Emeralds & Ashes

by Leila Rasheed

  “The lieutenant won’t be coming with us,” Sebastian replied. He didn’t give Joe time to ask another question, but made his way to the trenches. And the bastard’s left me with this, he thought. He realized that the lieutenant’s death meant that he would be the one to lead the men over the top. That meant he was first in the line of fire. He did not examine the fact too closely, for fear that he would panic. But he knew what it meant. In just a few minutes he would almost certainly be as dead as the lieutenant.

  He glanced at his watch.

  “Synchronize watches.” He gave the order in a low voice, and it passed down the line. “At oh-seven-oh-five hours, we’re going over. You know the drill: we’re going to advance in perfect order, directly toward the German line.”

  There were a few hollow chuckles. Sebastian knew he had to say something.

  “The guns will shred the wire for us,” he said, louder this time, more firmly. Remember giving orders. Remember in the old days, when you had nothing to worry about but the knot in your tie. “We know our job. We do it well. We’re professionals, and everyone back in England is depending on us. Wives, mothers, sweethearts.” And then he began speaking from his heart, from everything that he had thought of over the long nights and days of danger. The thing that had kept him out there. “You think you’re marching across no-man’s-land to Germany. But that’s not what’s on the other side of no-man’s-land. What’s on the other side of no-man’s-land is England. Peace. Home. And a better England than the one you left, the best so far. Because if we don’t get up and march across that land, this war will never be over. The only way to get home is to advance.”

  The guns began firing at that moment. The sound was incredible, a barrage of fire and thunder over their heads. Sebastian sank into the noise, allowed it to possess him. He placed his foot on the fire step. When the guns fell silent, that was when he would leap forward, leap up as if he were mounting the saddle of his favorite hunter, and he would go forward, as if Oliver were waiting for him on the other side, and that lazy, long-ago, sun-drenched day when they’d first kissed.

  I want to live, he thought. It was a shocking, sudden thought. He wanted one more day with Oliver. He wanted to take his hand and kiss him and tell him he was sorry for the way they had parted. He’d been wrong to give up on their love. But it was too late.

  The guns fell silent. The smoke floated above the battlefield, as if the roaring silence were visible.

  “Forward!” Sebastian shouted. He sprang ahead, up and over the trench. Anything after this was a bonus, he knew. Life he didn’t expect to have.

  Bullets skipped past him like hailstones. He glanced back once, to check the men were following. They were. A wave of them, fire spurting from their rifles. He pressed his own trigger, felt rather than heard the bullets sputtering from the barrel. He’d taken three steps now at least, three steps of life he’d never counted on, three lucky steps, three steps he should be grateful for, staggering between the remains of bodies and gun parts and the churned hard shell holes. Four. Five. Why weren’t the Germans returning fire? Then the smoke changed color, from white to yellow. From the acrid cordite smell came another smell, sweet and choking. Gas.

  Sebastian realized what it was just as he felt it catch the back of his throat. He dropped to the ground at once, crawling under the clouds. Silent in terror and desperation, he struggled to tear his sleeve, to rip off cloth for a mask. He pressed it to his nose and mouth and the cloud rolled above him, into the ranks of soldiers. His eyes burning, he saw through tears figures collapsing, choking, vomiting, clawing at their throats and eyes. Joe! He wanted to scream out to him, but he couldn’t even breathe. The wind eased the deadly cloud onward.

  Sebastian crawled across the ground, heading directly into the gas. He knew that that it was suicide: the cloud was thickening, and sinking down around him, so the little air he’d gained from going close to the ground would soon be used up. But the gas was coming from the German lines, and his only chance of stopping it, of stopping the screaming hell all around him, was to reach its source and destroy it there.

  He rolled into a filthy shell hole, the hollow giving a little more breathing space. Above, he could hear screaming now, gasping, hideous sounds. He pulled up his rifle and fired into the cloud of gas, as if it were a solid enemy. The Germans would be behind it, advancing, he knew. He could not tell if any of the bullets had struck home.

  Then the wind changed. The gas clouds fluttered, parted. For a second there was a clear line of sight. Sebastian saw men advancing toward him, carrying machines with nozzles. That was where the gas was coming from. Panic snagged in his throat like barbed wire. He wanted to turn and run. But if just one of his bullets hit home, killed the man carrying the gas, he could save all his platoon. He had to go on.

  He leapt to his feet and ran forward, firing. The gas filled his eyes; his eyes were burning, screaming. He saw the shocked eyes of a German soldier, who raised the nozzle toward him. The rifle burned his hands, kicking with every bullet. Sebastian kept his finger on the trigger. He could no longer see; he could no longer breathe. Bullets skipped around him. It took all he had not to turn and run. Instead, he forced himself onward, even though the Germans were concentrating their fire on him now.

  Oliver, he thought. I want to see you again.

  He took step after step, until he could see nothing more and was firing into blackness and pain. Then something hit him hard in the leg, and again in his side, and he collapsed to his knees. Even then he kept firing, his finger holding down the trigger, until he finally lost consciousness.

  Somerton

  Rebecca finished laying the dining room breakfast. The plates were gleaming, the silver and crystal sparkled. She drew back the curtains so that the sunlight bathed the room. It was such a beautiful view, she thought. It refreshed her every day to see it. She knew that her mother was happy here, and Davy was getting big and strong in the country fresh air. If it wasn’t for the shadow of the war, and the troubling fact that there was a thief in the house, she would have been perfectly happy, she thought. Even Lady Georgiana was happy, now that the news had come that Sir William—it was still hard to think of him as the Earl of Westlake—had actually booked his passage to America on the Europa.

  She turned away. There was still work to be done. She went downstairs to the butler’s pantry, where the morning papers, still wet, were waiting to be ironed. She scanned them for the news. Another big push on the western front was rumored. It was hard to imagine what it could be like, there. The newspapers dealt in figures, trumpet blasts of propaganda. It was impossible to imagine shell fire, impossible to imagine the dead men behind each number. She thought of Jenny and James. That was what was behind the figures—a brave footman, never coming home again. She hastily finished the ironing and placed the newspaper to go up with the breakfast; it would never do to cry on it.

  As she came out, she realized the kitchen was quieter than usual. Thomas—Mr. Wright, she had to remember to call him—was in the kitchen, talking to Cook, as she came in.

  “Hello,” she said. “Is breakfast ready to go up?”

  There was no answer. Annie dabbed a tear from her eye. It was Thomas who spoke.

  “It will be. Annie, please will you finish Martha’s work. I know it’s not your job, but just for once I would appreciate it.”

  “What’s happened?” Rebecca asked. “Where’s Martha?”

  “Martha won’t be coming back,” said Cook. “She’s done a silly thing—a very silly thing.”

  Rebecca, eyes wide, went on with assembling the trays for the family. As curious as she was, she could see that Cook was upset, and she didn’t like to pry.

  “She may as well know,” said Roderick. “And it’s only fair, after she was accused like that.”

  Annie shrugged an angry shoulder.

  “The spoons have been found,” said Thomas, quietly. “The man who buys the kitchen scraps from Cook was arrested in a town north of here, trying t
o sell them to a pawnbroker—luckily the man smelled a rat when he saw a crest had been filed off. He admitted that he was given the spoons by Martha. She smuggled them out, hidden among the food scraps. They were splitting the proceeds.”

  “I can’t believe it of her,” Cook sniffed.

  “Oh!” Rebecca was shocked. “So Martha is…”

  “Not coming back,” said Thomas. He added. “I want to apologize to you, Rebecca, on behalf of all of us. It was wrong that you were accused without evidence. I’m sorry it happened; it shouldn’t have happened, and I will make sure it never will again.”

  “I’m sorry too.” Cook, unexpectedly, came up to Rebecca and pressed her hand. “I do feel such a fool for believing her.”

  A murmur of apology came from all the other servants. Even Annie, grudgingly, mumbled, “I didn’t mean any harm.”

  Rebecca felt tears fill her eyes, but they were tears of relief and happiness. It looked—it actually looked—as if she might be able to stay.

  “You’re all so kind,” she said, dashing the tears out of her eyes. “And now,” she added, getting a professional control of herself, “shall I take the breakfast up?”

  She went off down the corridor, but she was aware of Thomas looking after her, and she was embarrassed by the big happy smile on her face.

  When she reached the breakfast room, Lady Georgiana was already there, reading a letter. Rebecca hesitated. Lady Georgiana looked up.

  “Excuse me, my lady—I wasn’t expecting anyone here so early.”

  “Please don’t apologize.” Lady Georgiana smiled at her, though she looked troubled. Rebecca went about her work, laying the breakfast out on the sideboard. “I expect you have heard about Martha,” Lady Georgiana said, behind her.

  “I have, my lady. I’m very sorry about it.” Rebecca finished her work and turned around.

  “Yes, it is terrible, the poor foolish girl. And it leaves us even more understaffed, as I’m sure you realize. Even more in need of a housekeeper—someone to take the reins.”

  “Was there ever a reply from Mrs. Cliffe, may I ask, my lady?”

  “I have it in my hand.” Georgiana held up the letter. “She writes very kindly, but in haste—she is about to go to France herself, to tour the battlefields as research for a war novel.”

  “She must be very brave,” Rebecca said, unsure whether to be horrified or in awe.

  “She is indeed. Like her daughter.” Lady Georgiana gave a small sigh, and Rebecca knew she must be thinking of Lady Rose, so far away and in such unknown circumstances. “Anyway, she tells me to trust my judgment and make the appointment I truly feel is best. What do you think of that?”

  “Well,” said Rebecca, pausing to consider, “I think it’s good advice, my lady, but it doesn’t get us much further. Of course, hasty decisions are likely to work out badly, but we need someone as soon as possible. There are all kinds of little jobs that need doing, that we are falling behind in because there is no one with a housekeeper’s authority to see them and order them done. So I do think you should listen to her advice, my lady, and make the appointment. We will all support your choice.”

  “Thank you, Rebecca. Very sensible, but then you always are.” Lady Georgiana smiled, and Rebecca turned away with a curtsy. As she walked from the breakfast room, she could feel Lady Georgiana’s thoughtful gaze resting on her.

  Oxford

  “Lady Ada.” Someone was knocking at Ada’s door and calling her name. She forced herself out of sleep. A glance around the room reminded her that she had fallen asleep while revising; scribbled notes and open books lay everywhere.

  “Who is it?” she asked sleepily. She got up and pushed her hair out of her eyes, threw her dressing gown on, and went to the door. “I’m not dressed. What is the matter?”

  “Please open the door.” It was her housemate Helen Massey. Ada, surprised by the urgency in her voice, opened the door a crack. She saw Helen’s wide brown eyes, full of shock. “You must see this. I am so sorry.”

  Ada took the newspaper that was thrust at her through the crack of the door. The print was still wet. It took her only a second to scan the front page and take in the facts: the picture of the Europa, and the stark black headlines. German torpedoes sink British liner. No survivors. Earl of Westlake, Lady Bridlington, prominent MPs among the dead.

  “Lady Ada? Are you all right?” That was Helen Massey again.

  “Yes—yes, thank you,” she said faintly. She felt sick. The horror of what had happened refused to seem real.

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “No—please leave me. Thank you.”

  Ada sat down heavily upon the bed, still holding the newspaper. Despite their differences, she had never wanted this to happen. And poor little Augustus…she put a hand to her mouth in horror. How could this be? William, Edith, and Augustus, all gone.

  “I must go to Somerton,” she said aloud. She leapt to her feet and began to dress, hurried and frantic. She could not let Georgiana down again. More horrible thoughts whirled around her head. Had she killed them by sending them to America? Was their blood on her head? She checked the Bradshaw: the next train was in half an hour. She would have to run.

  She was halfway to the station, breathless and agitated, when she heard a motorcar slow next to her and Connor’s voice said, “Lady Ada?”

  She turned toward him.

  “Please, get in, I can see something has happened.” He opened the door for her, and she stumbled into the comforting warmth of the car.

  “I need to go home,” she told him.

  “To the station, Reeves,” he told the chauffeur. The man nodded and they sped away. Ada, breathless and close to tears, willed the car to go faster.

  “What has happened?” he asked, concern in every line of his face.

  She simply held out the newspaper. He took it, while she stared out of the window, able to think of nothing but the dark, cold water flooding in.

  “My God,” he said softly.

  “I’ve killed them,” she blurted out. “It is my fault.”

  “No. No, you must not think like that.” He put down the newspaper and took her hands. The intimacy of this did not strike her until much later; at the time it seemed completely normal. “He would have sailed for America with or without your money. His debts were too pressing for him to stay in Britain.”

  She could only answer with sobs.

  “We are at war,” said Connor, his voice graver and more tender than she had ever heard it before. “There is danger everywhere. You did not send the German submarines into Irish waters. No one will blame you, and you should not blame yourself.”

  She knew he was right, and yet it weighed on her.

  “I must go home,” she said again, almost to herself. “This has put everything in confusion.”

  “If you don’t mind me asking,” he said abruptly, “have you any idea who the title now passes to? Who will be the new Earl of Westlake?”

  “I don’t know. I am sorry, I can’t think—”

  “No, no, of course not. I am sorry to have brought it up.”

  “But of course you are right to.” Ada made an effort and pulled herself together. “Whoever it is will have a connection with our family, even though they will not inherit the estate. I had not even thought…”

  “Will you do something for me?” he asked. “Will you put this matter in my hands? I know that Mr. Bradford is a good lawyer, but I want to do something for you, Lady Ada. I would like to help you. As a friend.”

  “I would be honored, but are you sure you have the time?” She felt so relieved that this would be one thing neither she or Georgiana had to worry about.

  “All the time in the world. Some of my clients have dropped me since the unrest began in Ireland—it seems I am tainted by my connection with the Gaelic associations,” he said rather bitterly, then smiled. “But I am glad, because it gives me the opportunity to help you. I shall discover the new earl, and let you know all abo
ut him as soon as I can. Besides,” he added, “I want you to concentrate on the examinations. I want you to do as well as I know you can, and it will be hard to do that with this uncertainty hanging over you.”

  Somerton

  “It is such a horrible thing,” said Georgiana. She could still not take it in, even though it had been a week since the news. She watched as Rebecca carefully arranged the tea things.

  “Well, let us hope some good comes of it. Let us hope that the news Mr. Kearney is bringing us is good news, that the heir to the title is as far from William as can be imagined,” said Ada.

  “I am grateful to you for coming up,” Georgiana said to her. “You must have so much more on your mind.”

  “There is never anything more important than Somerton on my mind.”

  Georgiana looked down. She would never say she doubted her sister’s word, but she could not forget her previous behavior.

  “Will there be anything else, my lady?” Rebecca asked the countess.

  Michael Templeton answered for her. The countess spoke little these days; she gazed from the window with listless eyes. “Thank you, Rebecca, no.”

  Ada followed Rebecca with her gaze.

  “That girl seems very competent.”

  “She is,” said Georgiana, glad to be on a pleasant subject.

  “This Mr. Kearney of yours is late,” said Michael, who had wandered close to the window. “Ah no, wait—here is the car.”

  Georgiana readied herself, her heart beating fast. She had heard so many praises of Connor Kearney’s intelligence from her sister that she felt almost frightened to meet him. It was strange that Ada should like him so much, she had said to Michael, since their views on Ireland were completely opposed.

  “They disagree on everything but the important things,” he had said with a smile.

  But the wiry, energetic, handsome man who walked in through the door, his eyes twinkling with good humor, was not as old as she had imagined him, nor was he anything like an imperious don.