Duty With Honor Book Five: An Unexpected Pause

by Jordan Bollinger

  After Bobbi headed in to clean the bathroom, Beth asked, "Bridget, do you know where James is buried?"

  Bridget paled, but she answered, "Yes, Elizabeth. In fact, it's only a short walk from here. Has no one told you? Taken you?"

  "No," Beth said, angrily, "apparently the men in my life have decided that information should be divulged strictly on a need to know basis, and I don't need to know. I just don't understand them. It doesn't matter if they don't mention James. It doesn't help to pretend he never existed. It only angers and frustrates me.

  "He was my child. He will always be my child. Circumstance might have worked against us -- but we are always mother and child. Whether I held him or not. Whether I even saw him or not. He is my son. And I need to know about him -- where he is."

  "Now, Beth..." Bridget said.

  "I would very much like to see his grave."

  "All right. I'll take you at lunch."

  For the first time, for a long time, Beth smiled. Then she said, "Thank you."

  Chapter Nineteen

  The tiny, ancient cemetery was a very short walk from the office. Bridget had told Beth as they walked that is was where her mother was buried, as well. And, she realized for the first time in her life, she had never thought to ask either Richard or her father about it.

  Elizabeth had never felt comfortable about funerals or wakes -- especially wakes. They had always seemed so barbaric. But that didn't prevent her from feeling the sadness and loss everyone else experienced. Still, she had spent her lifetime dodging and weaving her way to avoid them to a very great extent.

  She had been banned from the one funeral she felt she needed to attend, her sister-in-law, Cathy's. After nursing her through the last, painful, lingering days of her life, as well as caring for Richard and her nieces and nephews, she was exhausted -- physically, mentally, and emotionally drained.

  It was her father who recognized her condition and dictated that she either immediately fly back to Connecticut and live -- for all intents and purposes -- under house arrest, under the strict and watchful eye of a housekeeper, or attend Cathy's funeral and afterwards immediately be whisked away to a sanatorium.

  Sanatoriums were far too close, in her mind, to sanitariums. So she had agreed to go back to Litchfield and remain quiet and give her body and mind a chance to decompress and regroup.

  Now that she knew her father always knew about her adoptive parents -- always knew about her -- she wondered if he knew of her aversion to funerals. And considered whether he hadn't maneuvered her into that position to give her an escape route from the actual funeral.

  That first day, she just walked in silence with Bridget. She touched her mother's headstone and wished, not for the first time, that she could remember her.

  Then she moved over and looked at James' tiny grave, still only cold, damp earth. In another few weeks the English winter would wane and things would start to green up. Perhaps, that would make his little headstone look more as though it belonged there -- instead of appearing so clean, and new, and raw.

  They walked back, talking every now and then, as they ate the fish and chips they'd picked up after they left the cemetery. Beth thanked Bridget before returning to her office.

  But, she wasn't able to get any work done.

  The next day, she arrived at the office early and forced herself to do a substantial amount of work as a way of making up for her non-productivity the previous day. As noontime approached, she quietly slipped out of the building -- although no one ever slipped in or out of a complex like Vauxhall Cross unnoticed -- and made her way to the cemetery.

  It was a gray day. Not cold, but cool, and bone-chillingly damp. She had the forethought to bring a newspaper, which she spread on the bench just across from James' grave. And she spent her lunch break sitting there, contemplating life and death.

  She was just leaving when she noticed a man walking towards her and the bench. He was a bit older than she was, well dressed and silver-haired. She smiled at him and noticed his nod of acknowledgement. And she thought no more about it.

  *****

  Elizabeth felt calmer -- more serene -- as she walked back to work. In fact, she got quite a bit of work accomplished that afternoon. Upon her return to Richard's, she even made an effort to interact with people for a few minutes -- speaking to Betsy, the little maid, and her nephew, Justin, before she went upstairs to her room.

  She set the kettle on for tea before she stripped off her work clothes and changed into an over-sized pair of sweat pants and tee-shirt to relax in. After she scrubbed her face of makeup and city grime, she looked around and frowned.

  Andrew had definitely spoiled her. She'd always strewn her clothes about, wherever she happened to be as she took them off. Before she was with Andrew she'd been forced to pick-up after herself.

  However, always neat Drew -- with the exception of his desk, which still baffled her -- patiently followed her throughout the house, gathering up discarded clothes along the way.

  It was with a deep sigh that she retraced her steps, picking up her shoes, jacket, blouse, and skirt; evaluating their condition and sorting them to either set aside for laundering, or putting them away. But, somewhere along the way she'd plopped down in a chair and stared off into space. The ear piercing whine of the kettle yanked her back to reality.

  She'd just carried her cup of tea to the desk when there was a soft rap on the door. Beth made a face and considered pretending she hadn't heard it. But, she decided she really shouldn't do that, so she opened the door a crack and peeped out. There, standing on the first floor landing was her oldest niece, Sarah, and she had a tray.

  "Hi Aunt Beth," she said, smiling.

  "Hello, yourself. What's on the tray?"

  "Ethel sent it up," the younger girl replied. Then she hurried on, "We know we aren't supposed to bother you. And I didn't stop by for a chat. I'm merely delivering a tray from Ethel."

  Even though Elizabeth had a good idea what was on the tray from the delicious aroma now filling her room, she asked, "What is it?"

  "A beef shepherd's pie. She made an individual one just for you. She knows it's a tossup between you and Ben who likes it the best. And she didn't want to risk not having a decent portion for you. She figures this way, she knows you've gotten some.

  "It's hot and ready, but she said you could put it away for a day or so. There is a plate of scones, as well as some pudding. And, also a jar of fig jam she bought for you. If you tell me where to set it, I'll put it down and leave you alone."

  "You can put it on the table. I was going to fix some eggs, but this smells too good to put away." Then she looked at her niece and added, "The kettle’s hot, if you'd like a cup of tea."

  "I thought you didn't want company? Besides, Ethel's about to serve dinner. And, I need to eat and change clothes. I have a friend's gallery opening to go attend. Perhaps, I could take a rain check on that tea?" She carried the tray to the table Beth had indicated, turned and headed out the doorway.

  "Certainly, Sarah. Run along. Have a good time." Then she leaned out the door and added, "And thank Ethel for me."

  Beth frowned as she relocked the door. She knew it was unreasonable, especially since she was the one who wanted to be isolated from her family and friends, but she suddenly felt slighted and lonely.

  She retrieved her tea from the desk and carried it to the tiny dining table. Then she put the scones and fig paste away, grabbed some silverware and sat down at the table to eat the steaming shepherd's pie. And even she had to admit she felt much better after eating it and her pudding.

  She poured herself another cup of tea and went and sat at her desk. She'd decided she was going to write James a letter, thinking it might help her formalize her feelings and start to heal.

  She pulled out a sheet of paper and the sterling silver fountain pen her father had given her for her college graduation. It was a very cherished possession and something she only used for special things, and began:

  My Pre
cious Son,

  The ocean of sorrow that fills me is bottomless. You will always be the first thing I think about in the morning and the last thing every night. But I don't only grieve over your loss for myself. I also grieve for the family that looked forward to your birth with joy and excitement. And perhaps, more importantly, your own loss -- of all the things that might have been -- all the possibilities and choices you might have made for yourself -- the very person you would have become.

  I grieve -- we all grieve -- for the incredible being you were and might have been.

  Your father and I found each other late in life. I had never experienced such love, and I don't believe your dad had either. And in the midst of what we thought was boundless happiness, we learned about you and our joy swelled like a huge balloon.

  The doctors insisted your death was no one's fault. But, I don't believe them. It was my fault. I should have known about you from the moment of your conception. I should have sensed your very presence within me and done everything to nurture and protect you. And, I should have realized that you were in jeopardy. But I didn't. None of us realized that every moment of your growth pushed you closer to your death.

  I try to tell myself that holding you, or even just seeing you would help ease my grief. But then I wonder if it really would. Perhaps, it would only make me feel your loss more acutely. Your father and grandparents would disagree that I failed you. Insisting that none of us knew the danger you were in. And then, once you were gone, I was battling for my own life. They did what they thought was best at the time. Yet, I still find it all so hurtful. But, again, that is my failing.

  Forgive me for not knowing about you sooner; for not keeping you safe; for actually putting you in harm's way. And, perhaps, with your forgiveness, I will be able to forgive myself.

  All I can do now is try and accept your loss, pray for your forgiveness, ask for God's guidance, and hope that I can find my way back to the family I love. Because, right now, I feel separated -- held hostage by my grief, and kept away from everyone else.

  You will always be my greatest joy and my greatest sorrow.

  With all my heart,

  Your Mother

  When she finished, she reread it. And, while it was a bit maudlin, she did feel as if some of her pain had been siphoned off.

  She went to bed early. And, for the first time since she'd found herself in that awful hospital room, she slept pretty well.

  Chapter Twenty

  Elizabeth Oliver's Temporary Office

  Vauxhall Cross

  London, England, United Kingdom

  Elizabeth was making headway into her assignment comparing the open files to Sir Anthony's personal files. So far she hadn't found any significant differences -- just an occasional discrepancy, which was clearly a typo, the transposition of numbers, and the like.

  That day, she picked up some coffee and a roll, and returned to the cemetery. She brought the letter she'd written the evening before, sat on the end of the bench across from the grave, and read it aloud to him. Then she set it on top of the grave, secured it with a rock, and left it.

  She hadn't expected for this to make much difference, but she actually did feel better -- more connected to her child. And, once again, just as she was leaving, the same man appeared.

  She didn't think much of it. After all, many people visited their loved ones. It wasn't something she had to herself.

  On the third day, Beth left the office a bit later than before, and was still sitting on the bench, talking to James when the man approached her.

  "Would you mind if I sat on the far end of your bench?"

  "Of course not," Elizabeth answered, politely. While she didn't want to share her bench -- it wasn't really her bench.

  "I hope I'm not being rude, but I've seen you several times and wanted to know who it is you're visiting?"

  Swallowing hard, she turned to the man and answered, "My son." Pointing to the headstone, she said, "He died at birth, and I was in a coma for a month. So, I never held him. I didn't even see him."

  "How awful. I'm so sorry, my dear. So very sorry."

  "Thank you. I'm trying... I'm finding it... I just can't seem to make my family understand how I feel. I'm so out of step from them, if you understand what I mean."

  "I think I do. Your grief is still raw, while they've begun to lose some of their pain."

  "Yes!" For some reason, this made her smile. She didn't understand why. After all, James was still dead. But, it did.

  "Who is it...you're here for?"

  "My wife. We were married thirty years. She was killed during a mugging."

  "I'm so sorry. Did they at least catch who did it?"

  "Oh yes. And he'd done it before. He was quite the little thug. But, he was only fifteen when he killed her. And so, he won't do more than a few years at some youth facility. Apparently, the current government values our young people more than the ones that have supported them, worked for them, voted them in office and paid their wages." The man seemed to sag as he said this, and Beth felt terrible. After all, he'd tried to understand her grief, but she'd made him feel worse.

  She hurried to try and make amends, saying, "It is terrible, for everyone -- you and your family. But, don't you think the boy's family feels the guilt and shame? Things are all so senseless, sometimes."

  "I wish that was true, my dear. But I doubt it. These people act as though they're entitled to special treatment -- more consideration than the people that work hard, and pay for what they have -- while these people live on the dole.

  "Still we all -- the ones left behind -- have to go on. I know my Mary wouldn't want me to stop living. And, I'm sure your tiny son wouldn't want you to either -- and, I believe that wherever he is, he understands, and knows you love and miss him."

  Beth stared into the man's face. He seemed kind, understanding, and sympathetic to her sensibilities. "Do you think so, really?" she asked. "I certainly hope so. I hope he knows he was loved -- is loved."

  "I'm sure he does, my dear."

  The man looked like he was about to go on talking, but Beth looked at her watch, jumped up and exclaimed, "Oh, I need to get back to work. Thank you for being so kind. Good bye."

  "Good bye, my dear," he answered, smiling at her as she turned away.

  But, she felt happier as she walked back to Vauxhall Cross.

  *****

  Unknown Location,

  London, England, United Kingdom

  "What is taking so long? She should have been dead by now."

  "I know. But, I can't get to her. She's never really alone. Perhaps, I could skip her, and move down the list."

  "No! She has to die first. Everything's been staged with that in mind. She'll be tagged as the traitor, and no one will be too surprised when she's killed. They'll believe that the leak has been plugged up, and stop searching for the mole. And then, by the time they realize it will be too late."

  "All right, I'll take care of her tomorrow. I don't know how I'll manage it. But I'll think of something."

  "You'd better."

  *****

  Elizabeth Oliver's Temporary Office

  Vauxhall Cross

  London, England, United Kingdom

  She continued to go to the cemetery each day during lunch. And she noticed her friend coming a bit earlier each day. He always asked if he could join her on the bench, greeted her pleasantly, and then left her alone until she stood up to leave, when he told her goodbye.

  A cold snap hit the first week of April, making the city an uncomfortable maze of icy buildings, beneath a leaden sky, with a frigid wind that came along in frosty gusts -- blowing newspapers around the gutter and picking women's skirts up in the air as they hurried to get to their destinations and out of it.

  Beth was sitting on her bench, talking to James when her friend arrived. And, he was well-prepared for the cold and wind, because he wore a heavy outer coat, with a scarf tucked tightly under it.

  Beth, on the other hand, was no
t prepared. She'd left for work without an outer coat, and the suit jacket, although wool, was not much protection from the weather. In fact, her hands were so cold they burned.

  Her friend sat down, looked at her and frowned. "My dear, your lips are practically blue. What possessed you to come out in such weather, so ill-prepared?"

  He yanked at his scarf. It hung up on something, for a moment, before it came free. Then he wrapped her hands up loosely in the scarf. It felt warm from him, and she smiled as she said, "Thank you. That does feel nice."

  He looked as if he was about to speak when the sound of someone approaching stopped him. And, when a voice asked, "What are you doing, Beth?" they both looked up.

  Startled, she turned to stare into the deep blue depths of Andrew's eyes. They seemed empty to her, his face was expressionless, and he carried a bunch of bronze mums.

  "Andrew..." She looked from her friend to her husband, and back to the man and asked, "Would you excuse us, please?" Then she handed him back his scarf, and added, "I'm sorry."

  The man appeared to seesaw a moment, as he assessed the situation. Then he begrudgingly accepted his scarf, turned, and walked back the way he always came from, without another word.

  He was barely out of earshot, when Beth hissed, "You followed me?"

  "Of course, not," Drew insisted. "I--"

  "Then what are you doing here? You don't trust me enough to go for a walk and visit my son's grave without you checking on me?"

  "I told you, I didn't follow you."

  "Then why are you here?"

  He raised the chrysanthemums in front of her and said, "I brought these for our son's grave. Today is the anniversary of our meeting. It was a date I wanted to commemorate. Besides, did it ever occur to you, how I might miss him? Think of him? Grieve for him?"