Susan Speers (19 page)

I would have loved a child to delight Dickon when he returned, but there was no honeymoon baby for us. I wondered in odd moments if I were barren. Two illicit trysts and one week of marriage had borne no fruit. Richard Marchmont would have felt vindicated in his choice of Caroline for Jeremy’s wife.

I wrote my husband every day, filling the pages with funny little sketches of our home. “I’ve adopted two kittens,” I wrote. “Litter mates and sisters, you must name them.” He decided on ‘Mimi’ and ‘Fifi’. Both grew into fierce mousers, with the appalling habit of leaving a carcass on my doorstep in daily tribute.

I wrote to Jeremy once a week as usual and posted these letters from Hethering to give Henry a spark of hope. I wrote little about my marriage, only mentioned I’d wed Dickon as he recommended, though the return address, “Mrs. Richard Scard”, told the story. Each week I described another bit of Hethering’s parkland and told him how it fared. If he received these letters, if he read them, I hoped they would bring him a glimpse of the England he loved best, and peace to his lonely heart.

My publisher wrote to ask for a meeting in London. I had to stay in a hotel. Genie and Helen had volunteered to drive ambulances at the front and sublet their flat for the duration. I enjoyed the coddling at the Ritz and the respectability and freedom granted by my new status.

“Marriage becomes you, Clarry.” I’d sent Henry Putnam a note and we met to share a delicious cream tea.

“It’s an odd state of affairs,” I said. “I was very married for ten days. Now I’m in limbo. A wife, but alone. I miss my husband, yet I can’t imagine what it would be like to share a home with him.”

He harrumphed and looked away. “The war should have ended months, I daresay a full year, before this. Now we hang our hope on the Americans.”

I thought of Daisy, the toast of New York society, and hoped her new playmates weren’t as selfish and shallow as she. When her love turned to grief she’d resumed old habits with a vengeance. “What will make them fight?” I asked.

“They’re a sentimental people,” he said. “Filled with idealistic fervor, but peaceable at heart and always practical. They won’t shed blood unless their wealth is threatened. J.P. Morgan’s assets at risk may move them, I don’t know.

His cynical attitude surprised me. My silence made him laugh a bit, shamefaced. “Pay me no heed. I’ve lost too many friends, that’s what. This carnage must end, but England can never fall defeated. America’s our best chance.”

*****

I met with Archibald Mosely the next day. He congratulated me on my marriage.

“But it won’t stop you painting, will it?”

“Not at all.” I had few distractions.

“Can’t fathom Eugenia’s desire for mud and blood. It’s a man’s job, driving through that muck.” I saw concern beneath his disapproval.

“She wants to do her bit.”

“She’ll catch her death from ‘her bit’,” he growled. “You’re a sensible girl at least.”

“I have my hands full with Hethering.” Had my promise to Jeremy denied me the chance for patriotic action? I thought them one and the same, but Genie and Helen’s sacrifices made me wonder.

“With Miss Eugenia away, I have a gap in next spring’s list. Your story about the near drowned doll gave me an idea.”

I leaned forward. Jeremy’s story might come to print. Mr. Mosely had found its author.

“You told it simply with good detail. You write it.”

“Me? I’m not a writer.”

“You’ve good command of the English language.” He waved the pages of my letter at me. “Descriptive, succinct, poignant.” That’s more than I can say about half my authors. Have a go at it. Let me know in a month or two.”

I sat stunned. I never thought to write a word for publishing. I spoke through my painting and my embroidery. Even now I was stitching my way through pillow covers for —

“D’you have an answer for me young lady?”

“I’ll try, sir.” Bold emotion spoke without consideration, but I was glad of it. Who better to tell Jeremy’s story than me?

I returned to my hotel fussed and anxious for the comfort of a cup of tea.

“Clarissa Marchmont?”

Rutherford Dane’s bulk dwarfed a potted palm.

“Hello, Mr. Dane.” I wasn’t pleased to meet him.

“What brings you to London, Miss Marchmont?”

“Business, Mr. Dane. And it’s Mrs. Scard now.”

“Yes, I’d heard you’d married. Don’t suppose you’d care for tea?” I yearned for it, for pots of hot bracing refreshment. Alone.

He inclined his head toward the Palm Court. “You look thirsty.”

I was caught. “You’re very kind.”

I poured for us and drank several cups while Rutherford Dane demolished plate after plate of delicacies. We were a spectacle of hunger and thirst.

“I was sorry to hear you’d wed.”

“I beg your pardon?” He was a boor.

“Thought we might make a match of it.”

“Mr. Dane, you are my uncle.” An outrageous boor.

“No one need know.”

“I would know.” And if we weren’t related, he was the last man I’d marry.

“Don’t get upset, I almost never meet a woman with your mettle.”

“Mr. Dane, please lower your voice.”

His loud words attracted attention despite my quiet, furious replies. He stared down our watchers and turned back to me. “Sorry. It’s a common complaint. I’m deaf in one ear.”

This prevented me making an excuse and fleeing. I poured my fifth cup of tea.

“You are thirsty.” He lowered his voice from booming to loud. “I thought you were hanging out for your cousin.”

I put my cup down with a crack. “Jeremy is married.”

“You quit Cornwall fast enough when he crooked his finger. Cousinship don’t scare you. I thought you’d take to an uncle quick enough.”

I left him at table without making an excuse.

When my train pulled into our village station, both Amalia and Dora were waiting to meet me. My happy smile faded when I saw their faces.

“Dickon?”

“He’s been wounded,” Dora said. “I got the wire just last night. He never had a chance to change his next of kin for notification.”

“Is it very bad?” I sat down on the nearest bench. Not bad, not bad, I prayed. My heart would not stop hammering. I felt quite faint.

“One leg’s pretty cut up. Shrapnel from a mine that killed his sergeant.” Dora’s voice was tight, but she made a visible effort to remain calm. “He’s to come home to England, that big hospital in Watford.”

“Yes, I know Watford.” I shrank from another visit to the Watch Tower Inn, but Dickon was alive! I’d bring him home from hospital as soon as the doctors would permit it and I would care for him myself.

“Drink this.” Amalia offered a flask of strong, sweet tea.

“Where’s the baby?” I asked Dora. She’d been delivered of a healthy boy, Dougie, only a fortnight before. When we reached her truck, I saw him swaddled in his basket on the high front seat.

“How soon —?” I asked. How soon before my wounded husband would cross the channel. I winced to think of his pain, and rough seas.

“A week’s time, God willing. A VAD wrote a letter for him.” She gave me one thin white sheet of paper. Unfamiliar copperplate script could not keep Dickon’s words from resounding with good natured confidence.

“Clarry, Dora, don’t be fussed. My leg’s in a bad way, but I’m alive to tell the story,

and I’m coming home.”

I worked around the clock during the next days to prepare Hethering for my absence. Through his church connections, Mr. Pickety found a small inn near the Soldiers Hospital in Watford that kept rooms available for wives and families of the wounded. I could stay there and avoid the hubbub and searing memories of the Watch Tower Inn.

My valise was packed and ready. Amalia took Mimi and Fifi into her household, and we waited.

Dora arrived at Hethering ten days later with the official notice. Henry ushered her into my study with quiet deference.

“He’s arrived in hospital,” she told me. “There’s a train to Watford in an hour.”

“I’ll be on it,” I said. After I gave Henry some last instructions, Dora drove me home and waited while I changed into travel clothes and took up my bag. She brought me to the station and gave me a small parcel for Dickon wrapped in grease proof paper.

“My scones,” she said. “He likes them.”

The train crawled on its track, but when I arrived at the great hospital, the setting sun stained its ancient walls with splashes of blood red light. I took a deep breath before I pulled open the door.

*****

I’d sent my bag to the inn but carried Dora’s parcel down endless corridors. Three times I found myself lost. Twice I asked direction and puzzled over impatient, incomprehensible answers. At last, a sympathetic VAD led me to the proper ward and left me beside an imposing wooden desk.

“Have a care what you say to matron, she’s that fierce.” My guide scuttled away. I waited for what seemed like hours. I’d missed dinner and couldn’t remember lunch. My head swam with weariness and anxiety.

A tall, broad woman in an immaculate starched uniform approached me. “Visiting hours are over,” she said.

“Please Matron, I’ve only just arrived in Watford. I’m Mrs. Scard.”

“Well,” she sniffed. “You’ve arrived in good time, better than most. But if I make an exception for you —”

“Just this once, please,” I begged. “I’ll keep to the rules from then on.” I swayed, blinking away black threads.

“Sit down, Mrs. Scard.” She pulled up a hard wooden chair. “Betty,” she called to an unseen person behind me, “bring tea.”

She fixed me with a firm, clear gaze. Despite her authority, she was quite young, a few years older than I, if that.

“In ten minutes time, the ward will be settled for the night. I’ll have Betty slip you in for a brief visit — a few minutes only.”

“Thank you Matron.” The tea scalded my mouth, but I was glad of its thick bitterness. I’d be refreshed and able to greet Dickon without breaking down.

*

Betty led me down the length of the ward. There were heavily sedated men who lay like the dead, men who moaned in their sleep, men who watched me with listless, pain dark eyes. One blessed ginger bearded fellow gave me a cheeky wave.

I stopped when Betty drew two curtains around an iron bed. Dickon lay sleeping, flat on his back. The blanket on the length of his right leg was elevated by a tunnel like wire cage. He slept on while Betty lit a nearby lamp, but his face twitched with pain.

“No sleeping draught, Mrs. Scard,” Betty said before she left. “He’s exhausted, that’s all, he had a rough crossing.”

I sat down beside Dickon and took his hand. He woke then and seeing me, he smiled. Despite his ghastly pallor and charcoal smudges beneath his eyes, it was the same crooked grin he flashed the day we met.

“Here we are then,” he said.

Every cheerful phrase I’d practiced on the train deserted me. I laid my cheek against his forehead.

“Don’t get my hair wet,” his voice was shaky. “Matron will scold.”

I gave a sniffly giggle and kissed his forehead. Then I kissed his lips.

“That’s better,” he said. “Come to visit or to stay?”

“To stay until I bring you home,” I said. “It won’t be my home until you’re in it.”

“Now our life begins,” he promised. I held his hand until he began a deeper, calmer sleep.

Matron escorted me from the ward, her mouth pursed. “I’m not vexed with you Mrs. Scard,” she cut off my apology. “What I want is more of your kind for my other men.”

*****

Dickon remained in hospital for a little more than six weeks’ time. His leg was badly damaged, he’d been lucky to keep it.

“He had the services of an excellent surgeon,” Matron told me while walking me to the main staircase. I imagine she thought I might sneak back to Dickon. I’d done it more than once. “It’s the luck of the draw,” she said with a nod of farewell. “He might have lost his limb if the man on call was tired or overwhelmed.”

Dickon suffered fevers and painful dressing changes without complaint. The bones of his face grew prominent and his lips were sore and dry from crimping them to keep from shouting with pain, but he greeted me every morning with good cheer and said goodnight with an encouraging word.

The first week was the hardest. I wouldn’t leave his side unless dragged away and Matron made one exception after another for me.

“I know I promised to obey your strictures,” I told her one evening. “I’ve never been such a rebel.” One other time, my heart whispered. With Jeremy, in defiance of the man I called my father.

“You’re the least of my worries, Mrs. Scard.” Matron’s eyes were tired, her posture weary. Twenty beds had been squeezed into the ward and the nurses were run off their feet.

While Dickon slept, I kept an eye on the men nearby, fetching water and blankets, writing letters when the VADs were busy.

“We’re making a nurse of you,” Dickon said when he woke to find me bathing Geordie Aird’s face. Geordie’s wave had cheered my first visit to the ward, but his immobility resulted in pneumonia. Less than a week later, his bed was empty.

Dickon saw my tears. “I loaned him my angel, but he needed his own,” he said, his smile slipping away. “I wouldn’t be so perky without your care.”

He did improve and I was able to make several flying visits to Hethering to meet with tenants and balance the books. I learned Mr. Pickety came to Hethering every morning to meet with Henry and keep things in order. His generosity made my time with Dickon free from worry. I returned to Watford with ever larger parcels of Dora’s scones to share around.

At last the day came when Dickon’s doctor waited to speak with me. “I’m releasing Dickon to your very good care,” he said, and presented me with a long list of instructions. “We’ve done everything we can for him at this juncture.”

I looked up from the daunting paper. “What do you mean?”

“There may be further procedures that will give your husband better use of his leg, but I want him rested and strong before we attempt them.”