A Hope Remembered (2 page)

“If it’s all the same to you, Mr. Rushford, I’ll sit this photograph out.” He didn’t wait for the journalist’s reply. Instead Colin marched away from the group as fast as he could walk, his goggles strangled between his hands, his heart and mind wrapped in shock.

His brother was gone and nothing would ever be the same again.

Iowa, May 1920

N
ora led the strangers into the parlor, their footsteps sounding unusually loud against the polished wood floor. Her gaze swept the tidy room with theirs and settled on the upright piano. How forlorn it looked stripped of its usual sheet music and family photos. The latter she could take with her, but her courage fractured a bit at the thought of someone else playing the instrument that had soothed her loneliness more times than she could count. The piano would be too costly to cart to England, though, and so like many other things, it would have to be left behind.

“What a spacious room,” the woman said, her hand resting on her protruding belly. Her husband draped an arm around her shoulders, the other hanging lifeless at his side. Wounded in France, he’d informed Nora in his letter of inquiry about the farm she was sellling.

“Perfect for all those children we’re going to have.” He pressed a kiss to his wife’s forehead.

Nora folded her arms and looked away, the sting of resentment piercing her at their happiness. She didn’t need further reminders, however unintentional, that her life had been—and was about to be again—irrevocably changed.

Nothing about the last two years matched her girlhood dreams, dreams that had included a husband and family. If Tom Campbell had survived the Great War, all those hopes would have been realized. He would be standing here now, instead of two strangers. It would be his arms holding her close, his lips kissing her, and she wouldn’t be trying to sell the only home she’d ever known.

“The kitchen is through there.” Nora forced a friendly tone to her words. The more they liked the place and her, the less likelihood of having to endure more people she didn’t know traipsing all over the farm.

The couple moved past her and stepped into the large, sunny kitchen. Nora followed. She rested her hands on the back of one of the chairs. How many times had she sat here rolling dough for her mother or eating meals with her parents? They’d been gone more than a year, but the memories entrenched in every space of the farm kept them close, as well as increased the pain of missing them.

“The house comes with all the furnishings?” The young man’s eyes were trained on the icebox.

“Yes.” Nora recalled the day her father had brought the icebox home in the wagon—a birthday gift for her mother. Grace Lewis had been so happy she’d cried. It was one of many surprises, big and small, her father had delighted in giving “his girls.”

“You don’t want to take any of it with you?”

Wanted to, yes. The piano, her bed, her father’s rocker, her mother’s gramophone. “It might be rather difficult to get an icebox all the way to England.”

The young man chuckled, bringing Nora instant relief that she hadn’t offended him. “England, huh? Heard things aren’t going so well there right now. I would’ve thought more of them would be coming here, than anyone going there.”

Nora had read something similar in the newspaper, but she wasn’t concerned. Caring for the farm alone since her parents’ deaths, she’d learned how to stretch her nickels and dimes and how little she and her dog, Oscar, could subside on. “Actually, I inherited some property there.”

“A big manor house, huh?” He laughed at his own joke. “I met some of those rich Brits overseas. Decent guys, though most of them never worked a day in their lives before the war.”

There likely wouldn’t be any rich Brits where she was going, Nora thought as she watched the man’s wife fingering the red-checked curtains over the window. She fought the urge to ask her to stop. She’d helped her mother sew those curtains one blizzardy day years ago. The bright color had brought instant cheer to the room and made the winter weather more bearable.

“It isn’t really a house,” she replied, trying to focus on the conversation and not the way the woman continued to run her hands over the kitchen furniture. “It’s a cottage—on a sheep farm.”

“A sheep farm?” The woman didn’t bother to hide her incredulous tone. “That’s a rather unusual occupation for a woman on her own.”

Nora swallowed hard, hating the way the woman’s words stirred up her deepest fears. Could she really give up the only life she’d ever known to do something she’d never done before? In a place so vastly different from hers here in Iowa? Like her parents, the farthest she’d ever traveled was Minnesota.

Clearly not expecting a reply to her candid remark, the woman asked eagerly, “Can we see the upstairs?”

“Of course.” Nora bottled up her uncertainty and motioned them ahead of her, back into the parlor. “There are three bedrooms up there.”

The couple exchanged a smile and started up the stairs, but Nora paused with her foot on the first step. Did she want to stand by while the two of them, nice as they were, looked at and touched more of her things? Things she’d be forced to leave behind because they wouldn’t fit into her suitcase?

“Take all the time you need,” she called up to them. “I’ll be outside.”

She slipped on a sweater to guard against the spring chill and let herself out the front door. The sound of the screen slamming shut behind her was both comforting and familiar. Nora moved down the porch steps and across the yard. Oscar trotted up to her side, his tail wagging. She stopped to rub the soft, brown fur between his ears, wishing again that she could take him with her. The old hound dog would detest being cooped up on a ship, though, and Tom’s younger brothers had already consented to permanently caring for him.

Nora crossed the road running in front of the farm and slipped beneath the leafy limbs of the giant oak tree that stood like a sentinel before the fields. Oscar moved off to explore.

For the first time since the couple had arrived, Nora managed a full breath of air. She circled the trunk to peer at the carving Tom had cut into the bark years earlier. Lifting her finger, she traced the worn outlines of the heart and the letters whittled inside: TC + NL.

Tom had kissed her for the first time under these branches. She’d bade him good-bye in the same place, the night before he and his brother Joel had left to fight in the war. This tree had also been privy to Tom’s promise to marry her when he came back and Nora’s anguish when she’d received word he wasn’t returning.

She shut her eyes and leaned back against the rough bark. Memories of Tom washed over her with such intensity she could almost believe when she opened her eyes she’d see him walking up the road, ready to pull her into his strong arms, as he’d done countless times before the war. His teasing manner and quick smile had been the perfect complement to her more serious nature.

A tangible ache throbbed in her chest and Nora pressed her hand against it. It had been two years since Tom had been killed. When would missing him hurt less? When would she stop feeling bound to a promise neither one of them could fulfill anymore? The life they’d hoped and planned for might be gone, but she still had to move forward. She had to stop dwelling on the past. Maybe then she’d find peace from the pain.

Opening her eyes, she pushed away from the tree and removed the wrinkled envelope from her skirt pocket. She’d memorized every word of the letter—about her being the next of kin to inherit Henry Lewis’s sheep farm in England’s Lake District. Letters had arrived sporadically through the years from her father’s uncle, but Nora was still surprised to learn the man had died. And that like her father and grandfather, the man had so few living relatives.

She’d nearly written her great-uncle’s solicitor back and declined the offer of the sheep farm. She had a home and a life here. Yet the prospect of a fresh start, in the land of her heritage, took hold in her mind and wouldn’t leave her alone.

For the next week as she milked the cow, fed the animals, and tended the farm, the idea consumed her every waking thought until she finally relented and wrote a letter of acceptance. Even after posting it, though, she couldn’t say why she’d agreed to go. Tom’s sister Livy, and Nora’s best friend, had certainly questioned her reasons for leaving. But the only thing Nora could say was “I have to.”

She smoothed the envelope as she admitted in a whisper, “I don’t know anything about sheep, Tom. But this is my chance to leave, like you did.” She splayed her free hand against his carving. “I don’t want to leave behind the life we dreamed of here…” Her voice hitched with a swallowed sob. “And yet I have to learn to live without you. Don’t I?”

A movement across the street caught her eye. The couple was exiting the house. Nora pocketed the letter, eyed the carved heart once more, and stepped from the shade of the tree.

“Everything’s just lovely,” the young woman said as Nora came to a stop below the porch.

“We’ll take it,” her husband added. “How soon can we move in?”

Nora cleared the tug of sorrow from her throat and managed a tight smile. “You can move in next Thursday. I’ll leave the key under the mat.”

They settled on a price, which was a few hundred dollars less than what Nora had asked for, but she’d expected that. After all, she could only do so much running the place alone. The young man promised to bring the money over tomorrow morning.

“Do you have family there?” The woman asked the question in a gentle voice. Had she sensed the heavy finality settling like a rock in the pit of Nora’s stomach? “In England, I mean?”

Nora shook her head. “Not anymore.”

“Then why go?” Genuine concern shone on the other woman’s face as she allowed her husband to help her down the stairs. “If I had this place, I don’t think I could leave it for the unknown.”

Nora let her eyes wander over the house, the yard, the barn, the old oak tree. This had been her home for twenty-three years. So many dreams and hopes had been sown and shattered here. But now it was time to pick up the pieces. To leave what felt comfortable and familiar and hopefully find the peace that had eluded her the last few years.

When she turned her attention back to the couple, she didn’t need to infuse her response with feigned confidence. “I believe I’m ready for an adventure.” The words sank deeply into her soul, and a tingle of excitement eased the knot of regret in her stomach.

“Judging by the state of things here, Miss Lewis, I think you’ll do well on your sheep farm.” The young man extended his hand toward her. Nora shook it firmly and offered the two of them the first genuine smile she’d been able to muster all morning. “We wish you all the best across the Pond.”

Lake District, England, June 1920

The wheels of the Avro 504 biplane caressed the grassy runway. Colin Ashby cut the engine, and the plane coasted toward the far end of the lawn, where his valet stood at attention, waiting. What did Gibson want with him now?

Before he could strike the line of trees bordering the grass, Colin turned the vehicle to face south, toward the lake. The plane rolled to a final stop, its left wing a mere two feet from the chest of the expressionless and unmoving Gibson. Colin bit back a laugh. Apparently even the possibility of being sideswiped by an aeroplane did nothing to crack the man’s stoic demeanor.

Colin pulled the goggles from his face and climbed out of the rear cockpit onto the plane’s wing. “What did you think of that landing, Gibson?” He leapt to the ground. “She kissed the runway with hardly a shudder.”

Gibson inclined his balding head in a stiff nod. “Yes, sir.”

Once he had the wheel chocks in place, Colin removed his flying helmet and let his gaze roam over the surrounding mountains. How different they looked from the air, like a child’s creation rather than imposing peaks. From the sky, the sheep on the fell were ants and the lake beside Elmthwaite Hall was a puddle.

“You are late, sir.”

“Am I?” Colin cut a glance at the still lit sky. Full dark wouldn’t arrive for another few hours, but it must be after eight o’clock if he was already late for dinner. He’d flown longer than he’d intended.

“Your father and mother are in the dining room now.” Gibson tucked his hands smartly behind his back. “Their guests arrived some time ago.”

“Very well.” Colin ambled toward the great house, in no hurry for the dinner party awaiting him. Gibson managed to stay beside him, even as the valet’s steps remained clipped and precise. “Which distinguished guests are we to share our meal with tonight?”

“Lord Weatherly, sir, and his wife.”

“No one else?” Maybe his father had finally tired of trying to marry him off.

Gibson pinned his gaze straight ahead. “No, sir. Although their daughter, Lady Sophia, is with them.”

“Ah.” The game wasn’t over yet. “Have you seen Lady Sophia, Gibson?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is she as severe looking as that last girl? What was her name?”

“Lady Josephine,” Gibson supplied.

Another earl’s daughter, but not much to recommend her beyond her title. “Tell me, Gibson.” Colin stopped and turned toward his valet. “Who is less plain? Lady Sophia or Lady Josephine?”

Gibson kept his eyes focused forward, but a muscle in his jaw ticked. Colin recognized the telltale sign the older man was slightly uneasy. He squelched a smile. So women, not aeroplanes, were a source of discomfort to the valet. The moments when Gibson broke character were rare enough that Colin deemed each one a victory.

“I would say…” Gibson coughed behind his fist before lowering his arm. The perfect control returned to his lined face. “Lady Sophia is quite lovely, sir.”

“Is that so?” Colin set off toward the gray stone house again. “Then I shouldn’t be ashamed of making an entrance to attract this beautiful woman’s attention, should I?”

Without so much as a quirk of the lips, Gibson tipped his head in acquiescence and opened one of the massive front doors for him. Colin stepped inside the entry and headed up the carpeted stairs, all the while silently counting off the seconds before his father would appear.

Six…seven…eight…

“Colin.” Sir Edward barreled out of the dining room.

A little slower than normal.
Colin pivoted on the landing to face his father.

“Yes?” He schooled his face into a droll expression, while fighting the raw irritation rising inside him. He’d seen far too many lives cut short not to want to live his own. A man of twenty-six ought to be in charge of his own life—be allowed to make his own choices. He didn’t need society to tell him when to eat or change or fly his biplane. His older brother, Christian, hadn’t minded the rote routine of their life as sons of a baronet, but Colin had long given up the notion of being like his childhood hero.