Tapestry by Fiona McIntosh Page A

it mattered, but she suspected her parents were simply making conversation.
    She felt her father shrug beside her and check his watch. ‘Argyll somewhere … on the west coast, I gather. They were having a good holiday until a few hours ago. Apparently Diane was humming with excitement at visiting the ruins of Terregles House.’
    ‘Oh, don’t tell me — the Earl of Nithsdale’s country mansion?’
    ‘One and the same.’
    ‘I’m sure she’s desperate to see John’s name in Burke’s Peerage ,’ her mother remarked in a sarcastic tone.
    ‘Don’t, Mum,’ Jane whispered.
    ‘Sorry, darling. We’re all tense.’
    ‘This looks like the doctor,’ her father murmured, and stood up as a bearded, middle-aged man approached.
    ‘Jane,’ the man said, offering his hand, smiling warmly from above his loud, wide tie and looking more like a cuddly TV presenter than an eminent neuro-physician.
    Will had been transferred from St Thomas’s Hospital, where he had first been rushed to the emergency rooms in the ambulance, unconscious and mostly unresponsive. The trauma team at St Thomas’s soon decided that Will needed the specialist round-the-clock intensive care that was best provided by the Institute of Neurology in Queen’s Square, assuring Jane and her parents it was the best place for someone in Will’s condition.
    But to her it smacked of doom. Why wouldn’t he just wake up, open his eyes, and tell her he was sorry he’d left her for a while? They were on holiday, for heaven’s sake, planning a wedding and getting parents acquainted. Starting a life together, talking about Australia together. She would agree to climb his bloody rock for their honeymoon if that was what it would take. She hadn’t lost that love of his dewy-eyed pleasure in the mysterious that defied his logic, his training, his knowledge.
    Guilt gathered in her throat like a dam, holding back the waters of shame. Was the attack on Will her punishment for not loving him as he loved her?
    She’d hated the way her parents had moved into the same hotel as soon as they’d received the horrifying news. And as lovely as he seemed, she didn’t want to shake the physician’s hand. She didn’t even want to be talking to him, because it was like surrendering any hope that Will might suddenly wake up. She wanted to be walking around London with him, eating lamb shanks at the Arts Club, strolling through Green Park, or maybe travelling on the train to Scotland, where he was supposed to be giving his lecture next week.
    Jane felt a pressure on her shoulder from the cuddly-looking doctor’s hand. ‘Shall we sit down in here?’ he offered, gesturing toward a smaller room. She didn’t even know she was standing, or that he’d already introduced himself to her parents, who were making polite conversation to fill the terrible gap between not knowing and dreading what might be coming. And now she realised she was seated, her gaze desperate to focus beyond the window-scape visible from whichever floor they were on; frigid, naked trees swayed in the winds of the worst winter since the twenties, or so the weathermen were speculating. Their branches looked like supplicants praying to heaven. Please let him wake up! she prayed with them. But Dr Harris — was that his name? — was gently calling her to attention.
    ‘Jane, I need to explain to you what has happened to Will. It’s important you understand.’
    ‘Is he dying?’ she asked, her emotions helplessly raw as she snapped her gaze back to his, challenging him, ignoring this gentle first push of his into the bubble within which she’d been trying to cocoon herself.
    He didn’t flinch, didn’t look away or betray any sign of nervousness. ‘In my opinion he’s already dead,’ he said, delivering the cruel words far too tenderly. ‘Forgive me for my bluntness, but I suspect you would rather I was honest.’
    Harris looked at the trio of shocked expressions, but was obviously used to facing such