Susan Speers (22 page)

“Sit down,” I said to Caroline. This time I poured the brandy. We made no toast.

She took a great swallow and coughed until the tears came. “I need your help.” Her voice was rough and she cleared her throat. “I couldn’t ask in a letter or on the telephone. I couldn’t risk your refusal. You have to help me. You have to help Jeremy. He needs you.”

I believe my partnership with Caroline began when I didn’t question her fear for Jeremy or her belief in my power to help him.

“What must I do?”

“Come with me,” she said. “It’s a long journey, but if we leave on the night train we can be there tomorrow.”

We left after dinner and traveled through the night, arriving at an industrial city to the north, just after mid day. Our hotel was grim, its standard only a little better than the Watch Tower Inn. It didn’t matter.

Our taxi from hotel to hospital had a motor that backfired at intervals.

“I’ve to leave you by the gate,” our driver said. “The inmates, the patients I means,” he said at Caroline’s glare. “They think it’s gunfire, upsets ‘em, like.”

Caroline and I walked half a mile up a long avenue bordered by dense plantings of fir trees. The cold northern wind blew icy particles of a half hearted snow that scoured our faces.

I was glad my frozen facial muscles disguised my dismay as I saw the dark edifice of the Bardsmore Home Hospital. The porter opened its tall doors for us without comment.

“Major Marchmont,” Caroline said to a sister sitting at a desk close to the portal. The woman nodded and I followed my companion down a corridor to the left.

“One moment, please.” The sister called us back. “I recognize you, Mrs. Marchmont. Who is with you?”

“This is my husband’s cousin, Mrs. Scard.” Caroline’s peremptory tones were put to good use. “Please let her pass.”

The woman scowled but nodded again. “Remember, our patients must not be upset.”

The hospital at Watford, despite its crowded wards and exhausted staff, was a place of hope, where soldiers came to be healed and sent home. As I followed Caroline past closed doors and shuttered, barred windows, this institution’s air of hopelessness and despair penetrated my soul.

I stopped Caroline and opened a door to the stairwell where we could speak in private.

“Jeremy is ill, Jeremy needs me,” I said. “This is a mental hospital. What’s wrong with him?”

“They call it shell shock,” she said. “I can’t describe it, he’s lost, you’ll see.”

It seemed we had walked miles when Caroline went through an open door to an empty room. ‘He must be outside,” she said.

At the end of the corridor, a door led out to the park, walled, dotted with stands of leafless trees, empty flowerbeds, benches.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Marchmont.” A uniformed soldier stood outside the door. “The major likes his fresh air, cold or no.”

The snow had stopped. Streaks of brilliant blue grouted a mosaic of flat white clouds. On a bench at the perimeter wall sat a tall man, skeletal beneath his uniform, his back straight, completely still.

I don’t remember crossing the frozen ground. I was beside him as if I’d flown. I didn’t breathe. For a moment I couldn’t speak. I saw his perfect profile, the long sweep of lashes against his pale cheek. White hairs grayed his temples, two deep grooves were around his mouth. A slow, deep joy filled me, painful in the broken places Dickon left.

“Jemmy,” I said. “It’s me.”

Would he turn? He didn’t. He didn’t move. He didn’t speak.

Jeremy’s uniform was immaculate, his posture unbending. I knelt before him, heedless of the iron ground. I looked up into dark eyes so blank he might have been blind. I took his hands in mine. Beneath his gloves they were cold as death.

“It’s me, Jeremy,” I said again. “It’s Clarry. Don’t you know me?”

His strange, sightless eyes did not even flicker. I thought for a moment their expression softened, but in an instant that was gone like a passing cloud’s shadow.

He didn’t hear me, he didn’t know me, he didn’t understand my words. I thought of his passion, his lifelong fascination with the world, with Hethering, with me. Was it all gone, stolen forever by this war’s horror? Was his mind as blank as his presence?

I sat beside him on the cold stone bench, and my body grew numb, not from exposure but from the memory of Richard Marchmont’s profession of the family curse. Had Jeremy succumbed to madness?

I turned his face to me. With a gentle finger I traced the straight line of his nose, his firm lips, the cleft in his chin. I’d lost all hope of a moment like this, but his withdrawal destroyed its sweetness, it poisoned our miraculous reunion with despair.

Jeremy turned his face away to stare straight ahead. Caroline was right. He was lost. Gone from her, gone from me, gone from the world.

“I love you,” I said, my voice breaking. I hadn’t meant to say it. The words escaped my throat like birds in flight. God help me, I betrayed my husband.

“Jeremy, I —” I couldn’t bear to speak to his profile. I turned his face again, then stopped. My hand was wet.

His eyes leaked crystal tears into my hand, their expression gone bleak. In a moment he retreated again, but that moment lit the smallest hope in me. He did know me. He heard my voice. He understood my words.

*

Sergeant Gilbert came and with a slight pressure under Jeremy’s elbow signaled him to stand. “Tea cart’s in the corridor, Major.” I followed them back inside. Caroline was waiting.

“Did he speak to you?” She watched Sergeant Gilbert lead Jeremy like a child to his room.

“No.” The overheated building made me feel faint. I removed my coat.

“Was there anything —” Her face was too close to mine.

“Maybe, only maybe.” Was she pleased or envious?

“He won’t speak to me or acknowledge me in any way.” She twisted her gloves in her hand. Down the hall, a patient’s sobs could be heard. Another shouted terrible oaths.

“Clarissa, they want to commit him, to incarcerate him here.” We both jumped as a man in the room opposite Jeremy’s screamed. He subsided after agonizing minutes, then began again.

“I can’t help Jeremy, I can’t reach him.” Caroline by necessity spoke in strident tones, nearly shouting. “I believe you can. I think you must try.”

Sergeant Gilbert summoned us from the doorway. “Dr. Sachs is waiting.”

In Jeremy’s room all was in order as if never touched. His tea sandwiches were uneaten, his bed linen smooth. He sat on a straight backed wooden chair, his eyes focused on an invisible point in the middle distance. If I believed in sorcerers, I would say he was under a spell.

When I entered the room Jeremy looked at me, then he withdrew again. Caroline gasped. One other person watched Jeremy’s face with keen interest.

Dr. Sachs stood by a window fitted with iron bars. He held his hands clasped behind his back. His beard was frizzled into tufts. I think he pulled it.

“Mrs. Marchmont, Mrs. Scard,” he began. “I’ve many men under my care: brave, foolish, accused of cowardice. Their bodies live on, but their minds, their hearts, their souls are damaged. We call it shell shock, but those two words cover many ills.”

He hesitated, then spoke again. “As you hear, most men communicate their anguish. Some do not. In my opinion these are the hopeless cases.”

“You think he will not recover,” Caroline said.

“I fear he must remain in institutional care.”

“No,” I said. “I’m Major Marchmont’s cousin. We’ve shared a — a close relationship since childhood. He has a special love for his country home. Let him come to Hethering. Give him a chance to recover there. It’s better than this — place.” I could not keep back a shudder.

Dr. Sachs did not reply at once. His hand strayed toward his beard, then dropped. “He will need intensive, individual attention.”

“I can do that,” I said. “I’m a widow. I have no children. I live at Hethering. I can help him.”

“I haven’t made a difference,” Caroline said. “I’ve cosseted him, shouted at him, begged him to speak to me. Our child is an asthmatic. He needs me in London. I’d like Mrs. Scard to encourage my husband. Their relationship — cousins, friends — it endures. Our marriage has always been — distant.”

Dr. Sachs looked at me with penetrating, rather soulful eyes. He saw the black mourning band around my arm. “Perhaps this effort will help you as well,” he murmured. I doubted it, but said nothing.

He turned to see Jeremy’s eyes fixed on me.

“Six months reprieve,” he pronounced. “Weekly, truthful progress reports, young lady. Sergeant Gilbert will see you home. I’ll stop in on my visits to London. I have regular meetings there — I won’t give you notice.”

“All right,” I said, and stole a glance at Jeremy. He’d withdrawn yet again, though his posture relaxed. He was so thin he resembled his frail son as never before. A narrow white scar began behind his ear and followed the line of his jaw.

“I’ll see you in the morning, Mrs. Scard, before you go. For your own sake, please think about your decision.” The doctor left the room and Caroline followed. Sergeant Gilbert remained at guard.

“We’re going home, Jeremy, home to Hethering,” I said. “Will you speak to me there?”

He turned his face away to stare out the barred window.

*

At the hotel, Caroline didn’t unpack her bag. “There’s a London train within the hour,” she said. “I can’t bear to be separated from Arthur for another minute.”

She didn’t thank me for bringing Jeremy back to Hethering, for undertaking his care and the hope of his recovery. We both knew she didn’t have to.

Something else had to be said. “Caroline, if I succeed, should Jeremy recover—” I took a deep breath. “I can’t promise you we won’t —”

“That doesn’t matter now,” she said. “His recovery matters.” She swallowed. “Whatever it takes.”

“You love him so much? After everything?”

Her eyes flashed at me from the mirror as she pinned her hat in place. “Don’t you?”

*****

I dined alone. The hotel food was plain though palatable. I had little appetite but kept faith with Laura’s directives and drank my soup. I would have to be well and strong to help Jeremy regain his life.

“So, Mrs. Scard,” said a booming, unhappily familiar voice. Rutherford Dane stood by the empty chair at my small table.

“This is not a coincidence,” I said. I struggled to keep my voice and my expression neutral.

He sat down without asking permission. Perhaps he realized I would not give it.

“I’m conversant in War Office circles,” he said. “Heard your cousin was back in Blighty and clapped in the bin. Small thanks for his service.”

“Jeremy is in hospital. The Bardsmore Home Hospital.” I said between gritted teeth.

“The bin. Don’t dissemble, you know it as well as I. Your milksop butler said you were away. Figured you came here to spring him — that’s a kindness. I respect you for it.”

“Mr. Dane, my presence here is none of your —”

“You can call me Uncle Rusty. Figure I should be your advisor since you won’t have me as husband — now don’t get up and run out, I have advice.”

“Say your piece, then go.” My appetite had vanished with my patience.

“This kindness of yours, it’s an admirable thing, but it’s a dangerous thing too.” For the first time in our acquaintance Rutherford Dane lowered his voice without my asking.

“Chaps over there, where your cousin dared venture, they’ve seen the worst humanity can be. Bad, so bad I don’t like to call it humanity. Cruelty, sadism, actions beyond what any war should require.”

His voice was sober, his expression severe. “Be careful, Clarissa. Guard your heart, yes, but guard your person too. You’re not so bonny as you once were. I know why and I’m sorry for it. But don’t let down your guard for a moment. Keep your wits sharp and your body strong as it can be. You’ll need both to help your cousin Jeremy.”

“Coffee for the gentleman?” I hadn’t seen my server approach.

“I think not. This lady needs her rest.” He rose to go.

“Thank you, sir.” I meant it.

“Uncle Rusty?”

“Please no.”

A smile of reluctant warmth transformed his face. “Rutherford, then.”

“All right. Rutherford.” I shook his bear’s paw hand. I watched his awkward body shamble from the dining room. China rattled. Servers leapt from his path.

Not husband, not ever husband. Not uncle either. Perhaps an odd sort of friend or in his words, advisor. I could countenance that much.

Early next morning, an orderly waited by the hospital’s entry desk to bring me through a labyrinth of basement corridors to Dr. Sachs’s office.

“Please sit down, Mrs. Scard.” The doctor’s voice and posture were weary, though his beard was combed.

“Forgive me.” He rubbed his eyes. “Three admissions last night. I monitor their adjustment. When the sun rises, they settle in.”

I declined a cup of tea.

“Now then.” He opened the pasteboard folder in front of him on the desk, but didn’t look at it once during our interview. He knew the facts of Jeremy’s case by heart.

“Your cousin is a quiet hero of this conflict, Mrs. Scard. His actions saved many lives. Unfortunately, they drew the fury of the German command down on him, friends betrayed and the like. They could have executed him, an honorable death. Instead, they tortured him for punishment without end.”

I concentrated on keeping my breathing even. I wanted to be sick. I wanted to faint. None of this missish, albeit human behavior would help Jeremy. Dr. Sachs waited as I absorbed his words.

“Major Marchmont had the will to endure and the courage to escape, but damage was done. When he reached safety, he collapsed.”

“And this heinous damage is called ‘shell shock’?” It seemed too benign a term for Jeremy’s suffering. For the screams and cries and sobbing that filled the halls of this institution.

“It’s a broad term,” the doctor said. “It provides protection for men who might be punished for cowardice.”

“I understand.” I didn’t.