Philippa Carr - Gossamer Cord

“You really shouldn’t disappoint that nice young man,” she said.

“I can’t help it.”

“I could be up there to help Nanny. You should go off with your friend.”

“I couldn’t. I must know what is going on. I shall telephone him and explain.”

I did. He was amazed and dismayed, and a little indignant. I could understand that. He had made this journey to see me. Yesterday had been a disappointment, and now this.

He said he would call at the house in the afternoon and rang off.

I felt very sorry, but my thoughts were really with Tristan. I knew he was in a precarious state. The doctor had hinted as much, and the fact that he thought it necessary to call again this afternoon confirmed that.

Nanny Crabtree and I sat in the nursery, every now and then glancing toward the cot. If he as much as moved, Nanny Crabtree was there, murmuring endearments, watching tenderly.

When she talked to me her indignation was apparent.

Someone had come into the room and opened the window. Why? Was it one of those fresh-air people who thought it wasn’t healthy unless you were blasted off your feet, and didn’t get goose pimples from the cold? If she could find the one who opened that window, she’d see that they didn’t show their face in her nursery ever again.

“I mean to say…to open a window. Why?”

I could not answer that question, and Matilda’s hint that Nanny was getting old and could have forgotten to shut it came into my mind. No…never. Not when she had been wrapping Tristan up and had been told by the doctor to keep him warm.

But who else? One of the maids who came up after Nanny Crabtree had left Tristan for the night? It was ludicrous. But if she had brought something in, thought the room seemed stuffy, might she not have opened the window? No one would have done such a thing. Could it really be that Nanny Crabtree herself had really forgotten to shut the window?

Whatever happened, it was done, and had its dire effect.

All through the morning we were with Tristan. Nanny Crabtree would not allow him to be left alone. If she had to go out of the room for a few minutes, she wanted me to be there.

Richard came in the late afternoon and wanted me to go back with him to the hotel. I said I could not concentrate on anything. I should be thinking of what was happening here.

“Tristan is very ill, indeed,” I said. “Nanny Crabtree wants me here.”

He said little and Matilda suggested he stay to dinner. He did. I went down to it knowing that Nanny Crabtree would let me know if there was any change. The doctor had been there and had said that at least the child’s condition had not worsened.

A pall hung over us all. Dermot joined us. There was a look of haggard misery on his face. Gordon tried to entertain Richard and they talked about the estate, the law, and the situation on the Continent. I was glad when the meal was over.

Richard left soon after. He was a little aloof. He would be leaving for London early next morning, for he was not sure how the trains ran on Sundays and he must be back in town by Monday.

It had been a disastrous visit; but my thoughts were all with Tristan.

During the night Nanny Crabtree and I took it in turns to sit with Tristan. I had a few hours sleep on her bed while she was on the watch.

In the morning, Tristan seemed to be breathing a little more easily. The doctor came and said he was well pleased. He thought we were going to avoid pneumonia after all.

“Now,” said Nanny Crabtree to me, “you are going to get a good night’s sleep tonight.”

“And what of you?”

“I shall sleep, too. I’ll be at hand, though. I think he’s over the worst, out of danger now. It never ceases to amaze me how quickly the young recover.”

I did sleep. I was exhausted and the first thing I did in the morning was to go to the nursery.

Nanny Crabtree was smiling happily.

“Come and look at him. There he is. Why did you want to give us all that trouble, eh, my lord? You little rogue, you. You had us worried. Now look at you.”

I kissed him and he gave a little cluck of pleasure.

I was filled with thankfulness.

I wrote to Richard telling him how sorry I was that his stay had been disrupted. Tristan had almost completely recovered. The doctor had said that in a few days he would be back to normal.

“It was such a pity, Richard,” I wrote, “that it should have happened just then. I am so sorry…”

I pictured him reading the letter. He had been very disappointed, indeed, and I was sure that he was thinking there had been no need for all the fuss. The child was not ill after all.

I wondered what effect that visit had had on his feelings toward me. I think mine had undergone a change. That was unfair, of course. He had been justly disappointed.

That day Jowan Jermyn telephoned. Would I ride out with him to Brackenleigh, which was on the other side of the moor?

I agreed and we left at ten thirty. We would have lunch, he said, at a place he knew there. He had to call at one of the farms. I might find that interesting.

It was just what I needed.

It was very pleasant. Spring was on the way and the hedgerows were bright with flowers in patriotic colors of red, white, and blue.

He knew that I had had a visitor from London.

I said: “I see the circulation of news is as good as ever.”

“It is always to be trusted,” he said “And there was trouble over the little boy?”

“We have had a very anxious time. Tristan is all right now and we are very thankful. But he was really dangerously ill.”

“I heard the doctor visited frequently.”

“Poor Nanny Crabtree was very distressed.”

“You must tell me all about it while we are having lunch. It’s single file here. Just follow me.”

I did until we came to the moor. We galloped then and came to the King’s Head—a pleasant-looking inn. The sign over the door depicted the crowned head of some rather indeterminate monarch who might have been one of the Georges.

Over the table Jowan said, “Tell me about the visitor.”

“He was a friend from London. A lawyer.”

“And he came down to see you?”

“Yes.”

“A great friend?”

“We met in London. He is a friend of Edward’s. You know who Edward is?”

He did not, so I gave him a brief summary of Edward’s place in the family. He was intrigued by the story.

“My mother regards him as her son,” I said.

“You have inherited her talent for looking after motherless infants.”

“You mean Tristan. Well, he is my sister’s son.”

He nodded. “And the lawyer? You were not able to entertain him in the manner which he was expecting.”

I could not help smiling. “Why do you need me to tell you anything? You have such an excellent service of your own.”

“Nevertheless, tell me. I like to hear it from the horse’s mouth.”

“Tristan had a cold, a rather bad one. Nanny Crabtree called the doctor, who said he should stay in bed and be kept warm,” I went on to tell him about the open window and Tristan’s kicking off his bedclothes which had brought him close to pneumonia.

“We sat up with him all night…Nanny Crabtree and I. She didn’t want anyone else. She blames someone for coming in and opening the window.”

“And taking the clothes off the baby’s bed?”

“Oh, no. We thought he threw them off.”

“Was he in the habit of doing that?”

“No. He never has before.”

“So he only does it when he is in a draught.”

I looked at him intently.

“Well,” he said. “It was what he did, wasn’t it?”

“What are you thinking?”

“Why should he do that?”

“We can’t ask Tristan why he kicked off his bedclothes. I suppose he was restless, probably feverish and too hot.”

“I wonder why someone should come into the nursery and open the window.”

“Mrs. Lewyth thinks that Nanny Crabtree opened it and forgot to shut it.”

“I suppose it is a possibility. Is she forgetful?”

“I have never known her be, especially where her charges were concerned.”

“And with a child already sick. Doesn’t it sound strange to you? I wish you weren’t staying there.”

“Where else should I stay?”

“I mean it’s a pity you can’t take the child to your mother. But that is not entirely true, for if you did, what about me?”

“You?”

“Think how desolate I should be if I could not see you.”

“Would you be?”

“It is not like you to ask foolish questions when you know the answer.”

I did not reply, and nothing was said for a few moments.

I ate a little of the salmon which had been placed before me, and I felt happier than I had for some time. Tristan’s quick recovery had lifted my spirits and I always had enjoyed Jowan’s company.

He said at length: “Have you made any plans as to what you are going to do?”

I shook my head. “I am still uncertain about everything.”

“Something might be decided for us before long,” he said.

I looked at him questioningly and he went on: “I mean what is happening abroad.”

“Does that involve us?”

“There is a possibility that it will. The way things are going, perhaps I should say a certainty. Do you like the food here?”

“Very much.”

“We might come again. I often have to come this way.”

He talked to me about the farm at which we should call. There was some question about building another barn.

“It won’t take long. I thought you might like to see something of the estate.”

It was an interesting afternoon. I chatted to the farmer’s wife while Jowan was with her husband, and heard what a good landlord he was to his tenant farmers.

“Couldn’t be better,” she said. “We’re lucky to be on the Jermyn estate. ’Tis not so good over at Tregarland’s. Oh, sorry, Miss, I forgot you came from there. It was terrible about your poor sister, and I heard the little one’s been poorly.”

So it had already spread as far as this.

We rode back the way we had come. I felt better than I had since I lost Dorabella.

When I said goodbye, he took my hand and looked at me intently.

“Take care,” he said. “Especial care.” An almost imperceptible frown crossed his face as he went on: “Remember, I am not far away.”

“Comforting thought,” I replied lightly, but I meant it.

SUMMER WAS ALMOST WITH us. Richard wrote now and then, but he did not suggest paying another visit to Cornwall. My mother also wrote. She wondered whether there was any hope of my coming to Caddington. I could travel with the baby and Nanny Crabtree quite easily now, she was sure. She herself was going to London frequently since the birth of Gretchen’s baby—a little girl whom they had called Hildegarde.

It was June. I had paid another visit to Mrs. Pardell. She seemed quite pleased to see me. She was obsessed by the belief that Dermot had murdered both his wives and nothing would shift her. She thought he had strangled them, carried them out of the house, and thrown them into the sea.

“There was no sign of strangulation on Annette’s body when they found her,” I protested. “If there had been, it would have been quickly noticed.”

“She had been in the sea all those days, hadn’t she?” insisted Mrs. Pardell.

“I think the evidence would still be there.”

Nothing would convince her, but she said it was nice to talk to somebody about it. “And you lost your sister, I lost my daughter. It links us…if you know what I mean.”

I felt faintly depressed after my visit to her.

I was seeing Jowan more frequently. He introduced me to Joe Tregarth who was his manager. He was clearly devoted to Jowan. He told me it was a pity Jowan had not come into the property before and that it was a pleasure to work for someone who knew what he was about.

Whenever I went into the town I was aware of the looks which came my way. True, there was slightly less interest than there had been because the mystery of Dorabella’s disappearance was becoming stale news, yet I was still part of one of those old legends which would be revived every now and then.

I found a morbid fascination in the gardens. I used to sit there in the afternoons and look over the beach thinking of Dorabella. I pictured her again and again, going down there that morning, plunging into the cold water and being lost forever. But I could not believe it happened like that.