Henry & Sarah

Chapter 12 – The Aftermath



November 1886, London

“Mr. Abbott...?” Henry heard Mrs. Potter call.

Then there was a knock at the door; first a careful knock and then, when he didnʼt reply, a louder knock. And then, when he still didnʼt reply, the hammering of fists.

“Mr. Abbott! Are you in there?!” Mrs. Potterʼs voice sounded slightly worried now.

“I am...” Henry groaned weakly.

“Sorry for disturbing you! It is just that I havenʼt seen you for ages. And I am starting to wonder if you are still alive at all…”

“I am perfectly fine,” Henry mumbled, trying hard to sound alive and kicking despite the fact that he felt awful and dazed, and could hardly remember where he was or who he was.

“Well, then…” Mrs. Potter said, not seeming very convinced.

Henry heard her footsteps on the stairs as she was disappearing downstairs again. He was relieved that the old woman had not tried to enter his room because he was certain that she would have been quite shocked at his sight.

He lay face down in his bed, one arm dangling over the edge and holding on to an empty bottle of wine. When he stirred a little in his semi-somnolent state, the bottle slipped out of his grip and rolled over the floor.

For quite a while he had felt the need to go to the bathroom, but he was terrified at the thought of getting up as he had a terrible headache. Not that he had not somewhat got used to these headaches. After all, they were a normal accompanying symptom of hangovers; and he had had loads of those recently thanks to the huge amounts of alcohol he had consumed.

When the urge to relieve himself got too strong, he laboriously clambered out of bed and somehow managed to stand on his two feet again. In his attempt to cross the room, however, he almost stumbled over his clothes, pants and empty bottles which were scattered all over the floor. He had stopped tidying up his room a long time ago for the simple reason that he had gradually become lazy and indifferent to order and cleanliness. Not that the little chamber had been entirely clean and tidy before he had moved in, but it definitely looked worse now after he had inhabited it for a while.

He shuffled over to the mirror and looked inside.

He wasnʼt sure who exactly the man was who stared at him with these vacant eyes, but he guessed that if one pictured the face without the beard, the tousled straggly hair, and without the pale skin, one could have assumed that it was Henry Abbott, the tutor who had been kicked out of Partridge Mansion three months ago; the Henry Abbott who, after that, had been regularly seen in the numerous taverns of London, but who recently had started to spend more and more time within the walls of his humble lodgings at Mrs. Potterʼs guesthouse because he had become fed up with the company of other people, with the world, and life in general.

When he had returned to London after his involuntary departure from the mansion, his mother had offered him to stay with her. But he had found that living under the black factory clouds, which permanently covered the borough where she lived, would only have added to his misery. He had not wanted that blackness to surround him when it was already ever so present in his depressed mind. Instead, he had gone to Mrs. Potter who still remembered him well from his last visit when he had shared lodgings with Oscar, and who had offered him to stay as a regular tenant of one of her rooms.

After a while however, Mrs. Potter had begun to notice that Henryʼs lifestyle left a lot to be desired. He was untidy, slept in every day, and stayed away all night. Still, she had let him stay as she was glad to receive the money he regularly gave her. And Henry was content with the place as well although Mrs. Potterʼs cooking had not really improved since his last visit. But the rent was cheap and the guesthouse was in the immediate vicinity of many taverns and bars. And in Henryʼs opinion that was all that counted as he found himself more and more drawn to liquids which helped him forget.

This desire to forget was the reason that he had not managed to go and apply for a job as a teacher. He was unable to face anyone whom he would have been supposed to teach something. The mere sight of a classroom and a school book would have inevitably reminded him of the lessons with Sarah. And he couldnʼt bear that memory.

Suddenly, he found that he should have never pursued a career in teaching, and considered quitting it altogether. He came to the conclusion that he should have rather become a stable boy, which didnʼt require any thinking and which was just about obeying and removing the dirt. No risk of getting into trouble; after all, stable boys never took any risks as they didnʼt want to lose their work. They most definitely didnʼt try to get involved with their bossʼ daughter. Maybe they would flirt with her a little if they were as cheeky as Jeremy, but other than that they were careful to observe the rules.

But as Henry still needed to finance the rent and the alcohol, he had accepted whatever work he could find. He had swept the streets, had worked as a sales assistant for an undertaker selling coffins, and had served drinks as a waiter in a tavern. But he had never lasted very long, the reason being that he had become unreliable, had never turned up on time, or had even forgotten to turn up at all. The position in the bar he had lost because he had begun to drink more than the customers. The beer taps right in front of his nose had simply been too alluring.

During the times of idleness, he had written letters to Sarah; at least one every single day, and sometimes two. And in these letters he had declared again and again how much he loved her, and he had sworn that he would never give up wooing her. Then he had sent the letters to Oscar with the information that he stayed at Mrs. Potterʼs guesthouse, hoping that Oscar wouldnʼt let him down and would secretly give the mail to Sarah. And Oscar had proved to be that reliable friend he had promised to be. He had passed all of Henryʼs messages on, and in his return letters had kept Henry updated on what was happening in the mansion.

One day, Henry had received a rather distressing letter from Oscar in which the doctor mentioned that Sarah had indeed read all of Henryʼs messages but had been in a terrible state after that; a state from which she only gradually recovered. The letters had caused her a lot of pain because they reminded her again and again of their forbidden love, and she had claimed that she could hardly bear her fate anymore if Henry kept sending her these heart-breaking lines. Therefore, she had asked Oscar to let Henry know on her behalf that she didnʼt want him to write to her anymore.

Henry had been devastated by this and certain that Sarah was already in the process of forgetting him, but Oscar had assured him that not a single day passed that Sarah didnʼt shed a tear over him.

And so Henry had still written letters to her, but following her request to leave her in peace, he had not sent them off even though this had tortured him. Instead he had kept them, thinking that maybe the day would come when she would have a chance to read them and would realize how much he had felt for her.

Three weeks after his departure, Henryʼs mother had died. She had never been very resilient or physically strong. Therefore it had hardly come as a surprise to him when she had fallen victim to a nasty flu, circulating among the people in the borough where she had lived. Her death had shocked him to no end and had only added to his misery.

One week after that, Oscar had informed him that Sarahʼs wedding would be held in only a fortnight. Damian and Lord Partridge considered the outer threads to the marriage too big and the accompanying business deal far too important to waste any further time. In Oscarʼs words had lain the silent pledge to come and do something about it before Sarah would move to Damianʼs home in Wiltshire.

As if I could to do something about it... Henry had thought glumly. As if I could be the hero to save her from damnation. What if the alleged hero is in fact here and the victim still doesnʼt want to be saved?

The exact date of the wedding in mind, Henry still had taken up the journey to Oxford, had hired a coach to bring him to the Partridgesʼ estate, and had hidden in the bushes to observe the extensive ceremony, which had been held by a local priest in the lavishly decorated gardens of the mansion.

What ultimately had prevented him from gate-crashing the celebration and causing a huge commotion had been a couple of Damianʼs soldier friends that had suddenly appeared from out of nowhere, and who had grabbed him by his collar, hit him in the groin, and had threatened to break every single bone in his body if he didnʼt leave straight away. Henry guessed that Damian had, of course, anticipated that his rival would not stay away from the wedding and had therefore taken the necessary precautions.

On that day, Henry had terribly worried that Damian would notice that Sarah wasnʼt a virgin anymore when they would spend their wedding night together. Later, Oscar had informed Henry that this issue had in fact arisen, and that Damian had been quite infuriated after the wedding night, but Oscar had been able to soothe Henryʼs anxiety by assuring him that he had managed to convince Damian that Sarahʼs habit of spread-legged horse riding was the reason for that physical condition. And ultimately, Damian had believed Oscar. After all, Oscar was a doctor and his explanation had sounded plausible to Damian, who didnʼt know anything about these things.

Eventually, Oscar had come and visited Henry in London. He had told him that Sarah had begun to live on Damianʼs estate in Wiltshire, but that she was leading a lonely life with her husband being constantly away and only the housemaids looking after her. According to Oscar, she did not care about Damianʼs absence, of course, but it wore her down that she was all alone with her grief about the loss of her love. She was trapped in that huge house where her only company was the staff; the latter being a ʻhighly reserved and arrogant mobʼ —as she put it—that didnʼt care about her well-being at all, not even when she had gone on a hunger strike—her own way of rebelling. After a while, she had realized that the strike was not leading anywhere and had begun to eat again. She had, however, not found back to a regular eating habit and only ate tiny portions.

Oscar had told him that she was alright, though, and that he tried his best to check upon her on a regular basis. He had said that he even intended to transfer his doctorʼs office to Wiltshire, just to be able to be close to her. The thought of Oscar being near her and looking after her regularly had comforted Henry a little bit in his sorrow.

Still, Henry had played with thought of storming the Wiltshire bastion and get her out of there, but Oscar had assured him that it was too late for something like that, and that it would be a highly insensible idea, as Damianʼs estate could easily be compared to a state prison with fences that Henry would not be able to climb anymore. Apart from that, Sarah apparently still didnʼt want to see him and preferred to suffer in silence.

When Oscar had visited Henry, the latter had not been able to shake off the feeling that there was something that Oscar was keeping from him; a secret concerning Sarah.

“Is there something else you need to tell me about Sarah?” Henry had asked him several times. But Oscar had just shrugged his shoulders and denied it. Eventually, Henry gave up asking and guessed that he had only imagined things.

Henry had read Sarahʼs note, which she had given him on the night of his departure, at least a million times; just as many times as he had read the pages torn out of her diary—endless recollections of every single moment they had spent together, of the love that they had made. He had not been aware that she had felt so emotional about it all. The way she had described his kisses and his tenderness, his affection and his sensitivity, gave him the feeling that she truly saw in him something close to a supernatural being, which he knew he wasnʼt. He truly believed that he didnʼt deserve all that praise of hers. He was just a simple man who had to admit that he too, saw in her something so extraordinary and precious that he believed he wasnʼt worth her love either.

As for his supernatural status, he kept wondering what she would say if she saw him now, scruffy and tattered as he looked, completely neglected, dirty, grumpy, and suffering from a bad dose of depression. His doctor kept telling him he was drinking far too much, and warned him that he would soon live in a constant daze and eventually begin to see pink elephants.

But it was not only sadness that Henry wanted to drown with the alcohol. It was also the anger he felt for Sarah.

Yes, he was angry at her because she had been hesitating so long back then. Too long. And by acting this way, she had made him feel rejected; despite her assuring words that it was not because she didnʼt love him; despite the many pages of her diary which told him that she was merely afraid—afraid of him, afraid of the power he had over her, afraid of his love.

Henry kept wondering again and again, how she could possibly prefer to lead a life in gloom and misery, just because she wanted avoid that his love for her would wither and that her heart would then be broken.

What is she thinking? Henry wondered. Does she seriously believe that one day I will completely forget about her, or only occupy my mind with work or other things, and treat her in a cold and ignorant way? Just like Anthony Farringworth? Or that I will get bored of her eventually and start getting involved with other women at the dead of night under our own roof? Just like her Uncle Horatio?

Henry guessed that, of course, that was what she inevitably had to believe. She had never seen anything else but rude male behavior for the best part of her life. Not even Oscar proved to be a role model, although Henry assumed that Sarah didnʼt know what he was up to on his visits to London, that he chatted up loose women and spent the night with them doing God knows what, just to never see them again afterwards. But he was not married, and Sarah might have noticed that he occasionally had something going. And by being like this, he was not exactly coming across as someone who would stay with a woman till the very end of days.

Henry also guessed that Sarahʼs main fear was the one of being entirely alone. After all, she didnʼt trust anyone—not even God, who had taken her mother and with her everything that Sarah had valued and loved. In her opinion, it was obviously much safer to stay with someone whom she didnʼt love but who was tied to her by both marriage and a business deal, which proved to be some kind of fake security. And as this someone was keen on that business to work out, he would quite likely stay with her forever and make this marriage work out if it promised partial ownership of a profitable company. It was much safer than marrying someone who ʻonlyʼ loved her, even if that love was true. She had seen love wither. She had seen coldness and betrayal. And so she chose what she so desperately wanted to run away from because it was still safer than the unknown.

* * *

“You must eat something, Mr. Abbott. You are looking rather lean nowadays,” Mrs. Potter said when Henry staggered down the stairs for a little breakfast. “You should get outside sometimes, you know. During the day, I mean. Just for a change.”

Henry couldnʼt say what had ultimately caused him to really leave the house and go outside that day. He gathered that it had been the shocking sight of his face in the mirror, or Mrs. Potterʼs concerned looks and words, or the fact that he finally needed work in order to pay the rent.

After having nibbled at some slices of burnt breakfast toast, he aimlessly strolled along the streets of London in the warm glow of the autumn sun and inhaled the crispy air. He sat down on a bench in Hyde Park and watched happy couples as they were taking a walk, their children running ahead of them, laughing merrily and chasing the birds and the squirrels.

In the face of this serenity and bliss, Henry saw himself yet again overcome with terrible sadness and frustration because of the miserable state he was in.

I can not go on like that, he thought gloomily. Something needs to change. I need to leave this path of self-destruction...

He knew that he could only achieve this by forgetting Sarah, by getting her out of his head. He also knew that otherwise his life would be over in the foreseeable future.

He buried his head in his hands and began to pray, something which he had not done for ages.

God, help me, please. Give me a sign. Tell me how to proceed with my life, or else I am lost.

He waited for a little while, but there was no answer. And somehow Henry wasnʼt surprised. In fact, he had by now given up the belief that God existed. What he had told Sarah about miracles didnʼt make any sense to him anymore. Where was the miracle in finding the girl of his dreams if, in the end, that exact girl decided to turn away from him?

God, help me, please!

But God just didnʼt speak to him.

The only thing that happened all of a sudden was that the weather changed. Rainclouds covered the sun and a strong breeze came up.

Henry turned up the collar of his coat, quickly rose from the bench and continued walking until he found himself in the city centre. He was trotting through the streets, checking the windows for notices which indicated that the owners were looking for staff, but nobody seemed to offer any work whatsoever.

Henry sneezed and got angry. Instead of sending him work or a sign, all God seemed to be capable of was giving him a cold. The breeze got heavier and soon turned into a strong wind. Henry kept walking, fighting the storm, and ran into a barrier of oxcarts, delivering goods to the shop owners in the street. He noticed that one oxcart had lost a wheel and had scratched another cart on its way. Then it had toppled over and therefore had lost a whole wagonload of potatoes. The latter had fallen onto the ground and were now rolling into all directions. Little dirty children were shrieking happily and were collecting the potatoes; not in order to return them to their rightful owner, but to hide them under their jackets and run off with them.

The lane was too narrow and the current potato chaos too big for Henry to be able to pass. Therefore, he saw himself forced to turn left and take another street than the one he had had in mind. Ultimately, he ended up in a little run-down and filthy-looking side alley, at whose end he saw a little boy who was busy selling newspapers. As Henry grumpily walked along the lane, he saw how the wind caught one of the papers which lay on the very top of the pile that the boy held in his arms, and blew it away. As the paper was very light, it flew right across the street. The wind tossed the pages around and whirled them into the air, and the boy was helplessly running after them, trying to collect them before they would be scattered all over the ground. Henry knew that the boy couldnʼt afford to lose one of the newspapers. Newspaper boys got half a penny for every paper they sold. And for them that was a huge amount of money.

Suddenly a single page came flying towards Henry and landed right at his feet.

He bent down to pick it up. The boy ran over to him, and when he breathlessly came to a halt in front of him, he looked at Henry expectantly, waiting for him to hand him the missing page.

But Henry hardly noticed the boy. His eyes were suddenly fixated on the piece of paper and the headline which was printed on it in bold letters.

“Are ye giving it to me or what?” the boy asked. “Cause if ye want to keep it, I have to charge ye a penny for it.”

“I only need this one...” Henry mumbled in a daze, staring blankly at the page in his hand.

“It will still cost ye a penny, though. Oy canʼt sell the rest of the paper with a page missing in it. People just buy ʼem in once piece, ye know.”

Henry reached into his pocket, found a penny and handed it to the boy, who happily ran off. Henry was quite sure that the boy would sell the incomplete newspaper for the full price to the next person who came along.

Still stunned, Henry read the headline of the two-page feature again and again.



MORE POPULAR THAN EVER BEFORE:

People leaving the country by the hundred, seeking new life in America



Underneath the headline was a big sketch of a huge steamship, accompanied by an article mentioning the advantages and disadvantages for the nation with waves of emigrants leaving England and settling down in far off places such as Australia, Canada and America.

This is the sign... Henry thought excitedly as he was staring at the single newspaper page which had so seemingly accidentally landed right at his feet.

America… That is what God wants me to do. The moment has finally come...

* * *

The small ticket shop was overflowing with people. About fifty of them alone were standing outside in the pouring rain, more or less forming a queue, whilst others were rudely elbowing their way through the masses, trying to get inside; not because of the rain, but because they were afraid that—considering the big crowd—they wouldnʼt be able to get hold of a ticket for the next possible transatlantic crossing on the weekend to come.

After the incident with the newspaper, Henry had rushed back to the guesthouse, had dug out a tin with his savings from underneath a pile of dirty clothes, and had run to the ticket shop. Now he could hardly believe that he was really standing there, in this queue, next to so many people who were, just as himself, eager to take this opportunity to majorly change their lives.

While he was waiting, Henry tried to figure out what exactly he would write in his final letter to Sarah, how he could possibly break the news to her that he would leave forever; for her sake and for his sake. But all that came to his mind were the things that he didnʼt intend to tell her; namely, that he wasnʼt certain at all if this undertaking would save him from his misery, and that he wasnʼt sure if he would find peace of mind when he was finally away from her; as far away as he could get.

I need to try at least, he thought. After all, I have been given a sign.

And he was certain that it had been a sign. Finding that the incident with the newspaper had simply been too strange for being put down as a mere coincidence, Henry concluded that God simply didnʼt speak to people in the conventional way, by means of words. Maybe he used a completely different language altogether, a language that consisted of gusty winds and oxcarts which had fallen over, forcing one to take different routes and in this way leading one to the God-sent destination.

After half an hour of queuing in the rain, Henry had only managed to come as far as the entrance door of the ticket shop. After yet another half an hour, his clothes were soaked wet, but at least he was now standing right in front of the ticket seller, who was an unnerved-looking, spectacled man with a pencil stuck behind his ear. Radiating an air of impatience, he was seated behind a wooden desk, frantically fobbing off the dozens of people who were crowding the little room. Next to him was a young freckled girl who collected the customersʼ payments and put them in a little box which was sitting on her lap.

“Next!” the ticket seller shouted.

Henry took a deep breath.

“One ticket, please,” he said, wondering if he was dreaming or if this was really happening to him.

“Which class?” the ticket seller asked.

Henry looked at the man in confusion.

“Which categories can I choose from?”

“1st, 2nd, 3rd,” came the prompt answer.

“Well, the cheapest will be fine. I can do without room service,” Henry said in a weak attempt to make a joke but immediately fell silent when he noticed that nobody laughed.

“3rd class then,” the ticket seller mumbled grumpily and handed Henry a registration form to fill in, a pencil, and a green slip.

The green slip was the ticket.

Henryʼs fingers were trembling when he accepted it. Almost reverently he let his fingers glide over the thin paper which looked rather like a meal ticket for the poor than a permit to be transported to the other end of the world.

The brusque voice of the ticket seller tore him out of his stupor.

“Thatʼs 8 Pounds, Sir.”

Startled, Henry looked up.

“There must be a misunderstanding,” Henry remarked politely, slightly shocked at the fact that he was about to be charged a sum which equalled an average clerkʼs monthly salary. “I wanted a ticket for the cheapest category; 3rd class, I mean.”

The ticket seller looked at him expressionlessly.

“That is for 3rd class.”

“Oh, well then…” Henry stammered and handed the ticket seller the little money which was left from his savings and which he had not spent on wine. The ticket seller counted the coins which Henry had given him and handed them over to the freckled girl who put them into the little box on her lap.

“Two a.m., Sunday morning, Western Dock,” the ticket seller rattled on. “Be there an hour earlier. Fill in that form and then give it to Stella. Next!”

“Alright, thank you, Sir…” Henry answered in a daze.

I have just bought a ticket for America…

Not counting in the wait, the whole process of the actual purchase had taken him less than a minute, which, as he found, was ridiculous if one considered that it would take him twelve days to cross the huge Atlantic in order to get to a destination that was 3,500 miles far from where he was now.

“Sir, would you please make room for the other folks behind you!” Henry felt somebodyʼs elbow in his ribs as the others behind him tried to get past him. His heart was still beating fast when he walked over to the other end of the room and filled out the form, which required an awful lot of personal details about himself. After having done so, he handed it to Stella, the girl with the freckles, then he turned around and left, nervously holding on to the little green slip in his hands.

A tiny green slip which would change his life forever.

* * *

Oscar knocked at the door to the library.

“Come in!” he heard his sister call. Upon entering, he saw that she was sitting at the window, doing her embroidery.

“Good morning, Priscilla,” Oscar said, carefully closing the door behind him. He could sense that his sister was grumpy. He knew it by the way she frowned, the way she pinched her lips. He had hoped to find her in a better mood, which would have made it easier for him to talk to her about Sarah. But then again, he knew very well that that topic was better to be avoided in general, no matter if Priscilla Partridge was having a good day or not.

“How are you feeling today?” Oscar walked over to her, faking a merry smile which she ignored.

“What do you reckon, Oscar?” she mumbled. “Little Madame ʻI-want-it-my-wayʼ is still not eating. Whatever I shove into her comes up again shortly afterwards. I am beginning to feel like a stupid nurse. But trust me, I am not going to continue force-feeding her.”

Oscar sat down on one of the chairs next to his sister, a pensive look on his face.

“I am quite certain that her behavior can not be put down to her being stubborn and wanting her way. And I do not believe that it has anything to do with the fact that she is pregnant either.”

“Well, put it down to whatever you like. If you ask me, she is just playing her usual game again. Not that I truly expect anything else from her, but I must say I am still surprised at how imaginative she is. And this time she is really taking it to the extremes.”

“Priscilla, this is not a game anymore that she is playing. I strongly believe that this is a disorder. Do not tell me that you canʼt see her suffering.”

“Suffering...” Lady Partridge scoffed. “Has anyone ever asked me if I was suffering? As for Sarah, she already stopped eating after that wedding and the move out onto Damianʼs estate in Wiltshire. And you surely do agree with me that back then it was pure rebellion.”

“I do indeed agree with you, Priscilla,” Oscar answered, becoming slightly impatient in the face of his sisterʼs unwillingness to understand his point of view. “It was her way of protesting. But as for the current situation, I do not think anymore that it is her intention to rebel against anything. In fact, I believe that she has long ago given up on the idea that rebelling will change the situation she is finding herself in. In my opinion, that initial hunger strike of hers has developed into an eating disorder without her consciously wanting it. Contrary to the previous weeks where she at least ate tiny portions, she is now unable to eat anything at all, even if she wants to. And you must admit that all of this has only become that alarming ever since last week when Damian and Horatio confronted her with the news that she is forced to move with Damian to India in January.”

“So what do you expect me to do, Oscar?”

An indifferent expression on her face, Lady Partridge held her embroidery frame up into the air and admired the work she had done so far.

“I want you to convince Damian to stay here with her—in England where she feels at home,” Oscar said.

Lady Partridge looked at her brother in puzzlement.

“What are you thinking? Everything has been arranged and is being prepared in this very moment that we are wasting talking nonsense which does not serve anyone. They are going to leave in eight weeks, and from then on she will lead a life like a princess: She will reside in a palace with a staff of thirty people at her hand, the sun will shine day in day out, and hordes of elephants will pass by her bedroom window to distract her, just in case she occasionally feels bored with her magnificent existence as the wife of Damian Cox, which does not require her to lift a single finger. Everybody else would envy her for having a life like that.”

Oscarʼs forehead crinkled in concern. Not that he had seriously expected his sister to show any sympathy for Sarah. Considering her obvious dislike towards her, he knew that it had in fact been more than gracious and generous of her to allow Sarah to move back from Wiltshire to Partridge Mansion during the time that Damian was not at home, which was quite often the case and which also was the case right now.

And bringing her back had been more than necessary indeed. After all, the chambermaid and the butler in Wiltshire had been completely overtaxed with the task to control Sarahʼs food intake. Oscar had gone and checked upon her every so often but soon had found that she in fact needed daily supervision, which was impossible for him to do with his doctorʼs office in Oxford town. He had not managed to pull through his idea of setting up another doctorʼs office in the town near Damianʼs estate, because there already were two doctors. He would not have been able to make a living at all. It was easier for him to regularly see her now that she was temporarily back in Partridge Mansion. He knew, though, that if she really went to India, he would see her once a year at best; a fact that utterly terrified him.

“Priscilla, please, listen to me,” Oscar said in a softer, beseeching tone. “Is there really no other way? Sarah clearly does not want to go to India with Damian. And she needs me around...”

“Just because you are not at her side surely does not mean that she will not survive,” Lady Partridge explained sourly. “They have many educated practitioners in India as well, who speak perfect English. Why are you of that silly conviction that she might need you in particular?”

Oscar could hardly hold back his anger anymore as his sisterʼs indifference almost drove him insane.

“Because she confides in me,” he retorted. “After all, I seem to be the only remaining family member who cares for her. As for you, you have just treated her like dirt ever since the day she set foot in this house eleven years ago!”

“Is it any wonder? That terrible child and her mother Melissa, that wanton hussy of a woman, have brought nothing but misery and shame over us...”

Oscar jumped up from his chair and slammed his hand on the table. His eyes twinkled furiously as he was staring at his sister.

“Donʼt you dare to talk like that about Melissa!” he hissed. “I really wonder what has got into you?! It almost feels like that marriage between Sarah and Damian, this stupid fool, has completely got to your head!”

Lady Partridge raised an eyebrow.

Oscar bit his lip. He knew that he should not have blurted out his opinions about Damian so bluntly, but his anger simply had got the better of him.

“Well, why should I not be glad?” Lady Partridge replied calmly. “That horrible burden of pretending to be Sarahʼs mother is finally taken off me. And maybe, if I am really lucky, this aspect plus that business deal will even make my husband so happy that it will keep him from letting out his frustration on me and from seeking his adventures with the staff.”

Oscar let out a sigh. He was quite aware of his sisterʼs problems in her marriage. Not that this would have made him forget her meanness, but at least he had always felt sympathy for her in this regard.

“I am quite aware of your bitterness, Priscilla,” he said. “But you can have a wonderful life too. If you feel not happy at all, why donʼt you—”

“Why donʼt I do what?” Lady Partridge retorted. “Leave Horatio? Move out and into a house in London where I would be unable to take a single step without everyone elseʼs attention on me, without everyone wondering why that marriage with Horatio did not work out? Even the papers would surely gossip about it and draw their distorted conclusions, making me look as if I was to blame. After all, it can hardly be possible that the Lord Partridge, the famous factory owner, is at the cause of all the troubles, can it? Nobody will ever question Horatioʼs inviolability. Apart from that, a woman is nothing without a husband at her side; even if that husband has proved to let her down.”

“I rather believe that you are afraid to lose the comfort this life in the mansion offers you, and that this is the sole reason that is keeping you from leaving,” Oscar said.

Lady Partridge got furious.

“You know, Oscar,” she shouted, “you gradually begin to get on my nerves! I do not need you to analyse my life. And I can not bear your concern about Sarah anymore and how you permanently act in her interest. I ask myself if you have ever come to see me because of my headaches, or if it was merely because you wanted to check upon her because deep inside you care for her more than for anyone else!”

“Priscilla, you are my sister!” Oscar exclaimed and meant it when he added, “Of course, I also came because of you!”

“I must say that I am having more and more difficulties to believe you, Oscar. Or do you really think that I have not noticed how your mood has changed ever since Mr. Abbott—who strangely enough was such a very good friend of yours—has gone. I am starting to wonder if and up to what degree you were aware of what was going on between him and Sarah.”

Oscar laughed out loudly and shook his head in disbelief, trying to downplay the truth.

“You are imagining things, dear sister! But I am telling you that if Sarah does go to India, I will join her. I am not going to let her alone.”

“There we go,” Lady Partridge muttered spitefully. “Just as I said—you care more for her than for me. You always have. But I honestly do not hold it against you. You are a weakling and prone to succumb to the charms of any woman that comes your way, even if that woman is part of the family. As for you going to India, I am quite certain that neither Damian nor my husband will want you to be around. They will surely share my point of view that you would have a rather negative influence on Sarah, especially when I tell them about this little chat we are having right now.”

Oscar shot his sister an incredulous glance.

“You can not forbid me to see Sarah...!”

“Oh, can I not?” Lady Partridge purred. “Well, you are free to go and see her one last time and give her something that will make her rise from the dead so that she finally finds her way out of bed. After all, she has to appear at least somewhat presentable that following weekend when Damian will take her with him to London. He has received an invitation for dinner by Marshall Longbottom. Everybody who plays an important and influential role in High Society will be there. This invitation is quite an honor, even for him, and we all do not want Sarah to faint there or make a bad impression in any other way. Once you have seen her, though, I must tell you that from then on another doctor will look after her – preferably someone who will maybe finally cure her from her compulsive desire to fool everyone around her.”

“I can not believe how cruel you are, Priscilla,” Oscar whispered, bewildered.

“I am not cruel, Oscar,” Lady Partridge answered. “Life is cruel. I am just trying to come to terms. And now please do go, I have by far other things to do than to waste my time dealing to you.”

“I can not believe what a terrible cold-hearted and egotistic woman you are, Priscilla!” Oscar shouted at her.

“And you are a liar, Oscar!” Lady Partridge retorted frostily. “I do not trust you anymore and I do not care to see you ever again!”

“I will join her when she goes to London with Damian!”

“You will not!”

“You can not stop me!”

“Roderick!! My brother wants to leave!”

Angrily, Oscar turned on his heel and walked out of the room before the butler could arrive and kick him out of the house. Lady Partridge did not make any effort to stop him.

Oscar slammed the door behind him and tried to calm himself down, as he was close to a panic attack. Then he weakly staggered upstairs to Sarahʼs room where he found her curled up in bed, sound asleep.

He walked over to her and carefully put his hand on her shoulder to wake her up.

“Sarah...” he whispered.

She stirred slightly, then she blinked at him with one eye.

“How are you feeling?” Oscar asked.

What a stupid question, he thought. It was obvious from her looks that she was in a terrible state. She was thin, her skin was ashen and pale, and her hair was brittle and had lost all its shine. And she was in the process of drowning out the world around her.

“Good that you are here. I have run out of pills, ” she mumbled and yawned. “Can you give me another pill? I need another pill...”

“No, Sarah,” Oscar whispered softly. “I told you that you are not supposed to take more than two every day. They are too strong. And you can not live on these tranquilizers alone. You must eat something...”

“But I can not sleep...”

“But you were just sleeping when I came in.”

“Was I...?”

She stretched her lazy limbs and nestled her head against the pillow again.

Oscar sat down on the edge of the bed, touched her hair and stroked it gently.

“Hmmm...” Sarah let out a moan of pleasure. “Henry...”

A little smile played around her lips.

With a sigh Oscar let his head sink into his hands.

Something needs to change... he thought despairingly. If only I knew what to do...

Once again, he felt guilty because he himself had brought Sarah into the mansion so many years ago.

But am I really to blame? he pondered. After all, I was certain that it would be the best for her and that it would help her get over her grief after the loss of her mother...

Despite the realization that back then he could not have foreseen the consequences of his decision, Oscar still felt that he was the root of Sarahʼs problems. He had brought her here, and—considering the turn her miserable life had taken—he felt that it was his duty to get her out of here again.

He was looking at Sarah pensively for another while, then he whispered, “I will come and see you again soon.”

But Sarah didnʼt answer as she had fallen back into her drowsiness again.

He kissed her on the temple, got up and heavy-heartedly left the room.

Outside, he climbed in the coach and let Angus bring him back to Oxford. Having arrived there, he entered his small two-storey brickstone house in Guildford Street where his house help, Holly Witherspoon, already awaited him, swinging a feather duster like sword on her ruthless mission to rid the house of vermin.

“Dr. Scott, would it be alright if I made roast beef again tonight? We still have some leftovers from yesterday, you know, Dr. Scott, and they need to be used up, Dr. Scott.”

Oscar wasnʼt hungry at all. The quarrel with his sister and the pitiful state of his niece had upset his stomach.

“The leftovers will be fine, Holly, thank you,” he mumbled absent-mindedly.

He went into his study, sat down at his table and pensively stared out of the window, watching the November sun momentarily hide behind a cloud and then emerge again.

He was only sitting there for a little while when suddenly the doorbell rang. He was just about to get up, but then Holly called, “Itʼs alright, Dr. Scott! I will answer it, Dr. Scott!”

Thanks, Holly, I know my name by now...

With a sigh, Oscar let himself sink back in his leather chair. Soon, he heard muffled voices coming from the hall. Not expecting any patients, he didnʼt really care who it was as he had a headache and only desired to be left alone.

Then he heard Hollyʼs footsteps as she pattered to his study.

“Dr. Scott,” she said, peeping her head inside the room, “a telegram has just arrived for you, Dr. Scott.”

“Thank you, Holly,” he said.

“You are welcome, Dr. Scott.” Holly answered and handed him the paper.

When Holly had left again, Oscar put on his glasses, unfolded the telegram and began to read.



dear oscar - just bought a ticket for america - will leave sunday early in the morning - thanks for your letters and endless support - need to start a new life - will keep in touch with you and will let you know my new address as soon as I have one - your friend henry



Oscar let the letter slowly sink into his lap.

God, please… no more bad news today…

He took off his glasses and massaged his forehead. He had never felt at such a loss in his entire life.

After a few minutes of feeling that the whole world was coming to an end, he suddenly had an idea.

Maybe it wasnʼt so bad at all that Sarah needed to go to London with Damian.

Maybe it wasnʼt so bad at all that Henry had decided to go to America just now.

Maybe it simply all just fell in place.

And what is keeping me here, now that my sister obviously doesnʼt want me around anymore...?

Oscar sat about half an hour at his desk, lost in thoughts and considerations.

“Dr. Scott?”

It was Holly again. She opened the door and came in, wiping her hands at her apron.

“Will I serve some cabbage along with the roast beef instead of potatoes—just for a change?”

Oscar looked at her puzzled.

“Are you alright, Dr. Scott?” Holly frowned. “I must say, you appear quite worn out these days. You know what I think, Dr. Scott? I think you could do with a proper holiday, a change of scenery, Dr. Scott.”

Oscarʼs lips formed a small smile.

“It is funny, Holly, but I was just thinking exactly the same.”

“Oh, were you, Dr. Scott?”

Oscar leaned back in his chair and stuck the leg of his glasses in his mouth as he pensively looked at his house help.

“Holly, I wonder if in the future you could do without the money which I have given you in the past years for washing my socks and serving me dinner.”

Holly looked at him strangely for a moment, then she said, “Well, I have saved quite a bit, so I suppose my husband Trevor and I will be fine for a while... But why are you asking?”

“Because I might go indeed on a holiday… a somewhat longer holiday…”

“A longer holiday?” Holly Whiterspoonʼs face fell. “What do you mean, Dr. Scott?”

Oscar got up, smiled at her mildly and hugged her.

“My dear, Holly,” he said with a sigh. “Eventually, there comes a time for all of us when we are forced to make a major decision…”

Holly looked at him blankly.

“Dr. Scott, that doesnʼt sound to me as if you were going on a holiday at all?! That sounds as if you were never coming back!”

“It is just an idea, Holly. I am not quite sure about it as yet,” Oscar answered. “After all, I would miss you terribly if I left. You and Trevor have become like a family to me.”

“That is very sweet of you to say, Doctor. But tell me, who would look after your patients?”

“I guess I could ask Dr. Carson to take them. As far as I know, he still has a lot of capacity, so he surely would be able to devote to some extra clients. We are good friends. He will not mind. As for you: If I should not come back, I will write an excellent letter of reference for you. So you should be able to find new work in no time at all. But do me favor and do not apply for a position in my sisterʼs house…”

Holly frowned.

“And what about the young Lady Partridge?” she asked.

Oscar knew that every so often Holly had become silent witness to his brooding, to the moments when he had worried about his niece. At some stage in the past, he even had confided to her what he really thought about his sister and the way she was treating Sarah. Holly had proved to be understanding.

“She will be fine, do not worry about her…” he mumbled.

Holly was staring at Oscar for a little while, thinking hard, trying to digest the unexpected news he had broken to her. Then she suddenly said, “So what about dinner then? Will I serve cabbage or potatoes?”

Oscar could hardly suppress a grin. Wasnʼt that so typically Holly? No matter what major changes lay ahead or what crisis one went through—all that counted in the end were the meals.

“You know, Holly, I think I will actually leave the choice up to you. As for me, I will quickly go to town. I must send a telegram to a dear friend of mine in London.”

Oscar put on his jacket and headed for the door. Then he turned to his house help again.

“Oh, and by the way, Holly: Do me a favor and do not tell anyone about what I have just told you, will you?”

“Alright, Dr. Scott. Not anyone, Dr. Scott.”

“Perfect,” Oscar twittered happily and stepped outside where the sun had finally broken through the clouds.

Yes, he thought, Sarah definitely needs to go to London.

He would go and see her one more time before she left, and he would definitely do everything in his power to strengthen her for the weekend—with strong medication if necessary.

But she would go.

And once she was there, they could think about how to proceed.

* * *

“Oh, it is really a shame that you are going away, Mr. Abbott...” Mrs. Potter said when Henry spilt the news to her that he would leave for good in only a matter of days. He knew that she had got used to his regular payments and regarded them as sort of a steady income, but he couldnʼt get rid of the feeling that she was kind of relieved to see him going as she had grown suspicious towards him due to his neglectfulness and excessive drinking. He guessed that she found—just like himself—that a change of scenery would do him good and would ultimately lead to a recovery of his mental sanity, which undoubtedly had suffered enormously within the past months. She didnʼt know, though, why he had been in such a terrible state as he had never told her the reasons for his despair.

He spent Tuesday gathering his belongings which he wanted to take with him to America. They werenʼt much; just some clothes and books. There were also a few possessions of his deceased mother; for example, all letters which his brother had sent to her from America and a precious ring with a wonderful clear blue amethyst which his father had once given her as an engagement gift.

“Give this ring to the woman that you love and that you want to spend your life with,” his mother had said to Henry on her deathbed.

Maybe some day, some other girl... Henry thought bitterly as he was holding the ring in his hand now, knowing that it would be quite hard to find someone other than Sarah whom he would gladly have given this precious token of his mother.

He put the ring to all the other things he intended to take with him, then he got ready to go into town in order to buy a suitcase, finally get shaved and have his hair cut. Apart from that, he wanted to post a letter to Sarah in which he was telling her that he would leave and that she would never see him again.

He was just on his way out, when Mrs. Potter came rushing towards him.

“Mr. Abbott,” she said, “a man has just brought this for you.”

She handed him two telegrams. Henry looked at them. One was from his brother Paul in New York, the other one from Oscar.

“Thanks, Mrs. Potter,” he mumbled absent-mindedly and crept back upstairs.

He opened his brotherʼs message first, as he guessed that it was the response to the telegram which he had sent the day before, announcing his arrival.



great w p - will wait at port - paul



The letters ʻwpʼ brought a little smile on Henryʼs face. With his brother Paul being older than him—although only one year, one month, and a single day—Paul had regularly teased him by calling him W.P. when they had been children. The letters stood for ʻweepyʼ—a pet name that Paul had given him because he had witnessed Henry cry as a child. Henry had lost count of the numerous fights he had had with Paul in his attempt to make his brother stop calling him like that, although he knew that deep in his heart Paul had never really meant to hurt him. Despite their little rows, they had been the best of friends all along and had always been there for each other whenever one had needed the other.

Reading Paulʼs lines now made Henry feel loved and welcomed. It was nice to know that a part of the family would be waiting for him once he arrived in distant, foreign America.

He put his brotherʼs message on the table and began to read Oscarʼs.



dear henry - she will be in london on the weekend - mount merrion hotel - damian will be there too - but maybe you will find a chance to speak to her - please meet her before you leave - your friend Oscar



Henry chuckled. But what had begun as a chuckle soon transformed into hysterical laughter. He laughed so much that tears welled up in his eyes. After a while, he realized that they were no tears of joy but rather of rage and despair.

“What do you want, God?!” he shouted. “Havenʼt I gone and bought this ticket just as you told me to do? So why are you torturing me now?! You expect too much of me! Too much! I am not that strong to face her again!”

He crumbled Oscarʼs telegram into a little ball and threw it into the farthest corner of the room. Then he let himself sink down to the ground where he buried his head in his hands and waited until until his anger had ebbed away.

Why canʼt she leave me alone? he thought glumly. Will she be haunting me forever?

After a little while of crouching on the floor, Mrs. Potter carefully knocked at his door again because she had heard him curse loudly in his room and was worried about him. He assured her that he was fine, which wasnʼt a lie.

He was fine indeed because he had come to a decision; and that decision was that he would not go to the hotel.

No, he didnʼt want to see her, didnʼt want this old wound to crack open again, a wound which hadnʼt even had a chance to heal properly so far. He would send Sarah the letter which he had just been about to post before Mrs. Potter had held him up, and that was it. He was just on the brink of building his new existence, and he wouldnʼt allow Sarah to mess with his life again.

He pushed himself up from the ground, left the room and went to town, where he first had his hair cut and then bought a suitcase just as he had planned to do. And somehow he even managed to forget about Oscarʼs telegram. He visited a shop where a cunning, business-minded salesman tried hard to talk him into buying one of the most expensive suitcases he had to offer with the explanation that it was durable enough to withstand ice-cold waters and shark bites—just in case the ship should sink. When Henry explained that a mediocre cheaper model would suffice, the salesman began to show him about one hundred different kinds of suitcases, all having their very own alleged advantages. Eventually, Henry was completely dazzled because of everything and agreed to buy any kind of suitcase if only the salesman would leave him in peace.

When he came back home, a little annoyed and rather tired, he noticed that in his confusion he had completely forgotten to post the letter to Sarah.

Later that evening when he was lying in bed, he suddenly found himself staring at the little crumpled paper ball that still lay in the corner of the room. And suddenly, despite all his anger and despair, he came to the conclusion that maybe it was better if he went to meet Sarah. Maybe fate really wanted him to see her just one last time before he departed. Maybe fate wanted him to tell her about his plans in person instead of sending her a mere letter. Maybe they both needed that encounter to draw a proper line, to call it quits forever, so that they could finally go on with their lives in peace.

Yes, it was surely what fate had in mind, because he simply could not come up with any other reasonable explanation for it all.