Autumn Softly Fell (20 page)

‘Oh, Dorossea, you must not listen! Come away!’ The governess had clamped her hands over Dorothea’s ears, but Dorothea had
shaken her off, had watched as Uncle Albert gave his lordship such a look that it must have shaken him to the marrow. Drenched though he was, his shirt sticking to him, his hair plastered down, Uncle Albert had still cut an imposing figure. Stepping to one side, he had beckoned to someone in the house. The footman Tomlin had come sidling out, grimacing – whether because of the rain or because he was nervous, Dorothea had not been able to guess: perhaps both.

‘Ah, Tomlin, there you are. This is Lord Lynford. He is leaving now. See him off, will you? And if he tries to enter this house again, I would ask you to send him on his way as swiftly as you can – with a kick up the backside, if necessary.’

‘Yes, sir. Of course, sir.’ Tomlin had fought back a grin, nervous no longer. ‘It will be my pleasure, sir.’

And so Viscount Lynford had departed and had not been seen since. Sitting in the summerhouse, Dorothea wondered what it had all been about. It was impossible to believe that Uncle Albert had been jealous of such a man but maybe he’d resented being kept in the dark – as he saw it – over Lynford’s visits. As for Aunt Eloise, she would have extended the same courtesy towards Lord Lynford as she did to all callers – perhaps more, as he’d been her beloved brother’s friend and the man who had once wanted to marry her. Perhaps that was why she’d lent him money, for old time’s sake. But certainly, comparing the two, Uncle Albert and Lynford – as Dorothea had done that wet afternoon – Aunt Eloise could not possibly doubt that she’d married the better man.

Dorothea wondered if all grown-ups got into such a muddle. If she and Richard married, would they have disagreements and misunderstandings and fall out with each other? Perhaps it would be better, in that case, to marry no one at all.

Getting to her feet, stamping on the dirty floor to get her
circulation
going, Dorothea found herself shivering, as much because of her gloomy thoughts as because of the cold. As she slipped out into the blustery afternoon, closing the door behind her, she caught sight of the house again and remembered Bessie Downs’s words from years ago, that the house was all Aunt Eloise cared about. In which case Uncle Albert could have done nothing more likely to recommend
himself to her than to effect the repairs. Maybe he knew that. Maybe that was why he had spent so much of his money on a place that was not his own. At the same time, he had treated himself to a new place in London that would be his and his alone.

Grown-ups, thought Dorothea as she battled against the wind – you might have said they could be worse than children, if you hadn’t respected them so much. Well, most of them, anyway.

In the vegetable garden, she came across Nibs Carter, busy with a spade, turning the miry earth, shovelling it effortlessly, his face
puckered
against the wind, the scar on his forehead showing up white. He was fourteen too, she thought, the same age as Richard. But they might have been different breeds, they had so little in common.

Nibs paused, looked up, tilting his cap. ‘So you’re back, then, miss.’

‘Yes. Last night.’ Looking at him, she asked herself what it would be like to marry Nibs. Horrible, she thought. He was so
unpredictable
, so clumsy and dour. But at least you could talk to him.

Whether he deigned to answer was another matter.

She asked him about Tomlin and Bessie Downs.

‘They got the sack, miss. Old Bossy Bourne sent them away.’

‘Why? They’ve been here always – longer than I have. And Bessie was—’ Bessie hadn’t exactly been a best friend, but there’d been something likeable about her, something irrepressible. A talk with Bessie Downs had always bucked one up.

‘Bessie got into trouble,’ said Nibs.

‘Bessie was always in trouble!’

‘Not this kind of trouble.’

‘What kind of trouble?’

‘Nothing you should worry about.’ He stood leaning on his spade, more or less telling her to mind her own business.

Something in the look she gave him must have struck home. He added hurriedly, ‘Sometimes, miss, a girl has a … a baby, even when she ain’t married.’

‘Well, of
course
. I do
know
that.’ She quickly put the pieces together in her mind. A baby. Tomlin’s baby? Was that why he had been dismissed too? So Bessie and Tomlin must have been
sweethearts
.
That was one thing at least that Bessie Downs had kept to herself. But how ridiculous of Nibs to think all this was beyond her! ‘I am not
stupid
, Nibs. I lived in Stepnall Street once upon a time.’

‘Very good miss,’ said Nibs stiffly, touching his cap – for all the world as if she was a princess riding by in a carriage.

She felt like stamping her foot with rage. ‘Robin Carter, how dare you! Treating me like the Queen of Sheba when we’ve been friends for ages and ages!’

‘Not as long as all that, miss. We weren’t such good friends to start with, if you remember.’ He rubbed the handle of his spade, looked shifty. ‘But, honestly, miss, how else am I meant to treat you, you with your fine silk and me with holes in me boots?’

‘I had holes in my boots too, once.’

‘But you don’t have holes now. You’re different now.’

‘What nonsense! I’m exactly the same! Clothes don’t change people! It’s not
clothes
that matter!’

‘That’s what I used to think, when I was a kid. But now—’ He shrugged. ‘We’re different, you and me. There’s no getting round it. You don’t have to earn your living, for a start.’

‘Is that my fault? Look, Nibs, have I ever lorded it over you? Have I ever been all high-and-mighty?’

‘No, miss, but…. Well, I don’t want you to think that I’m not grateful and everything, for all that you’ve done, not just for me, getting me this job—’

‘That was Uncle Albert, not me.’

‘Ah, well, if that was true, things might be easier. I don’t care nothing for your Uncle Albert, never have, we’ve barely exchanged half a dozen words in all our lives. But you, miss – you and me, that’s different.’

‘
Different, different
, that’s all you keep saying. I don’t
understand
.’

‘Well if you must know, I hate being obliged. I hate being obliged to anyone. It’s like … like being put in your place over and over again!’

Pride, she thought, exasperated, stupid pride. Roderick was exactly the same. He didn’t believe in give-and-take either. He liked to stand on his dignity – no matter how lonely it got. Perhaps all
boys were like that – perhaps all
men
were, too. Hadn’t it been pride which had driven Uncle Albert to take refuge in Coventry without knowing all the facts? It had taken Aunt Eloise – a woman – to bring him back. Aunt Eloise hadn’t minded about humbling herself if it made things right again.

Taking a leaf out of Aunt Eloise’s book, Dorothea did her best to squash her irritation and said, ‘You are silly, Nibs. If we are friends then there’s no need to be
obliged
to me for anything. Whether I’ve got holes in my boots or not doesn’t come into it. You’re as bad as Roddy, taking umbrage all the time.’

His scowl deepened for a moment but then, unexpectedly, he grinned – that lopsided grin, up one side, down the other, that was impossible to resist. ‘Now, now, miss, don’t you go comparing me to
him
, or we really
shall
fall out!’

Roderick had said the same once upon a time.
Me, as bad as Nibs? Of all the cheek!
She sighed. ‘Why can’t everyone get on with everyone else? That’s all I want.’

‘We don’t always get what we want, miss – nor what we deserve. Look at us – my lot – scrimping and saving, and our Arnie off in Coventry so we hardly see him from one month to the next. Nothing’s gone right for us since the great fire – or longer than that, really. Since dad died. That’s when it started.’

He looked rather forlorn standing there in the mud and the gusting wind, specks of rain in the air. But one got nowhere trying to be sympathetic with Nibs. He didn’t respect you for it.

‘It’s not all bad,’ she said firmly. ‘I think you just like to grumble.’

‘Funny you should say that. It’s what our Becky says too. She’ll be glad when she can wash her hands of me, she says. Me, her own brother! Not that she ain’t glad of my wages each week. But that’s girls for you.’

He went back to his digging and Dorothea made her way to the house, breaking into a run as the rain began to fall in earnest.

‘In France we have
le kilomètre.
There are one point six
kilomètres
to your English mile. Each
kilomètre
is equal to one hundred—’

Mlle Lacroix broke off, peering at Dorothea across the table. It
was a grey November afternoon. The lights were already on in the day room. There was a glowing fire, too, but despite that Dorothea was shivering with cold.

‘Dorossea, what is wrong? You are very
agité
today.’

‘I don’t know what it is, Mam’zelle. I feel funny. I have a sore throat.’

‘You feel
under the weather,
no?’ Mlle Lacroix felt Dorothea’s brow. ‘You are hot, I think.’

Nanny stirred, dragging herself out of her chair. ‘What’s this, what’s this? Not feeling well? Then it’s bed for you, my girl!’

‘But Nanny—’

‘But nothing! Come along now, no arguments. Save your breath to cool your porridge. Nanny knows best.’

Dorothea did not have the strength to argue. Nanny bundled her into bed where she lay shivering under the bedclothes. Her throat felt swollen. She was afraid that it would soon close up altogether. How would she eat? How would she breathe? What was wrong with her?

Nanny brought something called ‘beef tea’. ‘My own particular recipe. Never known to fail. You’ll soon be right as nine pence.’

It tasted vile, but it was easier to obey than to resist. She felt so weak it was rather frightening. Nora put more coals on the bedroom fire. Mlle Lacroix offered to read to her.

‘We’ll have none of that,’ said Nanny firmly. ‘A sickroom is
my
business, thank you very much. Now, out, out, all of you! Let the child rest in peace.’

Dorothea managed to sleep for a while. When she woke, Uncle Albert was bending over her. He smiled, but there was an anxiety in his eyes which made her uneasy.

‘How are you feeling, child?’

‘Much … much better.’ But really she didn’t feel better at all, and her voice sounded strange: hoarse and croaky.

‘She’ll be right as rain, Mr Brannan, you can depend on that,’ said Nanny, officious. ‘My beef tea has never been known to fail.’

‘All the same,’ said Uncle Albert, ‘I think we should send for Camborne.’

Nanny sniffed. ‘Well, you know best, Mr Brannan, of course, but I can’t see that there’s any need. My beef tea, it never fails.’

Uncle Albert went away. Nanny fussed around, straightening the bed clothes, plumping the pillows, poking the fire, tut-tutting all the while, muttering, ‘My beef tea. Never fails.’ It was exhausting having to watch her. Dorothea closed her eyes.

Dr Camborne arrived. He was not his usual self. His hands, poking and prodding, were as cold as ever, but his leathery old face looked tired and drawn, the oily smile absent for once. Something was wrong, thought Dorothea. But what? Fear like a looming claw reached towards her. Its touch made her shiver.

‘Lie back now, there’s a good girl.’ The doctor patted her hand absently, put his stethoscope away. ‘Nothing to worry about, my dear. We’ll soon have you up and about.’

But he did not sound entirely convincing, and Dorothea knew there was more to it than he was letting on. It took all her strength simply to move her head. To sit up was impossible, to get out of bed unthinkable.

She closed her eyes again. The voice of the doctor seemed to come from a vast distance as he talked to her uncle. ‘…several cases so far in the village … it’s very contagious … rather hopeless, I think….’

Hopeless
! Fear now had Dorothea entirely in its cold embrace. The word reverberated inside her head:
hopeless, hopeless.
It was as if a black pit had opened up. She was falling, falling, falling and there was nothing she could do to save herself.

The darkness swallowed her.

She opened her eyes. Had one minute passed, or many? Her uncle and the doctor had gone. The fire was burning low. A shawl had been draped over the electric lamp. She felt infinitely weary. There was a hollow, churning feeling in her stomach.

She tried to put her thoughts in order. An hour or two had passed at the very least, perhaps many hours. It might be days and months, for all she knew. All sense of time had left her. There were many disjointed memories in her head. She was not sure which were dreams and which were real. She had not been able to stop coughing.
She had struggled to breathe. Her heart had been pounding as if it was trying to beat its way out of her chest. She remembered
whispered
voices, stomping footsteps, rain dashing against the window, thunder rumbling in the distance. And there had been a train rocking and rolling, clanking and chugging—but no, that must have been a dream. She hadn’t gone in a train. She hadn’t gone anywhere. She was still in her own bed, in her own room. All the same, it
felt
as if she’d been on a long, long journey.

Hopeless,
Dr Camborne had said. So she must be dying. This must be what it felt like to die – as if she was slowly draining away drip by drip.

There was a creak, a rustle. Dorothea moved her head, saw Mlle Lacroix rising from an armchair that had been placed by the bed, a book in her hand, one finger marking her place.

‘
Ma petite
. How do you feel?’

‘When will it be over, mam’zelle; when will I be dead?’

‘What is this? Why this talk of dying?’

‘The doctor said … he said it was hopeless.’

‘Oh, Dorossea! He was not talking about you!’ The governess’s hand was cool on Dorothea’s brow, stroking gently, brushing the curls aside. ‘There was a little girl in the village. Her name, I think, was Maggie Hobson.’