Naturally I would not expect this to be a permanent arrangement. All I want is time to recoup – I greatly miss Uncle Francis – and a little while, with a secure base, so to speak, from which to look around.
Love,
Emma
She must have replied instantly for her return letter came within five days.
My dear Emma, Thank you for your letter – the miscarriage has taken something more than a dead child out of me. I feel desolate and distinctly unwell. I am sorry I could not come to the funeral, but Desmond has told me all about it.
I do not expect Aunt Anna to last very much longer, she is so frail and will not eat – but to everyone’s surprise this very week she has quite recovered her senses! We do not of course know how long it will last – but she knew who Uncle Francis was and was sorry to hear of his death and she was delighted when Celestine toddled into her room. She even asked after some of her old whist friends! We carefully have not mentioned Uncle Davey, as we do not wish to upset her.
Emma, we cannot have you here – you really should apply for the post of housekeeper to the new incumbent. You told me you had become well known in the district, and you have made your home there. You have your own friends, you say, and Mother told me you had been out singing at charity concerts – I have never been to Blisland, but it is obviously a different life, a different world – and it has become your world.
Not since childhood have we ever been really firm friends, and now that I am Desmond’s wife – and virtually mistress of Place – I do not conceive we should ever make fair weather of it.
If you are in need I can send you £10, but that is as much as I can manage. Desmond has run deep into debt repairing the church and caring for his mother.
There is one other reason why it will not do, Emma – though I hesitate to mention it. I have heard the servants gossiping when I was not meant to – and there is a feeling that your disfigurement brings ill-luck. It is so silly that grown people should believe such things, but you cannot knock their heads together. Even Mrs Tizard – she is in charge of Aunt Anna – even Mrs Tizard was of the opinion that your visit to Aunt Anna last year upset her and caused her distress. She would not take kindly to your return, and with Aunt Anna at present so finely balanced it is a risk Desmond and I feel we cannot take.
Love,
Tamsin
P. S. If you cannot find it in yourself to stay on in Blisland, it
is Mother’s duty to receive you.
IV
EVERYTHING IN the house would have to go. It would have been foolish to have supposed that the new rector, when he came, would not bring most of his own furniture.
Yet I lacked advice and hesitated, and waited. Mr Hext said he was assured there was no hurry. For a time we could exist in limbo and, since the staff was all here, I could continue to run the house, feed them (after a fashion) and victual the locum clergyman who took prayers on a Sunday.
Eventually Mr Preston Wallis came from Bodmin. He was not merely the Canon’s solicitor but also legal clerk to the Bodmin–Wadebridge Railway. I knew Mr Wallis quite well. He was a small middle-aged man with a deeply lined face and a busy manner, as if time were pressing him to make haste.
‘Must apologize, Miss Spry: after your father’s – beg pardon, uncle’s – funeral I was taken with a tertian ague – it is much about in Bodmin this autumn – and have been confined to my bed for more than a week. I could have sent my clerk, but it seemed necessary I should see you myself. So here I am. Better late than never, eh? I wanted to see you and to discuss your future.’
We were in the big drawing room, where the great pieces of furniture looked as if never really settled here, their purpose all along being to be taken to the saleroom. I wondered if I could keep the spinet? Mr Wallis had a large briefcase which he now put on a table with a lot of clicking of latches, and from this he took a sheaf of paper.
‘Not sure, Miss Spry, how far your uncle took you into his confidence. But—’
‘I was not really his niece, Mr Wallis. It was a distant cousinship.’
‘I see. I see. Well, the Canon thought very highly of his distant cousin, as you may know. But what I do not know if you know is that the Canon has made you his sole legatee.’
Outside the big sash windows I could see Mr Wallis’s pony and trap. I saw the pony beginning to eat some of my montbretia.
‘I knew nothing of this!’ I said. ‘ What does it mean that he’s left me – left me his money?’
‘Just that. Just that. If—’
‘But when? Did he make a new will? I know nothing of it at all!’
‘He came into my office just before he was taken ill. I believe you were on holiday at St Mawes. He said he would like to have this settled before you returned.’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Does he have no – no closer relatives?’
‘A cousin in Australia, I believe. But he was in no doubt as to his wish to make you his sole legatee.’
I was a little short of air. ‘But his previous will. Did he not leave it to charities?’
‘Very little. But I must point out at once, Miss Spry, that the Canon really had very little to leave. What capital he had was invested in schemes like the Bodmin–Wadebridge Railway, the Treffry Viaduct, the Barnstaple to Exeter tramway, and most lately a Bath– Bristol scheme which has not yet got off the ground. All of these, including the Bodmin–Wadebridge Railway, are incurring losses rather than profits. In our local line we have been beset by problems such as no doubt occur in all new mechanical ventures. As your uncle will have told you, the wheels of the engines have been constantly leaving the rails, which has led to repeated breakdowns, and often the trucks have had to be brought home by cattle. Then there was the snow of February and the drought of July, when the engines had to be stopped after twice setting fire to the woods—’
‘I know,’ I said absently. ‘I know. You will remember we had two meetings in this house. And Mr Lane has written to me as well.’
‘I was saying this, Miss Spry, only lest you thought of his capital as a readily realizable asset. I think at the moment you would find it quite difficult to find anyone to take these varyingly speculative investments off your hands.’ The little man glanced out of the window. ‘I fear my pony has broken free of his rein. I hope he is not damaging your garden.’
‘Let him be,’ I said. ‘Then …’
‘Of course there are a few small investments outside these ventures. Some £300 in Consols. A cottage that he owned in Devonshire which is rented at £20 a year. A deposit in Martyn’s Bank in Plymouth of about £100, a quarter share in a tannery business in Exeter which brings in a few guineas a year. A few other minor things which can no doubt be gathered up. But nothing, nothing at all large. Then there are of course his personal belongings in this house, his books, the furniture, the horse and trap. Some of these you might wish to sell, others to keep. Obviously you can make these choices when you come to leave the rectory. I am here – shall always be on hand in Bodmin, to advise.’
‘Thank you.’
Mr Wallis put some papers back in his briefcase and took out some others. ‘ There is one other important item I have to bring to your attention …’
I looked up at him but did not speak. He glanced away, no doubt not wishing to seem to look at my drooping eyelid.
‘Fifteen years ago, just after he came here and just after I met him and became his legal adviser, an uncle of his in Bristol died suddenly. He too was unmarried, and he left a substantial legacy to the Canon. This has remained untouched so now it has obviously become a part of the estate bequeathed to you.’
‘What d’you mean, untouched? Do you mean my uncle …’
‘Would not utilize it in any way. I argued that if he was personally adamant some charity would be only too pleased to make use of it, but he did not seem to want to do anything with it, not even good!’
I sat on a chair. ‘I still don’t understand, Mr Wallis. Could you please tell me exactly
what this is about?’
Mr Wallis twitched and put the documents on the table as if they had suddenly become hot.
‘Mr Gregory Roberts – he would have no truck with the new family spelling of his name – Mr Gregory Roberts was a shipping merchant in Bristol and it was generally acknowledged that he traded in slaves. I can understand that your uncle with his principles should abhor such a trade, but I ask myself – and indeed asked him – whether money itself can be tainted? Whether such money however ill-earned could not be turned to good offices to purge itself of its evil origins? I have always believed that, but he would never discuss it at any length. I think he felt contaminated by the connection.’
‘Does this mean that the legacy …’
‘Will come to you, yes. Unless you wish to disown it. Though I trust you will not.’ I did not speak so he went on: ‘I have always found it difficult to believe that the Canon, even with such frail financial resources as he had, should have considered it necessary to live so frugally. His stipend was not negligible. But if he did so find it necessary, then it speaks eloquently of his Christian principles that he should never have dipped into this legacy which was always to hand. As a man who liked good living it must have irked him to live less than well, but I suppose he found moral strength in resisting the temptation.’
‘He never said anything to me.’
‘No, he would not. After all, it is a surprise to you, is it not, that your uncle should have made you his sole legatee.’
‘The greatest surprise. I have no call on him. There was a time when he …’
He waited at my hesitation but I found I did not want to tell him of the proposal of marriage.
‘We became very close,’ I said. ‘ He said he talked to me more freely than he had done to anyone else. But even so, he never mentioned this. I am overcome.’
He turned and fumbled for more papers from his briefcase.
‘I have here computations which you may like to look at at your leisure, Miss Spry. In this envelope I have put an assessment of the few investments and possessions that the Canon has bequeathed to you. In this other envelope is an account of the monies that will come to you – if you will accept them – from the legacy of the late Mr Gregory Roberts. Aside from the Canon’s various railway investments, except at a give-away price, I should estimate that his estate, short of what furniture you wish to sell from this house, would amount to upwards of £1,000.’
The pony had disappeared from view. But I would not have been altogether surprised if it had turned into a camel.
‘The other money is almost all in the form of bonds. These of their nature pay only minimal interest, so the legacy has not grown substantially in the fourteen years it was in your uncle’s keeping. The advantage, of course, of this is that the bonds can be realized at any time and to any degree you may think fit. It will be a week or two before the will is proved, but before then you will no doubt have decided what you will do.’
‘And – this is a larger sum?’
‘Oh, yes. Oh, dear yes. My latest information suggests that the figure will be a little less than £53,000.’
BOOK THREE
Chapter One
I
PROFESSOR DIEFFENBACH said: ‘My English, very poor, Fraulein Spry, therefore and so forth the translator necessary.’
‘Yes, I understand.’
‘And Herr Doktor Hamilton is to speak so between us.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Hamilton. ‘I was born and brought up in Hanover.’
‘Ach, so.’ The Professor put a pair of tiny spectacles on his nose. They were dwarfed by his square face as he reread the letter in front of him. Then he looked over his spectacles at me and smiled. The forbidding expression creased into more benevolent lines. ‘Ach, so.’
I was in a room in the Charité Hospital in Berlin. It was an untidy room with shelves and files along one wall carrying headings like Chirurgie and Rhinoplastik and Prosthesis. In a corner was a wheelchair with some of the spokes broken; and in another corner Sally Fetch pulled nervously at the fingers of her gloves.
I have seen one painting of Joseph Friedrich Dieffenbach which made him look a very big man. But he was not tall: the breadth of his shoulders gave the impression of size. When I went to see him he was black-bearded, fortyish I suppose though he looked older, and was then surgical director and head surgeon of the Charité Hospital near Charlottenburg.
David Hamilton was thirty and had only just qualified at the Royal College of Surgeons in Edinburgh. I had been put in touch with him in London, and he had agreed to accompany me for a maximum of six weeks.
Dieffenbach spoke and Dr Hamilton said to me: ‘The Herr Professor is reading, as you can see, Dr Latham’s letter and he wishes to know if you know what Dr Latham has said.’
‘I expect I know. But I would like to hear it again.’
Dr Edwin Latham had said to me: ‘My advice to you, Miss Spry, is to let it alone. I find it difficult to imagine how these injuries were suffered at birth, since you say you have reason to believe instruments were not used to facilitate parturition; but if the midwife was drunk she may have used undue force with her hands. You are, in fact, perhaps fortunate that you are no worse. The palsy has only affected the eye and not involved the mouth as usually happens. The scar is disagreeable, but to open it and then re-suture it would only have a very long-term benefit, and perhaps not even that. It is not possible to improve the neck stain, and I would advise you to follow the fashions of the day with high collars and the like.’
‘Thank you, Dr Latham,’ I had said. ‘So I suppose I must take your advice and return to Cornwall.’
‘That would be for the best.’ He sighed. ‘I’m sorry … Mind you, there are a few techniques at present being practised on the Continent, but they are in the experimental stage and you might well end up with a greater disfigurement rather than less.’
‘Where on the Continent?’
‘Well, largely in Germany. There is a man called Fricke. And there’s Von Graefe. And another called Dieffenbach. All have published papers. All are surgeons of great distinction. In France of course there is Baron de Dupuytren, who is at least the equal of any experimental surgeon living today, but his researches have not been so directly concerned with surgery to the face and neck.’
‘If I want to see one of these doctors, which one would you recommend me to approach?’
Dr Latham had sighed again. ‘ If you insist …’
‘I should prefer not to say insist, doctor. Per-sist perhaps. At least I’d like to go one step further, just – just to find out a little more. I can afford it.’
‘Hmm. If they would see you. One would have to be quite certain that you were not fobbed off onto some deputy or assistant surgeon. These are all enormously busy men.’
‘But they treat patients?’
‘Of course. The only one I have had some exchange of correspondence with is Dr Dieffenbach – and that was five years ago, before he became a professor. No doubt he will remember me because I wrote when I was in India, with some remarkable details about the replacement of a nose …’
‘Can I ask you to write to him?’
‘If you say so. I will do that tonight.’
Professor Dieffenbach had finished reading the letter and David Hamilton had finished translating. There was a pause.
‘So,’ said the German. ‘If you please. This place, please …’
I sat in a chair by the window. The bearded man, in his black heavy suit, stiff collar and black tie, came and bent over me. He smelt strongly of serge and starch and carbolic soap. His fingers loomed large but rested on my cheek and forehead very lightly. He grunted. ‘Ah, so.’
He pulled gently at the corners of the eye and said something to Dr Hamilton which the latter did not translate. Then he pressed the scar. Finally plump smooth fingers lightly brushed along the stain on my neck. Again he said something which Hamilton replied to but again did not translate.
‘What d
id he say?’
‘He asked if that was the extent of your injuries, and I said yes. That was correct, I imagine?’
‘Yes.’
Professor Dieffenbach brought a magnifying glass and peered again at the eye. Then he went back to his desk and began to make some notes.
‘He says you may go back to your other chair.’
I went back. The surgeon fixed me with stern eyes, in which in spite of their fierceness I detected a gleam of warmth and goodwill. Then he began to speak to Dr Hamilton.
After he had paused for breath Hamilton took a moment to gather his English and then: ‘The Herr Professor says yes he can help you. He agrees with Dr Latham about the stain on your neck, but says that in the matter of the prime disfigurement, that to the ectropion of the eyelid, he can operate with some prospect of success. He proposes …’
Professor Dieffenbach began again.
‘Ja, Meinherr Professor. Ja … He proposes to cut a flap of skin from the upper eyelid and bring it down to reconstruct the lower lid. It is difficult to translate medical terms, Miss Spry, as I’m sure you’ll understand, but I believe he called it a pedicled flap. This should correct the prolapse of the lower lid, he says, and will allow the lid to function normally. I do not know, Miss Spry, whether this operation has been done before, but he seems quite confident of the outcome.’
Surgeons often were. ‘Will you ask him?’
Dr Hamilton asked him. The Herr Professor nodded vigorously and spoke at length.
‘He assures me that a similar operation has been done before, twice last year and twice the year before, always with a degree of success though naturally each case is different in some respects.’
The German spoke again.