Young Bloods Part 12

Garrett shook his head.'Not your fault . . . As it happens, I am proud of you.You've a talent for the violin, so cherish it. One day you'll play it better than I ever could.'

'No.'

'You will. Trust me.' Garrett reached over and patted his son on the chest. 'Trust yourself. You have it in you to succeed. I know it.'

Arthur tilted his head to one side, and did not reply.

Garrett was watching his son's expression closely, trying to read the thoughts pa.s.sing behind the screen of that thin face, made to appear thinner still by the long nose. The boy was consumed by doubt, that much was obvious, and Garrett wished there was more he could do to comfort him. But all he could offer was a father's love and affection.That was not nearly enough to sustain a boy of Arthur's age, who placed far more emphasis on the approval of his siblings and peers, against whom he would measure his value as a person. How sad, Garret reflected, that people should crave the goodwill of others and take the far deeper sentiment of parents for granted. He squeezed his son's hand.

'I've not been a good father to you, have I? These last years. I should never have permitted myself to neglect you so.'

'Hush, Father.You mustn't upset yourself.'

'Arthur, I wish I could make it up to you. While there is still time.'

'What do you mean?' Arthur felt the flesh creep on the back of his neck. 'The doctor said you just needed to rest.'

'That's what he said, and perhaps he was right about my const.i.tution. Even so, I've not been feeling well for some months now. I've been growing weaker all the time. Now I fear that whatever is wrong with me may not be cured simply through rest. And I'm worried about your future, and the future of the rest of the family.'

'You mustn't worry,' Arthur replied in a concerned tone.

Garrett slumped back against his cus.h.i.+ons and shut his eyes. 'I sense that things are changing, and not for the better. The news of the war in the American colonies gets worse by the month. We're going to lose that war,Arthur.And if the rebels can defy the King, what kind of example does that set for all the discontents around the world?' He coughed for a moment, then cleared his throat before continuing. 'Even here in London, the established order is under threat.You heard the doctor, hundreds dead. Public buildings sacked and burned. Soldiers on the streets. I tell you, Arthur, I've never seen the like, and I'm afraid. Afraid for us all. When the hour comes when I'm most needed, I may not be here. Or at least, I may be in no position to protect you.'

Arthur was only half listening, his eyes fixed on the bright b.l.o.o.d.y spittle that had begun to trickle from the corner of his father's lips shortly after the last bout of coughing. A flash of a.s.sociated memory drew his mind back to earlier that morning, shortly after dawn, when he had stood in the doorway of their house, gazing into the street as one of the footmen scrubbed the sticky blood from the steps where the woman had been cut down the night before. Her body had already been removed, collected by an army cart that had pa.s.sed down the street before first light. Arthur had sensed the strange feeling in the morning air. The street was almost deserted and a mood of fear and antic.i.p.ation was evident in the few faces peering from doors and windows, and in the expressions of the handful of Londoners pa.s.sing by, avoiding the gaze of the squads of soldiers posted at the main junctions of the capital's streets. His father was right to be scared. Law and order were fragile things. More fragile than Arthur had ever dreamed. A mere damask veil over a much uglier and violent world forever threatening b.l.o.o.d.y chaos. Unless there were enough responsible men to hold back that prospect, things would fall apart. The nation he had been raised to revere would no longer be able to hold itself together.What then? Arthur dare not think about it.

His mind turned back to his father, lying still in the bed beside him. His eyes were still closed and he was mumbling now, increasingly incoherent as he slipped into an uneasy sleep. Eventually the mumbling stopped and his fingers relaxed in Arthur's hand as he breathed in a soft easy rhythm. Arthur pulled his hand free and when he was quite certain that his father was asleep he gently stroked Garrett's brow. He felt a peculiar tenderness in his heart at this reversal of roles, of the child comforting the parent.The peaceful expression on his father's face made him look far younger and more innocent than Arthur had ever seen him.

A faint sound of footfalls on the staircase announced the return of his mother. As she entered the room, carrying a tray with a steaming bowl of soup, she gave a start at the sight of her husband lying still on the bed.

'Garrett!' The tray tilted and the bowl began to slide towards the edge.

'Mother!' Arthur pointed at the tray. 'Look out.'

She glanced down and levelled the tray just in time to stop the bowl tipping over. Then she hurried across the room, set the tray down on a dressing table and trod softly across to the bed.

'I'm sorry,' she whispered. 'Didn't mean to cry out. I just thought, when I saw him asleep, for a moment I thought he was . . .'

'He's just sleeping, Mother. That's all.'

'Yes.' She smiled at her son, then gazed at Garrett with a frown. 'Poor lamb. He's not well.'

'He'll get better, Mother.'

She patted Arthur's cheek. 'Of course he will.'

Chapter 21.

As the summer wore on, Garrett's condition slowly improved and by the end of August he was able to accompany his family for short walks in Hyde Park.There was still a strained atmosphere in the capital following the riots in June. A number of the ringleaders had been hanged outside the fire-damaged walls of the Newgate prison and the man who had been at the heart of the anti-Catholic mob, Charles Gordon, was on trial for his life, dividing London society between his supporters, who regarded him as a hero and patriot, and those who wanted the rabblerouser hanged from the highest gallows as a warning to those who felt tempted by the perilous game of playing the London mob. The social scene was only just beginning to return to normal as the theatres and ballrooms began to open up again, and the trickle of invitations for Lord and Lady Mornington slowly increased in volume.

But Garrett soon discovered that any attempt at dancing quickly fatigued him and he was no longer able to cope with more than one or two hours at social events without succ.u.mbing to exhaustion. The onset of autumn brought a renewed bout of Garrett's illness and once more he was bedridden with colds and a cough from which he never seemed completely to recover. His appet.i.te began to fade and, despite the best efforts of the cook, he grew steadily thinner and more gaunt as the new year came and winter fixed London in its icy grip. At first Anne was sympathetic towards him, but increasingly came to resent the curtailing of her involvement in London society. She had to attend parties and performances by herself while Garrett remained at home.

As May came round and the buds began to appear on the branches of trees in Hyde Park, Arthur persuaded his father to come out for a walk. Garrett was happy to quit the thick atmosphere of his bedroom, where the walls had become far too familiar and confining through the winter months. The carriage dropped them at the gates and pulled over to wait with other vehicles. Arthur supported his father's arm as they walked slowly along the gravel path beneath the green-flecked boughs of the trees lining the route. Along the way Garrett exchanged greetings with a few people he had not seen for some months.They found an empty bench and sat down. As he drew his breath and felt his heart slow down to a more even beat, Garrett looked up into the clear spring sky and smiled.The cool air felt good in his lungs and an unaccustomed surge of energy flowed through his limbs. Birdsong filled his ears and it was almost as if spring were renewing him even as it renewed the world around him and his son.

'I feel good,' he said. 'Best I have felt for an age.'

His son smiled happily and patted his father's gloved hand.

'Thank you for persuading me to come out for this walk, Arthur. I'm so glad I came.'

'Me too,' Arthur nodded. Then he turned to his father hopefully. 'Do you think you might want to play your violin when we return home? A duet perhaps?'

'Yes. Why not? I think I'd like that a great deal.' Garrett eased himself up from the bench. 'In fact, why delay it a moment longer? It's been far too long since we've played together. Come, let's go.'

Arthur felt his heart swell with joy at the prospect. All the disappointment and feeling of abandonment that he had endured since coming to live in London were forgotten in an instant.The father he had only been able to remember for years was made flesh again. He stood up and ran a few paces to catch up with Garrett, who was striding back down the path towards the distant gate beyond which the carriages were waiting.

Garrett laughed.

'What is it, Father?'

'I was just remembering how we used to race each other to the front entrance at Dangan whenever we had been for a walk in the country. Do you recall?'

'Why, yes, I do. I remember it well.'

'Really?' Garrett smiled mischievously. 'Let's see. Ready, steady . . .' He lurched forward into a trot and called back over his shoulder, 'Go!'

'Father!' Arthur cried in alarm. 'You're not well enough. Stop it! Please!'

'What's the matter? Afraid of losing? Come on, Arthur, run!'

His son was already running, racing to catch up with his father, though not out of pride, just fear for the consequences of Garrett's rash high spirits. 'Stop! You must stop!'

'Oh, must I?' Garrett panted, awkwardly trying to lengthen his stride on legs not used to such exertion.

'Stop Father! I beg you!' Arthur caught up with him, and reached out to grab his shoulder. His fingers closed on the cloth and pressed on, closing around the bony shoulder beneath. Garrett slowed down and stopped. He was laughing as he turned towards his son. 'Ah! I'm too old for these games . . . Too old.' He paused, s.n.a.t.c.hing at breaths, then he was gripped by a coughing fit, and bent double as he tried to fight it off, fist clenched to his mouth. The coughing worsened, racking his chest, and the first flecks of blood spattered on to the path. He felt his knees shaking, weakening, then the strength left his legs and he collapsed.

'Father!' Arthur cried out, dropping to the ground beside him.

Garrett felt the boy's hands reach under his shoulders and gently raise him up, cradling his head against Arthur's chest. Garrett was still coughing when he was. .h.i.t by a wave of giddy nausea. His vision blurred and went dark and far away, it seemed, he heard his son calling to him. Then there was nothing.

Arthur saw his father's eyelids flicker, then the body went limp. Garrett was still breathing, but each breath was drawn with a strained rasping sound. Looking round Arthur saw two grimy figures in workmen's clothes walking down the path towards him. They were chatting loudly and had not yet noticed the little drama at the side of the path ahead of them.

'You men!' Arthur called out. 'Come here! Quickly, d.a.m.n it!'

For an instant they froze, before sensing the urgency in the boy's voice and his tone of command.Then they broke into a run and rushed to where Arthur leaned over Garrett.

'I have to get my father home. Help me carry him to the carriage there, outside the gate.'

As they drew up outside the house, O'Shea threw his whip aside and jumped down from his seat to wrench the door open.

'Here, Master Arthur. Let me.'

He carefully pulled Garrett out of the doorway and lifted him up as if the man weighed no more than a sleeping infant. Arthur jumped down behind him and followed O'Shea up the stairs to the door, reaching round the driver to turn the handle and shove the panelled door aside.

'Take him into the parlour,' ordered Arthur. 'Then go for the doctor.You know the address?'

'Wardour Street, sir. Dr Henderson.'

'That's him.'

They crossed the hall to the small reception room used by the family for informal occasions. O'Shea carried Garrett over to chaise longue and carefully set him down. A face appeared at the door, one of the maids come to see what the commotion was about. She took one look at the ashen face of her master and raised a hand to her cheek in alarm.

Arthur turned to her as O'Shea brushed past and hurried from the room. 'Sarah, where's my mother?'

'B-begging your pardon, sir, but she's taken the other children shopping.'

'Shopping?' Arthur almost wailed in despair. 'Where?'

'Davis Street, sir. She said not to expect them back until the afternoon.'

Arthur bit down on his lip, his mind racing along in a blind panic as he struggled to decide what he must do. The doctor was sent for, at least. He glanced at his father, taking in the waxy pallor of his skin and the laboured breathing. Then he turned back to the maid.

'Get some bedding down here. As soon as that's done, get down to Davis Street and try to find my mother. Tell her to get back here as soon as possible.Tell her the doctor has been sent for. Got that?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Then go!' Turning back to his father, Arthur started to unb.u.t.ton his coat and eased it from his back before removing the silk neckcloth and loosening the topmost b.u.t.tons of the s.h.i.+rt. All the time his father was limp as a rag doll and the only signs of life were the laboured sounds of his breathing and the flicker of a pulse beneath the skin of his neck. Arthur used the coat to cover his body and then moved over to the grate to light the fire.

Sarah returned with some blankets and pillows, and carefully lifted her master's head to insert the pillows on to the arm of the chaise longue. Then she laid the blanket over his body.

'Thank you.' Arthur managed a grateful smile. 'Now go and find my mother.'

She nodded and hurried away. The flames cracked and hissed in the grate as the fire took hold and Arthur fed some coals on to the flames before he slid the vent into place and turned back to his father. He checked for signs of life and then tucked the blanket about the still body before hurrying back into the hall and opening the door on to the street. Dr Henderson lived over two miles away and O'Shea could not possibly have reached the doctor's rooms yet so Arthur sat down beside his father to wait. The fire had warmed the room and some of the colour had returned to his father's face, but his breathing was still ragged and Arthur willed the doctor to arrive as swiftly as possible.

Finally, a full half-hour after O'Shea had departed, footsteps came sc.r.a.ping up the steps of the house and into the hall. Arthur jumped up from his father's side and ran to the door.

'In here!'

'Sorry, sir,' O'Shea gasped. 'Smashed the wheel of the carriage. On the kerb at Park Row. We had to run the rest of the way.'

O'Shea stood aside respectfully and let Dr Henderson by. The doctor was clutching a battered black bag and his face was bright red with the effort of racing to the side of his patient.

'Where is he? I see. Stand aside young man.'

He brushed past and set his bag down beside the chaise longue. He took Garrett's hand and felt for the pulse before he spared Arthur a glance.'Your man explained what he knew of the situation. Your father's a d.a.m.ned fool. Rest, I told him. Not b.l.o.o.d.y amateur athletics. He's lucky to be alive. Barely alive but alive none the less. Well, you've done your bit, young man. Now leave me to my ministrations.' For the first time he looked straight at Arthur and saw the dread and anxiety in the boy's face. His tone softened. 'You've done well. There's nothing more you can do now.Your father's in good hands and you can trust me to do what I can for him.' He gave Arthur a sly wink. 'Go and have a drink. Tell your cook I prescribe a cup of chocolate with a shot of rum in it for you.'

'Yes, sir.'Arthur took a last fearful look at his father, and left the room, shutting the door behind him. He ignored the kitchens and made for the formal drawing room instead, and sat in a chair at the window to watch for the return of his mother and the other children. He strained his ears to hear anything from the back parlour, but there was no sound at all.

The hours crawled past. Then it was noon and still no sign of his mother. Another hour pa.s.sed and then at last he saw Sarah hurrying round the corner, followed closely by the others. Arthur stood up and walked slowly to the door, unsure of what to say, or how to react. He feared the worst but did not want to let the others read that in his face. So he swallowed his anxiety and tried to compose his expression as he heard their footsteps hurrying along the pavement and then clattering up the steps to the front door. His mother had overtaken Sarah. She rushed towards him, and grabbed his shoulders.

'Where is he?'

'In the parlour, Mother.' Arthur saw that her lips were trembling.

'Is he . . . still alive?'

'Yes. He was when the doctor arrived.'

'The doctor's here?'

Arthur nodded. 'I sent for him straight away.'

'Good boy.'

Gerald, Anne and Henry came up the stairs, the latter holding Sarah's hands and red-faced from tiredness and tears. Arthur's mother turned briefly to Sarah. 'Take the children to the nursery and look after them, please.'

'Yes, ma'am.'

She left them in the care of the maid and, with a short pause to collect her breath and compose herself, she entered the back parlour and closed the door behind her.

In the hall the three children and the maid stared after her in silence until Sarah coughed and made herself smile. 'Let's go and play. There's some nice games I know. We'll have some fun.'

'Sarah?' Gerald spoke quietly. 'Is Father going to die?'

'Die?' Sarah raised her eyebrows. 'Of course not, my dear! The doctor's here. He'll sort him out. He'll be right as rain before you know it. Now come on, who wants to play a game?'

Without waiting for an answer, she bustled them upstairs to the nursery and pulled out the first box she could find from the toy cupboard: a collection of tin soldiers depicting the sides involved in the war in the American colonies.

'Perfect!' she smiled. 'Now if we can find some marbles . . .'

As the four children stood waiting, the maid rummaged through the cupboard until she found a small felt bag filled with china marbles.

'Now all we need is a battlefield. This rug should do. Come on, Arthur, help me. If we stuff some shoes under it we can make some hills.'

'Why?'

'Why? Bless me, you can't not have hills. Wouldn't be like the real world at all!'

She cajoled them all to help her create a rough approximation of a valley lined with hills and then they began to set the troops up on either side.When all was ready Sarah sided with Gerald and Henry, and Arthur took his older sister, Anne, and they squatted down on the side of the rug where the redcoat army stretched out along a ridge formed by rolled-up dressing gowns stuffed beneath the rug. Sarah gave them each some marbles and explained the rules: each side to take alternate shots by flicking the marbles from forefinger and thumb and the side with the last man standing was the winner. Sarah proved to be an adept hand at marbles and the first battle was quickly over. A resounding victory for the blue-uniformed colonial army. As was the second battle. Arthur's pride was piqued by the defeats and after his second defeat he glanced up at Sarah.