by Charles Todd
He hadn’t been very forthcoming, a dour man by nature, but I hadn’t expected him to treat me so shabbily.
The boy turned to me. I put his age down at fifteen or thereabouts. His voice was just settling into a lower register, making him sound a little hoarse.
“I saw him leave.”
“Who?” his mother asked sharply. “You never said.”
The boy flushed to the roots of his dark hair. “You never asked.”
“What do you mean, you saw him leave?” I asked quickly. “My driver?”
“It was three o’clock in the morning. I got up to stop that shutter from waking you. It woke me,” he said to his mother, ignoring me.
“You saw my driver leave at that hour?”
“I did. He went tearing up the road as if all the devils were at his heels. I could see his headlamps bouncing wildly—all over the road. It was a wonder he didn’t hit something. The sheep and cattle wander about a lot at night.”
I was glad to know Mr. Morgan wasn’t dead and buried in the churchyard, but this news was startling.
“Are you sure—” I began, then stopped. It was a stupid question. Everyone must have known within an hour of my arrival who I was, and who my driver was. But why had he abandoned me? And why hadn’t the firm said something to him—done something about me? I couldn’t begin to understand.
And if Mr. Morgan had been in such a hurry, surely he’d have awakened Mr. Griffith in his haste. But Mr. Griffith claimed he hadn’t discovered that his guest was gone until Mr. Morgan didn’t come out in the morning. The cottage wasn’t so large that one man who was accustomed to living alone wouldn’t have heard every sound his guest made! In fact, he might not have been asleep at all. He might have taken in Mr. Morgan for the money, but it must have felt strange to have someone else in the cottage, moving about.
Then why hadn’t Mr. Griffith told Hugh when Mr. Morgan left, or about the motorcar driving so erratically?
I was about to ask when the younger woman shyly wanted to know something about my nursing, and the subject changed before I could prevent it.
“I’ve been so grateful to my parents for allowing me to go for my training,” I said. “We’ve saved lives,” I added, not bragging but trying to indicate that nursing had its rewards. “It’s why we’re sent to the forward lines, to bring help as quickly as we can to the wounded.”
“Could you hear the guns?” her son interrupted, eager to hear about the fighting.
I’d heard the artillery, I could tell which pieces were being fired, and of course the machine guns, the rifles. I’d watched the aircraft hover overhead, dropping bombs, I’d heard the sound of tank engines. And men crying out in pain and fear.
I smiled, trying to keep my face from betraying what I was thinking. Even now the war was still fresh in my mind, and I couldn’t let it go. It was over—finished. But it was as if it couldn’t let me go. Wouldn’t let me go.
“When you’re busy with a wounded soldier, you don’t notice the noise—” I stopped. He didn’t want to hear that part. “Yes, it’s very noisy, hard to hear yourself think. And everything is happening at once.”
His grandmother didn’t want him to be a soldier. I could see that as the friendliness in her face hardened. “His father was killed at Ypres,” she told me coldly.
“I’m sorry,” I replied, meaning it.
But she put a hand on her grandson’s back, and moving him forward, she nodded coolly and walked on.
I looked after them. Was the boy right? That my driver had left in such a hurry? What on earth had possessed him? I couldn’t believe that he was frightened by the storm.
If he’d worried about deteriorating conditions, and any danger for me, his passenger, then he’d have come back as soon as the weather passed and rescued me.
And he hadn’t. Nor had Mr. Morgan struck me as an easily frightened man. He didn’t appear to have the imagination to be. Plain, sturdy, reliable. That was how I’d seen him.
I walked on to Rachel’s house, busy wondering if I should instead turn around and knock on Mr. Griffith’s door.
The closer I got to her house, the better the idea seemed. Mr. Griffith wasn’t a pleasant man, but he was hardly going to attack me.
I wheeled and walked on toward his cottage. The two women and the boy had disappeared, and I saw them again—some distance down the path to the cottages—as I stopped and raised my hand to knock.
He opened the door in my face.
“Sister?” he said coldly.
“Mr. Griffith,” I returned, acknowledging him. “I was just talking to those people who were out for a walk. A grandmother, her daughter, and grandson. The boy told me something rather strange. He said that when my driver left, it was in the middle of the night, and he was in a tearing hurry. I wondered if he’d been taken suddenly ill? And why you didn’t summon me to help him.”
There. He couldn’t shut the door in my face. Not with all those questions fired at him.
“I told Williams I didn’t hear Morgan leave. With all the storm’s racket, it would have been nearly impossible. I’ve no way of knowing when he left.”
“He was staying with you.”
“I live on the edge of the cliff. You can see where the cottage stands for yourself. In a storm like that, the wind rattles us something fierce. You’d think it was about to blow right over. So far it never has. But Morgan might not have realized that. He probably left in terror of his life.” His eyes were cold as he said that last, but he smiled. “I’m used to the storms. They don’t keep me awake anymore. I didn’t hear him leave.”
“If he thought the storm was so awful, why didn’t he come for me, and take me out of harm’s way as well?”
“Ask him yourself, when you arrive in Swansea.”
He made to close his door, but I said quickly, “If he fled to Swansea out of the storm, why hasn’t he or the firm that employs him come back to fetch me?”
He rolled his eyes.
“How do you expect me to know the answer to that?” he demanded, incensed. Or trying to look as if he was angered by the question. “You picked the firm, you hired the driver. It’s at your door if they were both unreliable to start with. Good day, Sister.”
This time he got the door shut.
I stood there, swallowing what I wanted to say, that he’d been responsible for my driver that night, and he’d been unreliable, not Morgan.
But there was some truth to his words. Had I chosen so poorly?
I’d been tired, I didn’t know Wales very well. I might have misjudged . . .
The only answer I could think of was that I’d promised half the fee to set out and half on arrival at my destination. That was when I thought it would be easy to look in on Captain Williams, make certain he was all right and his wound was healing, then return to Swansea the next day. I hadn’t counted on the Gower. Neither its isolation nor its lack of facilities for a traveler like me.
On the other hand, I’d made it quite clear I was returning with the motorcar in the morning.
Confused, I turned away.
And I thought I heard Mr. Griffith laughing from behind the door.
Rachel wasn’t in, nor was Hugh. I went up to my room, stood by the window, and watched the sun sparkle far out to sea on water that was almost black it was so blue.
And beyond were banked clouds. More weather on its way?
Sighing, I turned back to the little room, and as I did, I heard the outer door open downstairs.
It was Rachel. She smiled as I started down the steps. “The lamb is back with the ewe. They’re all right.”
“Good news, that,” I said, returning the smile. “Would you like a cup of tea?”
“I need to wash up first.”
“Before you do—Rachel, most of the cottages appear to have small horse barns. I wonder. Do you think I could borrow—even purchase—a horse that I could ride back to Swansea? I’m worried about the clinic, you see. I should be there tomorrow at the earl
iest. No later than Thursday.”
As I was speaking, she glanced down at my skirts, and I knew what she was thinking. I was a nursing Sister, not a horsewoman. Riding as far as Swansea would be beyond me.
But I’d learned to ride in India almost before I could run. My father had taken me up before him, and then found a pony when I was strong enough to manage it.
Simon had taught me to ride like the wind, control my horse with my knees, as the cavalry had to do, and even use a weapon on horseback. My father had encouraged that, for my safety as well as the exercise. We weren’t always in friendly territory, and my mother was already an accomplished horsewoman. A fair shot too.
“I understand you must be worried, Bess. But the only horses we have left out here are trained to the plow. They aren’t accustomed to saddles. The Army took every horse we could spare, leaving us anything that was unsuitable for them. Besides, we’ll be needing them soon. I share two horses with a widow just up the road. Her stables are a bit larger, and I need mine for any ewes in trouble. Her own plow horse died in the autumn, and I can’t let you borrow these, even if you could find someone to bring them back. I don’t know that we could replace either of them.”
I tried to put the best face on it. “I know, I understand. It was just a thought. I’ll just put the kettle on.”
I went on into the kitchen. I’d seen the fallow fields, of course. Almost an old-fashioned system, rather than the newer large farms one might find in East Anglia. These were more market garden fields, growing whatever foodstuffs people out here needed.
How long would it take to walk? I wondered as I picked up the kettle to fill it.
And if that bank of distant cloud was coming this way, it could catch me out in the open.
Or, I thought, trying to raise my own spirits, I might walk five miles and find someone willing to lend me a horse or carry me to the next village in a farm cart.
It wasn’t much in the way of spirit-raising. I’d seen how desolate it was, coming here.
The door opened and the dogs came charging into the kitchen, tongues lolling, heading for their water bowls. As they lapped loudly, I called to Hugh.
“I’ve just put the kettle on, if you want to go upstairs first.”
There was no answer.
No sound of the crutches making their way either up the stairs or down the passage.
Just—silence.
I listened to it for several seconds, and then went flying toward the door. Something was wrong.
Chapter 9
Hugh was hunched in the corner where the wall next to the door and the wall next to the front room met. His face was gray with pain, and his eyes were closed. They flew open as he heard me approaching.
“I thought—I hoped no one was here.”
“What happened?” I asked, not touching him but looking him over. One shoulder was muddy, with bits of brown grass clinging to it. And one side of his head was muddy as well, his hair every which way.
He’d fallen.
I reached out.
“No, don’t touch me,” he said quickly, keeping his voice down. “I’ll be all right.”
“Hugh. You’re hurt. And it isn’t something that will pass when you catch your breath. Where? It’s what I do, you know. Take care of wounds.”
He put up a good show, straightening his shoulders and squaring himself around to pull the crutches back into place under his arms. But his face went even paler as he winced, and my first thought was He’s bruised his ribs.
“Rachel is upstairs. You must let me help you into the kitchen, where you can sit down. You don’t want her to see you like this.”
He resisted, then cast a worried glance at the stairs. Nodding, he let me take his weight on the other side, and between us we made it somehow to the kitchen. I got him into a chair, although it was harder than either of us expected.
Just then the kettle came on the boil, and I had to step across the room to lift it off.
“What happened?” I asked again, finding a cloth and putting it into cold water. “Here, there’s mud in your hair.”
He used his good arm to try to clean it off, but in the end I took the cloth from him and did what I could. It was then I noticed the darkening bruise along his jawline.
He still hadn’t explained what had happened. But I was beginning to piece the bits together.
Rachel hadn’t come down. She had had more than enough time to change her clothes.
Had she looked out her window—and seen what was happening out there? And didn’t want to come down and embarrass the Captain?
I didn’t think Hugh was going to tell me anything.
And so I said, in the face of his reluctance, “You must at least tell me where it hurts, Hugh. I can’t help you if I don’t know.” Then I added, deliberately, “The ground is still cold, it can do some damage if you fall hard.”
After a moment he said, “The side of my chest. Just there.”
He reached across his body with his right hand to touch the lower part of his rib cage.
It wasn’t where I’d have expected damage from a fall. His shoulder was muddy, that was where he’d hit the ground. If that had caused him pain, it would mean the ribs higher up and in the back.
But it was exactly where someone might have hit him with a fist, catching him off guard, bending him over so that the second blow—to the jaw—had sent him flying.
I fought to keep my voice steady, my head down as I helped him unbutton his coat. It was difficult getting it off. I worked slowly, easing him out of it as best I could. But he was gritting his teeth against the pain and the effort he was making.
It was off, finally, and I spread it across the back of a chair. When I reached for the buttons of his shirt, he shoved my hand away.
“It’s better now.” His voice was cold. I realized he knew I’d see what was there. Another bruise beginning to appear.
A great deal of force had gone behind that blow. Driven by anger and a strong desire to hurt, to punish.
“I think your ribs are bruised. It’s going to hurt for a bit. I don’t think we need to wrap them.”
“No,” he agreed.
“Rachel may have something that will help you a little with the discomfort. We can ask.”
“Leave her out of this.”
“Hugh. Be sensible. You’re going to be stiff and sore. There’s the bruising on your face. She’s bound to notice. The best thing to do is tell her you fell and be done with it.”
Anger flared in his eyes, then faded as he saw I was right. Whether he liked it or not, she would have to know something. And that would make it easier for her, if she had seen the attack from her window and knew who it was.
I moved away, going to set the kettle back to make tea.
“There’s whisky. In the cupboard up there. Pour a little in my cup.”
“Yes, of course.”
By the time the tea was ready, and I’d added the whisky to his, I heard Rachel starting toward the stairs.
Hugh tensed, hearing her footsteps too. His eyes met mine, and I held his gaze for a moment before reaching for the jug of milk and pouring a little into each cup. You could smell the warm whisky . . .
Rachel came down the hall, into the kitchen, and said, “Bless you, Bess! I thought I’d never get warm. Sitting on the cold ground beside a ewe is not—” She let herself look at Hugh, and I wondered how much effort it had cost her just to frown and say, “Are you all right? Did you fall?”
“Awkwardly. But no harm done.”
She walked over to his coat. “This is still damp. I think it should clean up easily enough.”
I handed her another cloth, and she set to work, sipping her tea as she cleaned the coat and found a brush to finish the task. “There.” When her back was turned, I refilled Hugh’s cup with more tea and a little extra whisky. He glanced at me gratefully before concentrating on drinking it.
But when the teacups were empty, Hugh had to struggle to rise from the table a
nd reach for his crutches.
We both started toward him, but he snapped, “Don’t fuss.”
He managed on his own, and set out toward the front room. “I have some matters to attend to,” he said over his shoulder.
“And I need to finish my mending,” Rachel said briskly, but her gaze moved from his retreating back to my face.
Shaking her head, telling me not to question her, she fled the kitchen in her turn and went up the stairs again.
I saw the angry tears in her eyes before she turned away.
Rachel had seen whatever had happened out there. She knew who had done this.
And angry as she was, I didn’t think she knew how to deal with that knowledge.
Was it the girl Anna’s father? Mr. Dunhill?
Or was there someone else who had it in for Hugh?
With a sigh I cleared away.
We had just finished our dinner—no one had much of an appetite, and the silence in the kitchen was so deafening as we avoided conversation that I could hear one of the dogs breathing deeply in its sleep—when there was a knock at the door.
Hugh made as if to get up to answer it, but Rachel was closer.
“That must be Mrs. Baker. She promised to bring me a little of her salt in exchange for some sugar.”
She rose hastily and went to open the door. We could feel the draft of cold air and hear low voices.
And then Rachel called, “Sister Crawford?”
I was on my feet at once. The alarm in her voice warned me that there was trouble. My first thought was that Barry Dunhill had had the effrontery to come to the house. Even as the thought was forming, I could hear shuffling and someone grunting, as if she might be trying to hold back whoever it was.
Hugh, swearing under his breath, was reaching for his crutches, scrambling to get to his feet.
I came around the table fast, intent on reaching the door from the kitchen to the passage before Hugh was mobile.
But when I got to the door and looked toward Rachel, I didn’t see an angry man jostling with her to come inside the house.
