The Reckoning (35 page)

‘
Where's Ned?' James said at the same moment.

Father Moineau didn't answer. He was thrusting them
away from the violated room. It contained no bed now.
Héloïse saw that not all the whiteness of his face was plaster.

*

It was like being shut inside the imagination of a lunatic, Hél
oïse thought. It would have been impossible for any sane
person to have imagined the devastation, the destruction, the
mess, the rubble and chaos; or the suspension of time which
made that night seem so endless in its horror.

In the comparative safety of the Great Hall they got all the
servants together, some weeping and sobbing, some chat
tering hysterically, others white-faced and silent with shock;
and Héloïse, as the crowd of them milled purposelessly in the
flickering light, tried to check faces, to see if anyone was
missing.

The nursery-maids were there with the children wrapped
in blankets. Nicky and Bendy were heavy-eyed and bemused
from sleep, not yet understanding what had happened. Sophie
and Miss Rosedale took charge of them, and the rest of the
women. How was it Sophie was suddenly so grown-up, so
capable and calm? Her room was next to Edward's – the
shock ought to have been worst for her.

Edward! The most urgent thing was to find him, and then
to check on the extent of the damage. Héloïse, without
knowing quite how she began, found herself lighting lamps:
candles would be no use in that wind. Moineau was gathering
the men together – ah, thank God for him now! James and Durban, his man, had disappeared into the shadows of the
ruins of the kitchen to make sure there was no danger of fire.
Héloïse wondered briefly about the horses, remembering
James's words about the crash of a tile setting them into a
panic. But there were grooms there, who slept above the
stable. It was foolish to be thinking about horses, except of
course that she was thinking about them so as not to think
about
- about Edward. He jumped into her mind, the stored
picture of him saying goodnight and going off to bed. To bed.
There was no bed in the room. She had a sickening and invo
luntary vision of him and the bed sliding out into the black
ness. It was the worst nightmare of childhood. The last, best
safety of bed, the one place which from infancy you knew was
inviolable: pull the covers over your head to keep away the
bad things. Safe in bed. No bed in the room. Edward
 
Moineau was leading the men out. The wind was too strong
to open the great door, so they were going out through the
buttery. Ottershaw, strange in a plaid dressing-gown instead
of his black coat, was holding the door and counting the men
through, checking who was there. A good man, Ottershaw.
He caught her eye over the heads, and instantly she thought
of Barnard. She hadn't seen her cook anywhere. She
mouthed the name at Ottershaw, and he jerked his head
towards the kitchen. Yes, of course, he would have gone there
straight away, to his beloved kitchen. But it might be
dangerous. James should make him come back.

James and Durban were returning, dishevelled and black
ened from the dust and soot, followed by Barnard, who was
wrapping a cloth around a cut on his hand. James came to her
and took her hands. He meant to reassure her, but he could
not have known, she thought, what his face was expressing.

‘
Keep everyone here. I don't think any more will come
down, but I can't be sure. There's no danger of fire, but the
debris has fallen in the moat, and I'm afraid there may be
flooding. I'm going out now to look for Ned.'

‘
Oh God, James –'

‘
Pray, Marmoset,' he said starkly. 'Pray as you've never
prayed in your life before.’

Then he was gone, and Durban – and even Barnard, too.
Miss Rosedale and Mrs Thomson had got everyone to keep
still at last, and were checking who was present. Sophie had
got one of the housemaids to make up the fire, and was orga
nising the nursery-maids into making beds for the boys on the two Louis Quinze sofas which stood on either side. They were
too hard and slippery for beds, but it was natural to want to
have the children go back to sleep. And it gave Sophie some
thing to do. There was nothing for Héloïse to do but wait; and
to pray of course – except that her mind seemed numb, and
she could not shape the inner phrases. Dear God, was as far
as she could get. Over and over again. Dear God ...

*

Dawn in January is laggard, and never later than when most longed for. The wind, having done its worst, eased and died
down, but the cold rain streamed from clouds which obscured
the moonlight that was needed so much. The men came in at
last in the grey light of approaching dawn, soaked through –
both from the rain, and from the waters of the moat. They
came in muddy, dishevelled, dirty, with bleeding hands and broken nails from scrabbling through the rubble. They came
with noses and lips blue and numb, and fingers stiff and
swollen from the icy water. They came in carrying Edward on
a makeshift litter fashioned out of timbers and coats.

James reached Héloïse first. 'He's alive,' he said in answer to the question in her face. 'But –' He shook his head several
times, slowly, as though his senses were fuddled. His hair was
plastered down with water to his scalp and there was a long
scratch across one cheek. 'He'd been thrown almost clear,
otherwise we wouldn't have found him so soon. But there was
still a lot of stuff on top of him. Father Moineau thinks –'
Again the shaking of the head.

‘
Go to the fire, James,' Héloïse said. 'You're wet through.'
She caught the priest's eye over his shoulder. 'Father
Moineau and I will take care of Edward.’

James gave her a dazed look, as though he had not under
stood her. 'We couldn't find the dog,' he said in a small, clear
voice. 'Tiger always slept beside his bed, but we couldn't find
him.'

‘
We must send someone for the physician at once,' Héloïse
said. 'Stephen, where's Stephen?'

‘
Here, my lady.'

‘Are you fit to go?'

‘
Yes, my lady.' He turned away without further words. A
good man too, Stephen. Sam and William were setting the
litter down across two chairs, as close to the fire as possible.
Edward's face was a mask of blood, his nightshirt dark and
soaked with mud and blood and water. Héloïse felt herself
begin to tremble at the sight of him, at the extent of the ruin.
What to do? Where to begin? It was Brussels all over again,
except this was Edward, dear, good Edward, her brother.

And James was bending over him, wiping the blood
tenderly from his face with the torn end of his sleeve. He
looked up at Héloïse. He was trembling with exhaustion, but
he seemed beyond noticing even that. 'We couldn't find the
dog,' he said again. 'I wanted to go on looking, but they
wouldn't let me. We have to go back and find him. Ned will
never forgive me if we don't find Tiger.’

Tears were running down his face as well as rain-water,
but he didn't seem to be aware of it. Horses sometimes died
when they got to that pitch of exhaustion and shock, she
thought. She ached to comfort him, but was afraid to touch
him, in case it was the one last thing that was too much.

*

Miss Rosedale was there at Héloïse's shoulder, calm and
strong, directing the servants and smoothing small problems,
to remove one burden from her mistress. So glad now, Héloïse
thought, that she hadn't gone away. What would I do without
Rosey? And now that Edward — no, unthinkable thought.

They did what little they could for Edward, cutting away
the shreds of his nightshirt, washing off the blood and mud,
drying him, trying to keep him warm. It all had to be done
without moving him. His visible injuries, strangely, were not
so very serious: a long, shallow gash across the scalp,
numerous minor abrasions, a deep cut on one shin, a broken collar bone and several broken ribs.

‘
But there may be internal injuries,' said Moineau. There
must be, said the tone of his voice.

Héloïse looked at Edward's white, still face. He had not
stirred since they brought him in. His breathing was faint and
shallow, his pulse weak. He was still with them, still fastened
to the earth, but by such a fragile thread. 'It is very bad, isn't
it?' she said quietly.

Moineau didn't speak, but he nodded.

‘
It's a miracle he's still alive,' Héloïse said after a moment.
The dislocation of shock, and the strangeness of everything,
was making it difficult for her to realise that this was not a
dream, that this really was Edward lying here, that in a
moment she would not blink and find everything back to
normal. Random violence had broken open their lives and
looted them, as a fox raids a nest, breaking eggs, crunching
up nestlings. How could they have been so always vulnerable,
and not known it? It was unreal, unbelievable.

‘
There's nothing more we can do now,' Moineau said at
last, as if to himself. 'Just try to keep him warm.’

James came back from having, at Héloïse's insistence, dried
and dressed himself. 'How is he?’

She hesitated, hating the naked hope in his voice.

Moineau answered. 'It's not good. He's very pale. He may
have internal injuries, in which case —’

James made a surprising, hoarse sound, and dropped to his knees beside the litter. 'What shall we do if he dies?' he cried
helplessly. 'What shall we do?' Héloïse went to him, put her
hands on his shoulders, and he covered them with his own
hands, gasping as he tried not to sob. 'God, don't let him die!'

‘
I'm praying, James,' she said.

‘
Yes, yes, keep praying. Oh God, he mustn't die!' He
rocked a little on his knees, holding on to Héloïse's hands, and
staring and staring at the wax-white face as though he might
will it back to life and strength. 'He's only fifty-five. It isn't
old really, is it? We're a long-lived family. Papa lived to his
seventies, and Mama to her sixties. He's too young to die.’

He knows he's going to die, Héloïse thought, holding him
tighter. She hadn't really believed it until that moment.
James began to cry. 'If only we'd found Tiger,' he sobbed.