A Bitter Truth

by Charles Todd

  “All right, I’ll see him safely back to base.” She looked him up and down. “Was he in a fire?”

  I shrugged. “How should I know? When I left him, he was clean, shaven, and quiet.”

  “Not shell shock, is it?”

  “No. I swear to you it isn’t shell shock.” That I could state with complete truthfulness.

  She must have believed me. Ordering Sergeant Larimore below, she told him, “I’ll sort you out in a few minutes.”

  “He’ll need something to eat,” I reminded her. “I don’t know when he last had a meal. He can’t remember.”

  I followed him to the companionway, as if making sure he went below, saying to him in a low voice, “If there’s any trouble, send for me.”

  “I’ll do that, Sister. Although I think I’ve earned the right to call you Bess now.” He grinned, cast a quick look around the empty deck, and then before I could stop him, he stooped and kissed me on the lips. Then he was gone.

  I looked after him, hoping he’d be all right, and then carried the wriggling bundle in my arms off the ship and out of the port. Sophie was beginning to whimper, and I hurried to the Major’s motorcar, making what soothing sounds I could. The sun was well over the horizon by that time, winter bright and blinding as it created a golden path across the water.

  What was I to do now? I asked myself as I turned the crank.

  Where was I to take her? To my mother? To Vixen Hill?

  I’d have been happy to pass the problem to my mother, who had the reputation of being able to cope no matter what was happening all around her. But this was, in a sense, my doing, for having unwittingly involved Sergeant Larimore.

  The first order of business was to get as far from Dover as I could.

  By the time I’d reached Canterbury, Sophie was wide eyed and staring around. I’d handled and looked after babies and small children during my training, and so I began to talk to her in French, smiling and asking her name, telling her mine. We counted to ten, and sang a little song. She bounced in time with the ruts of the road. When that palled, she made the sound of the motor, pretending there was a wheel in front of her and turning it this way and that, mimicking me. I don’t think she’d ever been in a motorcar before, and it fascinated her.

  I stopped in a village not far from Chillingham and bought milk for her as well as a few biscuits. She drank the milk with an appetite, but I didn’t think she’d ever had biscuits, for she turned them this way and that, before I could persuade her to taste one of them. Then she was so enthralled she hummed to herself as she ate them.

  Beyond Canterbury, the warmth of the sun in the motorcar made her eyes heavy, and her head flopped to one side as she fell asleep on the rug I’d wrapped around my shoulders the night before.

  I knew better than to try to make her more comfortable. Instead I let her sleep.

  And what in God’s name was I to do about the Major’s motorcar?

  By the time we’d reached the Sussex border later in the afternoon, she was awake again, and complaining, more a whimper than a cry. Her mouth turned down, and her eyes looked so sad I could have picked her up and held her. Pulling to the verge, I turned to her.

  The nuns and the other children were the only family this child had ever known, and she had been taken unceremoniously from them. But the fire must have frightened her and made the initial separation much easier.

  Now she wanted familiar faces and familiar surroundings, and she began to cry in earnest, great tears rolling down her cheeks.

  I lifted her into my lap and held her, feeling such guilt I could hardly bear it.

  The last of the biscuits stopped the tears, and she looked at me with large, bewildered eyes before falling asleep on my shoulder. I put her carefully into the seat beside me before driving on.

  Even with the best of intentions, there was no way to carry her back to France now. By this time Sergeant Larimore had already sailed, and I was already long overdue in Sussex.

  I bought more milk for her just before crossing the Kent border into Sussex, and turned toward Ashdown Forest.

  And I still didn’t know what I was to do with Sophie.

  I didn’t even know the child’s last name.

  Sophie was crying again, a forlorn little creature huddled in her blankets by the time we’d reached Hartfield, and my level of guilt had spun out of control. Night had fallen, and I was wondering how I could find my way through the heath.

  I couldn’t go to The King’s Head. Arriving with a very young child would cause comment that would get back to the Ellis family almost overnight. And the explanations I would have to make would only add to the gossip.

  I had no choice but to continue to Vixen Hill.

  I was halfway there when Sophie fell into a restless sleep. It was just as well, because suddenly a motorcar coming out of a side track nearly cut me off.

  I stopped quickly, throwing out an arm to keep the sleeping child from sliding off the seat.

  By that time Inspector Rother was out of the motorcar and stalking toward me in my headlamps.

  My heart sank.

  “You do realize,” he said, “that you can be taken into custody after what you’ve done?”

  “I’m so sorry, Inspector. I was under orders.”

  “I doubt that. Where have you been, Miss Crawford?”

  “To Dover,” I told him truthfully. “I’m a nurse, Inspector. I was needed, and I went. Now I’ve come back to Ashdown Forest to continue answering your questions.”

  “I told you not to leave.”

  “So you did. But this was a military matter, and not for my own pleasure. If you will telephone the port, the officer in charge, a Captain Wilson, will tell you that it was a matter of a man with a head injury who had to be identified and processed.”

  That gave him pause, and it was still the absolute truth.

  “And when did this summons come? Were you the only nursing sister available for this task?”

  “I was the only one who could recognize him. As for how the summons came, a clerk from the inn came to Vixen Hill to tell me that there was an urgent message for me. He and I drove back to The King’s Head, I put through my telephone call—there are witnesses to that as well. I set out for Dover immediately with an Army officer. The woman at Reception can verify that.”

  “At what time?”

  “I don’t know the time. But I did see you walking toward Bluebell Cottage, and your constable, Constable Bates, even spoke to the clerk as we drove into Hartfield. I left some ten minutes later.”

  “The Ellis family was not aware that you had left. They have been concerned. I have spoken to them.”

  “Sadly, there was no way I could send a message to them.” But I’d left word at the inn. Had no one gotten it? “I would have spoken to you, but you were occupied with Bluebell Cottage. Did you find something significant there?”

  “We went there to search for another body. See that you don’t take such liberties again,” he said gruffly, and turned back to his vehicle, leaving me to stare after him.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I drove with great care the rest of the way to the turning for Vixen Hill, and in spite of that, the tires swerved in a rut, and Sophie woke up and started to cry again. She was hungry and very, very tired. I was so grateful that Inspector Rother hadn’t seen her in the darkness.

  Sergeant Larimore had had her best interests at heart, but he hadn’t thought it through any more than I had when I began to search for Sophie.

  We pulled up in front of the door to the hall, and I turned off the motor.

  In the quiet that followed, Sophie sniffed and looked at me as if to ask why we were stopping. “C’est votre maison, maintenant, chérie. Votre nouvelle maison.”

  This is your home now, dear one. Your new home.

  She turned to look up at the imposing house before her, tears still streaking her cheeks, and then held up her arms to me to take her out of the motorcar.

  Keeping her well wr
apped against the cold, I carried her to the door and lifted the knocker. But Daisy must have heard the motorcar arrive, because she opened the door at once.

  “Oh, Miss, we was so worried!”

  “I’m sorry, Daisy. It’s a long story. Is—everyone all right?”

  “Yes, Miss. It was you we was worried about.” She peered into the shadows at the bundle I was carrying. “Is that a baby?”

  “A child,” I said, “hungry and tired and frightened.”

  “I’ve looked after my brothers and sisters,” she said. “I can manage. But where did she come from?” She reached for Sophie, who pulled away.

  “I’ll take her down to the kitchens, Daisy. Will you lead the way?”

  There was no one in the hall as we entered. Daisy had been building up the fire when I knocked, her tongs lying on the carpet, an extra log in the wood box for the evening. She hastily put the tongs back where she’d found them, and, dusting her hands, she went through the door into the passage.

  “The family is dressing for dinner,” she said. “Should I send for Mrs. Matthew?”

  “Later, perhaps.”

  We made it to the kitchen without meeting anyone. Around me sat the array of dishes that would be taken to the sitting room in another quarter of an hour. Onions baked in a cream sauce, a side dish of greens, a small platter of roasted chicken and potatoes. I felt my own empty stomach growl at the sight.

  We put Sophie down in one of the wooden chairs, and Daisy found milk for her in the pantry, as well as a scone that had been left over from tea.

  Sophie sat on my lap and drank the milk, then nibbled at the scone, her gaze sweeping the kitchen and then scanning Daisy’s face. I expect she had never seen so much food or been in a room quite so warm. After a moment she got down and held out the cup to be filled again, and still nibbling at the scone, she considered me.

  I smiled. “Je m’appelle Bess,” I said softly. I call myself Bess.

  Daisy stared. “What was that you said, Miss?”

  “It’s French—” I could have bitten my tongue. But I was tired, it had been over twenty-four hours since I’d slept, and I’d driven miles.

  Daisy’s eyes grew wide. “This isn’t the little girl that was spoken of in the drawing room before the Lieutenant was killed?” She studied the small, tear-streaked face. “My good lord, she does look like Miss Juliana, in that portrait.”

  “How did you hear about her?” I asked sharply. “You weren’t in the drawing room that night.”

  “No, Miss, but the lad who brings our order from the greengrocer’s is brother to the cook at Dr. Tilton’s house, and she overheard them talking about the child. They said it was Mr. Roger’s. Is that true?”

  “You’ll have to ask him,” I said. “Will you make up a little porridge, or a pudding?”

  “Yes, Miss, and there’s an extra potato left in the pot. I can make up a little soup with the broth from the chicken.”

  “Yes, that will do well.” I held out my arms to Sophie, and after a moment she came to them, wary and uncertain. “I’ll take her to my room for now. And I’d rather you didn’t say anything until after—”

  The door to the kitchen swung open, and Lydia came in. “Was there someone at the door—” She too broke off in midsentence.

  “Bess! Where on earth have you been? “And then she saw Sophie, whose face had crumpled at the sight of the newcomer, and I remembered that the nuns had said that there were few visitors who saw the children.

  “Is that—oh, Bess, where did you find her? How?” She came around to the other side of the table. “Dear God,” she whispered as she saw Sophie clearly. “She’s Roger’s daughter. She must be.”

  “I don’t know whose child she is,” I said quickly. “And she’s here only for a very short time. The nuns in France—”

  “I don’t care about the nuns,” Lydia said, and dropped to her knees before Sophie. “Can she understand us?”

  “She speaks only French,” I said.

  To my surprise, Lydia began to speak to Sophie in French that was far better than mine. I hadn’t known she’d studied the language, much less spoke it so well.

  For a moment Sophie leaned back against me, staring at Lydia. But the accent was familiar enough that after a moment Sophie began to reply. Tentative at first, and then more readily.

  Lydia asked her name and where she was from, how old she was—the sort of questions an adult usually puts to a child.

  I said, “Where did you learn to speak French?”

  She answered, never taking her eyes from Sophie, “When I was fourteen, we had a French mistress at our school. I won a prize for the best accent.”

  “She’s very tired,” I told Lydia. “I was just about to take her to my room. She isn’t used to so many strangers at once.”

  “No, I want her in my room. There’s Davis’s cat, she’ll like Bluebell, and I can get to know her.” She got up from her knees and flung her arms around me. “Bess, you’re wonderful. I’m so grateful. You can’t know how grateful.”

  “She isn’t yours,” I insisted. “She must go back to France as soon as I can return her to the convent. The nuns will be frantic, there was a fire—”

  Lydia’s face hardened. “She’s not going anywhere. She’s mine. I won’t let her be taken back to France.”

  I said wearily, “You don’t have any choice, Lydia. She’s not yours. Nor is she mine. There are laws, papers, arrangements to be made.”

  “Then we’ll make them. Why should she live out a life of drudgery in a convent? Look at her, she’s the image of Juliana. Roger is her father, he can tell the French authorities that he’s adopting her. Or whatever they call it in France.”

  “He doesn’t know she’s here. He may not want to keep her.”

  “Yes, he will. She’s his flesh and blood. And I’m his wife.”

  There was no reasoning with her. Before I could say anything else, make any stronger arguments, she had lifted Sophie into her arms, asking the child if she wanted to see the cat.

  Sophie’s tired face brightened, and she nodded.

  “See?” Lydia said to me over her shoulder. “She’s happy with me.”

  “She’s hungry, Lydia. I’ve asked Daisy to make her a light supper after the family has dined.”

  “That’s a lovely idea. Daisy, ask Molly to bring a tray to my room.” She corrected herself. “The room I’m using. And some bedding, please. Pillows, a quilt or two.”

  “We’ll see to it,” Daisy promised her. “But isn’t she the dearest little thing?”

  And Lydia was out the door, calling over her shoulder, “Bess, please, will you tell the family I have a headache? I won’t be dining tonight.”

  And she was gone.

  I didn’t know how I was to get through the dinner ahead. I debated going after Lydia and taking Sophie away from her. But that would only serve to frighten Sophie and make her cry.

  “I must hurry and change,” I said and left the room before Daisy or the cook, Mrs. Long, could ask any more questions.

  I bathed my face and hands, changed out of the uniform I had worn for nearly two days straight, and put on the only evening dress I had with me, a dark blue one that was more practical than it was stylish.

  When I came down to the drawing room ten minutes later, everyone turned to stare as I crossed the threshold.

  “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Ellis. When I went to Hartfield to take the call, I was asked to proceed at once to Dover. There was no one I could ask to carry a message to you.”

  “Why Dover?” Roger Ellis asked, suspicion darkening his eyes.

  “There was a problem with one of my patients. Daisy said you’d been worried, and I apologize for that as well.” I looked from Mrs. Ellis to Margaret and then to Gran. “As Captain Ellis can tell you, duty is not a matter of choice.”

  “We were quite concerned, especially after the situation in Hartfield. We were afraid something had happened to you.” She went to the table by the window.
“There’s a little sherry left of our trove. You look as if you could use something to lift your spirits. Was it very bad in Dover?”

  I took the sherry gratefully, feeling its burn as I swallowed it. “I drove straight there with a Major on his way to join his regiment, and I returned, without sleep. Yes, Dover was quite trying.” While I still held the floor, I asked, “But what were the police doing in Hartfield? I had to leave before I could discover what their interest was in Bluebell Cottage. The constables were holding everyone back. Tonight, when I encountered Inspector Rother on the road, he told me that they were searching for another body. But he refused to tell me any more than that.”

  “A body?” Mrs. Ellis turned to her son. “You didn’t say anything about a body.”

  “It was mostly over by the time I got there,” he replied. “I told you, I asked Mr. Smyth what was going on, and he said he wasn’t at liberty to tell me.” He turned to me. “Just where did you run into Rother?”

  “There’s a track coming in from the left that meets the main track running past Vixen Hill. A mile or two from where your lane turns to the right. He was coming from that direction.”

  Roger said, “There’s the ruin of a windmill that way. Not much else.”

  “And you’re sure he said a body?” Margaret asked, a frown between her eyes.

  “Yes, I’m sure. I was asking him about the excitement in Hartfield. And that’s when he told me. I think he was too angry with me for leaving to say any more than he had. My—punishment—for disappearing.”

  “He’s incompetent,” Gran said. “I’d complain to the Chief Constable if I thought it would do any good.”

  “It can’t be easy for him,” Margaret pointed out. “He hounds us because he doesn’t know where else to turn and George was our houseguest.”

  Before I could make Lydia’s excuses, Daisy came to the door to announce dinner. Mrs. Ellis said, “We’re waiting for Lydia. She hasn’t come down.”

  Daisy flicked a glance in my direction then said, “She has a headache, ma’am, and doesn’t feel up to having dinner.”

  “Then I should go up to her,” Mrs. Ellis said.