Suddenly he reached out, as though trying to find something.
‘What is it?’
‘Your camera,’ he said. ‘The one you always keep with you.’
Now she understood. Pulling it out, she fixed it to take a picture after a few seconds’ delay, and set it up a little distance away. Then she took him into her arms, looking into his face.
His own eyes on her were quiet with a peace she had never seen in them before.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We’ll always be together. I may not be there again, but my love will be, until the end of your life. Tell me that you know that.’
She couldn’t speak, only nod.
Then it was time. The orderlies wheeled him away. Suddenly it was all over; she might never see him alive again.
‘Suppose he dies?’ she said to Hope, distraught. ‘Dies in an operation that he only had because I made him? He might have lived for years without getting sick. If he dies, I’ll have killed him.’
‘And if it goes well, you will have saved his life and his sanity,’ Hope said firmly.
How slowly the hours passed. Many times she took out the camera and studied the last picture she’d taken. It was tiny, but she could see Dante’s face turned towards her with an expression of adoration that startled her. Had it been there before, and had she just never noticed? Would it be the last of him that she ever saw?
What had she done to him?
She seemed to see her life stretching before her, with an empty place where he should have been. There was her child, asking where her father was, and not understanding that her mother had sent him to his death.
The years would pass and their child would grow, become a success, married. But without a father to show his pride and love.
‘I took it away from him,’ she mourned.
‘No,’ Hope said. ‘You have to understand that Dante was right about doing the quick-step with fate. He’s giving himself the best chance, or rather, you’ve given it to him. You were fate’s instrument. Now it’s out of our hands.’
At last he was wheeled out of the operating theatre, his head swathed in bandages. He looked pale, ghostly, and completely unlike the Dante they knew. But he was alive.
‘It went well,’ the doctor told them. ‘He’s strong, and there were no complications, so we were able to support the wall of the weak artery with less difficulty than usual. It’s too soon for certainty, but I expect him to live.’
‘And-the other thing?’ Ferne stammered.
‘That we’ll have to wait and see. It’s a pity he delayed treatment for so long, but I’m hopeful.’
That qualification haunted her as she sat beside Dante’s bed, waiting for him to awaken. She didn’t know how long she was there. It was a long time since she’d slept, but however weary she was she knew she couldn’t sleep now.
Hour after hour passed. He lay terrifyingly still, attached to so many machines that he almost disappeared under them. Part of his face was invisible beneath the huge plug clamping his mouth and attaching him to the breathing machine.
She had seen him wicked, charming, cruel, but never until this moment had she seen him totally helpless.
Perhaps it was for ever. Perhaps she had condemned him to this, although he’d begged her not to. He’d asked her forgiveness, but now, in the long dark hours, she fervently asked for his.
‘I may have taken everything away from you,’ she whispered. ‘You tried to warn me, but now, if your life is ruined, it’s my fault. Forgive me. Forgive me.’
He lay motionless and silent. The only sound in the room was the machine helping him to breathe.
Dawn broke, and she realised that she’d been there all night. A doctor came to detach the breathing machine, saying, ‘Let’s see how well he manages without it.’
Ferne stood well back while the plug was removed from his mouth and the machine pulled away. There was a pause, while time seemed to stop, then Dante gave a small choke and drew in a long breath.
‘Excellent,’ the doctor declared. ‘Breathing normal.’
‘How long before he comes round?’ Ferne asked.
‘He needs a bit longer.’
He departed and she settled back beside the bed, taking Dante’s hand in hers.
‘You’ve made a great start,’ she told him.
Could he hear her? she wondered. Hearing was supposed to outlast all the other senses. Perhaps if she could reach him now she could even help to keep his brain strong.
‘It’s going to be all right,’ she said, leaning close. ‘You’re going to wake up and be just the same as I’ve always known you-scheming, manipulative, dodgy, a man to be avoided by a woman with any sense. But I’ve never had any sense where you were concerned. I should have given in the first day, shouldn’t I? Except that I think I did, and much good it did me. Do you remember?’
He lay still, giving no sign of hearing.
She went on talking, not knowing what she said or how much time passed. The words didn’t matter. Most of them were nonsense, the kind of nonsense they had always talked-but he must surely hear the underlying message, which was an impassioned plea to him to return to her.
‘Don’t leave me alone without you; come back to me.’
But he lay so still that he might already have gone into another world. At last, leaning down, she kissed him softly on the lips.
‘I love you,’ she whispered at last. ‘That’s all there is to say.’
Then she jerked back, startled. Had he moved?
She watched closely. It was true; he moved.
A sigh broke from him, and he murmured something.
‘What did you say?’ she asked. ‘Speak to me.’
‘Portia,’ he whispered.
‘What was that?’
After a moment, he repeated the word. ‘Portia-I’m so glad you’re here.’
She wanted to cry aloud in her despair. He didn’t know her. His brain was failing, as he’d feared. Whoever Portia was, she was there inside with him.
Slowly he opened his eyes.
‘Hello,’ he murmured. ‘Why are you crying?’
‘I’m not-I was just happy to have you back.’
He gave a sleepy smile. ‘You were calling me names-scheming, manipulative, dodgy. Never mind. My little friend will stand up for me.’
‘Your little friend?’ she asked, scarcely daring to breathe.
‘Our daughter. I’ve been getting to know her. I want to call her Portia. She likes it. Darling Ferne, don’t cry. Everything’s going to be all right.’
It took time to believe that his recovery was complete, for the news seemed too good to be true. But with every hour that passed Dante showed that his faculties were as sharp as ever.
‘We played fate at his own game,’ he told her. ‘And we won. Or, rather, you did. You were the player. Before you came, I never had the nerve to take that game on. Without you, I should never have had it.’
He touched her face.
‘I see you there so clearly, and everything around you; all the world is clear. I hadn’t dared to dream that this would happen.’
‘It’s what I always believed,’ she said.
‘I know, but I couldn’t be sure. There was always the chance that you might have had to put me in an institution.’
Ferne hesitated. It would have been so easy to let this moment slip past and be forgotten, but something impelled her to total honesty, whatever the risk.
‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘I would never have done that.’
He frowned. ‘But you promised, don’t you remember?’
‘I know what I promised,’ she said calmly. ‘But nothing would have made me keep that promise. Even now I don’t think you begin to understand how much I love you. Whatever happened, I would have kept you with me. If you were ill, that would have been more reason to love you, but you were in no state to understand it then. So I had to practise a little deception.’
He looked stunned, as though the full power of her declaration was only just dawning on him.
‘But,’ he whispered at last, ‘you promised on everything you hold dear and sacred.’