The Lost And Found Girl (14 page)

Mrs Roberts shrugged. ‘It doesn’t make no difference what causes it. She’s still a loony.’

He stood up, towering over her and for a moment she felt threatened by the tautness in his curling fists. She added, ‘And it ain’t my fault either. I’m just telling you like it is, so don’t go throwing your weight around me.’

‘I am indeed in a fury, but not with you, Mrs Roberts. You’ve been very helpful. Now if you don’t mind, my clerk is back from his dinner and I have affairs to deal with.’

She got up and pulled her cloak around her. ‘Oh don’t mind me. But don’t ask me to go up to High Fell while she’s there.’

When Mrs Roberts had gone, Abel had a conversation with his clerk and went off in search of a young physician who had recently bought into the local medical practice. He had met him as a business acquaintance through the late Mr Stacey’s colleagues and they had become friends. The physician had trained in Scotland and his innovative approach to treatment was not going down well with the traditional views of Dales residents. Abel, blessed with sound health, had not had reason to consult with him yet. But now he needed his medical advice.

Dr Simon Brady could not leave before nightfall. Already Beth Collins had been alone for two whole days and Abel
feared that she would have come to some harm. Abel’s impatience got the better of him as he waited in his front room for him to finish his market day appointments. Dr Brady’s patients appeared to be a sorry collection of farm labourer’s wives and their offspring.

‘Dear God, Simon, cannot the apothecary see to these people?’

‘He asks for payment.’

‘Don’t you?’

‘Not all at once. It’s a system I’ve brought with me. I have a book for my patients. If they give me a small amount each week, they can call on me with whatever ails them and be treated.’

‘So you only see poor people?’

‘No. But there are many more of them and I have a regular income until I am trusted by the local gentry.’

‘Aren’t you worried you might catch something from these people?’

‘My dear Abel, I am a physician. I care for the sick.’

‘Well, I hope you have a good horse.’

‘Of course I do. As I said, I am a physician and I shall forgive your ignorance about my calling because I can see that you are, indeed, worried about this woman on the fell. Now let us waste no more time.’

Their horses were packed and ready for mounting and they galloped off into the darkness. They made good progress until the river and dismounted to cross the bridge. The track became more rocky and unpredictable and, although there was a moon, it frequently disappeared behind clouds.

‘Keep close behind me, Simon. I know the fell like the back of my own hand.’

‘That will be useful if my patient has wandered out.’

‘Dear Lord, I pray not. The nights are cold up here.’

He guided his horse around strewn boulders; rocks that would have been removed by himself or Mr Roberts in the old days. How much more had been neglected since he had left? A sense of urgency crept over him and he felt his heart beating faster making his hands shake as he gripped the bridle. The moon reappeared, lighting up a dark silhouette of farm buildings ahead.

‘There! Do you see it, Simon? That is where we are going.’

He could no longer contain his impatience and re-mounted, spurring his horse once more into a gallop, fearing that the dark and the quiet that lay ahead of him meant the worst. Dear Lord, please keep her safe, he prayed.

He tethered his horse by the front door and tried to open it. It was firmly locked and barred so he hurried round to the back, noticing briefly that Simon was approaching at a more sensible canter. Everything was in darkness but the kitchen door was ajar.

‘Mrs Collins,’ he called, then stood stock still to listen. Not a sound. Dear God, no. He raised his voice. ‘Mrs Collins!’ As his eyes became more used to the interior he found a candle and lit it with a lucifer from his pocket. The kitchen was cold and empty but the larder door was open. He crossed the flagged floor to peer inside and saw the empty laudanum bottle on the floor next to its stopper and – and – a staining of vomit on the cold stone. She was sick! Dear heaven, where was she? ‘Mrs Collins! Beth! Where are you? Answer me! God in heaven, Beth, it’s me, Abel Shipton!’

He held his breath and strained his ears in the silence. Yes! A noise. Boots! He heard the crunch of boots – boots on the hard ground outside as Simon had followed the sound of his voice. ‘Be quiet, man,’ he snapped.

Simon picked up another candle and lit it from Abel’s. ‘There’s a smell of vomit.’

‘Yes, in here, on the floor.’

Simon lowered his candle. ‘More than that and it’s worse in the kitchen. Didn’t you notice?’

They re-examined the kitchen with their candles. ‘The scullery. It’s coming from the scullery door.’

Sure enough, there she was, lying at full stretch on the freezing floor, her arm outstretched and a horn beaker falling from her fingers. Her head was turned to one side and another patch of dried vomit stained the flags.

‘Beth!’ Abel darted forward and sank to his knees, stroking her tangled hair and rolling her onto her back to cradle her head in the crook of his arm. ‘Beth? Wake up, Beth.’ Her flaccid head rolled and lolled. ‘What’s wrong with her? Do something, Simon, for God’s sake.’

‘I will if you will be kind enough to allow me access to my patient.’

Abel heard his friend’s words but did not heed them. He could not leave her. Dear Lord, what if she were to die? He had wasted all those years when he could have been with her!

‘Did you hear me, Abel?
Get out of my way and leave her to me
.’

‘I can’t. I can’t let her go.’

‘Be a good fellow and light lamps and candles for me. I shall need hot water, too.’

Abel stared helplessly at Beth’s still, white face until Simon added, ‘Look to it, my friend.’

‘Yes, yes, of course.’ His hands were shaking as he lowered her head gently to the floor. He stood up and allowed Simon to kneel beside her. ‘She is alive, isn’t she?’

‘I believe so, but I fear we may be too late.’ Simon uncurled
the fingers of Beth’s hand that had been concealed by her skirts to reveal a second phial of laudanum without a stopper. He glanced at the water pump over the stone sink. ‘First, fetch a jug, draw me fresh water and bring the salt box.’

Abel felt better when he was occupied and Simon seemed to realise this, giving him directions as he tended his patient. He lit the kitchen range and took a lamp outside to find more fuel. He dragged a couch from the dining hall, set it before the warmth of the fire and then gently lifted her limp cold body from the hard stone floor. She groaned as he settled her on the cushions and wrapped her in his riding cloak.

‘She’s coming round,’ Abel whispered urgently.

‘I doubt it, for this bottle is empty. Sit her up,’ Simon ordered, ‘and find a pail. We must make her vomit again.’ He stood at the kitchen table surrounded by candles and mixed a powder in warm water. ‘We have to get this down her as soon as possible. Hold her shoulders for me.’

Abel followed Simon’s instructions but she would not swallow and the fluid bubbled out of her mouth and down her chin. Abel stroked her throat, a technique he had used with sheep, but to no avail. ‘Why doesn’t she swallow?’ he asked desperately.

‘All her functions have been depressed by the laudanum. I’ll try a tube. It will make her gag so you must hold her steady.’ Simon took a long piece of India-rubber tubing from his bag and fed it slowly into her mouth.

‘Dear God, man, you’ll choke her!’

‘I’ve done this before. I learned it in Edinburgh when I treated poisonings. Keep her still, will you!’

Abel obeyed. Beth gagged and coughed but Simon persevered until Beth made a gurgling, choking noise and in the lamplight he saw her throat move as she swallowed. She
groaned and her hands clawed at her mouth. Abel took a firm grip on her arms and Simon moved quickly. He raised the tube and poured his mixture through a small funnel fitted into the end. When the liquid had drained into her stomach, he withdrew the tube and Beth gagged again. Abel’s frown deepened into a grimace and he felt her pain as though it was his own.

His thoughts were in turmoil. He must save her. He hated what Simon was doing to her but he couldn’t let her die. Not his Beth, his dear sweet Beth. What was he thinking of? She wasn’t his. She was Mrs Edgar Collins in spite of the fact that her husband had all but deserted her because he thought her daughter was Abel’s child. Dear God, he wished it had been! If this is what Edgar had done to his darling Beth it would have been as well to have given him good reason. Dear heaven, why had he left her alone for so long? If she should die, how could he forgive himself? She was more precious to him than his own life. He must save her. He must.

‘Lay her on her side,’ Simon urged. ‘No, not like that, keep her head high and put the pail underneath.’

Abel did as he was told. ‘What now?’ he asked.

‘We wait. I don’t know how much laudanum she has taken, nor how long ago, but if she vomits up any of it, her chances of recovery will improve.’

The only sounds were the hissing of wet peat in the fireplace and the thumping of Abel’s heart as he waited. Simon gathered his tubing contraption together and picked up the kettle from the hob.

‘Don’t leave her,’ Abel begged.

‘I shall be in the scullery.’

Simon’s mixture worked and the contents of Beth’s stomach came retching out of her mouth and into the waiting pail.
Abel held her head over the pail, taking a cloth from Simon’s hands to wipe her chin as her vomiting eased. She groaned and lolled as he laid her back on the couch and for a brief second her eyes opened. But they were rolling, unseeing eyes, Abel realised, and his heart clenched in his breast.

Simon was sitting at the kitchen table, watching him as he tended her as gently as any newborn lamb. ‘What is she to you?’ he asked.

‘She’s – she’s – she’s a friend.’

‘She’s more than that, my good fellow.’

‘She is another man’s wife – a powerful man’s wife. She can never be more than a friend.’

‘If you say so.’ He stood up. ‘She needs someone with her at all times. We’ll take turns. I’ll do the first stretch until dawn. Get some rest, Abel. She is going to want all your strength and more to pull through this.’

He slept in a chair by the kitchen range until an hour past dawn, when the sound of the water pump in the scullery roused him. A cold grey light filtered through the window. He focused his eyes on Beth’s still form, her stained and grubby gown, tangled hair and pale, pale face. Dear God, it was the face of a corpse, surely? He started to his feet and picked up her cold hand from where it rested on his cloak. Why was she so cold? The kitchen was warm, the log basket and peat box filled and a simmering kettle sitting on the hob.

Simon came in from the scullery wiping his face and neck with a cloth. ‘There’s food in the pantry and ale in the barrel. Let us take breakfast and I shall explain what you must do to help her recovery. I hope you understand that it will not be pleasant – either for her or for you.’

Abel yawned and stretched. ‘I’ll do whatever it takes to get her well.’

‘Yes, I believe you will. But you do not know how testing it will be. I can stay only until market day but I shall leave some laudanum with you just in case …’

Abel waited for him to continue, and when he did not, said, ‘Speak plainly, Simon.’

‘She may not wish to continue living without it and you will have to watch her carefully. We must talk seriously, my friend.’

Beth was shivering with cold, yet her head was burning hot and the demons were coming for her again; small black figures with wild red eyes that crawled over her body and invaded her head. Her arms flailed in the air as she tried to fight them; her nails clawed at her skin as she scraped them off her breasts and stomach. But they were still there, flying above her, darting through her eyes and ears, into her head. She screamed and cowered, covering her head with her arms as they overran her. ‘Get away from me! Leave me alone!’ But it did not stop them coming for her, devouring her body and eating into her soul. She had to run to where they could not find her and she tried to clamber from the couch. But they held her down and she screamed and fought until they left her an exhausted heap of jittery nerves and mindless despair that only her medicine could alleviate.

She wanted her medicine, where was her medicine, why
had they taken it away from her? ‘Give me my medicine!’ she yelled. But he wouldn’t, he was as bad as Mrs Roberts. Mrs Roberts? Where was Mrs Roberts? Had she taken her medicine away? ‘Give me my medicine!’ she yelled again, punching with her fists and kicking with her feet.

Through the red oblivion she saw a face, a distant face from the past, a strong face full of pain, a masculine face with tears in his eyes and on his cheeks. A man’s face; a man she knew; a man who wept. He brought her warm gruel and held a pail under her head when she vomited. He held her hand as she flopped exhausted on the couch pushing away his offers of fresh water or a damp cloth.

She wanted to die. Death was preferable to this tortured hell and she kicked and shouted again to tell him so. He was cruel to her. When she was thirsty he forced her to drink a warm concoction of bitter herbs, tipping the fluid into her mouth and pinching her nose so she had to swallow. But the brew calmed her demons to allow her a brief respite of sleep and when she awoke he was there. He was always there, sitting in a kitchen chair, watching her.

Abel was astonished by her strength when he was forced to restrain her. He never knew when her pale thin form would turn into that of a tigress or where that energy came from, for she could lift a chair and throw it at him if he was not vigilant. He rubbed a bruise on his shoulder which was evidence of his neglect. But a week after Simon Brady left, Beth was taking light broth and keeping it down.

The sun, though weak and without much heat, graced a cloudy Dales sky on the day that Beth remembered his name. ‘Abel Shipton, isn’t it?’