But unlike the village where De Quincey and Emily had stopped on the night of Daniel Harcourt’s murder, Sedwick Hill looked prosperous. Its streets had paving stones. Its shops were freshly painted, as were the numerous, obviously new dwellings on the outskirts.
“Carolyn, on Thursday night, we saw a village where speculators had built more cottages than they could find buyers for. Abandoned, half-completed buildings were everywhere. The villagers were discouraged,” De Quincey said. “Why is Sedwick Hill, farther from London, in a better condition?”
“The hydropathy clinic we’re going to visit tomorrow,” Carolyn responded. “See, up ahead, there’s the hill from which the village gets its name, and next to it…”
The carriage approached a huge estate on the right, with a white gravel lane that led to a grassy promenade that had benches and shrubbery. Beyond these, silhouetted against the hill, were three wide, tall buildings. Separated by trees and pristine walkways, they resembled luxury hotels. Their numerous gables made their five stories seem even higher.
A sign next to the gravel lane announced
DR. ERNEST WAINWRIGHT’S
WATER-CURE ESTABLISHMENT
“Combined, there must be three hundred rooms in those buildings,” Emily said in astonishment.
“And as a rule, each of them is occupied,” Carolyn told her. “Sometimes for a weekend. Often for a full week. But usually for a month at a time.”
“A month?” Emily sounded surprised.
“The people who require Dr. Wainwright’s help tend to have chronic diseases such as rheumatism and kidney stones. Considerable care is needed to reverse the symptoms. But many also have a vague debilitated condition that requires reenergizing a patient’s core. I should say, a guest’s core. Dr. Wainwright never refers to his clients as patients. As you can imagine, an establishment of this size can’t function without numerous attendants, especially for the laundry, kitchen, and dining room. The water technicians are, of course, trained medical personnel, but otherwise, all the workers come from the village. That’s the reason for the difference between Sedwick Hill and the other place you mentioned: a major source of employment. The residents feel very fortunate that heaven blessed them with the local springs—some of the purest water in England. As Dr. Wainwright likes to say, ‘You can’t have a pure soul without a pure body, and you can’t have either without pure water.’”
“He sounds like a philosopher,” De Quincey said.
“I know he’ll enjoy talking with you tomorrow,” Carolyn told him.
The jangle of a passing vehicle compelled Dr. Mandt to risk approaching an attic window. Nervously parting the curtains as little as possible, he saw raindrops on the glass. He stared beyond the pathways, shrubbery, and lawn toward a carriage that moved along a country road, coming toward the lane to the clinic.
The vehicle was covered, preventing him from seeing the occupants. He imagined grim-faced Russians, angry and impatient after a two-week pursuit. He imagined that they had weapons hidden in their pockets; knives, certainly, and probably firearms. He imagined that the carriage would turn when it reached the lane and then stop in front of the buildings and…
To Mandt’s relief, it proceeded past the lane and continued along the road toward whatever beckoned its passengers on so dismal a morning.
Voices now prompted him to make his way around boxes and old furniture and peer through the curtains of the attic’s back window. This window provided a view of the hill behind the luxurious buildings. The voices he heard came from people who ran up the hill or walked up steadily or plodded up. Young and old, men and women, they each held a cup, and despite the cold, wet wind, they seemed to be in a contest over who would be the first to reach a grotto halfway up the hill or perhaps over who would reach the grotto at all. Some of those who struggled up the slope needed an attendant. Others, having achieved their goal and quaffed water from a fountain up there, ran down the hill, laughing, while those who took labored steps appeared to wheeze.
Insanity.
Knuckles rapped three times on a door. Mandt waited. Again, the knuckles rapped three times. Only when they rapped another three times did he approach the door, having been told that he could trust anyone who used that pattern. With a trembling hand, he pushed a small hatch aside.
Through it, he saw the top of a narrow, shadowy stairway. But even in shadows, the man’s now-familiar silvery mustache was identifiable.
“The water of life,” the man said in German but with an English accent.
Like the pattern of raps on the door, the expression was another indication that nothing was amiss.
Mandt freed the bolt on the door, but despite having been reassured, he stepped back apprehensively.
The man whom he knew as Dr. Wainwright entered the attic, carrying a wicker basket. “Guten Morgen,” he said, and he continued in German. “Were you able to sleep?”
“Very little.”
“Understandable. Your arrival must have been nervous-making. I apologize for the accommodations.” Wainwright indicated the dusty clutter that filled the attic. The cot on which Mandt had tried to sleep was hidden in a corner, behind boxes.
“What is this place?” Mandt asked.
“A water-cure clinic.”
“Hydropathy? Surely you don’t mean the sort of thing that’s at Gräfenberg?” Mandt referred to a controversial institution in the Austrian mountains.
“Indeed. I studied there for two years.”
“But the man who established it was a farmer’s son without an ounce of medical training.”
“Unlike him, I do have medical training—from the University of Edinburgh,” Dr. Wainwright said, standing straighter.
“Forgive me. I apologize if I gave offense.”
“None taken. Your nerves are on edge. Perhaps some refreshment will help.” Wainwright set the basket on a table and removed items. “I don’t know what you were accustomed to eating in St. Petersburg, but I thought that some simple bread, cheese, and boiled ham wouldn’t upset your stomach. And here is something to drink.”
He placed two bowling-pin-shaped bottles on the table.
“What’s that?”
“I call it tonic water.”
“Water? What I need is schnapps.”
“You won’t find any alcohol here, I’m afraid,” Dr. Wainwright said. “I can tell from the tone of your skin that you need a cleansing.”
“Cleansing be damned. How long must I stay here? When do I leave for the United States?”
“The plan was for you to be taken by train to Bristol and put on a ship tomorrow, but you might need to wait a day or two longer.”
“Wait? I was promised there wouldn’t be a delay,” Mandt said.
“Unfortunately, there have been some incidents involving trains.”
“Incidents?”
Wainwright made a calming gesture. “A fire. A collision. Nothing to concern you. But travelers are staying away from railway stations. We need to assume that Russians are watching the stations. Without a crowd around you, there’s a risk you might be noticed. In fact, when the railways return to normal, as an extra precaution your escorts might take you to Liverpool instead of Bristol. It’s farther from London and might seem less likely for you to choose it.”
Mandt groaned. “I should never have agreed to this.”
The air became grayer. Sporadic raindrops pelted the top of the carriage as it turned into a lane and proceeded between rows of tall, leafless trees.
“Normally the trees have started to bud by now, but this strangely cold weather…” Carolyn let the sentence fall away. “This estate belongs to my daughter’s husband, Lord Cavendale.”
They approached a huge manor house that could have been mistaken for a castle.
“Your daughter married well also?” De Quincey asked. “You must feel proud.”
“The union isn’t as fortunate as it might seem.” Carolyn peered down at her hands. “My daughter’s name is Stella. She m
et Lord Cavendale on various occasions—at dinners, balls, and champagne receptions at the Henley regatta and the Epsom Downs races, that sort of thing—that I organized for my husband’s clients.”
The casual mention of those major social events made De Quincey and Emily glance at each other. It was a world they couldn’t imagine.
“Lord Cavendale lost his first wife in a boating accident five years ago,” Carolyn said. “When he met Stella, he’d been a widower for two years. He was understandably lonely, and Stella, as you’ll discover, is beautiful. There’s a difference of ages that perhaps argued against a union between them.”
“Difference of ages?” Emily asked.
“Lord Cavendale is sixty years old. Stella is half that. At the time they married, he had two grown sons, approximately Stella’s age. I heard from a source that the sons felt they could hardly accept her as a stepmother when she was only old enough to be their sister. But evidently Lord Cavendale had a stern conversation with his sons. His intentions prevailed.”
“You said that at the time he had two grown sons,” De Quincey noted.
“Yes. The elder son died from typhoid fever soon after Lord Cavendale and Stella were married. Stella did her best to console her husband even though the son had resented her. Naturally, the death put a sense of gloom over the start of the union.”
“Unlucky indeed,” De Quincey said.
“The bad luck continued. In due course, Stella found herself in a family way, but the child, a daughter, died from a fever only a week after she was born. Stella and her husband have had a second child, but my daughter can’t stop fearing that something terrible will happen to this infant also. In fact, she worries about everything. She…” Carolyn shook her head. “I’m beginning to think that I shouldn’t have brought you here, Thomas. Stella’s troubles are too much to inflict on you. But I hoped that you might be a distraction for her. In a magazine to which you contribute, I read that your friends consider your conversation to be so entertaining that they’re tempted to hold you captive, put you in a box, and bring you out, like a child’s toy, to enliven dull parties.”
“Of late, I regret that my conversation hasn’t been lively,” De Quincey said, holding his laudanum bottle, “but for your sake, I’ll try.”
“It would be appreciated. The bad luck persisted when Lord Cavendale suffered—”
Before Carolyn could finish her sentence, the carriage halted in front of the granite steps that led to columns flanking the huge door of the stone manor house. Holding an umbrella, a liveried servant ran outside and down the steps. Another liveried servant held the carriage door open.
From the Journal of Emily De Quincey
Despite its commanding exterior, it was the gloomiest house I have ever entered. Granted that the day was damp and cold, and granted that the dark clouds made the interior shadowy, but every fireplace I saw was blazing and every oil lamp was lit, and still the place felt like a tomb. Its stone walls were covered with tapestries that depicted bucolic scenes of shepherds and frolicking nymphs, but the partially clad state of the nymphs only made me sympathize with how cold they must feel.
“Mother!” a voice said with relief.
It belonged to a young woman who hurried toward us from a huge sitting room on the right.
“When this morning’s Times finally arrived and I read about all the trouble on the trains”—she hugged Carolyn tightly—“I worried that you wouldn’t be able to visit me today.”
“Nothing could stop me,” Carolyn said, returning the hug. “Thomas and Emily, this is my daughter, Stella—and Stella, I’ve brought you a famous visitor…”
Father looked uncomfortable.
“Thomas De Quincey.”
“De Quincey,” Stella repeated as though she felt she ought to know the name.
“Confessions of an English Opium-Eater,” Carolyn explained. “A friend from long ago.”
Stella gave Father a delighted smile, seeming not to notice how short he was. “A famous author. What an honor. I hope you won’t think ill of me if I admit that I haven’t read your Confessions. I know of it, of course, everyone does, but Mother thought it wouldn’t be suitable for me to read when I was young.”
“Your mother was correct,” Father said. “My Confessions shocked adults, so I hesitate to imagine the effect the book might have had on a child.”
“But I’ll read it now,” Stella promised, “and I look forward to speaking with you about it; about all your work, in fact. Conversation hasn’t been the brightest here. The distraction will be welcome.”
“See, Thomas?” Carolyn asked. “I was right.”
Carolyn was right about something else. She hadn’t exaggerated. Her daughter was indeed beautiful, but in a way that I had not expected. Unlike Carolyn, with her cinnamon hair, Stella had the fair hair and light skin of her father, but somehow her delicate—I imagine that some might say exquisite—features made her appear radiant in her own unique way. She had green eyes that reminded me of emeralds. She glistened.
“Quickly, come in where it’s warm,” she said, beckoning us toward the sitting room, where a crackling fire worked to dissipate the chill.
Carolyn, Father, and I stood in front of its fender, extending our hands, rubbing them together over the warmth.
“The servants will take your outdoor clothes.”
My chill was such that I hesitated before I surrendered my coat.
“Please, sit,” Stella told us. “Over here, next to Robert.”
I glanced toward where she pointed and for the first time noticed a man in a wheelchair.
No part of him moved, not even his eyes, even though Stella leaned down and spoke directly to him. He just kept staring straight ahead, through her instead of at her.
“Look, Robert. Mother arrived with guests. Isn’t that wonderful? A famous author, Thomas De Quincey. Do you know his work, Robert? Did you ever read his Confessions of an English Opium-Eater? We’re going to have an afternoon of fascinating conversation.”
Perhaps so, I thought. But not with the man in the wheelchair.
Stella might as well have been speaking to a lamp. He just kept staring through her. Carolyn had told us that Lord Cavendale, whom I assumed was the man in the wheelchair, was sixty years old, but he could have been a hundred, so sunken were his cheeks and eyes. His face was creased with wrinkles, far more than Father’s, and Father is sixty-nine. The man’s hair had the drabness and lifelessness of cobwebs.
A blanket covered him. Stella tucked it closer around him and then turned to us, saying, “Please, please, sit down. Robert doesn’t respond to what we say, but perhaps he can hear us. Perhaps his mind is starved for stimulation. Perhaps something we say will finally prompt a reaction.”
Stella’s tone was bright, but I couldn’t help noticing the sadness beneath the surface, a sadness—and indeed a desperation—that seemed barely under control.
“I can only imagine how nervous you felt coming here, given all the calamities on the trains, and it’s such a dreary day, with the wind and the rain.” She turned to a servant. “Send in tea and biscuits.” She quickly looked at us and asked, “But perhaps biscuits aren’t to your liking? Perhaps you’d enjoy—”
“Stella.” Carolyn put a comforting arm around her. “Why don’t you sit down also? You might not know it, but you’re speaking as quickly as the trains you referred to.”
Stella looked surprised. “Am I speaking quickly?” She directed the question to Father and me.
“Perhaps just a little,” I said, smiling. “But I’m used to it. Sometimes Father and I don’t speak to anyone for long stretches as we flee from debt collectors. Afterward I sometimes speak quickly also.”
“Debt collectors?” Stella asked, confused.
Inwardly I rejoiced that my attempt to divert Stella had been successful. “Yes; the life of an author is uncertain.”
“Scribble, scribble,” Father said. Following my lead, he gestured with his right hand, seeming to writ
e with a quill pen on paper. “I’m at the mercy of fickle editors. One day, they can’t get enough of what I write. The next day, they say that I’m out of fashion. But I press on, tossing page after page behind me, littering the floor until it appears covered with snow.”
Stella studied the way we smiled. She appeared uncertain. “Surely you exaggerate.”
“A landlord once kept me a prisoner for a year, forcing me to write constantly until I’d paid off the enormous amount of money I owed him,” Father continued.
“You were kept a prisoner for a year? That can’t be true.”
“Unfortunately it is,” I told her.
“Escaping debt collectors, I once fled all the way across Scotland—from Edinburgh to Glasgow,” Father continued. “An acquaintance allowed me to hide in Glasgow’s observatory. What a joy to gaze up at the infinite heavens each night and know that my troubles were nothing compared to the immensity of the universe.”
Stella considered what he’d said, then nodded. “Indeed. Perhaps I should stare at the stars more often.”
She turned to her husband, adjusted his blanket, and used a handkerchief to wipe spittle from a corner of his mouth.
“I suspect that you’re wondering but you’re too polite to ask,” she said. “Two months ago, my husband suffered an accident. He and his son went riding on one of those clear, cold, bracing winter afternoons that my husband could never resist. Too soon, his son came galloping back in a panic, calling for servants to help him. Something had startled my husband’s horse. Harold thinks it was an animal in a thicket next to the trail.”
“Harold?” I asked.
“My husband’s son. That is, his grown son, of course. Not Jeremy, the infant that Robert and I have. Yes, Harold thinks it was an animal in a thicket, or perhaps it was a piece of a dangling, dead branch that finally fell from a tree. Whatever the cause, the noise startled my husband’s horse.” She hesitated. “The horse reared. The ground was frozen. Robert fell, struck his head, and…”