The woman stared at her blankly, and Dorothea thought with a growing sense of urgency (because her calm had a limit; she was not the Buddha):Really? You’re not going to answer me? To move?And beneath this thought another occurred.We should be stemming the blood coming from his chest. Pressure to stop him bleeding out.
Dorothea gestured to the house. ‘Get help Edith.Now.’
But still no movement. Now that she had emerged from her own shock, Dorothea knew they needed to move! If Edward died his son would be tainted with the stain forever. Would he be charged? Scenarios ran through her head like slot machines in the clubs her father had liked; fruit symbols side by side, spinning, lining up:ching, ching, ching.Was ten the age of criminal responsibility? She was not sure. He was only months from turning ten. Hemightbe charged. She would have no control; no magical, fruitful explanation.No. Way. Out.
Edward’s moaning was becoming weaker.
‘Edith.’ No response. ‘Edith!’ She pushed Francis into the woman’s arms. ‘Take him. Check Cricket has rung the ambulance. Then bring towels. Hurry now!’
Dorothea dropped to her knees and pulled off her cardigan as Edith hurried Francis away. Edward was deathly pale. She pushed the cardigan down onto the sticky puddle of his chest and stomach. He screamed, almost sending her backward with the violent sound. In moments, her hands were slick with red, her own stomach turning. ‘Help is coming,’ she said. She cried out for the gardeners, ‘Stan? Len? Someone help us!’ There came only the distant trilling of a skylark.
She leaned in as fresh blood seeped beneath her fingers. Minutes passed. Edward was floating in and out of consciousness,his pallor ghostly white. How long would the ambulance take? Ten minutes if they sped. It must have been at least fifteen or twenty by now.More.She lifted the cardigan, folded the second dry sleeve into a pad and pushed it onto the wound. She kept turning towards the house, hoping someone might help; her damaged throat throbbed with pain as she called out again and again. Five minutes more, ten. Edward was not moving, skin like ice. She was torn with indecision. She got to her feet. ‘I’ll be back with help.’
She ran to the house, dizzy with fatigue. Her hand left streaks of red on the doorknob, the wall. ‘Edith! Where’s the ambulance?’ She pushed through the boot room, into the kitchen. Edith was sitting on a chair, staring at the Aga.
‘Is help coming, Edith?’
The woman didn’t speak. ‘Edith!’ Dorothea’s cry was hoarse. ‘What did they say to do?’
‘I haven’t called them.’
Distantly, Dorothea registered Louis was crying. She ran to the hallway where the phone sat on a marble side table.
‘He was going to take Louis from you,’ Edith said from behind her. ‘A gunshot wound like that is no accident, girl.’
‘It was!’
‘I’m not saying the bastard didn’t deserve it.’
‘But—’
‘Dorothea, there are marks on your neck.’
Dorothea felt suddenly faint.
‘Whoever pulled that trigger, the police will have a motive for only one of you.’
‘What do you mean?’ Dorothea could barely register the conversation. Edward would die if they did nothing; there was no time for discussion.
‘There are papers on his desk. Custody papers.’ Edith Wilson was speaking quickly now. ‘He’s got a letter from the lawyers. Says he’s the father of Louis. Putting together some case about you being unpredictable and unfit. Neglectful.’
‘But …’ Dorothea stumbled to find words. How could he take Louis? She was hismother.
‘They’ll believe him, not you. The courts always believe the likes of him.’
‘But I’m—’
‘Dorothea! Listen, lass!Youwill be tried for this shooting. From what I could make out from Cricket’s rambling just now, I reckon it was Francis who shot him, but if that bastard survives, he’ll blame it on you. It will be all the evidence he needs to take the baby. You can’t be a mother from prison.’ She stopped, looked hard into Dorothea’s eyes. ‘I think Cricket will help you. She’s had to put up with this situation with Louis, because he demanded it. But she hates him.’
‘I … he … I never let him …’
‘I know, girl. He’s an evil man. And Lady Fitzhenry’s death was no accident. Don’t waste your pity on him.’
Bile rose in Dorothea’s throat.
‘If you go, you have a chance. But not if you call for help now.’
‘Edith …’
