A Dream Rides By

  He had treated her with such care ever since she had told him she was pregnant. Not that he was ever anything but considerate, but he had stayed indoors every one of the four nights since, instead of spending the evening with his friends. She didn’t know how long it would last, and she wasn’t sure she wanted it to. Barney seemed on edge, one minute fluttering about her as if trying to prove his love and the next minute distant, and he seemed to have no appetite. He must be worried sick that her pregnancy would end in a miscarriage as all the others had done. Yes. That was the only explanation.

  ‘Take care on yersel,’ he had said, frowning anxiously as she’d set out that morning. ‘No running for that there train. And I reckon your friend’ll be so pleased as I am at the news. But you’m to tell her you cas’n visit her again. ’Tis too risky for the babby, what with your past.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure she’ll understand,’ Ling had said, and had smiled back. Though the smile had been forced.

  And Agnes was pleased. Delighted. Ling had gone there first to tell her, putting off the dreadful moment when she was to give Elliott her decision.

  ‘Now you really must have a physician take care of you all the way. No, I insist,’ Agnes said as she saw Ling go to protest. ‘I shall pay for one to go out and visit you regularly. Dr Greenwood has retired now, so it will have to be Dr Ratcliffe. It can’t be that lovely young Dr Franfield, poor soul, not for a while anyway. Not after what happened to him the other day.’

  The blood instantly drained from Ling’s head, but she knew she must resist the instinct to react to whatever dreadful news Agnes had to impart. ‘Happened?’ she repeated, struggling to sound casual.

  ‘It was in yesterday’s Gazette. Didn’t you see it?’

  ‘No. I haven’t bought one yet,’ her lips articulated.

  ‘Poor chap was attacked.’ Agnes shook her head in horror. ‘Badly beaten and left for dead, it seems. Happened along the old canal towpath near Crowndale. Luckily, he’d just attended a delivery at one of the Fitzford Cottages and the husband saw him going along the path with a stranger. Shortly afterwards, the new mother had a funny turn and the husband ran after the doctor to fetch him back. Ran straight into the attacker and then found Dr Franfield further along the path. Thank God he did, or he wouldn’t have survived the night, the article says. Oh, my dear!’ Agnes leaned forward and took Ling’s cold hand in hers. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I shouldn’t have mentioned it with you in your condition. One can become so sensitive—’

  ‘But . . . he’s alive?’ Ling murmured, clawing her way back to reality.

  ‘He was when the article was written. Oh, Ling, dear, you look so pale. Let me order some hot, sweet tea.’

  Hot, sweet tea. Oh, how very English. It was what . . . Oh, Elliott. Dear God Almighty . . .

  Somehow, she managed to spend another half hour in Agnes’s company, stifling her desperate, crucifying desire to get to Elliott’s side. The instant she felt she could leave without suspicion she ran down into the town and bought a copy of the paper, searching dementedly for the article. The letters leapt up and down, jigging on the page. Just one sentence jumped out at her: Dr Franfield was recovering at Dr Greenwood’s house.

  She broke into a run once more, stumbling, not caring about the life inside her. It wasn’t far to the Parkwood area. She remembered quite clearly which was Dr Greenwood’s house.

  The elderly man opened the door himself, and his kind eyes stretched with surprise at her agitated knocking. ‘Why, Mrs Mayhew, isn’t it?’

  ‘Elliott. Where is he? Is he all right?’

  William Greenwood blinked at the breathless, hysterical woman before him, and all became clear. He hadn’t spent a lifetime dealing with people in dire distress not to recognize its effects at once. Oh dear. What had young Elliott been up to? Was there a flaw in his perfect ways after all? They were all only human, and he was a handsome, amiable fellow and this girl was so striking . . .

  William cleared his throat. ‘You’d better come in.’

  She was agitated beyond measure, he could see, scarcely able to perch on the edge of the chair he offered her as if it were red hot.

  William pursed his lips and fixed his eyes on her over the rim of his spectacles. ‘I take it you read what happened in the paper?’ he asked solemnly. ‘And I take it you and Elliott are friends?’

  ‘Yes,’ she choked, her brow puckered excruciatingly.

  More than friends, if William wasn’t mistaken. He had thought he’d seen a look pass between them at Chantal Pencarrow’s wedding. They had disguised it well but even then he had wondered, before putting it out of his mind. Surely, Elliott wouldn’t have been so stupid as to become involved with a married woman? But, if he had, it would have been from the heart. And now, possibly, the poor lad was paying for it.

  ‘I’m afraid he’s in a bad way,’ he said gravely. ‘He had severe abdominal pain and I had to open him up. There was severe bruising under his left ribs, from being kicked several times, I’d say. I found what I suspected. A ruptured spleen, so I had to remove it. Don’t look so alarmed. We can live quite happily without a spleen. But it was tricky. Touch and go. I’ve never performed a splenectomy before. Few surgeons ever have. Even now we don’t know . . . It was major surgery, and he lost a lot of blood. He was also hit several times in the head and face. As you may imagine, he’s still very groggy, and he’s bruised and lacerated all over.’

  He stopped as the girl’s face contorted. Oh, yes. This lovely young woman loved Elliott with a deep, sincere passion. And William’s heart ached for them. ‘Would you like to see him?’

  She nodded, tears trembling on her lashes, and William wetted his lips. ‘It’s not a pretty sight, I must warn you. And he may not know you’re there. I’m keeping him on laudanum, although the last dose will be wearing off by now. So, are you sure?’

  Ling rose to her feet, almost fainting. But she had to let Elliott know she was there for him.

  A whimper lodged in her throat when she saw him. He was barely recognizable as human, let alone the handsome young man she loved. One eye was a dark, oozing slit in its swollen, discoloured socket. Blood was still matted in his hair near a row of neat stitches closing an ugly wound on his forehead, the catgut standing out like a tramline, and the left side of his jaw was stained the colour of ripe mulberries. Where it wasn’t livid with bruising, the rest of his face was like putty. His leanly muscled arms lay outside the covers and she could see a large purple blotch on his chest disappearing beneath the snowy sheets. He lay so still, hardly breathing.

  Ling swayed, and felt the supportive arm of William Greenwood about her. She had hardly noticed Mrs Greenwood sitting vigilantly by the bedside, and Ling took her place in the chair, her eyes riveted on Elliott’s mutilated face and her horrified mind scarcely able to think about the broken body hidden beneath the bedclothes. Mrs Greenwood crept from the room, and Ling was aware of the doctor standing back from the bed. It seemed that Elliott was not for one moment to be left unattended by someone with medical experience, but Ling was beyond caring what Dr Greenwood might see.

  She brushed away her silent tears and leaned forward, hesitating as she went to take Elliott’s hand. His long middle fingers were strapped together and she glanced up as William appeared at her shoulder.

  ‘He obviously tried to fight back,’ he whispered. ‘Broke his finger in the process. The man who found him said he saw the attacker lure him away. Reckons poor Elliott thought he was being called to an emergency. The devil probably turned on him so suddenly that he didn’t stand a chance. The police have a full description. He wasn’t as tall as Elliott but was built like a bull apparently. You can hold his hand if you want to. Just be gentle.’

  Slowly, with the deftest touch, she took Elliott’s hand and carefully lifted it to her lips. Laid it against her cheek, her tears dripping on to the bandaging.

  ‘Ling.’ A barely audible sound scraped itself from Elliott’s parched mouth and his good eye
opened just a fraction.

  A cruel pain stabbed at Ling’s throat as she turned her gaze back to his battered face and forced a smile. ‘Yes, I’m here, Elliott,’ she croaked, and then, as the appalled horror swamped her again, she groaned, ‘Who on earth did this to you, Elliott? And . . . and why?’

  ‘I . . . don’t . . . know,’ he grated, wincing as if the very words had caused him grave distress.

  ‘Time for some more laudanum,’ William said from behind. ‘But first try and get him to drink some water if you can. He’s severely dehydrated.’

  Ling drew in her lips. Oh, sweet Jesus, don’t die, Elliott. She slipped her left arm under his neck to lift his head, and taking the feeding jug William passed her, placed the spout between Elliott’s lips.

  ‘Drink, my love, for me.’

  He did. Sipping. Finding it difficult to swallow. Water sometimes dribbling down his chin. Ling’s patience was unending, and she crooned and cajoled until the cup was nearly empty, and William added a dose of laudanum to the last drops of the life-giving liquid. Within another five minutes, Elliott was asleep.

  ‘Will he . . . will he be all right?’ Ling dared to ask when they were out in the hall and Mrs Greenwood had taken over the vigil again.

  William’s eyebrows swooped. ‘I’d be a liar if I said a definite yes. He’s far from out of the woods yet. However, I didn’t think he’d survive the anaesthetic the state he’s in, but he did. But, Mrs Mayhew, he is still very poorly.’

  Ling rolled her head, but there was no escape. ‘Who could do such a thing, Dr Greenwood?’

  ‘Are you sure you can’t tell me yourself?’ William’s voice was low. ‘The attack was unprovoked and nothing, no drugs, were taken from his medical bag. He still had all his money in his pockets. And yet it seemed planned. Now, I know it’s really not my business, but you and Elliott are more than just friends. Don’t deny it, Mrs Mayhew. So . . . you don’t think it could have been your husband?’

  Ling gasped aloud and shook her head in disbelief. ‘Barney? Oh, good Lord, no! The idea’s preposterous! Barney’s not capable of such a thing. He’s a good man.’ Her face fell and she lowered her eyes. ‘That makes me sound like a proper scarlet woman, doesn’t it? But . . . I just married the wrong man. But I’m certain Barney doesn’t know about . . . about Elliott and me. And besides, it was Tuesday night, wasn’t it? Barney was with me. At home. Up at Foggintor.’

  William took a deep breath and released it through flared nostrils. ‘Well, the police have issued a description. And, by God, I’d like to get my hands on the scoundrel when they catch him. But in the meantime—’ he sighed wearily – ‘your secret is safe with me. And I pray to God that Elliott survives.’

  ‘So, had a good day, have you, my love?’ Barney turned from the range, his voice deliberately light and carefree. But his smile faded and turned instead to a frown as his heart began to pound. Ling’s shoulders were drooping and her skin was pale as death.

  ‘Ling? Ling, be summat wrong?’ But he knew at once that there was, and his blood ran cold. ‘The babby . . .?’

  ‘Is fine. But . . .’ Her face crumpled and tears spilled down her grief-ravaged cheeks as she threw the newspaper purposefully on to the table, which Barney had already set for their meal. ‘You remember Elliott Franfield?’ she said, gulping wretchedly.

  ‘Of course.’ Barney’s voice was flat and, he hoped, expressionless. Jesus Christ, he mustn’t let her see. See the terror that gripped his heart. Oh, good God Almighty, what had Harry Spence done? What had he done?

  ‘It’s in the paper.’ Ling forced the words from between gritted teeth. ‘He was attacked last Tuesday night. Brutally beaten and for no apparent reason.’

  Barney swallowed hard, his knees turning weak. Oh, dear God! ‘Poor chap,’ he managed to mumble.

  ‘Oh, Barney, I went to see him,’ Ling wailed, and Barney raised his eyes. ‘I bumped into him a couple of times in the summer. I don’t suppose I told you. It didn’t seem worth mentioning. Anyway, I thought . . . Oh, Barney, he’s in a terrible way. They’re . . . they’re not sure if he’ll live. How could anyone do such a thing?’

  Her tears were flowing freely now, and Barney held her against him. Could she feel him, too, shaking like a leaf? But she mustn’t, mustn’t know!

  ‘Do they knows who did it?’ The question strangled in his throat.

  ‘No,’ she said, and wept brokenly. And Barney knew for sure that his wife loved another man.

  ‘I’m sorry, Barney. I know I said last week would be the last time, but I must go and see Dr Franfield again. Find out . . . if he’s still alive. You do understand?’

  Oh, yes. He understood all right! Ling loved Elliott Franfield. Perhaps even the child she carried was his. Barney’s blood seethed, but he mustn’t let on that he realized. If he did, it might arouse suspicion. At least Elliott’s attacker had disappeared into thin air, thank God. And good riddance. If Harry was never caught then he could never implicate Barney. And so Barney must play the sympathetic fool and comfort his faithless wife over the plight of her lover.

  Did he wish Elliott dead? No, of course not. That wasn’t the plan. Never had been. It would break Ling’s heart, her spirit. He wouldn’t want that. He just wanted her back. His own heart ached with his love for her. He could forgive her.

  But, if she ever discovered what he had done, could she forgive him?

  ‘How was he?’ Barney asked, his voice trembling not with concern but with abject fear. ‘Have they caught the bastard yet?’

  ‘No. But Dr Franfield is a little better.’ Ling pushed the back of her hand against her nose to suppress her welling tears of relief. ‘It’ll take months for him to recover, mind, but he’s beginning to see out of his damaged eye again, and he is in less pain. He can talk a little now too.’

  Talk! Terror ripped into Barney’s belly like a knife. ‘He hasn’t said who did it, then, or why?’

  ‘No. He says he’s no idea. He didn’t recognize his assailant at all, but it was dark.’

  Barney nodded in what he hoped appeared a thoughtful manner. The blood had been trundling in his veins all week. The local constabulary had been searching for an attempted murderer, but would it have made any difference if it had turned into a hunt for a killer? It was still his fault Elliott Franfield had nearly died. And if his part in it were ever discovered, wouldn’t he be hanged for it? Guilt churned in his stomach, closing its choking fetters about his neck. Ling must never, ever know. If she did, she would be out of that door and into Franfield’s arms for ever. He wouldn’t be able to stop her, for, if he tried, she might reveal what she knew to the police. He would deserve it.

  Barney had loved her, worshipped her, since they were children growing up in their small, isolated community. Fate had thrown them together, and Ling had believed she loved him. But she had always been above him, and he had always known it. And her heart, the true passion that had been the very essence of her spirit, belonged to a man who was far more deserving of it than he was. To a man who was lying, injured and suffering, because of his love for her; to the man to whom she would long ago have been married if Barney had not betrayed them years before on the day he had jealously destroyed Elliott Franfield’s letter.

  He tossed and turned all night, sometimes studying in the moonlight the beloved face on the pillow beside him, tranquil now that she knew her lover’s life was out of danger. She smiled in her sleep, murmured Elliott’s name. Barney turned over, his clenched fist against his forehead. What hope was there for their future now? He had expected to draw Ling back to him. All he had succeeded in doing was to drive her further away.

  It was the same night after night, the shadows deepening beneath his eyes as the vicious remorse gnawed into him like a cancer. While Ling’s appetite was returning, a peaceful glow blushing her cheeks as Saturday approached once more, food stuck in Barney’s gullet, every mouthful he swallowed making him gag. He felt dizzy, light-headed, an emptiness scorching in the pit of his belly.


  ‘What’s with you today, Barney?’ Sam enquired with a light chuckle. ‘Dreaming about that babby again? Well, I think it might have another cousin soon arter ’tis born!’ His eyes twinkled merrily. ‘Don’t tell Fanny I told you, mind. She wanted to tell Ling first. Right, well, I’ll go over and tell them to swing the crane over. I reckon we’m ready to move that there stone now.’

  Sam shinned down the ladder leaving Barney alone on the ledge near the head of the quarry. Babby. Was it his, or Elliott Franfield’s? What did it matter? He could never find happiness again, knowing Ling’s heart would always lie elsewhere, while he would take his guilt to the grave.

  He wasn’t paying attention, lost in his own misery, as the massive crane swivelled round, the heavy chain hanging freely in mid-air. He should have caught the giant hook swaying on the end. But he wasn’t looking, and, though he heard Sam’s horrified shout from down below, it was too late. The chain crashed into him, knocking him off balance so that his foot slipped over the edge.

  He tried to right himself but felt his body going, his fingers clawing at the flat surface of the ledge. His scraping hands found a hold, a ridge no more than an inch high. His shoulders jarred as they took the full weight of his body as it dangled over the sheer rock face. Sweat poured from his skin as he realized there was no way that, even with his powerful muscles, he had the strength to pull himself back up. Already, his arms were screaming at him as his tense fingers cramped with the effort of retaining their grip, and his feet flailed wildly as they searched for a hold.

  ‘Barney!’ Sam shrieked at him from somewhere fifty feet below. ‘Hang on! Us’ll be there in a moment!’

  He tried. Sweet Jesus Christ, he tried. His sweating palms became slippery, terrified breath quivering in his lungs. Every muscle was on fire. Hold on. Hold on. His life flashed before him, his darling Ling an image of life and love, and his heart felt calmed. She was his reason for being, and yet he had betrayed her. Not just once, but twice. She had never truly been his. She had belonged to Elliott Franfield ever since the day the steam railway had arrived in Princetown. Barney had always known, but it was only now that he could accept it. He had never made Ling truly happy. Because of him, their life was a lie. There was only one way to atone. He must set her free, and this way she would never know of his shame. His love for her went beyond the stars, and perhaps he could look down from the open Dartmoor skies on to her future happiness. And that would suffice.