Someone was knocking on the street door. The hammering seemed to pound in time with his headache, the one exacerbating the other. In a place like this there was necessarily a good deal of coming and going. He knew that Purser must be entertaining other guests, as he tactfully called them – the more fortunate class of debtors, those who had connections who were likely to pay their debts in the long run, one way or another, and in the meantime were in possession of sufficient resources to pay for their board and lodging at Purser’s. The bailiff’s charges were exorbitantly expensive but the sponging house was infinitely preferable to the debtors’ prison, the only alternative.
There was a tap at his door and Purser’s manservant showed in Mrs Phear. Abandoning ceremony for once, she came straight to him and took his hands in hers. Neither of them spoke until they were alone.
‘I came at once when I had your note,’ she said softly.
‘I am ruined, ma’am.’
‘Whose suit? And how much?’
‘Mulgrave’s. Ninety pounds would see me clear of him and deal with Purser’s fees too.’
She frowned, calculating. ‘Then we shall have you out in an hour or two at most.’
‘If only it were that simple. They will all be at it now. God knows what the whole will amount to.’
‘Hundreds?’
‘Thousands, probably.’
Releasing his hands, she sat down beside him. ‘I cannot lay my hands on a sum like that. Can you raise the money, if you were given time?’
He shrugged. ‘As likely see a hog fly.’
She stared at him, her eyebrows a little raised.
‘I beg your pardon, ma’am,’ he said quickly, alert as ever to her moods and even in this situation amused by her genteel abhorrence of a vulgarism. ‘I spoke without thinking. But truly, there is no hope left.’
‘What about the house? Can you raise anything on that?’
‘I have only a life interest. And I’ve already borrowed on the strength of that. If I cannot redeem the bill at Michaelmas, or failing that renegotiate it, I am entirely done for. I will lose the house.’
Without the house, there would be no meetings of the Holy Ghost Club. Without the house, he would not have a roof over his head.
‘Are you owed money?’
‘Perhaps a hundred or two. But I have no chance of laying my hands on a penny for months, if not years. You know what these young cubs are with their gambling debts. They run them up and then, if they cannot pay, what can one do but wait?’
She left him and went to the window. He knew what she would see there: the house had eaten up half the little garden. There was a scrubby little yard, a privy and a pigsty, where one could watch the lean backs of two hogs as they rooted in the mud.
‘Perhaps hogs can fly,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘You are wrong to abandon hope,’ she said calmly. ‘I have sufficient resources laid by to deal with Mulgrave. That will buy us a little time.’
‘What use is a few hours? The writs will be flying again before I get home.’
She looked sternly at him. ‘Even a little time may be enough.’
The room was stuffy and smelled of illness. At first Dr Carbury was restless, turning this way and that as he tried to make himself comfortable. As the hours slipped by, he grew quieter. Elinor sat by his bed until she heard eleven o’clock striking, when she rose and tiptoed to the door. She waited there for a few seconds, listening to her husband’s heavy breathing.
The nurse, who was knitting by the window, looked up. Elinor whispered that she would soon return. She left her husband’s bedroom and almost ran downstairs. Without pausing for thought she left the Lodge by the garden door and walked slowly down the gravel walk towards the pond.
More than ever, she needed a clear head. She could no longer rely on the protection of her husband. She had known for months that he was ill, but it was only now, after Milton’s visit this morning, that she was forced to accept that he was dying, and that the melancholy event could be expected within weeks, or even days.
If she was not to be utterly ruined, Lady Anne’s support was more than ever essential. All her ladyship wanted was the restoration of her son to her. If Elinor could earn her gratitude by helping Frank, then truly anything might be possible.
Even John Holdsworth?
The last question set off an undesirable train of thought. Or, to be precise, not exactly undesirable in every sense, but certainly inappropriate, immoral and inconvenient. Breathing faster than usual, she reached the Long Pond at its widest point, opposite the oriental plane. It was here they had found Sylvia. After a moment’s hesitation, Elinor took the path along the bank to the gate by the Frostwick Bridge. She laid her fingers on the gate’s wrought-iron screen, touching it at the precise spot where Holdsworth’s hand had touched hers. The metal was cold, rough and unresponsive. She snatched her hand away. She opened the gate and walked quickly over the bridge.
As far as she could tell, she had the college gardens to herself. She slipped under the shelter of the plane, which enclosed her like an enormous green tent, with its branches hanging like curtains to the ground.
It was cool and private here. No one could see her. She could think of anything she wanted. Goodbye, Sylvia; forgive me and now leave me. She hugged herself and tried to imagine what it would be like to have a man’s arms around her.
Come what may, she decided, she would write to Lady Anne when she got back to the Lodge. She would tell her that Dr Carbury was dying.
But she was not alone after all. Wheels rattled and scraped on the flagstones of the chapel arcade. Someone was talking. Keeping well back, she changed her position so she could see through a gap between the branches. At first she thought Tom Turdman was making his rounds. She realized her mistake as a man and a woman appeared, framed in one of the arches of the arcade.
It was Philip Whichcote. And on his arm was a dumpy little lady old enough to be his mother.
As Elinor watched, they walked along the façade of New Building. Behind them came a barrow piled high with portmanteaus and boxes and drawn by two servants, scarcely more than children. Elinor recognized Whichcote’s footboy. The other was a tall, thin girl whose legs and arms had grown too long for her dress.
The rooms in New Building were arranged in sets served by three staircases. Whichcote went into the nearer of the staircases, accompanied by the lady. The barrow stopped and the servants set to unloading its cargo.
Whichcote was coming into residence. It was a sign, Elinor thought, a manifestation of God’s displeasure with her for her adulterous desires. How could she forget Sylvia when Whichcote was here?
38
‘What the devil do you think you’re up to?’ Holdsworth said.
‘None of your business.’ Frank glared at him. ‘You said you could do nothing more for me, so I’m doing it myself instead.’
They were on the corner of Wall Lane and King Street. Holdsworth’s irritation subsided rapidly, for Frank was so clearly safe and more or less in his right mind.
‘How did you know where to find me?’ Frank said.
‘I met a sheriff’s man at Lambourne House when I came searching for you. Why did you run off like a thief in the night?’
Frank flushed. ‘I knew you’d try to stop me. But I won’t be stopped, do you hear? I’ve been living a nightmare all these weeks, and I have determined to deal with it once and for all.’