‘I thought Mr Soresby had not taken his degree yet,’ she said.
‘He will in January. And he is very able: he will almost certainly be highly placed on the list, and the terms of the endowment permit me to hold it open for him as long as I wish. I have been turning the matter over in my mind for some time.’
‘Your decision will please Mr Richardson, I am sure. Is not Mr Soresby one of his pupils?’
‘I don’t care a fig whether I please Richardson or not.’ Carbury was now speaking in a vehement, jerky voice. ‘It’s a matter of serving the best interests of the college and of rewarding individual merit. That’s all there is to it, ma’am.’
Elinor held her peace. Her husband was coming it very high all of a sudden. She knew that something must have happened to bring about this extraordinary change of heart. Soresby was in Richardson’s camp, and in the ordinary course of things Carbury could expect nothing in return for his patronage. Unless, of course, Soresby had changed his allegiance.
Dr Carbury took another pinch of snuff, spilling much of it on his waistcoat. He sneezed again and the two of them sat in a stunned silence, Carbury with his eyes closed. Elinor stared at her husband and thought how ugly he was. She told herself sternly that she should feel grateful to him for nearly everything that made life endurable, including the roof over her head.
‘Mrs Carbury, there is something else I must say to you.’
She felt a jolt of guilt. It was as if he could read her mind, her thoughts about himself, even her thoughts about Mr Holdsworth.
‘I had intended to mention this for some time but it was never the right moment.’ His eyes were open now, watering from the snuff, and he was staring at her. ‘Perhaps it is never the right moment. You know that I have been concerned about my health.’
‘And so have I, sir.’
‘Indeed. And I’m much obliged to you. As you know I have long been troubled by a distemper in the guts.’ He dabbed his eyes with his handkerchief. ‘The English malady.’
‘Is not the remedy at least partly in your own hands, sir? If you were to change your diet, and perhaps not linger quite so long over your wine, I am persuaded your health would soon be the better for it. During the Long Vacation, you might even consider a course of sea bathing. I understand the waters of Scarborough are notably beneficial.’
He raised his hand to block the flow of words. She fell silent. She felt inexplicably unsettled, almost on the edge of panic.
‘You are very good, ma’am, but these remedies will not answer. I don’t know whether you were aware that Dr Jermyn called on me last week?’
‘About Frank?’
‘Yes. He grew heated, and I cannot blame him for that altogether. But he’s no fool – he don’t bear a grudge, or not for long. While he was here, I asked if I might consult him about my own case.’
‘You, sir? But surely you have no need for – for a man like him?’
‘You mean for the services of one who makes his living from patients with maniacal disorders?’ Carbury smiled awkwardly, almost shyly, at her. ‘No, I have not come to that. But Dr Jermyn is of some eminence in other areas of his profession. I believe he is well qualified to treat any patient he chooses.’
‘Then why did you consult him, sir?’
‘Because I desired a second opinion. Dr Milton has already examined me and diagnosed my case with I believe tolerable accuracy. But old Milton is set in his ways, and I fear has not kept up with recent discoveries.’
‘But you said nothing of this to me.’
‘I did not wish to alarm you unnecessarily. But now Dr Jermyn has confirmed the original diagnosis, the time has come.’
She stood up and went to stand beside his chair. ‘Then what is it, sir?’
‘I regret to say that I have a growth.’ He patted his abdomen with both hands. ‘Here.’
‘Surely a surgeon may cut it out?’
He shook his head. ‘It is impossible to remove it because of its position. I understand that the growth is in an advanced stage and that Dr Jermyn thinks there may be similar malignancies in other places.’
‘Another opinion might say very differently, sir,’ Elinor said wildly. ‘You are still a comparatively young man. It -’
‘No, no, my dear.’ Dr Carbury rarely used even so mild an endearment as that: it seemed all of a piece with the dreadful news he brought. ‘I’m afraid there can be no doubt about it. Dr Jermyn asked to examine my stools, and I took him out to the privy where I had reserved a sample. He tells me the signs cannot be interpreted in any other way.’
Tears welled up in her eyes. She had seen the two men on their way to the outhouse from the window of this room. She tried to speak, and the words came out in a jumble. She was obliged to try again. ‘How long do they say you have?’
‘Not long. Neither of them felt able to be precise. It may be a few weeks or it may be a few months.’ He looked up at her and smiled with unmistakable warmth. ‘You must not be so distressed, my dear. I am living under a death sentence and I do not know when the sentence will be carried out. But is that so very different from the generality of mankind? We all know we must die, but none of us knows the hour of his death.’ The smile broadened. ‘Unless he is to be hanged, of course, but I trust I may escape that fate.’
‘What can I do? How can I best help you?’
‘There is nothing, thank you. Or not at present. But you must naturally be anxious about your own future. You are still a young woman. I will provide for you the best I can, but I am not a rich man. When I go, the house and income must go with me. But I shall do what I can.’
With a series of grunts, he edged forward on the seat, gripped the arms of the chair and stood up. ‘I find I am a little fatigued. I wish you goodnight, madam.’
He shuffled out of the room and closed the door behind him. Elinor listened to his footsteps on the landing as he made his way slowly and painfully to his own room. She knew now that the signs had been there for weeks, if not months. Dr Carbury had not suddenly become a sick man. He had been dying in front of her eyes. She simply hadn’t noticed.
She sat down again in her chair by the window and the tears rolled down her cheeks. She wept for her husband, and because she would be sad to lose him, even though she had never loved him. She wept because of what life would hold for her as a widow. She wept because she was desperately afraid she would be poor again.
And finally, she wept because she felt guilty: because part of her was glad that she would soon be a widow.
26
‘Why were you screaming?’ Frank Oldershaw said.
Holdsworth looked up from his book. ‘What?’
‘Why were you screaming? When you woke us all at dawn.’
‘I told you, sir – a foolish dream. I cannot now remember it.’
Frank leaned forward on his chair. ‘You must remember something. One always does remember something.’
They were sitting in the garden on armchairs they had dragged out from the parlour. The heavy, overhanging thatch soaked up the air inside the house. The cottage had grown stiflingly hot.
The ginger cat strolled through the long grass and weeds towards Frank. It leaned against him and purred, its tail waving like a flag above its body.
‘Quack,’ Frank said amiably. ‘Quack.’ He looked up and caught Holdsworth staring at him. ‘Quack,’ he said for the third time. ‘Now I wish you’d tell me what you were dreaming of.’
‘I cannot tell you what I do not know.’
‘Quack,’ Frank said. ‘It’s so damned hot. I’m going on the water.’ He pointed towards a willow tree on the river just below the millpond. ‘There’s a punt down there. We’ll go out in that. And you can come too and make sure I come to no harm.’