Secrets of Nanreath Hall (20 page)

“No wonder. You've got a goose egg the size of a cricket ball and you're sporting a beauty of a bruise from your hip to your shoulder. Your orders are to stay in bed for a few days in case of concussion or cracked ribs.”

“I can't possibly. There's far too much to do. The hospital must be a mess and the patients—where's that nice soldier who helped me?”

“Trooper Young is fine, though you gave him a fright.” Tilly poured her a glass of water. “Drink this. It will help.”

The water slid chill down Anna's parched throat. “Tell me,
please . . . is Tony . . .” Her hands trembled, and she felt a wild, anxious fluttering in her chest. Pushing her panic down where it couldn't touch her, she began again, forcing her words out slowly and clearly, both frightened and relieved at how easily she was able to banish her emotions to a place where they couldn't touch her. “Was anyone hurt?”

Tilly's expression tightened, her normally cheerful face taking on a rather gray and worried look. “One of the bombs hit the old stables where the firefighting crew is billeted, and an orderly died when a wall came down in an office on the second floor.”

“What of Hugh? And Lady Boxley?” Would she lose this new family as she'd lost her old one? Just when she'd found them?

“They're both fine, though the village is a bit the worse for wear. They've been bringing the wounded to us all day. We're not equipped for surgery, but the MO has done what he can.” She tucked Anna beneath her blankets. “Speaking of Hugh, he stopped by to see how you were doing.” Tilly's voice seemed almost shrill, as if fighting off her own black thoughts. “He brought you this.”

The leather portfolio from the attic.

Tilly set it on the bed beside her. A long, deep scratch defaced one side, and the clasp was torn away. “As for gifts, I've one of my own. It's much better than a battered old case, but if you're caught, I don't know anything and I had nothing to do with it.”

“You haven't been dealing with the black market, have you?”

Tilly merely offered a mysterious smile as she rose to open the door. “You'll see. Now, close your eyes.”

“But . . .”

“Go on. Don't be a wet blanket.” She flicked her hands in an impatient gesture.

Anna closed her eyes and folded her hands upon the coverlet in patient resignation. Footsteps sounded and the turn of the door-knob
followed by a stir of cool air from the corridor. She heard Tilly whisper, and even with her eyes closed, Anna felt a change in the atmosphere. A quivering expectation, as if someone stood watching her, breath held.

“Can I open my eyes?”

“Go ahead,” replied a familiar deep voice.

Her eyes flew open to find Tony Lambert standing sheepishly in the doorway. “Surprise.”

October 1914

I
adjusted the sumptuous drape of the doll's velvet gown before setting it back amid the rest of Mr. Byam Shaw's collection that he housed in a spacious upstairs studio cupboard at the school in Campden Street. I'd been using it this afternoon as part of my still-life class; I was instructed to create a composition that required me to exactly duplicate the rich nap and bold color of the fabric as well as the way each shadow fell within each soft crease as the skirt brushed the floor. I enjoyed these classes but found them difficult to master. I much preferred Saturday's exercises, when I was able to submit an unsigned work for evaluation. This might be a quick pencil sketch of the newsboy on our corner or a pen and ink of our windowsill where the landlady's tabby lay sunning amid pots of scraggly herbs. This was where my gifts lay, in distilling a scene down to its essential properties. Not cluttering a scene with a cast of thousands each in period-perfect costume and props.

Today my mind lacked the concentration needed to master the
delicate layering of dark and light that would turn a flat canvas into a three-dimensional white velvet gown. Cramps pinched my stomach and my lower back ached. All I wanted was my bed and a soothing hot water bottle. These symptoms, along with the inconvenience of dealing with belts and menstrual pads, should have had me grumbling and unhappy. Instead, I was relieved at my regular monthlies, which only served to irritate me further. A child was a complication I didn't need, but as the war's casualty lists grew, so did my unreasonable wish for a part of Simon I could call completely my own.

Just as I finally settled into work, the creak of a floorboard and a draft from an open door alerted me to an intrusion into my self-pitying disgruntlement. I wanted to hurl my brush across the room in frustration before I realized it was Simon, dashing in gray flannels and a jaunty panama hat.

“They told me you were down here. It's a lovely day outside. I thought we'd take the bus to Richmond and go to the Hippodrome. Afterward, we can take a punt out on the river while the weather is nice.”

For some reason, his pleasant invitation grated my already strained nerves. “I can't. I'm trying and failing to wrestle this ridiculous painting into some semblance of art.”

He eyed my half-finished wedding scene of bride and attendants standing upon the porch steps awaiting the first strains of Mendelssohn. “Maybe it's the subject matter that has you stumped.”

His gaze held a teasing gleam, but I was not in the mood for jokes. My face grew tight and hot, and my tongue ached from biting back so many words for so long. “I wonder whose fault that is?”

He had the grace to blush, the skin around his eyes tensing in dismay. “Here we go again. How many times do we have to discuss this before you realize you're being ridiculous?”

“Once would be nice, but every time the subject comes up, you dodge it.”

He took my hand, his gaze both cajoling and rueful. “Come on, love. Leave your painting for now. The day is perfect, and if you're nice to me, I'll take you to the Fountain Tea Room for luncheon and an ice cream. You'll come back with fresh eyes and a full stomach, and we can talk all about it tonight.”

“See? You're doing it again.” My voice shook, and I knew even as I picked this fight that it was pointless. “Is the idea of marriage so terrifying that you won't even consider it?”

He dropped my hand and stepped back, his face grim. “Of course not, but now is hardly the best time, is it?”

“When is the best time, Simon?”

He sighed, as if I were a recalcitrant child and he the long-suffering adult. “How about when you've completed your studies? Or when I've established the gallery and can afford to keep you in the style an earl's daughter expects? It hasn't been easy since the war began, you know. Commissions have been thin on the ground, and my parents aren't doling out the blunt the way they used to.”

“Is that what this is about? Do you really think I care about how much money you have?”

“I care.” He pressed his lips together, as if he was trying to control his temper. “We both have dreams we're chasing, Kitty. Do you really want to throw everything we've worked for aside just so you can have a day of orange blossom and white tulle? Frankly, I'm surprised you're so determined. You're always so contemptuous of your sister and her obsession with marriage.”

“Amelia is obsessed with weddings, not marriage. She likes the idea of a big party where she gets to be the center of attention. I'm talking about building a life together.”

“I thought that was what we were doing.”

It was my turn to inhale a deep, calming breath before my head exploded. “You once asked me if I thought you weren't good enough. Well, I would ask you the same question—am I not good enough for you? Don't”—my voice wavered and broke—“don't you love me enough to marry me?”

He seemed to sway, as if I'd physically struck him. His face was white and pinched, the muscle in his jaw clenched tight. “How can you even ask that?” Desperation filled his gaze. “I love you more than I can possibly say. It was as if every choice I'd ever made led me to that first moment when I saw you on the stairs at Nanreath Hall. I was struck by lightning. There was no going back. No denying it. I love you, Kitty Trenowyth. And you love me. Why do we need a priest to murmur some words over us to make what we have real?”

Because I'm afraid of losing you. Afraid of waking up and finding this has all been a beautiful dream
. That was what I wanted to say. Simon watched me closely, and I could feel his tension in our clasped hands, see it in the lightning-shot depths of his green eyes. If winning this fight meant losing him, was it really a victory?

He must have sensed my weakness. He pulled me against him, his body hard, his muscles taut as wires. If possible, his kiss spoke more eloquently than his words, drowning out my last sputtering argument. Scalding liquid heat slid along my limbs, his devouring passion teasing me into velvety surrender. I closed my eyes. “Richmond sounds lovely.”

May 1941

T
ony, what a nice . . . uh . . . surprise.” Even as her heart thrilled to see him alive and safe, Anna darted swift glances around the room as if Matron or, heaven help her, Sister Murphy, would leap from behind the wardrobe like a diabolical jack-in-the-box.

“Your words say nice yet your face says horrible.”

“You can't be here. This is very, very against regulations. If we're caught, I'll be in heaps of trouble. And you . . . oh dear.” She threw herself from the bed, ignoring her state of undress and her sudden wash of dizziness to shove him back out the door into the corridor. “You have to leave. Now. Immediately. Sooner than immediately. Oh dear,” she repeated weakly as her legs turned to jelly.

Tony caught her before she fell flat on her face, amusement clearly written in the lift of his brows and the twitch of his lips. “Are you supposed to be out of bed?”

She ignored his question as well as the shivery tingle firing every
nerve ending and dragged him toward the door. “Quick before anyone sees.”

Voices echoed hollowly from the far end by the stairwell.

“Wait, someone's coming. You can't leave.” Anna pulled him back inside, shutting the door with a soft click, before leaning an ear against the panels. Her heart banged against her sore ribs and the room continued to swim in and out of focus as she sought to calm her breathing, which came in hoarse gasps.

Tony was clearly enjoying her consternation. The smile in his eyes drifted to his mouth.

“Shhh!” she scolded as she listened. The voices passed by and faded. She let out a sigh all the way to her toes. “That was close.”

“I feel like I'm trapped behind enemy lines.” His voice was a low, accented purr at her ear.

She squeaked and whirled around, once more struck with a world-tilting dizzy spell that had her groping for something solid to grab. Unfortunately, the something solid was Tony Lambert, who'd crept up behind her and now stood at her shoulder. They collided chest to chest, his arms coming round her waist as she leaned woozy against him. She could swear she heard his heart pounding through the layers of uniform, or maybe that was hers.

“Careful now,” he said. “You're a bit unsteady on your feet.” His brown eyes seemed to darken, his expression no longer amused, but something more somber that clenched her innards and doubled the spinning of her head.

“Oh God, Tony. When they said it was the airfield . . .” She tightened her arms around his waist.

“I'm fine, but it's nice to know you worried over me.”

“Despite my best intentions, I'm afraid.”

“I think that's a compliment, but dashed if I'd lay odds on it.”

She stepped free of his encircling arms, unexpectedly disappointed when he let her go without protest. She snatched her dressing gown from its peg and hastened into it, yanking the sash closed before collapsing on the edge of the bed, dropping her head into her hands. “You must think I'm completely mad.”

“Yes.” She glanced up through her lashes to see him leaning against the door, arms folded across his chest, looking incredibly handsome. Her wobbly stomach did another flip. “But in a good way.”

She rubbed her face, trying to look less like a case for asylum and more like a capable and confident nurse. Once more, she sought to lock away her feelings, but this time she found them slippery and uncontrollable. Excitement buzzed in her chest and a smile fought its way through her stiff upper lip. “You have a very bad habit of turning up unannounced and in the oddest places. First London. Now my bedroom. I fear where I'll find you next.”

“I was at a meeting with the brass hats when I heard about the bombing. I stopped here on my way back to the airfield to see for myself that everyone was all right.”

“You weren't even there.”

“No, but I'm still gratified to know you worried I'd been blown to smithereens along with two latrines and a supply shed. I'd just about given up hope I'd ever win you over.”

The conversation was veering in a dangerous direction. Anna scrambled to pull herself free before her better judgment was overcome by wide shoulders and a pair of devilish brown eyes. There was no place in her life for romance; especially not with someone she could grow to love. “Hugh found my mother's portfolio in the attics.”

“Did he? Just when you think the chap's a lost cause, he does something gallant and you have to like him all over again. Well, now
that I'm assured you've not dented your skull and you see I haven't been disintegrated by a stray bomb, I'll make my escape while the coast is clear and leave you to it.” His hand moved slowly round the rim of his cap before he put it on. “Good-bye, Anna.”

She reached out a hand, as if she might hold him back. “Don't go.”

He paused with a slight lift of his brows. “I promise to steer clear of the sisters. None will ever know I was up here. I promise.”

This was foolish, so bloody foolish. She chalked it up to her head wound. “It's not that, but since we're already breaking about ten different regulations, you may as well stay a little longer. I'm not as brave as I make out, and this feels as fragile as an unexploded grenade.” She ran a hand over the soft leather.

“Let's hope less deadly.” He returned to sit beside her.

She continued to caress the case, as if she might read the contents through her fingertips, then with a resolution born half of fear, she snapped open the latches, drawing it wide.

The pages were loose, yellowed or spotted with age. Some quick sketches done in pencil had faded almost to oblivion, while others remained crisp and vibrant as if Lady Katherine had only now laid them aside. There were countless watercolors. Some of places Anna recognized; the stained-glass window in Ward B, the carved stonework above the house's main door, the stone bridge over the creek. Others were unknown; a meadow purple with heather, a cottage garden set for tea amid a backdrop of summer flowers, the chimney stack of an old tin mine.

“They're quite good, aren't they?” Beside her, Tony leafed through those works she'd already laid aside, pausing now and then with a grunt of approval or a cock of his head, brows scrunched in thought. “Who's this, do you suppose? It's not Hugh's father. I've seen snaps of him. He was wiry as a whippet with a square face straight off a
Roman coin. I always joke that Hugh must have inherited his good looks from the milkman.”

He held out a picture of a man in profile leaning against a crumbling archway, staring heavy-lidded out at a gray, choppy ocean, the horizon nearly lost between sea and sky. A cigarette rested in one long-fingered hand, the other was shoved in the pocket of his jacket. “It's Simon Halliday,” she said softly. “My father.”

Tony eyed the sketch more closely. “Has Lady Boxley told you any more about him? Or about the circumstances surrounding your mother's elopement with him?”

“I'm afraid not. We may have called a truce, but she still eyes me like a plague.”

“What about the village? I'll wager you'd find any number of people who'd be happy to gossip about the scandalous earl's daughter who ran away from home. What else do they have to do around here but talk about their neighbors?”

Anna perked up. “Of course—Minnie Smith. I nearly forgot about her invitation to tea. You're brilliant, Tony.”

“Happy to help, Nurse Trenowyth.” His eyes grew dark and intense again as he brushed the hair back from her forehead. She felt her lungs constrict as his face filled her vision, his expression both amused and something else, something that sent a shivery aftershock through her. Her bones seemed to melt, and she felt herself falling, her stomach floating into her chest as if she were on a downward lift. He leaned in for a kiss, and this time Anna surrendered to her desire. She lifted her face to his, her lashes fluttering closed.

“Anna.” A scratch at the door threw them apart. “It's Tilly. Hate to break up the party but Sister Murphy's on her way upstairs.”

Tony rose and grabbed up his cap, raking a hand through his hair before settling it on his head. He seemed to fill the room, his smell, his heat, his calloused hand on her cheek. “You realize
now that I know how you really feel, it's going to be very hard to shake me.”

“Don't get cocky, Flight Lieutenant.”

He quirked her a last smile. “Good luck, Sherlock,” before sliding out through the door.

Foolish, she repeated to herself, hugging her arms to her body against a sudden chill. Bloody foolish.

But at that moment she didn't care.

I
n fact, it took Anna more than two weeks before she had a spare afternoon to walk into the village. In the aftermath of the army's chaotic evacuation from Greece, activity on the wards increased as the main hospital at Southampton sent their spillover to Nanreath. Anna's days were spent at a constant run to keep up with the stream of demands. No sooner had one patient recovered than another would arrive to take his place. Names and faces made no difference to her tired mind as she moved in a fog of rote procedure, pausing rarely for a quick bite to eat or a few hours of sleep between shifts.

Tony's whirlwind visit faded into her tired memory, only occasionally surfacing to pinch at her with worry and fear. He would be all right. He had to be. Someone so vital and alive couldn't simply cease to exist in a split second's violence. Still, there was plenty of evidence that it could and did happen. More telegrams arrived announcing the deaths of brothers, fathers, husbands, sweethearts. As she'd done after France and in the aftermath of Graham's and Prue's deaths, Anna locked the horrors away. It was the only way she could cope without crumbling.

The crush of new patients was only complicated by the ongoing repairs to Nanreath Hall. Hammers echoed the bone-deep hacking coughs, and saws resembled the raspy breathing of men suffering
from asthma and bronchitis. No matter where her duties took her, she found herself stumbling over workmen, their loud adolescent innuendo following her from the basement storage rooms as she folded mountains of laundry or scrubbed and boiled equipment for the next day's use to the second floor's offices as she filed medical forms and dusted and cleaned the staff dining room. Anna half expected them to pop out at her in the shower huts or when she opened the lid to her locker.

Hugh surprised everyone by taking charge of the project. He had a knack for channeling the workmen's reckless enthusiasm. She never heard him barking orders or even raising his voice, but what he asked, they did. Anna hoped this was a hint of things to come.

By the middle of June, the flood of patients slowed to a manageable trickle, and Anna was released by Matron for an afternoon to do what she wished.

Like a prisoner emerging after years of captivity, she stepped out onto the gravel sweep, blinking against the glare. Rain puddles sucked at her boots and created rivers of mud from the narrow tracks and lanes, but she ignored the discomfort as she stretched legs cramped from weeks of running in circles and gazed on the wide mackerel skies where summer's larks and thrushes had replaced winter's Blenheim bombers from Chivenor and the slow-going Henleys flying in and out of Cleave.

“Anna. Wait a moment.” Hugh strode around the corner of the house. His bruises had faded to a dull green, but his arm remained bound in a sling. “I was hoping I'd find a chance to catch you alone. May I walk with you?”

“I'm headed to the village.”

“Perfect. So am I.” He fell into step beside her. Once the house was lost from view, he pulled the sling off over his head and tossed it behind a bush. “I'll pick it up on my way home. Mother's been
badgering me to rest my arm one more week, but what she doesn't know won't hurt her.”

“Seems as if you conduct most of your affairs that way.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

She shrugged. “Just an observation.”

They followed the avenue across the park to meet the lane headed south and west. A few military trucks passed by and an ancient Wolseley coupe, but beyond that, they had the road to themselves. The narrow byway followed the turn and curve of the rocky creek until it met and crossed the stone bridge.

“Anna, I wondered . . . I mean after the bombing . . .” She eyed Hugh curiously, dreading his next words but unable to stop him. “Who is Harriet?”

Sophie and Tilly had asked her the same question. She kept her gaze on the path, the trees, the line of silver ribbon as it made its way toward the sea. Tried not to let her mind's eye turn back, but it was difficult and she was tired after so many weeks of frantic work. The memories crept insidious as a storm tide. She couldn't hold them back. “She was a nurse in France.”

“She died.”

It wasn't a question. The silence filled with ghosts until Anna felt them pressing on her from all sides. The present faded like mist, drawing her back to that long-ago June sunrise.

“Yes.”

“And you were wounded in the same attack.”

The tickle of a thought pierced her confusion. “I survived. Unlike too many of my friends.”

Her pace increased, her spine brittle, her ribs aching as if she'd been punched. Her throat hurt and her temples throbbed, the memories battering themselves against the inside of her skull.

“Anna—wait.” He labored to keep up.

She spun on her heel. “Why bother asking all this, Hugh? You know what happened already. You checked up on me, didn't you?”

His eyes gave him away. “Not me. Mother.”

“Bugger all, Hugh! Did she think I was an imposter out to swindle the estate of its teeming millions?”

“Of course not. She can see the likeness between you and Lady Katherine as well as anyone. Look, if you must know, Mother's not been well for months, and then you turned up out of the blue. It's rattled her. She wanted to know with whom she was dealing. When she learned your war record, she couldn't help but be impressed. We both were.”