Gather the Bones

by Alison Stuart

  He had carried the battered leather volume with him through the blood and mud of the trenches, using the long, idle hours to translate it, a soldier’s translation of that other bloody conflict. From the penciled marks in the margins, Robert had undertaken a similar exercise one hundred years earlier. He had also recorded the dates and details of his own campaign on the Spanish Peninsula in the back pages. Paul had added his own war to Robert’s and the connection that reached out through blood and battle had been forged.

  He frowned and drained his whiskey. Robert hadn’t survived the dreadful battle of Badajoz. Robert had taken his own life, as much a victim of that war as if he had died on the battlefield. A quick, familiar rap on the door brought him back to the present and he turned as Evelyn entered. He slid off the windowsill and greeted his aunt.

  “You look tired, Paul,” Evelyn remarked. “I thought the trip to London may be too much for you. Is your leg bothering you?”

  He gave her an exasperated glare. “For God’s sake, Evelyn, I’m not an invalid.”

  Evelyn met his angry eyes with hurt in her own and he felt a stab of guilt at snapping at her. “I’m fine, but thank you for your concern,” he added.

  “How was Angela’s exhibition?” she asked.

  “A triumph,” Paul replied, unable to disguise the brittleness in his tone as he remembered the paintings she had not shown.

  “I thought we might commission her to paint Holdston.”

  Paul walked over to the whiskey decanter and poured himself another glass, offering Evelyn a sherry, which she declined.

  He took a swig from the glass and turned to face his aunt. “It might be good to have something to remember it by.” He took a breath. “Evelyn, I’m going to sell Holdston. I spoke to the lawyer in London. I will give the tenants first offer and then it’s going on the market.”

  He saw the look of horror cross her face. “Paul, we can manage. We’ve discussed this–”

  “No, we haven’t discussed it. You’ve told me what needs to be done. I have merely agreed with you. Now I think we should look at other alternatives for you. I thought we could have The Rookery done up for you–”

  “A cottage? You want me to live in a cottage?”

  “It has five bedrooms. It is hardly a cottage.”

  “And what about you?”

  “I’ll get a flat in London, near the Museum. I’m sorry, Evelyn, but we can’t go on like this.”

  “No, Paul. I refuse to talk about it now,” Evelyn said, raising her chin in defiance. “I only came to give you this.” She pulled a crumpled letter from her pocket. Smoothing out the creases, she handed it to him. “It came in the morning mail.”

  Paul opened the envelope and read the letter.

  “Bad news?” Evelyn enquired.

  He nodded. “One of my men is dying,” he said quietly. “It’s from his wife, asking for my help.”

  “One of your men?”

  He looked up at his aunt. “My Company Sergeant Major, Pat Devlin. He’s the one who saved my life, dragged me back to the lines–” Paul folded the paper. “I’ll leave for Belfast in the morning.”

  “Paul, you can’t keep running off every time one of your men needs help. The war is over.”

  “The war’s not over, Evelyn. Devlin is dying from the effects of gassing. I owe him my life and I will do whatever is in my power to help.”

  “Belfast? How long will you be gone?”

  Paul shrugged. “However long it takes. I’ll telegram when I get there.”

  * * * *

  Helen found a note slipped under her door when she got back from her morning ride. She recognized Paul Morrow’s dark ink and strong hand.

  “Been called away on urgent business. Will be gone at least a week. Not much diary left. Did some last night and will finish it on my return. You’ll find the papers in the library. PM.”

  She found the neatly stacked pages on the table in the library with a broken Sumerian clay tablet holding them down. Helen picked up the scrawled pages and sat down in one of the winged armchairs to read them.

  A breath of cold air blew gently on the back of Helen’s neck making the hairs stand up. Catching the scent of Lily of the Valley she looked up and the breath caught in her throat. A woman stood on the hearth before her, her hand resting on the corbel of the mantel, her gaze fixed on Helen. Helen stared, taking in every detail of the woman’s empire line dress, the upswept hair and the generous mouth. She looked so real and yet at the same time Helen could see the details of the mantelpiece through her.

  For a long moment, Helen held her breath, her gaze transfixed by the ethereal figure.

  “Suzanna!” she whispered the name.

  As she spoke, the image turned and faded into the bookcase to the left of the fireplace.

  For a long moment Helen didn’t move, every nerve in her body stretched taut. She had seen Robert but never Suzanna. Did Suzanna’s appearance mean she was closing in on the mystery that bound them both to this house?

  She let out a sigh and turned back to the papers, wishing Paul were here to share her thoughts.

  April 4: At last a few stolen moments together as we accidentally encountered one another in St. James’ Park. With my maid keeping a respectful distance we walked together as two acquaintances should. I confess that I was still feeling vexed and asked spitefully about the wife of Mr. W. Ah, he replied, his face growing grim, that poor lady. Her husband was wont to beat her and she turned to him as a friend, no more. On discovering their friendship, her husband beat her most cruelly and locked her away in their country house. S expressed his deepest sadness that their relationship should have been so misconstrued. I am not a complete fool. I have no doubt that for a man like S, a lonely married woman is easy prey without the attendant expectations of a single girl.

  April 16: Oh calamity! My life is shattered. I received a letter today from Robert’s Colonel advising that Robert has been badly wounded. It would appear his regiment was engaged in a siege of a town called Badajoz which they took by storm on 16 March. Many good men were lost and Robert fell in the first charge. His life was despaired of for many days and Colonel Muir says he is far from out of danger and will be unfit for service for many months, if not ever. Lady Morrow fell into a fit of weeping and has dispatched her brother and personal physician to Spain to bring Robert home. We are to return to Holdston and await news. My mind is numb, what should I feel for this man who is my husband and has given me no cause to doubt him? Undoubtedly my place is by his side as our marriage vows commanded but then I have already broken those vows. Perhaps this is a judgment from God to recall to me to my wifely duties.

  April 19: We are returned to Holdston and to the arms of my two precious, precious children. I am now convinced more than ever that Robert’s return is a godsend. How close I came to straying from the path and throwing myself into an abyss from which there is no return. I sent S a short note to the effect that my husband was returning from the war in a state of convalescence and my duty was to him. I wished him well and bade him never to attempt communication with me again. Oh how my heart ached as I wrote those words but I know I am right.

  May 22: Robert is returned. I had not understood the gravity of his wounds and the man who is returned to me is but a shadow of the husband I recall. As it is he barely clings to life. Adele, on seeing her father carried upstairs, began screaming hysterically. Poor child. She is too young to understand this shattered man is her father. The doctor tells me that he is grievous hurt. It would seem his company came under heavy fire from the French musketry and he was hit in right leg and a ball has grazed his face leaving him with a livid scar he will carry for the rest of his life. We placed him in our bedchamber and it is decided that I shall move my possessions to the green bedchamber during his convalescence. Lady Morrow has employed the services of a nurse and I fear that I am quite useless. He was too fatigued from the journey to talk so all I can do is sit with him and pray.

  Helen re-read th
e passages, seeing the pattern of her experiences at Holdston beginning to emerge. When Robert had come home, Suzanna had moved to the green bedroom, the room Helen now occupied– the room where she had found the diary.

  She looked around the quiet library, at the bookshelves and the paintings, her gaze resting on the portraits of Suzanna and Robert. The common thread with both of them was this room.

  As she looked into their painted eyes, she recalled her conversation with Tony Scarvell the night of the Wellmore soiree. Maybe Tony’s Aunt Philomena might be able to cast some light on the identity of the mysterious ‘S’?

  * * * *

  Tony rang her the following morning to say he had come up to Wellmore for a couple of days and would she care to meet for a ride? Helen asked him to arrange a meeting with Aunt Philomena and, although he seemed a little surprised, he promised to make the arrangements. He rang back later in the morning and they arranged to meet that afternoon and ride over and take tea with Aunt Philomena.

  They met at the gates to Wellmore. With Paul away, Helen rode Hector. In his absence riding his horse made her feel closer to him.

  Tony, riding his magnificent hunter, smiled in welcome. “I gather Paul’s gone off on some mission of mercy?”

  “Evelyn said that he’s gone to visit one of his men in Ireland,” Helen replied.

  “That would be Devlin. Good man, Devlin. Paul always swore he was the backbone of the company. You know he pulled Paul out of no man’s land?”

  When Helen shook her head, Tony continued, “Got mentioned in dispatches for what he did. I personally recommended him for a medal but the brass didn’t follow up on it. By all accounts, he went back out into no man’s land, threw Paul over his shoulder and quite literally hauled him back to the trenches under fire the whole time. That’s bravery.”

  Helen glanced at him, seeing regret in Tony’s face. He had no reason to be ashamed of his part in the war, yet for all his bluff words, he gave her the impression that he felt he had somehow let the side down, had not shared the horror of the trenches. Survival came at a cost.

  Tony must have felt her eyes on him. He straightened his shoulders and the face he presented to her had returned to one of genial good nature. “Now what’s all this about wanting to meet Aunt Phil?”

  “It’s to do with the family research Paul and I are doing. You told me she knew more about the Scarvell family history than anyone else. I have a few questions she may be able to answer.”

  Tony glanced at his watch. “Well let’s get going, Aunt Phil will be waiting for us with tea and cake.”

  “She won’t mind if we arrive looking like this?”

  “Not at all. Aunt Phil is happiest surrounded by dogs and horses and people who like dogs and horses.”

  Aunt Philomena lived in a long, low, rambling house in a village on the Wellmore Estate. The garden gave the appearance of rampant neglect but on closer inspection, the riot of flowers and vegetation had a magnificent order to it.

  They released the horses into a small paddock behind the house and walked around to the front door. The face of the elderly maid who answered the door lit up when she saw Tony.

  “Master Anthony. It is good to see you,” she said, “She’s in the living room.”

  The house, like the garden, was a picture of planned disorder. Paintings jostled for room on the walls and valuable ornaments and leather bound books seemed to occupy every spare inch of table and shelf space.

  Aunt Philomena rose from her chair by a wide picture window to greet them, disturbing three slumbering dogs. She came forward to embrace her great nephew. Her hair and clothes were of a style fashionable twenty or more years earlier and to judge from the frayed hems and discreet mends, probably dated from that time as well. Long strands of grey hair escaped from the disorderly chignon, which meant that every couple of minutes, Philomena would stop to refasten the wayward strands.

  “Oh my,” she exclaimed on being introduced to Helen. “Charlie said he’d married a beauty. He wasn’t wrong.”

  Helen felt herself flushing but before she could respond, Philomena busied herself clearing books off chairs, plying them with tea, cakes and questions about the Scarvell family. She wanted to know every detail of Angela’s exhibition and seemed thrilled when Tony told her that nearly all the paintings had sold.

  “I told you that girl had talent,” she declared. “Who would have thought she could make a living from it?”

  “Aunt Philomena credits herself with Angela’s artistic abilities,” Tony said with a smile.

  Philomena pulled a face. “Of course in my day it was unthinkable that a young woman would be so vulgar as to paint professionally. You young women today are so fortunate.” She sighed deeply.

  Tony set his cup down. “Aunt Phil was a suffragette. Chained herself to the railings of the House of Commons.”

  Helen stared at the woman, trying to reconcile this pleasant, elderly woman with the newspaper photographs of the suffragettes that caused her father to hide the newspaper from her.

  “That was a long time ago,” Aunt Phil said. “Now, I am not so foolish as to think your visit is purely altruistic, Tony. What are you after?”

  “Aunt Phil,” Tony declaimed in mock offence.

  The old woman fixed him with a twinkling eye.

  “It’s my request,” Helen said. “Paul and I are doing some research on the family.”

  “Oh, Paul. How is he? Poor man was so ill after the war, you know, Helen. We quite despaired of his recovery and now look at him, gallivanting all over the Middle East, opening tombs and things. Such an exciting life. I would have loved to be an archaeologist. Did you read about that tomb in Egypt that man Carter opened last year?”

  Helen glanced at Tony who replied for her, “Oh, Paul’s in fine form at the moment. He came up to London to see Ange’s exhibition.”

  “Oh, I’m so pleased. I always liked Paul. I always thought he and Angela...not to be. Anyway, my dear, what is the question?”

  “We are looking at the history of his great grandfather, Sir Robert Morrow and–”

  “–and the ‘great scandal’?” Philomena finished the sentence. “That was still talked about in hushed tones when I was a girl.”

  “What ‘great scandal’?” Tony asked. “I can’t imagine the Morrows being involved in a scandal?”

  “Every family has its secrets, Anthony. If I recall rightly Robert Morrow’s wife, Susan...”

  “Suzanna,” Helen corrected.

  “Ah yes, the ‘scandalous Suzanna’ ran off with another man. You can quite imagine what a shock that was. Her poor husband was quite distraught. They say he took his own life a couple of years later.”

  “We think he did, but you are the first one to say that,” Helen said. “It is generally described as an ‘unfortunate accident’.”

  “Oh well, I abhor calling something by another name. I suppose they preferred ‘an accident’ because it meant it wasn’t suicide with all the attendant legal difficulties that presented. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that it was suicide. So what do you want to know?”

  “We’ve found a diary written by Suzanna.”

  “Oh my dear, how exciting.” Philomena clapped her hands.

  “And there is no doubt that she had an attachment to another man but she only identifies him as ‘S’,” Helen continued.

  Philomena’s eyes glittered. “I’d love to see it, dear. Did you bring it with you?”

  “No, I didn’t. Unfortunately she wrote in code. Paul has been working on it but he hasn’t finished the translation yet and he’s been called away so we will have to wait.”

  Philomena looked disappointed. “So why do you think I might be able to help?”

  “She met ‘S’ at a ball at Wellmore where he is described as being a friend of Adrian Scarvell. She mentions he was naval officer, attached to the Admiralty in London where he worked on ‘matters of great secrecy’.”

  “Oh, how very dashing and romantic. An
d you have no idea who he is?”

  Helen shook her head. “We... I...wondered if there were records of the time that may have recorded who stayed at Wellmore?”

  Philomena bit her lip. “Of course there are but I don’t have them here. They’re kept in the offices at Wellmore. The staff has always been scrupulous in their record keeping. I tell you what, I could go to the house tomorrow and see what I can find. What date are we talking about?”

  “The ball where they met was held on New Year’s Eve 1811. Suzanna absconded in September of 1812. It seems S was a frequent visitor to the house during that period.”

  “Oh I do so love a mystery,” Philomena said. “I shall have the greatest pleasure in pursuing this matter for you.” She glanced at Tony. “Unless of course, you would like to take on the task?”

  Tony raised his hands. “Not me. Sounds like just the sort of thing you enjoy, Aunt Phil.”

  Philomena cuffed his arm, but looked pleased. “It may take a day or so. Is that all right?”

  “Paul is away at present so there’s no hurry.” Helen glanced at her watch. “I am afraid we must take our leave, Miss Scarvell.”

  Philomena stood up, straightening her crumpled and faded skirts.

  “It has been a great pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Morrow. I shall report in a day or so.”

  Tony and Helen rode slowly back to Holdston, dismounting in the front courtyard.

  Tony looked up at the old house, bathed golden in the fading autumn sunshine. “You know I’ve always loved Holdston. Wellmore is a house you can admire but you can never love it. Holdston is a–”

  “Home?” Helen ventured.

  “Perhaps that’s it,” Tony said.

  He moved closer to her and Helen felt his arm around her waist drawing her toward him.

  “Helen...” he began, but didn’t finish.