Part 7 (2/2)

The earl shook his head. ”I've no idea, DeLacy. But we never have guns out at this time of year.” He felt Julian's pulse. It was faint but it was there. The young man was deathly white, and Charles noticed that the gash on his forehead was deep, b.l.o.o.d.y. His eyes were closed; blood was splattered on his fair hair. He was still, very still indeed, hardly breathing. Charles was filled with sudden fear for the young man. The fall had been bad, awkward, and his legs were skewed, looked as if they were broken.

Percy Swann was suddenly back with them, panting from running hard. ”Our lads weren't shooting, m'lord. None of our men have guns out here. I'm not sure where those shots came from, m'lord.”

”Torbett land,” Daphne interjected, certainty ringing in her voice. Half turning, she pointed behind her. ”Definitely back there.” She couldn't help thinking it was Richard Torbett up to his tricks. Then she looked down at Julian, and was struck by his total inertness, his extreme pallor. She was suddenly afraid for him. She knew he was in a bad way. Her chest tightened, and anxiety flared in her as she wondered if he would recover. She doubted it. He looked so ... damaged. He lay there like a broken doll.

The earl said, ”I don't think we should move Mr. Julian, Swann. Or carry him away. It could be dangerous to do so. He's lying in a funny way. His neck could be broken, or his spine. If I remember correctly, don't we have some sort of makes.h.i.+ft stretcher at Cavendon?”

”We do, Lord Mowbray. It was made for Sir Redvers Andrews, when he had a heart attack on the grouse moor last August. And it's still there in the cellars, as far as I know. I can get it, m'lord, and be back in a few minutes with some of the woodsmen.”

”Thank you, Swann. Have Hanson make a phone call to Dr. Shawcross. He should tell the doctor we need an ambulance. Mr. Torbett will have to be taken to hospital. Harrogate's the nearest.”

”Right-o, m'lord,” Percy answered, and began to move away.

Daphne said, ”Papa, Swann should take my horse, it's faster riding than running, surely.”

”Good idea, Daphne. Take her ladys.h.i.+p's horse, Swann,” the earl said.

DeLacy was kneeling on the ground next to her father, and she now asked in a concerned tone, ”Do you think Julian is going to die, Papa?” She thought he might actually be dead already, but didn't dare say that out loud.

”I've absolutely no idea. I pray to G.o.d not. He took a terrible, very hard fall. He must have damaged his spine, and he must have a bad head injury. Look at all the blood on the gra.s.s. He's certainly unconscious.”

”I know,” DeLacy said. As her sister spoke, Daphne walked back to Madge. Always kind and thoughtful, she knew she must offer some sort of comfort to the young woman, who was still sitting on her horse, as if frozen in place. She was like a statue. Her face was the color of chalk, and looked unnatural. It was stark against her vivid auburn hair.

Touching her on the arm, Daphne said gently, ”Can you dismount, Madge? Or do you need my father to help you?”

Madge gazed at Daphne and, observing her sympathetic expression, she began to weep. Tears rolled down her cheeks. ”I don't need help, I can manage now. But I'll need help later ... of that I'm quite sure.” She threw Daphne a sorrowful look, shaking her head in disbelief.

After she had managed to dismount somewhat awkwardly, Madge and Daphne walked back to the earl and DeLacy. They were still kneeling on the gra.s.s, their eyes riveted on Julian, who looked like a corpse to them.

Madge crouched down next to her fiance. She touched his face, smoothed her hand over his brow. ”It's me, Julian,” she said, drawing closer. ”I'm here, my darling, I'm here for you.”

He did not answer her. She began to weep, and Daphne comforted her as best she could.

Even though Percy Swann, the woodsmen, and Hanson, as well as the other staff at Cavendon, moved with great swiftness and efficiency, it was two hours before Julian Torbett arrived at the hospital in Harrogate. He had suffered a fractured skull and a broken back, but he was still alive. By six o'clock that same evening he was dead, having never regained consciousness.

The funeral of Julian Baxter Torbett was held at Ripon Cathedral by his family four days later. The great families of Yorks.h.i.+re were in attendance, and other friends came in droves.

The Earl and Countess of Mowbray, their three oldest daughters, and other Inghams were present, seated at the front of the cathedral.

The women were dressed in black from head to toe, and all wore hats, some with veils. It was Lady Daphne Ingham who had chosen a large-brimmed hat with a black tulle veil, one which totally obscured her face. She made sure she was seated between her father and mother in the pew, where she felt totally protected and safe.

Not once did she look at the Torbetts.

At the end of the service, accompanied by her sisters Diedre and DeLacy, she paid her condolences to Julian's mother, and to Madge. And then the three of them left the cathedral, crowded out by everyone else, Diedre later explained.

She felt sad that her childhood friend had died the way he had, and so young, but she had no feelings at all for the Torbetts, except hatred, of course, for the rapist in that family.

Part Two.

THE LAST SUMMER.

JulySeptember 1913.

There has fallen a splendid tear From the pa.s.sion-flower at the gate.

She is coming, my dove, my dear; She is coming, my life, my fate.

-Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

O Lyric Love, half angel and half bird, And all a wonder and a wild desire.

-Robert Browning.

But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

-W. B. Yeats.

Fifteen.

”Is there something wrong with Daphne?” Miles Ingham asked, looking across at Cecily, giving her one of his very direct stares. ”Everyone in the family I've asked says that she's perfectly fine, but I don't think she is. In fact, I know she's not.”

Cecily moved her position slightly on the thick car rug spread out on the ground, silent for a moment, then she shrugged. ”She does seem sort of distant ... far away. But I don't think there's anything wrong with her. Honestly.”

Miles sighed. ”I believe you, because we've always told each other the truth. You know I'm close to her, Ceci, and she's just not herself. Whatever anyone says.” He poured lemonade into two old silver mugs, forced on him by Cook, who didn't like the family using gla.s.ses outside, because of previous accidents.

He handed one of the mugs to Cecily, who thanked him. Miles took a long swallow of the lemonade, then reached for a cuc.u.mber sandwich. His mind was racing. He had been home from Eton for almost a week, and he had known the instant he'd arrived at Cavendon that his sister was troubled. He had even wondered if she was ill. There was a listlessness about her, she was paler than usual, and she appeared preoccupied. When he'd questioned her, she had vehemently denied there was anything wrong. But he wasn't convinced.

Miles and Cecily were sitting under a large sycamore tree in a glade at the edge of the bluebell woods, having one of their special picnics. It was a beautiful morning in mid-June, and all was well at Cavendon. At least on the surface. The family was coping with Anne Sedgewick's fatal illness, and the sudden unexpected death of Julian Torbett, which had been so upsetting to them.

Daphne's horrendous experience had remained a secret known only to the Swanns, and was, therefore, buried deep. Her parents didn't even know that Daphne had ”fallen” in the woods. Daphne had kept quiet and so had DeLacy. Cecily, a Swann, knew not to utter one word about it.

With Miles home from Eton and Guy from Oxford, the entire family was in residence. Normally they would all have been at the London house for the summer season, but the countess had asked the earl if they could remain in Yorks.h.i.+re for the summer. She was concerned about her sister, and wanted to be nearby in case she was needed.

The earl, who adored his wife and wanted to please her, had agreed. They had not even gone up to London for Royal Ascot Week in June.

Suddenly, Miles said, ”Do you think that perhaps she's so quiet because of Julian's death? Surely not, Ceci. After all, they were only chums, and childhood chums at that.” He frowned, threw her a puzzled look. ”She can't be grieving, can she?” Miles, at fourteen, was unusually insightful for his age, and had always understood that Daphne had no interest in Julian.

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