Dangerous Decisions (18 page)

It was a week later when Oliver came across the isolated perambulator. Left alone beneath the shade of a tree beside one of the sweeping lawns, he could only assume that the buxom and conscientious Nanny Harris would not be far away. Helena was stringent in her rules regarding Rosalind. And the discovery presented him with a rare chance to stroll closer and to stare unobserved at the sleeping baby. In the warm sunshine, she lay in a relaxed position, her legs and dimpled knees apart, and it was only then that for the first time Oliver saw her uncovered head. Staring in stunned disbelief, he thought of Helena's honey-gold hair and raising his hand studied the fair ones where his wrist was visible beneath the white gold-linked cuff of his shirt. Into his mind came an image of his father whose moustache had been blond like his own, and then slowly he looked down again at the small head with its fine dusting of black hair. As the nanny approached across the grass, clutching a white sunbonnet, Oliver was already turning, his mind and emotions in indescribable chaos. Blindly, he strode away across the grass walking on and on deeper into the grounds, not even reducing his pace as he reached a spinney, regardless of overhanging branches, of rabbits scattering before him. Then he suddenly came to a halt, to lean his forehead against the trunk of an ancient oak.

He tried to think in a logical, reasoned manner, but to no avail. Jacob's hair and beard were light brown in colour. Beatrice was nondescript, mousy. Before him came the image of that shocking scene he had encountered in the music room. The black hair of the music tutor, Helena's crimson face … She had been the picture of guilt. The sickening evidence was lying in that perambulator. There
had
been intimacy, she
had
betrayed him. Why had he been such a gullible fool? Why had he listened to her denials, her protestations of innocence? And was it coincidence or a deliberate concealment that during all these months he had never before seen the baby without a bonnet?

He turned to lean back against the tree, but even the warmth of the dappled sunlight through the leafy branches failed to calm him. Through his anger, his fury, there came the memory of that similar oak tree at Broadway Manor, where for the first time he had kissed her. How soft and trusting her lips had been and yet within a year she had turned him into a cuckold. But he was determined that now he was in possession of the truth, knowing that there was no correlation between the Faraday bloodline and those deformed hands, he'd soon be ensuring that his young and unfaithful wife fulfilled her purpose.

Eventually Oliver began to make his way back to the house, and once out of the spinney he could see in the distance the perambulator still standing in the shade, while beside it the nanny was sitting in a garden chair absorbed in a book. But the hour he had spent in the spinney had not been wasted, nor would he meekly accept the situation, because already a germ of a plan was growing. It was devious, even dangerous, but if it succeeded then Graylings would not be contaminated for very much longer by the presence of Longford's bastard.

‘Two months? You're going to Italy for two whole months?' Cora stared at Johnnie in horror and disbelief.

‘Sorry, old girl.' They were both enjoying a cigarette after an even more enjoyable pastime. ‘It's a family obligation. Some cousins of ours have taken a villa in Tuscany and invited the whole family. Even Pater has agreed to go. The plan is to spend one month there and another with a maiden aunt in Florence. She's pretty ancient so it might be the last time we'll see her.'

These people lived in a different world, she thought. And it was odds-on his family were looking after their inheritance. But two whole months! Whatever would she do with herself for eight weeks stuck in this place with no company and not even the hope of seeing Johnnie?

‘Don't look so downcast, sweetheart, the time will soon go. I can always send you a postcard?'

Her laugh was mocking. ‘Lovely.' Cora was beginning to think that if it wasn't for her steadily mounting nest egg, she'd regret the whole arrangement. It had got to the stage when her boredom was such – and this was something that Sybil would never understand – that Cora even missed the punters. Not all of them of course, even Belle hadn't been able to weed out every rotter, but Cora had known how to deal with them. A kid growing up in the workhouse soon learned how to defend itself.

But she couldn't face the thought of two months of long and empty days and even longer nights. At least she'd felt alive at the brothel, not shut away from the world.

‘Johnnie.' Cora went over to sit on his knee. ‘If you're going to be away all that time, how about if I get meself a bit of fun in the evenings. You know, go out sometimes, have a few drinks and a laugh?'

‘I don't know about that, Cora. The men would be round you like a honeypot. And I'm not paying for other people's pleasure.'

‘You wouldn't 'ave to worry about that, Johnnie, I give you my word. And you've always said I'm as straight as a die.'

‘I know, but …'

‘Please … It's going to be so lonely here on my own, and you'll be in Italy in all that sunshine, having a wonderful time.'

Johnnie hesitated.

‘You did say I wouldn't be a prisoner, when we first fixed all this up. And I've been ever so good. You know I never go out after six, just in case you come.'

‘I suppose I am being a bit selfish.'

Cora flung her arms round his neck. ‘You won't regret it, I promise.' She had meant what she said. A bargain was a bargain as far as she was concerned. But to be free on the long summer evenings to wander around the East End, have a drop of port or gin in a pub, perhaps with a good old cockney knees-up, even see the occasional fight. Well, that was the real world.

London in June was not the most comfortable place to be. Summer heat in the capital always seemed more oppressive than in the country, and Helena instructed Nanny Harris to take the greatest care of Rosalind when she wheeled her out in nearby St James's Park. But there was definite stimulation to be found in the city, and although she had been expecting it – Peregrine had recently been a frequent visitor to Dorothy's home – it had given her enormous pleasure to see their engagement announced in
The Times
that morning.

Jacob and Beatrice had been at Faraday House for several days before they raised their concern. One afternoon when they were taking tea in the drawing room Jacob said, ‘Helena, my dear, Oliver seems to take so very little interest in Rosalind. You did tell us something soon after her birth that disturbed us. Surely after all this time it can't be that he still hasn't accustomed himself to her problem.'

Helena replaced her cup on its fluted saucer. Her voice was quiet. ‘I am fearful that he never will.'

While Beatrice stared at her with shocked eyes, Helena could see startled anger in those of her father. ‘I don't think it is wholly his fault. He seems to have a sort of phobia about, oh I don't know, any sort of ugliness I suppose.' Slowly she confided to them the hidden away portraits, before going on describe his appalled reaction on seeing Annie's scarred face. ‘I felt awful,' Helena said. ‘She must have been so upset by it.'

‘So you were aware of this trait in his character when you agreed to marry him?' Jacob's tone was sharper than he intended and he regretted it when he saw distress in his daughter's eyes.

‘I just thought it was an isolated instance. And he was very persuasive.' Her cheeks flamed as she remembered that evening in the dining room, his lips on her bare shoulders, the way he had stirred her emotions.

Jacob drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. The girl had been too young, too inexperienced, she would have been easy prey to an attractive older man. He should have been more cautious, more perceptive, and certainly not have allowed his political ambitions to influence his judgement.

Beatrice leaned forward. ‘But you are happy, my dear?'

Helena couldn't bear to see the anxiety in her aunt's eyes, nor the deep concern in her father's. She had thought she had overcome the shadow of that disastrous wedding night, but Oliver's hurtful rejection of their child had only confirmed the cruelty of which he was capable. How could she be happy with such a man? And during the long nights spent alone she had come to the conclusion that she had no choice but to accept the arid future stretching before her. After all, what choice did she have? She would play the part of a dutiful wife, the mistress of Graylings, a society hostess, but she doubted there would be any true joy and love in her life, except towards and from her children. Helena had no doubt that despite the coldness between them Oliver would wish to lie with her again. His desire for a son and heir would ensure that. Yet recently she had been feeling uneasy, puzzled by Oliver's behaviour, his rather strange attitude towards her. But what would be the point of transferring her unhappiness and pain to these two beloved people. Helena gazed back at her aunt and managed to smile. ‘But of course.'

It was later as she went upstairs to the nursery that Helena found herself thinking of Nicholas. Perhaps it was because she was in London but she was finding it more difficult to suppress the memories; in the past weeks, concern for her baby had done much to alleviate her regret for what might have been. Now, there were still moments when the image of his warm brown eyes and the message that had passed silently between them seemed just as vivid, as fresh. Yet it was such a long time since that meeting in Wimpole Street. However, she thought as she entered the room where her baby lay sleeping, it was doubtful whether their paths would cross; his busy and useful life would hardly coincide with Oliver's plans for their own entertainment.

It was during tea the following day that Beatrice first complained of a headache. Jacob, enjoying a slice of plum cake, glanced across at her. ‘You probably lingered too long in Bond Street. I still don't see why your usual milliner couldn't have looked after you.'

Helena looked at him with indulgence, wondering why it was that men had so little understanding of such things. ‘Papa, we wanted to consult Madame Delancy. Her designs are so much the vogue this year.'

‘But perhaps you are right,' Beatrice conceded. ‘I did try on an inordinate number of hats.'

Helena laughed. ‘So did I, we had a lovely time and have bought delicious confections to wear at the wedding.'

‘You certainly look glowing.' Oliver gave her another of those strange looks. Since their marriage, she had come to recognise most of his moods, but lately he was mystifying her, he seemed so distant and brooding. She was only thankful that there had been no suggestion that they might become intimate again, although she knew it was only a matter of time. Her husband's priority would always be the security of Graylings. Now, as he and Jacob continued to discuss their plans for the following day, she smiled with sympathy at her aunt as Beatrice excused herself to go and rest, only later to send a message that she would not be coming down for dinner.

It wasn't until Jane was peering at an intricate clasp on a rope of pearls and murmured that Hewson was worried, that Helena began to feel concerned. ‘Apparently,' Jane said, ‘Miss Beatrice told her that it's the worst migraine she's ever had.'

Helena paused from her task of selecting which ring to wear, knowing how her aunt hated the term and rarely used it, considering it gave her headaches the status of an illness. ‘I'll call and see her before I go down, Jane. The problem is that as you know, my aunt does hate anyone fussing.'

A few minutes later she went into a familiar scene, one of a still fully dressed Beatrice prostrate on the eiderdown, a folded flannel placed on her forehead that Helena knew Hewson would have soaked in vinegar and water. Going over to the bed, she said gently, ‘How are you?'

Beatrice's voice was weak, even trembling. ‘I'm not at all well. And my left side – I cannot seem to move it, there is no feeling there. Helena, the pain in my head is dreadful.'

Helena was shocked to see how gaunt she looked. ‘I shall ask Oliver to send for a doctor. I'm sure it's nothing to worry about, Aunt Beatrice, but it's best to be sure.'

Her heart pounding she lifted her skirt to hurry out of the room, down the staircase and across the wide hall to the drawing room where as she expected Oliver and her father were enjoying their aperitifs on the terrace and deep in conversation. Helena interrupted them, ‘Excuse me, but Papa, I come from Aunt Beatrice's bedroom. I think we should send urgently for a doctor.'

He stared at her. ‘What is it? What is wrong?'

‘I'm not sure.' Helena found her voice shaking. ‘But she thinks her left side has become paralysed and she's suffering terribly with her head.'

Oliver turned away. ‘I shall telephone Dr Haverstock.'

Jacob put his glass down on a side table as Helena said, ‘Papa, I am returning to her, and I think you should come too.'

With alarm and anxiety, he followed his daughter upstairs and into his sister's bedroom, where she stared up at him, her face drawn. ‘I'm sorry … I cannot withstand the pain and my left side …' There was a catch in her voice and he felt a leap of apprehension, even fear. Bending down he gently took her hand. ‘Oliver is even now telephoning the doctor. Is there anything further we can do for you, my dear, anything you need? You did bring your preparation?'

‘Yes of course …'

‘Then you must remain quiet and rest.'

Helena was hovering behind her father. ‘I'll stay with you, Aunt Beatrice.'

‘Thank you.' Her whisper trailed away as she closed her eyes.

Jacob turned to Helena, and she could see in his expression a reflection of her own unsaid fear. He muttered, ‘I'll go and see what's happening about the doctor.'

‘Is there anything I can do, Miss Helena?' Enid Hewson's eyes were wide with panic.

Helena looked helplessly at her. ‘Perhaps you could try dabbing her temples with lavender?'

That same evening Nicholas was settling into his armchair with a glass of whisky and stretching out his legs in an effort to relax. With Andrew away on vacation in Scotland, the past few days had been hectic. He had been called out today from his own practice too. Nicholas frowned. His list of patients at Wimpole Street was growing, and it had always been his intention that the more affluent practice would not affect the other. Like all great cities, London had two faces: one of privilege, success, and splendid architecture, the other of poverty, hunger, and slums. Always an observer of human nature his profession provided insight into both worlds, but while he had often felt humbled by the courage and dignity he found among the poor, that didn't mean he didn't despair at times of the mean brutality he found there. There was also corruption among the upper classes, but they knew how to conceal it beneath a veneer of civilised behaviour. Musing on the ways of the world, Nicholas took an appreciative sip of his single malt only to swear under his breath when the shrill peal of the telephone shattered his tranquillity. He half moved to rise and then heard the pattering footsteps of his housekeeper as she hurried to answer it. The widowed Mrs Miles, thin, sharp-featured and a devout Methodist, had been terrified of what she called ‘this new-fangled invention' at first. Then he found to his amusement that it had not only given her a sense of self-importance, she had adopted what she considered a ‘genteel voice' especially for it. He waited with resignation until she came into the book-lined room that doubled as both drawing room and library. ‘It's a Mr Faraday, doctor.'

Startled, Nicholas's first thought was of Helena, but on listening to the clipped voice of Oliver Faraday, felt relieved to learn that the patient was a Miss Standish and also thankful that the Faradays were in London rather than Hertfordshire.

‘You haven't got to go out again, doctor?'

‘I'm afraid so, Mrs Miles.' He was already moving away. ‘But at least I shall be travelling in comfort, because Mr Faraday is sending his motor car.'

‘Noisy dratted things. They ain't natural, that's what I say. I'm just thankful you've managed to eat your supper.'

‘And an excellent pie it was, Mrs Miles, thank you.' He smiled at her before going to check his medical bag. Faraday had mentioned the possibility of a stroke and Nicholas could only hope that he was mistaken; in his opinion, strokes were one of the worst afflictions anyone should have to bear. Once satisfied that he had everything he might need, he went upstairs to his room to freshen and to change his linen. He told himself that he would have done so anyway on visiting such a prestigious client, but deep down Nicholas knew the true reason. If her aunt was at the London house, then Helena might also be there. He fumbled first to remove a stiff collar and then to fasten a stud in a new one, all the time feeling both anger at his weakness and a rush of adrenalin at even the thought of seeing her again.

When her father returned to the bedroom Helena rose with impatience from her chair beside the bed and went to meet him. ‘Is he coming?'

Jacob nodded. ‘Yes, the motor car has been sent. But unfortunately Dr Haverstock is away in Scotland, so it will be his colleague, Dr Carstairs.'

Helena's breath caught in her throat. Nicholas? With a struggle, she managed to keep her features composed, her voice even. ‘I have met him, Papa, and thought he seemed most capable.'

‘I certainly hope so. How is she?'

‘About the same, but at least she isn't any worse.'

Jacob glanced over to the bed where a pale-faced Beatrice was lying with her eyes closed. ‘Perhaps you will let her know what is happening while I go and await his arrival.'

‘Yes, of course.' Helena knew her colour had heightened, and saw the maid give her a curious glance. Hurriedly she said, ‘You must be in need of a rest and some refreshment, Hewson. Would you like to go downstairs for a while? I promise to ring down once the doctor has been.'

‘Thank you, Madam. Would you like me to arrange for a tray to be sent up?'

Helena shook her head. ‘Not yet. I will ring down later.'

In the now silent room Helena tried to remain calm, aware that she should be thinking only of her aunt, but finding it impossible to suppress her rising sense of excitement. She put a hand to her hair, glad that she was wearing one of her most becoming gowns in a soft coral trimmed with cream. And then guilt at her vain and selfish thoughts made her return to the bed.

Beatrice opened her eyes. ‘Did I hear Jacob's voice?'

Helena gave her the message. ‘Is the headache as bad?'

‘It's lessening slightly, and although still severe, is no different than usual,' her voice wavered, ‘but what worries me is that I still can't …'

Hating to see her aunt so ill and frightened, Helena held her hand. ‘The doctor won't be long now.'

It seemed an eternity until at last, there came a tap at the door and Helena's heart missed a beat as Jacob ushered in the tall, clean-shaven doctor and brought him over to the bed, murmuring, ‘I think you have already met my daughter, Mrs Faraday.'

Nicholas said quietly, ‘Yes. Good evening, Mrs Faraday.'

‘Good evening.'

Jacob said, ‘I shall leave you in the doctor's capable hands, Beatrice.'

‘Would you like me to leave too, Dr Carstairs?'

Beatrice's feeble voice came, ‘No, please stay, Helena.'

After Jacob quietly closed the door, Helena hovered at a discreet distance, watching as Nicholas bent over the bed, seeing his expression soften as he looked down at his patient. ‘Miss Standish, you are suffering, aren't you? Tell me, have you had these headaches for very long?'

‘About ten years.'

‘And how often do they occur?'

‘Two or three times a month.'

‘But this one is the worst?'

‘Yes.'

‘And you have never had this numbness before?'

‘No.' Her voice wavered, ‘I can't feel my left side at all.'

‘Have you noticed any difficulty with your speech?'

‘Only that my brain feels a little slow.'

With Beatrice's permission, Nicholas examined her, while all the time Helena watched his deft hands, his gentle professional manner, hardly able to believe his presence, that he was only a few feet away.

At last, he straightened up and removed his stethoscope. Helena went to help adjust her aunt's clothes and to make her comfortable then drew back.

Nicholas smiled. ‘Miss Standish, I can assure you that you have not suffered a stroke. What you have is an attack of hemiplegic migraine, a condition very similar to a mild stroke and it can be rather frightening the first time. I promise that you will make a complete recovery. Now I want you to take the sleeping draught I will leave, and hopefully when I come and see you tomorrow morning, you will be much improved.' Seconds later, closing the clasp of his leather bag, he added with a reassuring smile, ‘Of course if you become worse or concerned in any way, please don't hesitate to send for me.'

Helena saw her aunt's eyes glisten and bent to touch her hand. ‘Isn't that wonderful news, Aunt Beatrice? I will just take Dr Carstairs down to Papa, I won't be long.'

He followed her out of the room and it was not until they stood on the wide landing together that at last they were alone. Her words were merely, ‘Thank you,' but she found the silent message she was searching for in those now familiar brown eyes. Intense, but heartbreakingly brief as a sound in the hall below forced her to look away, and then Nicholas stood aside so that she could precede him down the curved staircase and into the hall.

Helena's voice was now cool, brisk as she saw a footman. ‘Perkins, please would you take the doctor to the drawing room to Mr Faraday and my father. I shall see you tomorrow, Dr Carstairs.'

Congratulating herself that not even the actress Sarah Bernhardt could have put on a better performance, Helena began to go back upstairs, hugging to herself the fact that tomorrow was only hours away.