The Iron Road (16 page)

She didn’t expect to be idle. Five hundred pounds sounded like a fortune, but she would have to find somewhere to live as well as feed and clothe herself while she looked for work. What she would really like to do was teach. But without references what chance did she have? Her background was far too complicated to explain. Anyway, who would entrust their children to an ex-navvy woman?

Despair lapped about her like a rising tide. She had craved escape from the line. But now it was within her grasp, she was afraid. Despite wanting desperately to get away from the shanty, and Queenie, and the men’s drinking and fighting, and the sheer drudgery, the prospect of going out into the world alone was far more daunting than she had anticipated.

A little while later, exhausted and footsore, she lay under the blankets and stared into the darkness, her thoughts roiling and churning.

She had got what she had wanted for so long. At last she could leave the line.
And go where?
It didn’t matter. She could even leave Cornwall if she wished.
The family didn’t want to know her.
Well, what of it? She couldn’t remember them either. She had been alone for a long time. She was used to it. She liked it that way. She didn’t have to consult anybody else about where to go or what she should do.

She was in a fast-flowing river. Her fears were jagged rocks jutting out of the water lying in wait to catch her, trap her, drown her. The current had her in its grip, sweeping her closer and closer to a black stump of rock, sharp as a broken tooth. Suddenly she saw the gypsy’s face. It grew huge, filling her vision. The leering, laughing mouth became a black tunnel and the river was carrying her into it. She was screaming and screaming but not making any sound. She flailed desperately with arms and legs but the current was too strong and swept her onward into the darkness. The black rocks became people. She shrieked for help, but they turned away and the river plunged over a precipice and she was falling …

She jerked upright, her flying hand jarring painfully against the wooden panel. Gasping, she covered her face with shaking hands. As she waited for the frantic hammering in her chest to subside she kept telling herself it was just a bad dream. It didn’t mean anything.

She pushed back sweat-damp hair, her head hot against her palms. The money would buy her freedom from Queenie and the shanty village. She would have the means to begin a new life wherever she chose. But no matter how far she travelled she could not escape from herself.
She had killed a man.
That terrible truth would cast its long shadow wherever she went and whatever she did.

Chapter Fourteen

Chloe lay on her back staring upward in the darkness. The feather mattress was soft, the sheets crisp and smelling faintly of lavender. Was it minutes or hours that she had been lying here? Sleep taunted her: beckoning, yet ever elusive. She had no idea what time it was, but dared not relight the lamp. If Gerald had not yet retired and saw light beneath her door when he passed by, he would want to know why. She didn’t want him to ask, for what could she say? Lying was difficult: but to tell him the truth was impossible.

On their wedding day he had promised always to protect and take care of her. When they reached the hotel in Paris where they were to begin their honeymoon tour he had told her she should not be afraid, he would make no demands except to enjoy her company and friendship. Exhausted after the rough sea crossing, the cumulative effects of wedding preparations and the lingering shock of her father ’s death, she had been grateful for his kindness and restraint.

Looking back now, she realized how naive she had been, though it had taken several months for her perception of his forbearance to evolve into a sense of rejection. Guilt had added its own weight to her strain, for somehow he made her feel selfish. Yet how could she harbour negative thoughts about someone so indulgent and generous: someone to whom she owed so much?

While causing her considerable anguish, this inner conflict had remained manageable until James Santana’s arrival. But the tiny spark of recognition, struck the first day they met, had flared into a holocaust that .now threatened everything she had believed important to her. The pitiless flames illuminated her own part in the conspiracy that had shrouded her marriage with shadows of deception.

For so long –
too long –
she had avoided looking too closely, fearing what she might see: that her husband preferred intimacy with others rather than with her: that she had failed him in some way she didn’t understand. But it was too late now to close her eyes.
Your marriage is a sham.

The heat had reached into her soul, melting the confident facade behind which she had hidden her feelings of inadequacy, igniting a hunger, a yearning too strong to fight and too destructive to acknowledge. Her eyes pricked and burned, then scalding tears slid, slow and silent, down her temples into her hair.
What am I to
do?

She thought of the little bottle on the night table beside the large four-poster bed. Briefly tempted, she made no effort to reach for it. It certainly soothed her nerves. But she didn ’t like the other effects: the feeling of detachment, the way she seemed to be looking out at the world from somewhere far back in her head. It made her see … She could never quite grasp what they were, for they were right at the edge of her vision. But they frightened her, these unnamed
things.

Though the pungent brown liquid made her feel sleepy it also provoked strange, vivid dreams and a deep sense of unease that lingered for several hours after she woke.

Not wanting to appear complaining or ungrateful, or to worry him, she hadn’t said anything to Gerald. As she hadn’t misread the directions, clearly written on the label, the only other explanation she could think of was sensitivity to one of the ingredients. So she simply stopped taking it. But that caused another problem.

Expecting the tonic to have improved her appetite, at every mealtime Gerald checked the amount on her plate. Thus, despite the constant lump in her throat and a stomach made painfully tender by stress, she had to force down food she didn’t want and convince him she was enjoying every mouthful. Had it not been for his smile of pleasure and obvious relief that she seemed so much better, she would not have had the courage or the strength to continue.

She turned over, seeking a cool place on the pillow. How much longer could she go on like this?
What was the alternative?

Exhausted, she closed her eyes. To escape the clamour in her mind she pictured once more the elegant airy house that had been her childhood home. South-facing, with tall windows, it had always seemed full of sunlight. After a visit from the bailiffs there hadn’t been much furniture left in the reception rooms. But her father had laughed and shrugged, declaring the absence of clutter an advantage. For was it not now easier to appreciate the excellent proportions and architectural features? His light-hearted manner had reassured, enabling her to view their erratic finances as an inconvenience rather than a tragedy.

Older now, and wiser, she recognized her father’s fecklessness, yet it did not diminish her love for him. For with painful insight gained during the past few weeks, she saw now that his mercurial temperament and his gambling had been a facade to mask a loneliness he had been unable to share with anyone, even her.

Though she had promised not to visit the house, there was nothing to stop her thinking of it, and remembering. Strange that it should be so comforting.

She thought she heard something. But, wanting to remain cocooned in memory, protected from the grinding stress of her daily existence, she refused to acknowledge it, and drifted off again.

Suddenly her eyes were open. She lay perfectly still. Then she heard a low cry and a muffled strangled sound abruptly cut off. Properly awake now she sat up and reached for the lucifer matches. The flare made her blink and the acrid smell caught sharply at the back of her nose as she lit the wick and replaced the glass funnel.

A robe of frilled white cotton lawn threaded with sky blue ribbon lay on the linen chest at the foot of the bed. Pulling it on over her night-gown, she quickly tied the sash, pushed her feet into slippers, and picked up the lamp. Her long golden braid fell over one shoulder to her breast.

Opening the door she peered out, listening intently. A new sound, harsh and guttural, like an animal in pain, made her jump. Shivering, she started down the passage. Now she could hear frantic pleading whispers and realized both sounds were coming from her husband’s room.

She hesitated, inexplicably nervous, her hand poised to knock. Gerald had made it clear when he first brought her to the house that respect for each other’s privacy was paramount in their relationship. In the four years of their marriage she had seen his room only once, when he had taken her on a tour of the house.

She knocked. ‘Gerald?’ There was a thump and scuffling, but no reply. ‘Gerald?’ She opened the door. ‘Forgive the intrusion but I –’ She stopped, as startled as the valet who stumbled backwards from the bed. ‘Henry?’

‘Oh, ma’am, I was just coming to get you.’ Pale, dishevelled, and sweating profusely, he was clearly terrified.

Looking past him, she saw her husband sprawled on his back, his face greyish-purple and contorted as he strained for breath, grunting and gargling as if he were about to choke. The sheet and blankets lay, as if hastily piled there, in a tangled heap across his lower body and legs. His discarded night-shirt lay on the floor.

She found the disarray deeply shocking, for she had rarely seen her husband other than fully dressed. Even on those infrequent occasions he had been wearing an ankle-length robe of maroon brocaded silk with a cravat at his throat, his hair neatly brushed, emanating the lemony fragrance of cologne.

With a hollow dread in the pit of her stomach, she rushed forward. ‘What happened? What’s wrong?’

‘It wasn’t my fault, ma’am. Honest to God, it wasn’t.’ He wiped his hands down the sides of his trousers as Chloe looked at him in astonishment.

‘It’s all right, Henry, no one is blaming you.’ Setting her lamp beside the one already lit on her husband’s night table, Chloe touched his limp hand. ‘Gerald? Can you hear me?’

There was no reaction and the sound of his laboured breathing filled the room. She turned to the trembling valet who was shifting from one foot to the other and looked as if he might be sick at any moment.

‘Go and wake Nathan. Tell him to ride for Dr Treloar at once.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ Snatching up one of the lamps, the young man ran out, his bare feet making no sound on the carpet.

Feeling like a trespasser in this intensely masculine room of dark oak furniture, glass-fronted bookcases, and bold patterns in kingfisher and crimson, Chloe straightened the bedcovers. Below her husband’s throat the skin was startlingly white. A few dark hairs sprouted from the centre of his heaving chest. Uncomfortable without understanding why, she drew the sheet up so it rested lightly across his shoulders. Appearance was important to Gerald. He would hate to be seen in a state of untidiness even by the doctor.

Racked with guilt about her unease, her attraction to James, her unhappiness, she poured water from the large jug on the nightstand into the blue and white patterned china basin. Dipping a corner of the clean towel, she tentatively wiped his glistening forehead.

‘The doctor will be here soon.’ Her voice sounded unnaturally loud, even though she had to compete with the wheezing rattle in his throat. Then there were footsteps in the passage, and hushed voices, followed by a soft tapping on the door.

‘Come in.’

Hawkins entered, followed by Mrs Mudie. Both were wearing night-clothes covered by sober woollen dressing-gowns. Henry must have alerted them when he went to wake Nathan.

Within moments Chloe found herself gently ushered out of the room into the care of a bleary-eyed Polly. As she passed, the butler promised that, while Mrs Mudie took care of the bedding, in the absence of Henry who was too upset to be of use to anyone at present, he would ensure Sir Gerald was properly attired and made comfortable for the doctor’s visit. No doubt Madam would welcome the opportunity to do likewise?

Dressed in white-spotted violet silk, Chloe sat at the dressing-table while Polly put up her hair. Gazing blankly at her reflection, almost too tired to think, she suddenly frowned. What had the valet been doing in Gerald’s bedroom at that time of night? Why, instead of his uniform, had he been wearing only trousers and a crumpled shirt that wasn’t even properly buttoned?

‘What are you doing?’ Nipper demanded curiously, as Tom emerged from the wash house stripped to the waist and carrying a bucket half-full of soapy water.

‘What do it look like?’ Tom hurled the water over some bushes and turned back, rubbing his wet hair with the frayed and threadbare towel hanging round his neck.

‘Well, it isn’t pay day, and it isn’t Saturday, so what’s going on?’

With no intention of telling him Tom side-stepped the question. ‘If that’s the only time you wash, ‘tis no wonder your bunk do smell like a midden.’

Nipper shrugged. ‘Don’t see no point if you aren’t going nowhere.’ He hopped from one foot to the other. ‘I’m breaking me neck for a pee.’

‘Go on, then. I aren’t stopping you.’ Tom returned to the wash house. He pulled on the clean shirt he had brought out with him, and raked a broken comb through his shaggy curls. The coarse bristles on his jaw rasped against his palm and he hesitated. No, if he shaved mid-week he’d never hear the end of it.

After a quick look out, he took a deep breath, hooked his thumbs in his belt and sauntered across to the little hut. He would still have come even if the whole gang had been lined up watching. But he wasn’t sorry they weren’t.

Some women you could joke about. Like those two this afternoon. S uch
ladies
they were. But not her, not Veryan, she didn’t deserve that. He tapped his scarred knuckles against the door.

‘All right, then?’ he said by way of greeting, and was filled with irritation at himself. He was supposed to have a way with words. So how was it the more he saw of her, the dumber he sounded?

‘Come in. No, leave the door,’ she said, as he started to close it. ‘We may as well use the last of the daylight.’

‘What about …?’ He indicated the shanty.

Her mouth twisted wearily. ‘At this time of the evening all they’ll be looking at is the bottom of a beer mug. Sit down.’

He lowered himself onto the bottom end of the bed, feeling big and clumsy in the confined space. When he was settled she passed him paper, pen, and a piece of smooth wood to rest on. Then, drawing her legs up under her skirt she huddled in the top corner. ‘Show me what you remember from last time.’

With fierce concentration he inscribed the letters, silently saying them to himself as he wrote. After several sweating minutes he glanced up, ready to mock his slowness before she did. But the words remained unspoken. Her head rested against the wall and she was staring into space.

‘Something wrong?’ he asked quietly.

She started. ‘No.’ It was so quick, so sharp, he knew she was lying.

‘Come on, girl. I aren’t blind.’

She glared, about to challenge him, then sighed and gave a small shrug that tried to be off-hand, and failed.

‘The engineer?’ He hadn’t meant it to come out blunt like that. But now he’d said it he wasn’t sorry.

She stiffened defensively. ‘Why should you think that?’

‘No secrets in a shanty village, my bird. Everyone knows he come looking for you and wanted to speak to you in private. And I seen the way you smiled at him. So what’s wrong?’ His fingers tightened on the pen and he felt tension creep up his forearms. ‘Didn’t try anything, did he?’

‘Certainly not! Mr Santana has always treated me with respect.’

‘So I should hope.’ The tension drained out of Tom, replaced by relief. He liked the engineer who seemed a straight, decent man. But he’d seen the way James Santana and Lady Radclyff had looked at each other. When a man couldn’t get what he wanted, he would sometimes take what he could get.

‘So what’s wrong then?’

‘Wrong?’ She gave the peculiar twisted smile again. ‘Nothing. Honestly,’ she said as he opened his mouth to contradict her. ‘In fact, you could say my dearest wish has come true.’

‘Is that right?’ He set the pen down carefully. ‘So, are you going to tell me, or what?’

Her brief laugh sounded like a sob and she looked away, hunching her shoulders. ‘I might as well. There’s no one else. The funny thing is you are probably the one person who will understand.’

He felt a thrill of pride and gratification. But listening as she told him about the legacy, he found himself torn between pleasure at her good fortune and deep dismay.