by Erica Nyden
The fact that his accusations hit close to home drove her mad, but she’d no intention of telling him that.
“If you should know, Major,” she said, hoping he couldn’t hear her struggle for civility, “I’m here because of my parents. If it were my choice, I would still be in London, where I worked at St. Mary Abbot’s Hospital. I left an important position, not to mention a sense of daily fulfillment.”
“Something you’ll not find here, I gather. But why for your parents? You’re not a child any longer. You must’ve wanted to come.”
That was the thing, wasn’t it? She hadn’t. She wasn’t even sure she’d wanted to stay at St. Mary Abbot’s. Weeks ago, many girls she knew from nursing school had signed up with Air Raid Precautions, not as wardens or messengers but as ambulance drivers. They’d set out at the first siren, determined to save what lives they could whilst dodging bombs from above. Hospital work was important, but Olivia didn’t feel she was helping win the war unless she was risking her life to do so. It was for this reason alone that Mother said the ARP job was too dangerous and therefore forbade it, even part time. And so here Olivia was, hardly doing her bit, cooped up in a fancy house with a disagreeable patient.
“That’s right, sir, I’m no longer a child. But sometimes one must make sacrifices for those they love, especially during wartime. My father, a friend of Dr. Butler’s, heard he needed someone able to drop everything to come here to help you. I’m unmarried with no other commitments—save my job, which they filled easily because like you said, sir, so many young people want to do their bit.”
Her father had asked that she stay in Cornwall for at least six months. But whether the major needed her or not, come March, she’d be off, away to work at a children’s hospital. Or if the war was still on, perhaps she’d cast her lot with the army instead. Her parents wouldn’t like her working in a field hospital, but she wouldn’t be disabled by their fears forever.
“So here I am, Major,” she said, standing. “I’m sorry I’m not the matron you were hoping for.”
With that, she stamped from the room, her steps infuriatingly muted by her rubber-soled oxfords.
Chapter 3
According to Mrs. Pollard, the sun was shining. But for William, all was dark and had been for close to a month. If not for the familiar sounds of home—Polly’s household routines and Jasper’s disappointed sighs—William could be anywhere—like in his North African cell. But even Nurse Talbot’s tireless footfalls, a noise he’d already grown accustomed to, weren’t clipped like those of his jailors.
Nurse Talbot.
Dr. Butler should’ve known better. He didn’t need a bloody nurse, and he certainly didn’t need the whippersnapper downstairs ordering him about for an entire week now as though she were his governess. If only he could suffer alone. He was a soldier, after all; suffering was a part of his job.
His father would’ve understood, had he lived. The colonel had kept his personal torments buried. William hadn’t understood the triggers until he’d become a man himself: innocent questions regarding family history, or issues surrounding the estate his father had never been meant to inherit. Talk of William’s mother could send his father into withdrawal for days, after which he smoldered like a battlefield hours after the enemy had annihilated it. The topic of war, however, bolstered him. Colonel Morgan recounted stories of valiant leadership, which prompted his son to follow his career path. William served and fought as his father had, and now he suffered like him too, allowing the most banal things to stir his anger like a nest of provoked wasps.
At least the worst was over. He was home. He was home—and again, he didn’t need a bloody nurse. He had his dog. He had Polly. She could take care of him; she always had. Throughout his early life she’d played an authoritative role, similar to the one Nurse Talbot was attempting to usurp, demanding he wash behind his ears and speak without the whine he so preferred when young. But when his mother died, she softened. Polly cushioned his sadness and buffered the grief William couldn’t commiserate with his father, earning her an honorable place in his heart beside his mother.
Outside the partially open bedroom door, the footsteps of his diligent nurse approached. It creaked open, allowing her voice to fill the space between them.
“The sun is shining, Major. We should be out in it.”
“Help yourself, Nurse Talbot. I’m not stopping you.”
“But I’m afraid you are, as I’d fancy a tour of your gardens. Mrs. Pollard is busy, Annie claims she doesn’t know the place at all, and James has gone to the village. Would you be a gentleman and show me around your home?”
Was she truly this insufferable?
Silence ruled the span of time he hoped to her felt like an eternity before he relented.
“Fine.”
“All right, sir,” Olivia said, squaring her shoulders against the chill, “about three feet away, we’ve more stairs to descend. This time, you’re to use your white cane and slowly tap it back and forth. If any tap sounds differently from the others, you’ll know you’ve hit either an object or a change in elevation.”
The major revealed his usual scowl. He’d managed the inside staircase rather slowly. Surely the shallow stone steps would prove less trying.
“Go ahead, sir. Tap away and let’s see if you can recognize the stairs. And please, do so slowly, or you’ll hit poor Jasper.”
With the timid shuffle of an elderly person, Major Morgan slid his feet forward. Inches from Jasper’s oscillating tail, the stick’s tip bounced madly until the major took command. At the first sound of a different tap, his lips bowed slightly. He lifted his feet with confidence and trundled forward.
Still at his side, Olivia matched his pace. She held her tongue—and her breath. If he fell, well, she wouldn’t think about that.
“There’s a handrail here, I remember.” His hand on the stone, he tapped the thin cane every which way and tore down the steps.
Jasper stayed a few feet in front of him, scarcely missing the random thwacking.
“Major Morgan, please wait—”
He plowed forward without her. A curse only she could hear flew from her lips as she went after him. She recaptured his left arm, but that hardly slowed him; still tapping, he took her with him.
Then he stopped. The sound had changed, and he’d recognized it.
“Well done, sir! You’re getting the hang of it.”
“I want to go this way,” he said, pointing the stick to the right. Its shiny red tip, dusty from gravel, bobbed toward the overgrown landscape Olivia was eager to explore. “My favorite garden is over here. I’d like you to see it.”
They stopped a short distance away where two heavily berried rowan trees marked the garden’s entry. At the base of each, stone pots overflowed with the crunchy brown remnants of flowering plants; waxy ivy trailed down their sides and snaked across the path.
The major discovered one planter with his stick, then tapped the grassy carpet adjacent to the gravel.
“This is it,” he murmured. The wrinkles between his eyes disappeared. He inhaled deeply and almost smiled.
With softer footfalls, they entered a garden obscured by tall, unruly hedges. At its center, heirloom rosebushes surrounded a towering wych elm in perfect symmetry. Leaves twirled lazily to the ground from its looming height, cloaking the ground in yellow. Jasper trotted away, sniffing his way round the familiar territory.
“How beautiful,” she whispered.
The major held his white cane in front of him like a knight with his sword. “This garden was my refuge as a child. The elm’s at least two hundred years old, majestic, beautiful, but frightening on stormy nights. From my nursery window, its grotesque shadows produced a monster able to reach our house in a handful of steps.”
Olivia smiled. As predicted, the outdoors had cast a spell of calm upon her patient. But the magic didn’t last long. Clouds began to obscure the sun she’d been so happy to see that morning. A light mist followed. Led by the c
onfident major and his white cane, the pair strolled the garden’s circumference in silence until the wind stirred uproariously. She shivered and suggested they return indoors.
Back at the front steps, she placed the major’s left hand on the balustrade. “You were brilliant coming down, Major Morgan. Let’s see how you manage going up. Here’s the handrail. The first step is before you. Use your stick, and remember to listen for changes.”
His right foot went up, followed by his left on the step above it. He proceeded this way, one foot per step, increasing his speed and Olivia’s anxiety.
“Major Mor—”
His right foot hit the edge of the next step, forcing him down. The cane went flying, and he crumpled with his face just short of the sharp step.
“Damn!”
“Oh, no.” She knelt and tried lifting him.
“Back away!”
Stunned, she did as she was told. “Yes, of course. Forgive me.”
The major heaved himself up.
“Your hands certainly look better than I thought they would,” she offered.
“It’s not my hands, Nurse Talbot. It’s my bloody knee.”
“Please, let me help get you inside.” She took his right arm and surprisingly, he let her. Together they hobbled up the stairs, whilst Olivia chided herself for apologizing. It wasn’t her fault he’d bolted up the steps.
His thin frame shuddered as he clenched the railing, slowing their ascent.
In the small reception room off the foyer, she tended to his knee. Mrs. Pollard proposed tea, but he refused. Reading Olivia’s mind, he said he’d rather lie down for a while.
“Can I help you change into something more comfortable, Major?” she asked when they entered his room.
“I’d like to be left alone,” he said, still holding his white cane, although he hadn’t used it since they reentered the house. His free hand squeezed the bridge of his nose, as if the simple act of speaking gave him a headache. “Leave something out for me to change into, if you must. I’ll manage. Please.”
“Of course, Major. I’ll collect you for supper in the dining room, then, at half seven, sharp.”
His jaw tightened. “Very well.”
William inhaled deeply and let it out with a dejected sigh. The dining room smelled of neglect. Never again would it serve as the hub of the Morgan family, and using the space now seemed wasteful. This room had defined Keldor’s majesty through the ages. Local pastoral scenes and portraits of ancestors crowded the walls, including a life-size representation of his father dressed in battlefield finery. Ornate sconces, a detail his mother had added after the passing of his grandmother, dotted the areas in between. Behind him, and undoubtedly covered with blackout, the windows stretched from floor to ceiling. At the room’s center stood a long table capable of seating sixteen.
Tonight, it sat two.
He sat quietly while Nurse Talbot placed his napkin over his lap and reviewed the placement of his utensils. She announced the entrance of Annie, the young girl who never spoke (surely the reason Polly had hired her), delivering the meal of roast chicken and potatoes. Mrs. Pollard followed with a carafe of wine she’d retrieved from the cellar, unearthed, she said, in honor of his return home and Nurse Talbot’s arrival.
William found neither event worth celebrating, yet he gladly accepted the glass thrust into his hand.
“Why are we eating in here, Mrs. Pollard?” he asked once the liquid had finished warming his throat.
“Wouldn’t you want to be eating in here, sir? This is the dining hall, and pardon my saying so, but it’s about time you stopped eating meals in your bedchamber.”
“Aside from where I’ve been eating my meals, Mrs. Pollard, it hardly seems appropriate that we use this room. There are two of us, an invalid in his pajamas and his nurse. Please, take no offense, Nurse Talbot, but even though I can’t see it, I know what this room is like, and eating here seems extravagant under the circumstances. Am I wrong to think so?”
He turned his head back and forth toward their voices, awaiting a response.
“I understand your concern, Major,” Nurse Talbot said. “But this room in its current state isn’t extravagant at all.” She paused as if scanning their surroundings. “The chandeliers are unlit. The only light comes from a lamp on the sideboard and two candles on the table. The rest is quite dark.”
“That’s right,” Mrs. Pollard said with a breathy huff, “and really, Mr. William, meals are to be eaten properly, even if we haven’t much.” Her tone sharpened, making way for her inescapable scolding. “The only way we’re going to make it through this bloody war is by keeping our civilities. Three-quarters of this house is shut up, like. Can’t we at least use a portion of this grand room as a reminder of who we are?”
The table shook. A chair moved, and Nurse Talbot’s unsure voice followed. “Here, Mrs. Pollard. Would you like to sit down? May I pour you a glass of wine?”
“Thank you, Nurse Talbot.” She fell into a chair with a thud. Liquid poured, and the room fell quiet save her unmistakable murmur. “Honestly.”
“Why, Polly,” he said, amused by her agitation, “I haven’t witnessed you this upset since I had you convinced my great-grandmother’s kitchen maid haunted the pantry.”
And then, imagining the shock that undoubtedly decorated both women’s faces, he laughed.
His mirth met a wall of silence. He drained his wine glass before covering his face with his hand, erasing his humor. “I’m sorry, Polly. I appreciate what you’re doing for this house and my family, though I’m the only one left in it.”
Mrs. Pollard seized his shoulders, and a kiss was planted atop his head. “Not a worry, my handsome. Please, get better now, will you?”
After their first meal in the dining room, the major stated he’d been downstairs long enough and wished to return to his room. Olivia invited herself to join him despite his ongoing request to be left alone. She was glad she did. The humor he enjoyed earlier influenced his mood the rest of the evening. The nine o’clock bulletin passed painlessly, followed by music. Conversation remained limited, of course, but the major’s face softened during more than one song. His fingers twiddled to mellow rhythms and once, she spied a foot tapping to the beat. A hint of his earlier smile reappeared. Like a good nurse, she pretended not to notice.
Before bed, she checked his bandages, gave him his tea, and offered to help him into his nightclothes. As always, he claimed he didn’t need her help. Why couldn’t she leave him be? But although his words commanded she go, his face begged her to stay. Empty eyes widened in fear, erasing irritable lines. His hands, large and bony, fidgeted with his shirt like those of a child awaiting punishment.
Every night had been like that, and every night, Olivia had respected his wishes. She left him alone with the promise to leave both of their doors open. If he required anything at all, he needed only to call.
And call he did.
Beginning her third night at Keldor, she’d been awakened by shouting: “Not again! Not again!” She’d run to his room, where he stirred wildly in the center of his bed. When his racket didn’t cease, she pressed her hands upon him, begging him to wake. He opened his eyes and pulled away, rubbing his shoulders as if erasing the imprint of her touch. He shouted, but consciously this time. Wasn’t she aware he needed to suffer through these episodes? How else would he get any rest? Every time she interrupted his nightmare, he had a hell of a time getting back to sleep because his brain did nothing but dwell on it. No matter what she heard, she was to ignore it.
And still, the calls came.
This night, after their nearly companionable day, his cries, pitiful and incessant, nudged her from sleep.
“Help me,” he whimpered. “Someone, please. Please help me.”
She crept in and knelt beside him, his laments tearing at her heart. Powerless and conflicted, her hands hovered above his damp, wrinkled forehead. It took all her will not to flatten her palms against it, to wake him and remind
him that everything was all right.
But for him, she suspected, nothing would ever be all right.
Chapter 4
Olivia’s request to start eating breakfast in the sitting room was met with surprisingly little opposition. Mrs. Pollard said the room had once been a favorite of the major’s mother, Mistress Charlotte. Tea-rose walls and creamy white coving enclosed a comfortable space with cushioned chairs and a large sofa. Above an inviting hearth, Mistress Charlotte herself smiled down at the room’s knickknacks, lamps, and drapes trimmed in gold, all of which recalled a home of affluence and took some getting used to.
For two weeks Olivia and the major had breakfasted facing the idyllic courtyard aptly called Charlotte’s Garden. At its center, fronds of a tall palm tree dipped under a light rain shower. The view was perfect despite the rain, chock-full of early autumn foliage. Hopefully the major still remembered it.
This morning, before allowing him to attack his breakfast, she gave him the layout of his plate: eggs at 12:00, herring at 3:00, toast at 6:00, and the season’s last fresh tomatoes fried and placed at 9:00. Since she’d implemented this system, the major had become a master at navigating his meals. Wielding a large spoon, he scooped with adept efficiency and rarely lost a crumb. His eating habits weren’t perfect, though. He still used his fingers often, asking something at the same time in hopes, she imagined, of distracting her from his misconduct, forgetting that she could answer his question and watch him finger his food at the same time. Her biggest concern was hiding the smile in her response.
“Mr. William,” Mrs. Pollard called before she entered the room. “Mr. William, I’m sorry to interrupt your breakfast, but there’s someone here for you.”
“Tell them I’m not taking visitors, would you, Mrs. Pollard?”
“Yes sir, but aren’t you curious who it is?”
“No.”
“But Mr. William, it’s Miss Jenna. She’s just heard you was found and—”
