The Daughters of Eden Trilogy: The Shadow Catcher, Fever Hill & the Serpent's Tooth (127 page)

‘I couldn’t find anyone else,’ he said bluntly, moving the candle onto the floor where it wouldn’t bother her.

‘Well, now you can go.’ She said it haughtily, as if she were dismissing a servant. It almost made him smile.

He dipped his handkerchief in the bowl and started doing her chest – or as much of it as he could reach while foraging blindly under the blanket so as not to embarrass her. Although, he reflected, she was probably too ill to be embarrassed, so maybe he was doing it to spare his own blushes; and when one thought about it, that was pretty irrational, given that he’d spent months at the Front living cheek by jowl with his men— ‘I told you to get out,’ she snapped. ‘Go away. I want to die.’

‘Don’t be so melodramatic,’ he muttered, ‘and drink this.’ Holding her head, he poured a few drops of the mixture into her mouth.

She spluttered. ‘What on earth is that?’

‘Quinine, seltzer, and Scotch.’

‘It’s horrible.’

‘I know. According to the book, you’re supposed to have Apollinaris and champagne. But they’re a bit hard to come by in Walworth.’

‘Where did you get the whisky?’

‘Billy,’ said Adam. To stop her talking, he explained that Billy was the landlady’s boy, and that he’d been a godsend for fetching supplies, and was earning a small fortune in commissions.

She twisted her head away, refusing more to drink. ‘Then pay – the landlady to look after me. And
go
.’

‘I can’t,’ said Adam. ‘She’s dead. Now, no more talking.’ To make his point, he stuck the thermometer in her mouth.

While he waited for the mercury to rise, he told her that Billy – whom he’d sent off to bed an hour before – had been hanging around ever since his mother’s death three days before. He was waiting for his aunt Lucy from Stoke Newington to come and pick him up – ‘Only she never,’ he’d told Adam through a well-earned corned beef sandwich. ‘I dunno if she ever got word.’

Another one needing help, thought Adam, kneading the tiredness from his eyes. And the worst thing was, there wasn’t much he could do for either of them. The best he could do for Billy would be to see him safely to his aunt’s. The best he could do for Isabelle Lawe was – what? Watch and wait, and feed her the odd trickle of whisky?

Most of the essentials in the
Nurse’s Guide
were out of his reach. Chapter one made a great fuss about gasifying the air with an Alformant lamp, and injecting
liquor strychninae
to calm a racing heart. It was also stern about the need for frequent ‘
delicate, small meals of nicely made gruel or tapioca pudding, thoroughly cooked
’. Adam had no idea how to make either of those, nicely or otherwise, and he suspected that even if he could, his patient would simply throw it up, as she’d thrown up the phenacetin he’d tried to give her for the pain. But tapioca pudding was beginning to sound extremely good to him, even though he’d hated it at school. He hadn’t eaten since the corned beef sandwich, and that had been ten hours before.

‘The snake is back,’ whispered Isabelle Lawe, spitting out the thermometer.

‘It isn’t real,’ he told her for the twentieth time.

‘Then why is it shooting venom in my eyes? Why do you keep lying to me?’

‘I’m not lying. I—’

‘Get off me,’ she snarled, clawing open the scabs she’d gouged in his hands the night before.

‘There is no snake,’ he said through his teeth. ‘Look, I’m throwing a book at it right now, you can see it bouncing off the wall.’

‘Stop lying!’ she shouted.

‘Lie still or you’ll—’

‘
Stop lying!
’

Black blood jetted from her nose and soaked the bed.

Something had snapped inside her head, and let loose a torrent of steaming black blood. Out it came like water gushing from a tap: pints of it spraying the blanket, the wall, the floor.

Adam Palairet was cursing softly and continuously as he pinned her down with one hand and with the other pressed a handkerchief to her nose. She made a gurgling protest. The handkerchief wasn’t stemming the flow, it was sending the blood back down her throat; he was drowning her.

Just when she thought she was going to pass out, he realized what was happening and snatched the handkerchief away, and out spurted the blood, narrowly missing his chest.

The iron band around her ribs tightened unbearably – then snapped. She sank into darkness.

She awoke to feel her face being sponged with cool water. She recognized the smell of eau de Cologne – recognized it, and yet experienced it as if for the very first time. Sharp, clean and cool. She’d never smelt anything so wonderful.

With an enormous effort, she lifted her eyelids a fraction. The light streaming through the open window was soft, the soft light of dawn. It caused her no pain. The burning needles were gone. The iron band was gone. She felt weightless and empty, as if she might float away on the breeze. She felt no pain.

Adam Palairet sat beside her on a rickety little stool, unshaven and red-eyed with exhaustion. He wore a pink, moth-eaten crocheted shawl round his shoulders, and no shirt. His shirt lay in a heap on the floor. It was black with blood.

Belle frowned. ‘But – I missed you,’ she murmured. ‘I know I did.’

He stopped sponging and glanced at her. ‘That was the first time.’

She took that in. ‘How many . . .’

‘Five. But there’s been nothing for an hour. I think you’re over the worst.’

Belle knew she was, but she felt too weak to say it. Shutting her eyes, she gave herself up to the wonderful, clean smell of the eau de Cologne. She felt incredibly weak but also strangely cleansed.

After a while she opened her eyes a fraction and said, ‘Thank you.’

He threw her a glance. ‘Do I take it from that that you intend to live?’

‘What?’

‘You kept telling me to leave you to die. I became rather tired of hearing it.’

She frowned. ‘How – melodramatic of me.’

‘Quite.’

Another silence, while she lay listening to the sparrows squabbling in the eaves. Then she felt the tears leaking out of her eyes. ‘I miss Sibella,’ she said.

‘I know. So do I.’

With the damp handkerchief he wiped away her tears, leaving trails of coolness. Then he dabbed gingerly at her nose.

Eventually she stopped crying. ‘What – happens now?’

He hesitated. ‘You must keep very still, don’t talk, and try to sleep.’

‘No, I mean later. What happens later?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said.

By the following afternoon, Adam had things under control.

With the help of the resourceful Billy, he’d found a Mrs Benson who lived three houses down, who agreed to see to the laundry and ‘do for’ Belle. He’d obtained a camp cot for himself, and written in guarded terms to Drum, who’d sent on his post and a change of clothes without asking any questions, as well as some much-needed cash – ‘Don’t mention it, old chap, we’ll settle up in Scotland.’ He’d also scribbled notes to Maud McAllister, giving her his new address, and to Sibella’s friend Mrs Pryce-Dennistoun, who’d left numerous irate messages at his club, without specifying what they were about.

On the evening of the third day, he sat on the camp bed with a whisky on his knee, reading his letters. Belle was asleep, having for the first time taken a little milk pudding laced with Scotch.

The
Nurse’s Guide
approved of Scotch.
A daily diet of milk, raw eggs and whisky is most fortifying
. It also approved of Benger’s Invalid Food (
when properly made up, it is never lumpy
) and the food-drug Sanatogen. Mrs Benson, however, sniffed at the notion of special provisions for invalids. Adam suspected that with milk at ninepence a gallon and himself footing the bill, she preferred to make a substantial pudding which would sustain her own brood, too. He didn’t mind. He was becoming quite fond of milk pudding.

The first of his letters was a hasty note from Drum, announcing his arrival in Galloway, and thanking Adam for the loan of the tithe cottage, which he anticipated would be ‘just the ticket’.

The second was a letter from Maud McAllister, expressing bemusement at his Walworth address, and explaining, with her usual blend of apology and brisk common sense, that she’d got as far as she could with the estate manager, and it was high time Adam tackled him face to face over the running of the Home Farm.

Feeling suddenly tired, Adam put down the note. Maud was right, it was time he went home. And he wanted to. He longed for the peace and solitude of the hills where he’d grown up.

‘Is something wrong?’ asked Belle.

She lay curled on her side, watching him. Her skin still had the grey cast of sickness, and her eyes were shadowed and sunken. She looked about twelve.

‘I need to go to Scotland,’ he said.

She closed her eyes. ‘So go. I’ll be fine here.’

He repressed a movement of annoyance. ‘Don’t let’s go over that again.’

‘I’ve got Mrs Benson,’ she said with a frown. ‘And if that doesn’t satisfy you, I can write to Aunt Mildred.’

‘Aunt Mildred who doesn’t exist.’

She did not reply.

Adam said, ‘There’s a sleeper train to Carlisle. I’ll get you a berth.’

She opened her eyes and stared at him. ‘Absolutely not.’

‘Then what do you suggest?’ he said irritably. ‘You know Mrs Benson can’t spare you more than the odd half-hour, not with six children to care for.’

She chewed her lower lip, and he saw to his horror that she was close to tears.

The recovering invalid will be prone to bouts of low spirits
, said the
Guide
,
and should be humoured at all times
.

Oh, Christ, thought Adam, now what do I do?

‘I just . . .’ she took a shaky breath, ‘I just want to be on my
own
.’

He thought about that. ‘I understand. I really do. I want to be on my own, too. But I cannot simply leave you here.’

‘But—’

‘You’re four flights up, and apart from Billy, the rest of the house is deserted. You’ve lost pints of blood, and you’re so weak you can’t even stand.’ He paused. He was beginning to feel like a bully. ‘If you don’t say yes,’ he went on in a gentler tone, ‘I shall have no option but to send a wire to your people in Jamaica.’

She looked horrified.

Now he felt even more of a bully. ‘Well, then.’ He stood up. ‘Scotland it is. I’ll go down and make arrangements, and then—’

There was a knock at the door.

They stared at one another. For some obscure reason, Adam felt guilty, as if he’d been caught doing something wrong.

‘Don’t answer it,’ whispered Belle. To his surprise, she looked frightened. ‘It can’t be Billy or Mrs Benson,’ she breathed, ‘because they never knock. And I don’t want to see anyone else.’

Adam went to the window just in time to see a black Daimler almost as wide as the street sliding noiselessly away.

The knock came again, this time more hesitantly.

Adam strode to the door and flung it open.

A small boy stood before him with an expensive leather suitcase at his feet. He had sandy red hair and terrified, slightly protuberant blue eyes fringed with pale lashes.

‘’e come in a motor,’ muttered Billy, who’d followed the boy upstairs, and was eyeing him with blatant hostility.

The boy tried to swallow, and made a gulping sound instead. He was trembling, and his shoulders were up around his ears. ‘Cap – Captain Palairet, sir?’ he squeaked.

‘Yes, that’s me,’ said Adam. ‘Who are you?’

‘Um. Maximilian Clyne? Sir?’

Billy snorted. ‘Wassortofaname is that?’

Again the Clyne boy gulped. ‘This is for you, sir.’ Shakily he held out an expensive-looking cream envelope.

With a sense of impending doom, Adam took it and scanned the contents.

It was a note from Mrs Pryce-Dennistoun. She’d only ever said that she could take the child for a very few days, simply out of the kindness of her heart, and it had now been over a week, which was going too far by anyone’s standards, and really was too much to expect . . .
Besides
, she finished crisply,
the child is your responsibility, Captain Palairet, for I am reliably informed by the Clyne family solicitors that in her will poor dear Sibella appointed you his guardian.

‘Who is it?’ said Belle.

‘He’s not stopping here,’ snarled Billy.

‘Um,’ said Max, ‘where do I sleep?’

Adam stood blinking at the note. Then he folded it and put it in his pocket, and rubbed a hand over his face.

Two orphaned boys and an invalid girl. Great God Almighty.

Chapter Nineteen

Two troop trains had just come in, and St Pancras was heaving with uniforms. The porter cleared a path through the throng, and Adam followed in his wake, pushing Belle in the Bath chair, while Max and Mr Granger, the courier, brought up the rear.

The grim little procession drew some curious glances. As well it might, thought Adam. It must be as clear as day that none of us wants to be here.

‘Shall I have to wear a kilt?’ asked Max in a small voice.

‘No,’ said Adam.

‘Will the other boys be wearing kilts?’

‘There aren’t any other boys at Cairngowrie. Now stay here with Mr Granger, and
don’t move
. I’m going to settle Miss Lawe in her berth.’

‘Miss Lawe doesn’t need to be “settled”,’ snapped Belle as they reached the sleeping-car.

‘Please don’t argue,’ said Adam.

By the time he’d carried her onto the train and put her in her cabin, she was frighteningly pale, and for the tenth time he wondered if he was doing the right thing. The
Nurse’s Guide
had strong views on recovering invalids getting up too soon.

‘Are you feeling worse?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ she muttered. ‘It was the cigarette smoke in the cab. I thought I was going to be sick.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t—’

‘Not your fault. It’s the ’flu. I used to like cigarette smoke. Now it stinks like burning bamboo.’

Adam stood irresolute in the doorway. ‘Shall I ring for the maid to help you?’