Authors: Tania Anne Crosse
Ling’s eyes deepened to a warm, delighted cinnamon as she realized what Elliott was saying. ‘So this is your new home?’ she stammered.
‘And you are my very first visitor,’ Elliott declared, his face lit with exhilaration as he unlocked the front door. ‘After you!’
She met his shining gaze, returning his elated smile before stepping over the threshold. Inside, the atmosphere smelt musty and, once Elliott had shut the door, it was so dark that Ling could see very little until her eyes had adjusted from the spring sunshine outside.
‘It’ll need a fair amount of work before I can move in,’ Elliott said with undaunted enthusiasm. ‘But the building’s sound. So, what do you think? Go on, wander round.’
Ling obediently opened the door to the front room. Even though the window was filthy, light flooded in, and Ling found herself in a small parlour with an attractive cast-iron fireplace. The walls were covered in dingy wallpaper, the woodwork was stained dark brown and a dubious-looking rug was rucked up on the bare boards, but it seemed to Ling there was nothing that a good scrub couldn’t put to rights. She felt like rolling up her sleeves there and then!
‘It needs cleaning and disinfecting.’ Elliott said, echoing her thoughts, as he came up behind her. ‘I’ll paint it all nice and light. This room will be my surgery. William and I work in conjunction with each other, so I’ll be working at his surgery sometimes, but I’ll be working here mainly. The room behind, that’ll be my main living-room. Come and see.’
Ling followed him through to the back, which was in an equally sorry state. But it was a good size, with an adequate range and a long, narrow scullery at the back where an obviously brand new pipe brought running water to a tap above a deep sink. Outside in the back yard was a wash-house, a water closet and a coalhouse, and beyond them the overgrown and neglected garden rose in steep terraces to a high retaining wall in the hill behind.
‘You’re going to be busy unless you can afford to hire someone to help.’
‘Oh, I can’t,’ Elliott admitted with a grimace. ‘But I’m not afraid of hard work. It just depends how much time I have. But come upstairs and see the bedrooms.’
He stood back, inviting Ling to precede him up the narrow staircase. Did Barney ever treat her like that? Indeed, no. It was only at Fencott Place that Seth and the gentlemen present had shown her respect as a lady, even when she had been employed by them. And now here was Elliott, the polite courtesy inbred in him coming so naturally to the fore. And how wonderful it would be to live in this house – this house that Elliott had bought rather than rented – with its three separate bedrooms, running water and flushing lavatory. She could imagine herself helping patients, as Mrs Greenwood had done for her earlier, being
useful
to others, and perhaps acquiring some medical knowledge herself as Elliott’s . . . as Elliott’s wife.
Panic seized her by the throat and she swung round to see if Elliott was aware of her sudden trembling. But he was scanning the room with a critical eye, summing up what needed to be done.
‘This one will be mine. Once it’s decorated and furnished, of course. And has curtains at the window. I don’t know how good I’ll be at choosing soft furnishings, mind. Colours and so on. I don’t suppose . . .?’ He cocked a hesitant, pleading eyebrow at her.
Ling’s heart began to knock with such force that her vision blurred, and she groped blindly for the doorway. ‘Oh, I really must go or I’ll miss my train,’ she murmured, almost pushing Elliott aside and flying down the stairs. She could hear Elliott scudding down behind her as she flung open the front door and gasped at the fresh air outside. And then she sprang across the tiny garden to the rickety gate.
‘I’ll come with you to the station,’ Elliott called as he grasped his hat, one foot on the doorstep and his hand holding the latch.
‘No, there’s no need,’ she shouted over her shoulder as she careered down the street. ‘Good luck with it!’
And she disappeared, leaving Elliott standing in a fog of bewilderment.
‘Don’t forget I’m going to the swimming baths,’ Ling reminded Barney. ‘There’s bread and cheese and ham for your lunch, and we can have the rest of the stew tonight.’
Barney turned towards her, his face in a dark scowl. ‘You spend your life at they baths,’ he complained. ‘I thought as we had little enough money, and you’m wasting it on all they train fares, to say nort o’ the baths.’
‘I spend no more than you do on gambling and drink!’ Ling said, rounding on him. ‘At least the exercise is good for me, and it is only during the summer.’
And it gets me away from
you
, she felt like adding but managed to hold her tongue. That was unfair. She shouldn’t blame Barney, and what he had said about their financial situation was true. Though they had enough money to survive, having Fanny and Laura to support was an added burden, and should demand drop and Barney find himself out of work, then where would they be? The sadly depleted nest-egg that Seth and Rose had given them as a wedding present wouldn’t last long if they had no other source of income.
And then there was baby Laura. Four months old now, and an absolute treasure. Fanny was a good little mother, one eye on her child now as she put away the washed breakfast dishes and laughing as Laura managed to guide her chubby foot to her mouth and suck her big toe. Laura was a gift to them all. Fanny had bloomed like a rose since the birth, and the infant had smoothed out the emptiness of Ling’s own childlessness. And yet there were times when that very joy only served to wound her so deeply that she had to escape. The summer and the opening of the swimming baths for the season had given her the perfect excuse. Now that she had closed the school for the summer, she could go any day of the week, and she had chosen today because she knew Mrs Penrith would be there.
‘Is it all right if Sam comes round arter dinner?’ Fanny asked coyly.
A knowing, contented smile lifted Ling’s mouth. ‘Of course. Sam’s always welcome.’
Fanny grinned back, a lovely hue blushing her cheeks, and Ling began to gather what she needed for the day. Within ten minutes she was off, striding out in the fine July morning. The moor was beautiful, a luscious green interrupted with banks of heather and dotted with yellow gorse, all bathed in a clear, crystalline light. As the bustling noise of the quarries was left behind, the peace of the new day settled in Ling’s heart. She would enjoy herself. Swim in the sparkling, sun-touched water and have lunch with Mrs Penrith. Window-shop, perhaps. She only hoped she didn’t encounter Elliott.
She had not seen him since the afternoon she had abandoned him, slack-jawed, at the door of his new home back in April. Elliott had not tried to contact her. Had he read what was in her heart and been appalled by it? Or did he believe that their friendship was no more than a passing acquaintance that had drifted into oblivion? She sincerely hoped so. Guilt mauled her, yet it was nothing compared to the cruel torture of her denied love for Elliott. And yet that was how it must be for the remainder of her days.
But she should put her depression aside, she decided. It was a glorious day and she should relish it, in a region where rain and mist as dense as soup were more likely even in high summer. Tavistock was a hive of activity, it being market day. Ling could hear the auctioneer’s sing-song drone, interspersed with the lowing of cattle and the occasional bleat of a sheep, coming from the animal market near the station. Bedford Square was clean and bright in the sunshine, but Ling crossed it quickly, fearful that she might meet Elliott again. If she did, she would have to take a hold on herself. Smile. Ask politely if he had completed the refurbishment of his new home. Wish him well and walk on. Leaving part of her torn heart behind.
She reached the swimming baths at the top of the steep hill. The water was cold and took her breath away. Mrs Penrith appeared and Ling swam over to her, waiting while she climbed down the steps.
‘Ling, my dear,’ the older woman greeted her and smiled apologetically. ‘I’m so sorry I’m late. I just couldn’t seem to motivate myself this morning.’
She spoke a little breathlessly and Ling tipped her head to one side, noticing the lines on her friend’s face. She had always considered the sophisticated woman to be so handsome, but they had known each other eight years now, and she guessed that Mrs Penrith must be in her late fifties. The great blizzard had destroyed many of the lovely trees in the beautiful grounds of her house, which had saddened her terribly, and, Ling realized with dismay, she was beginning to look her age.
‘Well, never mind. You’re here now. Shall we?’
A moment later, they were swimming side by side across the pool. Mrs Penrith seemed slower today, though, and several times Ling had to tread water while she caught up.
‘I don’t know, Ling, I don’t seem to have any energy today,’ she said at length. ‘I think I’ll change and then wait for you in my carriage. You will come to lunch, won’t you? I’ve bought some new saplings and I’d like someone to help me decide where to plant them.’
Ling smiled back as she followed her companion up the steps. ‘I should be honoured. But I don’t mind coming now. I was here some time before you and I’ve had enough.’
‘Well, if you’re sure.’
Shortly afterwards they were bowling along at a brisk pace across Abbey Bridge. Ling had travelled in the carriage on numerous occasions, but she still found it a thrilling experience. Back at the house, Mrs Penrith ordered her maid to serve morning coffee out on the lawn as it was a little too early for lunch.
‘I’ve only bought a few trees to start with,’ she told Ling as she sipped from the bone-china cup. ‘I’ll never see them fully grown, of course, but they will be my gift to posterity. To whoever owns this house after me.’
‘I’m sure they’ll look lovely, Mrs Penrith.’
‘Oh, Ling, I believe we’ve known each other long enough. We are good friends, and I have watched you grow into a mature young woman. So I think it quite right that you should address me as Agnes from now on.’
Ling’s mouth spread into a grin. Yes, she would like that. Mrs Penrith – Agnes – was like a friend and the mother she missed rolled into one. Except that Agnes was educated and sophisticated, nothing like Mary at all.
They walked around the grounds, the gardener moving the young trees, discussing their final shape and size and standing back to imagine the effect in twenty or thirty years’ time. As they were coming back up the steeply sloping lawn, Agnes stopped dead. Ling heard a truncated intake of breath and a little cry seemed to stick in Agnes’s throat as she suddenly squeezed Ling’s arm in a grip of steel.
‘Oh, my dear,’ she barely croaked, releasing her hold and crossing her right hand tightly over her chest. Ling turned to her in horror as Agnes’s face twisted in pain and she sank on her knees, toppling sideways on to the grass. With a hoarse cry of anguish, Ling dropped down beside her just in time to see Agnes’s eyelids flutter in her grey, sweat-bedewed face before her body slackened and her head rolled on to her shoulder.
For a few dreadful seconds, Ling stared at her in disbelief, and then she was frantically calling her friend’s name and shaking her, to no avail. She was aware of the gardener pounding up behind her and she screamed at him to fetch Mrs Penrith’s doctor. And then, in one of the most appalling moments of her life, Ling was left alone with the unconscious woman.
Agnes Penrith’s life could depend upon her.
What should she do? Loosen her clothing so that she could breathe more easily, she thought. But was she breathing at all? Ling tore at Agnes’s dress, which fortunately buttoned down the front. It came as no surprise that the slender figure was only lightly encased in stays, which Ling’s nimble fingers unhooked in seconds. Keep calm, don’t panic, she told herself. Oh, thank God! She could just hear the air passing in and out of the pale, open lips, but should she move her friend? Surely, it was always easier to breathe sitting up? If only she
knew
! But perhaps if she raised Agnes’s shoulders just a little . . .
‘Oh, ma’am!’
Agnes’s young maid had rushed across the lawn, her eyes horrified as she stared at her mistress, and Ling knew she had to take charge.
‘Help me sit her up, just a fraction,’ she said, amazed at her own calm voice and praying – oh, dear Lord – that it was the correct thing to do. The girl knelt down beside her and together they propped Agnes’s limp form into a half sitting position so that she was leaning back against Ling’s lap. And then Ling was swamped with relief as Agnes moaned softly and half opened her eyes.
‘Oh, Mrs Penrith! Agnes!’ Ling said with a sigh, but she knew that, for Agnes’s sake, she must remain calm and strong. ‘Now you just keep nice and still,’ she said gently. ‘We’ve sent for the doctor. He’ll be here any minute.’
‘Ah . . . yes . . . Dr Greenwood . . .’
The feeble words were lost in the sudden clatter of gravel scattering on the drive at the side of the house, and Ling glanced over her shoulder, almost faint with the comforting knowledge that help was at hand. Her heart vaulted painfully as she recognized the pretty dapple-grey horse and realized that the figure that had leapt from its back was none other than Elliott Franfield.
He hardly acknowledged her, his eyes meeting hers for only an instant. ‘Mrs Penrith,’ he said, addressing Agnes directly.
He spoke in that steady but efficient tone Ling had heard before, but now all she wanted was to get to her feet and run, hide away from the pain his presence was causing her. But she could not leave her friend and so she stayed put, quaking and sweat moistening her skin.
‘Dr Greenwood was already on a call,’ Elliott was explaining. ‘I’m his colleague, Dr Franfield. Mrs Mayhew, can you tell me exactly what happened? Mrs Penrith, I don’t want you to talk if possible. Just nod and lie still.’
Ling bit her lip. From Elliott’s words, Agnes would doubtless have deduced that she and Elliott were already acquainted. She couldn’t know
how
well, of course, since Ling had never mentioned Elliott to her, but she felt the shame burn hotly into her cheeks. Elliott, though, seemed unperturbed as he drew aside the unfastened front of Agnes’s dress and listened to her heart through his stethoscope. Then he appeared to study the veins in her neck before placing his sensitive fingers beneath her jaw, his face set with concentration. He asked her questions, to which she nodded periodically as he raised the hem of her skirt and examined her puffy ankles. He was so swift and unruffled, and, not for the first time, Ling couldn’t help admiring the calm confidence he seemed to create about him. But if only she didn’t admire him so
much
!