Gather the Bones

by Alison Stuart

  * * * *

  In the first gray light of dawn, Helen lay awake remembering, turning every moment of the previous night over like a precious jewel to be cherished. Nothing outside the four walls of this room mattered and for the first time in years, a happiness and contentment she thought she would never experience again, swathed her. She smiled and turned over to look at the man who slept beside her.

  Sensing her movement, Paul murmured in his sleep and rolled over on to his back with a sigh. She turned on her side, watching him. Sleep robbed his face of the angles and lines of a hard life, and she could see, for a fleeting moment, the innocence and hope of youth in the gentle curve of his lips.

  He had thrown back the covers, baring his chest to the chill of the morning and for the first time she could see the damage to his left shoulder, forever marring the strong rower’s chest and shoulders. There were other scars, one on his right arm and another across his ribs, but nothing like the twisted, knotted legacy of that day in 1917.

  “Not pretty is it?”

  She started and glanced up at his face. He watched her with hazy, amused eyes.

  “No,” she admitted.

  “That’s what happens when four inches of shrapnel lodges in your shoulder. It’s something of a miracle that I am still alive, let alone retain some use of my arm.” He flexed the fingers of his left hand. “I was fortunate to have excellent doctors.”

  She threw back the bed covers revealing the whole length of his body still strong and lean-muscled despite the damage. With tentative fingers, she reached out and touched each of the scars in turn, the legacy of war. He lay without moving beneath her and her gaze held his, willing him to trust her.

  “It’s who I am, Helen,” he said.

  “I know and I love you for every mark on your body.”

  He raised his left hand to touch her face.

  “You carry scars too, Helen,” he said, “but they are here–” his hand rested on her chest, “–in your heart. That’s what the war has done to us all, a generation of permanently scarred people.”

  She laid her hand over his, pressing it to her heart. “I love you so much it hurts.”

  His lips curved in a smile. “And I love you, Helen...Morrow.”

  “Do you suppose?” Helen took a deep shuddering breath. “Do you suppose Charlie would mind–about us?”

  Paul took her in his arms and she laid her head on his chest.

  “Do you believe in ghosts, Mrs. Morrow?”

  Helen laughed. “I have, as you well know, every reason to be open-minded on that subject. Why?”

  He stroked her hair. “Because I think there has been a fourth spirit involved in our recent melee.”

  Helen sat bolt upright and looked down at him. “Who?”

  “Charlie,” he said frowning. “No, not Charlie but more his presence, watching over all of us...protecting us and, bringing us together.”

  “Paul, that’s ridiculous.”

  “The dog, Reuben,” Paul said. “Whenever we saw or heard Reuben, it was always in that context.” He saw the disbelief in her face and smiled. “You forget, Helen, I’m half Irish. My mother brought me up with tales of the other worlds and a succession of ayahs in Malaya filled my head with tales of bomohs and strange spirits of the jungles.”

  “No, I believe you,” she said, remembering the black and white spaniel standing on the path to the church, its feathery tail waving. It had seemed so real and yet had proved as much an illusion as the specters of Suzanna and Robert. She thought of Charlie’s last note to her. “I love you my darling girl, always, and whatever is in my power to keep you and the baby safe and well, I will do.” Had he kept that promise?

  “After everything we’ve been through,” she said. “I’m not going to doubt you.”

  She lowered her head and kissed him gently, just a small, butterfly kiss. His eyes closed and she felt his body relax beneath her touch. Without a word, she straddled him, leaning down and kissing his face, his neck, running her fingers through the dark hair of his chest, tracing a line from the notch at the base of his throat, down the long, lean body.

  Rhythmically they moved together, taking their time, allowing themselves to forget the rain that spattered on the windows and the cares of the world that lay beyond the door.

  Spent, Helen subsided into Paul’s arms and they slept again, a deep dreamless sleep that was only disturbed by a knock on the door of the outer room, followed by a rattling of the door handle.

  “Christ!” Paul sat up, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “It’s Sarah.”

  He swung his legs out of bed, hastily fastening a dressing gown around himself as he strode out into the sitting room.

  Helen buried herself in the bedclothes. She heard Paul’s voice and Sarah’s response and he padded back into the bedroom, bearing a tray with tea, two cups and the morning mail.

  She sat up and pulled the sheet up over her naked chest. “Oh God, Paul what are we going to do?”

  He smiled down at her and handed her a cup. “Seeing as she has gone to all the trouble to provide two cups, we’re going to have a cup of tea.”

  Helen began to laugh, trying hard to keep the teacup steady in her hand as Paul slid back into bed beside her, balancing his cup.

  “This is absurd,” she said.

  “But so terribly English,” Paul said with a smile. “Would they do this in Australia?”

  “In the right circles,” Helen said, draining the last of the tea and setting the cup down beside the bed. “I suppose we should get up and face the world.”

  “Lovely as the idea of staying in bed all day with you is, there are things to be done.” He leaned over the bed, and kissed her on the forehead. “Up!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She smiled, rolling out of the bed. Wrapping a sheet around her and stopping only to retrieve her discarded clothes, Helen ran barefooted down the corridor to her own room. She shut the door behind her and leaned on it, smiling as she saw the pristine cover on the untouched bed, looking like a reproachful virgin. She considered pulling back the sheets but remembered the two cups on the tray and decided pretence was pointless.

  * * * *

  Paul walked into the kitchen in search of breakfast. Sarah turned around from the stove and stared at him.

  “You were whistling,” she said.

  “Is that a crime?”

  “I’ve not heard you whistle since I’m not sure when.”

  Paul poured a cup of tea from the pot on the table. He set the cup down and laughed as he realised what tune had been going through his head. Whistling was one thing, whistling silly tunes from Gilbert and Sullivan’s Ruddigore was quite another.

  Sarah smiled and shook her head. “Ah, lad, you’ve got it badly. Eggs and bacon?”

  “I’m starving.”

  Helen stood at the kitchen door and Paul turned to look at her. She looked radiant. Her freshly washed hair curled damply around her face and all signs of strain and exhaustion had vanished to be replaced with a soft color and a smile curving her lips. The protective shell he had built around himself began to crack and fall to the floor like dried mud. Whatever she had done, whatever magic she had woven, it had penetrated into a part of his soul he thought could never know light and happiness. He grinned like a love struck school boy.

  She walked across to him, laying a hand on his shoulder. With a quick glance at Sarah’s back, he covered it with his own hand and drew it up, kissing the inside of her wrist, their eyes locked.

  Sarah turned around with two plates at that moment. He dropped his hand to the table and Helen took a step backward, pushing a curl of hair behind her ear, a faint stain of color rising to her cheeks.

  Sarah set the plates down on the table and stood looking at the two of them, with her hands on her hips.

  “If you think I’m fussed, don’t you worry yourselves. I don’t gossip. I said to Pollard the first week you was here, Mrs. Morrow, that you were the best thing to come into this hous
e for years. There’s nothing that pleases me more than to see you both smiling. There’s been enough sadness in this house.”

  Paul glanced at Helen as she pulled up a chair at the table.

  “Sarah Pollard, you do realize only you can talk to me like that?” Paul said. “Even my aunt wouldn’t be quite so blunt.”

  Sarah poured herself a cup of tea. “Aye and it’s a privilege, sir.”

  Helen’s fingers crept across the scrubbed tabletop and meshed with his. He looked down and saw that she had removed her wedding band. A faint white mark and a slight indentation showed where it had not left her hand for nearly ten years. He ran his thumb over the mark and looked up at her, the question in his eyes. She smiled.

  “The time was right,” she whispered. She straightened her shoulders. “I’d better go and collect Alice after breakfast. What are you going to do this morning?”

  “I’ve got to go into Birmingham. I’ve got some business with the lawyers and I want to see Evelyn.”

  “I’ll make a start on tidying the library.”

  They didn’t move, just sat staring at each other.

  “Your eggs are going cold,” Sarah observed.

  * * * *

  Paul returned from Birmingham in the late afternoon and found Helen curled up in his armchair reading his translation of Homer. She set the notebook aside and jumped to her feet as he entered his room.

  “You’ve been ages,” she said with no reproach in her voice. “Is everything all right?”

  In a few strides, he had reached her, folding her in his arms, his mouth seeking hungrily for hers.

  When they drew breath, he tossed his hat and coat on the daybed.

  “They think Evelyn’s on the improve. Where’s Alice?” he asked, pouring them both a drink.

  “She’s in the nursery playing with Lily.” Helen took the glass from him. “Paul, I rang Tony this morning and asked him to meet me for lunch tomorrow.”

  “Do you want me to come?”

  She shook her head. “No. This is best done by me alone. How is Evelyn?”

  “She’s drifting in and out of consciousness which the doctors think is a good sign. She seemed to be asleep when I was there.”

  She frowned. “How do we explain the library to Evelyn?”

  Paul’s hand tightened on his glass and he shook his head. “I’m at a loss to explain the wholesale destruction of some of our more valuable assets but I’m sure we’ll come up with some plausible excuse.”

  He set the glass down and crossed over to Helen. Helen rose to her feet and slipped her arms around his neck. He circled her waist with his hands, stooping to kiss the bridge of her nose.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered.

  “Mmm and you ...” she started to say, her arms winding around his neck, but didn’t finish as he kissed her again.

  “Helen!”

  They sprang apart their eyes turning to the doorway where Tony Scarvell stood. From the expression on his face, he had seen more than enough.

  “Tony.” Helen looked up at Paul and a pang of regret shot through him as he saw the tears filling her eyes

  “I came to...” Tony frowned and looked down at an envelope in his hand as if seeing it for the first time. “This came for you. I thought...”

  He dropped the envelope on the floor and turned on his heel, walking away, his heels echoing on the floorboards.

  Helen turned to look up at Paul. All the color had drained from her face and he knew his own face reflected the pain of betraying a friend. Without saying a word, he turned to follow Tony.

  He caught up with his friend in the stableyard. Tony had ridden across from Wellmore, which explained why they had not heard the car. Now, he leaned against his horse as if trying to gather the strength to mount.

  “Tony...” Paul began.

  Tony turned and without any warning, a strong upper cut sent Paul sprawling to the cobblestones. As he lay there gathering his scattered wits, Tony sat down on the cobbles next to him.

  “Sorry,” Tony said. “I didn’t mean to hit you so hard.”

  Paul pulled himself up into a sitting position, ruefully rubbing his chin. “You did and I deserved it.”

  “You’re a bastard, Morrow.” Tony glared at him. “I came to you. I asked you if there was anything between you and Helen. I would never have...if I thought for a moment...”

  “I know,” Paul said. “Believe when I say at the time I answered you with absolute honesty, Tony.”

  Tony looked down at his right hand, rubbing the knuckles. “That hurt.”

  “I hope it made you feel better.” Paul rose to his feet, dusting the dirt from his trousers. He felt his jaw. Tomorrow he would have another bruise to match the bruising around his eye.

  Tony stood up and leaned against the mounting block, still rubbing his knuckles. “Is that why Helen wanted to meet me tomorrow? To tell me it was all off?”

  “Yes. We intended to tell you properly. Not like this,” Paul said. “Neither of us are cowards.”

  “You always marched to the beat of your own drum, Morrow.”

  Paul rounded on his friend. “You’re wrong. All my life I have done what was expected of me. Believe me, I would have stood by and let Helen marry you, even though I loved her, because I didn’t think I would ever be good enough for her.”

  “So what changed?”

  “What changed?” Paul’s mind ran helter-skelter through the events of the previous two days. He ran a hand down the nose of Tony’s horse and said, “Don’t ask me to explain it.”

  “Well I think I’m damn well entitled to an explanation,” Tony fumed.

  Paul turned back to face his friend. “Tony, I love her. I have loved her from the first moment I saw her riding Minter. The last few days have been a bit rough and it threw us together. I’m sorry but for once in my life, I can’t do what is expected of me. I can’t let her go.”

  “What about Angela? She’s still in love with you,” Tony challenged

  “Angela has nothing to do with this. Our moment came and went seven years ago.”

  Tony looked away, his mouth tight. “I knew Helen didn’t love me but I hoped...” He looked back at Paul. “Well, nothing I can say or do will change things now, will they, Morrow?”

  “No.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Paul looked up at the walls of the old house. “Do exactly what I planned to do. Sell Holdston and leave this bloody country. Even if in time you forgive me, I know damn well your mother won’t. She’ll make our lives a misery.”

  Tony nodded. “Yes,” he agreed, “she will.”

  “What will you tell her?”

  “The truth.” Tony gathered up the reins and swung himself into the saddle. “Helen has to go back to Australia.”

  Paul put his hand on the bridle to stop the horse as Tony urged it forward. “What do you mean?”

  “The telegram. I read it. It’s from her brother, I presume, asking her to come home. Their father’s had some sort of seizure.”

  “You read her telegram?”

  “Of course I did. I learned during the war never to just give telegrams to people. Far better to know what they contain. Tell Helen I will still meet her for lunch tomorrow.”

  Paul thrust his hands into his pockets and watched Tony ride away before he returned to the house. Even as he opened the door to his sitting room, he knew that Tony had been right and the news had not been good.

  Helen sat perched on the edge of the daybed, the telegram dangling from her hand, her face concealed by the curtain of her hair.

  She looked up as he entered and he saw that she had been crying.

  He walked across to her and she stood up, falling into his arms.

  “Helen?” He stroked her hair.

  “It’s Dad. He’s had a stroke. Mum and Henry think I should come home.”

  Paul felt his heart sink.

  “Then you must go where you’re needed,” he said.

&
nbsp; “This is all such a mess. I wanted to tell Tony properly. I owed him that.” She sniffed and looked up at him. Her eyes widened and she touched the rapidly bruising mark on his jaw line. “He hit you!”

  Paul smiled ruefully. “A well-aimed punch, worthy of the school boxing champ, which, I hasten to add, Tony wasn’t!”

  “Oh, Paul...” Helen sank back on to the day bed. “I’ve made such a mess of it all.”

  Paul sat down beside her and put his arm around her. “This is not your fault, Helen. It is nobody’s fault. Now I’m going to tell you exactly what you are going to do. Book a passage on the next ship to Australia and go home to Terrala with Alice, leaving this whole mess behind you.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t leave you.”

  “You might have to for a few months while I sort out matters with Evelyn and this bloody house. I love you and I’m not going to spend the rest of my life without you. Marry me, Helen Morrow?”

  She turned a tear-streaked face up to look at him and he kissed her forehead.

  “Yes,” she said. “Of course I will but it will be months before you can get out to Australia. I don’t want to just leave you, Paul, not after everything we have been through.”

  “Then marry me before you go home. I can get a special license in Birmingham tomorrow.”

  “Paul.” She stared at him.

  “I’m serious, Helen.”

  “What will people say?”

  He laughed. “Helen. What are people going to say anyway? You’ve jilted Tony Scarvell. It’s not going to get much worse than that. The least I can do is make a respectable woman of you.”

  She managed a smile and hit his arm. “I was a thoroughly respectable woman before I came here.”

  “The ways of the wicked upper class have corrupted you, I am afraid.”

  She shook her head. “No. I’ve done nothing I’m ashamed of. I love you, Paul, and yes, yes, I will marry you.”

  He took her in his arms and pressed her to him as if he intended never to let her go again.

  Chapter 30

  Tony held back her chair and Helen sat down, removing her gloves. She hoped this hadn’t been a mistake but she knew she had to see Tony and explain her side of the story to him. Although how she could explain something that in so many ways defied explanation or excuse troubled her.