‘You’re the elder woman I’ve always lacked in my life, Eugenie. Thank you for your love and wisdom,’ Claire said and kissed Eugenie tenderly several times. ‘You can let go. Edward’s waiting for you.’
She heard a soft sigh as her tears fell on Eugenie’s cheek and she felt her friend relax beneath her lips.
‘She’s gone,’ she murmured, pulling back to revel in the gentle smile that Eugenie had left them with.
‘Marry me, Claire,’ he whispered in a shaken voice.
She nodded, tearful, feeling Eugenie’s warmth against her body. ‘Yes. Yes, I will.’
27
Joy assured the newly reunited couple that Eugenie had, weeks previously, made careful arrangements for her funeral and burial alongside her husband. She was interred privately with only six people witnessing and, despite her friend’s insistence, Claire had waited a fortnight until her sorrow of Eugenie’s passing could not spoil the pleasure of her marriage.
And now spring’s warmth had begun to melt winter away; Claire had watched it peel back its grip as the heads of bulbs burst fully through the once-frozen ground in a show of bright promise, the streets became more lively with people for more hours each day, and the war felt even more distant as uniforms disappeared from the everyday scenes.
She sighed with soft pleasure to see the sun light the facets of the three diamonds embedded into the rose gold wedding ring that Jamie had slipped awkwardly onto her finger yesterday afternoon in a tiny ceremony exactly as Eugenie had wished. Claire had worn the ivory silk Valentine dress that she’d bought for him. She’d added a small garland of individually threaded cream hyacinth flowers to her hair and carried gloriously scented soft white and pastel-pink hyacinths from Eugenie’s garden. They’d stood with the delighted rector in the orchard for the brief ceremony. A beaming Bertie Cartwright and Joy witnessed and there was no doubt in everyone’s minds that Eugenie was among them in spirit when a gentle breeze stirred a blizzard of blossom to fall like confetti as Claire and Jamie shared their vows.
Last night, after finding the funny side of how tricky it was to make love with Jamie ‘armless and legless’, as he described himself, they had not let his injuries prevent the culmination of years of dreaming and wanting each other.
‘We’re just going to have to practise,’ he said with an exaggerated sigh as he rolled slightly clumsily onto his back. ‘I mean every night, Claire, into training I shall go.’
Her spluttering laughter had filled the room and his amused hushing had filled her heart until she had admitted, breathlessly, ‘I don’t believe I could love you another inch.’
‘Oh, come on, Claire. Be a sport, surely you can manage another inch. I know I could,’ he said, still in an arch tone, lifting an eyebrow.
She had never known herself to laugh as much as she had in the last twenty-four hours and they were both shooshing each other helplessly before Claire remembered there was no one else in the house.
Later, with an enormous woollen rug pulled around their nakedness, Claire sipped cocoa leaning against her husband’s broad chest in the seat of the window and looked out into the darkness.
‘I’m sorry to burden you with a husband who isn’t whole,’ he whispered.
‘My life is complete, Jamie,’ she murmured after a contented sigh. ‘I’m deeply saddened about your arm but only for you and the difficulties it presents. But in terms of us, we are whole. I want you to believe that. No injuries matter to me, only that you are here and safe and we belong to one another.’
He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her even closer to him until she could feel the full heat of his flesh and the pulse of his heart against her body. She did privately mourn the loss of his limb because she knew he was a horseman through and through, but she felt convinced that Jamie would adjust and in time nothing would stop him getting back into the saddle. She was also fully aware that they were the lucky survivors and had a lifetime of loving ahead, where others had only grief. They sat in a delicious, comfortable silence until Jamie broke it admitting that he believed Spud had been with them too in the garden, and perhaps even Açar Shahin, whose prayer book had surely saved his life.
‘Eugenie told me about your trip back to Turkey after the Armistice,’ he continued, stroking her hair, having already confessed that he used to fantasise nightly of being able to touch her like this.
She nestled deeper against him, amazed by how hard and flat a man’s body was; she swore privately to the guardians who had kept him safe that she would never tire of the sound of his voice, or the smell of his skin, the coarseness of his chin this late in the day or the softness of his hair that tickled her breasts when he kissed them. She would never want to stop that soulful, hungry gaze of his on her body, or how making love with Jamie felt like perfection because everything about him inexplicably made her nerves trill with desire. And even as she thought this she felt the tug of her thoughts shift to Rifki, as though needing to consider him. She’d made the right decision, didn’t doubt herself. Her love for Jamie consumed her – there was no other room in her world for another man, a different man. Claire pulled the rug closer about them until their shared warmth had become one and it felt as though they had melted into each other and could no longer be separated.
‘So . . .’ he urged. ‘Tell me about your return to Turkey.’
She was glad she had her back to him even though the light was too low to see her blush. ‘His father was deeply appreciative to have the prayer book returned.’
‘Yes, he told me. What do you think of him?’
Claire reminded herself there was nothing to feel guilty about and answered truthfully. ‘Younger than I’d anticipated. A mathematician who’d forgotten he’d once been a romantic. Broken, of course, as any father might be over losing his only son; grateful for our care, for your friendship of Açar. I met Shahin’s aunts, his cousins . . . it was a memorable experience,’ she admitted. ‘I feel privileged to have shared it and glad to have brought something so precious to them.’ She told him about extracting the book from Bernard Jenkins and his demand she return the prayer book. ‘I must write to him. As it turned out, he did me a favour. Going to Turkey was the ideal distraction, gave me hope, made me realise just how much I loved you. I hope you don’t feel cheated?’
‘No. You did something very special, and on my behalf. Besides, it’s obviously still going to be some months before I can get around easily enough with a cane. I’m just glad we achieved what Shahin hoped. I imagine being with you unlocked the father’s romantic soul again.’
Was she that transparent?
‘He . . .’ she began but wasn’t sure what she wanted to say. She knew she should say yes, perhaps even tell Jamie that Rifki felt deeply attracted to her, but in the heartbeat of her hesitation she knew such an admission served no purpose to her husband, to Rifki, or to herself. Nothing had happened for her to be ashamed of and it seemed as though Jamie knew this much anyway.
‘He what?’ Jamie wondered, moving his lips across the exposed column of her neck. The unbearable lightness of his touch stirred her, made her close her eyes, made her want him again . . . right now.
But he was waiting.
She cleared her throat softly. ‘I was going to say that I learned from Rifki’s sister that he’d loved a woman passionately but they’d not been allowed to be together. His son’s death, my arrival to remind him of the pain of loss and how much I loved you, well . . . I think – hope, anyway – that he will go in search of her again.’
Jamie cupped her chin, turned her towards him and kissed her gently. He lingered at her mouth, barely a hair’s width apart as if wanting to breathe the same air that she did. ‘I’m never going to let you go again,’ he promised.
‘Nor do I want you to.’ She turned in his embrace to face him. ‘Take me back to bed,’ she breathed and opened herself only to Jamie, forcing the ghostly presence of Rifki Shahin, which had walked alongside her these last weeks, to let her go.
<
br /> ________
Claire was seated in one of the anterooms of Eugenie’s home whose single window overlooked a small strip of narrow garden that ran down the side of the house, rimmed by a tangle of blackberry canes. In the days since Eugenie’s passing and being reunited with Jamie, they had barely left each other’s side; today was the first time, in fact, and she was using it to write a letter she’d been avoiding. She knew she needed to impress upon the Turk that he must bury whatever romantic notions he harboured for her, while not damaging his fragile feelings.
Dear Rifki,
I gather you are or have been in London. I write to you with the happy news that I am now Mrs James Wren. My Australian Light Horseman finally found me again and although his injuries have permanently damaged him – as you would know from your meeting – his love for me remains intact, as mine remains for him. We look forward with great hope to a long life together, including raising a family.
And speaking of family, I hope with all of my full heart that this letter finds you and all of your wonderful sisters, husbands, et al, in very good health and looking forward to summer. It seems rather amazing that Kashifa’s grandson will be a year old come September. The time has flown. You will all have your work cut out once he finds his feet! And I know you will be a wise, wonderful great-uncle that any young boy could be lucky enough to have. Enjoy him as he grows and it is my hope that he shows some of Açar’s finest qualities to remind you that your son and the proud blood of Shahin pumps strongly through your sisters’ children and their children’s children.
I trust your work at the university is busy and rewarding. I never did get to say a proper goodbye to Professor Leavers and really should look him up . . .
She was tempted to ask for a forwarding address to keep the innocent conversation flowing, but thought better of it as it would mean him perhaps feeling obliged to respond.
My great friend and someone I loved dearly, Eugenie Lester, passed away recently. I think we both hoped that we might have had a bit longer together, and we’d agreed that I would nurse her but it seems her body failed her sooner than she’d intended it. Her generosity towards me knows no bounds, it seems. She has left me her fine house in her will and I will keep my promise to help set up a local clinic that she had bequeathed the money to establish. I can hardly let her down in this, so we shall remain in England while Jamie recuperates and I can keep this promise to Eugenie.
It is our decision, however, to make a home in southern Australia and we will leave by year’s end to meet my husband’s folks. He has warned me I am travelling at the hottest time to the driest state of the driest continent on our earth, and arguably to the loneliest corner of it. It seems his people are connected with a massive sheep station of many thousands of hectares, the size of which most of us could not imagine. Wish me luck!
Well, dear Rifki, I know you played a part in reuniting Jamie with me and for that I thank you with all my heart. I can only imagine which fates threw us together once again but I am grateful you were there at the Langham Hotel or Jamie and I might still be searching for each other. I will remember this kindness of yours forever and hope you know that you occupy a special place in my heart.
So, that is all my news since returning from Turkey and I have mentioned to my husband that now that I’m extremely familiar with the ways of the hammam we should visit Charing Cross and try out London’s Turkish Baths. It could never match my special day with your family and friends, but it will be a lovely reminder of the joyful memories I have of you all.
I trust you are keeping well and remain hopeful that you have not forgotten our last conversation and that you will seek out the happiness that potentially awaits you. I was told repeatedly of the courage and fearlessness of the Turks during the battles at Gallipoli, and know you will be in possession of these enviable traits too. It perhaps only requires you to take the first brave step.
Claire smiled to herself as she was sure she could picture how Rifki’s lips would thin at her audacious words.
All my very best wishes, and with love,
Claire
She sealed it before she could change her mind and slipped the letter into her pocket, feeling unburdened and convinced Rifki would read between the lines to appreciate the gratitude and deep fondness she held for him. She would post it tomorrow morning.
Claire went in search of Jamie and glimpsed him through the kitchen’s window to where he sat on the verandah, writing to his family in Australia to follow up the telegram announcing their marriage.
His shoulders were hunched, face filled with concentration as he focused on finding the right words and struggled to keep his pad straight with the same hand he wrote with. He’d not once complained, not once spoken of the pain he’d endured, or the fear he’d overcome during the war years, while she had talked out all of her anguish of the time since they’d parted. He’d encouraged her, listening quietly, absorbing her pain, letting it flow over him and through him until she’d purged herself of it and wept softly in his embrace. And then he’d kissed her tenderly and told her they would now never speak of the war or anyone from it ever again. Peace, marriage, love and laughter were all he was interested in, he had impressed.
She looked at her husband, labouring over his letter to his family of stockmen, and decided she loved the broad sweep of his shoulders and the shape of his head, knew what the ridges beneath his hair felt like and the texture of the thatch that had grown slightly unruly around his ears. She would trim that for him later today and then she would kiss those ears and whisper her love to them.
________
Jamie knew that Claire was watching him. He could feel her presence wherever she was like a ray of warmth. Since he’d first seen her crouched by Eugenie’s wheelchair with that expression of disbelief, it had felt like he had emerged fully from the winter of his life. He’d cast that cloak of bleakness away when she’d rushed into his arms, weeping and laughing at once. Now it was spring in every sense and there was so much to look forward to – so much living to be done and laughter to be enjoyed. He refused to allow anything to darken the horizon of his season of joy, not least his missing arm, but especially his notion that something had occurred between her and Shahin.
Shahin was already the past. Now he had to look to the future. Claire thought he was writing to his parents, who hopefully by now were celebrating the news of him being alive, but in truth he was crafting the hardest of letters to Alice.
She was a sweet enough girl. He’d made the journey to farewell her in Melrose. They’d stood in the looming shadow of Mount Remarkable, not far from the North Star Hotel but out of sight of the pub’s patrons, and Alice had cried as he’d hugged her farewell.
‘You’ll come back to me, won’t you, Jamie?’ she’d said through a teary smile as she tried to be brave.
‘I’m coming back, Alice, I promise.’
‘And will you promise to marry me then?’
He’d felt embarrassed to be talking about marriage on the eve of his grand adventure of war in far-off lands.
‘Let’s wait until I get home. We’ll work it all out then.’
‘You will marry me, though, won’t you, Jamie? I’m going to wait for you.’
He didn’t think she had much choice. So many of his peers were going too and very few had anything but war on their minds and those left behind didn’t have weddings in their immediate scheme of life. Even so, there would be a queue of farming boys who would give an arm to be with Alice.
Jamie gave a near inaudible, rueful sigh at that final thought. Strange, his arm that wasn’t there was itching from its slow healing as he thought about it. He hoped that sensation would pass.
He wondered what his parents thought of the telegram message that he had married Claire. He’d read his father’s letter to her, astonished and touched by its tenderness, and knew their relationship would be changed as a result.
He returned to his letter and read back what he’d written.
&nb
sp; Hello, dear Alice,
I hope this finds you in good spirits and I’m sure it also finds you as pretty as I left you. I’m imagining that you’ll still be on fire alert but hopefully the rains aren’t far away with autumn arriving.
I guess you’ve heard by now from my parents that I made it through the war and, although I left a bit of myself behind, I am glad to be alive as so many aren’t.
There is something important I need to tell you and I didn’t want you to hear it from anyone but me. Finding the right words, of course, is hard and I am no wordsmith as you know so I shall just say it plain and hope you understand.
The war has changed me. I look different with only one arm now. I have an injured leg too and suspect I shall always limp but I’m learning to live with both situations and I shall be fine. In fact I can’t wait to try riding again when I am fully healed. But the war has changed more than my physical appearance, dear Alice. I have changed inside too and I want to be honest with you and tell you that I cannot be with you. I realise this might bring upset to your life and to your plans, and heaven knows you deserve better than me. There are so many men in the district who would fall over each other to be lucky enough to call themselves your beau and some of them more than wealthy enough – if they made it through the war too – to make a good life for you, and give you the family you always talked about.
I have met someone. It would be wrong not to tell you this. Her name is Claire and I fell in love with her when she nursed me after I was wounded in Gallipoli. I thought I’d lost her but we found each other again in England and we have married, Alice. I feel as though I should apologise to you for falling for her, but I can’t make any apology for loving Claire. She is my world now and that is how I think love should be . . . like the grassfires we used to watch from afar. Remember how the flames used to consume everything in their path? That’s what our love is like. She is the fire that consumes me and while I think you might hate me for telling you all of this, I have always aimed to be honest with you.
Nightingale Page 36
