A Duty to the Dead (31 page)

What if Arthur had survived the war, and asked me again to marry him, even with one leg? If I’d said yes, I’d have believed, like everyone else, that Peregrine was a murderer. And Arthur would have let me believe that.

That was what hurt the most. That I would have been drawn into the conspiracy of silence, unwittingly and therefore willingly.

He’d had feet of clay after all.

I had been fond of the man I thought Arthur Graham was. I had mourned him with my whole heart. Visiting Kent had brought him closer for a short time, and I’d been grateful for that. Now, being here made saying farewell easier.

I dropped my hand from the memorial brass, standing there for a moment longer.

“Good-bye, Arthur,” I said softly, and turned away.

Simon Brandon was waiting for me at the church door. He didn’t say anything until we had reached the police station, tucked away on a side street.

“He must have had some good in him, Bess, or you couldn’t have cared for him the way you did,” he said, offering what comfort he could.

“For a time I wanted to believe that,” I answered. “You couldn’t help but like him. But Matron was right. We know them for such a brief space. And so they are ours to heal, but not ours to love.”

Somewhere in France, March 1917

I
HAD COME
to the conclusion that French rain was worse than any other—barring of course the monsoons of India—and I was feeling a little down at the end of another long day at a forward dressing station. We had had rather severe cases, three possible amputations and one of pneumonia, sandwiched between more trench foot than I ever hope to see again in my lifetime.

I had been sent back to France, and in some ways I was very glad. I’d been a little uneasy on the crossing, remembering too much. And when my feet touched the solid stone of the quay, I drew a long breath of relief.
Too soon to find the sea friendly again,
I told myself. The memories of
Britannic
were still too fresh.

Slipping and sliding through the mud as I made my way to my quarters, I waved to stretcher bearers huddling under a tent flap trying to smoke.
They must be,
I thought,
as tired as I am.

During the day, someone had brought up the mail—letters were lying on my cot blanket, still damp from the weather, and I pounced on them like a hungry cat on a handy mouse.

Letters from home, letters from the Front, letters from Egypt and India. I hadn’t had anything for so long that I’d been wondering if
anyone knew where I was—we’d been moved four times in the six weeks I’d been here, and the post was never dependable as it was. Excited, I completely forgot how I’d been longing for a cup of tea to warm me, and I sat there devouring each letter in its turn.

Between a letter from the Colonel Sahib and one from Dr. Philips in Owlhurst, I discovered a small postcard. On the front was a pen-and-ink sketch of the Pavilion at Brighton. I turned it over quickly and saw Diana’s bold penmanship racing across the card, just as she raced through life. I hugged it for a moment, glad to know she was well, then read the message.

The Dower House, where the eldest son lived when he married. It was his way of telling me just how much he’d healed already. A nursing sister had written to me for him as soon as Peregrine’s name was cleared, adding that he wasn’t sure where he would go on leaving hospital—he couldn’t bear to set foot in the Graham house, even though his stepmother had been sent back to her family in disgrace.

I picked up the card again. Beneath Diana’s signature was a handwriting I didn’t know, but a name I did.

I looked out at the cold, dismal rain. My heart sang for both of them, and suddenly I wasn’t tired any longer, I was crying with joy.