Seasons of Love (20 page)

‘Few months
? Is that all?’

The doctor had been rather more pessimistic, but Charles didn’t intend to tell her that. He intended to spare her as much as possible. ‘So he says.’

‘Couldn't we - see someone else? There are other doctors.’

‘We could - but he seemed very sure of what he said. And I don't much care for bein' mauled around by doctors. What this one says makes sense.’ Charles felt the death sentence was unfair, so soon after he had found true happiness, but no one promised you life would be fair, did they?

Tears were trickling down her cheeks, for all her brave resolves, but she said as steadily as she could manage, ‘Then - we must make sure that you - we enjoy every minute of - of what's left to us.’

He raised her chin and kissed her wet cheeks. ‘That's my dear brave girl!’ She stayed with him for a long time, sitting quietly as each tried to come to terms with the horror that had crept so stealthily into their lives.

Two months later, Charles Carnforth lay in his bedroom, watching the late afternoon sun flood everything with light. He refused to let them keep the curtains drawn and usher him out of the world in a darkened room.

Earlier that day, the housekeeper had crept into the bedroom with some fresh water, tutted to herself and tried to draw the curtains, so that the sun should not fall on her master's face. Alfred was dozing in a chair in a corner and didn't notice Giuliana come in. Tired as he was after a bad night, he did not like to leave his master alone, and Mrs Carnforth was also exhausted and trying to sleep for an hour or two.

Alfred woke with a start as the Captain spluttered into life.

‘Leave those curtains alone, you fool of a woman!’ The voice was a mere echo of his master’s former parade-ground roar, but it made Giuliana give a little yelp of shock.

Alfred jumped up and rushed over to the window. ‘Get out!
Via! Via!’
he shouted, waving his arms at the housekeeper and pushing her towards the door. He could speak very little Italian, for he found it hard to get his tongue round silly foreign words, but he understood a great deal of what was said. His signs and waving arms were perfectly clear to Giuliana and so emphatic that she panicked and fled.

Alfred pulled back the curtain, so that the view was in no way obscured. He adjusted its folds with an air of triumph. ‘That woman is a fool,’ he said conversationally. ‘There y'are, sir. Lovely day it's been, hasn’t it?’

Charles burst out laughing. ‘Did you see that fat old hen run?’ But the laugh turned into a fit of coughing and choking, which went on and on, and brought Alfred rushing back to the bed. It also brought Helen hurrying in from the next room, where she had been dozing on the sofa.

When the coughing fit had subsided, she sat down by the bed and took hold of the invalid's hand.

‘When will you learn to stay calm, Charles Carnforth?’ she asked reproachfully. ‘You know how bad it is for you to get excited!’

‘Never will learn now, I expect,’ he whispered, irrepressible as ever. ‘Damned shame if a fellow can't have a bit of a laugh now and then!’

She sat down by the side of the bed, smiling as cheerfully as she could. Why try to change him?

What did it matter if he lived a few days more or a few less? The main thing was for him to get as much pleasure from his last days as he could. ‘Let's watch the sunset together, shall we?’

He squeezed her hand, then lay back with a sigh against the carefully arranged pillows. His once-powerful body made only the slightest of bumps under the heavy silk counterpane now, and sometimes Helen had to blink very hard, so that he shouldn’t see the tears that sometimes came into her eyes at the sight of his wasted limbs. He wouldn’t tolerate pity from anyone, least of all from his young wife.

Once he’d come to terms with his ‘sentence’, as he persisted in calling his illness, he had resolutely maintained an air of cheerful acceptance of his fate, and had insisted that his household and family do the same. He still shared a bed with his wife and only a week or two previously, he had managed, with her assistance, to make gentle love to her, though the effort had left him white and gasping.

‘Worth it,’ he had said when he saw the expression on her face afterwards. ‘You have a beautiful body, my dear. It’s given me much pleasure.’

Although the invalid's eyes flickered shut and he fell into a light doze, Helen didn’t dare move away in case she woke him up again. He’d slept so little for the past week. Besides, he would be gone soon enough, and then she would have no hand to hold. She could sleep all she pleased then.

She smiled down at him fondly. The wayward lock of hair had fallen over his forehead again.

Sometimes, when his eyes twinkled with mischief, he looked like a schoolboy dressed up as an old man. Such blue, blue eyes he had! Carnforth eyes, he said. Age had not faded them in the slightest, nor had illness dimmed their brightness.

She sighed and couldn’t hold on to the smile. She didn’t know what she would do without him, but she wouldn’t burden him with her fears, as he hadn’t burdened her with lamentations about his illness. She had coped well enough when her first husband died, but in spite of the money, it would be much harder this time, for she would miss Charles dreadfully.

During the past week, he’d gone downhill very rapidly, for he couldn’t hold anything solid down now. He was, quite literally, starving to death.

As the room grew darker, Helen sat on beside the bed, still lost in thought. She had no fear of death, for she’d grown used to deathbeds from a very early age. She wanted very much to be with him at the end.

‘What are you thinkin' of?’ The whisper startled her out of her reverie.

‘Charles! I didn't know you were awake. Let me make you more comfortable! Would you like something to drink?’

He submitted to her ministrations with a faint smile. ‘Avoidin' my question, Helen?’ he asked as she sat down again.

She took his hand and smiled at him. ‘Not at all! I was remembering the first time you invited Harry and me to share a meal with you. Such a lovely day!’

‘You were wearin' a black dress. Darned, too. Black don't suit you. You should always wear rich colours, with your complexion. Don't wear mourning for me! Promise!’

This time she couldn't keep the tears back. ‘Don't talk about that, Charles! It won't matter what I wear if you're not there to see it.’

He grinned. ‘Waterin' pot!’ he said provocatively. ‘Think it'll make it all go away if we don't mention it?’

She shook her head mutely.

His cheerfulness faltered for a minute. ‘Ah, lovely girl of mine, if it wasn't for leavin' you, I'd not mind half as much. I've had a good life. And there are worse ways to die than bein' nursed by a beautiful woman, with a view like that outside my window.’ He returned obstinately to the question of mourning. ‘Promise me!’ he repeated. ‘No damned widow’s weeds! No drab clothes!’

He was getting excited, sweat pearling his brow. What could she do but promise what he asked?

‘Very well. I won't wear black more than I have to. But there are times when people would be s-scandalised,’ she had to pause for a moment to swallow back a sob, ‘if I wore colours. For both our sakes, Charles, I must wear black then.’

‘Very well. I don’t want ’em thinkin’ badly of you. But at other times, no black. No grey, either.

Or lilac. Or any of those damned faded colours. I won't have you droopin' around. You've had enough of that in your life! More than enough.’

‘I promise.’ She saw with relief that he was relaxing again.

He squeezed her hand and settled back with a sigh. ‘Thank you, love.’ A little later, he said,

‘We've had fun together, haven't we?’

‘A lot of fun. More than in my whole life before.’

‘Not sorry you married me, then?’

‘Not for a minute!’

He nodded in satisfaction and presently he drifted off into sleep again. He rarely stayed fully awake for long now, because of the laudanum he was taking for the pain.

Later that evening Harry, now nearly nine years old, came to sit with his step-father, as he always did, to chat about his day's doings. This time he had a cut on his lip to display with pride. He sometimes had difficulty with the boys of the village. ‘So I hit him, sir, just like you showed me, and he fell over. And when he got up and tried to hit me back, I thumped him harder. He won't dare to call me
un maledetto inglese
again!’

‘Good lad! Good lad! Always stand up for yourself - and for your mother. I shall count on you to do that when I'm gone. I'll tell Briggs to teach you how to box, eh? Give him something to do. In fact, he can be your groom and your mother’s general factotum then. Can't have him idlin' around, can we? And he can teach you to ride better, too, once you're in England. You'll need to learn to jump, so that you can hunt.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Harry's lips might be trembling, but he knew better than to cry in front of his stepfather, who had explained his illness to him, and how important it was, for his mother's sake, to stay cheerful. And as he still remembered another invalid, one who hadn’t stayed cheerful and who had made his mother cry, he tried very hard to do as Charles wanted. His step-father was a very wonderful person.

The next day, the small household was thrown into confusion by the arrival of Charles’s English lawyer. Mr Samuel Napperby drove up to the door in a cab just after mid-day, asking in a loud, slow voice for Mr Carnforth -
Carnforth
.

Mrs Carnforth was summoned.

‘You wished to see my husband?’

Samuel Napperby turned to greet his employer's wife. He hadn’t liked the sound of this marriage, nor the generous arrangements Charles Carnforth had made for his young wife in the new will. He had heard echoes of the rumours spread by Celia Carnforth and felt there must be some truth in them. Young women rarely married older men for love. And as Charles was his friend, as well as employer, he very much resented that.

However, he blinked in confusion at the pale beauty who greeted him quietly, and who looked so tired and drawn. Dark circles under her eyes bore mute testimony to sleepless nights, but she was magnificent. No, he corrected the thought
,
not magnificent, for she wasn’t flamboyant enough for that. Her pure beauty reminded him of a little medieval statue of the Virgin Mary he had seen in a church once.

‘I'm Mrs Carnforth,’ she said quietly. ‘How may I help you?’

Her voice removed another of the misconceptions Samuel had built up. His friend had previously favoured blowsy, buxom women, actresses usually, who could share a joke, a romp in bed and a bottle of wine with him. In fact, Samuel had been required to pay one or two of them off, for Charles had ever been generous. But this one - why she was a lady through and through! You could see that just by looking at her.

He bowed over her hand then introduced himself. ‘Mr Carnforth's lawyer - indeed, the family lawyer, for my family have served his for three generations now.’

‘Oh dear! I hope nothing is wrong. My husband is in no state to – to…’ Her voice faltered for a moment and her eyes filled with tears. ‘I'm afraid that Charles is very close to death, Mr Napperby. I can't allow him to be worried about anything. He’s very weak and in a great deal of pain.’

He bowed again. She obviously cared deeply for her husband. She looked done-up, too. She'd probably collapse when it was all over. He'd seen it happen many times. People kept up a brave front till their loved one was dead, then - bang! It hit them. Well, Charles had done the right thing in sending for him. He would know how to look after the poor young widow, who seemed to be about the same age as Samuel’s older daughter.

‘There's no bad news to trouble his lordship with,’ he said soothingly, ‘but I think it would be better if you let me see him. You see, it was he who sent for me. Urgent, he said it was.’

‘Oh.’ There was a pause. ‘I think it would be best if you saw him after sunset, then. He loves to watch the sun go down over the bay and he's always very calm afterwards. You see, any exertion makes him cough and splutter - and that isn’t good for him. He's so weak now that anything may -

may precipitate a crisis.’

‘You may trust me to do nothing to disturb him.’

‘Yes, I'm sure I may. In the meantime, I'll have a room prepared for you.’

‘I couldn't trouble you at such a time. There must be an inn where I can . . . ’

She gave him a singularly sweet smile. ‘It's no trouble. And if Charles - if you are needed suddenly, it will be more convenient for us all if you are here.’ She rang a little bell and a plump Italian woman surged into the room.
‘Per favore, Giuliana, una
camera per il signor Napperby. E

l'avvocato di Mr Carnforth. E forse, una tazza di tè.’

She turned back to Mr Napperby. ‘Giuliana will prepare you a room, and I've asked her to bring you a cup of tea.’ Again that sweet smile. ‘I've taught her how to make it to the English taste.’

Mr Napperby's expression lightened. He had no head for the rough red wine the innkeeper had pressed upon him the previous night, and he wasn’t overly fond of the coffee they seemed to serve everywhere abroad. ‘That would be splendid, Mrs Carnforth! I must admit to a longing for a cup of good English tea.’

She inclined her head. ‘Good. And now, if you'll excuse me, I’ll go and sit with Charles. I don't like to leave him for too long.’

She left the room before he had time to reply. What a quiet, restful person she was! And how beautiful! No wonder Charles had remarried!

Samuel had cordially disliked his client’s first wife, who had treated him and all other employees of her husband as if they were ignorant scullions. He was sure already that Charles had found some happiness with this young woman, and glad of it, too. They’d played together as lads. And even when his old playmate had come into the inheritance, he hadn’t ceased to treat Sam as an equal and a friend.

A week later, Charles Carnforth died. Typically of him, he died laughing.

The housekeeper, a clumsy woman at best, though well-meaning, had come into the bedroom chasing a kitten which had somehow strayed into the house. Apologising profusely and incomprehensibly in Italian, she had attempted to catch the creature, then, when it scratched her, had become a veritable Diana in its pursuit.