Emeralds & Ashes

by Leila Rasheed

  She had to stop and swallow.

  “He emigrated here from Germany as a young man,” she said quickly, not looking up at Thomas, wanting to get it all over with as soon as possible. “He thought he would find a more tolerant society here. He was Jewish, you see.”

  She listened to the silence, then went on. It was somehow a relief to be saying all this. She knew that when she looked up and saw his face—pitying, or disgusted, or disappointed—it would all feel so bitter, but at least she could go on now.

  “He had an architect’s business in Manchester, designing mansions for the manufacturing classes. Then he became ill. He died last year. We found out only after he died that his partner had defrauded the business. Everything had to be sold. When war broke out, my mother decided that we should change our name and move somewhere where no one knew us.”

  She looked up, finally.

  Thomas’s expression surprised her. He was looking at her gently. “I am sorry,” he said gently. “You must miss your father very much.”

  Rebecca swallowed hard. She did not trust herself to reply, but she knew her expression said it all.

  “I want you,” said Thomas after a moment’s thought, “to take the afternoon off.”

  Rebecca was so startled that she said, without a thought of crying, “But sir, how will you manage?”

  “We’ll manage, don’t worry.” Thomas smiled at her. “You’re a great help, Rebecca, but I’ll manage without you, for one afternoon only. I wouldn’t like to try it for longer, and that’s the truth. Now, you forget all about work for this afternoon. Go for a walk, or rest, or see your mother, or whatever you like. I’ll try and get some work out of Annie for once. And don’t worry.”

  He nodded to her, and stepped out of the pantry. Rebecca, left alone, tried to take in what had just happened. Wouldn’t like to try it for longer! That meant—that had to mean—that he wasn’t going to sack her. Even though he knew the truth. She thought of the mischievous grin that lit his face like a ray of sunlight. And she realized that the most wonderful thing about not leaving was that she wouldn’t have to leave him.

  France

  “What a beautiful day,” Portia said, as she rolled bandages and placed them on the metal trays, one by one. “It feels as if winter might finally be over.”

  “I hope so, for the troops’ sake,” Charlotte replied. She glanced down the ward. It was a rare moment of peace. Half the beds were empty, for now, and they had the chance to catch up on work, to make every bed as well as it should be made, even to rest their feet for an instant. The windows were open to let in the fresh air and sunlight. Most of the men were sitting up in bed, reading or simply resting. Others—the mobile ones—had gathered around the bed of Private Trent, a painfully young, stick-thin lad who had been badly gassed and even now could not sit upright without pillows to prop him, his face bandaged almost completely, with just holes for eyes and mouth. It was touching, thought Charlotte, that the soldiers came to him, knowing he couldn’t move to join in the conversation.

  She looked back at the dressing trays and saw what was missing. “I’ll fetch some more iodine.” Charlotte got to her feet and set off down the ward to where it was stored.

  As she passed the group, she saw a flash of reddish gold hair and heard a voice that had become very familiar in the short time that he had been there. “…and I fold! All yours, pals. Never did have luck with five-card. Reminds me of a game I played back in Texas. ’Cept it was a hell of a lot hotter and the drink was a sight stronger.” He winked at Charlotte as she passed, raising his teacup as if to toast her. Charlotte looked away quickly, annoyed at having been caught noticing him. She could still hear him as she went up the ward. There seemed to be no end to his stories. She was annoyed to see that Portia was smiling as she listened. She reached her and set the bottle of iodine down with a thump.

  “I do think it’s too much that that awful American should still be here. I wish the medical officer would make up his mind what to do with his arm and send him on.”

  “Oh, I like him,” Portia replied. “He has such exciting stories, and you must admit that it’s something out of the ordinary. I’ll be sorry when he goes.”

  “I won’t. I think he’s entirely too full of himself.” Charlotte sat down and started rolling bandages, trying not to hear Flint’s drawling voice going on about gunfights and horse breaking and saloon bars. “What is he doing here anyway? The Americans are not involved in the war.”

  “No, but there are plenty of volunteers. To hear the way he tells it, he was flying in an aerobatic show in London on the outbreak of war, and one of the generals saw him loop the loop and wrote off to Buckingham Palace requesting that this man should be got by hook or by crook as a pilot, since it would be absolutely impossible to win the war without him—”

  “How insufferable!” Charlotte interrupted. To her annoyance, Portia was laughing. “Oh, it’s a pack of lies, of course.”

  “Well, you must admit,” Portia said, “that he certainly keeps the men entertained. Since he’s been here, ward morale has gone up greatly. I’ve never heard so much laughter. And we all know that morale is the single most important factor in recovery.”

  Charlotte pressed her lips together. Portia was right; she couldn’t deny it. It was Flint who jollied the men along, Flint who made sure Trent was the center of the poker game. She had to admit it, poor Trent might well have succumbed if it hadn’t been for Flint’s blustery kindness. She had seen it happen before—men giving up simply because they had nothing to live for.

  “Well,” she said, feeling she had to gain some victory, however small, “I won’t have gambling on the ward, at least. It’s immoral,” she added primly, pushing thoughts of certain flutters at Ascot out of her mind. When your friends’ parents owned the horses it was almost impolite not to bet a shilling or two, after all. She got to her feet, annoyed by Portia’s smile, and went down the ward toward the group. As she did so she could see how the men were laughing, and how cheerful they all looked. It seemed a pity to break the game up, but she pushed on. Flint looked up, saw her, and was gracefully on his feet in a second.

  “Nurse Templeton, do join us, please.” He offered her a chair.

  Charlotte blushed furiously. As if she would join in a common card game!

  “Excuse me, Captain MacAllister,” she said to Flint, loudly and with all the authority she was used to using with servants, “I don’t expect to see gambling going on in the ward. Please stop immediately and find yourself some…wholesome entertainment instead.” She wished she had been able to think of a less ridiculous word than wholesome.

  The men rolled their eyes and there were some groans, but Flint glared at them until they stopped. He was never anything but exquisitely polite to her, Charlotte thought grudgingly. It was very irritating.

  “I do beg your pardon, ma’am. I want to assure you we were not playing for stakes. I never do, not since I lost my fortune at Flagstaff.”

  “Mr. MacAllister’s telling the truth, ma’am—I mean, miss,” said one of the other soldiers. “There’s no money involved; we were just playing for fun.”

  “Let us go on, do, miss,” joined in another officer, who had one eye completely bandaged.

  Charlotte felt like a fool, and more than that, she felt like a spoilsport. She was about to give in, but Flint interrupted the men. “Now, let’s not forget how much we owe to the nurses. If it wasn’t for ladies like Nurse Templeton, we’d all be dead. So if she says no cards, no cards it is.” He reached for the cards and scooped them up. With only one hand free, he was clumsy, and his own cards spilled onto the floor. Charlotte found herself kneeling automatically to collect them. She handed them to him, not knowing what else to do, and his smiling, warm blue eyes caught hers as their fingers brushed. She was aware of heat in her cheeks and a fluttering in the pit of her stomach.

  “You had three aces,” she said, her voice smaller than she’d meant it to be.

  “I never count
my losses,” he replied.

  He helped her to her feet. Charlotte was aware that she had come close to losing her poise. She dusted herself off and, without another look at him, turned and walked away, hardly knowing where she was going. She felt his eyes on her all the way down the ward to the sluice. She grabbed a bedpan at random and began washing it angrily.

  She was halfway through, water splashing her uniform, her hair straggling down from under her cap, when she realized he had followed her and was standing at the door of the sluice. She stood up quickly and angrily, aware that she had probably never looked less attractive in her life—tired, bedraggled, holding a bedpan, for heaven’s sake!

  “I wondered if you’d had any time to think about my proposal of marriage, Nurse,” he said with a half smile.

  Charlotte stood dumbstruck, for a second. Then she burst out. “Mr. MacAllister, you may think you are extremely smart and amusing, but let me tell you, your constant harassment is ill-judged and offensive. I am not an American”—she did her best to give the word the necessary contempt—“and I am used to certain standards of behavior in gentlemen, modesty, courtesy, and…and I certainly will not stand for any cheek!” She finished, wishing she could have found something better to say. One should never lose one’s temper; one should only be cool and calm and collected.

  “Apologies, ma’am,” he said, at last. His smile had vanished, and he looked sad, and tired, and older than before. “I never meant to offend you—I meant the opposite, really. I know my manners ain’t exactly drawing room. I guess I’m not used to being around a lady like yourself—well-bred, I mean. I sure am sorry, I only meant to make you smile.”

  He looked so downcast that Charlotte found herself wanting to hug him. It was awful to see his smile vanish, and now she could see the tiredness and pain that was underneath it. She felt she had been, in Michael’s words, a cad. “Oh, Captain MacAllister, I am the one who should apologize,” she said. It was an effort, but she felt better for saying it. “I—I am a little tired, and not in the best temper. I am sorry, and I would like you to go on with your poker game.”

  He made a slight gesture of denial, but she interrupted before he could speak.

  “I mean it. Please. I can see how much pleasure it gives the men, and heaven knows they need it.”

  She even smiled. It took a good deal to wrench it out of the embarrassment and misery she felt, but she did.

  Flint’s smile returned at once, brighter and bigger than before. It was like a lighthouse beam flashing out of the night, full of reassurance and safety. As long as I see that smile, she was surprised to find herself thinking, I know things can’t be all bad.

  “Are your tales true?” she said, abruptly.

  “Most of them…”

  She almost laughed.

  “…are mostly true.”

  This time she did laugh. He laughed along with her.

  “Nurse?” Dr. Field’s voice came from the ward. Charlotte hastily wiped the smile off her face.

  “Coming, sir,” she replied, and went past Flint to the door. She could feel him watching her as she went up the aisle toward the sister, and couldn’t hide a blush—nor, although she told herself it was silly, could she help feeling quite pleased that she had ordered the uniform from L’atelier after all.

  Somerton

  Breakfast at Somerton would never be the same again, Georgiana thought, as she watched Thomas, in his black bands of mourning for the earl, go quietly about the business of pouring tea. No one spoke. Michael, she could see, had as little appetite as she did, and the countess was in her room once again. Even when mourning was finally over, she could not imagine feeling happy again.

  “Has your mother everything that she needs?” she said to Michael as soon as Thomas had left.

  “I think so. The doctor says that there is little to be done; it is her spirits and not her body that are failing.” He sighed. “She keeps talking about Sebastian.”

  “That is something, at least.”

  “But she speaks of him as if he were already dead.”

  “Oh.” Georgiana was shocked and saddened.

  “I think she feels strongly that she has failed in some way. The earl’s death has been such a shock, and with Charlotte and Sebastian both in France…” He trailed off. “She blames herself. She thinks that if she had managed them better, they would have stayed.”

  “I don’t think so. They did what they saw to be their duty,” Georgiana said quietly. She looked up as Thomas reentered the room.

  “A letter, my lady. I’m afraid it seems to have been delayed, however. It is in a bad condition.”

  Georgiana took the crumpled envelope from the silver tray that he offered her. The address was blurred with water damage, and she opened it gingerly, trying not to damage it further. Inside, the writing was half obliterated. She frowned at it, trying to work out what it said. Words came into focus…

  “It’s from Rose!” she exclaimed.

  Michael put down his cup. “Thank heavens, at last.”

  Georgiana tried her best to decipher the rest of the writing. “This was sent months ago, though. She writes about some battle, but of course all the details have been censored. But I am sure Alexander is safe; it would be impossible for her to write in such an easy tone if he weren’t.…Something about more journeying, and something about a ship? I can read hardly any of it.” Frustrated, she put the letter down. “But at least she is safe—or she was when she sent this.” The thought of how much time might have elapsed between the sending and the receipt of the letter made her spirits sink.

  “Rose has so much courage,” Michael said. “If anyone comes through it all right, she will. Don’t fret, Georgie.”

  Georgiana nodded. She placed the letter on the table. Reading Rose’s cheerful words, even though she knew that she must have been frightened when she wrote them, had made her mind up. She would not allow her father’s death to crush her. She would try her best to carry out his will.

  “Michael…will you walk with me for a moment?” She stood up. “I have an idea. I would like to sound you out about it.”

  “With pleasure.” He got up and took her arm. Together they left the breakfast room and walked down the marble hall toward the ballroom. Georgiana looked about her, noticing the dust sheets. It was painful to see, as if Somerton itself were in mourning for the earl.

  “You see,” she told Michael, “so many of the grand rooms are closed off already; we simply don’t have the staff to keep them in order. It would be simpler just to shut a wing, but,” she sighed, “that seems like defeat.”

  “I agree,” Michael said.

  “And yet it feels absolutely unjustifiable to have Thomas working so hard to try and keep the house up to the position it had before the war.”

  “It’s a lot of trouble for him, and for the rest of the staff.” Michael looked around, and Georgiana knew he too was noticing the dust sheets shrouding antiquities and artworks.

  “And at a time of national economy.” She paused, and threw open the great double doors to the Adam ballroom. “And there’s this wonderful room,” she said with a sigh. The statues placed here and there, examples of classical beauty, the fluted columns, the high ceiling crowed with gilded stars, the Caravaggio that hung at one end of the long room. “It seems a crime to simply shut it up like a mausoleum. My father wouldn’t have wanted that. He wanted it used for the benefit of the nation.”

  “But how?” Michael asked. “It is a home. Not a practical home, I’ll admit, but it is not fitted for anything else that I can think of.”

  Georgiana swallowed. She knew what she was about to propose was ambitious. “Well, we know that so many buildings have been requisitioned for public use,” she began.

  Michael nodded. “But you can’t want the War Office hacking the place to bits, I’m sure.”

  “No, I don’t. Anything but that. But we must somehow fulfill my father’s last wishes. I…” She hesitated. “I thought, what about
a hospital?”

  She rushed on into Michael’s silence.

  “Just think how many beds we could fit in this room! If we laid down carpets, the floor would be hardly damaged at all. And how wonderful for a convalescing soldier to wake and see all this beauty around him, and the fresh air just outside the doors, so easy to open them and sit on the terrace, or stroll down into the gardens. Don’t you think? Oh, please tell me you agree,” she ended plaintively, since she could tell nothing from Michael’s thoughtful expression.

  “But Georgie, what do you know about running a hospital?”

  “Nothing at all, but I’m sure we would have advice. And you would help, wouldn’t you?”

  “Of course I would. I think it’s a wonderful idea—”

  “Oh good!”

  “But I can see so many potential problems.” He looked at her, his eyes warm and amused. “You never see problems, do you?”

  “I know I’m not very sensible, but please don’t mock me,” she said.

  “I wasn’t! I meant it as a compliment—a very sincere one.”

  Georgiana blushed and looked down.

  “You see only possibilities, and only good in people.”

  Georgiana savored the compliment. But before she could decide whether the note of warmth in his voice was more than friendship, there was a slight cough at the door. Georgiana turned. The parlormaid was there, discreetly in the shadows.

  “Yes, Rebecca, what is it?”

  “There is a telephone call, my lady”

  “Oh, who is it?”

  “Mr. Bradford. He wanted to speak to the countess, but since she is sleeping and the nurse says she is not to be disturbed, I thought…”

  “Thank you, Rebecca,” Michael said. “I’ll take it.” He nodded to Georgiana.