He decided it was just as well Candy was coming back to England soon. This situation could very easily get out of hand.
Phaedria reached Turtle Cove at two o’clock local time. She was exhausted. She had phoned the house repeatedly and got no reply and had had to get one of the appalling local taxis from the airport for the twenty-mile drive to the house. The one she took had its radiator needle jammed permanently on boiling, and a door hanging half off its hinges. The driver talked incessantly about his acute surprise that another year had come and gone. Phaedria tried to be courteous, but her head ached and she felt sick.
When she finally reached the house and walked into the cool hall with its whirring fans, it was deserted. She went down to the kitchen; there was a meal on the table, left abandoned, Marie Celeste-like, on the table, a window hanging open. It seemed strange. Maybe they had got the days mixed up and were expecting her tomorrow. It didn’t matter. She went
through to the bedroom and pulled off her hot winter clothes. She climbed into one of the swimsuits she had there, looking at the bed where she and Julian had celebrated their wedding, where she had lain sick with the sun, and he had read to her. It had been a marvellous marriage, especially in the beginning. Whatever he had inflicted on her since, she had loved him very much.
Maybe that had been half the problem with Michael. That she had still been grieving, had not been ready. Part of her, part of her heart was still with Julian. Well, it didn’t matter now.
She sighed and walked out on to the veranda where they had eaten breakfast that first marvellous morning, after the snorkelling. She went down on to the beach and slithered into the warm, silky sea. There was a conch shell by her foot; she ducked under the water and picked it up. It was small, its pink interior pale and marbled. She waded back to the beach and laid it on the silver-white sand.
What a lovely lovely place this was. It made her feel peaceful, in spite of her unhappiness, whole again. She would not sell this of all the houses, if she had to buy Miles out. She would rather sell Hanover Terrace. She needed Turtle Cove.
Thinking about houses made her thoughts turn to the house in Connecticut that Michael had bought her. In her wildest dreams about him, she had not imagined such generosity, such concern for her happiness. She heard his rich rough voice saying, ‘I bought it because I love you,’ and she felt as if some giant hand was squeezing her heart. How, in the name of God, or anything else, was she to survive this new, wrenching misery?
She swam strongly out to sea for a few minutes, then turned and trod water, looking at the shore. Suddenly she saw Jacintha waving at her frantically; puzzled, worried, she swam back in.
‘Whatever is it, Jacintha? What’s the matter?’
‘It’s your baby, Lady Morell.’ She gave the stress on the first syllable, like Laurel. ‘She’s very very ill.’ She sounded excited, important to be bringing such news. Phaedria nearly shook her.
‘What is it? Where is she? Why didn’t someone tell me?’
‘We tried to tell you, Lady Morell, we couldn’t find you. Nelson, he’s in Nassau looking for you. You better phone old Mrs Morell, she tell you all about it. They been phoning you in New York and here all night.’
‘Oh, my God,’ said Phaedria, ‘it must be really serious if they’ve been looking for me that hard. Jacintha, what is the matter with her, what is it, do you know?’
‘I don’t know, ma’am,’ said Jacintha, half enjoying the drama and her momentarily important role in it. ‘All I know your baby real sick. Like I said, you better phone old Mrs Morell.’
‘Yes, all right, Jacintha. Where is Mrs Morell?’
‘She’s in Scotland, Lady Morell. She’s been phoning and phoning you. I have the number right here,’ she added, ‘and the telephone is by your bed.’
‘Yes, Jacintha, thank you, I know where the phone is.’
Phaedria raced over the sand, across the lawn, into the house, frantically dialled the number in Scotland. Letitia answered the phone.
‘Letitia, it’s Phaedria, what’s happening, please tell me, what’s the matter with Julia? Who’s with her, where is she, what can I do?’
‘Oh, Phaedria, thank God we found you. Julia’s in hospital. In Eastbourne. Nanny Hudson is with her. Eliza has flown down to be with them both, we thought someone should go.’
‘But what – what is it? Is it very serious?’
‘Well, darling, it’s silly to tell you it’s not. It’s quite serious. She’s got pneumonia. But she’s – holding her own. And of course pneumonia isn’t what it was. It still sounds very frightening, but with antibiotics it just isn’t so bad. Phaedria? Phaedria, are you still there?’
‘Yes,’ said Phaedria, in a small, quiet voice. ‘I’m still here. Letitia, I don’t know what to do, I won’t be able to get home today. There aren’t many flights out. I suppose I could get the company jet, Geoff is in New York.’
‘Thank God for that,’ said Letitia briskly. ‘He can be with you in a very few hours. You can get him to come and collect you.’
‘Yes, all right.’ Phaedria sounded listless.
‘Darling, don’t despair. I’m sure, quite sure, Julia will be all right. Listen, why don’t you talk to the doctor at the hospital, he’ll be able to reassure you.’
‘Yes, I will. Yes, give me his number. And do you think you could call Geoff, Letitia, get him to ring me here? He’s at the Intercontinental, New York. Thank God he’s not in London. I just feel so –’ her voice trailed shakily away.
‘Yes, of course I will. Now you ring the doctor at Eastbourne, and see what he says. I’ll ring you back in about a quarter of an hour. All right?’
‘All right, Letitia.’
Phaedria put down the phone and frantically, desperately, dialled the number. She got through to Reception, asked for the paediatrician.
‘I’m sorry, that number is busy at the moment. Will you hold?’
‘No,’ she said, almost shouting down the phone. ‘No, I won’t hold, I’m calling from the Bahamas. Will you put me through at once. It’s very very urgent. This is Lady Morell.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said the voice, coldly distasteful. ‘The line is busy. I can’t interrupt. Will you hold, or will you call back?’
‘Oh, God,’ said Phaedria. ‘Oh, God, I’ll hold. No, wait, put me through to intensive care.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t do that,’ said the voice, colder than ever.
‘Why not?’
‘There is no line through to intensive care.’
‘But my baby is in there. Do you have any news of her, can you at least tell me how she is?’
‘Just a moment.’ The voice sounded just slightly more helpful. Phaedria waited, her head drumming with fear, her stomach a clenched knot. There was a long silence.
‘Hallo?’ It was a man’s voice.
‘Hallo, yes. Is that the paediatrician? I’m sorry, I don’t have your name, this is Phaedria Morell.’
‘Lady Morell, yes. This is Peter Dugdale here. Now about your baby . . .’
‘Yes? Yes, how is she?’
‘Not very well, I’m afraid. Not very well at all. She hasn’t got any worse since early this morning, so we have some grounds for optimism, but I don’t feel I can say more than that, at the moment.’
‘But what is it? How did it happen?’
‘She has pneumonia, Lady Morell. She does have a tendency towards respiratory infections, of course, with her history, and I understand she had a cold over Christmas.’
‘Yes, but only a very slight one. And she seemed quite better. Otherwise I wouldn’t have left her. Obviously.’
Guilt was heaping on to her panic; she felt violently sick.
‘Of course not. But even a slight cold could have triggered it off. Perhaps with her history she should have antibiotic cover with any kind of infection of that kind.’
‘So what shall I do? Is there anything, anything at all, I can do, anyone I can get hold of, our own paediatrician, just tell me what to do.’
‘I do assure you she is in the best hands here, the best care. Her – nanny –’ he lingered over the word, giving it a slightly derogatory connotation – ‘has not left her for a moment. You’re very lucky there. And your friend, or is she a relative, Mrs Garrylaig –’
‘Lady Garrylaig,’ said Phaedria absentmindedly.
‘I do beg your pardon.’ The voice was more disdainful still. ‘Well, she is on her way, I believe.’
‘So – just how serious is it? I mean, could she – might she –’
The words would not come; tears streamed down her face.
‘It’s quite serious, Lady Morell. It would be wrong of me to pretend otherwise. But she is holding her own. I can’t say more than that. Try not to worry,’ he added, in the voice of the dutifully sensitive. Phaedria bit her fist; she knew she mustn’t scream, mustn’t get too angry with him, antagonize him.
‘I’ll get there as soon as I can,’ she said when she had got control of her voice again. ‘My – my mother-in-law is organizing a plane. But I’m rather a long way away from home.’
‘Yes. So I understand. The Bahamas, I believe. Very nice.’
‘No,’ she said, her tears choking her. ‘No, it’s not very nice. It’s horrible. Well – thank you.’
‘That’s all right.’
‘When should I phone again?’
‘Oh, any time, any time at all. Now I have to go. My bleeper has just gone. Goodbye.’
Phaedria put the phone down. She looked out at the sea, the white sand, the palm trees in disbelief. How could anywhere be so beautiful, so calm, when her life was an ugly terrifying turmoil? If only Geoff would phone. Where was he, and how long would it take him to get her out of this awful, awful place? As she sat looking at the phone, willing it to ring, her head suddenly filled with a fresh horror. Roz had been up in Scotland. She would have known about the whole thing. She
would have heard she had been in New York, would probably have asked what the number was. There was no way, no way on God’s earth that Roz would not know now that she had been in New York with Michael. And the awful irony was that now she need never, ever have known at all.
Phaedria rested her head on her arms and wept.
Geoff Partridge, who piloted the Morell family’s planes, had spent most of Christmas in bed in New York with a very pretty Pan American air hostess. He had been given an extended holiday, right up to the beginning of January; Phaedria had been privately relieved that he and the jet were in New York because it meant in an emergency he and the plane could be brought easily into service. He was staying at the Intercontinental; she imagined that he could be with her in a few hours that day of Letitia’s phone call. However, Geoff and his hostess had woken to a beautiful day, on that January 2nd, and decided to take a trip out to the Hamptons. He had to be in Nassau by the following evening; until then, barring accidents, he was officially clear. It was the Pan Am hostess’s last day; it seemed silly to sit around waiting for a call that probably wouldn’t come.
‘They have your number,’ she said, when he hesitated, ‘they can call you here. We’ll call in at lunch time, make sure if there’s a problem.’
‘OK.’
Only at lunch time they couldn’t find a public phone that was working; it was four o’clock before the Intercontinental managed to inform Geoff that he was required urgently to pilot the jet down to Nassau, and almost nine before he reached Kennedy and put the plane into service.
How Phaedria survived the ten-hour flight home she never afterwards knew. In the end she managed to get Julian’s small plane piloted out of Eleuthera and into Nassau and then catch a scheduled flight, an hour before a stricken Geoff Partridge arrived. She experienced for most of the time a panic so violent she could neither sit still nor walk up and down for more than a few seconds, but moved restlessly, endlessly from one seat to another, looking out of one window, then another, frantic for
some relief from the choking pain. Occasionally she closed her eyes; then a picture of Julia in the incubator in the hospital in Los Angeles rose before her eyes, her tiny body white and still, and she would snap them open again, turning her head from side to side, biting her lips with the effort of not screaming. They offered her alcohol, coffee, food, in a hopeless attempt to find something, anything, that might help, if only for a moment, but she refused them all, even the thought of swallowing made her choke.
Letitia had promised faithfully that they would get a message to her on the plane’s radio if it was humanly possible and if there was any change in Julia’s condition; but as nothing came, Phaedria had no way of knowing whether there was no news, or if it simply had not managed to reach her. She wished now she had waited for Geoff, communication would have been a great deal more possible.
Mixed with her panic, her fear, was a terrible guilt and remorse: she should never, ever have left Julia with Nanny Hudson, never have ignored her cold, never been in one place when she said she was in another, never made herself so elusive. Well, Julia would die and that would be a judgement on her, a punishment, and there was no way, no way at all, that she could blame anyone except herself.
Roz couldn’t sleep the second night; she was haunted by thoughts of Phaedria, a battle raging in her between her hatred and sympathy for her; and by thoughts of Miles. She had avoided him all day, half ashamed that they should have experienced such pleasure, such happiness when Julia’s life was suspended so perilously, half consumed with longing to see him, be with him, have him again. They had met at mealtimes, which had in any case been strained, distracted occasions, everyone jumping whenever the phone rang; she had gone to bed early, pleading a headache. Letitia looked at her sharply; Roz never had headaches, never went to bed early, never felt tired. She looked at her watch; it was two o’clock. She decided to go down to Peveril’s library. She didn’t feel like reading, but he had some magnificent first editions, of Thackeray, Trollope, Burns. It would be amusing to look at those. She got up, pulled on her robe, and went quietly down to the great hall and into the library.
She was engrossed in
The Eustace Diamonds
when the door
opened quietly; still half involved with the book, she turned round slowly. It was Miles.
‘Hi. Couldn’t you sleep? I guess we’re all pretty strung up.’
‘Yes. I keep thinking about Julia.’