Saddle the Wind (43 page)

Taking a circular route by means of the network of narrow paths, her steps took her towards the road once more. As she emerged from the wildness of the heath and turned in the direction of Hallowford House she saw a pony and trap coming towards her, with Harold Savill at the reins. As the trap drew near he pulled on the reins and the horse and vehicle came to a halt.

‘Hello, Blanche.’ He smiled at her and nodded towards the dog that came to her side. ‘Taking your friend for a walk, I see.’

‘Yes.’

Observing the man, Blanche unconsciously reflected that he was very unlike his older brother. Like John Savill he had always appeared a cheerful and good-natured man, but whereas John Savill’s handsome features had aged with a fineness over the years, Harold’s face had grown coarse, his complexion florid. Now his appearance was in keeping with his liking for brandy which she had noticed on various seasonal occasions.

Now Harold said:

‘John was telling me that you’ve heard nothing from your brother, Blanche.’

‘No, I’m afraid not.’

‘Well,’ he shrugged, ‘it takes time to get settled sometimes. And I’m sure he’s not finding everything easy.’

‘I don’t suppose he is.’

‘You’ll hear in time, anyway.’

She nodded.

‘Would you really like to go to Bradford to join him?’ he said. ‘Work with him?’

She gave a little shrug. ‘I’ve got to do something, Mr Savill.’

‘Yes, I know, but … Those mills, those factories in Bradford and such places – by what I’ve heard they don’t offer an easy life.’

‘I don’t expect an easy life.’

‘I mean there is a great deal of misery there. You’re bound to get it where so many of the poorer people go flocking. They’re not all going to make their fortunes.’ He studied her, frowning slightly. ‘Wouldn’t you be better off staying here, Blanche?’

‘In Hallowford?’

‘It’s not perfect, but you know what they say about the devil you know …’

She didn’t answer. He added:

‘And your roots are here.’

‘No.’ She said the word quickly, and he looked at her in surprise.

‘No? You seem very positive about that.’

She gave a sigh, shrugged. ‘I don’t think anyone could understand, but …’

‘I might,’ he said.

‘– When I’m here in Hallowford I don’t know where I belong,’ she said. ‘And where are those roots you speak of? I think I’d have to go away from here before I could think of putting down roots. I need to find a place of my own, somewhere that belongs to me.’

He nodded. ‘You’ll find what you’re looking for one day, Blanche.’

Leaning down from his seat, he reached out and gently pressed her hand. Then, straightening again, he clicked his tongue, flapped the reins, and the pony started forward.

Blanche turned and watched as the trap moved away along the road, then set off back towards Hallowford House, the dog at her heels.

On reaching the yard of the house she found John
Savill saddling one of the cobs in readiness to ride into Trowbridge. James, the groom, he said, was ill in bed with the ‘flu and it was easier to take one of the cobs than to prepare one of the carriages. He was going to see his solicitor, he said. He wouldn’t be long.

When he had climbed into the saddle Blanche walked beside him as he rode the cob across the yard, and opened the gate to let him out into the lane. She watched then until he had ridden out of sight.

At seven o’clock Mrs Callow came to Blanche asking what should be done about dinner as Mr Savill had not returned. They would wait, Blanche said; he would be back soon. She was concerned, however; he had said he would not be long, and it was unlike him to stay out longer than he had planned.

At seven forty-five Blanche told Mrs Callow again to delay dinner and went downstairs and across the yard to the lodge where James lived with his wife and small daughter. James’s wife, Annie, who worked as one of the maids at the house, told her that James was in bed. ‘Shall I get him up, Miss?’ Annie asked, to which Blanche replied no, leave him where he was.

Out in the yard again she debated for some moments on what to do, then hurrying to the stables she saddled up the other cob and led it out of the stable. After mounting she rode the pony out of the yard and set off down the road, after some distance turning left onto a bridle path that led towards Trowbridge.

After travelling on the path for a mile or so she looked across the adjoining fields and, feeling her heart lurch, suddenly caught sight of the cob that John Savill had ridden. It stood alone in the middle of a field, quietly cropping the grass. Turning the head of her own mount she set off, riding beside the hedgerow until she reached
the solitary pony. Dismounting, she tethered her own pony and then walked steadily towards the other, speaking calmly to him as she moved. He was unperturbed by her approach, and she was able to take his bridle and lead him back to the edge of the pasture. ‘Well,’ she murmured as she tethered him to a tree beside the other cob, ‘I’ve found you, but where is Uncle John?’

With the aid of a nearby tree-stump she managed to mount her cob again and leaving the other tied to the tree she set off across the field, all the while casting her eyes about for any sign of John Savill.

It took her over an hour of searching, moving about the adjoining fields surrounding the spot where she had found the cob, but at last she was rewarded. At last, in the late, fading evening light, she came upon him, lying beside a low hedge.

‘Uncle John!’

Quickly she dismounted and hurried to his side. His eyes were open and he was looking at her. He gave her a faint smile and murmured her name. Her heart thudding, she bent over him. He lay with his left leg bent beneath him. ‘The cob took off with me, and threw me,’ he breathed, his breath catching, and Blanche said quickly, ‘Don’t talk. Don’t try to talk.’

She could see at once from the distorted position of his leg that it must be broken.

‘Uncle John,’ she said, ‘I must go and fetch help. I’ll have to leave you here for a while.’

‘Help me first,’ he breathed, grimacing with pain. ‘My leg. Help me to straighten my leg.’

Gritting her teeth, she bent and, while he cried out in pain, she pulled the broken leg into something like the right position. The contour of the leg through his trousers was alarming, though, and lifting the blood-stained
trouser-leg she could see the bone protruding through the flesh.

Taking his cravat, she tied it around his leg, above the wound, and with the use of a small, sturdy twig taken from the hedgerow, tightened it, secured it there. It would slow or stop the bleeding for now. She pressed his hand, straightened.

‘I’m going to fetch help, Uncle John. I’ll be as fast as I can.’

He nodded, grimacing as another stab of pain shot through his injured leg. Blanche remained gazing down at him for a moment longer, then turned and hurried away. Minutes later she was riding as fast as she dared back towards Hallowford House.

James, roused from his bed, fetched help from a gardener who lived close by and together they took a cart and brought John Savill back to the house where he was carried upstairs and put to bed. Dr Kelsey was sent for, but he was away, and an ageing doctor, Soames, from Ashton Wick was sent for in his stead. Later, after the bone had been set and Savill had been left in some degree of comfort, the doctor spoke to Blanche in the hall.

The break had not been a clean one, he said, and the setting of it had proved no easy matter. He hoped, however, there would be no complications. He left saying that he would return the next day, and that in the meantime the patient should be kept quiet and warm.

When the doctor had gone from the house Blanche knocked softly on Savill’s door and entered. Moving to the bed she stood gazing at him. As she did so his eyes opened and he looked up at her and smiled.

‘I thought you might be sleeping,’ she said softly.

‘No, not yet.’ He smiled. ‘Has the doctor gone?’

‘Yes, a minute ago.’

In the silence that followed Blanche found herself astonished at how old Savill looked. She had not been aware of it till this moment. Now, though, he looked more than his seventy years – suddenly he was a very old man lying back on the pillows.

‘I came to see if you wanted anything,’ she said.

‘No. No, thank you, my dear.’

‘Nothing?’

‘No.’

‘I’ll wish you goodnight, then.’

‘Goodnight, Blanche.’

‘Ring if you want anything.’

‘I will.’

She leaned down, kissed his cheek. ‘Goodnight, Uncle John.’

The doctor called again the following day. In the meantime Harold Savill had been informed and had come to the house. He was there again, having driven over from Trowbridge, when Dr Soames called once more three days later. This time neither the doctor nor John Savill seemed as happy with the progress of the injured leg.

After spending some time examining the patient, Dr Soames went to the library where Harold Savill waited.

‘How is he?’ Harold asked. ‘I noticed a – a faint smell when I was in his room. Coming from his leg.’

Soames’s expression was grave. ‘The trouble is,’ he said, ‘the break was not a clean one – which is surprising in a man his age. With a fracture like that, though, where the bone is virtually splintered …’ His voice trailed off, and he shook his head. ‘I’m afraid the healing process is not so efficient as one grows older. And you must understand that the flesh was badly lacerated by the broken bone, and –’

‘What do you mean?’

The doctor looked at him for a moment then said:

‘I’m afraid the wound has begun to mortify.’

When the doctor had gone Harold went into the bedroom where his brother lay in bed, propped up against the pillows. A nurse had been brought in, a woman from the village, and on Harold’s entrance she excused herself and left the room. Standing near the bed Harold could detect again the faint smell coming from the bed. Savill’s voice came to him.

‘Don’t stand there. Come on in.’

Harold moved to the bed, Savill gazing at him as he approached.

‘Has Soames gone?’ Savill asked.

‘Yes, a minute ago.’

‘What did he say?’

Harold said nothing. Savill looked up at him for a moment then shook his head on the pillow and gave a deep sigh. ‘Oh, Christ,’ he breathed.

‘It’ll be all right,’ Harold said. ‘Give it a little time …’

‘Time.’ Savill shook his head. ‘Time will do for me. I knew what he was about there. Prodding at my leg like that. In some places I couldn’t feel a thing. I can smell it too. The flesh is dying on me.’

‘He’s going to bring a surgeon in – a Mr Tindal. He’s one of the best surgeons around.’

‘What’s he going to do that Soames can’t? It’s too late.’

‘Maybe they can stop it.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Anyway – Tindal will know what to do for the best.’

The surgeon, George Tindal, completed his examination of Savill’s leg, and then, his expression grave, told Savill
that the gangrene had gone too far to be halted. The only thing to do was to amputate the leg.

‘I suppose there’s not much choice,’ Savill said after a few moments.

‘I’m afraid there’s
no
choice,’ said Tindal.

‘– When will you do it?’

‘This afternoon. It must be done as soon as possible if it’s to be effective.’

‘Where will you do it?’

‘I can do it here – if there’s a room downstairs I can have prepared.’ He laid his hand on Savill’s shoulder. ‘You’ll have the best possible treatment, I promise you.’

‘Thank you.’

There was a little silence, then Tindal said: ‘I understand you have a daughter …’

‘Yes. She’s in Sicily right now. She’s due home very soon.’

‘When? When is she due back?’

‘Well, not until –’ Savill’s words halted, and he gave a brief nod and an ironic smile. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I suppose it’s as well to be prepared for all contingencies.’

When Soames and Tindal had gone away to make their preparations Harold went into the room. The smell was so much stronger now, and he swallowed against the sickening odour. Savill said as he drew near:

‘You’d better send a wire to Marianne. Nothing to alarm her, but ask her to come home.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Harold paused. ‘Did the doctors suggest it?’

‘Tindal did.’

‘Oh, but, John – don’t you –’

‘Tindal’s a realist. And I must be too. Or try to be. I know that modern medicine is a wonderful thing. And I won’t feel anything, I know that. But I also know that
I’m not a young man, and that it’s possible that my body won’t survive such an assault. I’m seventy, Harold – not seventeen.’ He paused. ‘Send a wire to Marianne, like a good fellow, will you? Not that it would do much good in the long run, I’m afraid, it – if something went wrong. She couldn’t get back in time.’

Harold left the room and returned a little later to say that he had written a wire and that James was riding into Trowbridge with it. Savill thanked him, then, gesturing, said:

‘Close the door and sit down. I have to talk to you.’

Harold did as he was bidden. When he was sitting at Savill’s bedside, Savill said to him:

‘If anything should happen to me I shall expect you to take care of Marianne’s interests until she marries or comes of age – whichever is first. Her marriage, almost certainly.’

‘Whatever you wish.’

‘It’s all set out in my will, anyway.’

‘Yes.’

Savill paused. ‘And there’s also the matter of Blanche …’

Harold waited. Savill went on:

‘As you know, when I fell I was on my way to keep an appointment with Mr Baron, my solicitor. I wanted to make sure that Blanche is provided for.’

‘I know.’

‘It’s got to be taken care of. As I said to you, I should have done it a long, long time ago, so it’s imperative that it’s done now – before it’s too late.’

‘Of course. What do you want me to do?’

‘There’s no time to send for Baron from Trowbridge now. So if you could get some paper and a pen – I must make a codicil to my will.’

Harold fetched paper, pen and ink and then at his
brother’s dictation, wrote down a codicil to his last will and testament. In it provision was made for Blanche, to the effect that upon Savill’s death the sum of £10,000 was to be placed in trust for her until she came of age. In the meantime the interest on the sum would bring her an income which would make her life considerably easier. When the document had been completed, and John Savill’s signature on it witnessed by the cook and Mrs Callow, he handed it to his brother asking him to put it safely with his other papers.