The Major's Daughter (20 page)

“Everything is a war, isn't it?”

“No, not everything. Sometimes it's a very graceful ballet. It's not one thing or another. You'll see as you go along. There's as much beauty as suffering. At least I've always found it so.”

“She doesn't deserve to be this ill.”

“Does anyone?”

“The old might. She hasn't had her days.”

“Who can tell?” he asked, and sipped his coffee and put it on the floor beside him.

He took the thermometer out and examined it. He squinted to see, and it was at that moment that Collie realized the sun had slipped above the mountains. The first edge burned like a searchlight, and she saw it spread and flow over the hillsides, over the river and the covered bridge. It was a tender, quiet beauty. The light came and rested on a glass pitcher beside the bed, and it fell in a prism of color on the thin sheet over Marie.

“It's lower,” Dr. Shepherd said, shaking out the thermometer. “Just a little lower.”

“That's a good sign, isn't it?”

“Where there's life, there's hope.”

Collie squeezed Marie's hand gently. Light continued to spill into the room. Collie moved Marie's hand so that the light found it and warmed it.
The sweet young lamb,
she thought
. This happy, happy creature. This happy creature despite this gloomy house. This happy creature who was the only sun this household knew. Wake up,
Collie thought and sent that thought to Marie.
Come back.
A rooster crowed as she formed the thought and a hammer began working somewhere. The world had started again, Collie realized, as it always would, as it would with or without Marie, as it would without any of them, and she closed her eyes at the terror of such notions, and opened them again to capture the beauty once more.

“Will you sit with her a moment?” the doctor asked, sliding his cup and saucer from the floor onto the side table beside the bed. “I'll be right back.”

“Yes, of course.”

He left. The floorboards marked his parting and the sound of the boards squeaking followed him down the hallway. He went downstairs. Collie stood from the chair where she had been seated and squeezed onto a small space beside Marie's heated body. She pushed the girl's hair back. Her forehead was moist with sweat. Collie dampened a cloth and brushed the girl's skin carefully.

“You mustn't do this,” she whispered to Marie as she worked. “You mustn't leave us all. It's not time yet. Stay with us. Don't go, Marie. Please don't.”

And yet she knew the time had come. She wanted to call out, to bring back the doctor and Marie's mother, perhaps Amy, but it was too late. She watched her young friend's chest fill over and over rapidly, as if searching for air it could not find. Choking, Marie sat up partially, her eyes suddenly opened, her right arm lifting slightly as if being handed something. Collie could see that Marie understood what had happened, what was about to happen. Collie clasped her in her arms and held her. The heat of the poor girl's body was intolerable. Nevertheless she put her lips to Marie's ear and whispered, “Mares eat oats, and does eat oats, and little lambs eat ivy.”
She sang it three times, holding Marie closer and closer, her lips touching Marie's skin. It was morning now, Collie thought, watching light take over the room. It was a new day.

Then for an instant Marie's body turned rigid. It sprang straight and nearly leapt from the bed, and Collie felt her friend's spirit pass away. It entered the light of the morning sun, and Collie held her softly and whispered that someday she would be married in the covered bridge, that the whole town would attend, and that she, Marie, would be the most beautiful bride ever. She would glow in a white gown, and Collie promised a swan boat, a beautiful boat that would glide to the shore and take Marie and her husband away. The band would play, and it would be summer, and people would throw flowers into the water at sunset. They would all glide down the river, and Marie would turn and wave.
Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye,
she would call.
I love you all. I am leaving now
. The town would call back and their voices would blend and echo up into the hills where this sweet child was born, and night would steal softly on all of them and the river would turn to glass and carry the reflection of the sky like a great ribbon tied properly around the world.

Chapter Fifteen

“I
'm sorry to bring it up at this time, with Marie's funeral just concluded. . . .”

“I understand, Papa.”

“Do you?” he asked, his voice sharp. “I don't think you do. To take two German prisoners off the prison grounds in the darkness, and one of them, this young man . . .”

Collie nodded. She felt her skin turning hot. She felt horrible that she had put her father in such an untenable situation. She sat on the edge of her seat in her father's small office, her eyes still raw from crying at Marie's funeral the day before. She could not look up to meet his gaze. Of course it had been ill-advised to bring the German prisoners with her to help with Marie. She had known the risk at the time, but she had gone through with it anyway. She would have done anything to help Marie, but it had failed, in any case. Now her father had been lampooned in the
Littleton Courier
as a commander who ran an open prison for the inmates. The editorial page had posted a cartoon of him standing next to a turnstile, a stack of free tickets fanned out in his hand, a grotesque German soldier passing through on his way to a carnival. It didn't matter that the German prisoners—August and Herr Schmidt—had worked to preserve the life of an American citizen. To let German soldiers out at night, under dubious supervision, was all anyone needed to stir the pot.

“Under the circumstances, I understand. I do,” her father said. “You've been an invaluable help here. But there are rules governing these matters. . . .”

Collie nodded. She had no energy to fight.

“I won't make that mistake again, Father,” she said.

“You should not take it on yourself to plead for special privileges. That's an abuse of your position here. I'm sorry, but it is. It blurs too many lines.”

“Yes, Father.”

She heard him sigh. He stood and came around the desk and sat beside her. She had started to cry. She couldn't tell if the tears were for Marie or for herself or for the stupidity of the war and the restrictions it placed on them all. It didn't matter, she reflected. She felt tired and thin-skinned, unhappy with everything. When her father reached over and took her hand, she let him hold it for only a moment before drawing it back to her lap. She kept her face down.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I know this hasn't been easy for you.”

She nodded. Tears came more rapidly into her eyes.

“Marie was a darling girl and she was your friend,” he said. “I understand. And of course the newspaper men and critics . . . they don't care about context. They want a headline or an excuse to drag us through the mud. I know you meant no harm.”

She nodded again.

“You have feelings for this young man. I understand that. You may not think that I understand, but I do. I was young once, too. From all accounts, he seems like a fine soldier. He's well educated, and I see that he's handsome. But under these circumstances . . . surely you see how impossible it is. I don't want you to get your feelings hurt, or to place yourself in a compromising position. I'm sorry, I'm probably ham-handed at these fatherly sermons, but you understand me, Collie. You know what I'm saying, don't you?”

“I understand you,” she said, looking up.

He handed her a handkerchief. He always had fresh handkerchiefs about because of his pulmonary condition. They smelled of the pine box where he kept them. She wiped her eyes and tried to compose herself. The world felt fragile and empty at the moment.

“Is that all?” she asked.

“Next time I'll be more stern. But there won't be a next time, will there?”

She shook her head. He patted her shoulder.

“What about the Heights boy's invitation?” he asked. “The Woodcutters' Ball? Wouldn't a night away from this camp be a good thing for both of us? Mrs. Heights, Eleanor, offered to put you up rather than your making the trip home late at night.”

“I don't feel much like dancing these days, Papa.”

“Naturally it's difficult. But just to gain a little perspective,” he said, “just to shake out the cobwebs. We're too cooped up in this camp. The prisoners have made prisoners of us.”

“It doesn't feel respectful of Marie.”

“Oh, now come on. Did anyone ever live who wanted so much to dance as Marie? She would insist on it, as you know very well. It really is supposed to be quite a night. It marks the end of summer. The ballroom where it's held is reportedly sumptuous for Berlin. I've been there to lunch in the grill and it's nicely appointed. Please say you'll consider it.”

She nodded.

“The Heights boy, Henry, he has his cap set for you, you know.”

“That's not true.”

“Apparently it is,” her father said, rising and returning to the other side of the desk, his voice lighter now. “He's made it quite clear. I've heard it from different quarters.”

“That's ridiculous.”

She saw her father shrug. Then he sat behind his desk again. He pulled a stack of papers closer to the lamplight. She knew he had said as much as he would likely volunteer.

She went back to her desk, glad to see that Lieutenant Peters had gone out. She felt nervous and upset. She tried to bring order to the papers on her desk, but her attention kept wandering away. She thought of Marie a good deal; she remembered her friend's warm body, the terrible heat of her life baking away. The funeral, held just the day before, had been a dismal, horrible affair. It had rained and turned everything to soup, and the priest, Father McIver, had gone on too long in his eulogy. His words had seemed like an overwrought apology, as though he could ask forgiveness for the Lord's plan to take a girl who brought such joy to those around her. Afterward, the Chapmans had invited people to return to their home, where they laid out a paltry board, everything hurried and inadequate, the entire ordeal lacking the grace and pleasure that Marie had sought to find and bring into her life. It had been depressing, and Collie felt unable to shake free of the funeral's dark tones.

At noon she went to sit with the twitch horses, but they were all out. She hoped, too, to meet August, but he did not show up as he occasionally did. She was just as glad; she did not know what she could say to him. It was clear her father did not want her to see him anymore, to encourage him in any fashion. That was a sensible plan, certainly, and she decided, given the complexity of her situation, that she should accept Henry Heights's invitation to the Woodcutters' Ball. Her father had a point; it would give her perspective. She would be able to see Henry with the benefit of a new light. You could not always give in to your heart, no matter how strong the impulse to do so might be. That was part of growing up.

She found Amy waiting when she returned to her office. Amy sat on the edge of her chair, her posture betraying her unease at being in the camp. She smiled when Collie sat at the desk beside her. Amy's skin looked pale and her eyes were red. Collie reached over and took her friend's hand.

“I bought you these,” Amy said, sliding a packet of papers toward her. “They wouldn't mean anything to anyone else. They're just a girl's secret thoughts, but so many of them are pointed toward you and Estelle that I felt you should see them. She writes about you with great tenderness.”

“I'll treasure them,” Collie said, taking the bundle and holding it gently in her hands.

“I still can't believe she's gone,” Amy said. “You know, she always shined the brightest. Don't pretend otherwise, please. You would think an older sister would be jealous, but I found her just as amusing, just as extraordinary as everyone else who met her.”

“She
was
extraordinary, it's true. She brought light to the world.”

“Yes, that's it, isn't it? I hadn't thought of it just that way. But she found such joy in things that it was impossible to remain in her company and not feel joy one's self. Peculiar, really. Anyway, I thought you might like those pensées, I suppose you would call them. She was as good in her private reflections as she was in life. I've stayed up these last nights reading her diaries, and they are the most remarkable pages. She never complains and she never finds fault. I felt both encouraged by what I read and also diminished by my own shortcomings. I would give anything to have her here for one last long conversation.”

“Yes, I'm sure you would.”

Amy smiled. She put her face down and teared up. When she raised her face again, she pushed onto her feet.

“You must have better things to do than listen to me,” Amy said. “I'll leave you.”

“I do have some work, but I haven't been able to bring my mind to it. You must promise me that you won't compare yourself to Marie, or to think of yourself as lessened by her in any way. You played a wonderful part in her life. She loved you most of all.”

“Oh, I was such an old maiden aunt, honestly,” she said, blinking away tears. “I look back and I hate what I see. I'll do better, though. That's what I've promised myself. I will steal a little of Marie's joy and keep it for myself. That's the treasure she gave me.”

Collie stood and took Amy in her arms. Amy took a deep breath, then turned and went out the door. Collie went to the window and watched her make her way out the guarded front entry. Above her the sky looked to be building clouds.

 • • • 

Henry waited patiently for Collie to finish in the ladies' room. He had darted off to check their jackets, then had returned and taken up a position near the lush red banquet set against the center pillar of the Holland Arms Hotel foyer. From where he stood, he could see the social buzz of the ballroom as well as the arriving guests; he recognized nearly everyone who passed through the doors, but he tried not to be distracted. He wanted to be attentive to Collie. She was fragile, exceedingly so, after the death of the young girl in Stark. He had learned about the death only a day later, and he had sent a wreath to the funeral, hoping the flowers struck the correct note, and was relieved when Collie assured him they had. There were precious few flowers, she said, and so the wreath had been that much more welcome. She said Marie, the young girl, would have appreciated them.

It had been a tricky business to re-invite her to the Woodcutters' Ball. On one hand, he did not want to press her. On the other, he wished to be clear about his intentions. The flowers, fortunately, had paved the way for a follow-up call. She had agreed to go in stages, giving in to his gentle persistence. She had hedged, at first, over her period of mourning, but the funeral came and went so quickly that she had had three weeks to get her feelings under control. He called her often, trying to involve her in the amusing details of the ball's preparation—his mother played a great role in the celebration as an organizer, so he was privy to all the obstacles—but he could not determine if Collie took a genuine interest or only listened out of politeness. Nevertheless, something in her attitude toward him had changed. He did not want to let himself become too hopeful, but she did not erect such a wall between them as before. The child's death had softened her.

She came out a moment later. She wore a crimson ball gown, delicately teetering off her shoulders, with a white string of pearls adorning her neck. Her hair, above all, dazzled him most. It was pushed up in a sort of chignon, and it provided to the back of her neck, and her profile, the most alluring angles. She was stunning; he had already seen the looks and expressions of interest as she dropped her coat into his hands. He felt lucky to be her escort, as if he had been given the genie's lamp but could not quite trust his good fortune.

“It's a madhouse in the ladies' room, I'm afraid,” she said as she rejoined him. “I hope I didn't take too long.”

“Not at all.”

“You could make a fortune selling pins and tucks of fabric in there,” she said, her eyes passing quickly over the room. “Everyone has ripped something, and they are all in dire need of a stitch. It would be comical if it wasn't all so desperate.”