A Bitter Truth (6 page)

She stopped in the passage and regarded me for a moment. “What could I say, that wouldn’t be a reflection on Roger? You don’t know Dr. Tilton.”

“Tell him you slipped on the stairs. It’s true.”

“Will you go with me?”

“Of course.”

“Then tomorrow. Before your train leaves.”

With that out of the way, Lydia seemed to be as relieved as I was. We went first to my room, and on the landing I could see for myself the sharp edge of the square mahogany newel post. The cut in her scalp was proof enough of how hard she’d struck it. Hard enough indeed for a concussion.

A fire had been lit on the hearth, taking away the damp chill of the day, and the drapes had been drawn against the rain. I went to the window anyway, and pulling them aside, looked out. The knot garden lay spread out below, an intricate design of boxwoods and flower beds that seemed at odds with a house on the edge of a heath. Around the garden were planted tall evergreens as a shield against the wind and also, I thought, to shut out the landscape beyond.

“It’s my favorite view,” Lydia said, coming to stand beside me. “And in high summer, it’s beautiful. It was put in for Gran, you know. A wedding gift from her husband, Roger’s grandfather. Her room overlooks it too.” We returned to the hall by the main stairs, and Lydia said, “Everything starts here. Those stairs along the wall lead up to the oriel window above. You saw it as we came up the drive. The formal rooms are in the right wing, and the family rooms are in the left. Go through the door—the one over there, that we used when we first arrived—and turn to your right in the passage and you come to the drawing room. Well, we call it that, although it’s not all that splendid these days. After we were married, Roger’s mother told me I could redecorate it to suit my tastes, which was very kind of her. Before I could really set about it, the war began.” We were walking through the door and following the passage now. “That door is the dining room, this one the drawing room, and beyond it is a small library. Across from the library is Roger’s grandfather’s study. Gran uses it sometimes, when she isn’t in the mood to sit with the family.” We retraced our steps, and she opened the door into the formal dining room. It was elegant in dark green upholstery that set off the well-polished wood, and the tall, handsome sideboard. Long dark green velvet drapes trimmed in cream framed the double windows. The carpet was a paler green and cream in a floral pattern.

Lydia pointed to the fox mask carved above the sideboard. The chairs at the head and foot of the table had smaller versions at the ends of the arms. “The house is said to have been built originally over a vixen’s den. That’s where the name comes from. But one story has it that Roger’s ancestor used the lodge for assignations, and when his wife found out, she killed him and blamed his death on a rabid fox.”

“How charming,” I said with a smile.

“Yes, I felt the same when I first came here. Sadly, the room is used very seldom now. With just the three of us, Gran and Mama Ellis and me, we usually take our meals in the sitting room.”

I could see why. The table would seat twenty comfortably, and with only one hearth, it must be very cold in winter. I noticed the paintings hanging on the walls, mostly landscapes from Italy and Switzerland and by a very accomplished hand.

“Gran painted them. On her honeymoon. Roger’s grandfather had them framed and hung as a surprise for her after their first child—Matthew, Roger’s father—was born.”

She closed that door and turned to the one across the passage, opening it into the drawing room. It faced the drive, and even on such a dreary afternoon, it was well lit and very pleasant. Stepping inside, the first thing that drew my eyes was the lovely hearth of Portland stone—and above it the most astonishing portrait.

The child was beautiful, fair haired and sweet faced, with an impish gleam in her blue eyes, and she had been captured in an informal pose, glancing toward the artist over one shoulder, her smile so touching I stood there in amazement.

“That’s Juliana,” Lydia was saying in a flat voice.

Chapter Three

“H
ow sad!” I replied, meaning it. I couldn’t take my eyes from the painting. Juliana appeared to be on the verge of laughter, and I almost held my breath listening for it. If the living child was anything like this portrayal in oils, I could understand why her memory was so vivid in the minds of her grieving family.

“We use this room only when we have guests. I suggested once to Roger that we move the portrait. And he was furious. He said she belonged here, in a tone of voice that told me I didn’t. It was our first quarrel.”

As she closed the drawing room door, she went on, “He worshipped her, you know. Roger. He took her death so hard that he didn’t speak for months. They feared for his sanity, Gran said. Margaret and Alan were older, they understood death a little better, although that didn’t make hers easier for them.”

I thought about what it would have been like, watching helplessly as the little girl slowly weakened and died.

We walked back to the great hall, and Lydia pointed to one of the chairs in front of the fire. “Let’s sit here for a bit, shall we? Before dressing for dinner.”

What she meant was, she wasn’t ready to face Roger alone in their bedroom.

We sat down, feeling the draft at our backs as the rain beat against the door and the walls. It sounded like distant drums or even muted gunfire.

“What am I to do, Bess?” she said at last, staring into the heart of the fire. “I love Roger. In spite of this. How long will this war go on? What if he’s killed—or horribly wounded? What if he’s like George, bitter and hurtful, and I can’t bear to have him touch me?”

“Yours isn’t the only family asking these questions tonight,” I replied after a moment. “Love isn’t a certainty, Lydia.”

But she shook her head. “You aren’t married. You don’t know what it’s like to love someone and want to have a part of them for your very own.”

It occurred to me that one of the reasons Lydia was so insistent on children was that she had lived these past three years with two widowed women. She could already see what the future held if Roger was killed. In India some wives preferred to throw themselves on the funeral pyre and be immolated with their husbands. Sometimes it was true grief—sometimes it was knowing what a bleak empty life lay ahead of them, especially if they were dependent on the charity of a family that didn’t want them. Death was sometimes preferable to living. The British had done their best to outlaw suttee, but it hadn’t been completely abolished.

I said gently, “Then I’m the wrong person to ask.”

Sighing, she said, “Well. Roger’s leave will be up soon enough. I have until then to change his mind. Somehow.”

I looked across at her bruised face. If Juliana died of a mastoid tumor, it was no one’s fault. Unlike some tragic accident where guilt couldn’t be avoided. Why had her death affected her brother so deeply? Was it the shock of loss, unacceptable to a child’s mind? Had Margaret and Alan also been haunted by their little sister’s death? They too were childless.

“You said you shouldn’t have mentioned Juliana when you quarreled. Did you blame her for your husband’s refusal to have children?”

“Yes, I told him he was afraid he’d lose a child, the way his family had lost Juliana, and it was time now to let her rest in peace and begin to live in the present.”

We sat there in silence for a time, and then Lydia reluctantly got to her feet. “It’s nearly time for dinner. I’m glad you came, Bess,” she said. “It was terribly kind of you—”

She clutched at the back of her chair, suddenly dizzy. But by the time I reached her, it seemed to have passed.

“Don’t fuss. I’m all right, I assure you.”

But she wasn’t. I was certain of that now.

After dinner, I quietly asked Mrs. Ellis if it would be possible to take Lydia to Dr. Tilton’s surgery at this late hour, explaining my concern.

“I didn’t know,” she said. “About the fall on the stairs. Yes, of course, I’ll drive you myself. I think Roger’s a little tired.”

He didn’t appear to be tired, but I said nothing. She rose and went to speak to Lydia. “Will you come with me, my dear?”

Surprised, Lydia said, “Yes, of course,” and followed her mother-in-law out of the room. I went with them, leaving Roger Ellis and his grandmother to their own devices.

In the passage, Mrs. Ellis said, “Miss Crawford feels you ought to see Dr. Tilton. Shall I fetch your coat? I wish I’d known sooner about the fall, my dear, I would have suggested speaking to him straightaway.”

Lydia was angry with me, as I’d expected. “I’m all right, Mama, I truly am. Bess was wrong to worry you.”

But Mrs. Ellis had the last word. “You must do as I ask, Lydia. Tomorrow will be a very busy day, and I can’t have you ill on my hands.” The unspoken reminder that Lydia had already been away for two days when she could have been helping with preparations precluded any argument. Still, she cast a reproachful glance in my direction as she went to fetch her coat.

I brought down my own from my comfortable, warm room, dreading the thought of traveling in a motorcar through the cold and dark night. Still, it was the right thing to do. Lydia was waiting for me by the door, and Mrs. Ellis was just bringing the motorcar around. We dashed through the rain to climb quickly inside. The little heater hardly made a difference where I sat in the rear, and I was glad of my gloves and a scarf. There was nothing to be done about my cold feet as we followed the looping drive and went down the avenue of ash trees.

Mrs. Ellis was saying, “I hope this weather passes before the service. I’d so counted on everything going well.”

“It will be all right, Mama,” Lydia assured her.

The rest of the drive was made in silence, and I watched the headlamps bounce across the dark landscape, touching first this patch of heather and then a taller, twisted stand of gorse. We passed horses standing head down just off the road, and I saw the bright eyes of a fox or a dog before whatever it was scurried into the safety of the shadows. I could hardly see the next turning, but Mrs. Ellis was familiar with the roads and drove with care.

Dr. Tilton’s surgery was dark when we reached Hartfield, and we pulled up instead in front of the house. It was two storeys, looming above us in the now misting rain.

“Thank goodness, there are lights still on downstairs,” Mrs. Ellis said as she set the brake.

“I’ll go to the door,” Lydia told her, getting down and dashing through the puddles to the house, before we could stop her. The high roof of the porch offered little shelter, and she huddled there for nearly a minute before someone answered her summons. She stepped inside the entrance, and the door was swung shut behind her.

Mrs. Ellis started to call her name, then broke off. “I don’t know what’s troubling her,” she said after a moment. “I don’t know why she and my son are so at odds.”

“You weren’t there when he struck her?” I asked.

“No. But I saw her as she ran out of the room, and I asked Roger what had happened. He answered that she was upset. The next thing I knew, she was gone. I thought perhaps she’d just taken a walk, cold as it was. Later, when I tapped at her door, she didn’t answer, and it wasn’t until Roger went up to dress for dinner that we realized she hadn’t come back. I thought perhaps she’d got into trouble somewhere on the heath. Roger went out to look for her. He came back, his face like a thundercloud and took the motorcar. He was gone for some time, and when he came home again, he told me he couldn’t find her. I stayed up most of the night, thinking she might come back. But she never did. I didn’t know what to think and was all for summoning the police. But Roger was adamant. He believed she’d come home when she was ready. I don’t think any of us dreamed she’d gone to London.” She was silent for a time, watching the doctor’s door. Then she asked, “Did Lydia confide in you, Miss Crawford? Did she tell you why she wouldn’t come home?”

“She was afraid of your son,” I told her. “It was difficult for her to make the decision to return.”

“And when she did, she brought you with her. It was very kind of you to, Bess. May I call you Bess? You are a very strong friend. I just wish I knew what the quarrel was about. Roger wouldn’t tell me anything. I wouldn’t have known he’d struck her if I hadn’t seen her face as she passed me. I couldn’t believe my eyes. But then Roger has been very tense, you know. I expect the war takes a greater toll than we can imagine.”

“It’s very difficult,” I said carefully, “to be killing people one day and the next to be standing in your own doorway, trying to remember what it’s like to be a part of a family again, if only for a short time.”

“I hadn’t thought of it in that light. Yes, I take your point. He brought the war home with him, then, and we none of us recognized it.”

I believed it went deeper than that, but I said nothing. Just then the door opened, and a man stuck his head out, calling for Mrs. Ellis. We got out together. Inside the entrance hall, Dr. Tilton, a balding man with a paunch, led us to his study, a room filled with medical books and—to my surprise—several shelves of biographies of famous men.

Lydia was sitting in a chair by the hearth, looking rather chastened. Nodding to me, Dr. Tilton said to Mrs. Ellis, “I have every reason to believe that your daughter-in-law has suffered a concussion. The wound is still open, but I hesitate to sew it up because that would require some shaving of the head.” He turned to glance at Lydia. “She appears to be under great stress as well. I can’t give her a mild sedative, under the circumstances. But she should rest for several days. Body and mind. Will you see to it? I’ve told her that she should have come to me at once, and to make up for that, she must pay the piper, as it were, and let herself heal.” He turned to me. “If symptoms persist, you’ll send for me immediately.”

“Yes, Doctor,” I replied.

“Have there been periods when she slept and you couldn’t rouse her? She told me she had been with you since the accident.”

So that was why Lydia had gone in alone. She must have left the impression that her fall had occurred in London!

“Not to my knowledge. Headaches, some dizziness. A little nausea.”

“Yes, that’s a good sign, then. Take her home and put her to bed. Miss Crawford, I’d like you to sit with her. In a day or two, if the symptoms disappear, we can assume that Lydia will be all right. If the symptoms persist, then I’ll keep her in my surgery for observation.”

“Rather than impose on a guest, Roger can keep an eye on her,” Mrs. Ellis began, but the doctor shook his head.

“Miss Crawford knows what to look for. I’ve already explained that to Lydia.”

“Thank you, Dr. Tilton,” Mrs. Ellis said. “I’m so sorry to disturb you this late, but Miss Crawford was most insistent.”

“As she should have been.” He helped Lydia put on her coat and saw us to the door. As I turned to allow Lydia to precede me, I noticed a woman at the head of the stairs, and wondered if she’d been listening. I thought perhaps she was the doctor’s wife. She moved out of sight almost at once.

As Mrs. Ellis started the motorcar, Lydia said anxiously over her shoulder to me, “Bess, do you mind? I told him I’d fallen in London. That you’d brought me home. I couldn’t tell him—not when he’s coming to dinner!”

“Yes, I understand,” I replied, trying to keep her calm. “Put it out of your mind tonight.”

“I’m so sorry. But could you stay another day? Just one more?”

It dawned on me then. That I was the excuse why she couldn’t share a room with her husband. If I was to look in on her throughout the night, she must sleep elsewhere. Coming home was one thing. Facing Roger Ellis in the seclusion of their bedroom was another. I couldn’t be sure whether it was because she was still afraid of him—or because she didn’t want to answer his questions.

I
had hoped that Lydia would spend a quiet night and that my return to London the next afternoon would still be possible.

Instead at two o’clock in the morning when I looked in on her in the guest room where she was sleeping, she was pacing the floor.

“I can’t sleep,” she told me at once. “I ought to be tired to the bone, and instead every time I shut my eyes, they fly open again.”

Pulling my dressing gown closer about me in the chill of the room—the fire had burned down to ashes—I asked, “What’s worrying you, Lydia? Your husband seemed to be glad to see you. He was very pleasant during dinner. Your sister-in-law, Margaret, was very solicitous. She likes you, that’s obvious even to me.”

Margaret was very like her mother, a tall, slender woman with a very pretty face and a nature to match.

Touching her bruises, Lydia said, “They’ll be here this afternoon. Everyone. George, Eleanor, even Henry, if his leave comes through. And then there’s Dr. Tilton and his wife. The rector and his sister. It’s one thing to tell Dr. Tilton that I fell in London. I can’t lie to everyone else. Roger will be angry with me. But I can hardly tell them the truth, can I?”

“Just say that you had an accident. You needn’t go into details.”

“Roger told me he was sorry, but I couldn’t tell if he meant it.”

“You’ve hardly given him a chance to speak to you alone. Have you thought about that?”

She walked to the window, then turned and came back again. “I’m afraid.”