The rain had stopped, leaving the cobbled streets glistening under the streetlights. The residents of Brussels kept sober hours and the old medieval houses were shut up tight and dark. Their footsteps echoed in the narrow streets as they walked in silence.
When they reached the bank of the canal, they stopped and leaned on the railing above the water looking out over the dark, still water to the far bank.
“What will you do now?” Paul broke the silence between them.
Helen’s shoulders heaved as she sighed. “When I get back to England, I’ll fetch Alice and we will come over to the continent for a couple of months. Then I’m going home.”
“You won’t come back to Holdston?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“You sound very sure.”
She tilted her head to look up at him. The light of the gas lamp, cast the planes of her face in strange shadows, her eyes lost in dark pools. He thought of that moment on the battlefield when she had taken him in her arms and held him. No one had ever done that before, except perhaps his mother and Sarah Pollard when he’d been a small boy.
He had not led a monastic life but the women he had bedded had been there for one purpose only. Only in those fleeting few days with Angela had he felt a real connection with another human on a plane that went beyond the physical. Until today. As he looked down into Helen’s face, he yearned for her touch again.
He put out his hand and touched her cheek and when she didn’t move, he lowered his head, his lips brushing hers in a brief exploratory touch. She took a deep shuddering breath and her body turned toward him. He slipped his arms around her, drawing her close and she responded, her own arms winding around his neck, drawing him down toward her.
The moment their lips touched, the embers that had been smoldering between them burst into flame. A hunger born of the long, lonely years flared. The canal, the cobblestones, the gas lamp above them and the memories of their grim day on the battlefields of Passchandaele faded into a world that just became Paul and Helen.
With shuddering breath, they broke apart and stood for a long time enfolded in each other’s arms. Paul closed his eyes. He wanted to hold her like this forever but he had nothing to offer her, nothing she would want. She would always look at him and think of Charlie and he could never replace his golden haired, laughing cousin. They were the flip sides of the same coin, for Charlie there would always be Paul–as dark and closed as his cousin had been fair and open.
He gently disengaged her arms.
“We must get back to the hotel,” he said.
“Paul...” she began but he laid a finger over her lips, shaking his head.
He saw her frown and despite himself, he reached out and brushed a lock of hair that had fallen across her eyes.
“Helen, tomorrow we will return to England and to our own lives. What happened tonight was just a moment. Take Alice on her adventure and return to Australia.”
The gaslight reflected unshed tears in her eyes. He knew she wanted him to say those three words that would bind her to him but to tell her that he loved her would be a mistake.
“And you?” she asked, the tremor in her voice evident.
He shook his head. “I will do what has to be done. That is my duty.”
She laid her hand on his chest. “Duty? What about the man in here? What do you want, Paul Morrow?” She pressed her hand hard against his breastbone.
He removed her hand and let it drop.
Turning, he walked away from her. Behind him, her quickened steps rang on the cobblestones as she hurried to catch him. Her fingers caught at his, sending sparks through him. He felt the cold metal of Charlie’s wedding ring and released her clasp, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his coat and he hunched his shoulders against a flurry of rain. As they crossed the Grand Place, the first of the flowers sellers wheeled their barrows on to the cobblestones but they didn’t slow their step. They parted at the door to his room without a word.
Chapter 20
Paul looked down at the battered tin trunk that sat in the middle of the faded and threadbare rug. For an object that had been his daily companion for so many years, it seemed alien and repulsive. He swept the dust from the top, revealing his name and regimental number stenciled in black letters.
He hadn’t seen this trunk since the day he had taken his men over the top and never returned. It contained nothing he had wanted or needed since the day he had been wounded. The only thing of value to him, The Iliad and his notebook, had been tucked into a pocket of his tunic and had survived the day, slightly bloodstained but relatively unscathed.
Taking a breath, he hefted the trunk on to the table and threw back the lid. For a moment, time stood still. The smell of the trenches still lingered in the trunk, as if captured in a time warp. Mud, mould, smoke, cordite, latrines and boiled cabbage wafted up at him and he took a step back.
An empty pistol holster sat on the top of a pile of neatly folded shirts and other clothing. He picked the object up and his breath constricted in his throat. On that last day, the pistol would have been on a cord around his neck. Officers only carried pistols. Rifles were considered ungentlemanly.
With a shudder, he removed the clothes, consigning them to a pile on the floor for the next bonfire.
At the bottom of the trunk, he found the leather writing case, the reason for his search, wrapped in a hand knitted gray wool jumper. He couldn’t recall who had sent the jumper. He couldn’t imagine any woman of his acquaintance producing such a thing, with the possible exception of Sarah Pollard who had sent him gloves and a woolen scarf which he found tucked in a corner of the trunk. The jumper probably came from a Red Cross parcel, knitted by an unknown hand for “one of the boys” at the Front.
He unwrapped the writing case and was surprised to find it in good condition. He traced his father’s initials stamped in the corner and reflected that this one object was the only possession of his father’s he possessed. It contained only a few small bundles of letters. A collection from Fi, tied up with a frayed string. He smiled at the girlish hand on the lavender colored envelopes and consigned them to the fire without further consideration.
Besides Fi, there had been few people to write to him in those long, difficult years. Evelyn had written duty letters every month. These he had never kept. There were a few from Sarah with the Holdston gossip. He glanced through them and added them to the fire. Hastily scrawled notes from school friends, also serving on the front and now long dead, followed into the flames. It left one solitary sealed envelope.
He picked up the mud-stained envelope and turned it over. It had one word scrawled on it, in Charlie’s impetuous hand. Helen.
“Come at a bad time?”
Paul looked up, thrusting the letter back into the case.
“Tony. Always pleased to see you.” Paul looked at the trunk and ran a hand through his hair. “Just thought it was time to clean out the cobwebs.”
Tony gave him a quick knowing glance, and crossing to the table where the decanters stood, poured two whiskeys. The men sat in Paul’s battered armchairs.
“How’s Evelyn?” Tony asked.
Paul shrugged. “Busy with her plans to hold a memorial service for Charlie next week. Do you know where Helen is at the moment?”
They had parted as virtual strangers at the hotel in Brussels on the morning he had kissed her. Helen had been adamant that she had to return to Alice and he did not try to prevent her. Evelyn had been prostrate with grief and he had felt unable to leave until she was fit to travel. So he had let Helen go.
He assumed she had stayed in Cumbria since her return and he envied her the peace and healing tranquility of the Lake District.
“London,” Tony replied. “I inveigled her back down south with the promise of London treats for the sprite. Paul…”
The sudden, unfamiliar seriousness in his friend’s tone made Paul look up.
“Paul, I’m going to ask Helen to marry me.”
; Paul looked down at his glass and when he didn’t answer, Tony continued. “Is that...? I mean...do you have any problems with that? Is there anything between you and Helen I should know about? You know I would never...”
Paul heard the yearning in Tony’s voice and understood that he needed to be given permission to do as he intended.
Paul made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Good God, no. She’s a terrific girl and she deserves to be happy. You have my blessing, for what it’s worth.” Even as he said the words, a knife twisted in his gut.
Relief flooded Tony’s face.
“What are you going to do about your mother?” Paul continued. “She seems to have formed an unfavorable view of Helen.”
Tony set his glass down and rose to his feet, his chin set in an unfamiliar defiance. “We will just have to show her she’s wrong.”
Paul swilled the last of the whiskey in the bottom of his glass before he looked up at Tony. “Tony, I can see how you feel about her but what does she feel about you? Does she love you?”
The defiance fled from Tony’s face and his mouth drooped. “Truth? I don’t think so, not like I feel about her, but love can come, don’t you think?”
Paul shrugged. “I’m the last person to ask. I’ve never had the luxury of being in love.”
After the door shut behind Tony, Paul set his glass down on the table and stared at the flickering flames of the fire. The fire died down and a chill descended on the room.
“You know something,” he said to the silent watcher at the window. “I’ve never been in love before I met Helen Morrow and now I’m letting her go. Am I doing the right thing?”
* * * *
Helen took the seat Tony held out for her and looked around the Savoy Grill.
“Tony, this is too generous,” she said. “A suite at the hotel and now dinner?”
“Only the best for my goddaughter and her mother.” Tony smiled. “I haven’t had much of a chance to spoil Alice and if you’re intent on disappearing off to Paris, I must make the most of my time with you both.”
Helen smiled in response. “You are a good godfather. Alice adores you.”
Tony flushed with pleasure. “I’m glad to hear that. Everyone needs to be adored by someone.” He looked at her with serious eyes. “I haven’t had a chance to ask how you are?”
“Oh, I’m fine. At peace with myself, if that’s possible. How are things at Holdston?” she asked, trying to keep the tone of her voice casual.
Tony shrugged. “Much the same. Evelyn is soldiering on as she does, but she seems to have lost her fight.”
“I’m sorry. And what about Paul?”
“Tied up with getting the estate into something saleable. Now you remind me I’m actually on an errand from Evelyn. She asked me to give you this.” He handed over an envelope.
“Do you mind if I open it?” Helen asked.
Tony shook his head.
Helen scanned the contents of the short, sharp note.
My dear Helen, You left before I had a chance to tell you of my plans for Charlie’s memorial service. It will be held on Wednesday next in the church here at Holdston. As Charlie’s widow and the mother of his child, I expect you would both wish to attend. For your information, I intend to dedicate a scholarship at the local school to his memory. I thought that might please you. Lady E. Morrow.
Helen handed the note to Tony and said, as he scanned it, “I left Brussels because I had a train to catch and she was in no state for visitors. She has such a knack of making everything I do sound like it’s my fault. Of course, I will go to the service. Are you invited?”
“We all are. I’ll drive you and Alice to Warwickshire.”
“Thank you. I’ll arrange a hotel in Warwick. That might be easier than staying at Holdston.”
“Oh, I’m sure...that is...”
She looked at Tony. He seemed discomposed. A fine sweat had broken out across the bridge of his nose and he downed his wine like cordial.
“Is something bothering you, Tony?”
He looked up and gave her a rueful smile.
“You’re going to think me the most frightful ass!” Tony’s mouth quirked. “Ever since I first saw you in the drawing room at Wellmore, you’ve been all I’ve thought about.”
Helen stared at him, willing him not to say the words she knew would follow. He held up his hand, cutting short any protestation from her.
“Let me finish. I know you don’t love me, Helen, but do you think you could come to love me?”
“What sort of question is that?” Helen’s heart thudded against her ribs.
“I’m asking you to marry me,” Tony swallowed, staring at her.
“Tony–” Helen’s hands twisted the fine linen napkin on her lap as she struggled to find the right words.
“You don’t have to answer straight away,” Tony said hurriedly.
“I...I don’t know what to answer,” Helen said. “Can I think about it?”
Tony’s hand shook as he picked up the glass. “Take all the time you need.” He added with a smile, “As long as the answer is yes. You must have known how I felt about you?”
She shook her head, remembering the day he had kissed her. Of course she had known but she had thought it nothing more than a passing fancy.
He picked up her hand and pressed her fingers to his lips. “I think you are the most beautiful, enchanting, delightful, intelligent woman I have ever met.”
“Your parents will most certainly not approve.”
Tony smiled. “Oh, Father thinks you’re wonderful. Mother, on the other hand, may take some convincing. Charlie’s memorial service is in two days. Let me spoil you for a couple of days and then come back to Wellmore with me. You can stay there and work your charm on her?”
“Tony you’re making an assumption–” Helen began.
“Yes, I am. Come down to Wellmore, as my fiancée, Helen.”
“You said I could take all the time I needed.”
“So I lied. Helen, face it, I’m charming, moderately handsome, incredibly wealthy, possessed of one of the most beautiful houses in England and a title and I am completely, utterly, in love with you. How could you refuse me?”
Helen looked at him. She could think of no logical reason to say no, except that she was, quite possibly, in love with another man.
No, she knew without any doubt that she loved Paul Morrow.
The memory of their kiss on the bank of the canal in Brussels came back with such force that she touched her lips as if she could still feel the trace of that instant in time. She had replayed that scene over and over in her mind and convinced herself that what had passed between them was nothing more than two lonely people thrown together in an unreal situation. Just for a heartbeat, it had seemed possible that her feelings had been reciprocated but then he had pulled away and the moment had gone.
Helen looked away. The band had begun to tune up and it gave her a distraction. She could forget any thought of a future with Paul Morrow. He had chosen his solitary path.
She looked back at Tony, at the boyish eagerness in his face and the love in his eyes. She liked Tony and that in itself was probably as good a start to any marriage. What was the alternative? To live out her life on Terrala as cook, cleaner and occasional secretary to her father and brothers? Just another war widow?
A bleak and lonely future lay before her and as Tony had said, love could come in time. Friendship seemed a good start. She closed her eyes for a moment.
“Very well,” she said. “On one condition, Tony.”
“Anything.”
“I don’t want any public announcement until after the memorial service. It just wouldn’t be right.”
Tony’s face sobered and he nodded. “No, of course not. I quite understand. But for tonight, Helen, let’s have some fun.”
Tony’s eyes lit up and he sent the waiter scurrying for the best champagne. The band struck up a tune and Helen mustered a smile.
“Let’
s dance,” she said.
Chapter 21
Tony’s Riley came to a halt in front of the impressive portico of Wellmore House. Helen looked up at the haughty exterior of the house and gave a Tony a nervous smile.
He took her hand and squeezed it encouragingly. “It’ll be fine. You’ll see.”
Lady Hartfield received them in her private parlour on the first floor. She stood up to greet her son, her fingers playing with a long string of pearls.
“Hello, Ma.” Tony dropped an affectionate kiss on her powdered cheek.
“Darling,” she responded but her eyes remained fixed on Helen. “Mrs. Morrow, what an unexpected pleasure.” Her tone dripped with ice but she extended a hand, which Helen took and shook firmly.
“Lady Hartfield. It’s very kind of you to have me to stay.”
Maude tightened her lips in a manner that indicated that she was not sure she had extended the invitation.
“Is your daughter with you?” she enquired.
“She’s staying up in London with Angela. Ange is taking her to a show tonight and will bring her down for the memorial service tomorrow,” Tony said. Where’s Pa?”
“In the library, I think.”
Tony turned to the maid who hovered in the doorway. “Please ask his Lordship to join us.”
“Tony?” Her ladyship’s gaze rested on Helen.
Tony’s hand closed over Helen’s and he drew her to his side as Lord Hartfield came stumping into the room.
“Anthony, my boy.” He slapped his son on the shoulder. “What is that you have to say that necessitates disturbing my afternoon nap?”
“Helen Morrow has consented to marry me,” Tony said without preamble.
For a moment time stood still. Lady Hartfield’s horrified look remained frozen on her face. Lord Hartfield just blinked.
“Good God!” he said. “What d’ya think of that, my dear.”
The horror on Lady Hartfield’s face had been replaced by an expression of refined good manners. “Something of a surprise, I must say,” she managed with a stiff smile not reflected in her eyes.
“I would have thought it would be something of a relief, Ma,” Tony remarked drily. “No more debutantes to entertain.”
Gather the Bones Page 21
