Authors: Tessa Harris

The Dead Shall Not Rest (26 page)

BOOK: The Dead Shall Not Rest

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Chapter 40

T
ime was not on Thomas’s side. He was yet to confront Dr. Hunter. Signor Moreno languished in jail; Charles’s injuries, although not life-threatening, could worsen his chronic condition; and Lydia, although conscious, would need many days, if not weeks, to recover from breathing in the toxic cyanide vapors. Sleep was out of the question that night. Instead he went straight from the giant’s bedside to stables in Fleet Street, hired a good mount, and rode out of London as dawn was breaking over the city.

Before ten o’clock he had a fresh horse, and he finally arrived at Boughton shortly after three that afternoon. Sir Theodisius, alerted to his arrival a few moments before, was in the hall to greet him, a relieved look on his round face.

“Oh, Dr. Silkstone, how glad I am to see you,” he cried.

Thomas was equally glad to be at Boughton and to see that the coroner was in an ebullient mood.

“How fares Lady Lydia?” he asked anxiously.

“Why don’t you see for yourself?” said Sir Theodisius, pointing the way up toward the bedchamber.

Thomas nodded and bounded up the stairs. The exhaustion from riding since dawn disappeared as he made his way to the room. To his delight, he found Lydia sitting up in bed, finishing off a bowl of broth held by Nurse Pring. As soon as she saw the young doctor, the nurse rose and curtsied.

“Dr. Silkstone!” Looks of surprise and delight mingled on her face, but on her patient’s there was nothing. Lydia looked at Thomas and registered no emotion, no flicker of recognition.

“Your ladyship, ’tis Dr. Silkstone, come to see how you fare,” the nurse said gently.

The color had returned to normal in Lydia’s cheeks and her eyes were bright, but Thomas could see that her breathing was labored.

“Thank you, Nurse Pring. I shall examine her ladyship now,” he said, and the nurse left the room, leaving Thomas alone with his patient. His instinct was to rush toward her, sweep her up in his arms, and hold her tightly. He had feared that this moment might never come and had rehearsed it in his own mind so many times. But now that it had arrived, that they were together, alone, there seemed to be a strange distance between them. He sat on the bed. He wanted to take her hand in his and kiss it, but he did not. The enigmatic look in her eyes prevented him from doing so.

“Lydia. Your ladyship, ’tis I, Dr. Silkstone. Thomas,” he said softly.

“Thomas,” she echoed, tilting her head slightly as she studied his face. “Thomas,” she repeated, only this time with more conviction in her voice.

“Yes,” he said gently. He laid his hand flat on the bed coverlet, but still did not dare to touch her. He knew that cyanide poisoning could sometimes cause temporary amnesia in its victims. He feared he might find her in a confused state, but this was worse than he had imagined.

“You have been very ill, my lady. You have been asleep for almost two weeks. I am here to take care of you. To see that you recover,” he told her. “May I examine you?”

Again she looked at him strangely, as if her mind was in another place, trying to recall faces, names, places. “Yes,” she replied.

Gently he took her wrist and tried to find her pulse. He saw her take a deep breath and close her eyes for a moment, as if his touch thrilled her, and when she opened them again after two or three seconds, she looked at him again.

“Thomas,” she said, only this time, there was meaning in her voice. “Thomas,” she repeated, smiling. She put her hand on his on the coverlet and he felt a surge of joy.

“Oh, my love,” he said, leaning forward and putting both arms around her. He felt tears welling up in his eyes.

“I remember,” she said. “Yes, yes, I do.”

Wiping away a tear, he studied her face once more. Even though she could remember his features, he suspected the fog of the coma still shrouded many of her memories. There would be questions from her and the answers would be painful, but for the time being he rejoiced in her emergence back into reality.

“I am here to help you get well,” he told her. “Tell me how you feel?”

“I am a little short of breath,” she replied. “And a little giddy.”

“You have been out of bed?”

“Nurse Pring bade me walk to the window to see if I could. I was unsteady on my feet.”

“ ’Tis to be expected,” said Thomas as he resumed feeling for her pulse. When he did feel the beat, it was weak, as he suspected it would be.

“Thomas,” she said. “Tell me what happened? They said it was an accident, that I breathed in poisonous vapors, but I do not understand how.” She paused thoughtfully. “I do not believe they are telling me the whole truth.”

Thomas felt his own heart miss a beat. Her memory was worse affected than he feared, yet her faculties and her perception remained sharp. He took a deep breath and held her hand. “There is so much to tell you, my love, but it should wait until you are stronger.”

She frowned. “But why should you keep anything from me?” she asked. “Is my past so terrible? Have I done something so dreadful that I must be shielded from it?” Her voice was becoming agitated, and with it, her breathing came in shorter, sharper pants.

Thomas knew he needed to calm her. “I will tell you the truth, I promise, just as soon as you are feeling a little better. But now you must rest.”

He made her lay her head back on her pillows and her breathing eased. “You have to trust me, my Lydia,” he said, gently stroking her forehead. Her eyes closed. “I will not let anyone hurt you ever again,” he told her. “You are safe now.”

Back in London, Emily was also doing her best to reassure Charles Byrne that his wounds would soon heal and that all would be well. She had been at his side all night and was with him when he woke around noon. He had cried out in pain when he tried to sit up, and she had given him laudanum from the phial Dr. Silkstone had left. It seemed to ease him and he slept some more until late afternoon.

“I am a dead man,” he groaned as she tried to make him drink a little chicken broth later that evening. “I have lost everything.”

Emily’s eyes played on his head and face. The skin was black and purple, like a pulped plum. “How could they do this to you?” she lamented.

“They took my money. They took it all,” reflected the giant mournfully. “Now I’ll never get back home.”

“Do not give up all hope, Charles,” she soothed, trying to coax another spoonful of broth through his swollen lips. “Do not forget the king can still grant your da a pardon.” She tried to sound cheerful, but in reality, she knew there was little hope left. She had seen from an upper window that not only Howison waited for him outside. Hunter’s surly lackey had been joined by more men now, envoys of other anatomists eager to get their scalpels into such a prize. For all she knew, they could even have beaten up her beloved to hasten his death. They scented blood in their nostrils. Soon they would come in for the kill. She knew that Charles had asked her father and his friends to keep watch over his remains and sink his coffin into the sea once he was gone, safe from the surgeons’ knives, but she feared strong liquor might mean they did not keep to their word.

She put the half-empty bowl of soup down when she saw he would drink no more. “You need to rest now,” she told him.

“Emily,” he said, as he watched her smooth his coverlet.

“Yes, Charles,” she replied, looking at him with a gentle smile.

He held out his huge hand and took hers, enveloping it as petals close around a bud. She gazed down, and the sight of it brought tears to her eyes. “Whatever h-happens to me,” he said, fixed intently on her, “I want you to know that I love you.”

She smiled tenderly. “Here, I have something for you,” she said, delving into her apron pocket and taking out a lock of her own hair, tied with a white ribbon. “I kept some of yours, so ’tis only fair that you should have some of mine.”

The giant’s enormous fingers closed ’round the lock and he held it to his lips to kiss it before holding it to his breast.

At that moment the count burst into the chamber, unaware of the scene of tender intimacy that he had just interrupted.

“I have great news,” he cried excitedly. He climbed up onto a chair by the giant’s bedside, clutching a sheet of parchment. “ ’Tis from His Majesty’s court. They have granted your father a posthumous pardon, Charles!” Forgetting the extent of the giant’s injuries, he leaned over and planted a kiss on his friend’s cheek in the continental manner. Despite his discomfort, Charles managed a smile. Even Emily abandoned all decorum in front of the count.

“I’m so happy for you,” she cried, squeezing Charles’s hand.

The little man was so caught up in the moment that he jumped down from the chair and started dancing a jig, flourishing the parchment in his tiny hand. “A pardon, a pardon, a very royal pardon,” he sang, making Emily laugh. Even Charles began to chuckle, but his exertions caused him to cough, making his bruised ribs doubly painful.

“We must leave you now. You must rest,” said the little man, bringing his moment of madness to a sudden halt. “I am sorry.”

Emily sketched a curtsy and left the room, but the giant beckoned his small friend over to him. Turning his large black head, he whispered into the little man’s ear: “Thank you, Count. At least now I can die a happy man.”

Chapter 41

M
emories,
mused Thomas,
are what make us what we are. Without them we cannot be ourselves. They shape our characters and our actions. All that we do and all that we are comes from our own experiences and the recollection of them.
Stored deep within the secret labyrinths of the brain, they could be selected and recalled at will, like books in the Ancient Library of Alexandria. He was watching Lydia as she slept opposite him in the carriage on the journey to London and he knew that she was still not herself. Until she recalled all that had gone before, until she could once again open those books of memories, she could not move on with her life.

He did not know how long her memory loss would last. He had heard of cases where the patient never recovered from the amnesia. He took comfort in the fact that hers was only a partial loss of recollection at the moment. She had recalled Sir Theodisius and snatched fragments of her childhood, like playing with her brother, although she had not remembered that he was dead. Naturally she had been devastated when Thomas had told her, but then the realization had triggered other memories, too, and she spoke of her cousin Francis and of her late husband. Thomas feared that such a torrent of terrible memories might push her into a deep depression, and he had reluctantly sedated her.

He had carried her into the carriage while she slept and her head rested on his shoulder. She was well covered with a blanket and a shawl, although the spring weather was fine and warm. Now and again, her breathing came in short gasps, but Thomas had seen such symptoms before and knew that they should pass in a few days.

Lovelock was at the reins, with Will as footman. The ground was dry and hard, so that they were making good progress when Thomas saw the milepost for Beaconsfield. They were now more than forty miles into the journey, and Lydia began to stir. She rubbed her eyes, opened them, and to Thomas’s delight, smiled when she saw his face.

“Where are we?” she asked, sitting up and straightening her back.

“Near Beaconsfield. Another three hours and we should be in London,” he told her.

She seemed satisfied with his answer and turned to look out of the carriage window.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

After a moment she turned to look at him. “Very strange,” she replied. “In myself I feel weak and tired, but I also feel”—she paused, searching for the right word—“empty.”

“Because you cannot remember?”

“Yes.” She nodded. “Although I do remember more now.”

“Go on,” Thomas urged.

“I remember Michael and what happened, and Mama. I seem to be able to recall things that happened a long time ago, and yet . . .”

“And yet you cannot remember what happened just before you were poisoned.”

“Is that what usually happens?”

Thomas nodded. “Your long-term memory does not seem to have been so badly affected. But your short-term memory will return. Have no fear,” Thomas assured her.

She smiled and slipped her hand in his. “I remember us,” she said. “I remember how very much in love we were.”

“And are,” he said, kissing her hand.

She held his gaze. “Can you love someone who tried to take their own life?”

Thomas froze. She was staring at him with trusting eyes. Did she really recall what happened or was she testing him?

“You were not well and I was not with you,” he replied. “You would not let me help you, but I am here now.”

“I cannot remember why, Thomas.” She shook her head and withdrew her hand from his. “If only I could remember why,” she cried through clenched teeth. Thomas felt her frustration.

“Something happened,” he said slowly, recalling the night of the concert.

“What do you mean?” She frowned.

“You saw someone, or someone said something to you that changed you. You were so agitated. You returned to Cockspur Street and then the next day you came and told me you wished to end our betrothal.”

She turned and looked unseeing out of the window. “The concert. The concert with the young castrato,” she said slowly.

“Yes. Yes. That’s right!” In his excitement Thomas took both her hands in his. They had just begun the steep descent of White Hill from Holtspur Heath. There was dense woodland on either side and the leaves were already out, creating thick green canopies on either side. But before Lydia could say any more, there was a loud cry and a horseman came thundering past the carriage window. A second later Lovelock was pulling up the horses and they came to an abrupt halt, almost throwing the passengers onto the other side of the carriage.

“What is it?” asked Lydia nervously.

Thomas put his head out of the carriage window. The horseman wore a black mask and was pointing a pistol at Lovelock, and when he saw Thomas, he turned the barrel on him.

“So, who have we here?” sneered the man.

“I am a surgeon and a physician, sir,” replied Thomas.

The highwayman pulled on the reins to make his horse backtrack to give him a better view inside the carriage. Lydia put her head down, not wishing to meet his leering gaze, but it was too late. He had seen her.

“Well, well, and this is your patient, I presume.” His manner was snide and cocksure. “A fair one, and that’s for sure. Let’s be havin’ you, then.” He leaned over and opened the carriage door. “Out you come. Both of you,” he barked.

Thomas resisted. “Can you not see this lady is sick?” he cried. But the highwayman simply cocked his pistol and pointed it at the doctor’s head.

“Get out or I’ll blow your brains out,” he ordered.

“No! No, please!” screamed Lydia, tugging on Thomas’s coat as he rose.

“ ’Twill be all right,” he told her.

“And you,” shouted the thug to Lydia.

“Leave her, will you. She is sick, I tell you,” shouted Thomas. Once again, he found himself staring down the barrel of a pistol.

“She looks well enough to me.” He smirked, watching Lydia cautiously make her way out of the carriage, clinging on to the door to steady herself. His eyes alighted on a jeweled clasp that Lydia wore on the front of her bodice. “And that looks good to me, too,” he said, lurching forward and ripping off the ornament in one fell swoop.

Lydia screamed and hid her face in Thomas’s shoulder. He knew there was no point in fighting back. Every week some poor unfortunate traveler ended up dead at the hands of a highwayman. Instead, he comforted her. She was now crying almost uncontrollably. He feared for her breathing. He could hear her gasping for breath in between sobs.

“You’ve got what you wanted, now go,” cried Thomas. But the highwayman started to laugh.

“That’s rich, that!” He was doubling over, clutching his sides mockingly, but then he stopped suddenly, dismounted, and walked over to Thomas. Grabbing him by the throat, he hissed menacingly: “I haven’t even started.”

Thomas swallowed hard, feeling the man’s grip tighten, but then it suddenly loosened as the sound of hooves approached.

“Constables!” cried Will Lovelock.

Two men on horseback were galloping down the hill toward them. The highwayman ran to his horse, mounted, and rode off, firing a single shot in the air as he did so. Thomas rushed to comfort Lydia, who was now shaking and struggling to breathe.

The constables pulled up their horses. “The lady is not hurt, sir?” one asked.

“No, but in shock,” replied Thomas, helping Lydia toward the carriage.

“We needs be after ’im,” shouted the other and they jabbed their horses’ sides and were off in hot pursuit of the highwayman, leaving Thomas, Lydia, Lovelock, and Will to compose themselves.

They settled Lydia back in the carriage and covered her with blankets to keep her warm. She was still shaking violently and looked dazed, but Thomas thought it best to continue their journey. From out of his bag he took smelling salts and tried to revive her. They eased her stupor a little, but it was a while before her condition stabilized and Thomas gave the order to move on.

He held her close in the carriage, stroking her hair, but her tears still fell. “You are safe now, my love,” he comforted her.

Lovelock made good progress through Beaconsfield and on beyond Windsor until they reached Newgate. The landscape was now more familiar to him. Trees gave way to tall buildings, and the smell of dung and filth wafted into the carriage. It was growing late, and darkness was closing in. Lydia had not spoken since they had moved off again, sleeping for most of the journey, but now that they were in the city and the rhythm of the carriage changed, stopping and starting to allow flocks of sheep or carts to pass, she awoke and sat up.

“My brooch,” she whispered, suddenly feeling her dress. Thomas thought of the garnet and enamel clasp that the highwayman had ripped so cruelly from her bodice.

“The constables will retrieve it for you,” Thomas assured her, but she lifted her head from his shoulder and looked at him.

“No, you don’t understand,” she said, looking intently at him. “The brooch, it made me remember.”

“Remember what?”

She swallowed hard and took a deep breath. “When I had the long sleep, I had a dream. Only it wasn’t a dream. It was a memory, a memory that I had tried so hard to forget. When the man touched me and pulled at me, then I remembered.” She shuddered and turned to Thomas. “You must promise me that what I am about to tell you will be our secret.”

The young doctor looked at her earnestly. Her expression was pained and frightened. “I swear, on my life.”

“I pray to God you will not think less of me, but I understand if you do.” Her voice was cracking with emotion.

“There is nothing in the world that you could do that would make me love you less,” Thomas cried, taking both her hands in his. “You are the kindest, noblest, and most dutiful person I have ever met.”

“If that were only so,” she muttered, her head dropping in shame. “I was young and foolish. I didn’t understand—” She broke off.

“Whatever has happened, whatever you have done, your burden will feel less if you share it with one who loves you beyond all else,” he told her, pulling her toward him again.

“I remember now why I tried to kill myself, and I wish I had succeeded,” she sobbed.

“You must not speak so, my love,” scolded Thomas.

“I am a wicked woman.”

“How could you do anything wicked? Tell me what it is that so distresses you.”

Once more she took a deep breath, as if preparing herself for her confession, and then began: “You know we eloped, Michael and I?”

That much Thomas knew. He nodded.

She went on: “We lived in Bath, as man and wife. I loved him so much, but I knew that Mama would never consent to our union unless Michael renounced any claim to the Boughton estate. After about six months I feared I was with child—I had been feeling unwell for some time—and I told him so. He changed toward me. He said we could not have a child out of wedlock. I knew he was right, but I thought perhaps he would marry me and we could survive on my modest income. I thought that all would be well.” There was a note of pleading in her voice. She went on, “About a week later, he said we were to go on a journey, to London. I thought perhaps he had arranged a marriage service there. How wrong I was.” The tears returned, flowing freely. “He took me to a house, I cannot recall where, and he started to ply me with brandy, which I did not want. Then he led me through into a room.” She paused once more. “I cannot speak of it, Thomas. I cannot speak of the horror. They lifted me onto a table.”

“They?” Thomas interrupted.

“This other man, he fastened me down. I tried to cry out, Thomas, but I couldn’t move. He had a needle. A hollow needle,” she sobbed. “And he did it. He did it! He plunged it into me and poured in some poison to kill the child in my womb.” She hid her face in his shoulder, her whole body convulsed with sobs.

“And you saw that man again?”

She nodded, her head still buried in his coat.

“He was the one you saw at the concert, and you remembered.” He paused. “John Hunter.”

Thomas felt the tears well up in his own eyes. The enormity and the gravity of what he had just heard left him numb. He recalled the fetuses he had delivered before their time; at five months there was hair on the head, there were nails on toes and fingertips; at six months a babe could cry and suckle and kick. Eyelids could open, fists could punch, the grip was strong. In his mind’s eye he pictured the inside of the uterus, dark and red and safe, a mother’s crimson cushion protecting the unborn. The child was curled, with knees flexed and its head on its chest, soothed by the distant rhythm of its maternal heartbeat. All was peaceful and secure until . . .

The carriage rounded Whitcomb Street and came to an abrupt halt. Thomas put his head out. They had stopped far short of the count’s lodgings.

“What is it, Lovelock?” he called.

“Up ahead, sir,” said the groom, pointing to the street that was blocked by a sea of people, some carrying torches aloft.

BOOK: The Dead Shall Not Rest

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