Burnt Norton Page 2

  Thomas looked at Dorothy. ‘Please, Dotty,’ he mouthed, and though the words of support trembled on her lips, she turned away.

  He sank onto the upholstered bench, pulled his knees to his chest and stared.

  Lizzie tried her best to placate him. ‘Dear Thomas,’ she said, ‘you are an odd one! How could it be a dying day? You only have to look around you, the sun is shining, and it’s truly glorious.’

  But Dorothy couldn’t look outside, for she saw danger in every tree and blade of grass. She buried her face into Hastings, her cloth rabbit, and prayed to all the saints in heaven to keep them from harm.

  ‘Dorothy, my darling, no harm will come to us, I assure you. It is only one of your brother’s little turns.’ Her mother leant towards her, touching her arm. Dorothy didn’t know why, but for the first time in her twelve years she did not believe her.

  Two hours passed. Lizzie read stories to John, and Dorothy listened half-heartedly. Thomas remained silent. Just before the coach reached Chipping Norton, Lorenzo slowed the horses. Sir William stepped down.

  ‘Come on, boys,’ he said. ‘There are too many of us in the coach as it is. We need to walk; it’s too much for the horses to pull us up this hill.’

  ‘I’m coming too,’ Dorothy said, jumping down. Soon everyone except Lady Keyt was trudging up the dusty track. Dorothy picked up her skirts and ran to the front. She held onto Ophelia’s harness, while John rode on her father’s shoulders. Thomas lagged behind, every now and then kicking up the dust with his new shoes. Lizzie joined him.

  ‘Come on, Thomas,’ she said. ‘Father will be cross if you make yourself dirty. I’ll give you a penny if you recite one of your poems.’ Distracted at last, Thomas put his arm through his sister’s and his clear voice carried up the hill towards the rest of the family. Dorothy, glad to be at the front, glanced up at Lorenzo; she always felt safe with the coachman.

  When he noticed her looking at him, he gestured to the road ahead and laughed. ‘Look at these potholes. In Florence we have proper roads; here, we have dust in the summer and mud in the winter!’ Dorothy laughed too, the last of her anxiety disappearing.

  As they pulled away from the village of Enstone, church bells rang. On the third chime, the carriage began to sway. ‘What’s happening?’ Dorothy cried. ‘What’s happening, Miss Byrne?’

  The governess’s comforting hand was wrenched from her as the carriage pitched sideways. With her face pressed against the window, Dorothy watched helplessly as a wheel rolled unsteadily towards the ditch. Grabbing the leather strap, she pulled down the window. Ophelia was frightened and picking up speed. Dorothy cried out her name. There was a second of uncertainty, an instant of hope, but as the bit tore at Ophelia’s mouth, cutting her delicate flesh, the horse threw up her head, and panic coursed through the team. They raced forwards. Lorenzo struggled to control them, his body straining, but the horses only went faster, the carriage vibrating as it dragged along the ground.

  When Dorothy later relived the scene, she would remember the noise: the screams of terror and the pounding of hooves as they tried to escape the monster behind them; the splintering of wood and the grinding of metal. A bend in the road flung her backwards into the carriage. Her head hit the ceiling, and she was tossed upon the floor. The curtains fell across the windows and they were separated from the ordinary world, to enter a dark and terrible abyss. It was as if time stopped and then gathered momentum once more.

  She cried as her father fell heavily onto her, pinning her to the floor. She tried to push him from her chest. ‘Get off me, Papa; I can’t breathe. Please get off me.’ She struggled beneath his weight until the carriage tipped over and her father fell clear. Dorothy lost consciousness. When she finally opened her eyes, everything was quiet. The curtains had fallen back once more, and light flooded the carriage. She put her hand to her head; a sticky substance oozed through her tangled hair. ‘Mama! I’m bleeding! Help me!’

  ‘It’s all right, darling. I’m coming, I’m here.’ Lady Keyt struggled towards her daughter. Her dress was torn, and hairpins scattered around her. ‘William, poor William.’ Her father was sprawled in the doorway. ‘Oh Dotty, his buttons have burst. It’s his favourite coat.’

  Dorothy heard her little brother whimpering, but it was the sight of her beautiful sister that horrified her. Elizabeth moaned softly, her head bent backwards. A shard of glass from the broken window was embedded in her cheek. Blood trickled slowly from the wound, a ribbon of red on her white skin. Her eyes stared ahead. She looked like a discarded and broken doll, with her skirts fanned about her body and her legs bent at a strange angle. Dorothy knelt beside her. ‘Lizzie, your hand is cold,’ she said, bringing the pale fingers to her lips.

  ‘I’m frightened,’ she replied, her grey-green eyes fixed on her sister’s face. ‘I can’t feel my legs, and I want to be sick.’ Miss Byrne arrived at their side. Apart from a small cut on her lip, she appeared unhurt. She took Dorothy’s hand.

  ‘Come with me, my pet, I’ll take you outside. The coach is unstable, it could move at any moment.’

  ‘I must be with Lizzie. She’s hurt.’

  ‘I know, my love, but your mother will look after your sister, and I need to know that you are safe.’

  She pulled the bewildered child into the sunshine.

  ‘There now, you stay right there. I’m going to the village for help and I’ll be back before the blink of an eye.’ As Dorothy sat on the ground, her father regained consciousness. She was vaguely aware that he was searching for John. He started with the travelling boxes that had fallen from the overhead locker. He scrabbled on the floor of the carriage, hurling the boxes through the broken windows, spilling the contents onto the rough grass. Dorothy watched as his movements became more frantic, and then she noticed her little brother. He seemed to be sleeping; her father picked him up and held him tenderly in his arms.

  ‘He can sleep next to me, Papa. I will look after him,’ she said, but he ignored her. He stumbled across the grass and fell to his knees, crying out her brother’s name.

  Dorothy lay on the grass, tired, separated once more from reality. She could see birds flying above her in the clear blue sky, and she could hear their tranquil song. It seemed strange that in the midst of chaos, ordinary life carried on.

  ‘Are you hurting, young missy?’ a villager asked. She shook her head, for though she felt bruised and battered, the pain seemed to belong to someone else. In this detached state she watched the villagers lift her sister from the wreckage, Miss Byrne hovering close by. She saw her father holding John in his arms, and she heard his sobs as he laid him gently down. Finally her mother emerged from the carriage. ‘William, where is John? I can’t find John!’

  ‘He’s on the grass, Mama,’ Dorothy said. ‘He’s very sleepy.’

  With the return of reality came despair. Dorothy watched, her head throbbing, as the villagers cut the horses from their shafts, steam rising from their heaving flanks, their noble heads hanging down, tongues lolling, mouths red with blood and froth. How could one forget the disfiguring lacerations, the lathered sweat, and the terror in their eyes?

  ‘Apollo, sia calmo, calmo,’ Lorenzo soothed, trying to calm them. His new livery was spattered with mud, the gold braid torn from his shoulders.

  Dorothy got to her feet, every muscle in her body tense as she counted the standing horses. There were only three; Ophelia was not there. Her eyes skimmed the landscape. Beyond the carnage, beyond the people milling around, there was nothing, only the canvas of green fields and blue sky. Then she saw her. Ophelia was lying in the ditch, her limbs thrashing against the muddy sides, her eyes rolling in agony. When she tried to get up, her legs collapsed beneath her. Dorothy watched in horror as Ophelia went down once more, her body twisting as she fell against the bank.

  ‘Ophelia!’ she cried, running towards her. ‘Ophelia!’ She was too quick for the adults, and as the mare’s screams of distress became more fevered, Dorothy sidestepped the outstretched a
rms and threw herself into the ditch on top of her mare. Winding her torso around the horse’s neck she wept into the sodden, matted mane. She could smell fear’s stench on her. For a moment Dorothy’s presence soothed Ophelia, but as the pain gripped her once more, the mare’s nostrils dilated and she squealed, her head jerking upwards. The hard bone caught the side of Dorothy’s face, and as blood spurted from her nose she felt strong hands dragging her from behind.

  ‘Let go of me!’ she cried, kicking and yelling, but Lorenzo would not let go. ‘Let go of me,’ she pleaded while he dragged her away, her small fists beating his chest.

  ‘Miss Dorothy, don’t look. You must not look,’ he said, trying to shield her eyes, but it was too late. Dorothy had seen the pistol, and she had seen her father’s tears. She watched paralysed and helpless as he steadied his hand and put the cold steel between Ophelia’s eyes. The shot rent the air. She smelt the gunpowder, acrid and bitter. For a moment she believed he would turn the pistol upon himself but instead he stumbled down the road.

  ‘I hate you!’ she screamed at his retreating back. ‘I hate you! I hate you!’ until she could scream no more.

  It was ten o’clock when Sir William came home. Whitstone met him at the door. ‘Let me take your coat, sir. I will fetch you a clean one. Shall I bring your supper?’

  ‘I don’t want food; get me a bloody drink, man.’ He held up his shaking hands with terror in his eyes. ‘Do you see these hands? They bring misery, Whitstone. Misery and death.’

  Specialists came and went, speaking in hushed whispers. William waited.

  ‘I’m sorry. Your daughter will never walk again. Keep her warm, keep her well. We can do no more.’ There were no tears now, only confusion.

  ‘Sleep in your own room, my dear,’ his wife said. ‘It is better that way. I shall sleep with Elizabeth.’

  The following morning he wrote an entry in his diary. You have taken my child. My God, why have you forsaken me? He could think of nothing else to say.

  Elizabeth remained conscious throughout. The dull ache in her back remained, and her head throbbed. Below her waist she felt nothing.

  Miss Byrne fussed around her. ‘Now keep still, Lizzie darling. The specialist wants to be looking you over.’

  ‘Yes, Miss Byrne,’ she said, but she couldn’t move anyway. At night when she was finally left alone, she tried to imagine the future, but no thoughts came.

  Her mother held her hand, did all the things that a mother should, but she couldn’t fix her broken body. ‘Dear God, let me be with John,’ Elizabeth whispered in the darkness.

  3

  The days following the accident proceeded as in a dream. Dorothy recalled snatches of conversation, a face swimming above her, a spoon held to her lips.

  ‘She is suffering from shock. I would advise you to wait to tell her, my lady.’

  ‘Yes, doctor, we will do as you say.’

  It was her mother’s face, but it wasn’t her mother. This woman had swollen eyes and unkempt hair.

  ‘Lizzie! I want Lizzie.’

  ‘It’s all right. Swallow this and we will bring her to you.’ A different voice – Miss Byrne.

  ‘No! Take it away!’ she cried.

  As she slept, Dorothy was haunted by indistinct recollections of sun-filled afternoons: John playing in the garden, running through the long grass; John chasing the butterflies by the pools; John lying beside her. No matter how peaceful, they always ended in disaster.

  In her waking hours she reflected on the days before the accident. One incident in particular plagued her. Dorothy had known her actions were wrong; now she believed the accident could be her fault.

  Boredom had driven her to break the rules. Her father had been in Warwick on constituency business, and Dorothy, Elizabeth and Thomas were with the seamstress. After three torturous hours of pinning and measuring, Dorothy was on her way into the garden when she noticed the door to her father’s study was not quite closed. She could not resist.

  Shutting the door quietly behind her, she headed towards her father’s telescope. It had fascinated her for years, for its ability to bring the universe closer. Dorothy sat on the stool behind the telescope, moving the instrument on its pivoting base. She peered into the lens, pointing it upwards. Nothing. The stars remained hidden behind the grey autumn sky. It was a bitter disappointment. She was on the verge of leaving when she noticed the drawer of her father’s desk lying open. Her father kept his diary in the drawer.

  The passage outside was quiet. Kneeling underneath the big old-fashioned desk, her legs crossed, her heart thudding in her chest, she pulled the diary into her lap, and began to read.

  There, on the first page, was her grandmother’s writing:

  To my Darling William,

  A gift on your coming of age.

  May you have a full life, and may you fill these pages with your many successes.

  Your loving Mother.

  On this first day of July in the year of our Lord seventeen hundred and ten, I have attained my majority. It is a relatively insignificant detail in world history, but to me an auspicious day. A month has passed since I married my young wife. I am indeed a fortunate man, for she is handsome and dependable, and an exceptional catch, being part of the Tracy dynasty, whose lineage can be traced to Charlemagne. Tonight we will dine with her parents at Toddington.

  Dorothy put the diary down. Dependable. What did that mean? She would have to find out. Picking it up again she read entry after entry.

  The baby died today, only two hours old, God rest his soul. A boy. Ann is beside herself with grief and if I am honest so am I. One small mercy: Ann at least survived.

  After reading this poignant admission, she was momentarily shamed, but her curiosity proved stronger.

  My mother gave us a dog, one of the Clopton spaniels. It is black as coal with soulful eyes. Dogs are easy to love, uncomplicated, and they don’t answer back. I believe it gives her some comfort.

  Ann miscarried again. Though I believe the setback to be temporary, Ann has convinced herself she will remain childless. She is inconsolable.

  A joyful entry the following year told of the birth of her elder sister.

  It is five days since Elizabeth made her speedy entrance into the world. Though the infant is proving to be of sound lung and cheerful disposition, Ann continues to be cautious.

  She flipped to an entry three years later, recording the birth of her precious Thomas.

  We are rejoicing – at last, another boy! My son and heir, Thomas Charles Edward Keyt, born on this day, twenty-third of November, seventeen hundred and eighteen. He is a bonny chap with blond curls, most unusual. I had no hair. Once again my dearest wife has undergone the ordeal of childbirth, and though I too suffered, for her cries of pain cut me to the quick, I believe I am most glad, my part in this affair was pleasurable.

  For a moment she grappled with this piece of information, wondering what he meant, but it was forgotten in her longing to learn more.

  I bought a colt today, also black. His conformation is superb. I believe we will produce a great line. My uncle, Gilbert Coventry, offered me ten guineas, but I wouldn’t sell were it double.

  Finally she came to the entry she had been waiting for.

  Another child born yesterday, she is a pretty scrap; we will call her Dorothy after my dear aunt. Miss Byrne brought Thomas to see her; the boy ignored me, a strange child. He held a bunch of violets in his hand as if it were a great prize, dropped them into her crib, scattering them over the blanket. I told him off, and the Irish woman gave me one of her looks. How she annoys me. It is as if she disapproves of me, though what I have done, I have no idea. If she weren’t a good governess and the children did not like her so well, I would dismiss her, send her back to the peat bogs.

  I hope Dorothy will learn to ride, for Lizzie has shown little inclination. It has been a good week when all is said and done.

  The entry contained little excitement at her arrival, indeed, it was critical
of the people she loved. Dissatisfied, she read on.

  A son was born this week. He smiled at me, clutched my finger; I believe I shall love him most dearly. Ann is exhausted. I am convinced this should be her last pregnancy. If anything happened to my wife I would be utterly lost. Though my mother-in-law would insist on naming him Paul, after the first Tracy baronet, I will hear nothing of it. We shall call the boy John, a good name in my family.

  At that moment her mother’s voice intruded on her solitude. She returned the diary to the drawer and hastily left the room.

  ‘Ah, Dorothy, I’ve been looking for you. Where have you been?’

  ‘I was reading in the big chair, Mama. I was engrossed in my book.’ Her mother looked at her, her grey eyes solemn.

  ‘Where is your book now, darling? Don’t leave it lying around, for it will get lost.’

  ‘Yes, Mama. I’ll fetch it at once.’

  Later that night she asked Miss Byrne what dependable meant.

  ‘It means that the people in your life are loyal and steady,’ she said. ‘It means you can go to sleep knowing that we are always here to look after you.’

  It was a good explanation but somehow not the one that she had required.

  Sleep did not come easily that night, and when it was quiet, she crept back to her father’s study. Opening the diary once more she skimmed the pages; estate procedure and her father’s constituency were of little interest. When she finally found an entry devoted to her ability on a horse, she glowed with pride.

  Dorothy sits as if she were born in the saddle. I put her on Ophelia today and the child showed no fear; it warms my heart. She rode astride like a man. It is a shame that fashion dictates how women will ride. Utter foolishness.

  And he spoke of his love for Ophelia.

  The most obliging temperament I have yet to see. She is a truly beautiful mare. We put her between the shafts today. I have no doubt she will be a fine carriage horse.

  Later entries troubled her once more.

  That damned Irish woman, perhaps she is to blame. Thomas gets more peculiar by the moment. He will have to go away to school.