remembered a time when Peregrine was normal and bright. He had lied for his mother’s sake, but at the end of his life, he couldn’t go on lying. And yet he’d trusted to Jonathan to see matters right. He hadn’t put his plea on paper to be shown to Lady Parsons or the police. He hadn’t had the courage to stand up for Peregrine in the face of family loyalty. But he’d hoped that Jonathan might-Jonathan, the unfeeling brother, who might find it easier to step forward on his behalf.
It could be argued that small boys couldn’t have changed what was happening to Peregrine that night in London or here in Owlhurst. Even with the best will in the world. And none of them had witnessed what their mother had done to sear Peregrine’s guilt into his mind. They had lied for her sake. That was all they knew. And yet when they were older, when they could understand what their mother had done to Peregrine, they had never questioned her actions or their role in what had happened. They’d simply turned their backs on the truth. They had been well taught to shield Timothy.
What if Arthur had survived the war, and asked me again to marry him, even with one leg? If I’d said yes, I’d have believed, like everyone else, that Peregrine was a murderer. And Arthur would have let me believe that.
That was what hurt the most. That I would have been drawn into the conspiracy of silence, unwittingly and therefore willingly.
He’d had feet of clay after all.
I had been fond of the man I thought Arthur Graham was. I had mourned him with my whole heart. Visiting Kent had brought him closer for a short time, and I’d been grateful for that. Now, being here made saying farewell easier.
I dropped my hand from the memorial brass, standing there for a moment longer.
“Good-bye, Arthur,” I said softly, and turned away.
Simon Brandon was waiting for me at the church door. He didn’t say anything until we had reached the police station, tucked away on a side street.
“He must have had some good in him, Bess, or you couldn’t have cared for him the way you did,” he said, offering what comfort he could.
“For a time I wanted to believe that,” I answered. “You couldn’t help but like him. But Matron was right. We know them for such a brief space. And so they are ours to heal, but not ours to love.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Somewhere in France, March 1917
I HAD COME to the conclusion that French rain was worse than any other-barring of course the monsoons of India-and I was feeling a little down at the end of another long day at a forward dressing station. We had had rather severe cases, three possible amputations and one of pneumonia, sandwiched between more trench foot than I ever hope to see again in my lifetime.
I had been sent back to France, and in some ways I was very glad. I’d been a little uneasy on the crossing, remembering too much. And when my feet touched the solid stone of the quay, I drew a long breath of relief.
Slipping and sliding through the mud as I made my way to my quarters, I waved to stretcher bearers huddling under a tent flap trying to smoke.
During the day, someone had brought up the mail-letters were lying on my cot blanket, still damp from the weather, and I pounced on them like a hungry cat on a handy mouse.
Letters from home, letters from the Front, letters from Egypt and India. I hadn’t had anything for so long that I’d been wondering if anyone knew where I was-we’d been moved four times in the six weeks I’d been here, and the post was never dependable as it was. Excited, I completely forgot how I’d been longing for a cup of tea to warm me, and I sat there devouring each letter in its turn.
Between a letter from the Colonel Sahib and one from Dr. Philips in Owlhurst, I discovered a small postcard. On the front was a pen-and-ink sketch of the Pavilion at Brighton. I turned it over quickly and saw Diana’s bold penmanship racing across the card, just as she raced through life. I hugged it for a moment, glad to know she was well, then read the message.
Dear Heart,
This is Brighton, as if you didn’t know. I am seeing it through new eyes. The young man with me sends his very best love, and I am green with jealousy. The doctors weren’t certain he was ready for France, and so he is being sent to Dover Castle after his training. How clever of them! How convenient for me! He’s taking over the Dower House in Owlhurst, and you can write him there.
With much love,
The Dower House, where the eldest son lived when he married. It was his way of telling me just how much he’d healed already. A nursing sister had written to me for him as soon as Peregrine’s name was cleared, adding that he wasn’t sure where he would go on leaving hospital-he couldn’t bear to set foot in the Graham house, even though his stepmother had been sent back to her family in disgrace.
I picked up the card again. Beneath Diana’s signature was a handwriting I didn’t know, but a name I did.
God keep you safe out there, dear girl.
Ever,
I looked out at the cold, dismal rain. My heart sang for both of them, and suddenly I wasn’t tired any longer, I was crying with joy.
About the Author
CHARLES TODD is the author of eleven Ian Rutledge mysteries-A Matter of Justice, A Pale Horse, A False Mirror, A Long Shadow, A Cold Treachery, A Fearsome Doubt, Watchers of Time, Legacy of the Dead, Search the Dark, Wings of Fire, and A Test of Wills-and one stand-alone novel. A mother-and-son writing team, they live in Delaware and North Carolina, respectively.
www.charlestodd.com
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