“I’m still in the dark,” said Grimshaw.
He felt, as he spoke, that he should remain so. Cimmerian blackness encompassed him, a Stygian fog. Wilverley had retreated, so to speak, before the final assault. He had trailed clouds of glory behind him. Thanks to his organising powers, the new hospital had been acclaimed as a model. And it was full of heroes and hero-worshippers. Grimshaw had hoped that his services might have been required, but red-tape vetoed this. The medical officer in charge was a “Major” in spurs. Wilverley, of course, had made the most of his opportunities. Mrs. Rockram went on:
“I ain’t. When I seen Miss Cicely in her uniform, I says to Mr. Rockram, ‘My lord’s a goner.’ ”
Grimshaw attempted to smile. The music was out of his voice as he asked:
“Is it settled?”
Mrs. Rockram was inclined to think so. Could there be a better match? One, surely, of Heaven’s own making. She concluded: “We have always known that my lord was sweet as sweet on her.”
Grimshaw could not envisage Wilverley as “sweet.” And Mrs. Rockram’s evidence was flimsy, mere hearsay from the housekeeper at the Court. Still, the very likelihood of the affair gnawed at him raveningly. A day or two later Pawley said to him:
“Thank God, Brian is now reasonably safe!”
“Why this fervour?”
“Lady Selina expects to lose Cicely.”