Anna sat on the bed near her, and neither of them spoke.
They could hear the men in the salon below. Someone had been playing the piano a short while before, playing it very badly, but Centaine had been able to recognize Chopin's Funeral March, and the others had been humming along and beating time to it.
Centaine had instinctively understood what was happening, that it was their special farewell to one of their own, but she had remained untouched by it. Then later she had heard their voices take on that rough raw quality.
They were becoming very drunk, and she knew that this too was part of the ritual. Then there was laughter drunken laughter but with a sorrowful underlying timbre to it, and then more singing, raucous and untuneful, and she had felt nothing. She had sat dry-eyed in the candlelight and watched the shell-fire flickering on the horizon and listened to the singing and the sounds of war.
You must go to bed, child, Anna had said once, gentle as a mother, but Centaine had shaken her head and Anna had not insisted. Instead, she had trimmed the wick, spread a quilt over Centaine's knees and gone down to fetch a plate of ham and cold pie and a glass of wine from the salon. The food and wine lay untouched on the table at Centaine's elbow now.
You must eat, child, Anna whispered, reluctant to intrude, and Centaine turned her head slowly to her.
No, Anna, she said. I am not a child any longer. That part of me died today, with Michel. You should never call me that again. I promise you I will not, and Centaine turned slowly back to the window.
The village clock struck two and a little later they heard the officers of the squadron leaving. Some of them were so drunk that they had to be carried by their companions and thrown into the back of the truck like sacks of corn, and then the truck puttered away into the night.
There was a soft tap on the door, and Anna rose from the bed and went to open it.
Is she awake? Yes, Anna whispered back.
May I speak to her?
Enter Sean Courtney came in and stood near Centaine's chair.
She could smell the whisky, but he was steady as a granite boulder on his feet and his voice was low and controlled: despite that, she sensed there was a wall within him, holding back his grief.
I have to leave now, my dear, he said in Afrikaans, and she rose from the chair, letting the quilt slip off her knees, and with the wedding veil over her shoulders went to stand before him, looking up into his eyes.
You were his father, she said, and his control shattered. He reeled and put his hand on the table for support, staring at her.
How did you know that? he whispered, and now she saw his grief come. to the surface, and at last she allowed her own to rise and mingle with his. The tears started, and her shoulders shook silently. He opened his arms to her, and she went into them and he held her to his chest.
Neither of them spoke again for a long time, until her sobs muted and at last ceased. Then Sean said, I will always think of you as Michael's Wife, as my own daughter. If you need me, no matter where or when, you have only to send for me. She nodded rapidly, blinking her eyes, and then stepped back as he opened his embrace.
You are brave and strong, he said. I recognized that when first we met. You will endure. He turned and limped from the room, and minutes later she heard the crunch of wheels on the gravel of the drive as the Rolls with the big Zulu at the wheel pulled away.
At sunrise Centaine was on the knoll behind the chAteau, mounted on Nuage, and as the squadron took off on dawn patrol, she rose high in the saddle and waved them away.
The little American whom Michel had called Hank was flying in the lead, and he waggled his wings and waved to her, and she laughed and waved back, and the tears ran down her cheeks while she laughed and they felt like icicles on her skin in the cold morning wind.
She and Anna worked all morning to close the salon again, cover the furniture with dust sheets, and pack away the service and the silver. The three of them ate lunch in the kitchen, terrines and ham left over from the previous evening. Though Centaine was pate and her eyes were underscored with blue as dark as bruises, and though she barely tasted the food or sipped her wine, she spoke normally, discussing the chores and tasks that must be done that afternoon. The comte and Anna watched her anxiously but surreptitiously, uncertain how to take her unnatural calm, and at the end of the meal the comte could contain himself no longer. Are you all right, my little one? The general said that I would endure, she answered. I want to prove him to be right. She stood up from the table. I will be back within the hour to help you, Anna. She took the armful of roses that they had salvaged from the salon, and went out to the stables. She rode Nuage down to the end of the lane, and the long columns of khaki-clad men, bowed under their weapons and packs, called to her as she passed, and she smiled and waved at them, and they looked back after her wistfully.
She hitched Nuage to the churchyard gate, and with her arms full of flowers, went around the side of the mosscovered stone church. A dark green yew tree spread its branches over the de Thiry plot, but the newly turned earth was trampled and muddy and the grave looked like one of Anna's vegetable beds, only not as neatly dressed and squared.
Centaine fetched a spade from the shed at the far end of the churchyard and set to work. When she had finished, she arranged the roses and stood back. Her skirts were muddy and there was dirt under her fingernails.
There, she said with satisfaction. That's much better.
As soon as I can find a mason I will arrange the headstone, Michel, and IT come again tomorrow with fresh flowers. That afternoon she worked with Anna, hardly looking up from her tasks or pausing for a moment, breaking off just before dusk to ride up to the knoll and watch the planes come back from the north. That evening, there were two moire of them missing from the squadron, and the burden of mourning that she carried as she rode home was for them as well as for Michel.
After dinner she went to her bedchamber as soon as she and Anna had washed the dishes. She knew that she was exhausted and she longed for sleep, but instead the grief that she had held at bay all that day came at her out of the darkness and she pulled the bolster over her face to smother it.
Still Anna heard it, for she had been listening for it.
