The Victory (80 page)

Mary Ann closed her eyes in relief, and her lips moved
silently in thanks. Dakers caught her master's eyes and glared
him to silence, and before he could recover himself enough to
speak, there was the sound of a violent banging on the house
door below, and the sound of someone shouting to be let in.

‘It must be the priest,' Hobsbawn said. 'Thank God!’

Bowles must have opened the door, for the banging ceased,
but there was a sound of voices raised in altercation, and
Dakers got up and went to the bedroom door, and opening it,
saw Father Rathbone running up the stairs, his face drawn and white, with Bowles hurrying after him, protesting and
waving his hands ineffectually._
Dakers barred the door, her eyes spitting fury. 'What do
you want?' she demanded fiercely. 'Haven't you done
enough? How dare you come here! Get out of this house at
once!'

‘
How is she?' Rathbone ne said as if she had not spoken. 'I
must see her! Foley at the Infirmary said she was sick, but I
couldn't believe it. I thought she — for God's sake, woman,
how is she?'

‘
She's dying,' Dakers said in a vicious hiss. 'The boy's
dead, and she's dying, and now perhaps you'll be satisfied!’

She saw something go out of him, and for a moment, if she
had not hated him so much, she would have pitied him. He
stood quite still for a moment, his eyes wide and unseeing,
taking the new knowledge and the new feelings into himself.
Then he said in a different voice, so gentle that it hurt her,
because it made anger hard to hold on to, 'Has she had
Extreme Unction?' She didn't want to answer, but he saw
from her face that she had not. 'You must let me in. You
must let me do that for her.’

Hobsbawn came up behind her, and saw who was there.
His face darkened, but before he could bellow his rage,
Rathbone spoke again, softly. 'She has not had the rites. You
must let me in, sir, to do what has to be done. Come, now, whatever you think of me, I speak now as a priest of Holy
Mother Church. Do you want her to die without unction?’

The power of his presence forced them to yield, they
stepped back reluctantly before him, and he crossed to the
bed and knelt beside it, and took Mary Ann's hand. She
opened her eyes, and saw his dark, narrow face before her,
strong and shining and dangerous like a blade, and her
cracked lips curved into a feeble smile.

‘You came,' she whispered.

He held her hand tightly, tightly, trying to pass his strength
into her. 'Yes, I came. I have come to prepare you for your
journey. Are you ready?' There was no weakness in his voice,
no fear, no sorrow. The other two stood back, watching in
silence. There was no place for them there, and though they
hated him, they could not resist him. The murmur of his
voice came to them, though not her replies; they saw him take
out the wool and mark her forehead with the chrism, and
make the sign of the cross, heard the familiar rhythm of the
benediction though they could not discern the words.,
Hobsbawn, like a performing bear trained too young ever to forget, went down automatically, but with painful difficulty,
on to his knees, but Dakers resisted, stood aloof, holding back
from everything she might feel except the anger which
sustained her.

At last the priest stood up, and came over to her and said in a low voice, 'You had better let me see the boy now.'

‘
I told you, he's dead. You're too late,' she said harshly.
'No, it's not too late. I can still perform the ceremony while his soul is hovering near. Let me go to him. Let me help him.’

His eyes were filled with understanding and pity, and she
turned away from them.

‘
Do what you please,' she said, and pushed past him to go
back to her mistress. The absolution had taken the last of her
strength. She was unconscious again, her breathing barely
stirring her. Her flesh had shrunk back against her bones, and
her nose seemed strangely prominent beneath the smear of
the holy oil on her brow.

Hobsbawn got to his feet and shuffled across to the bed. He
looked at his daughter, and then at Dakers. 'She's going,' he
said, and he sounded bewildered, as though the words did not
make sense. 'I thought she'd get better. She was strong and
healthy. How can she die just like that?’

Dakers didn't know what to say. 'Maybe she won't,' she
said. 'We must pray.’

A little while later, Rathbone came back into the room.
‘It's done,' he said quietly. Hobsbawn turned on him, goaded,
rose to his feet and drove him back to the door in a desper
ation of grief.

‘
Aye, it's done, and you know who did it! You killed them,
both of them, with your meddling schemes, and now you've
done your worst, you can get out of this house, before I break
your neck with my own hands! Get out of here, I say, and
don't ever let me clap eyes on you again, damn you, or I
swear by this hand I'll kill you!’

Rathbone looked at him for a moment with that same
enormous pity, and then he left without another word.

The raised voice had stirred Mary Ann's feeble conscious
ness, and in the silence that followed, he heard her call out
faintly, 'Papa!' He hurried to her side, and took hold of her
hand.

‘
Yes, my darling? Yes, Mary, my love? What is it? Papa's
here!’

But she did not speak again, or seem to know he was there,
only sank further into the cold darkness.

Some time later Dakers stood up. 'Well, she's gone,' she
said in a flat, bitter voice. A world of love, a lifetime of care,
and it came to this. She needed anger, to make sense of her
pain. 'And you know who's to blame for it.’

Hobsbawn raised a haggard face. Her anger would sustain
her; she would feed on it, and it on her, and it would keep the
grief at bay and make her strong. But he did not want to be
sustained. He wanted to lay his head down and die, because
all the warm brightness of his life lay there before him, cold
and empty and dead, and there was nothing to get up for,
ever again.

But Dakers held his eyes with her bitter, brooding stare.

‘I told him,' he said feebly, defensively. 'I sent him away.'

‘
Not him,' Dakers said fiercely. Not the priest. She wanted
to please him, and that's what did the harm, but she never
would have run after him in the first place if that husband of
hers had treated her right.
He's
the one that's to blame.
He
killed her, as sure as if he stabbed her with a knife! I wish to
God she'd never set eyes on him!’

*

Given the hot weather and the nature of the disease, there
could be no waiting while an elaborate funeral was arranged.
The bodies of Hobsbawn's daughter and grandson were
conveyed to their hastily-dug grave as soon as darkness fell,
with only the three servants to carry torches and walk with
the old man behind the coffins. On their return to the house,
Hobsbawn reached the end of his endurance, and had to be
helped to his bed by Simon and Bowles.

Dakers went to her late mistress's chamber and sat down at
the desk, facing the empty bed, and began to write a letter to
James Morland. If the pen had been dipped in acid instead of ink, the words could hardly have seared the paper more; but
before she could finish the letter, exhaustion overcame her,
and when Bowles came looking for her, after seeing his
master comfortable, he found her asleep with her head on her
arms. He shook her awake and helped her to her room, and
since he could hardly help her undress, he persuaded her to lie
down as she was, fully-clothed, and she was asleep before he
had had time to draw the counterpane over her.

*

The news first reached Morland Place in a letter from Father
Rathbone to his friend Aislaby. It was the week after race-
week, and Lucy was still at Morland Place. She and Edward
were breakfasting with James — their second breakfast, and
his first — and talking over last week's successes and failures,
when Aislaby came in with the letter in his hand.

‘
Ah, I wondered where you had got to, Father,' James
said. 'Come and try some of these mutton cutlets! I think
Danvers is at last beginning to understand how to dress
mutton. That's the trouble with a cook who wasn't brought
up in sheep country. They think a sheep and a cow are the
same animal, only different sizes.'

‘
Shut up, Jamie,' Edward said, noticing the priest's expres
sion. 'Are you all right, Father? You don't look quite the
thing.'

‘
I'm afraid I have some very grave news,' he said. 'I hardly
know how to begin to tell you.' He stood by his chair looking
round at them, the letter open in his hand. 'I've had a letter from my friend Rathbone, in Manchester. There has been a
serious outbreak of fever amongst the poor people who work in the mills — a particularly virulent kind of fever. They are talking of an epidemic.' He stopped, and handed the letter to
Edward. 'I think you had better read it.’

James stared. 'For God's sake, what's happened? Is my wife
ill? Is that what you're trying to say?’

Edward had taken the letter, and his eyes skimming the
page jumped at once to Mary Ann's name half way down.
‘Oh, dear Lord,' he said, looking up at his brother.

‘
What is it?' James asked again, his eyes wide, now, with
anxiety. 'Ned, for God's sake!'

‘
It's the fever,' Edward said reluctantly. 'She and the
boy .'

‘Both of them?’

Edward met his eyes. 'He says there was nothing anyone
could do.’

James stared, comprehension coming to him slowly.
‘They're dead?' he whispered incredulously.

Edward nodded, and bowing his head away from his
brother's eyes, read on down the letter. 'They don't know
what this fever is, but it's very infectious, and it carries people
off very quickly, in a matter of hours. Because of the
epidemic, they had to bury them immediately. There
wouldn't have been time to send for you.’

James shook his head as if trying to clear it. 'Dead?' he said
again. 'Dead and buried? Both of them? I can't believe it.’