Bonds of Earth (5 page)

He can still see them all, see them lined up, one after another after another, arms and legs missing, bones shattered, burned, gassed, bodies shredded and sewn back together again like a patchwork quilt with missing pieces. They are his to fix, his to make whole again, but most of them are more eager to die than to heal, and they will always be more successful in the first ambition than in the second. For a few excruciating moments, he is back on that ward, desperately trying to keep from screaming his frustration and horror at all the beautiful, broken young bodies—

Michael shut his eyes against the memory, and when he opened them again, he found Sarah and her companion staring at him.

“Oh, hello,” Sarah said, darting her eyes at her teacher. “It’s past three, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Michael said stupidly. “I was….”

He stopped, dumbstruck. He couldn’t admit that he had been worried about her in front of the man who had been charged with her care for the afternoon.

“Do you always go wandering uninvited through people’s homes?” Seward snapped.

Michael’s gaze rose and met green eyes filled with anger. Now that he was getting a good look at him, it occurred to Michael that Seward looked slightly younger than his own twenty-six years, though his features were prematurely aged by pain. His face bore the patrician characteristics of one of the Anglo-Saxon sons of privilege, with a long nose and high, proud cheekbones, yet Michael could not summon the usual contempt he felt for such men. Tamping down the first retort that came to mind, he said instead, “I apologize… sir. I was looking for Sarah.”

“Well, now that you’ve found her, you can go back to the servants’ wing.”

Michael glanced down and noticed the cane was quivering under his weight. Christ, the man could barely stand for more than a couple of minutes at a time. Had his doctors made no effort to restore his strength during his convalescence?

“Well?”

The sharp word snapped Michael out of his reverie. He looked up and realized his error when he saw that anger had been transformed into rage by what to Seward must have looked like a gardener’s impudent assessment of his frailties.

That’s all you are now
, Michael reminded himself harshly.
See that you don’t forget it.

Holding up his hands in a placating gesture, he said, “Once again, my apologies. I won’t trouble you any longer.” And with a nod to both of them, he turned on his heel and walked away.

He was halfway back to the kitchen when he heard the pounding of small footsteps behind him. Turning around, he was nearly bowled over by Sarah, who came to a skidding stop before him. Her tiny, elflike face was upturned and fearful, as though expecting a blow.

“I didn’t think I would be so long. I’m sorry.”

Michael shook his head and smiled. “It’s all right,” he assured her. “We’ll look over the woods when you have time. Tomorrow or Tuesday, after school.”

Her eyes grew round. “You’ll wait for me?”

Michael smiled down at her. “Of course I will. Go on back now; you mustn’t keep the master waiting.”

Sarah frowned slightly, then shook her head as though dispelling a troubling thought and ran back the way she had come.

As Michael walked with leaden steps back toward his new life, he might have wished that his own troubling thoughts could be dismissed as easily, if he hadn’t known it was utterly futile.

3

T
HE
following week moved at a swift pace as Michael began serious work on the gardens. On Monday he was driven into Hudson by Abbott—the old bastard still didn’t trust him with the car—and returned with a dozen varieties of seeds and the promise of a delivery of soil and fertilizer by midweek. By Friday, he had mulched and prepared all the beds and planted hundreds of seeds in the clay pots he’d found in the greenhouse. He’d also limed the lawn, and as soon as the danger of frost passed, he’d sow new seed in the bare patches where the moss had died off.

The monotony of his tasks was alleviated by his first letter from Margaret, painstakingly printed on the same cheap paper she had used to write to him in Europe for nearly six years. He let it slide between his fingertips, the rough surface familiar against his skin, before unfolding it carefully.

20 April 1919

Dearest Michael—

I received your letter of 15 April and I am very glad you are likeing your work. Will you be planting any foxglove? If you can find the pink kind I think the little girl you mentioned will like that very much. Lilly of the valley is very beutifull too. Does she really remind you of me? I wish I had some photographs of us both when we were young, that would be a wonderful thing to show Edith and Donald.

You asked if I had herd from Paul and I have not but I am sure he will write me anyday now. He told me it might be some time before he got in at the steelworks and he did not want to get my hopes up by writing to soon. I did here from Colm tho—he says he is getting married and wants me to come to the wedding. It is suposed to be in August and he says Jimmy and Tim should be back then too. Father’s ship will still be in the Orient then but Colm says he does not care about that. I wish they would get along but you know Father never paid much attention to them either, even when Mamma was still alive. I know you will say you cannot come but I hope you will.

Michael sighed. It boggled him that Margaret still thought of them as a family after all this time. She was his closest relation, the only one, in fact, with whom he still maintained ties. When their mother had died, the two of them had gone to live with Paddy, their older brothers already off roaming the world like their father, working as deckhands and stokers on the merchant ships. He hadn’t seen his brothers or his father in over a decade, though Margaret had kept in touch with all of them. They might as well have been strangers to him.

I cannot stop thinking about what you said the last time we saw one another and it saddens me to know you feel there is something you cannot tell me. I have always told you everything that was in my heart and I thought you had done the same. I hope you know that I will always love you and want your happyness above all.

Edith wanted me to put a kiss in the envelope for you. I told her to kiss the paper, and she did, right here—

And here is one from me—

I will write you again next Sunday; God keep you safe.

Love,

Your Margaret

Saturday found him in the forest, digging up the youngling trees he and Sarah had found and marked earlier in the week. She’d done a fine job of selecting suitable specimens for the garden and had helped him draw up a new plan incorporating them into the back and side yards. As he dragged them out of the woods on the garden cart, he watched Sarah dig the new holes to receive them.

He could tell that Abbott disapproved of his granddaughter’s association with him, but Mary obviously held the opposite viewpoint and openly encouraged Sarah to spend time with him outdoors when her chores were done. Sarah, he learned, was actually nearly twelve and so quite small for her age. He hadn’t seen fit to tell Mary about the painting the girl had made, at first not wanting to alarm her and then not wanting to be viewed as a meddler. Besides, any demons that inhabited the child were probably well known to her grandparents and doubtless were linked to the absence of her mother and father.

As he’d worked in the garden through the week, he could sometimes feel that same prickle of awareness he’d sensed that first night among the trees. He did not look up toward the house directly, though sometimes he’d sneak a peek out of the corner of his eye, seeking the cause of that feeling. He suspected its origin was a pair of angry green eyes, but he couldn’t be sure. Perhaps Abbott had taken to watching him to try to catch him goldbricking.

The old man was the only person who seemed to have regular contact with Seward. He disappeared into the bowels of the house three times a day to bring him his meals and once more later on in the evening, presumably to help him with his nightly routine. Although Michael endeavored not to dwell on it, he found his thoughts straying while he worked to the injuries and debilities he’d cataloged from that brief viewing of Seward, to the evidence of yet another unholy crime wrought by an unholy war. His unchallenged mind sought stimulation and found it in the contemplation of an exercise and massage regimen that would treat the pain and recover flexibility and strength. It would be a simple thing to set up a rudimentary gymnasium in one of the unused rooms—

And that was where Michael would usually catch himself and force his thoughts back into acceptable channels, ones more suited to a gardener. He would shift his concentration to his garden plan, to the schedule for watering, to anything, nothing.

The cart hit a tree branch and nearly toppled, and it took all of Michael’s strength to keep it upright. Cursing softly under his breath, he backed it up and maneuvered it around the obstacle, then pushed it up the slight slope until he had reached the lawn. As he approached, Sarah looked up at him, her face streaked with dirt, her skirts muddied, her hands filthy.

Then he caught the flash of small, white teeth through the mess, and suddenly his mood lightened; it was the first time he’d seen her produce anything remotely resembling a smile. He brought the cart close and bowed to her. “Which of these poor offerings strikes my lady’s fancy?”

The grubby child rose with the grace of royalty and pointed imperiously. “We must have the white birch,” she intoned.

“Very well, Your Highness,” he said, picking up the sapling by the canvas sack he’d tied around the root ball and carrying it over to the hole she’d prepared. As he set it in place, he happened to look up and caught the billowing of a curtain at a second-floor window.

I fear the King does not approve
, he thought, turning his attention back to his work and to the princess with the tiara of stray leaves clinging to her hair.

M
ICHAEL
knew something was wrong when Abbott returned from delivering Sunday’s lunch. His expression was even more pinched and thunderous than usual, and his manner was agitated. Michael’s first thought was that some mishap had befallen Seward, and he asked after him without thinking.

“Mister John’s health is none of your business,” Abbott snapped. At that moment, Sarah raced downstairs in a loose-fitting outfit with a cotton overdress.

“I’m ready, Grandpa,” she said.

Abbott turned to her, expression softening only marginally, and shook his head. “He won’t be able to see you today, child,” he said.

Sarah’s face did not fall at that; it went absolutely blank, as though, having experienced so many disappointments, she could no longer summon a response to them. “But you said he was feeling fine yesterday,” she said in a small, flat voice.

“He was.” Abbott looked away. “He’s simply not up for a lesson today.”

You’re a very poor liar
, Michael thought. Apparently Sarah was of the same opinion, because her expression for an instant turned from blank to skeptical.

“All right, Grandpa,” she said in that same dead tone. She disappeared up the steps again, her shoulders so straight and proud that the sight made Michael’s throat hurt.

A tense silence descended over the room once Sarah’s footsteps had faded, as the three adults stood locked in their own private thoughts. And then Michael was moving, climbing the short run of steps to the main level and pulling open the door to the hallway of the main house. Briefly, he wondered why in hell he was doing this, and then Sarah’s blank, resigned face rose before him, and the rage broke the surface, propelling him forward.

“McCready—” Abbott warned. “It’s not your place to interfere.”

Michael chuckled hollowly. “
Mister
Abbott, it’s never been my habit to keep my place.”

Mary’s voice was kinder, though just as firm. “Michael,
please—” But that did no good either, and he was soon beyond her entreaties or her husband’s commands.

As he searched, Michael peered through a half dozen doorways into rooms filled with muslin-covered furniture and a musty air. It was as though the house hadn’t had a living resident for years, and all that remained were the ghosts of the previous owners.

He finally tracked Seward down in the library, a dark-curtained room whose walls seethed with books. The only light came from one weak table lamp and a roaring fire, before which Seward sat in a high-backed armchair.

“You’re remarkably bad at following orders, aren’t you?” Seward muttered, his gaze fixed on the fire. There was a whiskey glass in his left hand. He took a healthy sip while Michael watched.

“I’ve been told I don’t take orders from you,” Michael bit out. To his surprise, Seward only laughed at that.

“No, you don’t, that’s true,” he acknowledged, green gaze rising to flicker over Michael like the light from the flames. “But you take orders from Thomas, and he’s rather fond of me.”