‘Is it his blood or mine? If it’s his, I don’t care, but if it’s mine I don’t know what to do–Will I die from it?’
In as down to earth a tone as he could manage, George said, ‘It will be yours, but I don’t think it will go on for very long.’ He hoped this was right. ‘Could you walk home if I came with you? It’s not very far to Toft House, is it?’ He knew exactly where it was, of course: it was one of the houses that formed part of that absurd private dream. How many times had he walked past it, and stared longingly through its gates, and thought–if only…He glanced at Louisa Rosen, and the speck of an idea dropped into his mind.
As he took her arm, ideas were tumbling through his mind. Once at Toft House, Mr Rosen would surely invite him in–the nice, well-mannered young man who had been so kind to his granddaughter. He might offer George a glass of sherry, which was what the people in those houses did, George knew all about that. If so, he would accept the sherry and make polite conversation.
Aloud, he said, ‘I think we might tell your grandfather that you tripped and turned your ankle in a rabbit hole. And that you lay stunned and helpless for a little while. I know it’s an outright lie, but—’
‘I’ll have to lie, won’t I?’ said Louisa. ‘I shan’t like it, but if grandfather thinks I was–attacked, he’d probably be ill again. And even if he wasn’t, he’d want the man found and brought to justice, so the truth would come out, and everyone would know what had happened.’
‘Dreadful for you,’ agreed George. ‘Shall we set off?’
At Toft House, he was indeed invited in, and old Mr Rosen, who had the fragile, papery look of ill health, was very grateful indeed to the unknown young man who had brought his granddaughter home after she had taken a fall. It was not sherry that was offered, but Madeira, and sipping it, George looked about him, and felt a surge of what the Bible called covetousness. This is what I want. I want to live in a house like this.
A second glass of wine was offered, but George declined, and said he must be leaving. But perhaps he might call in a few days’ time, to see if Miss Rosen had recovered? What else could Mr Rosen say to that, other than yes?
The news of Latchkill’s escaped patient got out of course, in the way things did in any small community. Apparently the man had been caught almost at once, and taken back to whatever room or dormitory or cell he had inhabited. Latchkill’s new matron, a hard-faced female only a little older than George himself, was believed to have said that escapes from properly run institutions were very rare indeed, and this had been an isolated incident.
George felt matters could be allowed to rest for a brief time. He would watch for his opportunity carefully, but he would allow Louisa a little time to recover from her ordeal before he made the promised call to Toft House.
But although he did call, and although he was made welcome, Louisa seemed withdrawn. It’s not going to work, thought George, despairingly. But perhaps she just needs a little longer to recover and forget.
Three months later he learned there was to be a consequence of that day which would ensure Louisa Rosen would never forget. Learning the truth had caused old Mr Rosen to suffer one final, fatal, heart attack.