Page 109

‘Linette?’ he says again.

Nothing. Not even a muffled sob, just stark unnerving silence.

Henry sighs, moves on.

The dining room is already full, the table spread with Mrs Phillips’ best efforts of bread and cheeses, boiled eggs and cured ham, an impressive pound cake and a pot of steaming tea. Cadoc Powell keeps station at the sideboard, staring straight ahead without expression, waiting to be called upon. Julian’s guests – despite the lateness of the hour they undoubtedly retired to bed, look surprisingly refreshed (except Lambeth, who is nodding off into his teacup) – and as Henry enters the room they all look up.

Rowena is not there.

‘Ah, Henry,’ Julian says from his usual chair at the head of the table. He holds a cigarillo lazily between his clubbed fingers. ‘Good of you to join us. You were sorely missed after the excitement of last night. How is the patient?’

A titter of laughter travels around the table. Henry narrows his eyes.

‘I’m surprised at your concern. I heard how little Lady Gwen’s distress disturbed your merrymaking last night.’

Neither Julian nor his companions have the good grace to look ashamed. Instead Julian spreads his hands with a smile.

‘Well, it would have been a shame to let Gwen’s little episode ruin the evening.’

With something like amusement Sir John grunts into his egg, its yoke trailing down onto the tablecloth in a sickly yellow mess. His wife smirks in response. Powell shifts, the tic in his jaw the only telltale sign that he has heard.

Henry, however, does not bother to hide his disgust. He has known people like them in the past; caretakers in Bedlam, for instance, who took pleasure from bullying the inmates, or mocking any person who felt even a small ounce of sympathy for the poor wretches locked inside their cells, and if they had an audience then all the better. To Henry’s shame he did not say anything then. But he would be damned if he does not say something now.

‘Personally, sir, I found your behaviour last night unpardonable. You told me when we first met that you cared deeply for Lady Gwen, but now I have my doubts. For you all to treat her illness as some sort of parlour game was in very poor taste. You should be ashamed.’

Julian raises the cigarillo to his lips, all the while not taking his dark eyes from Henry’s. Then, slowly, he blows the smoke from his mouth, and Henry watches as ash falls like little fireflies onto the tablecloth.

‘Well,’ Lord Tresilian says silkily. ‘Linette has clearly been a bad influence on you, exercising that sharp tongue of hers.’

‘On the contrary, my comments are based entirely on what I’ve witnessed since we met. Last night alone was enough for me to settle my opinion of you.’

Powell looks at Henry then, his expression unreadable. He fancies he sees some spark of approval in the butler’s eyes, but then Julian is speaking again and Henry cannot tell for sure.

‘You disappoint me. Still, no matter, I’m not in the least bit offended. But I’ll take this opportunity now to tell you the gatehouse will be finished today.’ Julian picks a flake of tobacco from his tongue. ‘I have a ship at Abermaw waiting to take the workers back to London and they’ll be gone long before evening. So, considering your intense disapproval of me I shouldn’t think you would have any objections to removing yourself there as soon as possible. Of course, I’m not a fiend. Tomorrow will suffice. That’s enough time to prepare yourself, is it not?’

Henry looks between the men and women sitting at the table before his gaze settles on Julian. How mistaken he has been in him, and to leave Lady Gwen and Linette in the house with the man is a risk Henry does not want to take. Yet what can he do? he thinks, shifting uncomfortably under Julian’s hard black-eyed stare.

‘Very good,’ he bites out.

Reluctantly Henry moves to leave, keen to put as much distance between them as quickly as possible, but at the threshold of the dining room he remembers himself and turns back.

‘The meal last night was held in my honour, so I thank you for that,’ Henry says without the politeness he would usually strive to show in other circumstances. ‘But I hope you will forgive that I have no wish to repeat the pleasure.’

Julian, the Pennants and Selwyns, Beddoe and Lambeth say not one word. Henry ducks his head.

‘I bid good morning to you all.’

‘The wound heals nicely,’ Henry says some hours later, folding the soiled muslin around his hand and putting it into his knapsack. ‘No need for a bandage now. Let the air get to it.’

He had left Rhodri Jones until last, visiting his other patients whose houses were further afield, including Tomas Morgan who (Henry was gratified to find) is now fully recovered, having caught the young man unmooring his little fishing boat and pushing it out to sea. The rest mend in degrees – superficial cuts and bruises have been aided by Rowena’s administrations while other more severe injuries require more time, but Henry is satisfied that each and every one of the miners will make a full recovery, even if they are not all as they once were.

He thinks, of course, of the man who lost a foot, another with an arm so crippled he will not be able to work in the mine again. Head wounds such as this one, however … Well, that is something different entirely. And yet, Rhodri does remarkably well.

‘I’m very pleased with your progress.’ Henry rises from the bed, looks down at his patient sternly. ‘But you mustn’t exert yourself. It is far too soon.’

Rhodri grimaces. ‘I’ve no intention of it.’ He glances at his wife – a gentle woman with a kindly smile. ‘It’s nice to have a rest for a change.’

Henry thinks he comprehends.