. Our marriage has always been — distant.”

  Dr. Sachs looked at me with penetrating, rather soulful eyes. He saw the black mourning band around my arm. “Perhaps this effort will help you as well,” he murmured. I doubted it, but said nothing.

  He turned to see Jeremy’s eyes fixed on me.

  “Six months reprieve,” he pronounced. “Weekly, truthful progress reports, young lady. Sergeant Gilbert will see you home. I’ll stop in on my visits to London. I have regular meetings there — I won’t give you notice.”

  “All right,” I said, and stole a glance at Jeremy. He’d withdrawn yet again, though his posture relaxed. He was so thin he resembled his frail son as never before. A narrow white scar began behind his ear and followed the line of his jaw.

  “I’ll see you in the morning, Mrs. Scard, before you go. For your own sake, please think about your decision.” The doctor left the room and Caroline followed. Sergeant Gilbert remained at guard.

  “We’re going home, Jeremy, home to Hethering,” I said. “Will you speak to me there?”

  He turned his face away to stare out the barred window.

  *

  At the hotel, Caroline didn’t unpack her bag. “There’s a London train within the hour,” she said. “I can’t bear to be separated from Arthur for another minute.”

  She didn’t thank me for bringing Jeremy back to Hethering, for undertaking his care and the hope of his recovery. We both knew she didn’t have to.

  Something else had to be said. “Caroline, if I succeed, should Jeremy recover—” I took a deep breath. “I can’t promise you we won’t —”

  “That doesn’t matter now,” she said. “His recovery matters.” She swallowed. “Whatever it takes.”

  “You love him so much? After everything?”

  Her eyes flashed at me from the mirror as she pinned her hat in place. “Don’t you?”

  *****

  I dined alone. The hotel food was plain though palatable. I had little appetite but kept faith with Laura’s directives and drank my soup. I would have to be well and strong to help Jeremy regain his life.

  “So, Mrs. Scard,” said a booming, unhappily familiar voice. Rutherford Dane stood by the empty chair at my small table.

  “This is not a coincidence,” I said. I struggled to keep my voice and my expression neutral.

  He sat down without asking permission. Perhaps he realized I would not give it.

  “I’m conversant in War Office circles,” he said. “Heard your cousin was back in Blighty and clapped in the bin. Small thanks for his service.”

  “Jeremy is in hospital. The Bardsmore Home Hospital.” I said between gritted teeth.

  “The bin. Don’t dissemble, you know it as well as I. Your milksop butler said you were away. Figured you came here to spring him — that’s a kindness. I respect you for it.”

  “Mr. Dane, my presence here is none of your —”

  “You can call me Uncle Rusty. Figure I should be your advisor since you won’t have me as husband — now don’t get up and run out, I have advice.”

  “Say your piece, then go.” My appetite had vanished with my patience.

  “This kindness of yours, it’s an admirable thing, but it’s a dangerous thing too.” For the first time in our acquaintance Rutherford Dane lowered his voice without my asking.

  “Chaps over there, where your cousin dared venture, they’ve seen the worst humanity can be. Bad, so bad I don’t like to call it humanity. Cruelty, sadism, actions beyond what any war should require.”

  His voice was sober, his expression severe. “Be careful, Clarissa. Guard your heart, yes, but guard your person too. You’re not so bonny as you once were. I know why and I’m sorry for it. But don’t let down your guard for a moment. Keep your wits sharp and your body strong as it can be. You’ll need both to help your cousin Jeremy.”

  “Coffee for the gentleman?” I hadn’t seen my server approach.

  “I think not. This lady needs her rest.” He rose to go.

  “Thank you, sir.” I meant it.

  “Uncle Rusty?”

  “Please no.”

  A smile of reluctant warmth transformed his face. “Rutherford, then.”

  “All right. Rutherford.” I shook his bear’s paw hand. I watched his awkward body shamble from the dining room. China rattled. Servers leapt from his path.

  Not husband, not ever husband. Not uncle either. Perhaps an odd sort of friend or in his words, advisor. I could countenance that much.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Early next morning, an orderly waited by the hospital’s entry desk to bring me through a labyrinth of basement corridors to Dr. Sachs’s office.

  “Please sit down, Mrs. Scard.” The doctor’s voice and posture were weary, though his beard was combed.

  “Forgive me.” He rubbed his eyes. “Three admissions last night. I monitor their adjustment. When the sun rises, they settle in.”

  I declined a cup of tea.

  “Now then.” He opened the pasteboard folder in front of him on the desk, but didn’t look at it once during our interview. He knew the facts of Jeremy’s case by heart.

  “Your cousin is a quiet hero of this conflict, Mrs. Scard. His actions saved many lives. Unfortunately, they drew the fury of the German command down on him, friends betrayed and the like. They could have executed him, an honorable death. Instead, they tortured him for punishment without end.”

  I concentrated on keeping my brea
thing even. I wanted to be sick. I wanted to faint. None of this missish, albeit human behavior would help Jeremy. Dr. Sachs waited as I absorbed his words.

  “Major Marchmont had the will to endure and the courage to escape, but damage was done. When he reached safety, he collapsed.”

  “And this heinous damage is called ‘shell shock’?” It seemed too benign a term for Jeremy’s suffering. For the screams and cries and sobbing that filled the halls of this institution.

  “It’s a broad term,” the doctor said. “It provides protection for men who might be punished for cowardice.”

  “I understand.” I didn’t.

  “Accepted treatment for your cousin’s condition involves enforced exercise, scalding and freezing baths, sometimes electric shock.”

  He held up his hand at my dismay. “I don’t condone further torture. My prescription is regular exercise, plain food, kindness. Normal conversation from you, watch for signs of response. Every now and again a word of firm encouragement. But be careful.”

  “He won’t harm me,” I said. Rutherford Dane was wrong about that.

  “No, I don’t think so. I wouldn’t release him to your care if I did. Watch he doesn’t harm himself.”

  He pulled his pocket watch from his waistcoat. “I’m late for rounds. Good luck, Mrs. Scard. I’ll read your progress reports, reply when I feel it’s necessary. Six months. Make good use of them. This is unusual procedure for me, but a hero like your cousin deserves every chance.”

  Sergeant Gilbert stood outside Jeremy’s room. Jemmy towered over the sergeant but followed us out, docile as a lamb. He carried his kit bag. He made no comment as the heavy hospital doors closed behind us.

  My companions sat on one side of our first class train compartment, I on the other. I shared the hotel’s packed lunch with the sergeant and a nondescript gentleman who came to sit beside me. Jeremy took no food or drink.

  When we changed trains there was a delay. In the crowded waiting room I saw Rutherford Dane speak with the man who shared our compartment. Rutherford saw me watch them and winked. His acquaintance stayed with us until Sergeant Gilbert and Jeremy and I arrived at our village.

  *****

  I’d sent a wire to Hethering before leaving the hotel: ‘Jeremy frail. Won’t eat, sleep or speak. Bringing him home’

  Mr. Pickety met our train. I sat beside him in the front seat of his modest automobile, Jeremy and Sergeant Gilbert behind us. If Jem recognized his old tutor, he did not show it. Mr. Pickety did not press for response.

  At Hethering’s door, Sergeant Gilbert shook Henry’s hand. “Major Marchmont can see to his needs, sir.” He shook my hand. “Good-bye, Miss, take good care of him. He’s a right hero.”

  He saluted Jeremy and turned to leave with Mr. Pickety.

  “Must you leave us so soon?” I wasn’t prepared for this.

  “It’s best, Miss. Fresh start and all. I doubt he’ll know I’ve gone, but I’ll miss the honor of serving him.”

  I watched the headlamps of Mr. Pickety’s car until they disappeared around a curve in the drive. Henry took Jeremy’s coat and gloves.

  “Sherry in the blue sitting room, Miss?” Despite my marriage, Henry, like others, still called me ‘Miss”.

  “A very good idea.” The fire was a warm companion, very like a third presence with us. Henry had put two upholstered chairs in front of it. A Chinese table of inlaid wood held a tray with a decanter and two glasses beside a plate of Cook’s wonderful cheese straws.

  I poured Jeremy a small glass of sherry. He did not move to take it so I set it down in front of him. I took one smoky, burning sip of the amber liquid in my glass. I don’t drink sherry as a rule, but on this cold, dark night it warmed me. I was famished. I ate and drank. Jeremy sat motionless.

  “I’m glad you’re here with me,” I said. “I never thought I’d sit with you again. I never thought we’d be together at Hethering again.

  He said nothing.

  “Welcome home,” I couldn’t stop talking. “You’re safe now. You were born here, you’ll come alive here, I know it. You took me by the hand and taught me everything. I’ll do the same for you, I promise.”

  He said nothing.

  I had to believe somewhere deep inside his silence, Jeremy still lived and heard me. If I didn’t believe it with every fiber of my being, I couldn’t wake his sleeping soul. Small spaces, regular routines. I would create a world of safety, a haven to entice Jeremy back to me, and then the world.

  When Henry announced dinner, I helped Jeremy rise with a hand beneath his elbow, just as I had seen Sergeant Gilbert do. Arm in arm we went to table.

  “Serve the food,” I said to Henry. “Tonight it doesn’t matter if he eats or no. Tomorrow it will.”

  One dinner course after another was served and removed without Jeremy moving a muscle. His eyes remained fixed on an invisible point between us.

  After dinner, we returned to the small sitting room, each to our chairs. Jeremy had a glass of brandy beside him, untouched. I worked at my knitting.

  I am a small person compared to my cousin, but my will is strong. I prevailed against Richard Marchmont, I prevailed against Jeremy before. I would prevail again. That is what I told myself over and over in the days to follow.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  The next day dawned cold and gray and rainy. I’d prayed for sunshine and got fog for my pains.

  Despite this unpromising start, I knocked on Jeremy’s bedroom door at seven in the morning. He was dressed and sitting in a chair by the mullioned window, its distorted panes opaque with moisture.

  “This will not do,” I said in a loud, cheerful voice. I put a gentle pressure under his elbow and walked him to the breakfast room.

  I pulled the bell and breakfast was served. Butter basted eggs and bacon with grilled tomatoes and mushrooms for me. An invalid’s meal of tea, broth and gelatin was placed in front of Jeremy.

  “It occurs to me,” I said, “you’ve refused solid food for a long time. We will begin with things to encourage a delicate digestion.”

  He sat at table across from me. He neither moved nor spoke. I might as well have addressed the ormolu clock. At least it chimed a response.

  I finished my breakfast and came to his side. His broth still held enough warmth to prevent gagging.

  “I’m agent here,” I said, “and my word is law. You will not go out of doors until this food is eaten. Without proper exercise, your health will decline and I won’t permit that. So, you will eat now.”

  I picked up his spoon, filled it with broth and held it to his mouth. I can’t swear it, but I thought I saw his lip curl.

  I narrowed my eyes, summoned every bit of my will, and borrowing a good bit of Laura’s, brought forth her terrible voice.

  “Swallow,” I said.

  To my surprise he did. I couldn’t spare a moment to glory in my achievement. Swallow by swallow he consumed his meal just before my voice gave out.

  “Good heavens, Miss,” said Henry when he came to clear the table, though he smiled when he saw Jeremy’s empty dishes.

  “We have much for which to thank Miss Benes,” I croaked.

  “We do indeed,” he replied.

  The cold wet day may have been a trial for some, but its moist fog provided balm to my abused larynx.

  Jeremy trod the paths of our sleeping rose garden faster and faster without a spark of recognition. Ten times round and then he sat on the stone bench and I collapsed beside him, panting. My one small victory was an ember of hope in my aching body, but it was enough for the first day.

  *****

  By week’s end my voice was gone, but there was a slight increase of flesh on Jeremy’s gaunt frame. When we sat down to breakfast I did not approach him.

  For the briefest moment I saw his eyes fix on me. Then he retreated.

  “You know what you must do before we venture outside,” I rasped. “I cannot and I will not shout at you any longer.”

  After a pause th
at lasted only seconds in real time, but forever in my worried soul, Jeremy picked up his spoon and ate his meal. My true victory came when he finished his gelatin and looked at my half empty plate.

  I slid a portion of my eggs, all my bacon and two fingers of toast onto his empty charger. I had to lower my eyes to keep him from seeing the shout of triumph I held within as he ate every bit.

  Exercise had done its good work. I marched him around Hethering’s grounds until I lost my breath, and then, only then, would I let him sit and stare into nothingness. His regime helped restore my stamina as well.

  That morning we left footprints in a light dusting of snow. I led him to the holly grove at the southern border of the Marchgate Wood. Bright red berries glistened with a coat of frost like sugar. I wondered if we would decorate the house or celebrate Christmas at all. I was in mourning for Dickon and Jeremy still clung to his quiet world.

  In the bleak December afternoons, when the light failed us, Jeremy withdrew to his room while I reconciled estate accounts and, if any time remained, worked at my next childrens’ story. Belle’s Rescue had garnered positive reviews and modest sales. I proposed a story about the day I met Willow, and Archibald Mosely approved its preliminary drawings.

  Mr. Mosely’s regular letters hinted at a delicate concern for my widow’s plight. I wondered if he indulged my work in a kind of tangible sympathy he was too reticent to express.

  Still, Willow’s story had a fey beauty and magic of its own, just as she had. I could lose myself in memory as I brushed the bright colors of my childhood onto paper. I could dwell in the happy past and emerge refreshed to cope with an uncertain present and an as yet fearful future.

  At tea, Jeremy sat, a cup cooling beside him. After two weeks of this behavior, I added generous helpings of sugar and cream to his portion. He’d loved it just that way as a boy.

  “Will you drink it down, please,” I said. We’d passed the point where Laura’s exhortations could serve as encouragement. They’d already come within a hair’s breadth of bullying.