The Scent of Roses

‘Well I’m afraid that is as we thought, Mrs Cavendish, it is the scarlet fever’.

With these words the doctor snapped his pocket watch shut and gently laid the little boy’s hand back down on the counterpane.

‘So what can we do to make him easier Dr Ephraim?’ asked Mrs Cavendish anxiously as she looked down at her precious only son who was tossing with fever on the lace-edged linen pillows.

‘Well I will leave a saline draught with his nurse to help bring down the fever, and please get your cook to make up some barley water to give him when he is thirsty’.

‘But he is going to get better, isn't he?’ she asked pleadingly.

‘I will be plain with you Mrs Cavendish, his case is a grave one as his fever is exceptionally high and his throat very swollen. Keep him as quiet as you can, and I will be in to see him again this evening. If the boy’s condition worsens before then, send your man for me and I will endeavour to come immediately’.

Lucinda Cavendish stood at the window of her son’s sickroom watching the doctor as he strode confidently off across the square and the men strewing straw over the cobbles to try and muffle the sound of the horses hooves and the carriages wheels as best they could.

Keep him as quiet as possible the doctor had said, but Lucinda couldn’t force back the sob that burst from the back of her throat as she looked out onto the bright sunny day outside. Philip should be out there, buttoned up in his little velvet coat, running with his hoop down the paths in the nearby park, trying to coax the squirrels to come to him with scraps of bread begged from Cook or sailing one of his painstakingly folded paper boats on the Round Pond.

‘Mama, Mama!’

The faint cry from the bed sent Lucinda rushing to her son’s side, where she placed her cool palm on his hot, little forehead, smoothing the fair corn silk hair back off his flushed face.

‘What is it my darling?’ Lucinda asked quietly ‘are you thirsty? Or do you want me to plump your pillows up?’

‘No’ cried Philip as he twisted and turned his overheated body under the heavy covers ‘I want my real Mama, not you’.

‘Whatever do you mean, Philip?’ replied a shocked Lucinda in as steady a voice as she could manage ‘I am your Mama, you know that? I’m here darling, and I will never leave your side until you are much, much better’.

‘No, no, I want the other lady; my real Mama, the one who smells of rose petals’ fretted Philip weakly.

Lucinda’s face drained of what little colour she had left in her cheeks, as she gazed down into Philip’s fever glazed eyes that seemed to be looking over her shoulder to something or somebody in the far corner of the room behind her.

Of course Dr Ephraim had warned them that Philip might start rambling as his fever mounted, but why had he said that?

Lucinda looked behind herself nervously, but could see nothing but the white-painted chest of drawers and the old dappled grey rocking horse standing where they had always stood in the corner of the nursery. But was the rocking horse moving slightly, as though someone had just brushed it as they walked past?

You need to stay calm Lucinda, she told herself. Doctor had also warned her about getting too tired and trying to do everything for Philip herself. She should ring for Nurse to come and take over, and then have a cup of tea with a slice of bread and butter and a rest. If only Reginald would come, but although the message had been sent as urgent he was with his regiment on manoeuvres somewhere deep in the countryside.

She rang the bell for Nurse and then picked up the damp cloth from the bowl on the bedside table and started to sponge Philip down with the cool, scented lavender water.

‘You rang for me Madam?’ asked the tall, gaunt figure in the black uniform who entered the room a few minutes later carrying a tea tray that she put down on a side table.

‘Oh, yes Wichmore, I want you to take over sponging Philip for a short time while I rest. The doctor says that he needs to be kept as quiet as possible and that we need to try and get this terrible fever down’ replied Lucinda in a low voice.

‘Very well Madam’ said Wichmore as she moved over to the bedside to take over from Lucinda.

Lucinda walked over to the fireplace and sat down in one of the armchairs flanking the merry little blaze crackling away in the grate, pulling the rainbow coloured Afghan around her shoulders.

‘Wichmore’ she asked suddenly ‘have you heard Philip talking in his fever? Has he been saying anything?’

Wichmore stopped pulling the covers back up around the little boy’s frail, sweating body and looked at her mistress thoughtfully.

‘Well now you mention it, Madam, he has been calling for you, for his Mama. But for some reason he kept insisting he wanted his real Mama. It don’t make no sense, so I'm sure it must just be the fever talking. But now I think about it he also talked about Isabella. How nice and gentle Isabella was and how pretty she was’.

Wichmore turned her attention back to her sick charge, so did not see the panic enter Lucinda Cavendish’s eyes or how her fingers fumbled as they tried to grip the delicate china handle of her painted tea cup.

It must just be the confusion in her little boy’s mind as he fought against the pain and the temperature. He couldn’t possibly have heard anything about Isabella; it must be the name of one of the little girls he had met at a party somewhere.

Lucinda looked over to where her little son lay, but once again it seemed as though his eyes were fixed on something in the corner of the room. When she tried to catch his eye, he avoided her, seemingly not wanting to meet her eyes, but always looking hungrily at something that she couldn’t see.

Despite her shock and fear, Lucinda must have fallen asleep, as when she opened her eyes the room was gloomy with evening shadows and only a solitary shaded lamp was lit by the bedside where Wichmore had her head bent over her sewing.

Immediately seeking her son’s face, Lucinda was relieved to see that he was sleeping, and he did not seem to be quite so hot or as distressed as he had been earlier. As she stood up from the chair she frowned, as she seemed to catch a flashing glimpse of crisp, white muslin out of the corner of her eye. She twisted her head around to look around the rest of the room, but there was nothing there. She walked over to the bed and picked up Philip’s little hand to reassure herself that he was still warm, still alive. But as she sat down on the side of the bed, the slight movement of the covers revealed something that could not possibly be there. For scattered around Philip in the folds of the blankets were rose petals; deep red rose petals. Lucinda picked one up and crumbled it between her fingers, releasing a deep, velvety perfume into the still air.

‘Is anything the matter, Madam’ asked Wichmore in a concerned tone, as she raised her head from her stitching to look at her mistress gravely.

‘Did you put these here Wichmore?’ Lucinda asked with a wobble in her voice.

‘No Madam, wherever would I get hold of roses at this time of year? Did you not order one of the other servants to strew them round?’ asked Wichmore beginning to look a little alarmed.

‘No Wichmore, I did not’ replied Lucinda quietly but decisively.

‘I think that we can expect the fever to reach its crisis later tonight’ announced the doctor when he visited again that evening ‘if young Philip is very lucky, the fever will break and he should start to recover. It’s all about his constitution now, I’m afraid, but he should be quite a strong child. You have never once called me out to your sickbed these last five years Mrs Cavendish, and the Major has always been as healthy as one of his horses.’

Lucinda refused to meet his eyes and nervously nibbled at her bottom lip.

‘Come now Mrs Cavendish, you mustn't despair’ said the doctor bracingly ‘Philip has got as good a chance as any lad of recovering. He is being well looked after and he has a Mama and a Papa who love him. When do you expect the Major, by the way?’

Lucinda choked back another sob, wondering what the good doctor would think if only he knew.

‘We are hoping that he will reach us tonight, Dr Ephraim. I do long for him to be here, as he can always calm Philip as nobody else can. And if something should happen........’

‘You must have faith, my dear’ said the doctor kindly ‘and if you become alarmed, have someone call for me immediately’.

Lucinda ushered him out of the dimly lit nursery with a heavy heart, and as she turned back into the room once more, she caught another flash of white muslin and thought she heard a light, musical voice calling Philip’s name.

Lucinda rushed over to the bed, and saw that yet again deep red rose petals had been strewn over the white counterpane, and that Philip had a couple clutched in his tiny fist.

‘Mama, I want my Mama’ he wailed fretfully.

‘ I'm here darling’ she soothed as she sat on the bed and pulled him up into her arms.

‘No, no I don’t want you. Let me go, let me go! You just want to take me away from my real Mama’.

‘Philip, you are sick, darling. You are feeling hot, and that is why you are saying these silly things. Of course I am your Mama, and I love you so much’.

By now Philip was struggling so much in her arms that she laid him back against the pillows. She saw to her despair that his cheeks were flushing bright scarlet once more and that his eyes were glassy with fever again. Just as the doctor had predicted, his temperature was beginning to rise. How much more could his poor, little body take?

‘Mama, Mama’ called Philip imperatively, but when Lucinda bent over to comfort him, he continued looking right past her and batted away her soothing fingers from his face, and she could have sworn that she could hear a tinkling, girlish laughter coming from over by the fireplace

‘I think that the crisis is getting close, Madam’ said Wichmore a few hours later as the two weary women stood at Philip’s bedside watching him tossing and turning ‘don’t be distressed about him not recognising you; it is only the fever talking.’

‘I am so scared that he is going to die Wichmore, and I don’t know how I will bear it. She always swore that she would take him back from me’.

‘But Madam, whatever do you mean?’ the elderly nurse exclaimed as she noted with concern the tears that were running down her young mistress’s pale, drawn face.

‘Wichmore, can you keep a secret?’ Lucinda said simply after a few moments silence between the two women.

‘Of course I can Madam’ replied Wichmore, looking a little offended that Lucinda would think otherwise.

‘This is something that you must never tell, Wichmore; never even tell the Major that I told you?’

Wichmore nodded her understanding, so Lucinda gently picked up one of Philip’s hands and started her story.

‘You see Wichmore, Philip is not my child, and that is why I became so upset when the doctor was talking about his constitution. Shortly after our marriage, the Major and I undertook a long trip around Europe for our honeymoon. We took with us my young cousin Isabella as my companion, as my Aunt thought that it would be good for her education and that it might settle her down a bit before she was presented. She was always the flighty, pretty one you see and I was always the sensible, plainer cousin’.

Wichmore had schooled her features into a bland mask, but Lucinda ploughed on regardless, feeling the relief of being able talk about her pain and grief after all these years.

‘We travelled through Belgium and France, always going southwards, as our ultimate destination was the Italian Lakes. But as we travelled it seemed as though Reginald and I were drifting further and further apart, and that he was becoming intoxicated with Isabella’s beauty and charming ways. They were always together, laughing and sharing secrets; it was as though they were the young married couple in love and that I was the outsider, the mere companion’.

‘But you and the Major always seem to be so devoted to one another’ protested Wichmore.

Lucinda smiled wanly.

‘Maybe now Wichmore, but back then he could only see one face and that was Isabella’s. And the more she ensnared my husband, the more she started to mock me; becoming insolent and always planting little barbs about my husband’s love for her. Of course, I had no proof that there was anything between them, nothing that I could accuse them of, but her room was always full of flowers, deep red roses with a haunting, musky scent. When I questioned her about the roses and asked her where they came from, she would just laugh and dance off to go riding or walking with Reginald, leaving me alone

‘Then one night, just after we had arrived in Genoa, Reginald came into my room late one night looking ashen. He told me that Isabella was carrying his child, and that they didn't know what to do. He was asking me, his own wife, what he should do? But because I loved him so desperately, I did arrange it all for them. I announced that I was with child, and sent messages to let our families know. I then hired a remote villa on the edge of Lake Como, where we stayed for the duration of Isabella’s pregnancy. She was known to the servants as Mrs Cavendish and I went by her name of Miss Lang.’

Lucinda sighed deeply and smoothed Philip’s hair back from his face.

‘Isabella didn’t settle down to life in the villa. Despite her pregnancy, she insisted on carrying on riding wildly across country and would disappear for hours on end. We even heard rumours about her and the young school teacher in the village, although Reginald swore that he never believed them. It was a terrible house to live in for those long months, but finally, on a beautiful sunny evening in the early spring Philip was born’.

‘He was such a perfect baby; so tiny with tufts of blond hair and big blue eyes. Isabella was not interested in him, and as soon as she was able went back to her horses and her riding. I took care of him from the minute he was born, and despite everything that had happened, I fell in love with him. Reginald was also entranced with his new son, and simply could not understand Isabella’s total disregard for her infant, and this I think drove the final wedge between them.’

‘It was decided that we would return home, and of course I would have to go back to being Mrs Cavendish. We also decided that I would raise Philip as my child and that we would tell our families that I had given birth to him in Italy. In this way, Isabella’s reputation would still be intact when we returned to England, and Reginald could avoid any scandal. But although she had never shown any interest in her baby, Isabella was outraged. She could see that I loved Philip, and just like Reginald she didn’t want me to have him. She had a terrible argument with Reginald the night before we were due to leave, and even though there was a bad thunderstorm brewing, she rode off in the direction of the village. We found out later that she had arranged to elope with her school teacher, but on the way her horse must have bolted because of the lightening or thunder and they found her dead on the side of the path, bleeding from a wound on her head’.

‘There, there Madam, don’t you take on so’ soothed Wichmore as the tears started to course even harder down Lucinda’s cheeks.

‘We buried her in Italy, and I thought for a while that Reginald was a broken man. But we returned to England and tried to build our lives once again as a young, newly married couple. But on the first anniversary of Isabella’s death I came into the nursery to pick Philip up from his sleep, when I found that his crib had been scattered with deep red rose petals. And pinned to his vest was a little note that said in Isabella’s handwriting ‘You cannot have him. He is mine, and I will take him away from you’.

Lucinda totally broke down at this point and sobbed in the old nurses’ arms, while Philip continued to toss and turn with fever on his pillows, only turning his head once to watch as a slim white hand dropped some fragrant rose petals onto his pillow

By the time that Major Cavendish was walking through his front door late that night he was frozen to the bone and distraught with worry. It had started snowing in the wind in the last few hours of his journey, and the white flakes had brought back memories of past Christmases with Philip building snowmen in the square or stuffing snowballs up the back of his father’s coat.

He was just stamping the slush off the bottom of his feet and flinging his cloak at the butler, when he noticed that his wife was standing at the top of the stairs. She looked as insubstantial as a wraith standing there in her grey silk gown, her eyes dark hollows in her face.

‘Lucinda, whatever is the matter? Has something happened to Philip?’

She ran down the stairs and flung herself into his arms.

‘She has taken him’ she sobbed ‘she has taken him back just like she said she would’.

Philip Lucien Edmund Cavendish was buried a week later on a snowy afternoon just before Christmas. His parents had piled his pitifully small coffin high with aromatic evergreens, copper-coloured dahlias and vivid purple chrysanthemums, so when the groundsmen came to fill in the grave the next morning they could not understand why there was a single, deep red rose lying on the snow filling the frosty air with its pungent, deep perfume.

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