Secrets of Nanreath Hall (23 page)

Passing through the gallery, she couldn't help but glance toward the painting of Lady Katherine with a feeling of growing comradeship, but it was the larger more prominent painting of Hugh's father, the late Lord Boxley, where she paused. He stood at awkward attention in the ceremonial uniform of the Royal Artillery, his auburn hair, a few shades darker than her own, slicked back from a slight widow's peak, his piercing blue eyes seeming to regard her with insolence, though a curve to his lips bore less the smirk of entitlement and more the good humor of a born prankster.

As Anna regarded him in the gray light of evening, something niggled at the back of her brain, a sense of not-quite-rightness. She tried to place her finger on what about the painting worried at her like a loose tooth, but the idea slipped and slid away from her each time she reached for it.

“Are you dawdling on purpose?” Hugh joined her in front of the painting. “I've told Mother you're coming and made her promise to keep her claws sheathed if she knows what's good for her.”

“Your father was very handsome, wasn't he?”

“Every man looks handsome in a uniform. Apparently, dressing in ill-fitting khaki works as an aphrodisiac on any female between the ages of fourteen and ninety.”

“Or RAF blue?” Anna slid him a sidelong look.

“My days of flashing a pair of wings and a devil-may-care attitude in order to lure the women are long over,” Hugh said, seeming only half in jest. “Not that my ancient title and teetering fortunes have them lining up, either.”

“That's a load of rubbish.” Anna looked from the painting to Hugh and back again. That same odd dissonance struck at her like a note out of tune.

“Captain Matthews is finishing up,” he said, and the sensation faded and was lost. “Mother will be waiting for you.”

“With pistols loaded?”

“I've warned her to be on her best behavior.” They walked together toward Lady Boxley's apartments. “You're right, you know. You
are
family. Mother needs to realize that.”

“The same way she's realized you need to stop hiding from what happened to you in Norway and live again? Why don't you stand up to her, Hugh?”

“Fine words coming from you, cousin. Maybe I'll stop hiding from my past when you stop hiding from yours.”

She had no time to frame a suitable response before they reached the door to his mother's rooms, bringing their conversation to an abrupt end.

Lady Boxley was in bed, propped against a banquette of pillows, her normally strong features uncharacteristically haggard, her fading blond hair hanging loose about her shoulders.

The MO snapped a black bag shut. “She's been dosed for the evening and shouldn't require more than peace and quiet. I'll be
back in the morning.” To Lady Boxley, he said, “Get some rest, my lady. I leave you in capable hands.”

“Against my will.” She speared Hugh with a hard stare.

He stiffened, but his smile remained fixed. “Easy, Mother. You'll work yourself into a froth and be no good for weeks.”

“As if you cared a whit. I'm only the woman who gave you life, but does that matter a jot? Not at all. If you were trying to hasten my descent into the grave, you couldn't have picked a better way to do it.”

He planted a quick kiss on her forehead. “I'm going out for the evening, but I'll check in on you tomorrow. Pistols and kippers at dawn?”

“I don't like you going out.” Her lip jutted in an almost girlish pout. “It's not safe.”

“The Germans have already blown us up once. What are the odds they target us again?”

“I'm not speaking of the Germans.”

He laughed as if she'd made a joke, but Anna knew she was dead serious. As he left the room in a cloud of good humor, Lady Boxley's eyes met Anna's and once more they seemed to share a moment of understanding. She smoothed her hands down her apron as a way to calm her nerves before plowing into the situation. “Is there anything I can do for you, my lady?”

“I'd say you've done more than enough already.” She worried at her bedspread. “And now Hugh's off gallivanting again. He's not well. He hasn't been since that horrid business in Norway.”

“He drinks to forget, ma'am.”

“And yet you want to force him to relive everything over and over with those men downstairs.” She fluttered a hand to her heart, her face paling as she gasped and lay back. “Family, you call yourself.
The only family I have left is Hugh. All I've ever done has been for his sake. I won't let you hurt him.”

“I'm sorry. I never meant for any of this to happen.”

“No,” Lady Boxley replied faintly through shallow breaths, “but your coming here started it all, didn't it?”

August 1915

I
t was hard to fathom a year had passed since the start of the war. We celebrated the anniversary with none of the patriotic fervor that marked the past twelve months. Instead, a small party gathered at Miss Ferndale-Branch's flat for a comfortable dinner followed by a string of dramatic readings, and now we lounged about her front room, drinking and chatting while someone banged away on a piano in the corner. Talk ranged from admiration for Rupert Brooke's collection of posthumously published poems to the new ballet being staged at Covent Garden and round to the horrors in Armenia. Those we'd lost seemed to hover close like fluttering moths, invisible and silent but never far from our thoughts, and despite the jollity of the evening, we were unable to overcome the growing sense our world was sliding toward some great abyss.

I sipped at my wine and tried not to worry over William, away at the front. His last letter spoke of his imminent return to the
line. Written four days ago, the news within it was already old. He would be in the trenches by now. He could already be dead and I'd have no way of knowing. Papa would never write to tell me nor would he allow anyone in the household to communicate. He had cut me from the family like a cancer.

As if sensing the dark turn of my thoughts, Simon looked at me from across the room and we shared a secret smile. He stood in conversation with a young man in uniform. The two had been in deep discussion since dinner to the exclusion of almost everyone else, but now as if concluding a business transaction, he shook the man's hand and excused himself.

I thought he would join me in my corner. Instead he stepped into the middle of the room with a raise of his hand. “Quiet, everyone. Quiet. I have an announcement to make.”

The conversation dulled to a murmur of curiosity as we looked to one another for answers before focusing on Simon. He held a drink in one hand, which he tossed back as if hoping for strength. Once more he caught and held my gaze, his dark eyes crackling. My stomach leaped and dove and I found myself clutching the arm of the chair, an icy cold splashing across my shoulders.

“I know you've all been wondering what took me so long to take the plunge, and frankly, I haven't a good answer. I suppose I just never thought it would last.” He spoke to the room, but his eyes held mine. Attention shifted in my direction, and my cheeks warmed under the scrutiny. “But, well . . . I'm convinced we're in this for the long haul.” He drew a breath, his smile widening to a grin. “So, you're looking at the newest officer in the Fourth Suffolk regiment. I report for training next week.”

My smile froze in place. My nails dug into the chair. I nearly humiliated myself by throwing up all over Miss F-B's Turkey carpet as a crowd formed around him. The men shook his hand and of
fered encouragement and advice. The women kissed his cheek or enveloped him in weepy, perfumed hugs.

I tossed back the rest of my wine then went in search of whiskey to thaw the frozen ache blossoming beneath my breastbone. I said nothing of my blind, unthinking terror. I bit my tongue and smiled and laughed, though the knot in my stomach rose into my throat, cutting off my breath.

If Simon suspected my true feelings, he kept it to himself, though whenever the night drew us close, he squeezed my hand, touched my arm, caressed my hip, or kissed my cheek, as if to mollify me or as if he wished to claim me as his own for those weeks and months we would be apart.

That night we lay in bed listening to the rain, the darkness complete but for the red tip of his cigarette as he rested with an arm behind his head. I still felt the memory of his touch upon my sensitive skin, and tiny aftershocks of ecstasy pulsed outward from my center. I rolled over and up on one elbow, trailing my other hand over his chest and down over the rippled muscles of his abdomen. He hissed in response, his body reawakening. He chuckled, stabbing out his cigarette before rolling me over onto my back, settling himself between my legs. “You're shameless, my beautiful wanton.”

I relished the weight of him, the press of his erection. It meant he was here. He was mine. He was safe. If this was all I would have of him, it would have to be enough. I cupped his cheeks between my fingers, feeling the stubble against my palms. “No. Merely frightened.”

I sensed his frown in the shift of his body, as if he braced himself for an argument. “I know I should have told you first, but I was afraid you'd try to talk me out of it. Or worse, that you'd actually succeed.”

“But why do you need to go?”

“Since Mr. Balázs was interned with the rest of the Boche in the spring, things here aren't going as I'd planned. I haven't had a commission in over a month, and well . . . this is an opportunity unlike any other. A chance to experience and record the fighting man's daily existence in a meaningful way. I've spoken to Mr. Weiss and he's interested in commissioning a series of war sketches. This could be the spark I need.”

I couldn't argue with his reasoning. I'd seen him stooped over the household accounts late into the night, trying to make income and expense add up as he eked out our diminishing funds. I'd watched his dream of a studio fade as fewer jobs came his way. The space below our flat had been let for a millinery shop, the chatter of shopgirls and clacking sewing machines starting before dawn each day. In desperation, he'd even begun advertising as an art teacher, which I knew he hated and brought him splitting headaches along with a string of pimply, sighing schoolgirls looking to better themselves with watercolor lessons.

He paused as if gauging his words. “I need to let my parents know. I'll travel north tomorrow. Best do it in person rather than a letter.”

It was as if someone doused me in cold water, my slick, heated desire congealed to a hard lump in the center of my chest. This time I was the one who chose my words carefully. “Let me come with you, Simon.”

I felt rather than heard him sigh. “You know I can't.”

I looked away toward the window and the summer storm. A rumble of thunder echoed off the buildings like the sea below Nanreath, like the cannons along the Somme.

“Look at me, Kitty.”

I rolled over. He caught my arms, his body hard along the length of me. I felt the tension in his muscles, the thrum of it vibrating
between us. His eyes blazed, the ferocity of his words as heated as my blood. “Whatever happens, Kitty Trenowyth, know that I love you more than life itself. You . . . and none other. No matter what happens, you must believe that. Tell me you believe me.”

“I believe you.” Tears pricked my eyes as his mouth found mine. I lifted my hips, sheathing him inside me. Our joining sweeter and more urgent for the shadows growing ever nearer.

I woke early the next morning after a restless sleep of dark dreams, still feeling uneasy and slightly restless. As usual, Simon was up first. I lay in bed and listened as he fixed a pot of tea and boiled eggs for our breakfast in the tiny kitchen. He whistled the refrain of “Send Me Away with a Smile,” a cheerful tune, as if now that he'd made his decision to become a soldier, he felt no fear, only excitement at doing his bit.

He poked his head round the door. “Get a move on, sleepyhead, or we'll be late.”

I rolled up and stuffed my feet into my slippers. “You've changed your mind about Lincoln? I can go with you?”

His face fell. “You know I can't do that, Kitty.” Then a corner of his mouth curved up in a coaxing smile. “But if you hurry, I have a surprise for you, and believe me, a much better one than lukewarm tea and dry cake in the edifying presence of my parents.”

Rather than eliminating my sense of ill-usage, my annoyance grew as I dressed and ate. I knew I shouldn't pout, but as he chatted about his new regiment and the list of supplies he would need to lay in, and the worry over what his family would say, I felt as if he'd already moved on to a new adventure where I could not follow, even with all my newfound independence.

I gave no sign of my continued distress, but I'm sure he sensed it. We were too close not to feel each other's moods, and there was a strain to his gaiety and a force to his smile. He tried to talk to me
during the cab ride—a rare treat after an unprofitable year—but I turned away and did not answer, and he soon gave up and left me alone.

We were let out in front of a photographer's studio in Grosvenor Road. From an open door emanated the sour chemical smells of citric acid and ammonium. The window held a melancholy collection of photographs; mostly men in uniform, but there were matrons in wide hats decorated with scarves or ornamental flowers, and children holding bunches of violets or posed with puppies in a basket.

We passed inside where the odors were almost overpowering, and a pudgy man in shirtsleeves and vest stood behind a long, wooden counter. He smelled of spirits and his appreciative gaze wandered over me a bit too freely as he oozed salesmanship.

“I want a portrait, Kitty,” Simon explained softly. “I want a picture of you to take with me.”

He touched my face, and this time I let him kiss me. My hand touched his chest above his heart. I was sure I could feel it beating beneath my open palm.

“When the battle is at its worst, I need something to prove to me you're real, that this precious life we've built together still remains.” Once again his voice held an almost piteous note and his smile was wistful, as if he'd already begun cutting the threads that wove our lives together.

When Simon departed for his regiment, he took with him a small silver locket bearing a picture of me, stiff with nerves and unhappiness, tucked inside.