Bones of the Buried (19 page)

‘But you did discover Tilney wasn’t killed when everyone thought?’

Edward’s brow darkened. ‘I did, but what use was that? I fear it is possible my own clumsiness might have led his murderer to him.’

They glanced up to see the boys looking at them curiously so they quickly changed the subject to one of universal interest: the food. However, when they were parting, Stephen Thayer repeated
what he had said about having things to discuss with him. ‘I’ll phone when I can see what’s in my diary. Brooks’s perhaps? Better than the office, I think.’

Edward was greeted back at Mersham by a jubilant Connie: ‘Ned, he’s regained consciousness!’

Edward threw his arms round his sister-in-law in an unaccustomed display of affection and kissed her heartily on both cheeks. ‘That’s such wonderful news, Connie. Can I go in and see
him tomorrow?’

‘Yes, of course, but you can’t be with him more than a few minutes. He tires quickly. The doctors warned me, we’re not out of the woods yet. He’s still not able to speak
and we don’t know if he’s . . . if he’s lost his memory or . . . or anything.’

‘No,’ said Edward, still with his arms around her, ‘but it’s a start. Now he can begin to live again. I’m so pleased, Connie. It’s what we’ve been
praying for.’

He felt, rather than saw, his sister-in-law break into deep, panting sobs. She had kept herself determinedly cheerful and optimistic but, now there was something to give her hope that Gerald
might regain his health, she broke down. Edward said nothing but held her to him, gently stroking her head. When he felt her begin to calm down, he said, ‘First thing tomorrow we’ll
telephone Frank’s housemaster and ask him to pass on the good news.’

‘Oh yes, I was so excited that I forgot to ask how you got on at Eton.’

‘Everything was well with Frank. He’s so proud of you and says he’s determined to show it by doing well in Trials.’

‘The darling boy. It’s he who has been brave. Did you meet anyone you knew?’

‘As a matter of fact I did – Stephen Thayer, he was in my house. It turns out his son is Frank’s greatest friend. Small world, eh?’

They had dinner together, not ‘dressing’ as the Duke always insisted even when there were no guests. Like naughty children, they sat cosily in front of the library
fire and Edward, who had always had a soft spot for his sister-in-law, felt how pleasant it might be to sit as a married couple and chew over the day’s events. He thought he might be getting
weary of being single. As if reading his mind, Connie, daring on the intimacy engendered by their situation and relaxed by the good news and the wine with which they had celebrated it, said,
‘What about you, Ned? You look as if you need a bit of affection. Am I allowed to ask if there’s anyone . . .?’

‘No, Amy Pageant turned out not to be . . . I mean we’re still great chums and all that but . . .’

‘Verity?’

Edward looked into the flames. ‘I just don’t know, Connie dearest. As I said, we rowed . . . about my leaving, but what else could I do?’ His brow darkened and then cleared.
‘You’re the only person I could possibly talk to about it and . . . and there’s nothing to tell.’

‘Have you spoken to her?’

‘About my feelings for her? No.’

‘Why not? If you don’t ask her, how is she to know what you feel about her?’

‘The trouble is, Connie, I don’t know what I do feel about her. Sometimes, I think I love her to bits and then she reduces me to gibbering rage. I don’t want to sound a prig
but there’s so much about her I disapprove of.’

‘Her politics?’

‘Yes, but I don’t mind about them really. She’s a thoroughly good-hearted girl – just naive – and she’s under the influence of that man David
Griffiths-Jones.’

‘Still?’

‘Well,’ he said reluctantly, ‘since you’re being my father confessor, I had better tell you everything.’

Connie felt slightly guilty, knowing just how much Verity would hate being discussed in this way, but felt her first loyalty was to her brother-in-law . . . and she couldn’t help unless
she knew what the situation was between them. ‘Can I ask . . .’ she said nervously, ‘is she in love with this man Griffiths-Jones?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. He doesn’t think so. He actually told me she was “having a fling” – to use his words – with this American writer,
Belasco, who’s there in Madrid.’

‘Belasco! Gosh, I ’ve heard of him. I read one of his – it was a “Book of the Month” choice. I can’t remember what it was called. It was very well written but
I didn’t like it.’

Edward laughed. ‘Oh Connie, you’re so loyal.’

‘No,’ she said blushing, ‘I really didn’t like it. I got the impression from the writing that he was . . . I don’t know . . . fantasising about being such a
“tough cookie” – isn’t that what the Americans say? – but really he was just self-obsessed.’

‘No, no,’ said Edward, struggling to be fair, ‘he is a good writer – maybe even a great one. Anyway, the point is that he seems to have dazzled Verity.’

‘You really must tell her what you feel?’

‘I will but . . . she isn’t in the mood for love-making. She’s trying to make her name in a tough job where women are usually conspicuous by their absence. It takes up all her
energies.’

Connie leant forward and put her hand on Edward’s. ‘I’m so sorry, Ned. One is rarely forgiven for being generous, but maybe . . . maybe fate is trying to tell you she
isn’t . . .’

‘Gosh, this is jolly,’ Edward said, gently removing his hand from under hers, thereby signalling that he didn’t want to talk about his love life – or lack of it –
any more.

Later, when they were going to bed, Connie said, ‘I think it’s partly due to that nurse, that Gerald’s getting better.’

‘Which one is that?’ Edward asked casually.

‘Elizabeth Bury – she’s the pretty red-haired one. Wasn’t she there when you went to sit with him?’

‘Yes, I think I know the one you mean,’ he said lightly. ‘Well, tomorrow, if she’s on duty, I’ll make a point of thanking her.’

Before he went to sleep, Edward wrote a long letter to Verity apologising for leaving her in the lurch and asking for news of David. He ended: Thank God, Gerald has regained consciousness
– I’m going to see him tomorrow. In a week or two, I will probably feel comfortable about leaving Mersham and, if by any chance I can help, I will be delighted to come out to Spain
again. If, as I hope, everything is all tidied up, then of course you won’t want me. You probably don’t want me anyway . . .’

He sucked the end of his fountain pen: . . . but I want you, he longed to add but did not dare. This was the first letter he had ever written her and she had never had occasion to write to him.
He wondered if she would even read it. She might not even be in Madrid but chasing some ‘story’ the other side of the country. There hadn’t been much about Spain in the papers
recently; they had been filled with gossip about the new King, as though England was grateful for having some pleasant domestic news in which to bury its collective head.

In the end he just wrote: ‘I do hope you are not still angry with me, your friend from the politically unacceptable class, Edward.’

He read the letter through once quickly, grimaced, and sealed it. Then he rang for John, the footman, and asked him to make sure it caught the first post.

‘Very good, my lord,’ said the footman. ‘May I say, my lord, how happy we are in the servants’ hall to hear of his Grace’s recovery.’

‘Thank you, John. Yes, it is very good news, isn’t it, but it’s early days. We must keep our fingers crossed that he continues to improve. These head injuries . . . well, they
are so unpredictable.’

‘Yes, my lord.’ Then, presuming on his status as a servant who had known Edward since he was a schoolboy, he said, ‘Might I ask, my lord, if the Duke will be coming home? It is
the opinion of the servants’ hall, my lord, that we could look after him better here than any hospital.’

Edward was touched. ‘I’m inclined to agree with you, John, but of course, it’s up to the doctors. But if the Duke can be brought back here and properly nursed, I do think he
might get better more quickly. As you know, he’s always hated sleeping even a single night under a strange roof. I will be seeing him tomorrow morning and I promise to keep you all
informed.’

‘Thank you, my lord. That would be appreciated.’

When the footman had gone, Edward, still seated at his desk, smiled to himself. How Verity would spit if she had been privy to his conversation with John. She would have seen it as grovelling
subservience by a representative of the oppressed working class to a representative of the decayed aristocracy. ‘She would probably have strung us both up from the same lamp-post,’ he
muttered to himself. He was astute enough to recognise that the fact that he could imagine how Verity might see the situation meant that she had influenced him. A year ago, it would never have
occurred to him to question his own behaviour. It was not that for one moment he saw his and his family’s relationship with the servants as being anything other than natural, hallowed by
tradition and based on mutual respect. They were all – Duke and scullery maid – in some profound sense servants of the castle but with different duties. But Edward could see that,
before this horrible, shoddy decade was over, there would be seismic social changes and, he was honest enough to recognise, not all for the worse.

The next day, to his great happiness, he discovered that Gerald was definitely on the mend. Edward was able to say a few words to his brother who recalled that he had been in Spain, which was
evidence his memory was unimpaired. The matron would not permit him to stay for more than fifteen minutes and Edward saw that, even after so short a time, his brother was slurring his words and
showing every sign of extreme fatigue.

He raised with the doctors the idea of Gerald being nursed at home and, to his surprise, they were not opposed to the plan. ‘If he progresses as fast as he has in the last forty-eight
hours, in ten days or so I see no objection to his being nursed at Mersham Castle,’ Dr Wild opined. ‘I have had considerable experience of patients with head injuries, as you know, and
I have often observed that they benefit from being in familiar surroundings. I must tell you, Lord Edward, that the next ten days are critical. The great danger is that there is a blood clot or
some other obstruction to the flow of blood to the patient’s brain which might suddenly bring on irreversible brain damage. It is far too early to say that the Duke is going to achieve a full
recovery. I tell you this because it is my principle to tell relatives the truth. In the end, it is more merciful than buoying them up with false hope. Now, it is up to you whether or not you pass
this on to the Duchess but, as I say, I thought it was my duty to warn you this could be a false dawn.’

‘Yes, thank you, doctor. It was quite right of you to warn me. May I ask when, or perhaps I ought to say if, you judge the Duke to be well enough to return to Mersham, what special nursing
requirements would be needed?’

‘Nothing more than rest. I would recommend you spoke to Nurse Bury. I have noticed the Duke seems to have taken a fancy to her. He appears to find her presence soothing. I am sure I speak
for Matron,’ he said, turning to the large, starched-looking woman beside him, ‘when I say we could spare Miss Bury for, say, a month to look after the Duke. Of course, you would have
to talk to Miss Bury yourself and see if she was agreeable.’

Matron looked less than overjoyed at the prospect of losing one of her nurses for a month but could only nod her agreement.

‘Is Miss Bury here now?’

‘She comes on duty at five. If you would like to return then, Lord Edward,’ Matron said firmly, ‘I would allow you a brief conversation with her. However, we are very busy at
the moment, as I am sure you can see, so I would ask you not to take up too much of her time.’

Thus rebuked for a sin he had not yet committed, Edward went back to the castle in good spirits. He found he was looking forward to having Nurse Bury there – that is if she could be
persuaded to come. He had not even spoken to her yet but his one glimpse of her had convinced him he would like to know her better. He could hardly admit it to himself but, now that the immediate
crisis was over, he was in danger of being bored. He loved the castle better than anywhere else in the world but it was very empty without the Duke and, of course, it was not the time to have
guests.

It was not until the middle of March, a full fifteen days after the Duke had regained consciousness, that he was brought home to Mersham. He looked desperately pale to Edward
and, when he helped Elizabeth Bury put him to bed, he was shocked at how little flesh he had on him. His legs and arms were as thin as sticks, and his paunch, of which he had been embarrassed, had
degenerated to flaps of unsightly skin.

The days went by more quickly now and Edward began to be much taken by the red-headed young woman nursing his brother so devotedly. There was still a cold wind blowing but there were hints that
summer might not be far away. Connie used to chase Elizabeth out of the sick room to walk along the river, while she stood guard over the patient. Sometimes Edward accompanied her. His efforts to
make his meetings with Elizabeth seem accidental amused his sister-in-law. She liked to watch the two of them from the bedroom window – Edward, tall and supple, striding beside the girl, her
hair escaping like flames from a silk scarf. Edward suddenly seemed to have found his tongue and she longed to hear what he was telling her. She watched her turn her head towards him now and again,
hardly saying anything in response to his flow of words. Over the little wooden bridge they would go and Connie would see them disappear among the trees with something like envy. Her days of
romantic walks by the river were, she fancied, over for good. She could not help but hope that, in Elizabeth, Edward might at last have found a woman he could be happy with. She knew she was being
absurdly premature, like an old mother hen, she chided herself but . . . he had written to Verity – John had been indiscreet under her close questioning – and had had nothing from her
in response. She had heard him trying to telephone Madrid on more than one occasion but it seemed almost impossible to get through, as if Spain had decided to cut itself off from the rest of the
world while it sorted out its future.