Harstairs House Page 8

  Susannah took the eggs and put them on the kitchen table whilst he carried the pitcher inside, then he reached in his pocket and pulled out a slab of cheese.

  "Do you have any letters for me?" she asked.

  He shook his head.

  "Bain't anything," he said. " 'Appen tomorrow," he added cheerfully.

  " 'Appen," she replied.

  He took his leave and she went back into the house. As she put the eggs and cheese in the larder, she thought what she should do with her day. She and Constance had made a good start on sorting out the house. They had checked the linen and begun to make inventories of the rooms in the west wing, but Susannah felt disinclined for household tasks. She made herself a cup of chocolate and warmed some rolls by the fire. When everything was ready she glanced at the clock, but decided not to wake Constance. Constance had had difficulty sleeping of late and might need an extra hour in bed. She ate her breakfast sitting at the kitchen table, and then went up to the sitting-room. She was just about to pick up a book of engravings, which she had found on one of the console tables, when she caught sight of the courtyard garden. It was fully enclosed, but it could be reached through French doors leading from the sitting-room. There were French doors on the other three sides of the garden as well, one set leading to the dining-room to her left, one set to the drawing-room opposite and a final set leading to the passage at her right, which gave on to the top of the steps from the kitchen. This latter door would be particularly useful in future, thought Susannah, as it meant that trays of tea could be brought straight into the garden from the kitchen in the summertime, without the servants having to go through any of the main rooms of the house. As the light steadily grew, she decided to go out and examine the garden, seeing how much work it would need to restore it to its former glory.

  The air in the courtyard was still and, protected by the house, it was surprisingly warm. It would make a very pleasant place to sit in future, she decided, and she started looking forward to renovating it. It was some sixty feet square, and had a path running round the edge of it. Eight narrower paths ran into the centre from the points of the compass. In between the paths, small bushes were planted. They were dry and twiggy, but Susannah did not know whether it was because they had died back owing to the season, or whether they were actually dead. She would have to wait until spring to find out. Or better yet, she would have to ask Jim's father! There was a sundial where the paths met. It was a handsome stone monument, mounted on a pedestal, and it was covered in ivy.

  She walked down one of the weed-infested paths that led to it and tried to tell the time, but the ivy had encroached so far that it covered most of the dial. She began to lift it free, hanging it over the side so that she could see the dial's face. Just after seven o'clock, it said. It was surprisingly accurate. The long case clock in the sitting-room had chimed the hour just as she had left the house.

  Encouraged by the improved appearance of the dial, she pulled the ivy away from the plinth and cleared a small space around it. As she did so, she noticed there was some carving on the dial's base. It was covered with lichen, making it difficult to read. Taking out her handkerchief, she knelt down and began to clean the lichen away. She ran her finger, protected by her handkerchief, in the grooves of the letters. T…I…M…E…A…N…D…T… I…D…

  She smiled as she realized what the inscription must read: Time and tide wait for no one.

  She continued with her work, using a different part of her handkerchief for each letter, until she came to the O. She had just cleaned round the groove, and was wiping the lichen from the circle in the middle, when she felt the stone give. There was a grating sound and she felt the plinth begin to move. She sat back on her heels in surprise. The sundial swung slowly to the side, moved by some unseen mechanism, and revealed a hole beneath.

  Once it had stopped, Susannah knelt up and looked into the hole. It was just large enough for two men to fit through. Leading down from it was a set of broad, shallow steps which disappeared into a Stygian blackness. She felt her heart start to beat faster. It must lead to an ice house, or a priest hole, or… she stopped and strained her ears, as she caught the faint sound of the sea. Perhaps it led to the beach, or down to a boat house built into a cave beneath the house. She was tempted to fetch a candle, but the steps were green with lichen and looked slippery. It would be dangerous to use them.

  Reluctantly she pushed the sundial back in place. It was heavy, but once she had started to move it, it swung closed on its own. There was no longer any sign of anything untoward about it. The garden was lit by the early morning light, and the sundial looked as innocent as the rest. She decided that once she owned the house she would have the steps cleaned and she would explore the area beneath the dial thoroughly, going down with a local man or woman who knew the tides. Perhaps Oliver was wrong about them. Perhaps they were only treacherous in winter. If so, then she meant to keep a boat, and what could be more convenient than reaching it from a set of steps in the courtyard?

  She finished cleaning the plinth, revealing the full motto without anything else untoward happening, then she continued pulling back the ivy, clearing the path around the sundial. She stood up, pleased with her work. Already the garden was beginning to look more cared for, and it would be beautiful when it was done.

  She had had her fill of gardening and went back inside, but she could not put the passage out of her mind. If she could not find out where it led to by going down the steps, then perhaps she could find the other end. As she had heard the sea it must lead out on to the shore, or perhaps into a cave. She had not seen any crevices or openings on her previous visit to the sea shore, but then, she had not been looking for them.

  The hour was still early, and she resolved to take a walk down to the coast. If the tide was low, she would see what she could find.

  Stopping only to put on her cloak, followed by her hat, boots and gloves, she went through the sitting-room and out of the front door. Barely had she done so when she saw a figure walking across the lawn towards the house, approaching from the direction of the village. She hesitated for a moment, arrested by something odd in the figure's gait. The gentleman, for gentleman she could now see it was, seemed to be walking rather strangely. Drawn by a feeling that something was wrong she turned her steps to-wards him and, as she drew closer, she could see that it was Oliver. His head was down and he was walking unsteadily. Then he looked up and saw her. He was still some distance away, but instead of smiling or acknowledging her presence in any way, he changed direction, walking in an oblique line towards the back of the house. She thought that perhaps he felt as uncomfortable about their previous encounter as she did, and that he was trying to avoid her because of it, but then she saw him stagger, and wondered if he was drunk. It didn't seem likely. It was early in the morning. To be intoxicated at this time would have indicated a drunken disposition, but she had never smelt wine or spirits on his breath when encountering him in the daytime before.

  She began to grow uneasy, wondering if he was ill. But why, then, had he turned away from her? Unless he did not want her to know: men were often foolish about such things. Still, if he did not wish to see her, she did not feel she could intrude. She was about to continue with her walk when, out of the corner of her eye she saw him stagger badly and fall forward on to his knees. He stood up again, but his movements were awkward and he looked as though he was about to fall once more.

  Abandoning all thoughts of continuing on her way, she turned her steps towards him. As she drew closer she became alarmed. His face was bloody, and his left eye was black and swollen. There was blood on his coat and a tear in his breeches running the length of his thigh, along which she could see caked blood.

  "What happened?" she gasped, hurrying towards him.

  "N… nothing," he said.

  "Nothing?" she demanded. "You're black and blue." Her eyes ran over his face in concern. "How did you come by such injuries?"

  "It was… an accident… I fell,
" he said, speaking with difficulty.

  "Let me see," she said, trying to turn his face towards her, but he pulled away.

  "It's nothing," he said again, sharply. Or his voice would have been sharp if it had had any strength behind it, but it was so faint that she had to strain her ears to catch it. He tried to walk on, but he staggered again.

  "You're hurt," she said, taking charge of the conversation. "Let me help you."

  "No," he said.

  But he did not have the strength to argue any further. He barely had the strength to stand. He was swaying badly, and his injured leg looked as though it was about to give way beneath him at any moment.

  "Lean on me," she said.

  She slipped round beside him and pushed her head beneath his left arm, so that it was resting across her shoulder. He was so weak that he offered no more resistance, but let his weight fall on to her, steadying himself in the process. She felt her knees sag and she changed her position slightly to take his weight more comfortably across her shoulder. Then she put her arm round his waist. She felt him flinch, and realized that it was not only his face that was hurt. His body must be equally bruised. She began to walk forward slowly, supporting him as he dragged himself along beside her.

  What had happened? she wondered as they edged their way towards the side of the house. She turned to glance at him. His face was ashen where it was not covered with livid bruises. His mouth was swollen at one side, and it was swelling even more as she watched. It must have been a very bad fall, she thought. Perhaps he had tumbled from the cliff? But he had not been coming from that direction. He had been coming from the direction of the village.

  She could not plague him with any more questions at the moment, however, so she must contain her curiosity. She would have to wait until she had helped him back to the house and he had been made more comfortable, before she asked him anything further.

  The house seemed a long way away. She walked doggedly, with his weight heavy on her, and their pace was so slow that she had the alarming feeling that they were not getting any nearer. Gradually, however, they reached the stone building, approaching by way of the kitchen garden, and she decided to take him in through the kitchen door.

  As they reached the house, she said, "Can you stand by yourself? I have to open the door."

  "I think so," he said, through clenched teeth.

  She slipped out from under him, helping him to lean heavily against the door jamb before opening the door, then she assisted him into the kitchen, where he collapsed into a chair. She did not like his colour. Going into the larder she took a bottle of whisky down from the shelf, where it was kept next to the bottles of sherry, wine and Madeira that were used in cooking. She took the whisky back into the kitchen, poured some into a glass, and held it to Oliver's lips.

  "Here, drink this," she said. "It will give you strength."

  He took a little of the spirit before his head fell back again. She waited a minute, and then held it to his lips again, and this time he finished it. Some of his colour began to return. She put the glass down and set the kettle over the fire, finding a bowl and cloth whilst she waited for the water to boil. Once it was hot enough she poured it out, adding cold water from a bucket by the door until it was a comfortable temperature. Then, taking up the cloth, she began to wipe his face. She worked as gently as she could but he still winced as the cloth touched his cuts and bruises.

  "I'm sorry. I'm trying not to hurt you," she said sympathetically, "but your wounds have to be cleaned."

  "It's all right. You have a gentle touch," he said with an attempt at a smile.

  As she wiped the blood from his face she saw that some of the cuts were deep and she found they would not stop bleeding. She held the cloth over them, pressing against them slightly until at last the blood stopped flowing. Wringing out the cloth, the water in the bowl ran red. She emptied it out and was just filling it again when Constance entered the room with a bundle of torn sheets in her arms.

  "Good gracious," she said, her eyes widening in alarm. "Whatever has happened?"

  "Mr. Bristow has been hurt," said Susannah, looking up. "He has had a bad fall. He needs a doctor."

  "I will go for one directly," Constance said, setting her sheets down on the chair and unfastening her apron.

  Oliver's hand raised as though to grip Susannah's wrist, but then it fell back to his side again.

  "No, no doctor," he said in a faint voice.

  "You might have broken bones," said Susannah. "I don't like the look of your wrist, and some of your ribs might be cracked. You must have medical attention."

  "K… Kelsey," he said.

  "Your servant?" asked Susannah.

  "Yes. Fetch… Kelsey."

  She looked at Constance.

  "Find Kelsey, and bring him here as quickly as you can. He will probably be in the stables. If not, look for him in the library."

  Constance nodded and hurried out of the kitchen.

  Susannah started to fill the bowl again, but a hand on her arm arrested her attention. Oliver had regained some of his strength and he was sitting upright. His eyes looked straight into her own.

  "Not… much…" he said.

  "Hush," said Susannah, kneeling down beside him. "You are too weak to speak."

  "Not… much… time," he said, through swollen lips. "Say nothing… of this… to… anyone."

  "But a doctor…"

  "P… promise… me. No… doctors."

  He seemed so concerned that at last she said, "Very well."

  Once Kelsey arrived, she was sure that the two of them together could persuade him to see a medical man, or perhaps Kelsey might know enough to tell if any of Oliver's bones were broken. He lay back and closed his eyes, but he seemed easier now that he had her word she would tell no one.

  She looked at his leg. It would be indelicate of her to clean it, but a practical streak in her nature, enhanced by her unconventional childhood, overrode her qualms. She raised his leg, setting his foot on a stool, then filled the bowl again and began wiping the cut on his thigh.

  Soon there came the sound of footsteps hurrying along the stone corridor, and two men entered. One was James, the other was a short, stocky man of some thirty years of age, with broad shoulders and thick-set limbs. Kelsey, thought Susannah. Constance came behind them.

  Kelsey took one look at Oliver and said to Susannah, "Out."

  "You will need help," said Susannah, continuing to sponge Oliver's leg.

  Kelsey knelt down next to him.

  "Get out," he said to Susannah.

  "You must forgive Kelsey. He doesn't mean to be rude, but Oliver looks to be badly hurt," said James, in a more conciliatory fashion. "He will need to be undressed if we are to tend to him properly."

  Susannah bit her lip and stood up.

  "Of course," she said reluctantly, for although she knew that what he said was true, she still had an urge to help. "Constance and I will be in the sitting-room if you need us."

  "Thank you. We will call you if you can be of assistance. And thank you for taking care of him so well," he added, as Susannah and Constance went over to the door.

  "It was nothing," said Susannah.

  She and Constance went out of the kitchen, closing the door behind them.

  "Poor Mr. Bristow! What happened?" asked Constance in concern.

  "I don't know," said Susannah. "Only that he had some kind of fall. I came across him in the garden. He was finding it difficult to walk, and he was obviously badly hurt, too badly to tell me what had happened. I helped him back to the house and I did what I could to clean his wounds. But I am glad his friends are here. They will be able to make him more comfortable."

  "Do you not think a doctor…" began Constance.

  "I would rather he had one, but it is for his friends to decide."

  "What a dreadful thing to happen," said Constance, shaking her head as they went into the sitting-room. "And such a nice young man. But let us hope there are no bones brok
en. He will probably be all right by the morning."

  "I'm sure he will," said Susannah brightly.

  She did not want Constance to know how badly it had shaken her to see Oliver in such a state. She had tried to tell herself that she didn't have any feelings for him, but seeing him in pain had made her aware of just how strong those feelings were, and although she took up a book of engravings as they settled themselves in the sitting-room, she found it impossible to concentrate. She could see nothing but Oliver in her mind's eye, with his dreadful bruises, and his pale face.

  "What happened?" asked James, as Kelsey took out a knife and split the fabric of Oliver's breeches once the ladies had departed.

  "I was… set upon," said Oliver.

  "Who by?" asked James.

  "Militia."

  "Militia?" said James, sharply.

  Oliver winced as Kelsey pulled the fabric of his breeches away from his wound. His leg was gashed, and around the long cut his leg was bruised.

  "No more questions," said Kelsey curtly. "Not until I've finished here."

  A look of frustration crossed James's face, but he nodded. He picked up the glass and sniffed it. "Whisky?" he asked.

  "There's some kept for… cooking… in the… larder," said Oliver.

  "I'll get it. How much have you had?" he asked, as he returned with the bottle.

  "Susannah gave me a… thimbleful," he said, with an attempt at a smile.

  "I'll give you rather more than that," said James. He half filled the glass. "Take it. You need it."

  He handed it to Oliver, and Oliver drank deeply as Kelsey began to examine his leg.

  "Is anything broken?" asked James.

  Kelsey continued to manipulate the leg, asking, "Does this hurt? And this? And this?" whilst Oliver winced and replied in pain-filled tones.

  At last Kelsey sat back on his heels. "No, nothing's broken. You were lucky," he said to Oliver. "You're hurting at the moment, but you'll mend."

  "Thank God for that," said James, taking a glass of whisky for himself. "Now, tell me, Oliver, militia, you say? Where were they? How many of them were there? And what were they doing there?"