Vintage Love (136 page)

“What is wrong?” She asked impulsively.

“It’s Mark,” he said. “I’m sorry. He was stricken in the office. He’s been taken to hospital.”

“What is wrong?”

“He’s had a stroke,” the handsome, dark man said. “A bad one. If he lives through the next few days, he has a chance to recover.”

She sat down, tears in her eyes. “So this is how it is going to end!”

The big man hovered over her. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“Thank you,” she replied in a low voice.

“I won’t pretend that Mark and I got along; you know better. But I would never wish this on him.”

“I know.”

Bart sighed. “I’m afraid it is his own fault. His excessive drinking could not go on. You must have known that.”

“I have,” she said. “But there was nothing I could do about it. Mark and I have not been close for many months.”

“I understand,” he said. “What about his sister?”

“She is at the mission she founded,” Becky said. “She must be sent word.”

“Give me her address and I’ll send a messenger,” he said. “And I’ll take you to the hospital.”

She looked up at him. “I don’t want to impose.”

“I wish to do it,” the handsome Bart said soberly. “And I want you to know that regardless of the differences between Mark and myself, you have a friend in me.”

“Thank you,” she said. “You must be happy in your marriage and proud of your new son.”

“I’m proud of my son,” he said, and she wondered if there were some significance in his making no reference to his marriage.

The Victoria Hospital was a new building with the latest in equipment. Following the Crimean War, a fine nursing staff had come into being and many of the best of the new group were working at the Victoria. Florence Nightingale herself had words of praise for the hospital and its staff.

Dr. Trevalyn was in charge of the case. He was a solemn young man with a balding head and a bushy red whiskers. He met Becky in the hallway and, after giving her a brief outline of Mark’s condition, took her into his private room. She still found herself shocked at the sight and sound of her stricken husband. He was a ghastly gray in color, and his face seemed to have hollowed out so that he looked like a wizened old man. But his breathing was the worst, and his breath came in rattling gasps, each one of which seemed about to be his last.

After she had stood there staring at him with horror on her lovely face, the young Dr. Trevalyn gently guided her outside again.

He said, “You can do him no good by being there at this time. And seeing him like that has to be hard on you.”

“Is he going to die?” she asked in a voice with a tremor.

“That is in God’s hands more than ours,” the doctor said. “We are doing all that we can. And in these cases, there is not all that much we can do.”

“If he lives, is there any chance of a complete recovery?” she ventured. “He is the managing director of a shipyard.”

Dr. Trevalyn shook his head. “Do not count on his resuming that position, even if he recovers. He cannot have as severe a stroke as he’s had without suffering some permanent body or mind damage. In all likelihood, if he lives he’ll be an invalid.”

“When will we know, Doctor?”

“If he lasts the week, he’ll live,” the young doctor said. “Beyond that I cannot predict.”

The prim Elizabeth came hurrying in while she and the doctor were still talking and demanded to see her brother. Dr. Trevalyn calmly studied the upset woman and came to a decision.

“I think it in your brother’s best interests that he not be further intruded on,” he said.

“I am his sister; I have a right to see him,” the spinster said angrily.

“Do you want to help him?” the doctor asked.

“Of course!” Elizabeth said.

“Then do not go in there just now. He is unconscious and won’t know you. But your presence, especially if you should break down, might do him some harm.”

Becky told her, “The doctor thinks there is a good chance that he may live.”

Elizabeth gave her a venomous glance. “Much you care! You are the one who drove him to this state!”

She gazed at the spinster’s angry face with despair and turned and walked away down the corridor. She waited in the carriage until Elizabeth came out and joined her for the ride home. The spinster was now considerably calmer than she had been.

As she took her place in the carriage beside Becky she said, “The doctor talked to me. He explained that Mark was the one to blame for what has happened. I will not make any unfounded accusations again.”

Becky said, “Thank you. It is best that we try to get along. If Mark recovers, he will need the loving care of us both, I’m sure.”

• • •

Mark lived. But it was weeks before he could sit up or recognize anyone. His speech was badly slurred and his right side was paralyzed. Dr. Trevalyn offered hope that as time passed the stricken man might regain much of the use of his right side and also his speech.

Becky’s first visit with him after he was able to recognize her was brief. She said, “You’re going to get well, Mark. And Elizabeth and I will do all we can to help you.”

He stared at her with glazed eyes and nodded. Then he waved for her to leave. He did not attempt to speak with her. But she learned from Elizabeth that he had managed to say a few words to her, and that he wanted to return home as soon as possible.

In mid-April he left the hospital, able to walk with the use of a cane. His speech was still hesitant but much better than when he’d first been stricken. He seemed to have withered into an old man, and his clothes were too large for him. At Dr. Trevalyn’s suggestion a nurse was retained to care for him at home. He would still be convalescent for many months, so warm-hearted and stout Hazel Green accompanied him in the carriage as his private nurse.

He kept much to his own room after he returned home and refused to receive callers. He seemed to enjoy only the company of his jolly nurse and his sister, Elizabeth. He tolerated Becky for occasional visits but always gave signs of weariness that made her leave after a short while. The shocking thing was the change in his personality. He no longer grasped the simplest things quickly, and he had no interest in the business at all. He made no enquiries about it and seemed to have forgotten he held so responsible a post.

Old Matthew Kerr had been forced back to the office to show new interest in the affairs of the shipyard. His return to activity seemed to have improved his health in both mind and body. He was far more alert. Though he still used a cane, he did not lean on it as he had in the past. One day in late April he called Becky to the red brick building, which served as the headquarters for the shipyard.

He greeted her in his private office next to the one now occupied by Bart Woods, which had once been Mark’s quarters. The old man saw her comfortably seated across the desk from him before he began to talk.

“How is Mark?” he began.

“The same,” she said. “He takes a walk outdoors with his nurse occasionally. But he does not talk or read much. And he shows no interest in the world around him or in the business.”

Matthew Kerr looked troubled. “I’m sure we are sorry for it all. It would seem that his mind has not the clarity of old.”

“He is only a shadow of his old self,” she agreed.

“Bart has asked me to talk to you about a matter of great import,” the old man said. “We are at the end of our tether and must make a change, or wind up the business.”

“I see,” she said.

“We have a chance to get contracts for some iron ships—I feel we must take them.”

“You and Bart are running the business now,” she said.

“But the bank insists we get Mark’s approval on a change before they advance us the money we’ll need to refit the yard.”

“Don’t they know that Mark is not normal mentally?” she asked.

The old man looked embarrassed. “I’m afraid not. We don’t dare tell them. These bankers are a conservative lot. They trusted Mark implicitly, but they do not have the same faith in Bart or myself.”

“So?”

“If we divulged that Mark is too ill to take any interest in the business they might wait for months before deciding to give us the loan we need. By that time we’d have lost the contracts. But if we could get Mark to sign a paper, saying he approved. Or even if you would sign a statement as representing his wishes, I’m sure we could get the bankers to give us immediate backing.”

She sat back in her chair. “You’re asking a lot.”

“I know.”

“Mark is not going to approve if he understands. And if I had him sign something he didn’t understand, I would feel guilty, just as I would feel guilty acting in his name against his wishes.”

“He owns a large share of the firm,” Matthew Kerr reminded her. “His personal fortune could vanish if the firm collapsed. We could all be ruined. You might find yourself facing a penniless widowhood.”

Becky said, “You are asking me to betray Mark and save the firm.”

“Since he isn’t in a mental state to make judgements, you should undertake to make judgements for him,” the old senior partner said. “It is more than a wife’s prerogative and duty.”

She felt herself trapped in a desperate situation. Was she to compromise herself once again? She gave the old man a pleading look. “I want to help.”

“I’m sure you do,” Matthew Kerr said. “And Bart felt you would not let us fall without attempting to help.”

“The firm is on the brink of bankruptcy?”

“Thanks to Mark, it is,” the old man said.

“Can I have a few days more to give this thought?” she asked.

“Only a few days,” the old man warned. “I must have your answer within the week. Things are that bad.”

“I will do everything possible,” she promised him.

He rose with a smile on his round, old face. “I have always liked you, Rebecca. I think the best thing Mark ever did was marry you. But I know he has not tried to make his marriage a success, anymore than he tried to improve the business. In these last years he seems to have had a wish to destroy himself and all around him.”

“I know,” she said quietly.

“I will expect to have word from you,” the old man said.

She left with a heavy heart. At home she tried to talk to Mark about the firm’s troubles, but he simply sat there staring at her in a dazed state and made some comment about the garden blooming late. She could not reach him though she was sure he partially understood what she had told him. Perhaps he was merely weary of it all. It was too much for his sick mind to cope with.

Two days later a message arrived for her from private detective Phineas Pennifeather. In his scrawling hand was written, “Come to me at my office immediately. Urgent!—Phineas Pennifeather.”

She quickly dressed for going out and summoned the carriage. Within the hour she was climbing the rickety stairs to the third floor office and facing the sad-faced old man.

“Do sit down,” he urged her. “Those stairs are difficult.”

She sat and breathlessly asked, “What have you found out?”

He paused dramatically and then informed her, “I have found your sister!”

“Heaven be praised!” she said. “Can I go to her?”

“Yes,” the private detective said sadly. “But I doubt she will know you.”

Fear stabbed her. “She won’t know me?”

“I fear not,” the old man said. “She is suffering from a loathsome social disease. Because of it or utter despair she seems to have lost her mind.”

“No! It can’t be!” she said with a sob.

“I cannot hide the truth from you,” Phineas Pennifeather said. “She is dying in a hovel near the docks. Alfie Bard is dead. He was stabbed by another pimp in a quarrel over a bawd’s earnings. So there is to be no bringing him to justice. He died as he lived.”

“Surely Peg can be saved! When she sees me, she’ll have hope! I’ll breathe new strength into her. I’ll have the best available doctors look after her.”

The private detective stood up. “She is lucky to have a forgiving sister like you,” he said. “I will take you to her.”

They went down to the carriage, and the old man told the driver the address. It was indeed a hovel near the worst section of the dockyard slums. It was a warm day, and everything seemed foul and smelly in the narrow back street. The detective helped Becky from the carriage and led her up a fetid, dark alley which never saw the sun.

Becky swayed a little. “I’m fearful I may faint,” she said in a low voice.

“Courage, Mrs. Gregg,” the private detective said as he rapped on the faded wooden door with broken panels.

After a moment the door was opened slowly and an ugly harridan in a dirty gray dress glared at them suspiciously. “What do you want?” she challenged them.

“We have come to see Peg Lee,” the detective said.

The woman eyed him disgustedly. “Too late. She died this morning. Her body is already gone. And good riddance!” She spat and slammed the door in their faces.

Becky turned to the private detective and then fainted.

Becky was stunned by the shock of Peg’s death. But Phineas Pennifeather proved himself even more competent than she had quessed. Not only did he revive her and get her safely back to the carriage, but he found out from the slattern where the body had been sent for a pauper’s burial. Then he went and claimed the body but would not allow Becky to see the dead Peg.

“You have gone through enough,” the old man said sternly. “You must remember her as she was. Not in the sorry state she is in now. The casket must be closed on her.”

“Very well,” Becky said, her eyes still brimming with tears, but realizing the sense of his suggestion. “But I want her to have a proper funeral in a proper grave. I want a service over her with mourners. And when it is all done, I want a fine little stone erected above her.”

“I can manage all these things,” the old man assured her. “You needn’t trouble yourself with the details except the paying of the bills.”

“The money does not matter,” she said. And this was true. Since Mark’s stroke she had been in full charge of his accounts and his bank balance. She knew it was more than ample for both their lifetimes.