A Bitter Truth (9 page)

Mr. Smyth was a short, balding man, his tortoiseshell glasses catching the last of the daylight as clouds spread across the weak winter sun. His eloquence surprised me until I learned later that Eleanor had written much of it. She sat there, her face hidden by her heavy black veil, one hand holding tightly to her brother’s, listening to the words and the prayers, seeming not to feel the cold.

I realized it was her farewell to her husband. That the stone on his grave was a final duty that she had taken on herself.

This was not a usual service. I couldn’t recall ever having attended another dedication of a memorial stone by gathering of family and friends. But it was impressive, and I could see that to the family it was offering much needed solace.

Looking around at the faces in the half circle, I could see that Gran, shielded by the silk veil, was staring into space, her mind on the words but her eyes on what must have been her own husband’s marker. Mrs. Ellis, from behind her own veil, was lost in thought, perhaps remembering the little boy who had become a man. Margaret was weeping quietly.

The men had no such defense from the public gaze. Roger, standing closest to the stone, put his hand out to it, then quickly withdrew it, as if reluctant to touch it. George Hughes kept his eyes on Roger’s face, and I was surprised to see speculation in his gaze. Henry, his arm around his wife’s shoulders, looked down at the stone as if envisioning his own. The tic at the corner of his left eye had grown worse.

And then the service ended with a benediction, and we began the slow progress back to the motorcars waiting for us at the side of the churchyard.

I saw George Hughes pause briefly as he passed and put his hand on the cold marble head of Juliana’s memorial. It was a lingering caress, as one might touch the head of a beloved child. Then he was offering his arm to Mrs. Ellis, and I thought that she took it gratefully. Mr. Smyth was helping Gran, while Roger held out a hand to Lydia. After a moment’s hesitation, she took it.

I looked back as the gate was closing behind us and saw the last of the light touch the stone we’d just dedicated. It picked out Alan’s last name for an instant and then was gone.

Janet Smyth took my arm and said, “You’re a friend of Lydia’s. I’m glad. She needs to have friends around her when Roger goes back to France. I hope you’ll be able to stay until Christmas.”

“My own family is expecting me next week,” I said. “And then I must return to France.”

She said, “Oh, you’re a nursing sister, then.”

“Yes.”

“I do admire your courage! When the war began, I considered nursing, but my brother dissuaded me. He felt that I didn’t have the constitution for it.”

She was sturdily built, and I thought to myself that she could have made a very useful nurse, strong enough to deal with delirious men and those too ill to shift for themselves. But perhaps she meant the mental stamina. I knew all too well the cost of that.

We walked on together, arm in arm, and she was saying about the heath, “It’s a dreary place, but I’ve come to love it.”

Surprised, I said, “You weren’t born here?”

“Oh, no, only the Ellises. And of course George Hughes. His family lived not far from Vixen Hill. They moved to London a few years after little Juliana died. Such a tragedy. But you must know all about that.”

As we crossed the grassy dell together, Janet Smyth added, “I’ll see you this evening.”

I nodded and went to accompany Mrs. Ellis on the drive back to Vixen Hill. Mrs. Ellis sighed. “I think Alan would have been pleased.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “It was a very lovely service.”

“I wasn’t prepared,” she said. “For the end. He seemed to be stronger. I let myself believe. And then he was gone, and there was so much I’d left unsaid. That’s a terrible feeling.”

“Sometimes things don’t actually need to be said,” I suggested.

In the front seat, Margaret said under her breath to her husband, “I don’t see why he had to die.”

Her husband replied, “Frostbite, and then gangrene, my love. The sea is very cold and very cruel in winter.”

I saw her shake her head, but she didn’t say anything more.

For dinner I wore the pale green gown that my father particularly liked, with the rope of pearls that had been given to me when I was twelve by the maharani who was a friend of my mother’s. After weeks in uniforms with stiff collars and starched aprons, I felt rather underdressed.

In the hall, George Hughes sat in the shadows cast by the lamps, his face unreadable. But I thought as I watched that he was drinking more than was wise. Roger cast several glances in his direction but said nothing. Janet Smyth tried to talk to him, but his answers were terse. I heard her quietly telling her brother that he was still grieving for Alan, but somehow I thought not. I saw him look at his knuckles a time or two, as if to reassure himself that what had happened on the road wasn’t merely his imagination.

I wondered if the tree he’d seen was actually just one of the logs that the Lanyon family had been delivering to Vixen Hill. And they’d come back to reclaim it.

After a lovely dinner, we took our tea in the drawing room in front of the fire, gathering under Juliana’s smiling portrait. I thought,
George will be pleased
.

When the men had finished their port and come to join us, George sat down across from me. His eyes were heavy, and I thought perhaps he was half asleep. Then he turned to me and asked, “You’re a nursing sister?”

“Yes.”

“God bless,” he said fervently. “You have no idea how much good you do.”

Gran looked up at that. “What did your father have to say about your decision to go into nursing?”

I knew she’d been wanting to ask me just that. In her day, women of good families didn’t nurse the ill and dying. Only the poorest of women, and even streetwalkers, were thought fit for such an occupation. Florence Nightingale had changed public opinion during the Crimean War about the role nurses could play in saving lives, but it was still not considered a proper profession until the death tolls in the present war made women of every class come forward to do what they could.

I smiled a little as I remembered my father’s opinion.

“If you wash out, don’t let it fret you. There are other ways to serve. Just remember that.” Whether he expected me to fail to qualify I didn’t know, but he was right, it was harder work than I’d ever expected it to be, and I’d had to face things that it would have been easier not to face, ever. I’d reminded myself every night when I went to bed that soldiers in the field were already enduring unspeakable conditions, and if I were truly my father’s daughter, I would stick to my guns and not retreat. In the end, I qualified, and felt a surge of pride that I hadn’t anticipated. This was my accomplishment. Being the Colonel’s daughter hadn’t smoothed my path, hadn’t made it less disgusting to take away bedpans and trays of bloody cloths or mop up vomit and other bodily fluids from the floor, or clean patients who were riddled with disease or covered in pus from suppurating wounds, hadn’t made the smells less nauseating, hadn’t stopped the sights from invading my dreams, or taught my poor stomach to accept food again after the most harrowing of amputations. It had only steeled my determination. Now I could look back on my training with a better understanding of what it was designed to forge in those of us who survived it. And I could measure just how far I had come.

But I answered her differently. “My father knew how much it meant to me to do my duty. And to his eternal credit, he didn’t stand in my way.”

“Indeed.” It was her only comment and could be interpreted in several ways.

Henry asked where I’d served, and I told him:
Britannic,
France, the Near East. He said, “You were on
Britannic
when she went down? Yes? That must have been harrowing.”

I said, “We had a good captain and a good crew. Most of us survived.”

We spoke of other things, and some little time later, I saw George lean over to say something to Roger. It was meant to be private, a quiet aside. Instead it happened to fall into one of those lulls that come at the end of an evening, when conversation is nearly at a standstill and people are about to take their leave and go home. Which meant we all heard him as clearly as if he had shouted the words from the rooftop.

“—daughter is the spitting image of Juliana. Did you realize that? For God’s sake, tell me, has she been found?”

Chapter Five

W
e could have heard a pin drop twenty miles away, the silence that followed his words was so profound.

Roger sat as if nailed to his chair for all of several seconds. George had the grace to look embarrassed. The rest of us were sitting there with our mouths open. I shut mine smartly, prepared for anything. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Lydia’s expression: shock mixed with horror. She turned toward her husband, waiting for him to reply.

Whose daughter? That was the question in everyone’s mind. If she was the image of Juliana, then she must be Roger’s. Or Alan’s. And why was it necessary to find her?

Finally Roger said, “You’re drunk and maudlin, George. You should call it a night.”

Dr. Tilton stood, setting his teacup on the table beside him. “I’ll see him to bed, shall I? His usual room? Good.”

Roger Ellis stirred. His words to George had been clipped, the only outward sign of whatever emotion he was suppressing—anger, disgust, surprise. It was impossible to tell what he was feeling, but his eyes were so intensely blue that if they could have sparked, they would have. Turning to me, he said, “Miss Crawford, I hesitate to ask such a favor of a guest, but if you could assist Dr. Tilton, I’d be grateful.”

“By all means,” I answered, rising and praying that George wouldn’t vomit all over my pale green dress. He looked now as if he could be sick at any moment, his face gray. Or was that shame as his careless words finally sank in and he realized what he had done?

“I can manage,” he began, then nearly lost his balance as he rose from his chair.

Dr. Tilton and I each took an arm to help him to the door, but he caught us unprepared and pulled away, turning around to face everyone in the room.

“Malcolm isn’t here after all. I must have imagined he was. It was to him—to my brother—that I was speaking. I do apologize if I’ve upset anyone.” His eyes were quite sober now.

I remembered Roger mentioning earlier that Malcolm was George’s late brother. And it was obvious that the others also knew who Malcolm was. But even I could see the doubt in the faces turned toward us in the doorway. It was a polite lie intended to cover the truth. And it failed.

“Forgive me,” he added, and then let us lead him through the door.

As it was closing behind us, I heard Mrs. Ellis say, “Poor man. He hasn’t been the same since—” The rest of what she was about to say was cut off as the door shut with a soft
click
.

We got George to his room, where the lamps were already lit and the fire burning well on the hearth, thanks to the ubiquitous Daisy, and in short order we had him in his bed, leaning against pillows.

“I feel like an idiot,” he said to me as I smoothed the blanket we had pulled over his knees. Then he turned his gaze on Dr. Tilton. “I do talk to my brother sometimes, you know. A habit begun early in life and hard to break. We were close.”

Dr. Tilton said, “You mentioned a child who looked like Juliana. I thought your brother was dark.”

“Her mother was fair,” George responded quickly. “A Frenchwoman.”

But Dr. Tilton was not satisfied. “I thought most Frenchwomen were also dark.”

George smiled. “I can tell you that some are as fair as any Englishwoman. Miss Crawford can attest to that, I’m sure.” He looked to me for support.

I said to Dr. Tilton, “That’s true. Now I think we should rejoin the other guests.”

“Yes, yes, go on down. I’ll be with you shortly.” It was clear he would like to probe further into what Lieutenant Hughes had said. I was sure the family wouldn’t care for that, and Lydia had already warned me that he was a gossip.

I could understand, then, why Roger Ellis had asked me to accompany the doctor.

“Dr. Tilton. We have put Lieutenant Hughes to bed. That was our only charge.”

He looked up at me, on the point of telling me to mind my own business, when he must have realized that I was not simply a nursing sister but a friend and guest of Lydia’s. He wished Lieutenant Hughes a good night and added, “Send for me tomorrow if you feel unwell.”

We left then, shutting the bedroom door behind us and walking in silence back the way we’d come. The silence between us was uncomfortable, as if Dr. Tilton was clearly not accustomed to having nursing sisters or anyone else contradict him.

I wondered what had been said in the drawing room after we had taken Lieutenant Hughes away. But the conversation when we opened the door was stilted.

Gran was saying, “—and the latest reports from France leave one to wonder—”

Every head turned toward us as we entered, and Mrs. Tilton rose, saying, “My dear, I hadn’t realized how late it is.”

Her husband said, “Yes, I suspect we’ll meet with patches of fog on the way home.”

The Smyths rose as well, and then everyone was standing, bidding one another a good night, thanking Mrs. Ellis for the lovely dinner, and five minutes later Roger was swinging the hall door closed after his guests, and turning to face us.

I realized that Lydia wasn’t there.

Roger said, “It’s been a long day. Perhaps we should call it an evening.” And before anyone could question him, he strode through the passage door and closed it behind him.

Mrs. Ellis was running a finger around the now-empty porcelain umbrella stand, not looking at her mother-in-law as she said, “I must say I’m rather tired as well. Good night, Gran. Bess.” She crossed the room to kiss Margaret on the cheek, and then Henry as well.

Margaret said hastily, “Yes, it’s been a long day, hasn’t it?” And with a glance at Henry, she followed her mother toward the door, Henry at her heels.

Eleanor and her brother had slipped away earlier while Roger and Mrs. Ellis were saying their last farewells to the doctor and the rector.

Gran clearly wanted to return to what had happened in the drawing room, and she looked after them with a frown between her eyes. She stared at me for a moment, as if considering whether to broach the subject with me, and then thought better of it.

“Where’s Lydia?” she asked instead.

“I don’t know. I thought she came down with us.”

“Hmmph,” Gran said, and then bade me a good night.

I was left in sole possession of the hall. I stood by the fire for a few minutes more, relishing the quiet, although I could hear the wind picking up again outside.

Tomorrow, I thought, will be a stressful day. There will be no avoiding George, and Roger will have his hands full keeping his family from demanding answers.

And Lydia? What about her?

I went looking for her then, and found her in the drawing room, staring up at the portrait of Juliana, as if she’d never seen it before.

I’d just stepped into the room when Gran came in behind me. I could tell she’d been searching for Lydia as well.

Ignoring me, Gran said directly to her grandson’s wife, “He was drunk, Lydia.”

She didn’t answer or look away from her contemplation of the portrait. Below it a log fell in the grate as the flames ate through it, making all of us jump, and sparks flew up the chimney in a bright spiral.

“He does talk to his brother. I heard him only last evening, in his room, carrying on a conversation with Malcolm,” the elder Mrs. Ellis continued.

“It wasn’t Malcolm he was speaking to,” Lydia said at last, her gaze dropping from Juliana’s face and moving to Gran’s. “Henry was coming out of George’s room as I was going up.”

“Nevertheless, you know as well as I do that Malcolm’s death had turned his mind. Roger had even suggested that asking him to be here for Alan’s memorial would be too much for him.”

I’d heard that exchange. But I’d interpreted it to mean that Roger would be made uncomfortable, not George.

Lydia said, a sigh in her voice, “Gran. Thank you. But there’s no way to undo what was said here tonight. George will try to put a better face on them, and Roger will deny any knowledge of what he was saying, but the words were
spoken
. None of us can pretend we didn’t hear them. Or know that some sort of truth must lie behind them. The question now is, what will Roger do?”

“There couldn’t have been a child, Lydia. He’s been fighting in the trenches, for God’s sake. There are no whores in the trenches.”

“What about his wounded shoulder, Gran? He wasn’t in the trenches then. There was
time
. Was it a nurse who bore him a child? Or someone else?”

“Lydia, there is no child!” Gran said, nearly angry.

“I’m Roger’s wife,” she answered slowly. “I know when my husband is cold to me. I know when he isn’t eager to hold me or tell me he loves me. You’re his grandmother. It’s natural for you to feel he can do no wrong. I can’t fault you for that. But something is different. I’ve known it since the day he arrived, while Alan was so ill. I put it down then to sorrow and impending loss. But at some point—some point in his grieving, why didn’t he turn to me? And why, when I asked him for a child, did he strike me across the face? I thought it was because I’d mentioned Juliana as well. Now—now, I’m not so sure.”

“You’re overwrought,” Gran told her. “And not making any sense.”

“I’m making a great deal of sense. For the first time I see my way clearly.”

“Don’t do anything rash, Lydia. Don’t do something you’ll regret.”

“There’s no one else, Gran. Whatever Roger tells you, there is no one else.”

“In my day, a woman knew when to look the other way. Not that I ever had to, but I knew my duty all the same.”

“It isn’t your day and age now, is it? When we were married, Roger promised to forsake all others—”

“Don’t be naïve, Lydia. A man’s needs are very different from those of a woman,” Gran snapped.

“I’m not naïve,” Lydia retorted. “I’m jealous. Don’t you understand?”

“There’s no arguing with you in this mood,” the elder Mrs. Ellis said. “Perhaps you’ll come to your senses in the light of day.” With that she turned on her heel and walked past me and out of the room.

I think she’d even forgot I was there. For I caught a look of surprise in her eyes as they met mine, and then irritation before she’d closed the door behind her.

I said after a moment, “Perhaps I should go as well, Lydia. If you need me, you know where to find me.”

“No, stay.”

We hadn’t heard the door open again—or perhaps Mrs. Ellis hadn’t shut it firmly. Roger’s voice startled both of us.

Standing there just inside the threshold, he said, “And I think it would be better if Miss Crawford left,” Roger said.

“No. Whatever you have to say, she remains. What child was George talking about, Roger?”

“He told you. Malcolm’s.”

“We both know he was trying to cover up his gaff. What child, Roger? You might as well tell me. It’s out in the open now, you can’t pretend it’s a secret any longer.”

“I swear to you—” He cast a look in my direction.

“Is that why you don’t want us to have a child? There’s someone else, isn’t there? Someone you met in France and love more. Why couldn’t you tell me? Just—tell me.”

He glanced up at the portrait over the mantel, as if looking for courage. “I don’t love anyone else, Lydia. I never have.”

“Then she was what? A refugee? A woman of the streets? A girl willing to sell herself for food and a place to sleep that night? Who was she?”

“Lydia, this isn’t the time or place to be having this conversation.”

“Why not? He said she was the image of Juliana. It couldn’t be Alan’s child—he’s been on a cruiser in the North Atlantic. If he’d fathered a child in some faraway port, George would never have known that she looked so much like Juliana. No, this child is the reason why you didn’t take leave to come to England when you were wounded, the reason you haven’t had leave to return to England in three years of fighting.”

“Lydia, you’re letting your imagination run away with you. There was no woman. There is no child. Miss Crawford here can tell you how impossible it is to get leave, even when you’re wounded.”

“Leave her out of this.” She was looking up at him now, such misery in her eyes that I could have wept for her. I didn’t want to be a witness to this scene. But there was nothing I could do, except watch in silence, pretending I wasn’t there after all.

Finally Lydia said tiredly, “I don’t know what to believe. In London I’d believed that you struck me because of what I’d said about Juliana. I blamed myself for using such a vile weapon to make my point. I came home to apologize and beg your forgiveness. Well, if the truth has come out finally, it’s just as well. If Bess will have me, tomorrow I’ll be returning to London with her, until I can make other arrangements. Under the circumstances, I shall expect you to give me an allowance, so that I can live at least with dignity, if not comfort.”

“You can’t leave. We have guests. Mother and Gran—”

“Our only guests are Eleanor and members of your own family. They will understand—this time—why I need to go away and not think about anything for a while, until I’m able to decide what this has done to our marriage.”