sort the bastard out, Helen. Don’t worry. We won’t be involved at all.”
* * * *
The next day, she and Charlotte travelled to the Scottish coast. Charlotte was glad of the break from her demanding widowed mother and they spent a few days in St Andrews. Tiring of the cobbled streets and quaintness, they returned to Edinburgh to stroll George Street, and window shop.
One evening Charlotte queried Helen’s long silences.
“It’s a touch of the flu, Lottie, nothing more. I’ll be as good as gold by next week.”
“It’s not like you to turn down an evening out,” said Charlotte. “Edinburgh does have some social life Helen, if you’d only make the effort.”
“You go, Charlotte. Truly, I’d rather go to bed.”
“But you’re having an afternoon nap most days as it is.”
“Lottie, this is getting repetitive. It’s a touch of the flu.” At the sight of Charlotte’s hurt expression, she apologised. “I’m sorry, Lottie. I can’t seem to get rid of this exhaustion.” She blamed her tiredness on her despair that being blinded by her sexual desire she’d trusted Mortlock completely. Her sheer selfishness combined with Henry’s desire to keep her happy had put their very existence at risk.
Every day she expected a call from Henry. Every day weariness overcame her. Could it be depression? She’d see a doctor once she returned to London.
* * * *
“Time to come home,” Henry said four weeks later, and so they returned to London.
Her limbs were taught with apprehension and the tension made her jaw ache. Henry had said little on the phone, except to summon her home. When she’d asked if there was any news, he’d laughed and said ‘when you get here. Just come home’. She’d clung to the sound of his laugh and now, at Paddington Station, there he stood with a broad grin on his face.
They dropped Charlotte off at her mother’s house and once they were home, Henry fussed over her like an old hen. To her queries, Henry tapped the side of his nose and said, “Later, Helen, later, when the staff are gone.”
Bassett poured the pre-dinner wine and instead of staying to make polite conversation, he gave her a sad smile and left the room.
“What’s all that about, Henry? He looks at me as if there’s a death in the family.”
“He’s sad over your relative’s fall from grace, Helen. Let me explain.” With a large whisky in his hand he stood by the window, sipped his drink and looked out.
She rose to join him, to admire the roses blooming fiercely in the late summer sun.
“He certainly had a way with roses, but I wasn’t having him destroy you, my rose.” He walked back to the table to top up his glass.
She sat on the window seat to listen and watch the man she loved so much tell his story. No one could hurry Henry—he would do it in his own way in his own time.
“I knew where he lived, you see. Bassett found that out after our luncheon date. So when I knew he’d given you cocaine I dropped a hint to our local constabulary and suggested they search him on the street. I mentioned Thursday would probably a good day to do this.” He came to her side. “It stood to reason he’d be carrying it the next Thursday, ready to give you another taste.”
She gasped.
“They arrested him, Helen and in his lodgings they found more drugs. That was as month ago. He’s been before the court and is now in jail. Cocaine is beginning to become a problem in this country. It’s rife in the USA. Many of their soldiers have come home addicted from Vietnam.” Henry rubbed his hand through his sparse hair and continued, “I’ve told Hansen, who is now also Mortlock’s solicitor because I kept up the pretence that he was a distant relative of yours—I told Hansen to pass on to Mortlock that once he’s served his time, perhaps only two months for good behaviour, I will pay his airfare to the other side of the world.” Henry downed his whisky and raised the empty glass. “A
* * * *
The next day, she and Charlotte travelled to the Scottish coast. Charlotte was glad of the break from her demanding widowed mother and they spent a few days in St Andrews. Tiring of the cobbled streets and quaintness, they returned to Edinburgh to stroll George Street, and window shop.
One evening Charlotte queried Helen’s long silences.
“It’s a touch of the flu, Lottie, nothing more. I’ll be as good as gold by next week.”
“It’s not like you to turn down an evening out,” said Charlotte. “Edinburgh does have some social life Helen, if you’d only make the effort.”
“You go, Charlotte. Truly, I’d rather go to bed.”
“But you’re having an afternoon nap most days as it is.”
“Lottie, this is getting repetitive. It’s a touch of the flu.” At the sight of Charlotte’s hurt expression, she apologised. “I’m sorry, Lottie. I can’t seem to get rid of this exhaustion.” She blamed her tiredness on her despair that being blinded by her sexual desire she’d trusted Mortlock completely. Her sheer selfishness combined with Henry’s desire to keep her happy had put their very existence at risk.
Every day she expected a call from Henry. Every day weariness overcame her. Could it be depression? She’d see a doctor once she returned to London.
* * * *
“Time to come home,” Henry said four weeks later, and so they returned to London.
Her limbs were taught with apprehension and the tension made her jaw ache. Henry had said little on the phone, except to summon her home. When she’d asked if there was any news, he’d laughed and said ‘when you get here. Just come home’. She’d clung to the sound of his laugh and now, at Paddington Station, there he stood with a broad grin on his face.
They dropped Charlotte off at her mother’s house and once they were home, Henry fussed over her like an old hen. To her queries, Henry tapped the side of his nose and said, “Later, Helen, later, when the staff are gone.”
Bassett poured the pre-dinner wine and instead of staying to make polite conversation, he gave her a sad smile and left the room.
“What’s all that about, Henry? He looks at me as if there’s a death in the family.”
“He’s sad over your relative’s fall from grace, Helen. Let me explain.” With a large whisky in his hand he stood by the window, sipped his drink and looked out.
She rose to join him, to admire the roses blooming fiercely in the late summer sun.
“He certainly had a way with roses, but I wasn’t having him destroy you, my rose.” He walked back to the table to top up his glass.
She sat on the window seat to listen and watch the man she loved so much tell his story. No one could hurry Henry—he would do it in his own way in his own time.
“I knew where he lived, you see. Bassett found that out after our luncheon date. So when I knew he’d given you cocaine I dropped a hint to our local constabulary and suggested they search him on the street. I mentioned Thursday would probably a good day to do this.” He came to her side. “It stood to reason he’d be carrying it the next Thursday, ready to give you another taste.”
She gasped.
“They arrested him, Helen and in his lodgings they found more drugs. That was as month ago. He’s been before the court and is now in jail. Cocaine is beginning to become a problem in this country. It’s rife in the USA. Many of their soldiers have come home addicted from Vietnam.” Henry rubbed his hand through his sparse hair and continued, “I’ve told Hansen, who is now also Mortlock’s solicitor because I kept up the pretence that he was a distant relative of yours—I told Hansen to pass on to Mortlock that once he’s served his time, perhaps only two months for good behaviour, I will pay his airfare to the other side of the world.” Henry downed his whisky and raised the empty glass. “A
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