We took her to Landower, as it was nearer than Tressidor. When the doctor had made a cursory examination, they brought a stretcher and she was carried with the utmost care.
She was badly injured, but she was not dead. I clung to that fact. A room was made ready for her and another for me, as I wanted to stay with her. She was unconscious for two days and even then we did not know the extent of her injuries. Both legs were broken and there was a hint that she might have injured her spine; there was only one thing I could be thankful for: she was still alive.
The next few days seemed unreal to me … like something out of a nightmare fantasy. I was aware of people round me. Gwennie was determined to do everything she could for us—and I was grateful for that. I thought fleetingly that adversity brought out the best in people. Paul was there; he represented strength to me—just as he had come to me on the road when I needed help; he was there now and I felt that I should have the courage to face whatever had to be if he were there.
I scarcely slept; I did not notice the passing of the days. I was constantly at Cousin Mary’s bedside, for that seemed to comfort her. She wafted in and out of consciousness and on those occasions when she was aware, I wanted her to know that I was beside her.
Paul was often with me. He held my hand and whispered words of comfort, and yet at the same time he did not attempt to hide the truth concerning the gravity of Cousin Mary’s injuries. I wanted to know all, however bad; I wanted nothing held back.
It was Paul who said he should be with me when the doctor talked to me, and it was he who said to the doctor: “You must be frank with Miss Tressidor. She wishes to know exactly what the position is.”
The doctor said: “She will never be the same again. She has sustained multiple injuries. I can’t say exactly how bad they are yet, but they are considerable. I doubt she will ever walk again. She is going to need nursing.”
“I shall nurse her,” I said.
“That is excellent, but you may need help. I think I should send a professional nurse.”
“Only if I need it,” I said. “Let me try first. I am sure she would prefer that.”
The doctor hesitated, then nodded.
“There is another thing,” I went on. “She would prefer to be in her own home. Mr. Landower has kindly offered us wonderful hospitality here, but naturally …”
“Naturally,” said Doctor Ingleby. “But let her rest here for a few more days yet. Perhaps in about a week she could be moved. We’ll have to see.”
Paul said: “You must stay here as long as is necessary. Please don’t have any qualms about that.”
“Let us wait and see,” said the doctor.
So we waited and to my joy after two days Cousin Mary was able to talk a little. She wanted to know what happened. “All I remember is Caesar’s bolting.”
“It was a tree trunk, right across the road.”
“I remember it now. I saw it too late.”
“Don’t talk, Cousin Mary. It tires you.”
But she said: “So we’re here at Landower.”
“I found Paul and he helped me. We’ll be home soon.”
She smiled. “It’s good to have you here, Caroline.”
“I’m going to stay here … right beside you until you’re well.”
She smiled again and closed her eyes.
I felt almost happy that day. She’s going to get better, I said to myself over and over again.
That evening I wrote to Olivia.
“Dear Olivia,
“Something awful has happened. Cousin Mary has had a terrible accident. She was thrown from her horse and has injured herself terribly. I must stay with her. You’ll understand I can’t leave her for some time. That means postponing my visit.
“I am so sorry not to see you but you will understand. Cousin Mary needs me. She is very bad and my being with her comforts her. So … it will have to be later. In the meantime do write to me often. Tell me what you want to by letter. Then I shall be as close as if I were with you.”
I then went on to give her an account of the accident and to tell her that we were staying at Landower and why.
She intruded on my anxieties for Cousin Mary, because the feeling that something was wrong with her would persist.
Cousin Mary improved during the next few days … in spirit, that was. She felt little pain and the doctor told us that probably meant that her spine was injured, but apart from her inability to move she seemed not to have changed very much.
I knew the reverse was the case. She had great spirit and that was evident; but I wondered what effect her condition would in time have on an active woman who had always been independent of everyone— and I shuddered to contemplate that.
In the meantime I was very much aware of the atmosphere which pervaded the house. Living in the midst of it brought it home to me more strongly. It was like a cauldron, murmuring, rumbling, seething, all set to boil over.
As the days passed it became clear to me that my presence did not help. I had no doubt of the strength of Paul’s feelings for me and I was sure that Gwennie was becoming increasingly aware of this. The house seemed to be closing about me, holding me, charming me in a way, claiming me for its own.
I spent a little time with Julian. He looked so delighted when I crept in to his nursery at bedtime. I would read a story to him from the book I had bought him for Christmas and he would avidly watch my lips as they formed the words, sometimes repeating them with me.
There were occasions, too, when I saw him out in the gardens and I would then go and play with him.
Gwennie said: “You and my son seem to be good friends.”
“Oh yes,” I replied. “What a delightful little boy! You must be proud of him.”
“There’s not much Arkwright in him. He looks just like a Landower.”
“I expect there is something of you both in him.”
She grunted. I wondered afresh about her. He was a possession— one would have thought her greatest—but she did not regard him as she did the house. “Pa thought the world of him,” she said.
“Poor Julian! I daresay he misses his grandfather.” I was glad there had been one member of the household who had loved him.
“It’s secured the family line,” said Gwennie. “I don’t think there’s likely to be any more.”
I found this conversation distasteful. I think she knew it and for this reason pursued it. There was a malicious streak in Gwennie. “There had to be some pretence at first, of course,” she said. “That sort of thing’s all over now.”
I said: “You don’t mind my going to see Julian, do you?”
“Why, bless you, no. You go when you like. Make yourself at home. That’s what I say.”
She was looking at me slyly. Did she know that my relationship with Julian was one of bitter-sweetness? Did she know that when I was with him, I thought I might have a child of my own … one rather like this one … dark hair, deep-set eyes, a Landower? Did she understand how I longed for a child of my own?
Gwennie knew a great deal. She was not one of those people—like so many—who are completely absorbed in themselves; she could not resist probing the lives of other people; she liked to discover their secrets, and the more they tried to hide them the more eager was she to know. It was, in a way, the driving force of her life. She knew about my broken love affair, the marriage of my one-time lover with my sister. Such matters were of the utmost interest to her.
I often thought of those servants who watched our actions. Their endeavours were mild compared with those of Gwennie. She was an unusual woman.
Then there was Paul. He was finding it more and more difficult to veil his feelings.
I wondered why he was so indifferent to his son. One day, on a rare occasion when I was alone with him, I asked him. We were in the hall and I had just come in. It was dusk and a blazing fire in the great fireplace threw flickering shadows over the gilded family tree. He said: “Every time I look at him, I think of her.”