Saving the Soldier's Heart (The Emerald Quest Book 2)

by Beckenham Jane

  Some twenty minutes later, she stood back, resting her hands on her hips, satisfied she had completed her task.

  With the case on the floor beside the bed, she went to shut the wardrobe door, and spied his Dinner Club jacket.

  Instinctively she reached into her pocket and clasped the tiny button in her fingertips, then retrieved the jacket. She held it up, admiring its cut and cloth, and brought the button up to the jacket. They were exactly the same.

  But Clayton’s jacket was not missing a button.

  The disquiet would not abate and later that evening as she lay awake watching the moon in the cloudless sky shift slowly across the horizon, she thought of home. Her mother had been taken so suddenly by the Zeppelin bombs. Her father had been unable to cope with the death all around him and had taken his own life.

  Why had he given up on me? Why had he left me alone? Had he thought me dead?

  Though dawn finally overtook the darkness, it did not lighten the gloom in Maggie’s heart. Life, however, had to go on, something she’d espoused to Clayton often enough.

  She understood that the trauma of his injuries lay heavy on him and she did not want to witness the fear in his eyes every time they met someone, wondering how they would react. Maggie barely noticed his scars. Oh, they were there, whitened and stretched taut when his emotions got the better of him or pain and exhaustion took over. But mostly he stared through people, refusing outwardly at least, to register them. Maggie knew different. She noticed the tiny things. The way the pulse in his jaw throbbed, the way he stiffened as others approached. But there was some hope, for though he used his cane still, the muscles in his leg had strengthened considerably. Clayton Abbott was a man who had shut himself off from the world. Today he would be thrust into the middle of a metropolis.

  Thank goodness she was going with him.

  Dressing in a hurry, she drew on her gray flannel coat, and then put on her matching hat with its plume of small feathers. Tucking a few strands of hair behind her ear, she turned from her reflection and reached for her small valise. At the top of the stairs, she hesitated a moment.

  London?

  Don’t think about it. It’s only a place.

  But a place with dark memories.

  Forget it. Forget them.

  Shoulders back, she headed down stairs. Half way down her fingers found the tiny button in her pocket. Why she’d pocketed it she didn’t know, but something played on her sub-conscious. The button meant something. But what?

  The moment she spied Clayton at the bottom of the stairs, her breath hitched, all thoughts of buttons and...anything, evaporated.

  He looked so debonair, his trilby at a dashing angle. He offered her a smile that lit up his face, his eyes sparkling almost as if they were real emeralds. “Ready and prompt as usual, I see, Miss Francis.”

  “I don’t like to be late for anything.”

  Clayton’s mouth curved further into a knowing smile sending a flutter of butterflies to skitter in her stomach. “No, I’ve noticed that. I imagine you wouldn’t even keep your future husband waiting at the altar but be early instead.”

  “There is nothing wrong with that.”

  His laughter echoed around the walls of the double height entrance. “No, definitely not. Did you find Josephine’s diary, by the way?”

  She fingered the button, frustration coiled in her chest. “No. It has simply disappeared.”

  “It’ll turn up. Josephine wouldn’t let you down.”

  “I hope not.”

  Just then Florrie came in carrying a cane basket. “I made some sandwiches and there’s some fruit cake. It’s a long way to London.”

  Maggie smiled. For Florrie, whose world consisted of their small village and the environs of no more than a few miles around, London must seem a world away. She took the basket. “Thank you, Florrie. That was very thoughtful.”

  “Do you think you’ll see the king? I saw him once at the village cinema.”

  Humor filled Clayton’s green eyes. “No, I don’t think so, but if I do shall I say hello from you.”

  Florrie’s eyes widened to saucer-like proportions. “Oh, would you, could you?” She clutched Maggie’s hand in her work-roughened one. “Imagine that, Miss Maggie, the king knowing I said hello to him.” She gathered up her apron and spun on her heels. “I gotta tell Sam and Annie. Oooh, just imagine.”

  “Florrie.”

  The young woman halted, regaining her balance with a giggle. “Yes, Mr. Abbott.”

  “Since we’re about to leave and my guest is still abed, please make sure Lord Hindmarch is well fed before he leaves.”

  Florrie’s brow creased and she glanced briefly toward the sweeping staircase. “I thought you knew.”

  “Knew what?”

  “He’s gone already.”

  “Gone?” Clayton scrubbed a hand over his freshly shaven jaw. “Where? When?”

  “I was here till midnight getting that fruit cake made, and I heard a noise and came out to see what it was. Lord Hindmarch was at the front door. He carried his bag so I guessed he was leaving.”

  “At midnight? What on earth for?”

  “No idea. He said to tell you he got a telephone call and had to leave in a hurry.”

  “Did he say whom from?”

  “No, and that’s the weird thing. That contraption rings in the kitchen each time a call comes, but I never heard a thing. Not a thing.” She shrugged her slight shoulders and with her smile firmly back on her face, she spun round and danced off to the kitchen.

  Clayton turned to Maggie. “Did you hear the phone?"

  “I can’t say I did.” Disquiet at the man’s arrival and sudden departure returned. What was Edward Hindmarch up to?

  Clayton opened the door. “Time to go, I think.”

  Putting aside thoughts of Edward Hindmarch, Maggie stepped outside. She turned back to Clayton, but as he neared the door he faltered and his face whitened.

  “Clayton?”

  He didn’t answer, but stared wide-eyed towards the car waiting to take them to the railway station.

  “Clayton, you can do this. We can.” The words she’d uttered were true. “We can,” she reiterated. “The two of us.”

  Clayton disconnected his gaze and turned to her. “Us?”

  Maggie swallowed the lump that had suddenly formed in her throat the moment his green eyes connected with her. “Yes,” she said trying to keep her voice steady. “Us. Think of us as a team taking on London.

  “I’ll be right by your side, Clayton.” She would not abandon him. Besides, she wasn’t sure she could return to London without someone at her side.

  Without Clayton.

  That her father had chosen death to facing life, and had thus abandoned her, constantly haunted Maggie. Her father had chosen to leave her alone.

  Chapter Seven

  London called.

  With each turn of the train’s wheels and blast of the horn, a belch of thick black smoke spiraled skyward.

  The train journey proved painfully slow because they stopped at each station and returning soldiers and families crowded the train. The difference between this journey and the one she’d taken only weeks ago, however, was that Clayton Abbott did not travel with the general public, but in first class—and Maggie was lucky enough to enjoy the same.

  But as row after row of the smoke stacks of London came into view, the rising pall of panic Maggie had been struggling to censure, burgeoned. Her skin slicked with sweat, her woolen dress stuck to her skin. With clammy hands she plucked at the starched lace collar. It felt as if a garrotte were about to choke her to death.

  She stared out the train window, horror seeping into her veins.

  Home. London. Death. Dying. Her family all gone.

  Her throat closed over, blood pounding in her brain. Every few seconds, a scorching flush swapped back and forth with the shivering cold and forced goosebumps to dot her arms.

  Ice slid through her veins, yet her eyes felt as if
they were burning. She arched her head backwards, body swaying, tumbling over and over a precipice with no end. Nothing.

  “Maggie?”

  Someone called her.

  Father. Joy swelled in her heart. He hadn’t abandoned her. Hadn’t left her alone.

  “Maggie?”

  No, not her father.

  Her eyes fluttered open to find Clayton staring down at her, concern etched into his visage. Her heart shattered all over again.

  “So you’re back with us then.”

  Maggie tried to lift her head up, but the effort proved overwhelming and she sank back down. “What happened?”

  “You fainted.”

  “I...I don’t faint.” Drawing on energy she didn’t have, she pushed herself up on her elbows and struggled to sit up, only to have her head swim all over again and she sank back down.

  “Whoa! Take it easy.” Clayton held a flask of brandy to her lips. “Take a sip.”

  Maggie sniffed at the strong odor and screwed up her nose. “It smells disgusting.”

  “But tastes rather delicious. Go on, it’ll revive you.”

  Not quite believing him, she took a tentative sip. The golden liquid soured in her mouth, but it slid down her throat with ease, warming her from the inside out. She took a second sip, and then a third.

  The corners of Clayton’s green eyes crinkled and he smiled as he retook his seat opposite her. “I do believe, Miss Francis, that you’ve a liking for it.”

  “You’re making me sound like one of Reverend Edgar’s Temperance ladies.”

  “Oh, I think they are far too severe. You’re more subtle than that.”

  “Glad you think so.”

  “After all the walking you put me through, I found myself too tired to even lift the bottle from the sideboard.”

  Maggie couldn’t help smile. “It obviously worked.”

  “True. The pain is eased, and well, here I am about to arrive in London.”

  Maggie knew he was talking not about the alcohol or really even the pain in his injured knee but that he was about to face the world for the first time in months. As a different man, but still the same inside.

  “But what is worrying me is your fainting.”

  Maggie pushed herself upright and with fumbling fingers straightened her clothing. “It’s nothing. I just...”

  “Are you unwell?”

  “No.”

  “Are you hungry? Perhaps you have not eaten enough.”

  Maggie glanced at the opened hamper. “I think I’ve managed quite an adequate sufficiency.”

  The train shuddered, the brakes screeching as they edged towards the outer platforms.

  “Oh, dear God.”

  “Maggie?” With ease Clayton swiftly shifted from his seat to sit beside her. “What is wrong?”

  But Maggie couldn’t speak, her attention fixated on the view from their window. The station. London. Home.

  An icy chill seeped along her spine, insinuating itself into her bones and she began to shake.

  “Maggie?”

  “I’m...”

  “Frozen solid. Here take another sip.”

  “Are you tempting me with Mother’s Ruin?”

  His mouth quirked. “Wrong drink. That’s gin, this is brandy.”

  She took the flask from him again and sipped it. “It is rather delicious.”

  “See, I’ve converted you.”

  The train ground to a halt, steam hissing all around them and Clayton stood. “We’ve arrived to face the world, Maggie.”

  Maggie hesitated, her knees weak, and feet leaden.

  “What is it?”

  She had been so strong for so long. She had survived. But today she couldn’t do this alone. “I thought I had put it all behind me. But...” She waved toward the platform where disembarked passengers were now making their way toward the exit. “I’m scared, Clayton. Scared to face what I left,” she finally admitted with a hiccup. “And I think I may have drunk too much.”

  Clayton’s brows creased, and the white gash that slashed across his left brow puckered.

  “It still haunts me.”

  “What does?”

  “Family? The war.”

  Clayton’s eyes dimmed and his mouth pressed into a thin line. “It haunts us all.”

  “London has memories, bad memories. When I left I never wanted to return.

  “So why didn’t you say so?”

  “Because you need me here. You said so.”

  Clayton drew his large scarf across his brutalized cheek then took her hand in his. The warmth of his touch seeped through his leather glove. “Hold on tight, Maggie. I’m right beside you.”

  And he was.

  Together they walked down the platform, but as they neared the exit, Clayton halted. “Darn.” He dropped his bag to the platform and bent down, tying a shoelace that had come undone.

  Maggie waited, watching a mother and little boy just ahead of them.

  Her mouth curved into a smile. How lucky that woman was. Family. It was everything.

  The child dragged his heels, tugging on his mother’s hand, he suddenly stopped, pointing a podgy finger toward her and Clayton. No. Right at Clayton.

  Maggie glanced toward Clayton who had pushed himself upright.

  Oh, good, his scarf had fallen lose.

  “Look, mummy, a. . .” The child burst into tears and spun away, burying his head in the folds of his mother’s coat.

  The mother patted his head with a gloved hand, and then lifted her gaze to Clayton, about to say something when her words dried up. Her eyes widened, horror clearly written across her face. “I…” She looked down at her boy tugging him closer. “I…oh, dear God. You should not go around so…so…Cover your bloody face, for God’s sake.” She spun away from them, and fisting her hand around her son’s, she raced away.

  Body rigid, his breathing almost inaudible, Clayton didn’t move. “I knew I shouldn’t have come. I knew it. I cannot be seen in public. I need to go back.”

  Maggie tightened her grip on his hand. “No you don’t, Clayton Abbott. You’ve got a job to do, and we both need to face our demons. Now, let’s go, one step forward, then another and another.”

  For a moment she didn’t think he would move, then he took a step…and another and Maggie exhaled her relief. She kept her grip on Clayton, however. He needed her, but she also needed him right now, for outside this station were her demons too.

  Once on the street, Clayton pulled his scarf closer around his face while he still held her hand. Maggie didn’t say a word. In fact, she rather liked holding his hand. Clayton Abbott was her steady rock, just as she had been the shovel pushing him to venture from his seclusion. Perhaps they were more alike than either realized as they both faced fears of the past.

  The hubbub of a city climbing out of the pit of war greeted them as they exited into a surprisingly warm first day of December.

  In front of them a vehicle drew up to the curb and a reed thin man climbed out of the dilapidated vehicle. Just a few years ago the taxi cab would have been stately, but today with its paint chipped and a cracked windscreen and two door handles tied on with rope it looked as if it should have been sent to the yard for dead cars.

  The man doffed his hat at them. “Taxi, mister?” The man’s voice was muffled behind a rag tied across his mouth and Maggie reeled backwards, her grip on Clayton’s fingers tightened.

  She felt his wince. “Sorry.”

  “No need to be. I know you’re worried but all reports state that the second wave of that bloody influenza has dissipated.”

  “Sure has. It’s only a precaution like.” The driver pulled down the rag to reveal a mouth of mottled grey teeth. “Sorry the taxi’s a bit run down and all, but with the young ‘uns off to war, and not coming back, it’s left to us old geezers to take up the slack. This used to be my boy Johnny’s taxi, but he ain’t up to much now what with losing both his legs.”

  Maggie witnessed the shine of tears in the
man’s eyes, but before they were shed he scrubbed them away with the back of his hand. “Bloody taxi trade’s been decimated by the fighting too. No parts to repair ‘em, so we just ‘av to make do.”

  Just then the breeze picked up, Clayton’s scarf slipped.

  “Bloody hell!” The taxi driver’s gaze fixed firmly on Clayton and didn’t move. Pity colored his expression. “Jeez, I thought me boy had it bad, but you…you’re…Hell, I’m sorry.” He rushed to open the door for Clayton.

  Tightlipped, Clayton’s mouth thinned. “I am scarred, not an invalid.”

  The driver stepped back. “Sorry, sorry,” He fumbled with his cap, and then shoved it atop his head. “It’s just your face…”

  “Courtesy of fighting for my country. Don’t worry, this will be the last time I terrorize the world.” He clamped his scarf tightly across his face and, not waiting for Maggie, climbed into the cab, sitting far across the seat.

  Maggie scrambled in after him.

  “So where ya going?” The taxi driver didn’t bother looking into the mirror at them.

  “Hanover Square, if you please.”

  Maggie jackknifed around to face Clayton “But your London house is in St James isn’t it?”

  “It is, but it has been damaged by water, so I’ve decided we’ll stay at a pied-à-terre I own in Hanover Square.”

  A bubble of laughter rose up from her chest. “In my world, a pied-à-terre is a run down one room flat at the top of a building at best, and at worst, a damp and vermin-ridden basement room.” She shivered at the thought. Many a time she’d visited her father’s patients in such accommodation.

  “Don’t worry, I’m sure we’ll have it to ourselves, the bugs and mice have vacated for somewhere more luxurious. Besides they wouldn’t want to look at this either.” His thumb jerked towards his face, but Maggie reached for his hand and wrapped it in hers and held on all the way to Hanover Square.

  As they drew up to the Hanover Square address, Maggie stared in delight at the lovely Georgian building with its columns and rose tinted brickwork and perfectly symmetrical windows.

  Once inside, however, her excitement plummeted, replaced by a decidedly nervous flutter in her chest.