Weyward(90)

‘She’s lost the baby,’ Graham said quietly.

Father didn’t ask him how he knew about the baby. Violet felt his eyes on her and looked up. There was no concern, no tenderness in his gaze. His mouth curled in disgust.

‘I’ll need to examine her,’ said Doctor Radcliffe. ‘Take her to the bedroom and have her lie down.’

Graham slung Violet’s arm around his shoulders and lifted her to her feet. Neither Father nor Doctor Radcliffe made any effort to help. Violet closed her eyes, and imagined she was in the beech tree, feeling the summer breeze on her face. In the bedroom, the small window flared bright and the air crackled with electricity. A thunderclap. God moving his furniture, Nanny Metcalfe used to say. Nanny Metcalfe. She would be ashamed, Violet knew. God, too, perhaps. She had committed a sin.

After she lay down, Doctor Radcliffe asked Graham and Father to turn around, before lifting the skirt of her nightdress. His nostrils flared at the smell of blood. It hung in the air, sweet and metallic. Looking down, Violet saw that her thighs were ringed red, like the inside of a tree trunk. She suddenly felt very old, as if she’d lived a hundred years instead of sixteen.

‘Can you explain what happened?’ Doctor Radcliffe asked. It was the first time either he or Father had addressed her directly.

‘I felt a cramping, this morning,’ she said. ‘Like I get with my monthly curse, but stronger …’

‘I found her as it was starting,’ Graham interjected, still staring at the wall. ‘She began losing blood not long after I arrived. And then, with the blood … it …’

‘The baby,’ said Doctor Radcliffe.

‘Yes, the baby … the baby came out … there was so much blood …’ Graham retched, and Violet knew that he too was thinking of that mottled twist of flesh. The spore, the rot.

Violet felt tears sting her eyes, blurring her vision so that Doctor Radcliffe’s face swam before her.

‘Is that what happened?’ he asked her. ‘You did not do anything to bring about this miscarriage? You didn’t take anything?’

‘No, I didn’t,’ Violet said softly, the tears wet on her cheeks. The darkness was there again, and she rolled towards it. Fragments of conversation drifted towards her as she fell, the air rushing at her.

‘Lost a lot of blood,’ Doctor Radcliffe was saying. ‘A week of bed rest, at least. Plenty of fluids, too.’

‘Can you be sure, Doctor?’ Father asked. ‘Can you be sure she didn’t bring it on herself?’

‘No,’ Doctor Radcliffe said. ‘We have only her word for that. And the boy’s.’

She was flying now, the wind singing on her skin. She slept.

Graham was there when she woke up, sitting on the bed opposite, watching her. Everything was quiet and still. The candle had burned down to the wick. She could hear a fly outside, buzzing past the window.

‘They’ve gone,’ Graham said, seeing that she was awake. ‘They left last night. You’ve been asleep since. Father said I could stay with you. He had to keep up appearances in front of Doctor Radcliffe, I suppose.’

Violet sat up. Her body felt hollow and light.

‘They’ll be back in a week, to see how you’ve recovered. Father’s writing to Frederick. I expect the wedding’s off.’

The feeling of lightness again. She heard a redstart sing and smiled. It was a beautiful sound.

‘I don’t think Father believed us,’ said Graham.

Violet nodded. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘As long as Doctor Radcliffe did.’

‘I suppose you’re right,’ he said. ‘Father would hardly go to the police of his own accord. The scandal.’

They were quiet for a moment. Violet watched a thin ray of sun dance on the wall.

‘Do you know what this place is, Violet?’

‘Yes. It was our mother’s house,’ she said. ‘Her name was Elizabeth. Elizabeth Weyward.’

Graham was quiet. It took Violet a moment to realise that he was crying, his hunched shoulders shaking, his face hidden in his hands. She hadn’t seen him cry since before he left for boarding school, years ago.

‘Graham?’

‘I thought …’ He took a deep, steadying breath. ‘I thought you were going to die, too. Just like she did. Our – our mother.’

They had never spoken of her before.

‘That’s why you hate me, isn’t it?’ Graham lifted his face from his hands as he spoke. His pale skin was mottled with tears. ‘Because I – because I killed her.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘She died having me.’

‘She didn’t.’

‘Don’t, Violet. I know. Father told me years ago.’

‘He lied,’ she said. And then she told him the truth – about what Father and Doctor Radcliffe had done to their mother. About the grandmother who had tried to reach them, the grandmother they had never known.

‘So you mustn’t think it’s your fault anymore,’ she said, afterwards. ‘And you mustn’t think I hate you. You’re my brother. We’re family.’

She touched her necklace as she spoke. The locket was warm against her fingers. She felt stronger, knowing that the key was safe inside. She considered telling him the rest: about Altha’s manuscript, locked away in the drawer. After all, the Weywards were Graham’s family too.