The Winter Rose (46 page)

"Of course, old girl," Freddie said, relenting. "We'll put a call through to the vicar right after the hunt."

"Good man!" Wish said. "You know, I have to admit I thought Indy was
mad when she first told me about the clinic, but now I think it's going
to happen. I really do. The donations are mounting up. We may have a
royal donor, and things are going so well with Point Reyes that I may be
able to take the thing public sooner than I thought. Half a year at
most. When that happens, Indy, you'll be swimming in cash."

"That means we could be under way with a building by early next year!" India said excitedly.

She was about to thank him for all his hard work when Freddie's horse
suddenly reared. He kept his seat, but barely. "He's restless," Freddie
said. "He needs to run. First one to the clearing, Wish. Double or
nothing."

Wish's eyes flashed. Before anyone could dissuade them, they were
off. India spurred her mount. Maud and Bingham followed. The course
Freddie had chosen took the riders through a hillocky meadow. Ruts and
humps and swampy patches made a treacherous obstacle course. Freddie was
riding at a breakneck pace and Wish was right behind him, hooting and
laughing. They soon outdistanced the others.

"What are they playing at?" Maud shouted. "Are they trying to kill us?"

India saw the two men streak down a hill. Wish had taken the lead. He
disappeared into the woods, hotly pursued by Freddie. Maud and Bingham
reached the woods then drew up, waiting for her.

"I hear the dogs," Bingham said. "Sunny must have treed the fox. I bet Wish and Freddie are with him."

India suddenly decided she would ride back to the house. She wanted
no part of the finale. She could imagine the trapped animal's terror.

"Ready, ladies?" Bingham asked, taking up his reins.

"I'm not going. I--" India began to say. Her words were cut off by the sound of a gunshot. It came from the woods.

"Well, that's it for poor Mr. Fox," Maud said, sighing. "And that's
it for me as well. I'm going back to the house for a hot bath and a cold
gin."

They heard a bugle. "Sunny's found them," Bingham said.

Sunny, as master of the hunt, carried the bugle with him. But as they
all listened, they realized that Sunny wasn't playing the call used to
an-nounce that the fox had been caught, he was sounding an alarm.
Instantly, they all spurred their mounts and headed into the woods,
navigating by the sound of the trumpet. Bingham led, ducking brush and
branches, and it was he who found the others, dismounted in the
clearing. The horses had been tied to a tree and were wild-eyed and
whinnying. The dogs were howling. It was all that the kennel masters
could do to control them. From her place behind Bingham, India could
just see Sunny, bent double and heaving.

He raised his head at their approach. "Bingham, keep the women back!" he shouted.

"No, bring them through!" Freddie shouted. "India's a doctor!"

There's been an accident, she thought. Someone's injured. She found
an opening in the trees to the left of Bingham and urged her horse
through it and into the clearing.

"What happened?" she shouted, drawing up with the others.

And then she saw.

Wish lay sprawled on his back. The left side of his face was gone.
His legs were twisted underneath him, his arms splayed. His pistol lay
in his right hand.

India jumped down from her horse and ran to him. It was hopeless, she
knew it was, but still she pressed her ear to his chest, listening for a
heart-beat. There was nothing. She wanted to scream with grief, to
throw herself across his body. But she didn't. She did what she was
trained to do. She felt for any signs of life--a breath, a pulse. She
glanced at her watch. For the coroner. In case he wanted to know the
time of death. Around her, Freddie paced, Maud tried to light a
cigarette with shaking hands, and Bingham stammered.

"Good God... this can't ...he can't..." he said. "Freddie, what the hell happened?"

"I don't know. Wish saw a hole and said the fox had gone to ground
there. I told him he couldn't have. The dogs were up ahead of us and
they were baying. I rode on after them. And that's when I heard it--a
gunshot from behind me. I turned back, thinking he must've been right.
And then I found him here. Like this." He was silent for a few seconds,
then vehemently said, "It was an accident. Are we all agreed on this? A
terrible, terri-ble accident."

"What else would it be?" Maud asked, upset. "What are you saying?"

"It's what others may say that worries me," he replied.

"Freddie, what do you mean?" Bingham asked.

"He was anxious. There were difficulties. Money troubles. He'd sold
things. A painting. His ring. He confided in me when he arrived this
morning. Before the hunt."

India looked down at Wish's right hand. His diamond ring was gone. He
was never without it. It was a treasured heirloom. "He had it on
ear-lier," she said.

"What difficulties?" Maud asked. "He just said things were going well."

"I'm sure he had it on at breakfast. I'm sure he did."

"India, it doesn't matter!" Maud snapped. "Freddie, what difficulties? He said nothing about difficulties to me."

"He didn't want to worry you. Or India."

"Freddie, you don't think... you're not saying that he..."

"I'm not saying anything. I'm only telling you what he said to me: that an investment had gone bad. And that he was worried."

"My God, the scandal," Maud said. "Which investment?"

"The California thing. He was just talking about it. I can't remember..."

"Point Reyes," India said dully. She sat back on her heels and tenderly stroked Wish's cheek.

Freddie looked at her. "Yes, that's it. You invested in it, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"How much?"

"Everything I had."

"I had no idea. Bloody hell, I'm sorry."

"But he said it was doing well," Maud said shrilly. "He said it was
going public. We heard him. All of us. Just a few minutes ago. This just
can't be!"

"He was putting a good face on it," Freddie said. "He told me this morning that he couldn't interest people."

Money and scandals and saving face. Wish's body was still warm. His
blood was seeping into the ground, and this was what they were talking
about. She hated them for it. And she didn't, for she was one of them,
and she understood. They would talk about Point Reyes, the weather, or
last night's supper--if that's what it took not to think about Wish. Not
to weep. Not to howl. Not to fall apart in front of family, friends,
and the servants.

She stood up and sought Sunny. He was still bent over, still heaving.
She would leave him to it. It was the proper thing. He was the host;
she was the guest. She must let him heave his noble guts out and pretend
not to notice. Funny how etiquette always took over. Especially in
extremis. Good manners show good breeding, her mother always said.
Wouldn't she be proud? India thought bitterly, walking back to her
horse.

"India, stop! Where are you going?" Freddie asked.

She turned to him, her flanc�The man in whose arms she should be
weeping now. "To fetch a coroner," she said woodenly. "Excuse me, won't
you? My cousin is dead."

"No!" the man wailed, stumbling away from the bed. "Not my Allie! Please God, not my pretty Allie!"

"For God's sake, hold the lamp still!" India yelled. "I can't bloody see!"

"She's dying! Help her, please help her!"

"I'm trying! I need the lamp!"

The man, Fred Coburn, choked back a sob. He tightened his grip on the
kerosene lamp he was clutching and lumbered back to the bed.

"Lower. Hold it lower," India barked. He did and the lamp cast its weak glow over the bed and the laboring woman in it.

Blood was gushing from her. It was pooling in the sheets, soaking
into the mattress, dripping over the metal bed frame and onto the floor.
It covered India's hands and forearms. Her clothing was sodden with it.

"Oh, Jesus, oh God, look at it all."

The lamp swayed wildly again. India lost sight of her forceps.

"Bring the table. Put the lamp on it. Right now," she ordered.

He did so, then sat down, his head in his hands, and wept. The light
was still poor. India hooked her foot around one of the table's legs and
pulled it closer.

They'd waited too long to send for her. By the time she'd arrived,
the mother had been in labor for two days and the baby had barely
descended. Its heartbeat had dropped perilously and the mother was
exhausted. And then, only minutes ago, just as India was starting to
examine her, the pla-centa ruptured. Mrs. Coburn was hemorrhaging badly.
India knew that if she didn't get the bleeding stanched immediately,
she would lose her. But she had to get the baby out first, and the
mother's pelvis was contracted. She was using a Tarnier, a long, curved
forceps with a traction bar--and every bit of strength she possessed--to
ease the skull past the mother's misshapen bones.

She took a deep breath now, braced one foot against the bed frame,
and pulled. Mrs. Coburn screamed, writhing against the unforgiving
blades. The baby moved, barely.

"Hang on, Mrs. Coburn, almost there..." India said through gritted
teeth. She took another breath, and pulled again with everything she
had, until the muscles in her arms and shoulders shook with the strain.

"Please, please don't let my baby die," Mrs. Coburn begged.

India, panting now, pulled again. She felt the head move. Encouraged,
she gave another mighty pull, and the baby--a boy--was out.

India laid him on the bed. His skin was blue. He was not breathing.
She knew she had only seconds in which to save--or lose--two lives.

"My baby..." Mrs. Coburn moaned. The moan turned into a scream of
pain as India inserted her left hand into the birth canal, made a fist,
and pressed it up into the uterus. She used her right hand, which was on
the woman's belly, to press down, trying to force the organ to compress
itself, and in so doing choke off the blood supply to its own
hemorrhaging vessels.

"He's all right, ain't he?" Fred Coburn cried. He was a big man and
half-mad with fear, and India was alone with him. Ella was assisting Dr.
Gifford.

"A boy, Fred! Oh, where is he? Why doesn't he cry?" Mrs. Coburn sobbed.

"Mr. Coburn, take the baby. Clean out his mouth with your fingers,"
India instructed. But Mr. Coburn would not. He backed away from the bed,
from his thrashing wife and lifeless baby. "Mr. Coburn, listen to me. I
need your help."

Fred Coburn shook his head violently. India needed to soothe him, to
coax him. She needed time to do those things, but she didn't have any.

Moving like lightning, she tore the bloodied topsheet off the bed and
looped it around Alison Coburn's belly. She grabbed a candlestick off
the table and twisted it into the ends of the sheet, tightening the
fabric. It was called a Spanish windlass, a kind of tourniquet. She'd
seen it done a few times during her training, and once it had actually
worked. She hoped now that it would at least buy her a few seconds.

"Why's she so white?" Fred Coburn asked. His voice was higher than it had been.

India picked up the baby. "I need fresh linen. Find me some," she said sharply, hoping to distract him with a task.

"Why's she so still? Why ain't she moving?"

"The linen, Mr. Coburn," India said, working feverishly to revive the
baby. She swept her finger around the inside of his mouth, dislodging a
glob of mucus, then began to compress his chest, trying to prime his
tiny lungs. Henry Michael Coburn. That's what they were going to call
him. Harry for short, his mother had said. "You come on now, Harry
Coburn," she urged him. "You breathe for me. Breathe, little Harry.
Breathe."

"Allie? Wake up, Allie luv."

Fred Coburn staggered over to the bed and patted his wife's face.
India could hear the edge of hysteria in his voice. She bent over the
baby, pinched his nostrils, and breathed gently into his mouth. She was
still trying to make the baby breathe when Fred Coburn, kneeling at his
wife's side, reared up off the floor.

"She's dead!" he yelled. "Oh, God, my Allie, she's dead!"

He stumbled across the room and into the mantel. A teapot, plates,
and picture frames fell to the floor and smashed. He turned and lumbered
back toward the bed.

"The lamp!" India shouted at him. "Mind the lamp!"

Her voice startled him out of his rampage. He looked at her, his face
contorted by grief and rage, and then he lunged at her. "You bitch! You
murderer!" he shouted, punching her again and again. "You killed her,
you killed my Allie!"

India could not defend herself; her arms were braced protectively
over the baby. But when Fred Coburn's hands were suddenly around her
neck, she had no choice. She kicked him. Her hands slapped at him, her
fingers scrabbled at his, desperately trying to break his grasp. She was
gasping for air, eyes closing, nearly limp, when two men--neighbors
alerted by the sound of the smashing crockery--burst into the room and
pulled him off her. She fell to the floor, heaving for breath.

"Get him out of here," she rasped.

As they took Coburn out of the room, she pulled herself back onto the
bed and bent over the baby. She felt his body for signs of life--a
fluttering breath, a weak pulse--but there was nothing. She felt for
Alison Coburn's pulse. Again, nothing.

Another man came into the room, followed by two women. They stood,
shocked into stillness at the scene before them. "What on earth's
hap-pened? Are you all right?" one of them finally asked.

"Mrs. Coburn is dead," India said. "The baby, too. Would you please fetch the coroner?"

She stood up, steadied herself, and walked to the kitchen. A kettle
had been set on the stove. She had asked Fred to heat water when she'd
first arrived. She poured some into a basin, added cold from the sink's
lone tap, and washed her hands. As she was drying them she heard one of
the women whisper, "Put the little one in her arms. Never got to hold
him, poor thing. It's only right."