Autumn Softly Fell (21 page)

‘And is she … is she the one who’s dead?’

Mlle Lacroix nodded. ‘So sad. So young.
Douze ans.’

Maggie Hobson.
Oh, those Hobsons!
Mrs Turner had shaken her head over the Hobsons that day on the Lawham Road – the day that Dorothea and the governess had chased the Hobsons’ pig through the village.
If it’s escaped once, it’s escaped a dozen times.
There were six Hobson children, Dorothea remembered, who all looked like they’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards, as Nora often said. But which one was Maggie? Dorothea could not picture her nor could she muster any feelings of pity. It wasn’t right, to feel nothing, when someone had died. One should feel
something
, for a girl of twelve.

‘I can’t … mam’zelle, I can’t….’ She choked, her throat closing up.

‘Hush now. You must rest, Dorossea.’

She gripped the governess’s hand. ‘What is it, Mam’zelle? What’s wrong with me?’

‘La diphtérie.
Diphtheria.’

‘Will I … will I be like Maggie Hobson?’

‘Of course not,
ma cherie.
You will be well again, by and by, I promise.’

She couldn’t believe it. She felt so weak, and the churning feeling in her stomach was getting worse and worse.

‘Oh, mam’zelle, mam’zelle, I’m going to be sick!’

But the governess remained calm, merely nodded and reached for a basin.

Dorothea passed from dream to dream, like walking through the rooms of some vast house, unable to find her way out. Waking suddenly with a start, she lay there, exhausted. The horror of her dream slowly faded. Her room was quiet, just the crackling of the fire and rain pattering lightly against the window. The peace was bliss, after the endless, echoing dream. The pain in her throat had gone, the pain in her chest too. There was no longer a sick taste in her mouth. But she was so tired. Trying to stay awake was like
struggling
to keep one’s head above water.

Slowly she sank under once more. She was back in the
interminable
house, wandering from room to room as the long, long centuries slowly wore away.

As if a mist was rolling back, the real world came into focus again. She found the strength to sit up in bed. Food began to tempt her. In the past when she had been ill – when she’d had the sniffles or an upset stomach – Nanny had been on hand with beef tea and some revolting mixture called a
linctus
. But this time Nanny had gone away. She had taken Baby – little Elizabeth – out of the reach of the diphtheria. Roderick, of course, was safe at his school.

‘Monsieur Brannan wished me to go also,’ said the governess, ‘but I say no, I will stay, I will look after Dorossea. It is better than to have a stranger.’

‘Has Uncle Albert gone away too?’

‘No, indeed! He has come to see you every day, Madame also.’

‘What! Aunt Eloise has been here?’

‘Why, yes. Every day she come and sit by your bed and talk to you. Do you not remember?’

Dorothea shook her head.

‘Ah, well, it is no matter. Now,
ma petite,
drink this milk. Cook has warmed it especially, and she has put honey in it!’

The next day – she knew it was the next day, for the days were running in sequence again – Dorothea woke from a blessedly
dream-free
sleep to feel for the first time that she was really on the mend. She was still not well enough to get out of bed, but she could at least foresee now a time when she would be. There was no hurry. She was content to luxuriate under the warm covers, watching the flames dance in the grate, the winter cold tapping impotently at the window.

She was just finishing her luncheon of steamed fish when Uncle Albert appeared in the room.

‘How are you feeling today, child? Enjoying your food again, I see. All finished?’ He took the tray, placed it on the bedside table.

‘I feel as if I’ve been ill for ages and ages. I suppose it is nearly Christmas now?’

‘Not quite, child. Not quite.’ Uncle Albert smiled down at her but then, quite unexpectedly, the smile flickered and went out. He became deeply absorbed with the tray, nudging it with his thick fingers so that it lined up with the table edge.

Abruptly he turned away, went and stood by the window. ‘What a bleak day,’ he muttered. ‘A grey, bleak day.’

The coals shifted in the grate, sending up a shower of sparks and an eager lick of flame. The silence in the room became immense – became ominous.

‘Ahhh….’ Uncle Albert turned to look at her, framed in the window, edged round by the cold afternoon light. He had something to tell her, she was sure, something unpleasant. She felt a tightening across her chest. Her mind, after resting all morning, was suddenly galloping, galloping, spurred on by her fear. She knew about Maggie Hobson, it couldn’t be that. Nanny and Elizabeth were safe.
Roderick was oblivious at school. Mlle Lacroix had not been ill, Nora had brought the tray less than half an hour ago. Then who? Who?

‘I’m sorry, child, it’s Richard—’

Richard! Her galloping mind jumped at the name even as Uncle Albert spoke. So Richard had been ill, he had suffered too. Poor Richard! Would it have been too much to hope that he could be spared just this once? But—

She looked up at her uncle’s face and cowered. ‘No—’

‘I’m so sorry, child, I’m so—’

He was wrong. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. Not Richard.

Her eyes swam. The room seemed to pitch and toss like the deck of a ship. She clung to the side of her bed, clung on for dear life. A hysterical voice was shouting, ‘No, no, no,’ over and over. The room was full of it, sobbing and wailing, ‘Richard, Richard, no, no, not Richard!’

Suddenly the voice was muffled, cut off, and she realized that it must have been
her
voice. It was smothered now because Uncle Albert had put his arms round her, was holding her close. She clutched at his waistcoat, pawed at his jacket, held on to his big, strong arms, kicking her legs under the bed clothes, fighting it, fighting it, the terrible truth. It was like teetering on a cliff edge. She felt dizzy, off balance, about to tumble and fall, about to be dashed on jagged rocks far below.

She was still weak from her illness, however, and soon had exhausted herself. Uncle Albert stroked her hair with his big, strong fingers as she lay spent on the bed. It seemed to her that an icy calm took hold of her. Her very heart was frozen. She felt nothing – nothing at all.

He had been dead for days. They had not told her before because they did not think her well enough. He had died on Tuesday the
thirteenth
of December, just before five in the morning.

‘I killed him. I killed him. I gave him the diphtheria.’

‘It could have been anybody, child, any of the servants, anyone who came up from the village. We have no way of knowing.’

‘But I was going to marry him. I was going to … I—’

‘Hush, child. Hush now. You’re upset; you don’t know what you’re saying. He’s at peace. At peace.’

There was to be a funeral. She was not allowed to go. Dr Camborne forbade it. When the time came – as near as she could judge – she got out of bed and crossed to the window. A wintry sun hung low in the pale sky. She could just make out the crenulations on top of the squat grey tower of St Adeline’s. Richard would be there, lying in his coffin. The old vicar would take the service, his voice as cold and cheerless as his church.

She stood there watching as the brief winter day decayed towards dusk.

Mlle Lacroix came straight from the funeral, her cheeks rosy, her hands cold. She described it all. Uncle Albert and Aunt Eloise had been there, sitting in the front pew. The old earl had come too, but not the earl’s son. The governess herself had sat halfway, leaving some empty rows out of respect for the family. At the very back of the church a few curious villagers had gathered. The service had been short. Richard had been buried in the churchyard.

In describing the funeral, Mlle Lacroix pronounced his name as she’d always done,
Rishar
. This made Dorothea cry all over again. Tears rolled unchecked across her cheeks, soaked into the sheets. Tears, tears, tears, an endless stream of them.

‘Why, mam’zelle, why?’

‘It was God’s will,
ma petite
.’

‘Then I hate God, I
hate
him.’

‘But it is now that we must have faith, Dorossea – now most of all. It is easy to believe in Him when things are good. It is when He tests us that we must find courage. All that He does is for a purpose. It is for our good. Richard has gone to a better place now. He suffers no more.’

‘I don’t want him in a better place! I want him here! Oh Mam’zelle, I want him!’

Tears, tears, tears.

By the time Roderick came home for the Christmas holidays, Dorothea was up and about again, although she was still not allowed outside, on Dr Camborne’s orders.

Roderick said, ‘Now that Richard is dead, this house will one day be mine. Imagine that!’

‘Master Roderick!’ Nora scolded. ‘That’s not a nice thing to say, with poor Master Richard not cold in his grave.’

‘It might not be nice, but it is the truth. I am only telling the truth. And you’d jolly well better be nice to me, Turner, or I shall give you the sack when I’m in charge. And I shall cut
her
off without a penny –’ He jerked his head towards Dorothea. ‘– unless she stops sulking and talks to me.’

‘Now, now, Master Roderick—’

Dorothea interrupted, said to Roderick in a cold flat voice, ‘I hope you get diphtheria too. I hope you die.’

‘Oh, Miss Dorothea! Master Roderick!’ Nora threw up her hands. ‘The pair of you! It’s Christmas, for goodness’ sake!’

Dorothea turned her back on them, looking out of the window.

There was silence in the day room. Even Polly had nothing to say.

Step by step, she made her way along the corridor and slowly opened Richard’s door. She looked inside the room. The bed had been stripped, the mattress folded over. The curtains were thrust wide open, the fire grate empty. In one corner was Nurse’s chair. Nurse would need it no more. She had been sent away.

Here, just two months ago, they had sat by the fire together, talking. Richard had decided that he was going to be an engineer. She had made up her mind, secretly, that she would marry him. He had looked so handsome and grown-up. But when she tried to remember all this, she found it hazy and unclear in her mind.

He was slipping away from her.

She found that she was crying again, but it was so normal now she barely noticed.

She shut the door.

‘It’s all rather disappointing, child. The BFS motors have not been selling quite as well as we’d hoped. Smith is of the opinion that it’s all due to the new regulations – number plates and so on. But I’m not so sure.’

Uncle Albert came to see her every day, took time to talk to her. This afternoon – a wintry afternoon in early January – he was telling her all the latest news about the BFS Motor Manufacturing Company. Once upon a time, it had all seemed so important. Nothing was important now.

‘There’s too much competition, that’s what it is. Our vehicles do not stand out in the crowd. And then there’s all the trouble we have getting hold of components. Order from abroad, young Fitzwilliam says: it’s quicker and cheaper. But we shouldn’t be giving all our custom to Johnny Foreigner! We should be supporting home-grown industry! That chap Chamberlain has the right idea. Protection is what’s needed! Protection for English business!’

The words washed over her. Why could he not see how hollow she was, an empty shell?

He smiled and patted her hand. ‘Don’t you worry about the BFS, child. I’ve a few tricks up my sleeve. There’s life in the old dog yet, you’ll see.’

He got to his feet, huffing and puffing. She hardly noticed him go.

She wanted to see Richard’s grave. That was where he’d be, if he was anywhere. She knew that they wouldn’t let her, if she asked, so she didn’t ask. It was like turning back the clock, running away as she’d done all those years ago with a piece of toast and not a farthing to her name – the day she’d first met Richard.

She took the short cut to the village. The air was still and cold, the ploughed brown earth of Horselands hard as iron. All was quiet except for the
tchek, tchek
of jackdaws. She felt giddy as she
stumbled
over the frozen ground. Pausing to catch her breath, she looked back. There was the house, half hidden by the naked branches of the trees in the Pheasantry. Richard’s house. Now Aunt Eloise’s.

…
the house is all she cares about, the house and nothing else
….

…
what about that boy, the cripple? Is he still living? I heard as he’s kept locked in the attic
….

…
Aunt Eloise despises me, she hates me
….

It seemed to Dorothea that she could see through the mist in her eyes a vast figure take shape in the sky, a cold cruel woman, eyes filled with black fire, a dagger in her hand. ‘Come you spirits that tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here and fill me from the crown to the toe top-f of direst cruelty.’ Lady Macbeth – or Aunt Eloise? The malice in the words, in the eyes, made Dorothea cower. ‘Stop up the access and passage to remorse, that no compunctious visitings of nature shake my fell purpose….’

Had Aunt Eloise arranged it all, hiding Richard away, neglecting him, exposing him to diphtheria – all because she wanted the house for herself?
But I am as bad
, Dorothea said,
wishing Roderick dead and feeling no remorse
. Was everyone like that deep down: cold, cruel, brutal?

But then Dorothea heard a different voice, soft, gentle, the governess.
Why, yes, Madame also, every day she come and sit by your bed and talk to you. Every day
….

Dorothea shook her head. The vision in the sky dissolved in tatters, faded, vanished. The field was brown and empty. There was no looming presence. The black eyes were merely rooks flying high. The dagger was a wisp of cloud. She shook her head again, then turned and carried on her way.

In the churchyard there was a mound of fresh earth, white with frost, and some flowers, killed by the cold. Nothing else. No marker, no memorial.
Put to bed with a shovel
– one of Nora’s phrases. Richard had been put to bed with a shovel and then forgotten. Dorothea sank to her knees, heedless of the chill that struck up into her. After a while she laid her head down on the mound of earth as if it was a pillow – or as if she was listening for something.