The Red Door

Chapter 4

When the weekend was over, Walter Teller had dropped Peter and his wife, Susannah, at their house in Bolingbroke Street, and driven on to call on his banker. He conducted his business there, arranging for his son’s school fees to be paid as they came due, and strode purposefully out the door of the bank and back to his motorcar, his thoughts moving ahead to the rest of the day’s errands.

Those accomplished, he had only just reached the outskirts of London on his way home when his body failed him. Sweating profusely, he fought to see the road ahead through what seemed to be narrowing vision, and his limbs felt like lead, moving slowly, clumsily.

What the hell is wrong—?

He’d never felt this way before.

Am I dying?

He started to pull to the side of the road, out of the light traffic, and then thought better of it.

If I’m to die, I’d rather die at home. Not here, not in the middle of the street. I’ve survived everything else—malaria, dysentery, parasites. I can make it to Essex.

He drove with utmost concentration, his hands clenched on the wheel, forcing muscles that had no will of their own to respond to his. Counting the miles now. Why wasn’t Jenny here, as she ought to be? She should be driving, damn it. But there had been words last night over Harry leaving for school. She had been unapproachable this morning, and he’d known better than to press for her to come to London with him.

There was the sign for Repton. The farm was beyond the next turning.

“I haven’t died,” he told himself, his voice overly loud in his ears. “I’ve come this far.” But he couldn’t have said how he got here from London.

Harry. It isn’t you, it’s Harry. Something has happened to Harry—

The motorcar turned into the drive seemingly of its own accord, and as he came into sight of the house, he blew the horn over and over again. “Jenny,” he shouted, “Jenny, for God’s sake, come and help me.”

It was all he could do to pull on the brake and stop in the circle before the house. His hands refused to open the door, his feet refused to lift from the pedals. Fear held him in a vise, and he could do nothing for Harry, he couldn’t even save his son.

His wife came running from the house.

“Walter? What’s the matter? What’s happened?” Jenny cried, taking in his pale, sweating face and shaking hands.

“Something’s happened to Harry.”

“He’s in Monmouthshire, visiting the Montleighs—”

“I know—I know. Call them. Pray God it isn’t too late. Tell them we’ll be there as soon as possible.”

But how was he to drive to Monmouthshire? He’d find a way.

She ran back into the house, and he sat there, fists clenched, eyes shut, his mind straining to hear the conversation that was going on inside the house. He felt he would stop breathing before Jenny could bring him the answer.

There she was—running toward him. He scanned her face.

“Harry’s all right, Walter, he’s just fine.” Mollie, the housekeeper was on her heels, wiping her hands in her apron. “I’ve called Dr. Fielding, he’s on his way. Can you come inside? Walter—what’s wrong?”

Exhausted, he sat there, not moving. He could die now. It was all right. If that was demanded of him, he’d understand.