by Stacy Henrie
“She doesn’t yet know. The telegram was delivered only a few minutes ago.” Hugh stood as well. “I was on my way to Whitmore House right now to tell her. But if you would like to come along . . .”
Her nod was decisive. “I would, thank you. We grieving mothers need to band together.”
After telephoning his driver, he led Mrs. Henley outside to wait for the automobile. Neither of them said anything, but no words were necessary. They shared a bond of silent grief.
Did Ada have someone to share her grief with? Hugh wondered later as the car rattled along the road. He hoped so. The memory of his promise to Ned—to look after his wife and daughter—returned to his mind. He’d start by writing Ada a letter of condolence and he would pray for her. Then perhaps in time he’d know if there was more he could do to keep his promise.
• • •
Ada dragged herself home from work, barely aware of getting there until she stood before Minnie’s door. Thankfully her work at the paper warehouse was mindless or she probably would have been fired two weeks ago for being distracted. She couldn’t shake the cloud of grief and darkness that had shrouded her since receiving the news that Ned had been killed. She felt half dead herself, moving woodenly through each day, even as she did her best to put on a cheerful face for Rosemary.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she reviewed in her mind the list of things she still needed to do before falling into bed—dinner, dishes, bedtime story, and putting Rosemary to bed. Then Ada opened her eyes and knocked on the door. Her daughter and the O’Reilly children greeted her, their voices rising above each other’s in happy chatter. She tried to pay attention, but her head ached.
“Sounds like all of you had a wonderful day,” she interjected.
Minnie appeared in the hallway. She took one look at Ada, then bustled the children back inside. “You can have dinner with us tonight, Rosemary.” Ada’s daughter cheered at the news, along with Minnie’s children.
“That isn’t necessary—” Ada started to say, but Minnie was already steering her out the door, calling back to the children, “Janey, you’re in charge. I’ll be back soon.”
Minnie didn’t stop shuffling her along until they reached the door to Ada’s flat. Even then her friend pried the key from Ada’s hand and unlocked the door.
“Sit,” she directed, guiding Ada to a kitchen chair before taking one for herself. “You need to talk, Ada.”
Removing her hat, she tossed it on the table. “I’m fine, Minnie. Just tired.”
“Ha.” Minnie shook her head, her green eyes throwing out sparks of indignation. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re about. I’ve known you six years.”
Ada peeled off her gloves. “What do you mean?” she asked, not bothering to hide her annoyance.
“You’re not grievin’ this time, Ada.” Minnie leaned forward onto the table. “Not out loud at least.”
The flicker of irritation grew. “I don’t have time to grieve. I have a job and a daughter to raise on my own.” Her voice trembled, which only added to her frustration. “I’ll be fine.”
“Suit yourself then.” Minnie stood. “But I didn’t take you for a coward.”
Ada’s mouth dropped open in shock. “A coward?” she repeated. “I just lost my husband, Minnie.” The words flew from her lips like bullets. “How does that make me a coward?”
“The loss don’t,” her friend said, her voice softer. “But ’iding all them feelings inside sure does.”
Rising to her feet, Ada paced to the window, her arms folded tightly. She felt overwhelmed as much by Minnie’s accusations as by the emotions roaring to life inside her. And it hurt too much to feel. She wanted to return to the numbness, but thoughts spilled from her mouth unbidden.
“You want to know what I feel?” She didn’t wait for Minnie’s response. “Then I’ll tell you. I feel so angry I want to scream, Minnie. I’m angry at God and at Ned and at this stupid war.” Tears burned in her eyes as she went on, her volume rising. “I feel so gutted with grief I sometimes think I want to die too.” She flinched at saying such a thing out loud, but Minnie didn’t counter the remark with judgment.
“What else?” she asked gently.
Ada gave a bitter laugh. “Let’s see. I hate getting out of bed in the morning, knowing I have to face another day alone. I hate feeling weak in my faith, but I don’t know if it will ever be strong. I hate that half my heart feels as if it’s stopped beating.” The tears slipped down her cheeks. “Most of all I hate that he’s gone,” she admitted as she turned around, her voice hardly more than a whisper. “He’s gone, Minnie. And he isn’t coming back.”
“I know, love. I know.” Minnie stood and embraced her. “That’s what you needed to get out.”
When she could finally speak again, Ada asked the question foremost on her mind, “Do you think I’m horrible . . . for saying those things?”
“No, Ada. You’re a grievin’ widow.” Her friend stepped back, though she kept hold of Ada’s shoulders. “And a brave woman.”
She smirked. “You just said a moment ago that I was a coward.”
“Ah, but you know me. I didn’t mean a thing by it, exceptin’ to get you to talk.” Minnie gave her a teasing smile. “I think you’re braver than you know.”
With a sigh, Ada returned to her seat. Minnie did the same. “I don’t feel brave. I keep praying for peace and courage, but I don’t think anyone is listening.”
“’E is.”
“How do you know?” Ada countered, hurt and yearning giving her tone a slight edge.
Minnie gave her a gentle look. “Because ’E made us friends, Ada, knowing we’d need each other as we ’ave. And because ’E hears and loves us, ’specially in the dark times when we don’t know if’n anyone is listening.”
As she considered Minnie’s confident assurances, something loosened inside Ada. The hardness fractured and slipped away from her heart—leaving it still sore with grief but also open and pliant.
“I find God often ’elps us through others,” Minnie said. “And ’E also turns our ashes into beauty.”
“Ashes into beauty?” Ada had never heard that before.
Minnie nodded. “It’s one of my favorite scriptures. Isaiah 61:3.” She climbed to her feet. “I’m goin’ to finish dinner. Come over when you’re ready.”
“Thank you, Minnie.” Ada rose from her chair. “Rosie and I are lucky to have you and Thomas and the children.”
Tears glittered in her friend’s eyes now. “We’re the lucky ones. And don’t you go forgettin’ it. ’Specially the next time you go disappearin’ into yourself. All right?”
“I won’t.” She offered Minnie a smile—and this time it wasn’t forced.
When Minnie left, Ada went to the parlor. She took Ned’s Bible from the shelf. Dust had collected along its top and spine. She wiped it away with her hand, then sat in the armchair. After a few moments, she located the verse that was Minnie’s favorite.
“‘To give unto them beauty for ashes,’” she read aloud, “‘the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness; that they might be called trees of righteousness, the planting of the Lord, that he might be glorified.’”
A seedling of warmth and peace sprang inside her as she pondered the words—beauty for ashes, joy for mourning, praise for heaviness. Had her prayers been heard after all, though not in the way she had expected? Minnie’s help today, however unconventional, and this feeling of comfort—were they possibly evidence that God did hear and care about her?
Ada shut the Bible and stood, suddenly eager to be with her daughter and friends again. But as she moved toward the bookshelf, she had another thought. She carried the Bible into her room and set it on top of the bureau. It was past time to start reading it for herself and finding her own favorite passages.
• • •
Several nights later, after Rosemary was in bed, Ada remembered the letter she’d received from Hugh more than a week ago but
hadn’t yet read. She’d guessed his reason for writing and hadn’t wanted to read his condolences, however sincere. But she felt able to do so now. She sat on the sofa, grateful enough light filtered through the window to see by so there was no temptation to violate the lighting restrictions.
Hugh’s letter began with deep sympathies for Ned’s death, which Ada suspected he’d learned about from her mother-in-law. He also shared how much he’d respected Ned. Then he shared the news that his younger brother Harry had also been killed in action.
“No. Oh, Hugh,” Ada murmured with a shake of her head. “Your poor mother too.”
Sorrow settled over her as she recalled what she could remember of the happy-go-lucky Harry. Ada wondered if he’d left behind a sweetheart in Yorkshire. A feeling of empathy welled up inside her. This war had produced so many grieving sweethearts, mothers, wives, sisters, brothers, and children. How many more would be added to their number before the conflict was over?
She returned her attention to Hugh’s letter and was pleased to read that Maud and Mrs. Whittington had apparently become good friends through their shared grief of losing sons. It was comforting to know that someone was there to console Maud in Ada’s absence.
Hugh finished his missive with an offer to help in any way she might need. Emotion, namely gratitude, filled Ada’s throat. She wouldn’t soon forget Hugh’s kindness in helping Ned find a job and their flat or his thoughtfulness in writing to her now.
After locating her stationery, she began to pen a reply. She thanked Hugh for his letter and expressed her grief about Harry.
But what else should I write? she wondered, tapping the pen against her chin.
It felt strange to write a letter to someone other than Maud or her grandmother, especially a man. Soon, she was scribbling away once more, asking Hugh about the boot factory. She shared a little about her work at the paper warehouse, thanked him again for writing, and then she signed her name.
On sudden impulse, she added a postscript. As far as needing help, she wrote, I can’t thank you enough for the offer, but I can’t think of anything at present. Other than another letter perhaps?
Should she scratch out that last sentence? It made her feel rather vulnerable to ask him to write again. Before she changed her mind, she sealed the letter in an envelope to post the following day. She’d realized the importance of good friends this week, especially in difficult times. And difficult times were what they all faced these days. Besides, the idea of exchanging a few more letters with an old family friend filled her with a glimmer of anticipation—and that was something she hadn’t felt in a long time.
Chapter 12
Yorkshire, December 1916
Hugh sat in his study, his chair facing the window. A few snowflakes had fallen earlier, though it wasn’t cold enough for the snow to linger on the ground for long. He was reading Ada’s most recent letter. A story she told about eating fish, fish, and more fish had him chuckling.
Ada had always possessed a clever sense of humor, which meant her letters of the past four months had brought Hugh immense delight and entertainment. She wrote frankly but comically about life in wartime London, including her experiences with night air raids, special constables, ration cards, and light restrictions. And while the war had certainly affected Yorkshire, Ada’s experiences in the city were different from his in the countryside.
In truth, he’d been more than surprised when Ada had written back that first time and even more so when she’d asked if he would write her again. Hugh had done so almost immediately, and they’d been corresponding regularly since.
I believe I shall change professions, Ada wrote. Become a special constable instead. Can’t you see me strutting about the city in a dark uniform and peaked cap?
Hugh laughed out loud at the image. A moment later he heard someone at the study door. Turning, he found his mother standing there, eyeing him with blatant curiosity.
“What has you so amused?” Helena Whittington asked as she entered the room. “I haven’t heard you laugh like that in ages.”
It was true. He hadn’t laughed with such abandon in a long time. There were still days when he keenly missed Harry, but Ada’s letters and Hugh’s faith had been great comforts to him through the grief.
“It’s a letter,” he answered, folding it and placing it back into its envelope. “From Ada Henley.”
“Ada Thorne Henley? She wrote to you?” Helena raised her eyebrows in surprise as she stepped closer.
Standing, Hugh glanced down at his desk. “I wrote to her a few months back and we’ve exchanged some letters since.”
“Does Maud know?” she asked. “Heavens, do her parents know?”
He lifted his chin. “Mama, there is nothing wrong or untoward with writing Ada. We’ve known her family for years and she is a widow now. Besides, Ned asked me to look after her and her daughter, and Ada expressly asked if I would be willing to correspond.” Helena appeared unaffected by his logical explanation, so he added in a quiet voice, “She needs a friend.”
“Very well.” The look she gave him alerted him to the nature of her next words before she’d even spoken them. “I only wonder if that has been hard for you . . .”
Hugh slipped his hands into his pockets and turned toward the window again. “My . . . feelings for her . . . are in the past. They have been ever since Ned told me they were planning to marry. Nothing on that score has changed.”
“I am relieved to hear it,” Helena said, her voice full of motherly compassion. “I don’t want to see you hurt, Hugh.”
Facing her again, he gave her what he hoped was a convincing smile. “She never hurt me, Mama, because she never knew what I felt for her. And that is how it will stay.”
“All right then.” She moved toward the door, where she paused. “It is nice to hear you laughing again. Like you used to . . . with Harry.” Even from across the room, he caught the sheen of tears in her eyes. “And if, as your friend, Ada inspires you to laugh, I shall be grateful for it.”
“Thank you.”
She smiled fully at him. “Perhaps she and her little girl wouldn’t mind a few gifts for Christmas. That might be another way of helping.” Her eyebrows rose with hinted amusement before she exited the room.
Christmas gifts? He wished he’d thought of that sooner, though there might still be time to send something to Ada and Rosemary. Twisting his chair around, he sat back down, pulled out a fresh sheet of paper, and began to make a list.
• • •
Seated in the armchair, her robe wrapped snugly around her, Ada tucked her stocking feet beneath her nightgown. Wisps of white snow fell beyond the window, appropriate for Christmas morning. On the rug, Rosemary played with the doll Ada’s grandmother had sent her.
They weren’t the only gifts they’d received either. Maud had sent a pretty card and Hugh had surprised Ada with a crate full of presents, including a ham. She had no idea how he’d managed to procure it, but she was deeply grateful to have some other meat to eat today besides fish. She wished now that she’d thought to send him a gift too, in addition to the Christmas postcard she’d mailed with her latest letter. Their renewed friendship had come to mean a great deal to her.
She watched her daughter playing with the doll’s matching dark hair and intricate clothes, the stack of books Hugh had sent them close by. The happy image stirred both pleasure and pain in Ada. She relished these carefree moments of Rosemary’s, and yet, on this joyous holiday, she also ached with missing Ned.
“She’s a beautiful doll, Rosie.”
Rosemary lifted her head and beamed. “Yes, she is, Mummy.”
“We’ll have to write and thank Gran. And Mr. Whittington too.” She’d told her daughter that Hugh was an old friend of her and Ned’s.
“I can write the words all by myself now that I’m in school.” Her blue eyes—Ned’s eyes—shone with pride.
Ada smiled. “You certainly can. Now, come here, pet. I have a present for you too.”
>
“What is it?” her daughter asked, jumping up from the rug.
Drawing Rosemary onto her lap, Ada reached into the pocket of her robe and removed the tiny locket she’d purchased. Her daughter and Janey loved to play with Ada’s glass jewelry, but this was something Rosemary could wear now.
“Happy Christmas, Rosie.” She handed her the locket.
Rosemary held it as if it were fashioned with diamonds. “A real necklace? For me?”
“It is indeed.” A laugh bubbled out of Ada at her daughter’s raptured expression, and she playfully tapped her on the nose. “Now look inside.”
Her daughter’s small fingers took a moment to work the even smaller clasp, but finally she had it open. Inside the locket, Ada had placed a picture of herself on one side of the tiny oval and a picture of Ned on the other.
“See, it’s me and Daddy.” She wrapped her arms around Rosemary.
She’d been reluctant at first to cut up the photograph they’d had taken of their family during Ned’s leave, but her desire to help her daughter remember him had outweighed her hesitation. Besides, she still had Ned’s copy of the photograph, which had arrived with the rest of his personal effects some weeks after the telegram announcing his death.
“Wherever you go, when you wear your necklace, Daddy and I will both be with you.”
Rosemary rested her head against Ada’s chest. “Even at school?”
“Even at school.”
“I have a present for you, too, Mummy.” She hopped off Ada’s lap and ran into the bedroom. A few moments later, she raced back into the parlor with a scrap of paper in her hand. “Here you go. I wrote it all by myself.”
Ada took the paper. It appeared to have been painstakingly made into a pocket of sorts. On the outside her daughter had written the words To Mummy, Love Rosemary. A peek inside revealed a single lock of Rosemary’s hair.
