Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Eighteen
I awake with a sick feeling in my belly. It’s five in the morning and the grey light of an overcast dawn is seeping through the gap in the curtains. Today the sun isn’t shining – today even the eternally optimistic sun is hiding her face.
I gaze up at the ceiling. My heart is a leaden brick in my chest. Cavill has not yet departed for the Argentine but I already feel bereft. My whole body anticipates the impending emptiness and aches with longing. I cry as despair overcomes me. I’m not strong enough for this. I don’t think my heart will survive it.
I drag myself out of bed and dress. It’s a long process. Layer upon layer of cotton and lace until finally I’m presentable. I pinch my cheeks, but they’re as sallow as Gwen’s. We make quite a pair the two of us. I breakfast alone in my room and then wake up Robert. He’s too young to need those extra hours in the morning and springs about like a young dog, excited to be starting his day. He’s even enthusiastic about practising the piano.
I accompany him downstairs. The house is quiet. The family is still asleep. Cavill is still asleep. How I would love to visit him now, but I don’t know where his bedroom is. How I would love to slip beneath the sheets and into his arms. But I’m with Robert and so I continue on to the drawing room. Robert settles himself on the stool and lifts the lid. He opens his score and places it on the music desk. He positions his fingers over the keys and takes a breath as he’s been taught to do. Then he begins to play.
I go to the window and gaze out over the lawn. The run of good weather is finally breaking. Damp clouds have moved inland from the sea and are thickening over St Sidwell. The gardens look dull in this lacklustre light. I fold my arms and sigh. My chest is tight with foreboding, the tears ready to break free again and expose me. I’m meant to be detached. I’m meant not to fully engage. I’m supposed to be on my mettle, but all I can think about is Cavill. And losing him.
But lose him I will. We are from two different times and there’s nothing I can do to reconcile them. Today he will leave for South America and he will never come back. He will die on the voyage. I cannot bear it. I wish I didn’t know it. I wish I were the real Hermione, ignorant of the future. But I’m Pixie Tate and the dreadful awareness of what is to come has overshadowed every moment of joy with Cavill. If only I could exist within the present and bask in the light of his love.
Robert plays falteringly, but I’m not really listening. I’m wallowing in my pain.
I put my thumb in my mouth and chew the nail. A pair of crows land on the grass just outside the window and hop about in search of worms. It’s going to rain and then there’ll be a banquet for the birds to feast upon. I wonder whether Cavill has ever drawn a crow. I wish we could spend another day sitting on the bank of the estuary sketching birds. I wish with all my heart that I could have another day.
Gwen and I meet in the nursery as usual. Her face is white, even her lips have been leached of colour. She smiles at me wanly, and I sense that she’s grateful to be able to confide in me, not to have to carry the burden of her condition alone.
While the children eat, I sit beside her and put my hand on hers. In spite of the warm room, her skin feels cold. ‘Have you told him yet?’ I ask.
She shakes her head. ‘It’s not so simple, miss.’
‘What do you mean?’
Her gaze drifts to the window and she bites her lip. ‘I should have told you before. He’s married.’
John Snathe is married? I hadn’t even considered that. My heart goes out to this poor, hopeless woman who faces nothing but ruin. ‘How long have you known?’ I ask softly.
She shrugs in defeat. ‘I have always known. That’s why I can’t tell him, you see. He already has a wife.’
‘Where is she?’ I ask. I assumed John lodged above the stables.
‘She lives with her mother who is sick. But when she dies, his wife will come back.’
I take her hand. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘No one is more sorry than I.’ Her shoulders shake. She turns to me, her eyes large and pleading. ‘What am I to do, Miss Swift?’
I cannot answer that.
After breakfast, instead of going to the schoolroom, I take Robert down to the library under the pretence of looking for something interesting to read. I hope Cavill will find me here and say goodbye. I linger about the shelves, my eyes running over the spines, but not reading the words embossed upon them. Robert pulls out a book. It’s about inventions. He takes it to the leather sofa and starts looking through it.
I hear voices in the hall. Cordelia is talking to Symons about Mr Trimlock, who is coming to paint her this afternoon. She wants him to set up in the blue drawing room. Her voice fades as she leaves the hall. Perhaps she has gone to her study to attend to her correspondence. She likes to do that in the mornings. The grandfather clock announces the hour and I put a hand to my chest. The time of his departure is approaching.
Panicked, I tell Robert to take his book upstairs, assuring him that I will join him in a few minutes. As Robert leaves, Cavill finds me. ‘There you are,’ he says, relieved. He’s not the same carefree man I first met on the stairs, but a man consumed with apprehension. The events at the mine and his disagreements with his brother have robbed him of his insouciance. He strides straight over and takes my hands in his. ‘I must go,’ he tells me, his brow furrowing and his eyes dimming, and that beautiful mouth of his turning down at the corners. ‘I admit that I am happy to leave St Sidwell and my brother, but I wish to God that I did not have to leave you.’ His eyes caress my face as if he wants to commit to memory every contour. ‘I love you, my darling Hermione,’ he murmurs.
My throat tightens. I want to stop him going, I know I mustn’t. But I can’t help myself. I care too much. ‘Cavill …’ I look into his eyes and tears mist my vision.
‘Hermione, this is simply farewell.’
If only he knew that it is the end.
‘Cavill …’
‘What is it?’
I see Symons over Cavill’s shoulder. He stands in the doorway and coughs. Cavill lets go of my hands and turns. ‘Your carriage awaits,’ says the butler solemnly.
‘Thank you, Symons.’ He turns and leaves the room.
I hear Mr and Mrs Pengower in the hall. They wish him luck but panic sends the blood rushing into my temples and I hear nothing more but the drumming in my ears. He is leaving and I will never see him again. I put a hand on the back of an armchair to steady me. I cannot let him go. I cannot.
As my heart floods with despair, he reappears suddenly. He strides across the floor towards me. ‘I want you to have this, Hermione.’ He holds out a small, leatherbound sketchbook. He runs his fingers over the cover, as if caressing an old friend. He puts it in my hands. ‘It is full of sketches of birds I have drawn down on the estuary and the beach. I want you to have it, so that you keep me close to your heart.’ My eyes blur with tears. ‘Open it.’ I turn to the first page. Beside a beautifully drawn little egret are the words: To my beloved Hermione . I catch my breath. It’s so special, I don’t know what to say. He lifts my chin and kisses me gently on the lips. ‘Wait for me,’ he adds quietly. I nod because I cannot speak. I press the book against my chest. Beneath it I feel my heart breaking.
He walks away, and this time he doesn’t come back. I glance out of the window and see that it’s started to rain. His carriage is indeed waiting in the forecourt. Grantly, in a cloak and hat, sits hunched on the box seat, waiting to drive him to the station. The horse looks bedraggled and miserable. I go to the glass and gaze out. Cavill climbs in. Then he turns and his eyes find me. They look inordinately sad.
I cannot bear it. Despair takes me over. I will not remain here and do nothing. I cannot allow the man I love to leave and die. I cannot. I forget the Butterfly Effect. I cannot worry about the consequences when the man I love is about to face his death. When it’s within my power to change what’s written.
I place the book on the table and hurry from the room and across the hall to the front door. The carriage is already making its way towards the avenue of plane trees.
I lift my skirts and rush past them, into the rain. I don’t care that I’m getting wet. I just care about Cavill. ‘Stop!’ I shout. Mr Grantly cannot hear me above the clopping sound of hooves. ‘Stop!’ I shout again. ‘Stop!’
At last, I’m heard.
Grantly draws the horse to a halt and turns to face me in alarm. I run to the window of the carriage. ‘Cavill!’ I cry, the tears misting my vision so that the carriage is just a black smudge in the rain. I put my hands on the window frame, out of breath and panting.
Cavill looks at me in fright.
‘Cavill, please don’t go …’ I cannot get the words out.
I feel a sharp pain in my chest. I cry out and press my fist to my breast. It’s as if my lungs are on fire, as if my throat is burning too – as if I’m being consumed by flames. I lift my gaze to see him opening the carriage door. I see his eyes, his beautiful blue eyes, so full of concern …
Then everything goes black.