“Would you have me entertain them in my boudoir? Or the housekeeper’s room, perhaps? We could huddle round a camp table and play at being on a picnic.”
“It won’t be forever.”
“Won’t it? By the time this war is over, will there be anything of the Nanreath Hall I remember worth returning to?” Lady Boxley’s face narrowed, and she glanced round the scullery, no doubt sizing up the wreck the military had made of her home. Anna couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy.
“Cheer up.” Hugh gestured toward an empty stool. “Join us for a mug and you can tell us all the juicy gossip from the big bad metropolis.”
Lady Boxley wrinkled her nose. “Not now, dear. I’m all done in, but perhaps you can help me upstairs.”
“I can’t just now, Mother. I’ve promised one of the lads to help him write a letter to his mum. He wants to assure her he’s quite all right and comfortable here in hospital, and she needn’t worry.”
“And Nurse Trenowyth can’t accomplish this complicated feat of secretarial work?”
Hugh’s face bore a hard, mulish look. “It’s more than that. You see, he’s . . .”
“Trooper Murphy is dying, ma’am,” Anna said, stepping in. “His mother works in an aircraft plant and can’t make the trip to see him.”
Her Ladyship seemed at a loss, her eyes still crackling, but an obvious shifting of gears going on behind the scenes. She relaxed into a gracious yet somehow condescending smile. “I know you’re trying to help, Hugh my love, but isn’t that why we’ve invited these lovely young women into our home? They’re far more adept at handling these unfortunate situations than you could possibly be.”
“Hugh’s been invaluable, actually,” Anna replied.
“Thank you, Miss Trenowyth, but I think I know what’s best for my son. I won’t have him overtaxing himself with unsavory hospital work. He’s suffered enough death and sorrow to last a lifetime.”
“But that’s what makes him so wonderful. The men look up to him. They see how he’s managed to move past his injuries and they take heart from that.”
“Has he, though?” Lady Boxley argued. “Is that what you call nights spent carousing at the pub until he can barely see straight?”
“That’s enough, Mother,” Hugh muttered.
“Nightmares from which he wakes screaming and drenched in sweat?”
“Please.”
“Constant pain and open sores as he adjusts to that ugly contraption he wears in place of a leg?”
“Mother! I said enough.” Hugh was almost shouting. He swallowed back his anger, jaw jumping.
Lady Boxley pressed her lips together, her eyes hot and anguished. “Hugh needs to forget this war. Not have it relived every time he walks onto those wards.” She drew herself up. “Hugh, please escort me upstairs. Now, if you will.”
He offered Anna an agonized look as he pushed away from the table. “Of course. Tell Trooper Murphy I’m sorry, Anna.”
She shouldn’t. She really shouldn’t, but Hugh’s defeated, resentful attitude goaded her into action. “No. You tell him yourself.”
“What?”
“You lost a leg, Hugh. You didn’t lose your brain or your heart. You’ve got plenty left to contribute if only you’d see that instead of acting as if you’re already dead and buried.”
“How dare you talk to him that way?” Lady Boxley growled.
“I dare because no one else will, and if he continues to listen to you, he’ll be no good to anyone—least of all himself.”
Lady Boxley’s face went the color of porridge, which only seemed to accentuate the blue tinge to her otherwise scarlet lips. Her body grew rigid with fury. “You rude girl. Not that I expect anything more from someone of your . . . repute.”
“A bastard, you mean?”
“For God’s sake, why can’t you leave well enough alone?” Her Ladyship flattened a palm against her chest, as if she was having an attack of some sort, and her voice was harsh and wheezy. “Why can’t you leave us alone?”
Her porridge look gave way to an even worse shade of gray-green like an old bruise, her eyes rolled up into her head, and she sagged like a deflated balloon to the floor.
Hugh caught her just before she hit the edge of the metal counter, but for a split second, he and Anna shared a look. And she truly thought he might let her fall.
The shingles case in Ward B says you punched Her Ladyship,” Tilly exclaimed with fiendish delight. She sat on her bed reading her latest Vogue while Sophie worked on her mending. “Serves her right, the nasty cow.”
Sophie wet her thread before spearing it through a needle. “I heard Lady Boxley suffered a stroke. I wouldn’t be surprised. She’s not been looking well for ages.”
“Do you think you killed her, Anna?”
“No.” Anna stood up. “But I am going to find out what’s going on.”
“How?”
“I’m going to see the MO. He’ll know.”
Anna ignored the look that passed between Tilly and Sophie, and departed her billet in search of Captain Matthews. She found him in his office.
“But no one’s allowed in,” his clerk informed her. “He’s got Matron and Lord Melcombe in there with him.”
“Perfect,” Anna said, clasping her hands together as she pushed her way past and through the door to the strains of the poor harried clerk’s protests.
She arrived in the midst of a heated conversation between the MO and Matron while Hugh perched on the arm of a chair looking unusually stern-faced and grim. Her heart sank into her shoes.
“. . . firmly advise against it,” Captain Matthews said rather sharply. “She shouldn’t be moved until we can be certain she’s stabilized.”
“But we’re nearly at capacity. We’ve not the staff to accommodate Lady Boxley, and should the expected patients arrive, we’ll be in a right muddle.” Matron was on obvious edge. Her normally calm demeanor seemed strained under the potential addition of an aristocratic and demanding patient under her care.
“Anna?” Hugh said, catching sight of her. “What on earth are you doing here?”
She glanced uncomfortably at the circle of somber faces before gathering herself for the attack. “I’ve heard Lady Boxley’s been taken ill. I want to do what I can to help.” She wrung her hands before dropping them at her sides and meeting the incredulous gazes head-on. “It’s my fault. I’d make it right if I could.”
“Rubbish,” Hugh shot back. “It’s not your fault. Mother’s had a bad ticker for ages. Her doctor’s told her to take it easy, but she refuses to listen to him.”
“Nevertheless . . .”
Captain Matthews folded his arms along his desk as he regarded her. “If you are the reason Her Ladyship collapsed, perhaps your presence might not be the most beneficial medicine.”
“That may be, but she’s”—Anna cast a helpless glance at Hugh—“she’s my aunt. Family should be able to count on one another, shouldn’t they?”
“Are you sure, Anna?” Hugh didn’t look convinced. “She’s not exactly an easy person to deal with at the best of times. She’ll be grumpy as a poked badger.”
“I’m sure.” To Matron, she said, “Is it all right with you, ma’am? My half day is tomorrow anyway, and if I’m needed longer I’d make it up. Perhaps double shifts if things get busy.”
“It does solve our problem perfectly.” Captain Matthews leaned back in his chair, polishing his spectacles. “Lady Boxley can remain under her own roof, where she’ll be most comfortable. Trenowyth here isn’t on duty anyway, so she won’t complicate the rota unnecessarily. And we keep it in the family. A winning situation all the way around?”
“I don’t know . . .” Matron hedged. “What if Her Ladyship doesn’t want her there? She might be family, but she’s not exactly welcome, is she? Naught but the cold shoulder since she arrived.”
“You let me worry about my mother,” Hugh said. “She’ll welcome Anna with open arms—or else.”
“All
right.” Matron offered a grudging nod of approval. “But I hope you know what you’re getting into, Trenowyth.”
“Yes, ma’am. I hope so, too.”
That afternoon, over Tilly’s and Sophie’s strident objections—“Are you certain you’re not still suffering from that bump on the head?”—Anna reported for duty.
Passing through the gallery, she couldn’t help but glance toward the painting of Lady Katherine with a feeling of growing comradeship, but it was the larger more prominent painting of Hugh’s father, the late Lord Boxley, where she paused. He stood at awkward attention in the ceremonial uniform of the Royal Artillery, his auburn hair, a few shades darker than her own, slicked back from a slight widow’s peak, his piercing blue eyes seeming to regard her with insolence, though a curve to his lips bore less the smirk of entitlement and more the good humor of a born prankster.
As Anna regarded him in the gray light of evening, something niggled at the back of her brain, a sense of not-quite-rightness. She tried to place her finger on what about the painting worried at her like a loose tooth, but the idea slipped and slid away from her each time she reached for it.
“Are you dawdling on purpose?” Hugh joined her in front of the painting. “I’ve told Mother you’re coming and made her promise to keep her claws sheathed if she knows what’s good for her.”
“Your father was very handsome, wasn’t he?”
“Every man looks handsome in a uniform. Apparently, dressing in ill-fitting khaki works as an aphrodisiac on any female between the ages of fourteen and ninety.”
“Or RAF blue?” Anna slid him a sidelong look.
“My days of flashing a pair of wings and a devil-may-care attitude in order to lure the women are long over,” Hugh said, seeming only half in jest. “Not that my ancient title and teetering fortunes have them lining up, either.”
“That’s a load of rubbish.” Anna looked from the painting to Hugh and back again. That same odd dissonance struck at her like a note out of tune.
“Captain Matthews is finishing up,” he said, and the sensation faded and was lost. “Mother will be waiting for you.”
“With pistols loaded?”
“I’ve warned her to be on her best behavior.” They walked together toward Lady Boxley’s apartments. “You’re right, you know. You are family. Mother needs to realize that.”
“The same way she’s realized you need to stop hiding from what happened to you in Norway and live again? Why don’t you stand up to her, Hugh?”
“Fine words coming from you, cousin. Maybe I’ll stop hiding from my past when you stop hiding from yours.”
She had no time to frame a suitable response before they reached the door to his mother’s rooms, bringing their conversation to an abrupt end.
Lady Boxley was in bed, propped against a banquette of pillows, her normally strong features uncharacteristically haggard, her fading blond hair hanging loose about her shoulders.
The MO snapped a black bag shut. “She’s been dosed for the evening and shouldn’t require more than peace and quiet. I’ll be back in the morning.” To Lady Boxley, he said, “Get some rest, my lady. I leave you in capable hands.”
“Against my will.” She speared Hugh with a hard stare.
He stiffened, but his smile remained fixed. “Easy, Mother. You’ll work yourself into a froth and be no good for weeks.”
“As if you cared a whit. I’m only the woman who gave you life, but does that matter a jot? Not at all. If you were trying to hasten my descent into the grave, you couldn’t have picked a better way to do it.”
He planted a quick kiss on her forehead. “I’m going out for the evening, but I’ll check in on you tomorrow. Pistols and kippers at dawn?”
“I don’t like you going out.” Her lip jutted in an almost girlish pout. “It’s not safe.”
“The Germans have already blown us up once. What are the odds they target us again?”
“I’m not speaking of the Germans.”
He laughed as if she’d made a joke, but Anna knew she was dead serious. As he left the room in a cloud of good humor, Lady Boxley’s eyes met Anna’s and once more they seemed to share a moment of understanding. She smoothed her hands down her apron as a way to calm her nerves before plowing into the situation. “Is there anything I can do for you, my lady?”
“I’d say you’ve done more than enough already.” She worried at her bedspread. “And now Hugh’s off gallivanting again. He’s not well. He hasn’t been since that horrid business in Norway.”
“He drinks to forget, ma’am.”
“And yet you want to force him to relive everything over and over with those men downstairs.” She fluttered a hand to her heart, her face paling as she gasped and lay back. “Family, you call yourself. The only family I have left is Hugh. All I’ve ever done has been for his sake. I won’t let you hurt him.”
“I’m sorry. I never meant for any of this to happen.”
“No,” Lady Boxley replied faintly through shallow breaths, “but your coming here started it all, didn’t it?”
Chapter 20
August 1915
It was hard to fathom a year had passed since the start of the war. We celebrated the anniversary with none of the patriotic fervor that marked the past twelve months. Instead, a small party gathered at Miss Ferndale-Branch’s flat for a comfortable dinner followed by a string of dramatic readings, and now we lounged about her front room, drinking and chatting while someone banged away on a piano in the corner. Talk ranged from admiration for Rupert Brooke’s collection of posthumously published poems to the new ballet being staged at Covent Garden and round to the horrors in Armenia. Those we’d lost seemed to hover close like fluttering moths, invisible and silent but never far from our thoughts, and despite the jollity of the evening, we were unable to overcome the growing sense our world was sliding toward some great abyss.
I sipped at my wine and tried not to worry over William, away at the front. His last letter spoke of his imminent return to the line. Written four days ago, the news within it was already old. He would be in the trenches by now. He could already be dead and I’d have no way of knowing. Papa would never write to tell me nor would he allow anyone in the household to communicate. He had cut me from the family like a cancer.
As if sensing the dark turn of my thoughts, Simon looked at me from across the room and we shared a secret smile. He stood in conversation with a young man in uniform. The two had been in deep discussion since dinner to the exclusion of almost everyone else, but now as if concluding a business transaction, he shook the man’s hand and excused himself.
I thought he would join me in my corner. Instead he stepped into the middle of the room with a raise of his hand. “Quiet, everyone. Quiet. I have an announcement to make.”
The conversation dulled to a murmur of curiosity as we looked to one another for answers before focusing on Simon. He held a drink in one hand, which he tossed back as if hoping for strength. Once more he caught and held my gaze, his dark eyes crackling. My stomach leaped and dove and I found myself clutching the arm of the chair, an icy cold splashing across my shoulders.
“I know you’ve all been wondering what took me so long to take the plunge, and frankly, I haven’t a good answer. I suppose I just never thought it would last.” He spoke to the room, but his eyes held mine. Attention shifted in my direction, and my cheeks warmed under the scrutiny. “But, well . . . I’m convinced we’re in this for the long haul.” He drew a breath, his smile widening to a grin. “So, you’re looking at the newest officer in the Fourth Suffolk regiment. I report for training next week.”
My smile froze in place. My nails dug into the chair. I nearly humiliated myself by throwing up all over Miss F-B’s Turkey carpet as a crowd formed around him. The men shook his hand and offered encouragement and advice. The women kissed his cheek or enveloped him in weepy, perfumed hugs.
I tossed back the rest of my wine then went in search of whiskey to thaw the frozen ache bl
ossoming beneath my breastbone. I said nothing of my blind, unthinking terror. I bit my tongue and smiled and laughed, though the knot in my stomach rose into my throat, cutting off my breath.
If Simon suspected my true feelings, he kept it to himself, though whenever the night drew us close, he squeezed my hand, touched my arm, caressed my hip, or kissed my cheek, as if to mollify me or as if he wished to claim me as his own for those weeks and months we would be apart.
That night we lay in bed listening to the rain, the darkness complete but for the red tip of his cigarette as he rested with an arm behind his head. I still felt the memory of his touch upon my sensitive skin, and tiny aftershocks of ecstasy pulsed outward from my center. I rolled over and up on one elbow, trailing my other hand over his chest and down over the rippled muscles of his abdomen. He hissed in response, his body reawakening. He chuckled, stabbing out his cigarette before rolling me over onto my back, settling himself between my legs. “You’re shameless, my beautiful wanton.”
I relished the weight of him, the press of his erection. It meant he was here. He was mine. He was safe. If this was all I would have of him, it would have to be enough. I cupped his cheeks between my fingers, feeling the stubble against my palms. “No. Merely frightened.”
I sensed his frown in the shift of his body, as if he braced himself for an argument. “I know I should have told you first, but I was afraid you’d try to talk me out of it. Or worse, that you’d actually succeed.”
“But why do you need to go?”
“Since Mr. Balázs was interned with the rest of the Boche in the spring, things here aren’t going as I’d planned. I haven’t had a commission in over a month, and well . . . this is an opportunity unlike any other. A chance to experience and record the fighting man’s daily existence in a meaningful way. I’ve spoken to Mr. Weiss and he’s interested in commissioning a series of war sketches. This could be the spark I need.”
I couldn’t argue with his reasoning. I’d seen him stooped over the household accounts late into the night, trying to make income and expense add up as he eked out our diminishing funds. I’d watched his dream of a studio fade as fewer jobs came his way. The space below our flat had been let for a millinery shop, the chatter of shopgirls and clacking sewing machines starting before dawn each day. In desperation, he’d even begun advertising as an art teacher, which I knew he hated and brought him splitting headaches along with a string of pimply, sighing schoolgirls looking to better themselves with watercolor lessons.
Secrets of Nanreath Hall Page 22
