Gather the Bones (31 page)

Paul agreed. It was not just the house that felt empty. Helen had taken something out of his life too. Something he wanted back. He rose to his feet and crossed to the table to pour another whiskey.

Angela’s perambulations brought her around the table until she stood next to him.

She laid her hands on his shoulders, slipping her arms around his neck, forcing him to look into her eyes.

“Ange...” he began.

She smiled up at him. “I’ve been thinking about that week…our week.”

Paul closed his eyes for a moment. That week in 1916 where for the first and only time in his life, he had felt free, untrammeled by the burden of responsibility or society. His arms circled her slender waist and he closed his eyes, his lips brushing her short, dark hair. She smelled of linseed oil and felt warm and familiar in his arms.

“We were good together, you and I,” she murmured.

Paul sighed. “We can’t go back, Angela.”

“Why not?” She tightened her grip forcing him to look down into her face. “I’ve always loved you, Paul. What happened in Flanders doesn’t change that.”

“But I’ve changed, Angela.”

Angela leaned her head against him. “Remember the Waterloo hotel, Paul? We didn’t get out of bed for two days...”

Paul gently disengaged her arms and stood holding her hands. “Angela, they’re memories. Good memories, but we can’t get that time back again. It’s gone.”

Angela stiffened and broke away from him. “Is it Helen? Paul, she’s not for you. Tony’s a far better catch then you’ll ever be.”

Paul looked away. “I wish them both the best of luck,” he said. “There’s nothing between Helen and me except what could have been a good friendship without the interference of your darling mama and my aunt. She’ll marry Tony in a couple of months.” He cupped her chin and looked into her eyes. “When I’ve sold Holdston it will be time for me to move on.”

“What will you do?”

“I might go back to the Far East. Manage a tea plantation or go on working on the archaeological digs. I haven’t made any decisions, except that England won’t be a part of the future.”

“Paul, with my art, we could work together. You employ artists on the digs don’t you?”

He shook his head. “No, Angela. Whatever I feel for you–felt for you–you’re not part of my future.”

Angela leaned against the table and looked away. “It is Helen. You don’t even realize it yourself but there’s something between the two of you.”

“What lies between Helen and I is not what you think,” Paul said. How could he explain the ghosts and the secret diary? Then there were those snatched moments in Belgium. He shook his head ridding himself of those memories.

“I know I owe you my life,” he continued, “but I value you as a friend far more than as a lover and I don’t want to lose that.”

Angela pulled a face and sniffed. “Just ‘good’ friends? Oh, God, Paul! Please don’t say that to me.”

 
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that, but we’re too different, and what happened between us, was a matter of circumstance. Two lonely people who needed each other at a time in our lives. We can never have that back again and we wouldn’t want it. You’ll find someone else. Someone who has more to offer you than I.”

“This bloody room is always so cold.” Angela straightened and shivered, hunching her shoulders. “I should get back to Wellmore.”

Paul didn’t move as he said, “Goodbye, Angela.”

She crossed to the door that led out to the courtyard and tried the handle. “It’s locked,” she said.

“Try again,” Paul suggested.

Angela wriggled the door handle and pushed. The door flew open and Angela fell through, sprawling across the narrow hallway.

Paul lifted her up and she looked up at him, her eyes wide. “Something tripped me,” she said looking down at the floor. “I distinctly felt something.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Just an uneven flagstone.” Paul forced a smile. The whiff of Lily of the Valley caused him to pause and look around at the quiet room.

She brushed the dust from her skirt. “I never trip just like that and I can’t see an uneven flagstone.” She looked over his shoulder at the library. “I always knew this place was haunted.”

Paul smiled. “It’s just an old house. Come on, I’ll walk you to your car.”

* * * *

Angela stood at the window of the drawing room overlooking the gardens at Wellmore, the ubiquitous cigarette in her hand. She glanced around as Helen entered the room and resumed her study of the sodden terrace. Helen joined her at the window looking out over the view. She wondered if one ever grew tired of it.

“I haven’t thanked you for looking after Alice,” Helen said.

Angela smiled. “I enjoyed it. She’s a terrific child. Reminds me of her father in so many ways.”

Helen smiled. “I couldn’t have inflicted the confrontation with your mother on her.”

Angela raised an eyebrow. “You seem to have managed. Pa thinks the sun shines out of you and even Ma seems to have defrosted a little.” She wrapped her arms tighter around herself. “Beastly weather,” she said. “English summer at its best.”

“I’ve told Tony that I will take him home for a proper Australian summer,” Helen said.

“He may not want to come back,” Angela paused. “Like Charlie.”

“The siren song of the southern land?” Helen cast Angela a sideways glance.

“I’m right about Charlie though. He told me he had no intention of staying in England after the war.”

“We bought a property. Dad’s managing it now but Charlie had such plans for it. When did you get back from Holdston?”

“About an hour ago.” Angela shook her head. “There’s something unhappy about that house. I don’t want to set foot in it again, unless I have to.”

“What do you mean?”

Angela gave a snort of laughter. “I swear something tripped me in the library. You must think me a frightful idiot, but misery...or something...is hanging over Holdston like a pall.”

Helen bit her lip. “Angela,” she ventured, “have I said something to upset you?”

Angela turned her head to look at Helen. “Upset me?”

“It’s just you seem a little distant.”

Angela’s mouth tightened. “Do I? Just a small matter of the heart, Helen. Nothing to do with you.”

Helen looked at her. “I’m sorry, Angela.”

Angela gave a dismissive shrug of her shoulders. “It’s a bloody thing to realize you’re in love with someone when it’s too late. I’ll get over it, I always do.”

Angela clutched Helen’s forearm, her face twisted in anguish. “Oh, God, Helen, I made a complete fool of myself. I can pretend I’m a free spirit but I knew when I saw him in my flat that day in London that there was nobody else. There never had been.”

Helen closed her eyes. Paul. Angela was still in love with Paul.

“It’s not too late,” Helen heard herself say, knowing that they were the words she would be expected to say.

Angela shook her head. “It is too late. He made it quite clear.”

Helen looked away, angry with Paul. He seemed incapable of allowing himself to get close to anyone.

“He’s a fool,” she said.

“I thought I’d convinced myself what we had was just another fling, but it wasn’t,” Angela dashed impatiently at the tears that rolled down her hollow cheek. She gave Helen a rueful smile. “I accused him of having a bit of a thing for you, but obviously I was wrong about that too.” She shook herself. “This is bloody ridiculous. I’m behaving like a stupid deb.” Glancing at her wristwatch, she said, “Is that the time? I suppose I’d better go and drag something suitable out of my wardrobe for dinner. Mother will expect us to dress.” Angela turned on her heel, all but running from the room.

Chapter 23

Helen stood on the edge of the clearing, her horse’s reins looped over her arm, knowing that she should not have come. Like Suzanna, all those years before, she had passed the night in ‘
a foment of indecision’
, her head telling her one thing and her heart another. But as Suzanna would have observed, ruled by her heart, she had risen early and on the pretence of taking a ride before breakfast, had stepped onto the precipice.

Paul rose to his feet and they stood facing each other for a long moment without speaking.

“You came,” he said at last.

“I came,” she agreed, as she tied the reins of the Wellmore hunter to a tree.

“I owe you an apology,” he said. “As you know my memory of that day in ‘17 is...has been...a little sketchy. I only remembered recently that before the attack, Charlie gave me this.”

He handed her an envelope. She gave an involuntary gasp as she recognized Charlie’s handwriting. She looked up at Paul.

“What does it say?”

He shook his head. “I’ve no idea. It’s not addressed to me. He gave it to me before he left on the sortie.”

Helen turned it over in her hand.

“I expect you would prefer to read it alone.” Paul gathered Hector’s reins.

She put a hand on his arm.

“No, I would like you to stay.”

He looked down at her hand and didn’t move.

Helen picked up a small twig and cut the envelope open, pulling out the single folded sheet.

The words of the short note, blurred on the page.

She took a breath as she read,
My darling Helen. If you are reading this then I did not return from this sortie. If I had, I would have reclaimed this missive from Paul–that is if he were here to reclaim it from. I am so tired of this, Helen–tired of writing letters to grieving mothers and wives, tired of death. The only thing that sustains me is the memory of you, my beautiful girl, standing on the pier waving at me. How could I have left you? My last thought before I sleep is of you and the smell of the gums on the slopes of Mt. Buller and our plans to run cattle in the high country, but they are only dreams. I love you my darling girl, always, and whatever is in my power to keep you and the baby safe and well, I will do. Love always, Charlie.

Helen folded the paper. “Thank you, Paul,” she said. “Did you want to know what it says?”

He shook his head. “It is between you and Charlie.”

He regarded her for a long moment with those extraordinary green eyes. They made her feel as if he looked into her soul.

“I should get back,” she said, turning her face away from the intensity of his gaze.

“Before you go, Helen–” Paul drew a crumpled sheaf of papers from his pocket and handed them to her, “–I do have some more of the diary. That is, if you’re still interested?”

She took the papers. “I would like to know how the story ends. Have you finished it?”

He shook his head. “No and I doubt I will. I did these some time ago. I’m not sure they give you the answer you want but have a look over them anyway.”

Helen thanked him, put the folded papers into her jacket pocket and turned to go.

“Why are you marrying Tony?”

She stopped but did not turn to face him. “What business is it of yours?”

 
“None,” he agreed. “I have no claim on you, beyond that of friendship but I know why he wants to marry you. I am just curious as to why you said yes. I don’t think you love him.”

She turned back to look at him and gave a wry smile. “Because he’s a kind man and he asked me.”

“That’s it?” Paul’s gaze was fixed intently on her and she could feel the green eyes burning into her soul, seeing her for the fraud she had become. “He’s kind and he asked you?”

“I’m not sure I even said yes.” She managed a faint smile. “I don’t expect you to understand but I’m twenty-eight years old, a widow with a child. Charlie left me eight years ago and–” she looked up at the overarching boughs of the trees, “–I’m lonely.” She broke off and turned away. “Forget it. I’m not explaining this very well.”

“I’m sorry, Helen,” he said. “I have no right to pry.”

She breathed in the tang of his shaving cream as he moved closer. She willed him to touch her, to kiss her, hold her and never let her go. Her body ached for his touch but as she turned back to face him he took a step back.

Helen wanted to rail at him, beat her fists against his chest. All it would take would be a word and he could have her forever, but once again, he had pulled away from her. She turned her face up to the arch of the trees above. Lonely souls, that’s all they had been to each other. Now she had the love of a good man in Tony Scarvell. If it couldn’t be her, maybe someone else could find happiness with Paul Morrow? She thought about Angela’s tears and brought her gaze down to meet his. “Paul, about Angela...”

He narrowed his eyes. “What about Angela?”

“She’s in love with you.”

He shook his head. “No, she’s in love with a memory.”

“You’re wrong. She’s no different from me, Paul.”

“Don’t tell me Angela is spinning you a ‘lonely widow’ story, Helen?” Paul stiffened. “Trust me, I know Angela better than you. She can have any man she wants but she prefers them to be unobtainable. She would be bored with me in a matter of months.”