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The Earl shuffled back to his bedroom, cursing the fact that he had already smoked both of young Mr. Whitby’s cigarettes.
He paused at the top of the stairs, overcome by a paroxysm of coughing. When he was finally able to draw a gasping breath, he heard his daughter in the hall downstairs.
“So, you will be in touch, Mr. Whitby?”
“Yes, of course.”
“We really have no time to waste.”
“I understand.”
The front door opened and closed, and then Dennis heard his daughter’s footsteps on the stairs.
“Daddy.”
He moved as fast as his trembling legs would carry him and was seated on the side of his bed by the time his daughter burst through the bedroom door.
“What’s the matter, Sylvia?”
His daughter’s face was pale and taut with suppressed anger. “You shouldn’t have talked to him like that.”
“Really?”
With as much dignity as he could muster, Dennis slid back under the bedclothes. The coughing fit had left him breathless. Needing a moment to restore authority to his voice, he allowed his daughter to berate him.
“We need Mr. Whitby on our side. You can’t just talk to him like a peasant, and you really shouldn’t have threatened to lose him his job. Times have changed, Daddy.”
Dennis managed to make a disapproving grunt, which his daughter ignored.
“You should have let Nurse Tierney explain.”
“Explain!” Dennis’s voice was slowly returning. “Explain? What kind of explanation did you expect from Nurse Tierney, not that she’s even a nurse, just a glorified orderly.
“The shield on the blanket.”
“Poppycock. Is that all you have? Mr. Whitby is not going to be satisfied with that. My only intention, my dear, was to get him out of the room and give you time to come up with something better.”
“We didn’t need anything better.”
“That young man is not a fool. If he had gone on asking questions, that stupid Irishwoman would have told him that she wasn’t the one who found you, you were the ones who found her. How much are you paying her for her cock and bull story?”
“It’s not a cock and bull story.”
“Well, it certainly sounds like one. And how are you going to explain the fact that you kept silent for six years and said nothing to your husband’s family? Mr. Harrigan will want to know.”
“I didn’t want to upset them. Their son was dead and I believed his child was dead, so why say anything? They had enough grief.”
“I hope he believes you.”
“He’ll believe me. He wants to believe me.”
“Yes, I suppose he does.”
“Of course he does. He’s overjoyed.”
“I worry about young Vera,” said Dennis. “She was a remarkable girl, and taking her baby away is—”
Sylvia glared at him in cold determination. “Do you want the estate to go to the Australians?”
Dennis sank back against his pillows. “I’m tired, Sylvia.”
“Of course you are, Daddy. Don’t worry about anything. It’s all under control. Why don’t you just stay in bed? You don’t have to talk to Mr. Whitby again.”
“I’ll have to talk to Harrigan.”
“Not if you’re not well enough. Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.”
She straightened his blankets and dropped a kiss on the top of his head. He closed his eyes wearily. He heard the creak as she closed the heavy oak door.
He pulled the blanket up closer to his chin. He should have asked Sylvia to close the window. He knew he was close to the grave, but that damned Pearson woman and her open windows would have him in there well ahead of schedule.
He thought ruefully about his own death and wondered if he would even be missed. What use was an Earl in these new modern times? He didn’t even know how to talk to people. Sylvia complained that he had not treated that young solicitor with sufficient respect. How was he supposed to treat him? He was one of the new breed, educated at a grammar school, no doubt, and raised to think of himself as the equal of any man. With his law degree and his cheap suit and his determined quest for truth, he was probably more relevant in the new postwar society than an Earl who could read Homer in Greek and had once led a cavalry charge.
He had to think back to the war years to find the last time he had been of any use to anyone.