Читать книгу The Winter Orphan - Cathy Sharp, Cathy Sharp - Страница 6

On the lonely road, a carriage bowled smartly through the gathering gloom of a bitter night, both coachman and horses eager to find an inn, stables and warmth. Inside, the man, his eyes closed as he endured the jolting of his well-sprung vehicle, let out a cry of pain, but it was not for physical discomfort. In his mind, he had seen again the dying agony of the woman he loved, cradled in his arms but beyond his help.

‘Katharine …’ he murmured, tears on his cheeks. ‘Katharine, why did you leave me?’

Yet it was not her fault that she now lay in the icy ground. The brute who had killed her was punished but that did not ease Arthur Stoneham’s grief. It was for her memory that he was set upon this road this dread night, because she would not let him rest and he knew he would carry this agony until he had fulfilled his promise to her – a promise to find the sister she had loved.

After weeks of following clues that led nowhere, Arthur was no closer to discovering what had happened to Marianne Ross more than twelve years earlier than he had been when he left London. He had visited the man Katharine Ross had spoken of in her dying fever. Squire Thomas Redfern had seemed a pompous young man to Arthur and uninterested in Katharine or her sister and so he had simply told him of Katharine’s death and her wish that Arthur would look for her sister.

‘It is my intention to do all I can to find Marianne,’ Arthur told the squire, looking for some flicker of feeling but there was none.

‘I do not believe you will find any trace of that unfortunate young woman,’ Thomas said in a voice devoid of emotion. Married, with two young sons, he had clearly ceased to mourn her long ago. ‘A search was made at the time. Marianne unwisely walked home through the woods, though she had been warned gypsies were camping there. My father and hers made searches but no word of her was ever heard. I think she was murdered and her body concealed …’

For a moment there was a flicker of something but then it was gone. If this man had ever loved Katharine or her sister, he had only a fleeting interest now. Arthur decided that he must have mistaken Katharine’s last words; she could not have loved someone as unfeeling as this man! He would not give him another thought, nor, if Marianne were found, would he pass on news of her to such an unfeeling oaf.

The resolution helped to soothe his wounded heart a little, for he could not be jealous of such a man. Katharine must have been trying to say something other than the words that had burned into Arthur’s soul: ‘Tell Tom I loved him …’

He would not think of this man as a rival for Katharine’s love again. Perhaps she had meant to say, ‘Tell Arthur I loved him,’ and the words had come out wrong.

The squire had no clues to help Arthur find Marianne Ross, nor did any others he questioned in the household. It was no different in the village. No one remembered much of the old tragedy. Marianne had simply disappeared that night and never been heard of since. Most who remembered the old story believed her dead. Arthur himself thought it was the most likely explanation, but he would do his best to exhaust any leads that might help him to discover the truth, though they were few indeed. Gypsies had been in the woods and one of Marianne’s shoes had been found so it seemed to him that there were two possible explanations: either Marianne had been attacked and killed or she’d been abducted by the gypsies. He was unlikely to find her whatever the case, but he must exhaust all possibilities before admitting failure for his own peace of mind.

Arthur lounged back against the comfortable squabs in his carriage, closing his eyes as his coachman drove through the icy night. Although his journey had been fruitless, he was still in Hampshire and not ready to return to London and give up the search for Katharine’s lost sister. As Hetty, his true friend and colleague, had told him, he owed it to the memory of the woman he’d loved. Hetty ran Arthur’s refuges for women and children in London and had been Katharine’s friend, nursing her when she lay dying.

Katharine’s tragic death was still like a stone in Arthur’s breast and he could not face the anxious looks and concern of his friends, especially those who had also loved her. The man who had caused her death was locked away in a cold cell from which he would emerge only to meet death at the end of the hangman’s rope. The rogue’s fate was assured, but that did not ease Arthur’s state of mind. His grief was too bitter, too personal, to be shared – nor did he wish for sympathy, and together with the grief came the doubts and the guilt.

Was it Arthur’s fault that Sir Roger Beamish had seized the chance to send his beautiful Katharine to her death in front of that brewer’s waggon? Sir Roger’s insane jealousy was certainly one cause for the spiteful act, but Arthur now knew that the man had been ruined, his fortune lost, and that in his twisted mind he’d blamed Arthur, who’d caught him cheating and accused him publicly of it, for his downfall. Or was it because Katharine had refused him and accepted Arthur’s proposal that he’d given her the vicious push that ended her life beneath the flailing hooves of the heavy horses? Arthur knew he would never discover the answers to his questions and it haunted him.

He groaned and pushed his tortured thoughts to a distant corner of his mind. Katharine was lost to him and nothing would bring her back. His only hope of finding peace was to unravel the mystery of her sister’s disappearance. Perhaps then he might be able to sleep at night.

Suddenly, he heard a shout and his carriage was brought to a screeching halt as the coachman reined in his horses abruptly and Arthur was flung from one side of the carriage to the other. By some miracle, his man managed to hold the plunging, screaming horses and the coach did not overturn. Recovering swiftly, Arthur wrenched open the door and jumped out into the road.

‘What happened?’ he demanded of his driver, but even as he asked, Arthur saw what looked like a huddle of rags lying a few feet in front of his carriage. The horses were still snorting and stamping their feet, disturbed by being so misused, their breath white on the frosty air, and Arthur went to their heads to quieten them, whispering against their faces so that they calmed and responded to his voice before he walked on to investigate the bundle.

Arthur looked to either side of the road suspiciously for it might be a trick to take them unawares. Some thirty-odd years earlier, highwaymen had been the plague of these roads, but none had been seen since the last known gang was caught many years before. It was now 1883 and Arthur did not fear them but there were still rogues and thieves aplenty who might offer violence on a dark lonely road such as this, so it was best to be careful. Indeed, it was only the previous year that Her Majesty Queen Victoria had been shot at, so Arthur went prepared wherever he travelled. He patted the pistol in his greatcoat pocket, ready for the worst if this was a trick.

‘Be careful, sir,’ his groom warned. ‘It may be the work of rogues …’

Arthur had reached the huddle of rags and saw at once that it was a young woman lying there. Her face was pale and for a moment he thought her dead. Kneeling on the frozen surface of the road, Arthur felt for a pulse. It was faint but it was there. He swept her up in his arms as his groom came to join him.

‘What is it, sir?’

‘A young woman – and she’s barely alive, Kent. Had we not chanced on her she might have died this night. We need to get to the nearest inn.’

‘There’s a small one about a mile ahead. Let me help you, sir.’

‘Open the door of the carriage,’ Arthur said. ‘I have some brandy in my bag and I’ll see if I can get her to swallow a little. As soon as we reach the inn, I want you to discover the nearest doctor and bring him to us.’

Kent nodded, glancing at the woman as Arthur lifted her gently on to the seats and sat next to her, holding her against him. Another servant might have observed that she was a vagrant and warned his master, but all Arthur’s people knew that such a remark would earn them a severe glance. Arthur Stoneham would never leave a woman to die on the side of the road, even if, as it looked, she was a beggar.

‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell the coachman to get on now.’

He shut the door carefully and left Arthur to settle the unfortunate woman. Arthur took a small silver flask from his pocket and opened the stopper, then gently lifted the woman in his arms so that she was propped up against his shoulder as he put the flask to her lips.

‘Try to swallow a little please,’ he said gently. ‘It will warm you …’

Whether she heard or not, Arthur could not know, but she moaned slightly and, as her mouth opened, he poured a tiny drop on to her tongue. Her throat swallowed and he poured a few drops more. He thought she sighed and her body seemed to sag against him. He sat with his arms about her, holding his greatcoat around her frail body, instilling his warmth and vitality into her, willing her to live.

‘Be brave, lady,’ he murmured. ‘I have you and you are safe now.’

As the coach slowed to a halt and his groom opened the door and helped him ease the woman out, he saw a small inn with a lantern above its door and welcoming lights from a parlour window.

‘Run and secure rooms for us, Kent – and then fetch that doctor!’

‘Yes, sir.’

Kent ran ahead while Arthur gave instructions to his coachman about stabling the horses then assisted the shivering woman to walk. By the time he reached the lights and warmth of the inn hallway, Kent had secured a room for him and accommodation for himself and the coachman.

‘There is but the one room in the house but I thought it would do as you will want to watch over the young lady, sir – and me and Barrett are over the stables and the landlord has given me the doctor’s direction,’ Kent told him.

Arthur nodded to the landlord. ‘I shall require a fire lighting and food for us all. My companion is not well, so some warm milk, perhaps, if the doctor thinks it advisable.’

‘Yes, Mr Stoneham.’ The landlord bowed respectfully. Kent had made sure to speak of his master’s consequence, no doubt, for the landlord took a brass oil lamp and lit their way up to a large chamber at the rear of the house. ‘I fear there is but the one bed, sir.’

‘She is ill and must have it,’ Arthur said. ‘I shall take the chair and be comfortable enough; besides, she will need watching. I do not know what has befallen this poor girl, but I shall not let her die if I may prevent it.’

‘Your man said you were a philanthropist of the highest order, sir. My wife would take in all the waifs and strays if she could …’ He tutted as he saw the condition of the young woman. ‘She cannot be past twenty, sir. It is sad to see one so fair brought to this.’

‘Yes, you are right,’ Arthur agreed. ‘I fear it happens all too often but, with God’s aid, we help those we can.’ The landlord nodded and looked pious.

‘Amen to that, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ll send the chambermaid up to light the fire straight away.’ He paused, then, ‘Will you dine here or in the parlour?’

‘I’ll dine after the physician has been and we hear what he has to say.’

The host nodded and left Arthur to place the girl between the clean sheets and cover her. Despite her wretched clothes, he thought she had washed recently and her skin had a pleasant perfume of its own. She was pretty, he decided, as he pushed the long fair hair back from her cheek. If she lived, he would be interested to hear her story and would help her if she was willing to be helped. He could take her to Hetty, who would find her a bed at the refuge and perhaps a place to work, he thought as he turned away to take off his coat.

‘My baby! Give me back my baby!’

The cry from the young woman’s lips was so desperate that Arthur turned sharply and saw that she was sitting up in bed staring about her wildly.

‘Where is she? What have you done with her?’

‘I saw no baby …’ Arthur felt a stab of doubt. Had he missed the child? He had seen nothing of it when they rescued the woman. No, there had been no child nearby that he’d been aware of – but had it been lying hidden by the side of the road? ‘Forgive me, where was your child, madam?’

‘They took her. They said she was stillborn but I heard her cries,’ the woman said clearly, in the voice of one gently reared, and then fell back against the pillows, her eyes closing.

Arthur bent over her, fearing for a moment that a relapse had taken her life, but she was sleeping now and her breathing seemed a little easier. He was relieved, but the poor girl was feverish. He decided that he would not go and look for the missing babe for she seemed confused. Perhaps she had recently given birth to a child that had died, which might explain her distress, but why had she been lying in the middle of the road?

It was more than half an hour before Kent returned with the doctor. By that time the maid had a good fire burning and the room was pleasantly warm. The doctor examined his patient and confirmed Arthur’s belief that she had recently given birth.

‘She still has her milk,’ he told Arthur, ‘though I would say it was some days since the birth – perhaps more than a week.’

‘She was asking for the child and seemed confused. Do you think she has been attacked?’

‘I see little wrong with her,’ the doctor told Arthur. ‘I imagine she may not have eaten for some hours and she was probably on the verge of dying of the cold. It is a bitter night, Mr Stoneham – too cold for any of us to be out.’

He seemed a little annoyed that he had been brought from his warm house to tend a woman he did not consider sick, for bearing a child was the law of nature. Arthur kept his counsel, paid him generously and thanked him for his advice – which was that she should have rest, good food and be kept warm.

‘She is young and with some food inside her will soon recover her strength, sir. I think these young women are often back in the fields within days of giving birth.’

‘You think her a country woman?’

‘She is dressed like one of the travelling folk,’ the doctor said disparagingly. ‘Be careful, Mr Stoneham – these people can take advantage if you let them.’

Arthur nodded, giving no answer except to thank him for his time once more. He was angry, for he had seen nothing in the young woman’s features to suggest she was Romany and would not have cared if she was, but he would have thought by her speech that she was more likely to be of good family, although he supposed the clothes she wore might have belonged to the kind of woman the doctor had mentioned.

A knock at the door made Arthur turn to greet the plump woman who had arrived with a hot toddy and a glass of warmed milk.

‘I’m Sally, the landlord’s wife, and I thought you could do with something to warm you, sir,’ she said. ‘I brought the milk in case the young lady was feeling able to drink it.’

‘At the moment she sleeps,’ Arthur said. ‘I wonder if you could bring me up a cold supper – I do not feel able to leave her just yet.’

‘How would it be if I sat with her for a while, sir? You go down and my husband will bring you soup, bread and then cold meat and pickles – if that will suit?’

‘It sounds like a feast,’ Arthur said and smiled, for Sally had a kind face. ‘She woke once and I think she has recently lost a child.’

‘The poor girl,’ Sally said. ‘I know how that feels, for I lost one of my own – though I now have two strapping sons.’

‘I am glad to hear of your present happiness,’ Arthur said and drank some of his hot toddy. ‘I shall take this with me, Sally. Please watch this lady while I avail myself of your husband’s hospitality.’

It was an hour and a half before Arthur returned to the bedchamber. The landlord’s wife was bathing the young woman’s forehead and smiling as she tended her. Clearly, she had taken to her patient and was caring for her as she would one of her own.

‘Thank you for your kindness, Sally.’

‘It was a girl I lost, sir. She would have been just a little younger than this young lady if I am not mistaken, for she can be little more than eighteen.’

‘You think her gently born?’

‘Oh yes, sir. Her hands have known work but only in the past few months – and her skin is soft and white, her features gentle. I believe her to have been ill-treated, Mr Stoneham – there are marks of a beating on her back no more than a few months old.’

Arthur’s eyes narrowed in question. ‘You bathed her to ease her fever and discovered scars?’

‘Aye, sir, I did. Who would beat a young woman who was bearing a child? I do not understand such cruelty, for my John is a good man. What kind of a man could do such a thing?’

‘I fear there are many such,’ Arthur told her, frowning. ‘I daresay there is a sorry tale behind her appearance but she is not alone in her suffering; there are many more …’

Sally nodded but made no further comment. She took her tray and left the room, saying she would return later but he must ring for her if he needed her help. Arthur thanked her and sat in the armchair by the fire, stretching out his long legs and leaning his head against the winged back. He felt warm and he had dined well. The young woman seemed to be resting and he might as well sleep if he could; time enough when she woke to discover the mystery that had brought her to a lonely road for him to find on such a night. It could not be mere coincidence. This was meant to be and Arthur sensed that he was meant to find her.