London - Edward Rutherfurd [517]
“Nah.” St James shook his head. “She won’t do me no good.”
“Why’s that?”
“Needle and pin, that’s why,” he said sadly. Then, “I gotta find Sep,” he went on.
“Sep? Who’s that now? And why’s that?”
“Should’ve been ’im up the chimney, not me,” his lordship said.
“He’s really gone in the ’ead, he has,” the woman said.
“Where’s Sep?” St James cried out with sudden urgency. “I gotta find Sep!”
Just then a carriage drew up a few yards away, out of which stepped Lord Bocton, accompanied by Mr Cornelius Silversleeves.
The journey had been very slow. The boat was heavy and Lucy was rowing against the current. By the time they passed under Vauxhall Bridge Horatio, having shivered continuously, had fallen strangely still. As they approached Chelsea, his head sank forward on to his chest and she could see beads of sweat on his pale brow. He had begun to make a rasping sound as he breathed.
The place for which she was heading lay just past the long reach beside Chelsea. At the end, a curious, rather ramshackle old wooden bridge crossed the river which, immediately afterwards, curved sharply left. A little way along this next, southward stretch, a stream came down to the river by the ancient village of Battersea, and from here it was only a short walk up to the slopes of Lavender Hill and the pleasant plateau of Clapham Common.
It was mid-morning when she pulled into the bank. The spot she selected was a little jetty just by the village church. It was an old church, people said, from the days when the Conqueror came.
Horatio was so limp when she tried to get him out of the boat that she had to carry him. “Look Horatio, we have arrived,” she told him, but he hardly seemed to hear. With some difficulty she got him out on to the bank and wondered what she should do. Looking about, she noticed that in the little churchyard there was an old family tomb with a broad ledge round it, so picking him up, she carried him there and, sitting with her back to the tomb, rested his head against her chest and rocked him gently.
The churchyard was quiet. It seemed that few people came by the place at that hour of the morning. Some sparrows were chirping in the trees; river birds scudded along the bank now and then with shrill cries. For a few minutes the sun even broke through the film of grey cloud and she turned his face towards it, hoping its rays might revive him. Eventually his eyes opened and he gazed up at her, blankly.
“We’re here,” she said. “Look!” And she pointed to the slopes not far away. “You can see Lavender Hill.”
It took him a little time, but he managed to smile.
“We’ll just go up there,” she promised, “and you’ll feel better.”
He nodded slowly. “I think,” he said softly after a pause, “we should stay here a little longer.”
“All right,” she said.
He was silent for a time, though she could see he was staring up at Lavender Hill. Then his eyes took in the churchyard. “God lives in churches, doesn’t He?”
“Of course He does.”
Then he said, “Lavender Hill”, and closed his eyes for a time before coughing. It was a deep, thick cough that she had never heard before as though his lungs were full of liquid. She held him gently and stroked his brow.
Very quietly, he said: “Lucy?”
“Yes?”
“Am I dying?”
“Of course not.”
He tried to shake his head, but the effort was too great. “I think I am.”
She felt his body shudder a little, before he gave a shallow sigh.
“If I could live,” he said faintly, “I should like to live with you, at Lavender Hill.” He was silent for a moment. “I am glad you brought me here,” he murmured.
“Don’t leave me,” she begged. “You must fight!”
He did not answer. Then coughed again. “Lucy,” he whispered finally.
“Yes, my love?”
“Sing me the lavender song.”
So she did, very softly, cradling him in her arms as she sang.
“Lavender Blue, dilly dilly
Lavender Green,
When you are king, dilly dilly
I shall be queen.”
He sighed, and smiled. “Again.”
So again she sang the little song as though, by some magic, it could make him well. And yet again, keeping