Bertram looked at Enoch again. ‘It can’t hurt, can it? I mean . . .’ He gestured at Tom. ‘Look at the poor boy.’
Enoch looked at Tom. Mirabelle saw her uncle’s jaw clench tight, and a strange look pass across his face. She couldn’t read it, but she could see he too was struggling with something, as if he were in pain. Caught between her anger and Bertram’s gentle pleading, he suddenly seemed uncharacteristically indecisive. He was about to speak, but as he hesitated Mirabelle took advantage of the moment to nod at Bertram, who scurried over and lifted Tom into his arms.
Mirabelle directed him towards the stairs and told him which bedroom to use. She nodded at Jem to follow, and was just about to step after them herself when Enoch laid a hand on her arm and looked down at her.
‘But they’re strangers, Mirabelle. From outside.’
There was that look again. Mirabelle sensed Enoch’s earlier conviction seemed to be faltering. He almost seemed to be beseeching her.
Mirabelle shook her head. ‘They need our help, Uncle.’
And she followed them upstairs.
Jem
The blind panic that took hold of Jem as soon as Tom fainted was the worst she’d ever felt. It was even worse than the white-hot nerve-shredding agony of hearing her parents had died. She couldn’t lose him too. He was all she had left. She started to tremble uncontrollably and didn’t think she’d be able to make it up the stairs behind the man called Bertram, who was carrying her brother.
Then she felt a hand on her arm, and she looked into the calm grey eyes of the girl, Mirabelle. Mirabelle smiled.
‘He’ll be all right.’
The trembling started to recede, and Jem clenched her fists in an effort to ward off its possible return.
Tom was carried into a bedroom containing a large four-poster bed, a couch, a table and some chairs that looked as if they had all seen better days. There were heavy velvet drapes drawn across the windows, which reached almost from the ceiling to the floor.
Bertram placed Tom gently on the bed, then stood back, looking nervously at Enoch as he entered the room.
Jem found Enoch, with his dark clothes and cold demeanour, an intimidating presence. From the way Bertram treated him it was clear that he was in charge, but he didn’t react to Bertram now. He just stood rooted to the spot, staring at Tom, and even in her anxious state it was clear to Jem that he was perturbed in some way.
‘We need to call Dr Ellenby,’ said Mirabelle.
A warm sense of relief washed over Jem when she heard the word ‘doctor’. This at least was something she understood. Enoch gestured for Bertram to come closer to him and he spoke to him in hissing whispers. Bertram nodded and left the room. Enoch’s eyes alighted on Jem, and she tried to hold his gaze without flinching, knowing that was what Tom would expect of her.
Another gentle pressure on her elbow, and she found Mirabelle guiding her towards a chair, which she’d put by the side of the bed. Jem nodded in gratitude and pulled the chair closer to the bed, then reached out and took one of Tom’s clammy hands.
She waited with her eyes fixed on Tom and the rise and fall of his chest. She wasn’t sure how much time passed, but she could sense Mirabelle nearby, while Enoch waited by the door. At one point two girls dressed in checked blue-and-white pinafores came into the room. They looked like twins, but Jem paid them little heed, preferring instead to keep her eyes on Tom. She heard them address each other as Dotty and Daisy, and she could feel their eyes on her as they whispered to one another. Then, almost as suddenly as they’d appeared, they were gone.
Half an hour later Jem heard what sounded like a car approaching and stopping outside the house. Bertram came back into the room with an older man following behind him. This man was elegantly dressed in a brown jacket over a cream-coloured waistcoat with dark vertical stripes. He had a neat beard and round glasses. His voice was soothing and warm.
‘And what do we have here?’ he asked.
‘A stranger,’ Enoch replied, and Jem could feel herself bristling at his use of the word. It seemed dismissive and cold.
‘Thank you, Enoch,’ said the man, heading towards the bed. ‘Your wildly hospitable attitude to guests is most impressive.’
The man held out his hand in greeting and Jem shook it.
‘Dr Marcus Ellenby at your service.’ He smiled. ‘And you are?’
‘Jem. Jem Griffin.’
‘From?’
‘London.’
‘Well, hello, Jem Griffin from London. I’m very pleased to meet you.’
Jem liked him immediately. He was different to the others. He seemed . . .
She struggled to find the word and was surprised by how obvious it was when it finally came to her.
Ordinary, that was it. He seemed ordinary compared to the people who lived in this house.
He peered at Tom.
‘And who might this young fellow be?’
‘This is Tom, my brother,’ said Jem, swallowing hard in an effort to stay composed. The feelings she’d been bottling up while she’d kept her eyes fixed on Tom were now bubbling to the surface.
Dr Ellenby nodded and patted her on the shoulder. He lifted his battered leather doctor’s bag onto the side of the bed and set to work. He unbuttoned Tom’s shirt and rolled him gently on his side to listen with his stethoscope. Jem’s eyes watered as she noticed him pause ever so slightly when he saw the livid scars on Tom’s back. To the doctor’s credit, he passed over them without comment, and Jem felt absurdly grateful.
He checked Tom’s heartbeat, temperature and blood pressure. Jem noticed the knotted nature of the doctor’s long fingers, the large knuckles that looked like bulging points of tree roots, and yet there was a practised delicacy to his movements.
He smiled at Jem again while he listened.
‘A good strong heart,’ he said. He put his things away. ‘It seems young Tom here has a touch of fever. He needs a little rest and some medicine.’ He took a bottle from his bag and laid it on the bedside table. ‘This is to be taken four times a day for the next week. And he must not be moved for at least five days. He needs to regain his strength. Which means he needs to be fed.’ Dr Ellenby gently pinched a little skin on Tom’s arm. ‘Well fed,’ he said, turning to look pointedly at Enoch.
‘A full week?’ said Enoch.
Dr Ellenby nodded, pursed his lips and fixed Enoch with a look over the rims of his glasses.
Enoch sighed.
Dr Ellenby slapped the side of his bag. ‘Very good. We’ll see you learn the rudiments of a good bedside manner yet, Enoch.’ His face crinkled as he smiled.
Enoch shook his head ruefully.
‘It’s good to see you, Marcus,’ he said.
Dr Ellenby nodded. ‘And you, Enoch. It’s been a while.’ Jem noticed an odd strained moment of silence between the two men. Bertram had been quiet all this time and now he blurted: ‘It’s been quite a few years, hasn’t it? We haven’t seen you since . . .’
Bertram trailed off as Enoch blinked coldly at him. Jem noticed Dr Ellenby stiffen slightly, his hand tightening on the handle of his bag.
‘Well, then. I’ll be off.’ He nodded at Jem. ‘Take good care of him now. Keep him fed and rested, and don’t take any nonsense from Enoch here. Am I right, Mirabelle?’