Tapestry (17 page)

‘My Lady …’ Sarah began.

‘Not another word, Sarah. This cloak is thick, warm and precisely what I require to travel as inconspicuously as I can.’

The housekeeper held her tongue.

‘It’s time,’ Jane said, looking around at her trio of supporters.

Not long after, sniffing into Anne’s handkerchief to stem the flow of her obviously running nose, she watched Sarah press a linen parcel into Cecilia’s hands. ‘I don’t know what My Lady is sickening from, but make sure she is well nourished.’

Cecilia smiled at the housekeeper.

‘Wish me luck, Sarah … Bran,’ Jane croaked as Winifred expertly eased her horse away from the stable to the side gate, and onto the road that, to her, was little more than a path.

T
he going was treacherous. Jane’s palfrey stumbled twice, losing its footing momentarily on the ground’s thin coating of ice beneath the fresh fall of snow that was more than a foot deep in places. But her horse was brave of heart, she knew from Winifred’s memories, and it would ride until that brave heart gave up if its mistress asked.

How glad Jane was now of the riding lessons her mother had encouraged her to take since she was old enough to sit a horse! But right now she was drawing on Winifred’s knowledge, because although Jane had ridden in a few exhibitions using a side-saddle, it was Winifred’s competence that would get her through this trial. She remembered from her lessons, rehearsing for the Regency Exhibition, that she must align her spine with the horse’s, which would prevent her from putting too much weight onto one side of the animal. The saddle, though strange for her, was well worn in and felt curiously comfortable as Winifred’s skills came to the fore, enabling her to find the perfect position and balance, as well as the all-important correct draping of her skirt.

Now, though, a couple of hours’ riding into their challenging journey south, Jane wasn’t sure she could feel her face; it was too numbed by the chill wind howling gleefully around them. She reached up and pulled the woolly scarf back over her mouth
and nose, tucking it in around her collar as best she could. The cloak was far thicker and warmer than her own had been, and she silently blessed Sarah for suggesting that she take it. Nevertheless, she could feel the morning frost biting through the fur lining in her gloves and clawing at any skin on her face that was bared to its cruelty.

Jane had always believed that snow possessed the magic to turn even the most barren topography of her Welsh homeland to a fairyland. And right now all the fields and hills were iced in white, sparkling and glistening beneath the winter’s thin sunlight. In different circumstances this would have enchanted her, but right now it presented a trial she feared. Were they moving quickly enough? Would fresh snowfall just hamper them, or would it block them in? Would their horses survive? Would they survive?

Cecilia seemed equally apprehensive. ‘Mayhap the direct way would have been more sensible, dear Winifred,’ she suggested over the wind’s howl.

Jane shook her head and yelled back. ‘Bran said to avoid Dumfries and Carlisle. They are teeming with government troops.’

‘How far away is Newcastle?’

‘Twelve hours at this pace, mayhap,’ she finally admitted.

There was a pause as her friend absorbed the horror of that truth in silence.

‘Then we must hasten, Winnie.’

‘We shall stop at the nearest inn we reach once we are past the warmest part of the day.’ She threw Cecilia a wry glance and, mercifully, Jane could see her friend’s eyes crinkle with amusement as she grinned back beneath her scarf, for there was nothing remotely warm about today.

The wind gradually dropped, until they moved in near silence punctuated only by the occasional snort from their horses and their own coughs or loud breathing. The respite
was short, though, as one of God’s furies was soon replaced by another: snow. The soft flakes began to drift around them, gentle at first, but gaining in intensity over the following hour; the temperature had fallen, and Jane could only just make out the road ahead, thanks to the spikes of hedgerow peeping through the snow. They met only one other rider, who tipped his hat at the women and passed by saying nothing, which suited Jane. It was too cold to talk and it was obvious that the cruelly frigid weather had imprisoned most by their hearths.

An hour or so later, they came upon a family with six young children huddled together in the back of a cart like a bundle of old rags, and were happy to stick with this group as they reached the villages surrounding Newcastle.

‘My husband has work in the city,’ Jane thought the woman said. Her accent was almost too thick for even Winifred to decipher.

She nodded. ‘We go in search of work too,’ she said breathlessly, for want of other words.

‘What are you seeking?’ she guessed the woman asked while she rummaged beneath her clothes to feed the mewling infant in her arms.

‘We both desire a role as a governess,’ Jane called, hoping that sounded appropriate but vague enough. Her cloak notwithstanding, she couldn’t fully pass for a peasant, riding as she did on a decent horse and wearing fur-lined gloves. The now-cold tin of charcoal reminded her that she was far from an ordinary traveller as she looked around at the shivering family and at Cecilia, who did not have her level of comfort either. Jane decided she would not use the hand warmer again.

Oblivious to Jane’s surging guilt, the woman nodded, losing interest as they rounded a bend in the road. Fortunately the town of Rothbury came into view and everyone’s attention was suddenly diverted — first by the sickening smell, and then by the ominous sight of a gibbet at the crossroads leading into the town.

The children laughed and pointed. The other women looked away, but Jane found her gaze helplessly pinioned to the sight of a decaying corpse displayed in a cage. A nasty, sweetish smell, like rotten eggs and rotted meat, made her heave. The scene was made all the more revolting by the carrion birds that pecked through the bars of the cage.

‘Who would that be?’ Winifred of course should know this, she realised, but the question was out.

Her eyes continued to water at the overpowering stench as Cecilia, more composed, shrugged. ‘A highwayman, I suppose. You always did have a faint belly for it. We must get some more menthol,’ she muttered. ‘This won’t be the last.’

Jane took a deep breath of the icy air and it helped settle her stomach. ‘I had better get myself used to it, then,’ she replied, and urged her horse on quickly to put distance between them and the executed man.

Ellen was lurking behind the physician, Evans, when Will Maxwell’s parents were shown into the ICU. She thought his father seemed set to explode, while his mother appeared pale and thin-lipped.

The social worker who was escorting them looked frazzled. Other professionals had been gathered, each with a personal and, more to the point, vested interest in Will’s case, including the dietitian, respiratory therapist and physical therapist, a specialist pharmacologist, and sundry nurses who took care of Will’s daily needs. Only the registrar and the hospital chaplain were missing — though Ellen would not have been surprised if Father Wiley popped by, for he had taken a keen interest in Will’s situation and recovery.

‘What the hell is this all about, Evans? You promised me —’

‘Mr Maxwell, calm down, please,’ the physician began, his tone reasonable, his hands open in appeal.

‘Calm down?’ Maxwell roughly pulled his arm free of his wife’s. ‘Why don’t you go fuck yourself,
Dr
Evans?’

Ellen shared an uncomfortable glance with her colleagues, but Maxwell’s reaction came as no surprise. He wasn’t the first father to lose his composure under these circumstances.

‘John, don’t,’ his wife pleaded.

Robert Evans — built like a toilet block, with a ruddy complexion and a rhythmic Welsh lilt — didn’t react, Ellen noticed. She felt quietly proud that no one else in the team so much as flinched. They were used to emotional explosions, and nowhere in the hospital were emotions rawer or more ragged than in the intensive care unit.

‘Don’t what?’ her husband snapped. ‘Don’t tell these priggish English medicos that they wouldn’t know if their own asses were on fire?’

Evans waited for John Maxwell to round on him again. But Maxwell had begun to look embarrassed when no one fought back.

He tried again, though. ‘Come on then,
Dr
Evans!’ he snarled, his tone dripping with sarcasm, his face turning red with his rage. Could she really travel with these people? ‘Tell me why you can’t release my son today. You’ve delayed us for two days already!’

‘Mrs Maxwell, would you like to sit down?’ Ellen offered. Diane was looking ready to break.

‘No, she wouldn’t!’ her husband thundered, desperate for a fight.
He won’t get one here
, Ellen thought. ‘I demand the release of my son
today
. He’s going to the US, where they can offer us some hope.’

‘Actually, there’s some encouraging news,’ Robert Evans began conversationally. ‘I didn’t want to raise any false hopes too soon, but I think it’s fair to say that Will is showing some indications of surfacing.’ His language was carefully chosen, Ellen noted: nothing dramatic, but just the right note of optimism.

Diane Maxwell reacted first, crumpling into tears, her hand clamping against her mouth to stop any sound of weakness. Her husband glared, but Ellen glared back as she helped Mrs Maxwell to a chair beside her son’s bed.

‘You never wanted us to take him back home, did you?’ John Maxwell accused.

All of them knew that anger was often the favoured mood of desperately upset parents in the early stages of the grieving process. As shock gave way, the bitterness took over. Depending on how long their child was in the ICU, eventually that passed too, and emotions usually settled down into calm resignation. Ellen wondered if John Maxwell would ever reach the calm stage.

Evans ignored the bait and pressed on as though he had parents standing in front of him who were eager for his news, rather than parents filled with fear and doubt. ‘Let me explain.’ Firmly, and in layman’s language, the physician began to outline what Ellen had first witnessed from their son two nights before. It had led to a range of tests and almost round-the-clock physical monitoring, as well as twenty-four-hour automated checks.

‘… false hope, but I’m feeling confident, now that we’ve had a chance to monitor the subtle changes, that Will’s body has its own plan.’

Maxwell had calmed slightly, his body language more docile, but a belligerent attitude was still present in his expression. ‘Why should that change
our
plans? If Will’s going to wake up, he might as well wake up on American soil, where he belongs.’

‘Well, that’s certainly one way of looking at it,’ Evans said carefully. ‘Except my experience suggests that this is an intensely fragile, but incredibly important, time for Will’s body. If I can explain it thus: it’s as though his body is reaching toward something, so to alter the status quo would be putting this positive change at risk.’

‘Or is it just that you smell the chance for some success when so far you’ve failed my son?’

Anyone else, Ellen thought, would have shown some flicker of offence. But if Evans felt angered by John Maxwell, he betrayed nothing in his expression. Frankly, there was only so much slack the hard-working, mostly unacknowledged nursing team would cut a man who couldn’t find a single kind word. Ellen wished Evans would slap Maxwell with his ace card.

The physician spoke again and his voice was gentle and generous … but he must have heard her thought because he played the ace. She had heard him speak of it only once before; she didn’t think many of the other staff were even aware of his family background.

‘I understand your despair, Mr Maxwell. I myself have lost a son in tragic circumstances. Even with all of my know-how I couldn’t bring him back from the disease that took him. I have never felt more out of control than I did when we were losing Charlie, but one thing I never gave up on was the medical team that was working around the clock to save him. To a terrified father it never looked as though they were doing enough, when in fact they were giving one hundred per cent.’

Maxwell’s puffed chest deflated slightly, Ellen noticed, and his mouth hung open a little. Evans had shocked him. Good!

The doctor continued even more gently. ‘Now, I accept that the American team may have something different to offer and I am all for exploring new avenues. However, right now, right here — as Will gives us the first glimpse that he may be pulling himself back to you — my professional opinion, from over two decades of working with head traumas, is that changing Will’s environment, moving him around, bringing in a new team that hasn’t been with him from the start, would create unnecessary risks.’

Everyone watched John Maxwell take an angry breath, but, inwardly cheering, Ellen also watched her favourite
physician press on and ignore him. ‘I would go so far as to suggest that to do anything other than let Will’s body quietly continue on this pathway to consciousness — which I firmly believe he is on — would be tantamount to risking his life.’ Diane Maxwell gasped and her husband looked apoplectic. ‘I know this is a shocking thing to hear, but my belief is that your son is balanced on a precipice. No one is better equipped than the patient to know the right time to start reaching for consciousness. Will alone knows when his body is ready. We have cared for his body, ensured he is comfortable, and the team here continue to talk to him as a gentle stimulation, so my advice is that you leave Will as he is until we can see where this phase in his recovery is headed.’

‘Are you saying that to move Will now
would
kill him?’ Mrs Maxwell asked in a shaking voice.

‘Not
would
. But it’s a real and very definite risk, in my opinion,’ Evans answered, but looked firmly at Mr Maxwell as he said it. ‘The decision is yours, of course. So it’s up to you now to tell us what you wish. If you want Will moved, we will follow your instructions and have him readied for travel.’

Ellen wanted to applaud the way Evans had masterfully and politely heaped the guilt onto Maxwell senior’s shoulders. If John Maxwell defied the physician now, Ellen would eat her uniform. She wanted to see America, but not at Will’s expense. In all the days she’d tended him, he’d never looked so handsome; how marvellous if he woke up in a day or so and she were the first person he saw.
Stop that, Ellen
, she berated herself.

‘How long?’ Maxwell snapped.

Evans shrugged. ‘It’s up to Will. I told you his fingers twitched two days ago. Last night, Ellen and one of the other nurses heard him groan and saw his toes curl in what we believe was a voluntary action. The energy output from his brain is changing too. We are monitoring him constantly, but of course
we have to remain patient. As I said, this is a delicate stage — it could go either way.’